Independence and Nation-Building in Latin America (Seminar Studies) [1 ed.] 0367820714, 9780367820718

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Independence and Nation-Building in Latin America

Independence and Nation-Building in Latin America: Race and Identity in the Crucible of War reconceptualizes the history of the break-up of colonial empires in Spanish and Portuguese America. In doing so, the authors critically examine competing interpretations and bring to light the most recent scholarship on social, cultural, and political aspects of the period. Did American rebels clearly push for independence, or did others truly advocate autonomy within weakened monarchical systems? Rather than glorify rebellions and “patriots,” the authors begin by emphasizing patterns of popular loyalism in the midst of a fracturing Spanish state. In contrast, a slave-based economy and a relocated imperial court provided for relative stability in Portuguese Brazil. Chapters pay attention to the competing claims of a variety of social and political figures at the time across the variegated regions of Central and South America and the Caribbean. Furthermore, while elections and the rise of a new political culture are explored in some depth, questions are raised over whether or not a new liberal consensus had taken hold. Through translated primary sources and cogent analysis, the text provides an update to conventional accounts that focus on politics, the military, and an older paradigm of Creole-peninsular friction and division. Previously marginalized actors, from Indigenous peoples to free people of color, often take center-stage. This concise and accessible text will appeal to scholars, students, and all those interested in Latin American History and Revolutionary History. Scott Eastman, Professor of Transnational History at Creighton University, USA, most recently has written A Missionary Nation: Race, Religion, and Spain’s Age of Liberal Imperialism, 1841–1881 (2021) and contributed articles to European History Quarterly and Historia y Política, among other journals. He has received major funding from LASA and the Fulbright Commission. Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, Professor of Latin American History at the University of Kent, UK, has written The Caudillo of the Andes: Andrés de Santa Cruz (2011), in addition to several books in Spanish. She has published in European History Quarterly and The Americas and has been funded by grants and awards from the Leverhulme Trust, the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, LASA, and the British Academy.

Seminar Studies Series Editors: Clive Emsley and Gordon Martel

History is the narrative constructed by historians from traces left by the past. Historical enquiry is often driven by contemporary issues and, in consequence, historical narratives are constantly reconsidered, reconstructed and reshaped. The fact that different historians have different perspectives on issues means that there is often controversy and no universally agreed version of past events. Seminar Studies was designed to bridge the gap between current research and debate, and the broad, popular general surveys that often date rapidly. The volumes in the series are written by historians who are not only familiar with the latest research and current debates concerning their topic, but who have themselves contributed to our understanding of the subject. The books are intended to provide the reader with a clear introduction to a major topic in history. They provide both a narrative of events and a critical analysis of contemporary interpretations. They include the kinds of tools generally omitted from specialist monographs: a chronology of events, a glossary of terms and brief biographies of ‘who’s who’. They also include bibliographical essays in order to guide students to the literature on various aspects of the subject. Students and teachers alike will find that the selection of documents will stimulate the discussion and offer insight into the raw materials used by historians in their attempt to understand the past.

Independence and NationBuilding in Latin America Race and Identity in the Crucible of War

Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea

Cover image: Autor desconocido. Policarpa Salavarrieta marcha al suplicio, ca. 1825. Pintura (Óleo / Tela). 74,7 x 93,5 cm. Colección Museo Nacional de Colombia, reg. 555 Fotografía: ©Museo Nacional de Colombia / Juan Camilo Segura First published 2022 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea The right of Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this title has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-82072-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-82071-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-01178-1 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781 Typeset in Sabon by Taylor & Francis Books

To the students who have inspired us to be better teachers and to reflect deeply on the processes of historical change charted in the following pages.

Contents

Illustrations Chronology Who’s Who Maps Acknowledgments Introduction

x xi xviii xxv xxx 1

Structure of the Book 2 1 Colonialism, Enlightenment, and Reform

4

Historiographical Debates 6 Colonial Majorities: Race, Class, and Gender in the Americas 7 The Hispanic Enlightenment 11 Administrative Reforms 14 The Economics of Colonialism 16 The Tumultuous 1780s and 1790s 19 2 Sovereignty and Insurgency in the Revolutionary Atlantic Napoleonic Europe and the Crisis of Iberian Monarchies 32 Loyalty in 1808 36 Insurrection in 1810 38 The First Republic 40 The Hispanic Constitution of Cádiz 42 Civil Wars in Spanish America 47 Andean Loyalism: Popayán, Quito, Peru, and Chile 49 Conclusion 50

30

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Contents

3 The 1814 Restoration

54

Popular Royalism in the Venezuelan Llanos 56 The Morillo Expedition 58 From Reconquest to Restoration 61 Restoration in the Centers of Loyalism 63 Independence in the Río de la Plata 68 Conclusion 72 4 Total War

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A Sojourn in Haiti 75 From War to the Death to Total War 79 Threats of Race War 81 From Angostura to the Republic of Colombia 84 Between Independence and Instability in the Río de la Plata and Chile 87 Monarchies or Republics? 91 5 Loyalism, Monarchy, and Constitutionalism in America

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Constitutionalism in New Spain and New Granada 100 Consolidating New American States 104 The Last Frontier of Loyalism: Peru 106 Divergent Legacies of Civil Wars: Racism and Regionalism 111 6 Nations-in-the-Making: The Republican Tradition in Latin America

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Centralism and Federalism 120 Conflict and Constitutions 126 Inclusion and Exclusion 132 Conclusion 136 7 Epilogue: Postcolonialism Documents Document 1: Count Aranda’s 1786 Proposal for America 144 Document 2: Dionisio Inca Yupanqui, Speech given at the Cortes, December 16, 1810 145 Document 3: Simón Bolívar, Reply from a South American to a Gentleman of this Island, Kingston, Jamaica, September 6, 1815 146

140 144

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Document 4: 1816 Petition by María de la Peña, an Enslaved Woman from Buenos Aires Who Requests Payment of Her Husband’s Salary to Cover the Cost of Her Freedom 148 Document 5: Decree of General José de San Martín Assuming Supreme Political and Military Command, with the Title of Protector, August 3, 1821 149 Document 6: Pension Request, Francisca Caballero y Quiroga 151 Glossary

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Index

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Illustrations

Figures 1.1 2.1 2.2 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 6.1 7.1

Late eighteenth-century colonial hierarchies Portrait of Simón Bolívar, 1823 Diario de La Habana, November 20, 1811 Vicente López, Allegory of the Triumphant Return of Ferdinand VII, 1814 “Policarpa Salavarrieta walks to her death,” 1825. Pintura (Óleo/ Tela). 74,7 x 93,5 cm. View of the city of Lima from the vicinity of the bullring, ca. 1780– 1812 Monument to Pétion, Bogotá, Colombia “Battle of Boyacá,” 1883 “Declaration of Independence, Chile,” 1818, in the National Historical Museum, Santiago, Chile Monument to Juana Azurduy, Buenos Aires

15 33 47 54 62 68 76 87 127 141

Maps 1 2 3 4 5

Map of North America, ca. 1800 Map of South America, ca. 1800 The Liga Federal, ca. 1815 Independent nations of the Americas, ca. 1825 Latin America, ca. 1860

xxv xxvi xxvii xxviii xxix

Chronology

1750–77 Portuguese King José I ushers in a period of enlightened reform during his reign, delegating much of his authority to his key minister the Marquis of Pombal. 1754–6 The Guaraní War, with the forces of Indigenous leaders, including Nicolás Ñeengirú, fighting the Spanish and Portuguese, erupts after the 1750 Treaty of Madrid changes the borders of missions in which tens of thousands lived and worked. 1756–63 The Seven Years’ War fundamentally realigns the balance of power in the New World; Britain becomes dominant after France’s defeat on multiple continents. Spain had joined the French Bourbons in fighting against the British. 1759 The Portuguese are the first Catholic state to expel the Jesuits, followed by France and then the Spanish monarchy in 1767. 1759–88 Spanish Bourbon King Charles III rules during a period of dynamism characterized by an embrace of Enlightenment ideas and economic change. 1765 Anti-tax riots convulse the South American city of Quito. 1780–3 The Tupac Amaru rebellion, spearheaded by Micaela Bastidas and her husband José Gabriel Condorqanqui, challenges the legitimacy of Spanish colonial rule in what is now southern Peru and Bolivia. 1781 The comunero revolt reveals the extent of economic discontent in the Viceroyalty of New Granada. 1789 The French Revolution transforms politics in Europe and the Americas. 1791 The Haitian Revolution begins with a conspiracy of enslaved people rising up in the northern part of the French colony of Saint-Domingue. With independence gained in 1804, Haitians permanently abolish slavery and create America’s first free black state. 1793 Revolutionary France declares war on Spain in early March. 1795 Rebels led by free zambo José Leonardo Chirino call for an end to racial and social hierarchies in Coro, Venezuela. 1796 The Treaty of San Ildefonso is signed; Spain allies with France against Britain. Subsequently, the Spanish monarchy declares war on Britain.

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Chronology

1797 1798 1799 1804 1805 1806 1806–7

1807

1808

Creoles spark an uprising in La Guaira, Venezuela and demand economic reforms and an end to slavery. The Tailors’ Revolt, a conspiracy of Black and biracial rebels, is put down in Salvador, Brazil. Napoleon Bonaparte seizes power as first consul after his expedition to Egypt. A second round of fighting pits Spain against Britain. The British decisively defeat a combined Franco-Spanish fleet in the Battle of Trafalgar off the coast of southern Spain. Miranda’s Leander expedition fails to ignite a larger independence war with Spanish colonial forces in Venezuela. Despite Napoleon’s continental blockade, the British send a force to invade Buenos Aires and Montevideo in the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. A treaty signed between Czar Alexander I and Napoleon in the wake of Napoleon’s victory over the Russians at Friedland laid the groundwork for an alliance. French General Jean-Andoche Junot’s army of approximately 25,000 troops enters Spain in October. The Treaty of Fontainebleau allows French troops to march through Spanish territory ostensibly to halt all Anglo-Portuguese trade and weaken Britain, the one remaining enemy of Napoleon. On November 30, the Portuguese House of Braganza sails to Brazil hours before General Junot arrives in Lisbon. In late December, close to 25,000 men under General Dupont arrive at Irún, followed by three more corps consisting of almost 75,000 men. In February, French troops seize fortress in Pamplona, Navarra, through a ruse. On March 17, crowds riot and protest against the Prince of Peace, Charles IV’s Prime Minister Manuel Godoy, who is almost killed. In signing the Treaty of Fontainebleau, Godoy had secretly been promised the southern territories of Alemtejo and Algarve from a Portugal divided by Napoleon. Thus he is seen as the symbol of Spain’s ills and the reason for the entrance of French troops into Spanish territory. Charles IV abdicates two days later in favor of his son, Ferdinand VII, known as el Deseado, the Desired One. A few days later, Murat, Napoleon’s brother-in-law recently appointed “lieutenant of the Emperor in Spain,” enters Madrid. Toward the end of April, Ferdinand VII and his father Charles arrive at Bayonne and meet with Napoleon. On May 2, soldiers and artisans, including men and women, rise up in Madrid because Murat had ordered the remaining members of the royal family to leave the Spanish capital. This becomes the symbol of

Chronology

1809

1810

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the war, consecrated as el Dos de Mayo. Approximately four hundred Spaniards are killed by the French on May 2 and May 3. On May 6, Ferdinand signs a treaty returning the throne to his father, and the Spanish Bourbons are placed in exile for the duration of the war. Napoleon’s brother Joseph is placed on the throne as José I, but he becomes known derisively in Spain as el rey intruso, the intruder king. The Junta of Asturias declares war on France on May 24, followed by similar declarations throughout Spain in the following days and weeks. The Bayonne Constitution of July 7, 1808, established a constitutional monarchy with Catholicism as its centerpiece, enshrined in Article 1 as the religion of state. A Senate and a three-tiered Cortes, or Parliament, comprised the legislative branch. American viceroyalties received a minority representation in the Cortes, as Spanish America enjoyed the same rights as the metropole, according to Article 87. Spanish forces under General Xavier Castaños win a major battle at Bailén, in southern Spain. King José I evacuates Madrid after only one week in residence. Junot surrenders to Wellesley at Vimiero, with a capitulation signed at Cintra, and Junot and all French forces leave Portugal. Viceroy Iturrigaray of New Spain is arrested by peninsulares in Mexico City because of his support for the establishment of a junta. The Junta Central Suprema y Gubernativa de España e Indias, with 35 members, meets for the first time at Aranjuez. Madrid falls to Napoleon in early December. The Junta Central is forced to retreat and take refuge in Seville. Spain and Britain sign a treaty of alliance, paving the way for British troops to aid in the struggle against Napoleon. The Junta Central declares, “Spanish dominions in the Indies were not colonies but rather had formed an integral part of the Spanish monarchy.” Local leaders organized a junta in Upper Peru (Bolivia) in Chuquisaca, and officials in La Paz followed soon after. On May 22, the Junta Central decrees that the Cortes will be reestablished. In August, a junta is established in Quito. The Junta Central declares that elections will be held for the Cortes. The Junta Central leaves Seville for the Isla de León (Cádiz). The Regency takes over by decree the Junta Central, which had lost the confidence of many in Spain due to military defeats and internal conflicts. The Regency’s members were Pedro de Quevedo y Quintano, the Bishop of Orense; Francisco de Saavedra; Francisco Xavier Castaños; Antonio Escaño, minister of the navy in the Junta Central; and Esteban Fernández de León, representing the Americas.

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1811

1812

1813

1814

Chronology White Creoles lead the establishment of a junta in Caracas. In May, the junta in Buenos Aires swears allegiance to King Ferdinand but not to the Regency. A junta also forms in Cartagena (New Granada). Simón Bolívar is sent to London by the Caracas junta in June seeking support from the British. A junta coalesces in Santa Fe de Bogotá on July 20. On September 16, the rebel and priest Miguel Hidalgo issues his Grito de Dolores, protesting Spanish governance and colonial policies. Autonomists establish a junta in Santiago (Chile). On September 24, the Cortes officially opens. Hidalgo and his army of 80,000 converge on the outskirts of Mexico City but withdraw by November 2. Once a junta takes power, Paraguay effectively becomes independent. In July, Venezuela declares independence and establishes the First Republic. Hidalgo is executed in Chihuahua. The lawyer Ignacio Rayón establishes the Suprema Junta Gubernativa de América in Zitácuaro, New Spain. The United Provinces of New Granada declare independence in November. The Spanish captain, Domingo Monteverde, arrives in Coro, Venezuela and begins to push back against independence forces. Deputies from peninsular Spain and from Spanish America promulgate the Cádiz Constitution, granting rights to all male citizens, including the Indigenous peoples of America. Free Black militia captain José Antonio Aponte leads an uprising against the authorities in Spanish Cuba. By September, the Constitution has been published in Mexico City. In November, the first elections are held in Mexico City for electors to choose an ayuntamiento. The Regency is dissolved in December. King José I leaves Madrid, and in June, Wellington and the Spanish defeat French forces at Vitoria. Bolívar establishes Venezuela’s Second Republic in August. In September, the Cortes of Cádiz holds its final session. That same month in New Spain, the Congress of Chilpancingo begins. The Congress of Chilpancingo, led by Morelos, declares Mexican independence in November. With the Treaty of Valençay signed, Napoleon makes peace with Spain and Ferdinand VII takes the throne as king of the Spanish monarchy. The Cortes returns to Madrid. In March, Ferdinand VII travels back to Spain. He is given a copy of the Manifiesto de los persas upon his arrival in Valencia, a document

Chronology

1815

1816 1817

1818 1819 1820

1821

1822

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written by conservatives attacking the Cortes and the liberal constitution. Ferdinand VII soon issues a royal decree in which he declares the constitution null and void, as it undermined his royal sovereignty. José Gervasio Artigas establishes a loose confederation, formalized in 1815, called the Liga Federal. Leaders complete a Mexican constitution at Apatzingán, influenced strongly by Carlos María Bustamante, Andrés Quintana Roo, and Rayón. Spanish forces under Pablo Morillo land in South America and begin a campaign of pacification and restoration. Napoleon defeated at the Battle of Waterloo. Morelos is executed in San Cristóbal Ecatepec on December 22. Bolívar crafts a letter from Jamaica in which he outlines his political plans. The Congress of Tucumán declares independence for the United Provinces of South America. Forces led by José de San Martín cross the Andes and pave the way for the final battles of independence for Chile. During efforts to put down American autonomist and independence movements, Spanish military officials summarily execute men and women, such as Policarpa Salavarrieta in New Granada. The government of Bernardo O’Higgins declares Chile independent. The Congress of Angostura declares Colombia a united and independent nation. General Rafael del Riego, ordered to set sail to the Río de la Plata, issues a pronunciamiento and revolts against the absolutist government of Ferdinand VII. On March 10, acquiescing to popular demand, Ferdinand VII swears an oath to uphold the Cádiz Constitution of 1812. The Viceroy of New Spain, the Conde del Venadito, swears allegiance to the Cádiz Constitution, followed by leaders in other key cities. The Cortes meets in Madrid, looking to cement liberal rule and keep the monarchy intact. A liberal revolution begins in Portugal, declaring the Cádiz Constitution the law of the land. Agustín Iturbide publishes the Plan of Iguala, a separatist document that maintains the Cádiz Constitution as the template for governance. Congressional representatives at Cúcuta write a constitution for Gran Colombia. After entering the city of Lima unopposed, San Martín declares Peru independent on July 28. The Treaty of Córdoba recognizes Mexico “as a sovereign and independent nation.” In May, Iturbide is proclaimed the Emperor of Mexico.

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Chronology

Pedro I becomes the Constitutional Emperor of Brazil. Under the auspices of the Holy Alliance, the French launch a large-scale invasion of Spain to put down constitutionalists. The Federal Republic of Central America begins the process of breaking away from Mexico. 1824 Brazil inaugurates its first constitution. Iturbide is executed, and federalists proclaim a new constitution in Mexico. The final battle between loyalists and independence forces takes place in Ayacucho in December, completing the process of Peruvian independence. 1825 Bolivia achieves independence. Portugal recognizes Brazilian independence. 1826 Delegates from several new nations attend a congress in Panama to discuss cooperation and American unity. Leaders in the United Provinces craft a new constitution that privileges the government in Buenos Aires. 1828 Uruguay achieves independence after a protracted struggle against Brazil. 1829 The Spanish briefly invade and attempt to retake independent Mexico. 1830 Despite the efforts of representatives at the 1828 Ocaña Convention, Venezuela and Ecuador break off from Colombia and declare independence. Uruguayans promulgate their first constitution. Bolívar dies. 1831 Pedro I abdicates and returns to Portugal. 1833 Liberals enact major reforms in Mexico, including secularizing education. 1834–5 The Guerra dos Cabanos, among other uprisings, reveals the extent of unrest from the north of Brazil through the Rio de Janeiro province. 1835 With the Argentine Confederation officially established, Juan Manuel Rosas rules Buenos Aires until 1852 with unchecked dictatorial powers. 1836 Pro-slavery militias defeat Antonio López de Santa Anna and establish Texas as independent from Mexico. 1836–9 The short-lived Peru-Bolivia Confederation represents an attempt to unify larger regions. 1837 The Spanish Cortes expels the remaining overseas deputies. 1839 The Central American federation disintegrates. Civil war erupts in Uruguay. The beginning of the War of the Supremes displays the tensions between centralized and provincial powers in Colombia. The Huancayo Constitution, creating structures similar to those in Portalian Chile, symbolizes an era of centralized rule in Peru. However, civil wars follow in the 1840s. 1823

Chronology 1841 1844

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Pedro II officially takes the crown as emperor of Brazil. José Rafael Carrera, the president of Guatemala, ushers in a period of conservative caudillismo. 1847–8 The Caste War in Yucatán demonstrates the continued resonance of federalism in independent Mexico. 1848 The Praieira revolt fails to bring republicans to power in northeast Brazil. 1851–4 Argentina (with a new constitution in 1853), Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Venezuela definitively end the last vestiges of legalized slavery in South America. Legislators belatedly abolish slavery in Spanish Cuba in 1886 and in Brazil in 1888.

Who’s Who

Abascal, José Fernando (1743–1821) Viceroy of Peru. Originally from Oviedo, he trained as a military officer in Mallorca, fought in campaigns against revolutionary France, and served in many colonial spaces from Sacramento (Uruguay) to Havana and Guadalajara. He was promoted to viceroy of the Río de la Plata in 1804 but never took the post as he was transferred to Peru in 1806. As viceroy of Peru, he fought fiercely to maintain the crown’s control over a vast territory. He returned to Spain in 1816 and was elevated to the Marquis of Concord. Artigas, José Gervasio (1764–1850) Independence leader in Montevideo. He joined the colonial militia in 1797 to protect the region against Portuguese incursions and fought to stave off the British in 1806 and 1807. In 1811 he changed sides and joined the forces of the Buenos Aires Junta. By 1812, he was leading an independence movement in the Oriental Province that culminated with the creation of the Federal League in 1814. But from 1816 onward, he had to fight against Brazilian forces. He was ultimately defeated in 1820 and left for exile to Paraguay where he remained until his death in 1850. Azurduy, Juana (1780–1862) Military leader in what is today Bolivia. Born near Chuquisaca to a landowning family, she was brought up in rural environs and was a capable horsewoman. At 19 she married Manuel Ascencio Padilla, who joined the rebel forces that came from Buenos Aires as early as 1811. She lost four of her children to malaria during the exhausting campaigns but continued fighting and established a liberated zone in the so-called “republiqueta” of La Laguna. After her husband’s death in battle in 1816, she was promoted to lieutenant colonel and given command of his troops. For seven years she fought in the province of Salta, returning to Chuquisaca in 1825 where she faced a life of penury as her work for independence was not properly recognized by successive Bolivian governments. Bastidas, Micaela (1744–81) Rebel leader in Peru. From a bi-racial background, she married José Gabriel Condorcanqui and was instrumental in the uprising that transformed him into Tupac Amaru II. She oversaw provisions and strategy and led a battalion. She advised her husband to attack Cuzco when they held the upper hand, but he demurred, costing them the campaign and their lives. She was drawn and quartered after being forced to see her son tortured.

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Bolívar, Simón (1783–1830) Political and military leader known as the Liberator. He fought for the independence of present-day Venezuela, Colombia, Panama, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia. Hailing from a wealthy family, he was sent to Spain to be educated and married at a young age. After the death of his wife, he decided to dedicate his life to the liberation of America and took up arms in 1810. He was instrumental in the creation of the first Venezuelan Republic in 1811 and embarked on a series of violent campaigns that culminated in the separation of a large part of South America from Spain, serving as the first president of Colombia and later as dictator of Peru. Boves, José Tomás (1782–1814) Loyalist leader in Venezuela. Born in Oviedo, he trained at the Asturian naval college from the age of twelve and joined the navy at sixteen. He traveled around the world but was arrested for smuggling. Sent to Puerto Cabello, in Venezuela, his sentence was commuted. He was allowed to go to the interior where he established himself as a trader. When the wars of independence broke out, he wanted to join the cause, but as the Creole elite leaders shunned him, he chose to support the crown instead, leading the men from the grasslands, the llaneros, to victory. In 1814 he died in battle. Carlota Joaquina (1775–1830) A Bourbon, daughter of King Charles IV and wife of João VI of Portugal. She was married at the age of ten and grew up in the Portuguese court. At 17 she became consort to the Regent and a decade later relocated to Río de Janeiro with the Braganza court. She sought to be named Regent of the Spanish possessions on the Río de la Plata. This plan failed, however, and in 1820 she returned to Portugal with her husband. Charles IV (1748–1819) King of Spain. A member of the Bourbon dynasty, he acceded to the throne in 1788 and had to face the French Revolution. He depended heavily on his minister Manuel Godoy, who was rumored to be his wife María Luisa de Parma’s lover. In March 1808, as Napoleonic troops entered the peninsula, a mob forced him to abdicate in favor of his son Ferdinand VII. He was exiled first to France and then to Rome where he died suffering from gout. Dessalines, Jean-Jacques (1758–1806) Emperor of Haiti. A former slave who fought in the uprising against the French under the command of Toussaint Louverture, he became a general. After Louverture was captured and taken to France, Dessalines organized a mutiny in 1802 and successfully proclaimed Haitian independence in 1804. Subsequently, he named himself emperor under the Constitution of 1805. He ordered the extermination of the whites that remained and fought against the troops sent from the other side of the island. The conflict grew to such degree that he was assassinated by his former collaborators Alexander Pétion and Henri Christophe in 1806. Elío, Francisco Javier (1767–1822) Loyalist general in Montevideo. Born in Pamplona, he was the last viceroy of the Río de la Plata, even though he only governed the area around Montevideo between 1810 and 1812. He then traveled back to the peninsula to fight against the French. A loyal partisan of

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Who’s Who Ferdinand, he was appointed Captain General of Valencia upon his return and died defending the city.

Ferdinand VII (1784–1833) King of Spain. He ascended the throne after a mutiny in the city of Aranjuez and was taken captive by Napoleon in 1808 in Bayonne. Juntas were set up in his name throughout Spain and the Americas, and he became known as “the desired one.” He remained in captivity until 1814 when he returned to Spain to reclaim his throne, organizing a process of reconquest in his American territories. Briefly successful in the northern part of South America, Spanish forces ultimately lost all their continental possessions by 1825. Although he accepted the liberal Cádiz Constitution between 1820 and 1823, he reasserted absolute power for the following decade until his death. Francia, José Gaspar Rodríguez de (1766–1840) Dictator of Paraguay. Trained as a lawyer, he had been one of the key figures in pushing for independence between 1811 and 1813. In 1816, he took the title of Perpetual Dictator and insulated Paraguay from the outside, ending foreign trade to a large extent. Calling for the extermination of some of the Indigenous peoples in Paraguay and maintaining slavery, he stayed in power for forty years. Guerrero, Vicente (1782–1831) Mexican president. From a biracial background, he had been a muleteer before ascending the ranks of independence forces. He was one of the key figures in the movement when the Plan of Iguala was issued, although he remained wary of the Creole Iturbide. After electoral controversy, he became president in 1829, quickly abolishing slavery. Turmoil continued, however, leading to his ouster the same year. Hidalgo y Costilla, Miguel (1753–1811) Autonomist leader in New Spain. A Catholic priest of Creole origin who studied in Valladolid (today’s Morelia, Michoacán), he rose up in the name of the king and against bad government on September 16, 1810, in the small town of Dolores in the Bajío of presentday Mexico. This sparked a revolution that challenged but did not bring down the viceregal government. Hidalgo was captured and executed in 1811. Iturbide, Agustín (1783–1824) Constitutional Emperor of Mexico. In colonial New Spain, the Creole Iturbide fought the insurgency that threatened the viability of the viceregal government. By 1821, he had switched sides and led the Army of the Three Guarantees to victory over loyalist forces. Under his Plan of Iguala, Mexicans secured independence and maintained the Cádiz Constitution. But with no European prince willing to take the Mexican throne, he was crowned as Constitutional Emperor in 1822. Shortly thereafter, he went into exile and was killed upon his return to Mexico. João VI (1767–1826) King of Portugal. Made prince regent in 1799 due to his mother’s mental illness, he relocated the Braganza court from Lisbon to Rio de Janeiro in 1807 to ensure they were safe from the Napoleonic invasion. Crowned king in 1816, he pursued policies that benefited colonial Brazil at the expense of metropolitan merchants and came into conflict with Spain over territorial expansion.

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Louverture, Toussaint (1743–1803) Haitian revolutionary leader. A former slave who initially sided with Spain, and then with republican France, during the early years of war in Saint-Domingue, he became the leading figure in the movement that culminated with a constitution in 1801 establishing Saint-Domingue as an autonomous part of a French imperial state. Yet Napoleon, in an attempt to reinstate slavery in 1802, sent thousands of troops to the island, reigniting the conflict. The French captured Louverture, and he died in captivity in France. Miranda, Francisco (1750–1816) Venezuelan revolutionary leader. Having fought in the American and French Revolutions, he went on to become one of the promoters of Latin American independence from exile in London. In 1806, with British aid, he tried to take Venezuela and spark a larger movement for independence in colonial Spanish America. He returned once again in 1810 but was defeated. He died in a prison in Cádiz after Bolívar had handed him over to the loyalists. Morelos, José María (1765–1815) Mexican revolutionary leader. A biracial priest and former muleteer who studied with Hidalgo in what is today Morelia, he joined the insurgency and became the de facto leader of the independence movement after Hidalgo’s execution. His strategy to keep guerrilla forces on the fringes, outside of the larger urban areas, was successful. In 1813, he organized the Congress of Chilpancingo that passed the Apatzingán Constitution the following year. In 1815, he was captured and shot. Morillo, Pablo (1775–1837) Spanish general. He had been injured at Trafalgar and fought against Napoleon’s forces in the peninsula. Sent from Spain to put down American revolutionaries and tasked with carrying out a reconquest in 1815, he initially found success. The loyalists managed to retake control of most of the territories of northern South America. Yet he became isolated as the new liberal regime in Spain ordered him to negotiate with independence leaders, and he ultimately left America for good in 1821. O’Higgins, Bernardo (1778–1842) Chilean independence leader. The illegitimate son of Irish-born viceroy Ambrose O’Higgins, he was educated in England and influenced by Miranda. He became involved in the autonomist and independence movements politically and militarily between 1811 and 1814, serving as the key figure in the defeat of loyalist troops by the time independence had been achieved in 1818. After a series of convulsions in independent Chile, O’Higgins left in 1823 to live in exile in Peru. Padilla, José Prudencio (1784–1828) Independence leader in New Granada. A pardo, Padilla joined the Spanish military and served at Trafalgar in 1805. But he became a leading partisan of independence and an outspoken advocate of rights for people of color. After a falling out with Bolívar, he was accused of fomenting race war and was executed in 1828. Páez, José Antonio (1790–1873) Venezuelan caudillo and president. He led forces in the western grasslands of Venezuela during the war of independence. A

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mestizo, he broke with Bolívar over pan-Americanism and supported the breakup of Gran Colombia. He became president of Venezuela in 1831 and again in 1838, embracing a more conservative political path and a centralizing ideology. He later lived in exile and died in New York. Pedro I (1798–1834) Constitutional Emperor of Brazil. Born in Lisbon, he remained in Rio de Janeiro after his father returned to Portugal and vowed, on the banks of the Ipiranga River, to stay in Brazil in 1822. He presided over independence and the promulgation of Brazil’s first constitution, but after several years of turmoil, he returned to Portugal to claim his father’s throne in 1831. Pedro II (1825–91) Emperor of Brazil. At the age of five, his father abdicated and left him the crown. After a decade of rule by a regency, the Americanborn Pedro II became emperor in 1841and presided over the state for close to half of a century, acquiescing to the gradual abolition of slavery at the very end of his life when hundreds of thousands were freed. Pétion, Alexandre (1770–1818) Haitian president. As one of the key leaders of the Haitian Revolution, he split from Dessalines and established a separate state in the south, serving as president-for-life by 1816. He provided a significant amount of support for Bolívar during the war against Spain. Pezuela, Joaquín de la (1761–1830) Spanish general. Pezuela fought in the southern Andean campaigns between 1813 and 1816. Under his leadership, the loyalist forces successfully pushed back against those who championed independence, and he was appointed viceroy of Peru in 1816. In 1821, he was ousted by his subordinates and returned to Spain. Piar, Manuel (1774–1817) Venezuelan general. A pardo born in Dutch Curaçao who had served in the Haitian navy, Piar became a military leader in eastern Venezuela, commanding troops during the most important period of the war. Accusing him of pitting the races against each other, Bolívar had Piar executed. Pueyrredón, Juan Martín de (1777–1850) Independence leader in the Río de la Plata. Elected the Supreme Director of the United Provinces of South America in 1816, he was instrumental in the organization of the campaign to cross the Andes to Chile in 1817. Pumacahua, Mateo (1740–1815) Kuraka (cacique) of Chinchero. Of Indigenous noble ancestry, Pumacahua had been instrumental in defeating Tupac Amaru II in 1781 and supported the loyalists’ forces that defeated the junta set up in La Paz in 1809. He supported the Spanish army in 1811 and 1812 in their fight against the troops sent by the Buenos Aires Junta and was made president of the audiencia in Cuzco. He nevertheless felt threatened when the Cádiz Constitution decreed the end of Indigenous nobility and rose against the absent king in 1814. He was captured, defeated, and executed in 1815. Riego, Rafael del (1784–1823) Spanish general. As the pivotal leader of the revolt in peninsular Spain in 1820, he issued a pronunciamiento urging Spaniards to restore

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constitutional rule. Therefore, troops under his command did not deploy to the New World to try and put down independence movements. With the French invasion three years later, however, his fortunes turned, and after a summary trial, he was dragged through the streets and hanged in Madrid in 1823. Rivadavia, Bernardino (1780–1845) President of Argentina. Having played a key part in the junta of 1810, Rivadavia became president with a new constitution declared in 1826. His presidency was short-lived due to tensions between the regions and the central government in Buenos Aires. By the 1830s, he left to live much of the rest of his life in exile. Sáenz, Manuela (1797–1856) Revolutionary leader in South America. Born out of wedlock in Quito, she married early but became romantically attached to Simón Bolívar. Although she made significant contributions to independence movements and in some ways challenged conventional gendered norms, she spent her later life in exile. Salavarrieta, Policarpa (1795–1817) Colombian seamstress and rebel spy. Working for loyalists, she was able to funnel information to insurgents before being discovered and executed. Prior to being shot, she chastised the soldiers as enemies of the people. Today she is a symbol of resistance and courage in the face of death. San Martín, José de (1778–1850) South American independence leader from the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. A Creole educated in Madrid, he served as a military officer for Spanish forces during the war against the Napoleon before joining the struggle for autonomy and independence. Having organized a large contingent to invade Chile, his army crossed the Andes and surprised loyalists at the Battle of Chacabuco in 1817, turning the tide of the war. He declared the independence of Peru in Lima in 1821 and established himself as Protector of Peru. Because of continuing hostilities, he had to ask Bolívar for aid and, after abandoning South America for good in 1822, he died in exile in France. Santa Anna, Antonio López de (1794–1876) Mexican military leader and president. Born in New Spain, he served in both Spanish forces and the independence army, switching sides throughout his long and storied military and political career. While he initially supported Iturbide as emperor, he led the charge to depose him from power, doing the same at the end of the decade to Guerrero. He notably fended off the Spanish in 1829 but lost to Texan rebels in 1836 at the Battle of San Jacinto. Santander, Francisco de Paula (1792–1840) Vice President and President of Colombia. From a well-connected Creole family and having training in the law, he fought with Bolívar in the war for independence. Yet they diverged ideologically by the later 1820s, and he was elected president in 1833 after Colombia and Venezuela separated. Sucre, Antonio José de (1795–1830) Venezuelan general and statesman. Born in New Granada, he moved up in the ranks of Bolívar’s forces and won a series

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of battles that culminated in the Spanish defeat at Ayacucho. He subsequently became president of the newly created state of Bolivia. Forced from office in 1828, he was assassinated in 1830. Torre Tagle, Jose Bernardo de Tagle, Marquis of (1779–1825) Military and political leader in Peru. With a long military and administrative career in Spanish America, the Creole Torre Tagle, born in Lima, represented Peru in the Cortes of Cádiz. From a wealthy background that included large sugar and wheat estates, he epitomized the colonial elite of the time and served both sides during the wars of independence. Tupac Amaru II (1738–81) Rebel leader in Peru. A mestizo kuraka who unsuccessfully pursued a noble title from the Spanish authorities, José Gabriel Condorcanqui and his wife Micaela Bastidas led a rebellion against Spain in 1780. Condorcanqui took the moniker Tupac Amaru to pay homage to the last of the sixteenth-century resistance leaders of Tawantinsuyu. The uprising began with the execution of the local corregidor Arriaga, but the crossclass and multiethnic coalition failed to bring down the colonial state. Tupac Katari (1750–81) Insurrectionary leader in what is today Bolivia. Taking the name “royal serpent” just as Condorcanqui had, the Aymara peasant led forces in a movement that paralleled that of Tupac Amaru II, and their combined forces laid siege to the city of La Paz in 1781 after the death of Tupac Amaru. But Katari was drawn and quartered by the Spanish as well in November. Victoria, Guadalupe (1786–1843) First president of Mexico. Having fought under Morelos, he changed his name to reflect pride in Mexican independence and the patron saint Guadalupe. He withdrew support from Iturbide and rose up with Santa Anna in 1823, becoming the republic’s first president the following year. Viscardo y Guzmán, Juan Pablo (1748–98) Jesuit priest from Peru. Having been exiled after the expulsion order of 1767, Viscardo y Guzmán became one of the earliest outspoken advocates of Spanish American independence with the publication of his Open Letter to the American Spaniards, composed in 1791 but not published in Spanish until a decade later. He decried the tyranny of the Spanish in the Americas and referred to their rule as slavery. Yupanqui, Dionisio Inca (b. 1760) A Quechua Indian born in the viceroyalty of Peru, he embarked on a career in the Spanish military and later served in the Cortes of Cádiz as a deputy for Peru. His family had pursued recognition of their noble ancestry, similar to the case of José Gabriel Condorcanqui, and Yupanqui remarked on his overlapping identities as an Inca, an Indian, and an American in a notable speech to the assembled Cortes in 1810.

Maps

Map 1 Map of North America, ca. 1800

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Map 2 Map of South America, ca. 1800

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Map 3 The Liga Federal, ca. 1815

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Map 4 Independent nations of the Americas, ca. 1825

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Map 5 Latin America, ca. 1860

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Acknowledgments

We want to thank the people who made this book possible. First and foremost, we greatly appreciate the generous advice and the suggestions offered by Timothy Hawkins, an outstanding scholar of Central America and Guatemalan history. He helped to make this book better, although, of course, all errors are our own. We appreciate the support of our colleagues Gabriel Di Meglio, Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, Pablo Ortemberg, Sarah Chambers, Karen Racine, Gregorio Alonso, Alejandro Rabinovich, Juan Luis Ossa, and Valentina Tikoff, as well as the panels put together at meetings of the American Historical Association and the American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies. We learned so much from these ongoing conversations. We are grateful that Gordon Martel solicited the manuscript and that Emily Irvine and the cartographer Erin Greb contributed so much to the final product. Finally, we thank the University of Kent and Creighton University’s Graduate School for financial support of this project.

Introduction

In some ways, this project began at a conference in Lima, Peru, as an invited group of scholars, experts on nineteenth-century Latin America and Spain, considered the bicentennial and the various “afterlives” of the Cádiz Constitution of 1812. We argued and debated the impact of early Hispanic liberalism within the framework of the Atlantic world and determined that a lot of research remained to be done. In the book based on the proceedings, The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World, contributors analyzed the ramifications of a constitution, and its fundamental tenets, inaugurated during a series of wars that led to the break-up of the Spanish monarchy and the independence of colonial viceroyalties. The Constitution of 1812 was never fully implemented across the diverse territories of Spanish America, nor was it the settled law of the land in the peninsula, being dusted off in 1820 and again in the mid-1830s in both Spain and Cuba. Many charters in Spain and Latin America, however, built on its fundamental premises and broadened its scope to embrace more democratic principles, just as amendments to the U.S. Constitution transitioned away from its basis in white male privilege and slavery. The new states that emerged from the ashes of Europe’s empires appeared on the surface to have broken with colonialism, a legacy that many referred to by raising the evocative image of bondage. Spain had enslaved the people of Spanish America, who yearned for freedom and independence. Or so we might imagine. This collaboration, expressly designed for scholars and students, reexamines the Iberian Atlantic, as well as France’s colonial empire, during the Age of Revolution, roughly from the year 1750 through 1850. With specializations in military and colonial history, we have drawn on our research into state and identity formation to challenge many commonly held assumptions about the protagonists of the wars and about the ideologies that informed the new nations that took shape in the nineteenth century. We situate the Americas in a transnational context and have emphasized connections and comparisons rather than what at first glance may appear to be static and profound national differences. The revolutionary struggles of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and the ideas that informed them display more similarities than pronounced differences, and the states that formed in the aftermath of the wars faced many of the same seemingly intractable issues. DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-1

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Structure of the Book Chapter 1 introduces the multicultural societies of late colonial Portuguese and Spanish America and French Saint-Domingue. In order to parse the vibrant debates within the field of Latin American and Atlantic world history, we introduce some of the fault lines that have divided historians and have led to differences of opinion and divergent interpretations regarding the causes of the wars. Chronologically, we start with Iberian monarchies navigating the Enlightenment and emphasize state policies that increasingly came to be viewed as anticlerical, especially during the reign of the Portuguese King José I (r. 1750–77). Chapter 2 recounts the turmoil of the Napoleonic Wars and the French invasion of 1807 and 1808 that destabilized American viceroyalties across the Atlantic. With French rule established in metropolitan Portugal and Spain, American insurrections erupted as a response to political and economic crises in the peninsula. Indigenous communities and slaves played defining roles on both sides as leaders mobilized support. More detailed analysis follows the trajectory of events in the captaincy-general of Venezuela and in New Spain, the sites of the most dramatic rebellions. The narrative ends by weighing the importance of the 1812 constitutional revolution in Spain—and the vibrancy of loyalism—against the civil wars that brought about a growing independence movement from Buenos Aires to Caracas and Mexico City. Chapter 3 shifts the focus to the restoration of the Old Regime in 1814 and the attempted reconquest of Spain’s rebellious colonies in the New World. The total wars and the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives, including civilians and soldiers, take center-stage in Chapter 4. The larger-than-life figures of the time engaged in some of the most brutal campaigns between 1816 and 1820 as they simultaneously called for elections, established the foundations of modern republican states, and prosecuted all-out war. In Chapter 5, we offer a contingent account of what might have been by carefully considering the reinstatement of the Hispanic Constitution of 1812 and the push for European monarchies in the Americas. In Brazil, advocates sought to maintain the court in Rio as constitutionalists pursued political change in metropolitan Portugal. Chapters 6 and 7 conclude with the complex legacies of colonial rule, describing the postcolonial states and societies that emerged from the wars that brought independence to most of the Americas. We highlight regionalism and racism as key to understanding the entire period. The limited bibliographies that follow each chapter are not exhaustive. Instead, they cite influential and important books and articles that we drew upon in the course of our work with a slight emphasis on recent scholarship in English. We made this choice so that students can identify accessible materials and read more about the specifics of events, historical figures, and issues that we can only touch on in the course of the text. We also use discursive footnotes and include a glossary to explain and contextualize critical terms and subjects that may not be familiar to our readers. We reference a number of films—some of which are award-winning, while others present histories of race and gender,

Introduction 3 for example, in problematic ways. Each may be used as a teaching tool or as resource to learn more about the topics we broach.

Further Reading Sartorius, David. “Of Exceptions and Afterlives: The Long History of the 1812 Constitution in Cuba,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 150–176. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015.

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In the fall of 1808, almost two years before a cross-class, multi-ethnic band of rebels would march defiantly toward the Spanish viceregal capital of Mexico City, an Indigenous man named Pablo Hilario, carrying a banner with an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe emblazoned on it, cried out: “Long live [the Spanish King] Ferdinand VII and death to all the Spaniards [gachupines]!” Standing next to the local Indian governor, who was holding a standard with a picture of Ferdinand, the man almost certainly had intended no irony. In some ways, Hilario anticipated the momentous events of the early morning hours of September 16, 1810, when the priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla implored a hastily assembled crowd north of Mexico City to overthrow the government, as Spain had been overrun by French troops. With Napoleon’s brother Joseph Bonaparte as the new king, the Spanish monarchy, in the eyes of many Americans, symbolized the inept and sclerotic administration of a fallen power. Hidalgo cried out: “Long live the Catholic religion! Long live Ferdinand VII! Long live our homeland! May our holy patroness, the Holy Virgin of Guadalupe, live and reign forever in this American continent!”1 What caused this insurrection, and why did it grow so dramatically over the course of the following months and years even after Hidalgo had been executed for treason in 1811? What had inspired rebels in Caracas, Venezuela, in April 1810, where there were similar shouts of “Death to the French! Long live Ferdinand VII!”? As would occur throughout Spain and Spanish America, a junta, or group of local leaders within a community, had come together to govern in the absence of the legitimate Spanish king Ferdinand, held captive by the French imperial authorities since 1808 (described in detail in Chapter 2). The Caracas junta, dominated by whites born in America (Creoles), unilaterally declared freedom of trade, abolished the alcabala on food and certain consumer goods, and ended both Indian tribute and the slave trade in the region.2 An earlier generation of historians pointed to supposed age-old rivalries between Creoles and peninsular Spaniards as the driving forces behind this revolution. The peninsulares, in these accounts, had lorded their Old-World authority over those born overseas and now faced the consequences of their actions. Narratives centered on the roles of “great men,” like the Venezuelan Creole Simón Bolívar, captivated the collective imaginations of an audience eager for heroes and larger-than-life DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-2

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icons. This was the stuff of what some call historia patria, which also filled school textbooks and helped to create a sense of collective identity by focusing on the deeds of so-called founding fathers like Hidalgo and Bolívar, among others. Of course, these stories left out the vast majority of inhabitants who were neither white nor privileged and who left fewer records for scholars to find in dusty archives and libraries. The omission of people of color from the pages of history began with nineteenth-century figures like the Colombian historian and politician José Manuel Restrepo, who concluded that free Black and biracial people participated in wars of independence for alcohol and money, rather than in the name of nationalistic ideals. This book challenges the older paradigm of Creole-peninsular friction and division as we follow the experiences of men and women like Hilario and Hidalgo throughout the course of the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and engage with often-neglected topics such as loyalism during a period of political realignment and social change. We look at the persistence of and the overlap between Indigenous, African, mestizo, and Iberian cultural and civic identities. Topics, including faith, gender, race, slavery, and subalternity, allow us to think more deeply about the processes of Latin American independence as well as continuities with older monarchical and commercial systems that tied together both sides of the Atlantic. But first we have to explain our choices of terms and method. What words do we use and why? For instance, where does the idea of Latin America come from, and what does its history tell us? Which countries constitute this seemingly geographical designation? In fact, the term dates to the 1850s, decades after the end of the independence era, and has its origins in the intellectual circles of mid-century France. The Colombian writer José María Torres Caicedo was among the first to employ Latin America as a concept and helped to popularize it even before the French invaded and occupied Mexico in the 1860s. But significantly the term reflected culture, language, and the idea of race rather than geography, and its inclusivity allowed “Latin” nations, notably France, to have a stake, rhetorically speaking, in “Latin America.” At the same time, the idea of a common Latin identity helped to differentiate the south from its imperious neighbor to the north, the United States. But in many ways the concept of Latin America is anachronistic in assessing the history of a period before it was coined. Therefore, we will avoid it throughout most of the text that follows, instead employing terms used at the time like Spanish America (the dominions of the Spanish monarchy) and Portuguese America (centered on Portuguese Brazil). We will not focus exclusively on Iberian states, though, and will emphasize the impact of the tumultuous revolution in French Saint-Domingue as well. All of this begs the question of what to call the inhabitants of Spanish, Portuguese, and French colonies in the Americas and how to describe them. Some authors have honed in on European actors and peppered their texts with “patriot” Creoles and royalist peninsulares in order to drive home their thesis.3 To avoid this dichotomy, we, for the most part, replace royalism with the term loyalism, because many who stayed loyal to Spain came to embrace

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constitutionalism and were not, by definition, royalists. We also argue that the term “patriot,” with its sympathetic connotations and positive associations, obscures more than it reveals about extremely convoluted civil wars and political battles in which many men and women switched sides. Those who fought against Spain and those who remained loyal to the Spanish crown all called themselves “patriots.” So we are more inclined toward the interventions of recent scholars who have chosen apt descriptors like americano to denote the people born in America. Many historians have done so because the word “American,” like other terms such as nation, had been transformed in the course of the early nineteenth century. In the aftermath of successful independence struggles, americanos were white and black, of Indigenous and mixed ancestry; the word promised to include everyone in a semantic call to unity against colonizers of all stripes. Second, we want to discuss our methods. To start, our historical sources vary from correspondence and government records to newspaper articles, sermons, songs, speeches, statistics, and petitions. We will assess causation as well as the effects of decades of strife and war as if the end result—independence from European empires—was not a fait accompli. In other words, this analysis proceeds from the vantage point of those who lived through the events and participated in the action but could not have known what the final outcomes would look like. This helps to avoid an overly deterministic perspective and brings in contingency and possibility to the study of the past, keeping in mind the different paths that could have shaped the experiences of those who took part in these struggles. In addition, we take a transregional/transcolonial approach that pays more attention to connections and ties between empires than to supposed innate differences between cultural groups and sovereign states. This allows for thicker contextualization and for an emphasis on patterns of change that affected all European colonies in the Americas.

Historiographical Debates This introductory chapter examines the economics, politics, and social transformations that characterized Spanish and Portuguese America in the late eighteenth century within a dynamic Atlantic world. The United States and Haiti represented, for many, cautionary tales of revolution and radicalism that came in the wake of the Enlightenment, and both Spain and Portugal reacted by working hard to reform their imperial structures. Brian Hamnett, in tune with scholars such as John Lynch and Barbara and Stanley Stein, has maintained that Iberian empires crumbled due to the unfolding crisis between the 1790s and 1808 and were thus unable to marshal the necessary resources to maintain their overseas territories. On the other hand, with books like The Independence of Spanish America (Rodríguez O. 1998), Jaime Rodríguez has emphasized the rupture caused by French domination of the Iberian Peninsula in 1808 and the internal political dynamics that led to a model of liberal Hispanic constitutionalism established by 1812. An independence movement did not take

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hold in any of the regions of Central America, although different areas experienced a degree of local turmoil and political agitation. Accordingly, we have chosen primary sources that serve to recover the voices of those who lived through this period and offer a view of Hispanic revolutions that displays both continuities with the past and the importance of new ideas to subjects of Iberian monarchies in the New World. This kind of historical method privileges neither economics nor politics but rather highlights the cultures and structures that shaped elite and subaltern motivations and loyalties. Integrating important historiographical debates into different chapters of the book offers a more nuanced understanding of historical processes. For example, was the crisis of 1808 the result of a longer process of economic declension, as Hamnett has argued in The End of Iberian Rule on the American Continent (2017), or occupation by French forces? Did economic failures cause independence, or would that be too simplistic of an equation? Did American rebels clearly push for political separation, or did many truly advocate autonomy within an older system characterized by composite monarchy? And as Atlantic History has become increasingly prominent, should Spanish America, let alone the Portuguese monarchy, be placed within a broader framework of revolution sweeping across the shores of nations-in-the-making, or should we maintain a distinctive space for discussions of the dissolution of the Spanish empire, as Roberto Breña has urged? These questions inform the analysis of autonomist and independence movements and bring to light key interpretive differences between scholars along the way. Rather than glorify rebellions, historians currently have been placing more emphasis on patterns of loyalty and popular royalism within a fracturing Spanish state. Therefore, chapters pay attention to the competing claims of a variety of social and political actors at the time across the variegated regions of the Americas and the Caribbean. Furthermore, while elections and the rise of a new political culture are explored in some depth, questions must be raised over whether or not a new liberal consensus had taken hold. Some historians, such as Eric Van Young, have concluded that peasants were not actively involved in this transition toward representative government and did not necessarily buy into emergent nationalisms that offered new loyalties and a new political language.

Colonial Majorities: Race, Class, and Gender in the Americas We begin by describing the diverse people who populated the Americas and the different kinds of communities, both rural and urban, that made up eighteenthcentury Spanish and Portuguese America in addition to the French colonies in the Caribbean—Guadeloupe, Martinique, and Saint-Domingue. First of all, people of color outnumbered those who only had European ancestry.4 People of mixed European and Indigenous ancestry, called mestizos, began to form the majority in places like Nuevo León, a province to the north of Mexico City. While most whites lived in cities, they generally did not form the majority of urban residents. Saint-Domingue in many ways represented the most extreme

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example of this, with whites accounting for approximately one-quarter of the permanent residents of the key port town of Le Cap Français (now Cap Haitien) in the north and enslaved people representing two-thirds of the population. By the late eighteenth century, this proportion held true in other key French colonial towns as well. Overall, close to half a million enslaved men and women lived alongside 31,000 people of European descent and 28,000 free people of color in Saint-Domingue. In the province of Cartagena in today’s Colombia, by way of comparison, free people of color constituted 66 percent of the population. People of color, including the enslaved, likewise accounted for 63 percent of Córdoba’s population (a city in today’s Argentina).5 Similarly, almost two-thirds of Portuguese Brazil’s people were black or identified as mulatto (biracial), in addition to hundreds of thousands of Indians, such as the Tupinambá, who mostly resided outside of colonial centers like Rio de Janeiro and Salvador. The total Brazilian population likely reached over two million by 1800. It is a myth that Indigenous peoples died out in the aftermath of the brutal and bloody wars of conquest in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries—tens of millions of people across the Americas speak the languages and maintain the cultural practices of their forebears. For example, there are 47 “original languages” recognized by the Peruvian government that are spoken by four million people in Peru today; Mexico recognizes 68 languages used by almost seven million Indigenous speakers. While epidemic diseases such as smallpox ravaged Indians well into the seventeenth century, vibrant communities, called repúblicas de indios by Spaniards, remained visible and viable by the eighteenth century. In the early nineteenth century, a majority of Guatemala’s population consisted of Indigenous farmers on communal lands far from urban environments. In addition, multiple studies have shown that Indigenous people represented 60 percent of the general population of New Spain (today’s Mexico) and more than half of the residents of many of the key cities and mining centers in the late colonial period. In Mexico City and Zacatecas, to take two examples, Indians comprised a significant plurality of residents—28 percent and 29 percent of the population, respectively. By the early nineteenth century, New Spain counted a total of 6.1 million people (with the Kingdom of Guatemala, 7.8 million), New Granada 2.2 million, the viceroyalty of Peru 1.8 million, the Río de la Plata 1.6 million, and Chile 800,000. Spanish Caribbean colonies had approximately 900,000 people. In sum, Spanish America likely had close to 15 million inhabitants at this time. A distinct minority, 3.2 million, came from European descent.6 In terms of ethnicity and culture, who exactly were the people creating the colonial spaces of the Americas, and how did they describe and define themselves? There were speakers of Maya, Mixtec, Nahuatl, Otomí, and Zapotec in New Spain, while Aymara, Guaraní, and Quechua, among many other languages, were spoken in large areas of South America. Some linguistic cultures dominated specific regions, such as Mapuche in the south of Chile. The Americas have such disparate roots in part due to the rapid expansion of slavery that occurred within a framework that upheld colonial hierarchies based upon

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perceived difference. Europeans forcibly transported people to the New World from West African ports in today’s Senegal, Nigeria, and Angola, among many other regions, from where they brought languages such as Mande, Wolof, Yoruba, Kikongo, and Kimbundu. They maintained many of their traditions through religious and mutual aid societies that included enslaved and free men and women of color. The blending of cultures after centuries of interaction and exchange continues to shape hybrid “creole” cultures, from musical traditions to religions, in the Americas. Europeans metaphorically sat on top of a social pyramid, a casta (caste) system, based on ethnic and cultural difference that afforded them power and influence. Some said that the production of sugar mirrored this social system—the white crystallized sugar at the top symbolized those of European origin, while the tan-colored sugar below represented the people of color who came from mixed backgrounds, and those of African descent were at the bottom, like the dark panela sugar, which was also, incidentally, considered the lowest quality. It is important to highlight the roots of prejudice and nineteenth-century scientific racism that emerged through the slave trade and slave-based economies, especially because many of the protagonists in the wars of the age, including Napoleon and Bolívar, expressed extremely racist views of non-Europeans. As early as 1505, a Portuguese traveler said that West Africans were “dog-faced, dogtoothed people, satyrs, wild men and cannibals.”7 The first vessel to carry enslaved people to Spanish America disembarked in 1520 with captives sold off the coast of present-day Mauritania and trans-shipped from Portugal to Puerto Rico. By 1580, over 2,000 enslaved people were being forcibly shipped to north-eastern Brazil each year to cultivate sugar, a commodity Christopher Columbus had brought to the Caribbean on his second voyage. The journey, or Middle Passage, ultimately carried 11.5 million people to a regime of dehumanizing labor on American plantations or in colonial towns. More than a million died on board European ships before arrival. One Jesuit wrote that Brazil was “nurtured, animated, sustained, served and preserved” by the black souls of Angola and their “sad blood.” The slave trade peaked in the eighteenth century, and Brazil imported more human beings than any other region of the Americas, enslaving in the neighborhood of four million people between 1500 and 1850. Broadly speaking, Europeans used similar practices for export-oriented agriculture across the Americas, and Brazil typified early sugar plantation economies. “A sugar mill is hell and all the masters of them are damned,” wrote one priest in 1627. To provide a sense of what it was like, statistical evidence has demonstrated that an average of 5–10 percent of enslaved people died each year in Brazil. Typical life spans for field hands, once they started working a full-time regimen, totaled seven years, because planters often believed it was more profitable to work people to death than to provide for their well-being. During the harvest, or safra, overseers might implement a 24-hour workday. Plus, planters tended to show little interest in promoting families, and men typically outnumbered women two to one. Children especially were viewed as a burden as they represented almost 12 years of expenditures before they were able to fully participate in the labor system.

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Enslaved men and women tried to meet their own subsistence needs on days off, working the remainder of the time for their owners. Slaves in seventeenth-century Brazil could produce enough sugar to recover an original investment in 13–16 months, and even after the rise in price of a slave by 1700, they could reproduce their cost with a mere 30 months of labor. The Brazilian sugar plantations, the engenhos, essentially consumed slaves, and the slave trade replaced them. Each ton of sugar roughly has been calculated to have cost one human life, illustrating the way in which sugar was a killing crop. In the wake of the Industrial Revolution, the mechanized production of sugar from Portuguese Brazil to Spanish Cuba and French Saint-Domingue started to resemble the modern factories of Europe and the Americas with their brutal labor conditions. Nineteenth-century social structures in the Americas retained many of the problematic features of colonial regimes, although there were efforts to whitewash this history. In the early twentieth century, just a few decades after slavery finally had been abolished in Cuba and Brazil, social scientist Gilberto Freyre (1900–87) perpetuated the myth that “the racial friction [in Brazil] was smoothed by the lubricating oil of a deep-seated miscegenation.” His work downplayed the depredations of slavery and the sexual violence that had been endemic on plantations in order to highlight what he saw as the benefits of a multiracial, pluralistic, and democratic modern society. Many scholars supported his claims, arguing that Brazilians were much less likely to harbor prejudice against others due to a history of intermarriage and sexual relations between people of different ethnic backgrounds. More recent research on race across the Americas, however, has exposed the shortcomings of these kinds of patriarchal theories and has exposed the fractures and divisions within all contemporary societies, including Brazil. Therefore, it is important to reexamine colonial hierarchies which clearly denigrated people of color and upheld European privilege. The vocabulary and system of classification were complex and contained a number of in-between categories, such as pardo, mulatto, and mestizo in Spanish America. Paintings of the casta system vividly displayed the parentage of these different groups. While pardos were free people of color, often with mixed Black, white, and Indian ancestry, and zambos had one African and one Indigenous parent, mestizos emerged as standard-bearers of a blended identity, especially in New Spain.8 Appearance and even style of dress could alter perceptions of ethnicity. People from different castas could find acceptance in a more privileged category if they adopted European fashions and did not appear to be related to their African or Indian ancestors, effectively passing into white society. Wealthy elites could even purchase official papers, known as cédulas de gracias al sacar, conferring legitimacy and higher status if there were doubts concerning their birth.9 The point here is that. unlike in English America, where a person’s identity and ethnicity were fixed and clearly defined, in Spanish America both variables were much more fluid. Even American-born Spaniards, referred to as Creoles, were distinguished from their peninsular counterparts and often were denied the same privileges as those born in Europe.

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Class and gender lines cleaved colonial societies as well. In Mexico City, in 1790, nearly 85 percent of inhabitants were from the lower class, consisting of workers, the underemployed, and the unemployed. Just a few years later, the renowned scientist Alexander von Humboldt, traveling across Spanish America, stated flatly that Mexico was a land of inequality. Women, whether privileged cacicas or plebeians, faced an additional obstacle in the form of patriarchal hierarchy.10 Scholars have shown that domestic disputes were so prevalent in New Spain that they constituted the largest percentage of criminal proceedings involving violence to reach the judicial system. And of course we know that such cases, then as now, tend to be underreported. While honor was a crucial code that underpinned one’s dignity and pride, it had gendered overtones as applied to women. Appearances mattered, and even a suggestion of transgressive behavior could adversely impact a woman’s reputation and perceived virtue. Increasingly, by the late eighteenth century, men engaged in commerce and governance exercised patriarchal authority in dealing with the marriage choices of their daughters due to economic concerns and the desire to maintain the elevated social status of their families.

The Hispanic Enlightenment What was the Enlightenment, and how did it challenge these sociopolitical structures? Did it alter the trajectory of southern Europe and/or the American colonies, or was it limited in its impact to Britain and France? And did these new ideas alone cause revolutions? The shift in thinking and rise of new ideologies that occurred largely over the course of the eighteenth century certainly sparked political conflicts and undoubtedly had tremendous impacts across Europe and the Americas. Most of the future leaders of independence movements, from Francisco de Miranda to Bolívar and José de San Martín, belonged to the Free Masons, a secretive group that undermined ingrained social hierarchies and chipped away at structural inequality by adhering to the ideals of liberty and equality. Across Spanish America, men and women embraced a new political sociability by holding tertulias (salons) just as their counterparts did in Europe. For example, Mariana Rodríguez del Toro planned radical political action from her tertulia in Mexico City, and in New Granada, Manuela Sanz Santamaría de Manrique hosted guests such as Camilo Torres, ostensibly discussing art, literature, and science but likely debating politics much of the time.11 Iberian monarchies successfully navigated the period by embracing scientific principles and generating large streams of revenue, adapting new governing strategies after quelling tax rebellions and unrest in parts of South America. With the exception of events in southern Peru and La Paz in the early 1780s, no clear-cut independence movements materialized while Britain and France faced outright political and social revolutions. During this time, however, stereotypes that perpetuated the notion of a backward, zealously Catholic populace tarnished Spain’s image as a great imperial power, reviving the notion of the Black Legend of the Spanish conquest. In the Encyclopédie méthodique, the

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Frenchman Nicholas Masson de Morvilliers described Spain as the most ignorant country in Europe, and Voltaire asserted that Spain remained as unknown as the most savage parts of Africa. Governing officials and letrados combated these views through a comprehensive program of reform as well as a recasting of Hispanic history spearheaded by Spanish American clerics. In Spain and France, the Bourbon family held absolute power, while in neighboring Portugal the Braganza dynasty reigned. Spanish ministers pursued a series of programs, known as the Bourbon reforms, to rationally reorganize the state, challenging the privileges of the rural oligarchy that controlled large swathes of land and encouraging commerce throughout the empire. In many ways, Iberian states, rather than France, epitomized this age of change. New ideas spread through various channels, including universities, the press, and economic societies. A small number of prominent figures in Spain, such as Josefa Amar, began to advocate for the equal treatment of women and spoke out against barriers to learning. Enlightened officials looked to broaden access to education and curtail the influence of the church by disentailing or seizing some of their properties and land. Notably, under King José I, the Portuguese minister, the Marquis of Pombal (1699–1782) came to see the church, and especially religious orders such as the Jesuits, as obstacles to the progress they were attempting to make. Voltaire had falsely accused them of inciting a Guaraní insurrection in 1754 in Paraguay after the Portuguese and Spanish had redrawn imperial borders with the Treaty of Madrid in 1750.12 After a failed attempt on the king’s life in 1758, blamed on the Jesuits, the Portuguese enacted a law decreeing their expulsion the following year. The French followed suit shortly thereafter, and the new monarch on the Spanish throne, Charles III (r. 1759–88), similarly expelled the Jesuits in 1767. Ultimately, 2,500 Jesuits had to leave Spanish America, and hundreds fled to the Papal States. By the end of the eighteenth century, secular Spanish courts, called audiencias, began to try clerical offenders, effectively ending the personal immunity of churchmen under the Old Regime legal system. In 1804, in New Spain, a law of consolidation confiscated upwards of 12 million pesos of clerical capital to pay down Spanish debt. Subsequent historians have argued that such policies alienated many members of the church hierarchy who felt that the bonds between church and state had frayed. Some began to question their loyalty to monarchs who seemed bent on attacking the key pillars of the traditional social order. A new faith in direct observation and the impact of natural law theories underpinned some of the efforts to change church doctrines and teaching. Juxtaposing reason against religion and superstition, clerics themselves began to point out inconsistencies found in the Bible relating to the life of Christ. The son of a Protestant minister, Pierre Bayle questioned miracles and fostered religious skepticism. Works by scholars such as the Baron de Montesquieu, with an emphasis on civil law, penetrated Spanish borders despite the fact that they had been prohibited by the Inquisition. At the same time, a new generation of writers railed against the abuses and hypocrisies of the Catholic Church. In

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Candide, for example, Voltaire conjures up the imaginary Spanish American paradise of El Dorado, a fabulously wealthy kingdom governed by a philosopher king, the ideal of many enlightened thinkers. When the protagonists arrive, they are struck by the absence of priests: “What! You have no monks who teach, who dispute, who govern, who cabal, and who burn people that are not of their opinion?” The response provides a window into the utopian thinking of the age: “We must be mad indeed, if that were the case … here we are all of one opinion, and we know not what you mean by monks.” Although some writers, notably Manuel de Aguirre, advocated religious tolerance, the majority of the partisans of the Hispanic Enlightenment tended not to openly critique religion, instead merging new ideas with a spirit of reformist Catholicism known at the time as Jansenism. They also faced more censorship than was found in British and Dutch territories until freedom of speech was declared in November of 1810 by the Cortes of Cádiz (discussed in Chapter 2). Enlightenment thinking culminated in efforts to define and classify all forms of knowledge. The best example of this remains Denis Diderot’s Encyclopedia, published between 1751–72 in 35 volumes. A litany of important thinkers contributed articles on everything from the economy and politics to manufacturing techniques and musical theory. All forms of knowledge were to be analyzed, critiqued, and catalogued. Through this process, philosophes advanced the idea of perfectibility, as humanity was continually progressing forward and moving away from earlier stages of barbarism. Using this linear notion of historicity, influential European intellectuals presented Iberian colonies, and America in general, as typifying an earlier age of civilization and development. In turn, French and British writers in particular perpetuated the idea that Americans were inferior to Europeans. Borrowing from the philosophe George-Louis Leclerc, Count of Buffon, and Cornelius de Pauw, Scottish historian William Robertson argued that “in the beginning all the world was America.” Robertson proposed that the New World remained mired in an original state of nature, consisting of a small number and variety of species. The poor environment had left the Indians at the stage of “brute creation” signaled by their “feeble frame and languid desire.” Characterizing Indigenous people as childlike, living in a natural state of primitive innocence, Robertson echoed JeanJacques Rousseau’s conception of the “noble savage.” His views on environmental determinism colored his impression of European Americans as well. Robertson described Creoles in much the same language he used to disparage Indians: “the vigour of their mind is so entirely broken down, that a great part of them waste life in luxurious indulgences, mingled within an illiberal superstition still more debasing.” The diagnosis of Indigenous religious traditions as symptoms of the Devil’s corrupting influence completed a bleak picture of life in the New World. Similar accusations filled the pages of other Enlightenment works. Associating the Spanish empire with Islam and the Orient, Abbé Raynal asserted that America would ultimately languish under the yoke of “oriental despotism.” Spanish Americans engaged such virulent polemics on a number of fronts, from analysis of documentary evidence to attacks on the epistemological basis of the

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arguments. Clerics such as the Jesuits Francisco Clavijero and Juan de Velasco dismissed the works of Buffon, de Pauw, Raynal, and Robertson as patent falsifications, contemptuous of religion. Instead, they looked to expropriate the precolonial past as an archetype for contemporary Spanish American patriotism, which would become their most important historical legacy.

Administrative Reforms In the aftermath of the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), during which Spain briefly lost its Caribbean colony of Cuba to the British, European monarchies implemented a series of reforms designed to generate revenue to pay off extensive war debts. The end results, however, dramatically altered relations with their American colonies and paved the way for uprisings from New England to New Granada. England, France, and Spain, the major states involved in the conflict, took similar paths in terms of raising taxes on their colonial subjects in order to ease debt obligations. In Spain, King Charles saw a spike in inflation that came along with the higher taxes promoted by his key minister, the Marquis of Esquilache. Influenced by the successes of his cousin’s more centralized monarchy to the north, the king attempted to shake up his administration by adopting the intendancy system to help raise funds and modernize the state. Cuba was the site of the government’s first experiments, as significant changes came in the wake of the British occupation. Enlightened reformers established an intendancy, a new standing army, and eased trading restrictions within the monarchy for the island’s merchants. The army was to be based on a reformed militia system that would ensure local populations were in charge of defending their territory from possible invasions. After being tried in Cuba, it was rolled out in the rest of the empire. In doing so, Spain came to rely on both enslaved and free people of African descent, especially in the Spanish Caribbean, as key facets of their military presence. The Bourbon reforms also exempted members of pardo and moreno (literally meaning dark-skinned) militias from certain taxes and from civilian criminal courts, granting them privileges previously held only by whites. They also received health and retirement benefits that proved to be popular and enticing, leading the majority of Havana’s free men of color to enlist by 1776. Another important innovation was the intendancy system, established in Havana in 1764, the first of a long list of new administrative jurisdictions that would transform Spanish American governing practices. When the Bourbon reforms began to be implemented, local governing officials, notably alcaldes mayores (judges who also had other significant responsibilities, including the regional economy) and corregidores (magistrates/governors), tended to derive their incomes from trade, known as the reparto de mercancías, or the distribution of merchandise on credit.13 Selling their offices also helped generate funds for the monarchy, as financial difficulties had mounted. Corregidores ceased to draw an income from the state in 1720, which had the unintended consequence of incentivizing corruption. Many people, especially among Indigenous communities in

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Peru, complained, because they perceived the reparto to have become the forced sale of goods by corrupt corregidores. To address these issues, from the 1760s onward, the crown began to replace alcaldes mayores and corregidores with intendants and ended the reparto system, thereby instituting a more centralized and less exploitative form of royal control (Figure 1.1). The establishment of intendancies directly built on the French model, in which intendants collected taxes, oversaw the regional court systems and public works, facilitated new agricultural practices, and helped conscript soldiers. French intendants were trained in the law and were regularly rotated to minimize the potential for corruption. Spain installed dozens of intendancies throughout America in the late eighteenth century (see Maps 1 and 2). In New Spain, an intendancy was piloted for the Sonora/Sinaloa region (Arizpe) in 1768. Louisiana and Venezuela became intendancies in 1775 and 1777, followed by Buenos Aires and Córdoba before the rest of the Río de la Plata, subsequently divided into eight intendancies in 1782 (Buenos Aires, Charcas, Cochabamba, Córdoba, Potosí, Paraguay, La Paz, and Salta). One was later added that included the Falkland Islands. Eight intendants were appointed for Peru in 1784 (Arequipa, Cuzco, Huamanga, Huancavelica, Lima, Puno, Tarma, and Trujillo), and 12 intendancies were definitively decreed for New Spain in 1786 (subsequently extended to the Philippines); Concepción and Santiago, Chile, were sanctioned in 1787. An intendant was appointed to Nicaragua in 1787 along with three others by 1790 (Ciudad Real, Honduras, and San Salvador). Costa Rica, like Montevideo, remained a military government. Puerto Rico had an intendant by 1811, as did the Cuban regions of Puerto Príncipe (Camagüey) and Santiago de Cuba. Guatemala became an intendancy belatedly in 1821.

Figure 1.1 Late eighteenth-century colonial hierarchies

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Not only did the Spanish add intendancies, but they had begun to subdivide their American realms and increase the size and scope of the government. Carved out of Peru, the viceroyalty of New Granada was established in 1739 and the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata was created in 1776; the smaller territories of Venezuela and Chile adopted the designation of captaincy-general in 1777 and 1778, respectively. The Portuguese reshaped colonial Brazil in a similar manner between 1709 and 1748, as four new captaincies-general were created. By the 1770s, there were nine in total (see Map 2). A number of historians have identified the roots of regionalist sentiment in this process of administratively separating jurisdictions, linking it to growing rivalries between American and European Spaniards, or Creoles and peninsulares. Americans had gained control of the audiencias, or high courts, during the period 1687–1750 through the sale of offices such as oidor (judge), which helped to finance European wars. Tensions were exacerbated between 1751 and 1808, however, when 75 percent of appointments to the audiencias were peninsulares and few intendants were Americans. Yet this was not the case universally. In Guatemala, only 69 Europeans, compared to 671 Spanish Americans, staffed the kingdom’s highest political and fiscal positions at the end of the Bourbon era. Despite the upheaval, one influential statesman conceived of more far-reaching transformations as well. The Conde de Aranda, a prominent Spanish diplomat and senior government minister by the early 1790s, proposed an excision of territory in South America that would help to fortify their more important possessions in the Caribbean. Writing in 1786, he expressed concern over the ambition of European rivals and lamented the distance that separated Chile and Peru from peninsular Spain. He supported an alliance with Portugal whereby Brazil and Peru would be unified south of the Amazon River and a Spanish prince would be placed on a throne in Buenos Aires. Chile could be annexed to either kingdom (see Appendix: Document 1). While his ideas never materialized, his views show that Spanish reformers understood the precarious nature of colonialism in the 1780s and 1790s.14

The Economics of Colonialism What exactly constituted colonialism as Europeans extended the reach of their states in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and contested lands still held by Indigenous peoples? Overseas settlements represented the beginnings of colonial development in the Atlantic world. One of the pioneers of a more muscular colonialism, the French finance minister under Louis XIV, Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1619–83), insisted that Native Americans be “instructed in the maxims of our religion and in our manners.” These kinds of policies would “fortify the colony.” He emphasized the importance of colonial growth and assimilationist ideas: “if it is possible to mix them, over time, having the same law and the same master, they will thus form one people and one blood.” Similarly, the eighteenth-century Portuguese statesman, the Marquis of Pombal, posited that “the only way to dominate a barbarous nation is to civilize it and establish a bond between

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conquered and conquerors, who will live in a society under the same laws, as one people without any distinctions.” Most scholars today agree that colonial despotisms of the late eighteenth century were characterized by the increased use of military force to support rule based on hierarchy and ethnic subordination. Starting with settlements of foreign people on distant soil, colonialism involved efforts to transform the land and its original inhabitants and build an extractive economic system that benefited the home country, the metropole. Enslaved people and Indigenous workers were at the center of what became burgeoning colonial export economies at the end of the eighteenth century, from Spanish Cuba and coastal Venezuela to Portuguese Brazil. Merchants and staterun companies made tremendous profits, especially from sugar and coffee and from the plantation systems that produced them. The Portuguese maintained their primacy in the Atlantic slave trade, having dominated the market in human beings throughout the early modern era, often by contracting with other European powers. Spanish merchants diversified their trading portfolios in order to minimize risk. They sold cochineal from Oaxaca, indigo from Guatemala, cacao from Caracas and Guayaquil, cinchona from Peru, and hides from Buenos Aires. In Oaxaca, Indigenous entrepreneurs and merchants steered the trade in cochineal, used for dyes, while in other cases, such as the mines of Potosí in today’s Bolivia, the Spanish exploited an Indian labor force. Small factories called obrajes run mostly by Indigenous people produced textiles in the highlands of southern Peru and around the cities of Quito and Cuenca (in today’s Ecuador). Textile production rose in other parts of the empire, with artisan women in cities such as Puebla leading the charge to sell local wares that successfully replaced cotton imports from Europe by the early nineteenth century. Silver continued to be a primary driver of revenue as well. Spanish silver served as a critical link within a burgeoning global trade dating back to the end of the sixteenth century. The Spanish conquest of Manila in 1571 had facilitated the entry of New World silver into Asian markets, and it served as an entrepôt to mainland China. Each year the Manila galleons transported cargoes from Acapulco to Manila and returned with Chinese porcelains and silks for American and European markets; wealthy individuals from Potosí to the courts of Europe accumulated Chinese luxury goods. This firmly established a commercial network that connected all parts of the world for the first time. China was ultimately the final destination for much of the world’s silver from the beginning of the sixteenth century until the end of the eighteenth century. Growing profits from the silver trade, among other factors, influenced the Conde de Aranda in 1786 to advocate maximizing the exploitation of America for the economic benefit of the metropole. The peninsular viceroy of New Spain in the early 1790s agreed, arguing that agriculture and mining were to be expanded at the expense of all other ventures. Mining did in fact expand, growing to become close to 10 percent of the viceroyalty’s GDP by 1809. In contrast to free market trade that came into vogue in the nineteenth century, closed economies characterized the mercantilism of the eighteenth century. While

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governments did not monopolize each and every product, the system worked to benefit the metropole and exclude foreign merchants from overseas trading rights. Concerned with the rise of Dutch colonialism, the English adopted some of these principles through the Navigation Acts, passed in 1651, while the French minister Colbert focused on settlements and trade, especially of furs, as the government took control and reorganized the colony of New France a decade later. In Spain, all commercial activity had been required to be conducted through the southern port city of Cádiz since 1717. The Caracas Company, financed with capital from Catalan and Basque interests, exemplified Spanish mercantilism, having received monopoly rights in 1728 to control the cacao trade while developing commodities such as tobacco, indigo, and cotton. The eighteenth-century Bourbon reforms pushed the limits of mercantilism and created a hybrid economic plan to grow revenues and move away from a closed system. A year after transitioning to the intendancy system in Spanish Cuba, the Cádiz monopoly was abolished and Caribbean trade was opened up, beginning in 1765. A freedom of trade decree of 1778 allowed 13 Spanish ports to trade directly with the colonies, and designated colonial ports could trade between themselves. By 1788 and 1789, Venezuela and New Spain were included. The Spanish government opened the slave trade to the direct participation of Spanish merchants in 1789, having farmed it out to the Portuguese beginning in 1595 (through a contractual system known as the asiento). Some scholars view these economic initiatives as successes. Why? By 1792, the Spanish crown was receiving 19 percent of its income from a growing American colonial trade and did not have to raise domestic taxes. A mining upsurge in New Spain and a sugar boom in Cuba, with an annual growth rate of over 4 percent, accounted for some of the most dramatic increases in profits for Americans and the monarchy.15 Yet officials retained the power to slow or even cut off growth in sectors that might compete with peninsular interests. For instance, a decree of 1800 prohibited the establishment of colonial manufacturing plants. Spanish economic policy combined liberal features that would come of age in the nineteenth century within an existing mercantilist system. Some historians have presented the Bourbon reforms as the precipitating cause of early nineteenth-century Spanish American revolutions. Stemming from the Enlightenment tradition of rationalization, the policies were designed to enhance royal prerogatives and absolutism, to increase revenues from the colonies, and to protect the empire from foreign encroachment. From this perspective, the Bourbon reforms effectively reduced the status of Spanish America and, in a sense, constituted a process of recolonization. Is this entirely true? Should the short-lived revolts analyzed below be seen as antecedents to the wars of the 1810s and 1820s? We will argue that the gulf between the early 1780s and the 1810s, when independence struggles began in earnest, separated the conflicts in fundamental ways. Therefore, they should not be linked together as a linear process or series of events that inevitably would occur.

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The Tumultuous 1780s and 1790s As a merchant-muleteer, one of the key conspirators in the largest revolt in Spanish America during the Enlightenment had worked in a number of positions, from overseeing finances and hiring workers to traveling long distances selling goods. This provided the knowhow that would be crucial in running camps and provisioning large groups of armed forces. These experiences also helped build a base of loyalty for Micaela Bastidas, and even demonstrated to her that, at times, fear must be instilled, rigid discipline enforced, and strict punishments meted out. Born to unwed parents—an Indian mother and a father considered to have Black heritage—Bastidas and her husband, José Gabriel Condorcanqui, had learned all of these lessons prior to the Tupac Amaru rebellion. She was a leader, a manager, and an expert in logistics. Her partner was a mestizo kuraka who had been in the process of pursuing legal claims to a noble lineage and the title of Marquis of Oropesa in the 1770s. In Cuzco, Peru, a city with mestizos accounting for close to 50 percent of the population, Condorcanqui had received a Jesuit education, as was the custom for sons of kurakas. He learned Latin and spoke Spanish as well as Quechua, while Bastidas was semi-literate and mostly used Quechua. They fell in between the established classes of colonial society. Fairly well off, they worked together on developing mining interests, trading goods with the hundreds of mules they owned, and harvesting coca. But they also owed a great deal of money and had mortgages on their property. With freer trade decreed in the late 1770s, the Andean economy faltered, and merchants faced growing competition from fellow Spanish Americans in Buenos Aires with closer access to Europe. Peruvians also saw successive increases to the alcabala in the 1770s as well as new taxes on aguardiente and coca. The government even constructed new customs houses to facilitate the collection of duties. Feeling aggrieved over higher taxes and the revival of the hated mita, a labor draft that brought Indigenous men into the silver mines for a year at a time, Bastidas and Condorcanqui led Creoles, mestizos, and Indians in a bloody uprising in the name of the Spanish king. They began by proclaiming an end to the alcabala, customs houses, and the Potosí mita. They held the local corregidor, Antonio Arriaga, hostage for days as they assembled a multi-ethnic cast of thousands for his brutal execution in November 1780. One of their first acts, proclaimed in writing to the people of Cuzco, was to emancipate all slaves. Condorcanqui identified himself as the restored Inca, directly descended from the line of Indigenous rulers of Tawantinsuyu, and changed his name to Tupac Amaru II (meaning royal serpent in Quechua), a reference to the last Inca to resist the Spanish in the 1570s. At the height of the revolt, followers viewed Tupac Amaru as a kind of messiah and believed he could bring back the dead. Although historians such as Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy have noted the anticolonial character of this uprising, not all Indians supported the rebels, who only held power in their regional strongholds of southern Peru. Some Indigenous elites aided in suppression efforts, as many also had claims to be descended from the former ruling dynasty of Tawantinsuyu. Around the Lake Titicaca

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region in 1777, a separate insurrection began with a protracted legal battle against the local corregidor, who had refused to appoint Tomás Katari as a kuraka. Aymara insurrectionists eventually rose up under Katari’s brothers, as Julián Apasa took on the moniker of “royal serpent,” calling himself Tupac Katari. Both Tupac Amaru and Katari represented themselves as millennial figures sent to resurrect Indigenous dynasties. Although they formed a shortlived alliance during the siege of La Paz, in present-day Bolivia, and upwards of 100,000 may have died in the battles between 1780 and 1782, they failed to win the war. Tomás Katari was murdered in January 1781, and Tupac Amaru as well as Bastidas, their sons, and her brother were captured and executed a few months later. After cutting out his tongue, colonial authorities had Tupac Amaru drawn and quartered, his body parts sent to the different towns that had lent support as a warning to those who might continue to fight. For all the turbulence and violence that shattered the region, the Spanish responded with administrative changes, replacing corregidores with intendants in 1784. The historian J.H. Elliott has maintained that the aftermath of the revolts revealed that Spanish institutions were remarkably resilient—they “had become deeply embedded in the Hispanic American world, as they had not in British America.” Events like these had roiled Spanish America before, including the comunero revolt in New Granada (comprised of the current nation-states of Colombia, Panama, Ecuador, and Venezuela) and tax riots in Quito dating back to 1765. The comuneros, a name that at once evoked the greater good of the community and hearkened back to sixteenth-century Spanish rebels, railed against increased taxation, royal monopolies on products, and administrative abuses. In May 1781, a cross-class coalition of between 15,000 and 20,000 threatened the city of Santa Fe de Bogotá (today’s Bogotá, Colombia). Largely from tobacco- and cotton-producing regions, they had come together under the slogan “Long live the King and down with bad government” while protesting taxes and commercial restrictions in the previous months. Their ranks included numerous women. Fifty-seven-year-old Manuela Beltrán, for example, gave a powerful voice to her economic concerns by publicly ripping down a tax ordinance to popular acclaim in the town of Socorro, northeast of Bogotá. Reconciliation efforts led by the audiencia and the archbishop succeeded in staving off violence, because officials acquiesced to many of the demands put forward. They agreed to give preference to Creoles in governing positions, lower taxes, reduce Indian tribute, and abolish monopolies on tobacco and other goods. In addition, the viceroy granted a general pardon to all involved. In many ways, the rebellion, with its targeted grievances and localized concerns, did not foreshadow independence movements. Instead, this type of resistance revealed colonies chafing at Madrid’s efforts to use administrative measures and burdensome economic reforms to exert greater control. In response to these uprisings, enlightened bureaucrats put forward projects that fostered Hispanization—what some historians have referred to as social engineering—and tried to create a more monolithic Hispanic culture. These policies might be understood as punitive measures that addressed the causes of

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the violence that had broken out in certain regions during the 1780s, although their roots stretch back to the advent of the Bourbon reforms in the 1760s. In 1768, a royal order took effect in Lima, Peru, that expressly prevented members of the castas, those who had mixed ancestry, from entering into higher education, specifically the field of law. The administration justified the position with reference to “the multitude of lawyers of obscure birth and bad customs that exist in abundance in this Kingdom.” The decree belittled zambos and other multiracial groups for the stain of a vile birth, betraying Spanish officials’ concerns over free people of color. Two years later, a separate royal order spelled out fears of cultural and linguistic diversity in advocating that “the use of different languages be eradicated.” They insisted that religious instruction of Indians be in Spanish. Education appeared as a central component of the drive to root out Indigenous tongues such as Nahuatl and Otomí, singled out for opprobrium because speakers supposedly had chosen not to use Spanish in communities in close proximity to the viceregal capital of Mexico City. In 1781, after Tupac Amaru and Micaela Bastidas had been executed, new regulations in Peru prohibited the title of “Inca” in official documents and again advanced the sole use of Spanish in schools. They even prohibited traditional Indian dress, especially that of the nobility, and restricted plays or public performances that commemorated former Incas. Likewise, a 1786 edict in Mexico City addressed not only the attire of actors but a variety of behaviors in theaters deemed too rowdy or subversive. Later reforms approached health and sanitation by banning public urination and defecation and mandating the construction of separate toilets for men and women in local taverns (pulquerías). These efforts produced mixed results. The lower classes of Mexico City reacted to the new restrictions by urinating directly on the walls of the viceregal palace, the symbol of Spanish power. Guards had to be placed to stop them. But political reforms, such as the implementation of the intendancy system that sought to stem corruption, were welcomed, especially in Indigenous communities. Many appreciated lower taxes and the end of certain monopolies on important goods as well. Despite the end of open hostilities and the resolution of the Tupac Amaru and comunero revolts, resistance to colonial rule continued as a by-product of transatlantic exchanges and encounters in the 1780s and 1790s. From an Anglo-American perspective, events in the British North American colonies laid out a potential path toward political separation from Spain. Certainly, news spread of the independence of the United States, and documents such as proclamations of the Continental Congress circulated in literate circles. The Venezuelan Francisco de Miranda (1750–1816) traveled extensively in the newly independent nation in the aftermath of the war, ultimately settling in England, and began to envision a different future for Spanish colonies. Reminiscing years later, he confessed: “In the year 1784, in the city of New York, I formed a project for the liberty and independence of the entire SpanishAmerican Continent with the cooperation of England.” Yet his initial ideas departed from the founding doctrines of the first American nation-state in

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clear ways. He believed in government by elites, led by a hereditary executive (called the Inca) who would appoint a bicameral legislature that included an upper chamber of lords (known as caciques). Through the expatriate community he built in London, his views spread and influenced future independence leaders throughout South America. Jesuit influence played a fascinating role in the lives of many prominent figures in this period. Miranda himself had received a Jesuit education, as had Condorcanqui; Miguel Hidalgo, José María Morelos, Antonio Nariño, and Bolívar likewise studied in institutions founded by Jesuits (although they had been expelled in 1767). From exile, Jesuit priests like Clavijero, Velasco, and the Peruvian Juan Pablo Viscardo y Guzmán challenged the colonial status quo in important ways. Having relocated to England, Viscardo penned an Open Letter to the American Spaniards, arguably the first call for independence, in 1791.16 Steeped in the Enlightenment thinking of John Locke but justified with appeals to Hispanic legal and constitutional principles, the document presented the history of Spanish America as three hundred years of slavery to Spain. He painted men such as the sixteenth-century Inca Tupac Amaru as heroes and glorified the mestizo inhabitants of Spanish America. The letter became Miranda’s battle cry, and he distributed it for years among sympathizers and fellow expatriates within his London circle. Miranda had traveled widely throughout Europe and befriended some of the most influential figures on the continent, from the Austrian composer Joseph Haydn to Catherine the Great of Russia. He also ended up in Paris in May of 1789 as the Estates General convened to discuss an ongoing economic and political crisis that soon precipitated the French and Haitian Revolutions.17 What transpired in France and Saint-Domingue that had such far-reaching consequences? First, elections brought a representative assembly to Versailles that wrote a constitution by 1791, building on the proclamation of The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen that had ended feudalism two years earlier. French lawmakers broke with centuries of absolutism and embraced ideals of liberty and equality, but planters in Saint-Domingue, who produced the most sugar and coffee in the world, continued to use slave labor. Denied the right to vote in elections in 1790, free men of color on the island began an armed struggle that culminated in a broader conflict.18 In the summer of 1791, enslaved rebels on plantations in the north, centered around Le Cap Français, conspired to rise up and challenge the colonial order under a charismatic religious leader named Boukman. French authorities banned seditious literature but found insurgents carrying The Declaration of the Rights of Man in their pockets. Rumors spread suggesting that even the French king supported their movement. Early on, rebel leaders produced demands such as days off from work, an end to whipping, and the introduction of wage labor. They asked for an amnesty to end the conflict to no avail. Major changes instead shaped metropolitan France when revolutionaries adopted a republican system in September 1792. The king went on trial for sedition shortly thereafter, and radical Jacobins pushed a policy of “terror” on

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their political enemies during the most violent phase of the revolution. Not only did the government break with monarchy, executing King Louis XVI, along with Queen Marie Antoinette, in 1793, a dictatorship seized power, killing thousands of political prisoners after summary trials. At this time, the National Convention abolished slavery in one of the most radical acts of the revolutionary age as they tried to save their lucrative colonial possessions. Yet turmoil convulsed the new republic as leaders moved to consolidate their gains and eliminate political rivals and foreign armies converged on their borders. They even declared war against their former ally Spain, which had significant ramifications on Hispaniola as both the Spanish and British became involved in an international conflict with France over the island’s resources. While Miranda admired aspects of British constitutionalism, most historians concur that the French and Haitian Revolutions had a much greater impact on Spanish and Portuguese America than the independence of Britain’s 13 colonies in North America. And this is especially true for the circum-Caribbean region that includes coastal Venezuela. Just four years after the publication of The Declaration of the Rights of Man, one of the defining documents of the time, the Creole Nariño translated and printed it in New Granada. The audiencia was not pleased, and he was jailed in 1794. The imprisonment in 1797 of a young enslaved boy for the crime of singing French republican anthems illustrates the spread of this new revolutionary culture through the socially diverse networks of Venezuela’s Caribbean coast. He apparently learned the songs from his owners who had commanded him to perform them in local residences and public spaces. The Haitian Revolution, lasting from 1791 until independence in 1804, cast long shadows across the slave-holding regions of America. By the mid-1790s, Toussaint Louverture had become the de facto leader of an autonomous SaintDomingue, attempting to resurrect plantations in order to survive amid the ravages of war and the burning of vast tracts of land used to cultivate sugar cane. In Venezuela, localized efforts to reform the slave-based economies of the Atlantic littoral began with bargaining, much as had occurred in the beginning phases of the uprising in Saint-Domingue. Because of the fear inspired by Louverture and his armies, spaces for negotiation with regional actors and even imperial diplomats opened. Accordingly, rebels in Coro, Venezuela, presented demands and petitioned for their grievances to be addressed before recourse to arms in 1795. Like other nearby municipalities, the town of Coro was majority Black. The free zambo José Leonardo Chirino, the leader of the revolt, called for an end to racial and social hierarchies and for the adoption of French law. He was captured, tried, hanged, and decapitated in 1796. While free Blacks led the uprising in Coro, a 1797 republican conspiracy also involved artisans and Creoles from the port town of La Guaira, located in close proximity to Caracas, and was intimately connected to the events of 1795. Both groups of rebels drew on a similar cultural template and put forward strikingly similar goals. Namely, they pressed for a republic freed from colonial tax burdens, oppressive government, and the stain of slavery. They spread their messages with poems

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and songs as well as translations of The Declaration of the Rights of Man. One popular verse insisted that “The Whites, the Blacks, Indians, and Pardos … are brothers … united with a common interest to make war against Despotism.” In 1798, in Salvador, Brazil, a town with a large majority of people of color, a conspiracy of Black and biracial tailors supported what the colonial governor referred to as “French principles” of freedom and republicanism. Three of the accused rebels were hanged, their bodies hacked to pieces for display across the city. In nearby Ilhéus, in the captaincy-general of Bahia, Brazil, upwards of three hundred enslaved people essentially went on strike to push for better working conditions. They fled into the forest with some of the equipment from the engenho and held out for two years while sugar production ground to a halt. Through court proceedings in 1806, they petitioned their owner for peace and for days off from work. They asked for lower quotas, better conditions in the mill, and to sing any time they wished. In some ways, the more mundane demands revealed the extent to which sugar production and slavery dehumanized and devalued the lives of the workers. Like rebels in Saint-Domingue and Venezuela a decade earlier, they pressed concrete grievances, in this case through the court system, instead of immediately resorting to armed insurrection. Historians caution not to read the myriad events just described as opening acts in an ineluctable struggle for separation and independence that would erupt once again in 1810. Like the protests against higher taxes and reform from New Granada to Peru in the 1780s, the disturbances of the 1790s were quickly put down by Spanish and Portuguese authorities. Outside of London and a small group of enlightened expatriates from Spanish America, Miranda and Viscardo found few supporters. Miranda’s 1806 expedition to Venezuela, ostensibly to begin wars of liberation, did not inspire any sort of popular uprising among his compatriots—even the mercenaries fighting alongside him had not been told the nature of the mission when they embarked in New York. The British invasions of Buenos Aires and Montevideo in 1806 and 1807 failed because people remained loyal to the Spanish monarchy. New American identities, emerging in part from the Creole patriotism of Jesuits expelled from Spanish America, remained enmeshed in a Hispanic sensibility, articulating Old Regime racialized longings and aristocratic ideals. Unlike the more radical ideologies inspired by the French and Haitians, this patriotic epistemology tended to support the status quo and did not advocate supplanting the old order. Tensions between revolutionary and reformist positions help to shed light on what subsequently transpired between 1808 and 1825. Writing in 1800, Humboldt noted that the vast majority of people he had encountered in his travels through Spanish America shared an overwhelming loyalty to the Bourbon monarchy. It should be clear by now that many of the rebels that spearheaded uprisings in the late eighteenth-century articulated a form of popular royalism that allowed them to emphasize the legitimacy of a king while at the same time criticizing the officials who governed in his name. In Saint-Domingue, popular royalism played a similar role, especially among enslaved rebels. Some even professed loyalty to a royal trinity in 1793 when

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Spanish forces joined the war, claiming allegiance to the kings of Kongo, France, and Spain. Upwards of 60 percent of the slaves in the north of SaintDomingue had been born and raised in Africa, and royalist sentiments predominated within what arguably became a cultural, political, and social revolution. Royalism extended across class and ethnic lines and featured in popular pamphlets as well as in the letters and papers of powerful leaders like San Martín, widely considered one of the “liberators” of South America. So it’s not surprising that in 1810, rebels from the Bajío, the lowlands of central New Spain, said that the king of Spain, Ferdinand VII (r. 1814–33), had commanded them to follow Hidalgo and kill the viceroy and all other gachupines, then divide up their property to distribute to the poor. King Ferdinand supposedly was traveling with Hidalgo, or perhaps with Ignacio Allende, wearing a silver mask to conceal his true identity. In reality, however, the French held Ferdinand hostage and had sacked the entire Spanish royal family, forcing them from Madrid in 1808. But rumors can be significant as well as symbolic, and historians must decide whether or not this popular royalism had deep roots or served to, in a sense, “mask” the efforts of those bent on independence.19 The following chapters explore all of these issues in depth as we travel, like Humboldt, throughout the reaches of Iberian empires in the New World as they faced an unprecedented crisis.

Notes 1 A commemoration ceremony takes place annually but has changed little since 1896. With fanfare and fireworks, the current Mexican president recreates Hidalgo’s “Grito de Dolores.” But the exact words have been changed significantly since 1810, reflecting a modern national identity and downplaying religiosity. For example, the night of September 15, 2006, President Vicente Fox, in the Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, recited: “Mexicanas y mexicanos: ¡Viva nuestra Independencia! ¡Vivan los héroes que nos dieron patria y libertad! ¡Viva Hidalgo! ¡Viva Morelos! ¡Viva Allende! ” He ended with “¡Viva México!” The words of Andrés Manuel López Obrador were similar in 2020, notably eliding Hidalgo’s Catholic emphasis. 2 Indigenous peoples in Spanish America did not pay sales taxes but instead made tribute payments to the government based on population and the production of certain goods. Interestingly, recent research has shown that free people of color often paid both sales taxes and tribute, especially after eighteenth-century reformers like José de Gálvez attempted to grow revenue streams from the colonies following his visitation to New Spain from 1765–71. 3 One historian describes an incipient “creole nation,” because “the castes had only an obscure sense of national identity.” He then dismisses the idea that Indians or Black americanos could even conceive of such an identity. We disagree with this characterization and instead highlight the roles of people of color during this time. 4 Laurent Dubois, among many others, has used the term people of color, a translation of the French gens de couleur, to describe the Black and multi-ethnic peoples who populated colonial America in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. This term was used at the time and is used today, albeit in a completely different political and cultural environment. Generally speaking, Dubois employs this language in reference to free people of color.

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5 In the late eighteenth century, over half the city’s population had African ancestry. Wealthy Spaniards held thousands as slaves, while a plurality of Black men and women had attained freedom. The church, especially the Jesuit order, held more than a quarter of the city’s enslaved people prior to the expulsion order of 1767. In 1810, just under 30 percent of the residents of Buenos Aires were Black or, classified as biracial, had some African ancestry. 6 These numbers come, in part, from the work of Alexander von Humboldt, and many contemporary scholars, including Jaime Rodríguez, offer lower figures. 7 Likewise, many West Africans believed that Europeans arriving on their coasts were cannibals. For instance, see the account of the fifteenth-century Portuguese explorer Alvise Cadamosto. 8 Historian Alicia Hernández Chávez (2006) writes that the iconic image of the man on horseback comes from the “mestizo population of northern Mexico [that] collectively invented the Western saddle and developed a new breed of horse suited to long-distance travel.” 9 This proved so threatening to the status of white people that the Caracas city council protested to Spanish authorities in 1796. Citing the stain of slavery, they claimed that pardos would introduce instability and division to the colony if they could purchase legal whiteness. 10 Cacicas, female indigenous leaders, derived their status from the recognition of their elite ancestry within local communities, including the urban barrios of Mexico City. They often leveraged their authority within the colonial legal system to defend their honor and the honor of their family. Some historians have argued that this status and their privileges declined by the turn of the nineteenth century. 11 The 1996 film Ridicule features a dynamic view of court life and pre-revolutionary Enlightenment society in the 1780s. Although a work of fiction, it nonetheless accurately presents women in prominent roles in French salon culture. 12 An award-winning 1986 film, The Mission, explores the Guaraní War (1754–56) and questions of labor, slavery, and identity. Filmed in Colombia, scenes capture important aspects of hybrid colonial culture yet fail to give agency to the protagonists of the conflict such as the Guaraní cacique and corregidor Nicolás Ñeengirú. Instead, the director chose to emphasize the decisions and actions of fictionalized Jesuit priests. 13 The alcalde mayor and corregidor had similar responsibilities, and both terms might be translated as regional governor. 14 A 1783 document attributed to Aranda in which Spanish American territorial divisions were discussed has definitively been shown to have been a forgery from the 1820s and was not written by Aranda. 15 Cuba in the middle of the eighteenth century had a population of approximately 150,000, with about half of the island’s residents living in Havana. There were few roads, little industry, and only about one hundred small-scale sugar plantations. French Saint-Domingue and British Jamaica each had over six hundred larger plantations with greater productive capacity. While tobacco was the most lucrative crop, many foodstuffs, including wheat and wine, were imported. The political structure of the island centered on a captain-general, who in turn was responsible to the viceroy in New Spain. Important changes came to Cuba during and after the Seven Years’ War. Furthermore, the independence of the United States offered a new market for the products of slave labor, and sugar production increased toward the last three decades of the eighteenth century. The Cuban film La últimata cena (1976), directed by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, graphically depicts the horrors of slavery on the island in the late eighteenth century. 16 An English translation can be found in Latin American Independence: An Anthology of Sources, ed. Sarah C. Chambers and John Charles Chasteen (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2010), 60–66.

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17 In March 1792, Miranda left England in order to, in his own words, serve of the cause of liberty. Within a year, he had participated in some of the momentous events of the French Revolution as a general in the army. He witnessed triumphs as his men pushed back Prussian and Austrian troops, but he also got caught up in turmoil and infighting, even having to testify in front of the National Convention in 1793. 18 Free men of color addressed the French National Assembly in 1789 to appeal for their rights as French citizens, justifying the argument with reference to the 1685 Code Noir that granted all free people of color the same privileges as those born free. 19 Some scholars question the idea of a “mask of Ferdinand,” because they argue that Ferdinand, called “the desired one,” represented hopes of renewal in 1810. He was so popular that many residents sent donations from New Spain to aid the peninsular war effort in 1808 and 1809. Ferdinand may have appeared as one side of a Manichean coin to many of the people of New Spain.

Bibliography Chambers, Sarah C., and John Charles Chasteen, Eds. Latin American Independence: An Anthology of Sources. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2010. Hamnett, Brian R. The End of Iberian Rule on the American Continent, 1770–1830. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Hernández Chávez, Alicia. Mexico: A Brief History. Trans. Andy Klatt. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006. Rodríguez O., Jaime E. The Independence of Spanish America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.

Further Reading Adelman, Jeremy. Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006. Bethell, Leslie. “Brazil and ‘Latin America.’” Journal of Latin American Studies 42, no. 3 (2010): 457–485. Bethell, Leslie, ed. Colonial Brazil. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Brading, D.A. The First America: The Spanish Monarchy, Creole Patriots and the Liberal State. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Breña, Roberto. “The Emancipation Process in New Spain and the Cádiz Constitution: New Historiographical Paths Regarding the Revoluciones Hispánicas,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of 1812, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 42–62. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge. How to Write the History of the New World: Histories, Epistemologies, and Identities in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001. Childs, Matt D. “Gendering the African Diaspora in the Iberian Atlantic: Religious Brotherhoods and the Cabildos de Nación,” in Women of the Iberian Atlantic, ed. Sarah E. Owens and Jane E. Mangan, 230–262. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 2012. Dubois, Laurent. Avengers of the New World: The Story of the Haitian Revolution. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004. Dym, Jordana. From Sovereign Villages to National States: City, State, and Federation in Central America, 1759–1839. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2006.

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Edwards, Erika Denise. Hiding in Plain Sight: Black Women, the Law, and the Making of a White Argentine Republic. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2020. Elliott, J.H. Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America 1492–1830. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006. Escudero, José Antonio. El supuesto memorial del Conde de Aranda sobre la independencia de América. Mexico City: Universidad Autónoma de México, 2014. Fernández Tejedo, Isabel, and Carmen Nava. “Images of Independence in the Nineteenth Century,” in The¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva la Independencia!: Celebrations of September 16, ed. William H. Beezley and David E. Lorey, 1–41. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2001. Ganson, Barbara. The Guaraní Under Spanish Rule in the Río de la Plata. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003. Geggus, David. “Urban Development in Eighteenth-Century Saint Domingue.” Bulletin du Centre d’Histoire des Espaces Atlantiques 5 (1990): 197–228. Gharala, Norah L.A. Taxing Blackness: Free Afromexican Tribute in Bourbon New Spain. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2019. Jennings, Evelyn P. Constructing the Spanish Empire in Havana: State Slavery in Defense and Development, 1762–1835. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 2020. Klooster, Wim. Revolutions in the Atlantic World: A Comparative History. New York: New York University Press, 2018. Landavazo, Marco Antonio. “Fernando VII y la insurgencia mexicana: Entre la ‘máscara’ y el mito,” in Las guerras de independencia en la América española, ed. Marta Terán and José Antonio Serrano Ortega, 79–98. Zamora: El Colegio de Michoacán, 2002. Landers, Jane G. Atlantic Creoles in the Age of Revolutions. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010. Lynch, John. The Spanish American Revolutions 1808–1826. 2nd edn. New York: Norton, 1986. McFarlane, Anthony. Colombia Before Independence: Economy, Society, and Politics Under Bourbon Rule. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Ochoa, Margarita R. “Doña Marcela and the Cacicas of Bourbon Mexico City: Family, Community, and Indigenous Rule,” in Cacicas: The Indigenous Women Leaders of Spanish America, 1492–1825, ed. Margarita R. Ochoa and Sara Vicuña Guengerich, 88–110. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2021. O’Phelan Godoy, Scarlett. “El mito de la ‘independencia concedida’: los programas políticos del siglo XVIII y del temprano XIX en el Perú y alto Perú (1730–1814).” Histórica 9, no. 2 (1985): 155–191. Quijada, Mónica. “Sobre el origen y difusión del nombre ‘América Latina’ (o una variación heterodoxa en torno al tema de la construcción social de la verdad).” Revista de Indias 58, no. 214 (1998): 595–616. Racine, Karen. Francisco de Miranda: A Transatlantic Life in the Age of Revolution. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2003. Ringrose, David. Spain, Europe and the “Spanish Miracle,” 1700–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Seed, Patricia. To Love, Honor, and Obey in Colonial Mexico: Conflicts over Marriage Choice, 1574–1821. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988. Serulnikov, Sergio. “Disputed Images of Colonialism: Spanish Rule and Indian Subversion in Northern Potosí, 1777–1780.” Hispanic American Historical Review 76, no. 2: 189–226. Soriano, Cristina. Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2018.

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Stein, Barbara H., and Stanley J. Stein. Edge of Crisis: War and Trade in the Spanish Atlantic, 1789–1808. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009. Stern, Steve J. The Secret History of Gender: Women, Men, and Power in Late Colonial Mexico. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Thornton, John K. “‘I Am the Subject of the King of Congo’: African Political Ideology and the Haitian Revolution.” Journal of World History 4, no. 2 (1993): 181–214. Twinam, Ann. Public Lives, Private Secrets: Gender, Honor, Sexuality, and Illegitimacy in Colonial Spanish America. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999. Van Young, Eric. “Millennium on the Northern Marches: The Mad Messiah of Durango and Popular Rebellion in Mexico, 1800–1815.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 28, no. 3 (1986): 385–413.Velasco Murillo, Dana. Urban Indians in a Silver City: Zacatecas, Mexico, 1546–1810. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2016. Voekel, Pamela. “Peeing on the Palace: Bodily Resistance to Bourbon Reforms in Mexico City.” Journal of Historical Sociology 5, no. 2 (1992): 183–208. Walker, Charles F. The Tupac Amaru Rebellion. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014.

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Sovereignty and Insurgency in the Revolutionary Atlantic

For many enlightened Spaniards, King Charles III represented the principles of a new age, and the vision he put forward laid out a road map of reform and modernization for the future. Much like the French and Portuguese statesmen noted in Chapter 1, one of Spain’s most influential ministers, José Campillo y Cossío (1693–1743), advanced proposals to enhance the colonial economy and benefit the sovereign while speaking to cooperation between Europeans and Indigenous peoples. In a manuscript first published in 1762, he pointed to the fact that generations of Indians had been debased and reduced to a state of barbarism by his own government’s oppression. As a remedy, he envisioned property being allocated to their communities and the development of commerce that would bring tangible rewards to America and the metropole. If Indians worked for themselves and profited from such exertions, he posited in a veiled critique of forced labor, they would be more likely to apply themselves and generate greater revenues for all. He concluded that governance must remain in the hands of the few, however, as the educated elite were the only group that possessed a superior form of enlightenment. This kind of patriarchal thinking displayed the contradictions and prejudices inherent at the time. This chapter will explore these themes, paying close attention to the actions of Indigenous activists and people of color as they made their own histories in a period of change and revolution. The year after Charles III died, turmoil in France threatened to undermine Spain’s reformist agenda on the peninsula and in America. Under his son, the reactionary King Charles IV (r. 1788–1808), the government rekindled a more extreme policy of censorship to prohibit radical French ideas from penetrating the border and infecting Spanish subjects. After his entreaties to France failed to save the life of fellow Bourbon monarch Louis XVI, King Charles reluctantly declared war on France in March 1793, joining a struggle begun by Austria and Prussia the year before. But why did European monarchs and nobles perceive the ideas put into practice during the French Revolution to be so dangerous? Couldn’t they have appropriated new ways of thinking while retaining their power and status, as had been done in places like Spain, Portugal, and Prussia over the course of the eighteenth century? One of the key precepts of the era was a redefined understanding of sovereignty. In Old Regime Europe, the DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-3

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monarch, as the sovereign, embodied the state, and absolutists had vested almost all powers in the figure of a king or queen by the later 1700s. Both Charles IV and Louis XVI fit this mold. Furthermore, absolutists broke with parliamentary traditions that had conferred some authority on elites selected to serve in bodies such as the Cortes (parliament) in Spain or the Estates General in France. The Declaration of the Rights of Man, published in August 1789 as a proclamation of natural rights, revoked the monarch’s sole power to govern and provocatively stated that “the principle of all sovereignty resides essentially in the nation. No body nor individual may exercise any authority which does not proceed directly from the nation.” This simple statement—that sovereignty is conferred by the people of the nation rather than through divine sanction— completely altered political theories that had served to justify absolute monarchism since the sixteenth century. Promulgated in the French Constitution of 1791, the redefinition of sovereignty radically transformed the way in which men and women viewed the legitimacy of their own governments and permanently shifted the balance of power. The demand for popular sovereignty became a weapon used by the people against those who wished to keep rule by and for hereditary monarchs and the nobles of Old Regime Europe. If citizens were equal under the law and social distinctions and the privileges of the titled nobility were rescinded, then politics must be by and for the people, according to revolutionary doctrine. In Haiti, independent by 1804 under General Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the new Constitution’s first article definitively declared that the people had formed themselves into a free and sovereign state independent of all outside power. With equality granted to all men, the Constitution not only abolished slavery but denied entry to any white man who held human beings as property. Haiti became America’s first free Black republic and a symbol of hope for people as far away as Rio de Janeiro, where Black militia members wore medallions featuring a prominent image of Dessalines. Sovereignty over one’s own body seemed to naturally flow from the Enlightenment thinking that had inspired the revolutions in France and Haiti in the first place. Yet scholars also point to the links between a masculinist and patriarchal conception of citizenship in Europe and the Americas to show the unfulfilled promises of the Enlightenment. Just as in the United States and France, women could not vote and only men, endowed with natural rights and liberties, could act as citizens of the new nation. Whether Indigenous people could exercise their natural rights and duties remained contested territory; the United States did not grant citizenship to Indians until 1924. Chapter 1 emphasized the continued resonance of popular royalism as Enlightenment ideas spread. It’s worth noting that even French liberals, architects of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, had created a constitutional monarchy that had not initially attacked the symbolic stature of the monarch in 1789. In Spain and the Americas, could advocates of a tempered form of popular sovereignty retain the institution of monarchy while staying true to the new values of liberty and equality in an age of revolution? What about the Portuguese?

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Napoleonic Europe and the Crisis of Iberian Monarchies Napoleon Bonaparte in some ways inaugurated a moderate system of constitutional governance, and his years as first consul (1799–1804) and emperor of France (1804–14/15) reveal a hybridity that blended revolutionary politics with some of the pillars of Old Regime social hierarchies. He also held prejudices typical of the time, from sexism to racism, and openly voiced his disdain of people of color as he attempted to quell the final stages of the Haitian insurgency and reinstate slavery in France’s Caribbean territories. His vision of a unified Europe displayed both foresight and hubris and had powerful unintended effects on the Iberian Peninsula, Spanish America, and Portuguese Brazil. Autonomist and independence movements across the Americas, including in Haiti, cannot be contextualized properly without an in-depth analysis of the tensions and contradictions within Napoleonic France. On the heels of dramatic victories over Austrian troops and the equally momentous taking of Cairo, a commercial and political center in the Ottoman Empire, Napoleon returned to France a hero. These campaigns had been pitched as wars of liberation to free subjects from the shackles of Old Regime monarchies and legal systems. But Napoleon himself soon broke with the revolutionary French government and took power in a bloodless coup. In 1799, he adopted the title of first consul, hearkening back to ancient Rome and republican traditions. Over the next 15 years, he worked tirelessly to glorify himself and France through a series of machinations designed to build a global empire. He made peace with the Papacy and briefly with Britain. In a breath-taking return to pre-revolutionary politics, he declared France to be an empire and reestablished a hereditary class of nobles based on the premise of merit and talent. Napoleon’s Civil Code of 1804 inscribed a patriarchal system into law by recognizing the legal supremacy of the husband and restricting the 1792 legalized divorce provisions. Catechisms written to instill loyalty and draw on currents of popular royalism cast Emperor Napoleon I as a sovereign ordained by God. It therefore fell upon Christians to support him dutifully in all of his endeavors. While patching together an imperial fabric, France also suffered significant setbacks in the first few years of the nineteenth century. Their occupying army was expelled from Egypt in 1801. Declaring that he supported whites because he was white, Napoleon next tried to forcibly reimpose the institution of slavery in the French Caribbean. He strongly believed that liberty should not be extended uniformly to Black people who, he asserted, were uncivilized, and he sent tens of thousands of troops under General Victoire-Emmanuel Leclerc to suppress Toussaint Louverture’s autonomous state. Upon arrival, they pacified insurgent-held areas until the spread of disease decimated their numbers. General Leclerc himself died from yellow fever in 1802. By the end of 1803, the French had lost a colony that had been the largest sugar-producer in the world on the eve of the revolution. Haitians declared independence from France in January 1804. In addition, the British decisively defeated a combined FrancoSpanish fleet off the coast of southern Spain in the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar.

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Fueled by his desire to rule over the entirety of Europe, Napoleon ordered French armies into central Europe and destroyed the remnants of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806. He instituted a blockade of Britain to cut them off from their continental allies and trading partners, although British Admiral Home Popham and William Beresford managed to lead a rogue invasion of Buenos Aires that year. Traveling in Europe between 1804 and 1806, Simón Bolívar (1783–1830) experienced this atmosphere, verging on total war, first-hand (Figure 2.1).1 He was in Paris when Napoleon crowned himself emperor in December 1804, expressing mixed feelings about the ceremony and its aftermath. As a republican, Bolívar despised tyranny and absolutist rule, yet he saw the tremendous adulation of Napoleon and the popularity of his imperial ambitions forged through wars dating back more than a decade. Primary source documents reveal that Bolívar immediately thought of his homeland, which he insisted had been enslaved by Spain, as he daydreamed about the glory awaiting the person who would free its inhabitants. In Rome, the next summer, consumed by thoughts of ancient republics and past glories, Bolívar reportedly knelt down in front of his friends and swore an oath to liberate Spanish America, much like Miranda had done over 20 years earlier. But Bolívar saw that efforts to weaken Spain’s grip on America, such as Miranda’s ill-fated 1806 Leander expedition (named for the ship he outfitted in New York), had not had the desired effect, nor had they resurrected the insurrectionary spirit of the Venezuelan rebels of 1795 and 1797 (see Chapter 1).

Figure 2.1 Portrait of Simón Bolívar, 1823

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The year 1807, on the other hand, proved decisive for the future of Iberian empires. In July, the savvy Napoleon forged an alliance with the Russian czar, temporarily ending hostilities in the east. At the same time, he and his circle of advisers had come to view Portugal as a key to the strategy of isolating Britain and looked to negotiate with their ally Spain in order to achieve their goals. The resulting Treaty of Fontainebleau called for the dissolution of the Portuguese state, with Spanish Prime Minister Manuel Godoy promised the southern territories of Alemtejo and Algarve and all of Portuguese America granted to Charles IV. Plus, it allowed the French to push through the Pyrenees and set up military bases to ensure proper provisioning of the army as they marched south and west. Northern Spain would be virtually occupied as units converged on Britain’s ally and trading partner Portugal. This precipitated a major crisis for both Iberian monarchies and had unanticipated consequences for the Americas. Under serious pressure to maintain a strategic and economic alliance with Britain, the Portuguese cabinet acquiesced to a series of demands that gave the royal family an opportunity to relocate and re-establish themselves. With protection provided by the British navy, the Braganzas shipped out to Brazil on November 30, 1807, as French forces descended upon the capital Lisbon (they carried with them what would become Brazil’s first printing press). In their place, close to 25,000 men under General Jean-Andoche Junot occupied the city and soon usurped the throne, officially erasing the king and his family as the ruling dynasty. Similar to events that would play out in Spain over the summer of 1808, local juntas across Portugal formed to galvanize already visceral anti-French sentiment in the north and the south. In August, the British landed forces under Arthur Wellesley (subsequently the Duke of Wellington) to support the resistance and championed a regency that governed in the name of the absent prince Dom João (John). On the heels of the French seizure of Portugal, another 25,000 men under General Pierre Dupont arrived at Irun, on the northern coast of Spain bordering France, in December 1807, followed by three more corps consisting of almost 75,000 men. On February 16, French troops took a fortress in Pamplona through a ruse, with reverberations felt throughout the whole country. In spite of proclamations of peace and an emphasis on the long-standing alliance between the French and Spanish Bourbon monarchies, Napoleon clearly had designs not only on Portugal but on Spain as well. To make matters worse, the convoluted maneuverings of the upper ranks of the Spanish nobility, designed to bring down Godoy and elevate Prince Ferdinand to power, damaged an already weakened monarchy. As the king’s most valued minister who had been known for brokering a peace agreement a decade earlier, Godoy had become widely vilified for his role in allowing French troops into Spain in the first place. A further effort to stave off French occupation—a proposed marriage between Ferdinand and Empress Josephine’s niece—failed.2 In mid-March in the town of Aranjuez outside of Madrid, crowds rioted in protest against the king and Godoy, who was almost killed. Spaniards began to view Godoy as a symbol of Spain’s ills and disparaged him in broadsides and pamphlets distributed across the country. On March 19, Charles IV formally abdicated in favor of his son, who took the crown as Ferdinand VII.

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Within days, however, French forces under Joachim Murat, appointed the “lieutenant of the Emperor in Spain,” entered Madrid. In April, both Charles and his son Ferdinand accepted an invitation from Napoleon to meet in the French border town of Bayonne to discuss affairs. On May 2, 1808, events in Madrid quickly outpaced any feigned negotiations on the part of the French government when a popular uprising began in the Spanish capital that threatened the viability of Napoleon’s project to seize the Iberian Peninsula. As residents watched the royal family pack up and relocate from the palace in the heart of the city, artisans and even military officials protested what they interpreted as a usurpation of royal prerogative and sovereignty. Women such as the young seamstress Manuela Malasaña were killed in the chaos that enveloped the neighborhood that now bears her name. Brutal massacres of men and women, immortalized by Francisco Goya in an ex post facto painting, came to symbolize the subsequent French occupation and sowed extreme division between the troops and the Spanish populace. The French held King Ferdinand hostage and replaced him with Napoleon’s brother Joseph in early June. Unlike France’s allies in central Europe, who remained seemingly passive under nominal French rule, large numbers of Spaniards, including elites and priests, decried Napoleon and took up arms against the French. A moderate constitution pushed through to govern occupied Spain sparked a long-lasting conflict over the sovereignty of Portugal, Spain, and their American colonies. Both Iberian monarchies became engulfed in cycles of internecine warfare and political struggles for years to come. Called the War of Independence in Spanish historiography and the Peninsular War by Britons, in many ways these struggles defined Latin American nation-states-in-the-making and profoundly affected their development through the present day. What makes these episodes unique is the recourse to a historically Iberian political model. In Portugal, Spain, and the Americas, leaders came together to form governing juntas led by local notables in the absence of a legitimate ruler, arguing that sovereignty had reverted to the people. Even bishops in Spanish America, not generally seen as purveyors of radical doctrines, spoke to the idea that sovereignty was shared by the people—peninsular and American Spaniards—while the king remained a captive. The idea of a social contract binding together the governed and the government has roots not only in the thinking of the English writer John Locke and the Frenchman Jean-Jacques Rousseau but in the writing of sixteenth-century Spanish intellectuals as well. By the later eighteenth century, Spanish professors had begun to teach natural law in conjunction with notions of a pact between the people and their sovereign in the spirit of an enlightened form of absolutism. As these philosophies spread and took on a more revolutionary tone by the early 1790s, uprisings threatened parts of peninsular Spain and coastal Venezuela. One of the protagonists in both conspiracies, Juan Bautista Picornell, a professor steeped in the new ideas of social contract theory, advocated a return to a form of popular sovereignty and the establishment of a governing junta. While the so-called conspiracies of San Blas in Spain and La Guaira in Venezuela did not

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successfully overthrow the Bourbon monarchy, republican ideas had started to resonate among diverse groups and social classes.

Loyalty in 1808 In May and June 1808, Spanish subjects on both sides of the Atlantic increasingly drew upon this Hispanic political repertoire as they navigated French occupation and the passivity of traditional institutions such as the Council of Castile. Calls for immediate representation in governing juntas came alongside a push for elections to the Cortes in the name of the king as a long-term solution. The first in a series of spontaneous declarations came from Asturias, a historically significant region in northern Spain, followed by proclamations of war against the French and efforts to form local and national governments to resist the invasion across the peninsula. Provincial juntas maintained that sovereignty now resided in the people as the legitimate monarch remained a prisoner abroad. With military victories over the summer, a supreme junta (Junta Central), formed to manage the activities of all regional groups, worked to coordinate forces and to organize a political response to the French invasion. They rejected the Constitution imposed by Napoleon and his Spanish collaborators, derisively called afrancesados, because, they claimed, it had been written illegally and did not have the consent of the people of the nation. A contest over sovereignty lay at the heart of their arguments. What were the repercussions of these events in Spanish America? First and foremost, Spanish Americans, from Santiago, Chile to Mexico City, offered rhetorical and material support for Spanish resistance to the French occupation as soon as they heard the news that summer. In Central America, pardo militias and Indigenous confraternities, alongside peninsular and Creole elites, publicly voiced their loyalty. Donations flowed in from New Spain in 1808 and 1809, and even free Black militiamen in Cuba were giving in 1810. To cite one specific example, money came from cathedral chapters in Puebla (today’s Mexico) and helped to fund local volunteer organizations in the name of Ferdinand in 1811. A significant number of Spanish American administrators reacted to Napoleon’s seizure of power by deferring to Hispanic precedent, painting the absence of the king as a crisis in which sovereignty reverted back to all the people of the kingdom who traditionally had been represented in the Cortes. In Mexico City, in September 1808, dramatic events unfolded in which the peninsular viceroy José de Iturrigaray, with the support of prominent white Creoles, seemed to support the formation of a local junta. Powerful peninsular Spaniards, in an illegal putsch, had the viceroy arrested, fearing that he might push for greater self-government, or autonomy, from Spain. Of course, this did not stop Americans from acting just as their peers had in Spain, and juntas soon came together in almost all the regions of Spanish America. Significantly, in Chuquisaca (now Sucre, Bolivia), the site of upheaval and violence in the early 1780s, leaders organized a junta in the name of King Ferdinand in May 1809. With a series of smaller localized juntas that would

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defer to it, organizers aimed to become the locus of power governing Charcas (also known as Upper Peru, which is located in today’s Bolivia), having made appeals to the authority of the audiencia that derived its legitimacy from the king. During the procession for the Virgin of Mount Carmel on July 16, the people of La Paz essentially forced the municipal authority, the cabildo, to create a junta to govern in the name of the absent king. With plans put together in the salon of Manuela Cañizares, American autonomists established a junta in Quito in August which was repressed by Peru’s Viceroy José Fernando de Abascal by November 1809. Juntas formed in April and May 1810 in Caracas and Buenos Aires, respectively, in the name of Ferdinand, although representatives from nearby Montevideo did not participate with the porteños (residents of Buenos Aires). In New Granada, the next month, in the name of the king, Cartagena followed suit, then Cali, Pamplona, Socorro, and Santa Fé de Bogotá did the same.3 Santiago, Chile, continued the pattern in September 1810. A short-lived supreme junta of New Granada came together, which, despite its name, did not include representatives from each key area, and it dissolved in early 1811. The public emphasis on loyalty to the Hispanic monarchy existed side by side with a push for local governance and increased autonomy. In a sense, Americans and Spaniards were in lock step as they formed governing juntas, declared loyalty to the Junta Central based in Seville, and agreed that a representative assembly needed to be called to deal with the ongoing military and political crisis. In early 1809, the Junta Central officially asked for representatives to be sent from America, definitively stating that they did not view the Indies as colonies but as essential and integral parts of the Spanish monarchy. In May 1809, just as leaders in Spanish America established their first juntas, the Junta Central went further, breaking with centuries of absolutism by formally consulting with leaders across the dominions of the Spanish monarchy regarding the formation of a new type of government. Based on the responses, they sent out instructions for elections to be held for a Cortes, a representative assembly that ultimately would debate and write a constitution. Notably, this coincided with the birth of an open and, to judge by numbers, vibrant public sphere. A de facto freedom of speech, coming about due to the upheaval of war in Spain, allowed for an unprecedented volume of periodicals to be published, at first centered in the port city of Cádiz. Some of the journalists produced satirical broadsides while others engaged speculatively that this political opening might provide all men with the right to vote and could end social stratification. Hundreds of newspapers, not to mention pamphlets, soon poured out of Spanish America as well, adding to existing press outlets such as the Gazeta de México and the Gazeta de Guatemala, published since the 1780s and 1790s, respectively. In Mexico City, anonymous pasquinades appeared with slogans such as “Liberty, cowardly Creoles,” and “Long live Religion and Independence.” The start of a constitutional process that would take place in Cádiz, the only major peninsular city to hold out against the French during the war, did not prevent highly organized conspiracies from undermining the increasingly tenuous rule of Spain in America. In 1809, in Valladolid (today’s Morelia), a

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secretive group, led by frustrated American military officials, plotted to regain control of New Spain and save Spanish America from a supposed French invasion in the name of King Ferdinand. They felt aggrieved by the arrest of their viceroy and by their inability to send representatives to the Junta Central in Spain. While authorities rooted out this particular conspiracy, which had aimed to recruit Indians and castas in a large-scale insurrection, other disenchanted Americans began to question their allegiance to a government that no longer appeared to serve their interests or protect them from France. In addition, Napoleonic espionage complicated the situation. Rumors of intrigue forced Luís de Onís, the Spanish ambassador in Philadelphia, to hunt for French citizens and their Spanish accomplices who he feared would collude with U.S. officials in order to destabilize viceroyalties. The 1810 execution of a Napoleonic agent, convicted of treason in New Spain, offered proof of a grand conspiracy as confiscated letters implicated the United States in a plot to undermine Spanish sovereignty in the Americas.

Insurrection in 1810 The best-laid plan to overthrow the viceregal government took root in Querétaro, north of Mexico City in the Bajío. It coincided not only with the historic convening of the Cortes in Spain in September 1810 but with a serious economic downturn in New Spain. Much as many histories of the French Revolution hinge on crop failures and debt obligations that in part precipitated the calling of the Estates General in 1789, some historians emphasize the economic instability of the period. John Tutino, for example, specifically highlights the drought, hunger, and profiteering that emerged in 1808 across the Bajío. All of this occurred as political uncertainty and the loss of sovereignty in peninsular Spain fueled intrigue and subversive activity. The Querétaro plot involved a number of the Valladolid conspirators, along with local officials including the corregidor and his wife María Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez, who had been gathering to plan New Spain’s defense from the French in the name of the captive King Ferdinand. They discussed the possibility of convening a junta and whether to call men to arms, both of which had become extremely controversial issues in the wake of the overthrow of the viceroy in Mexico City two years earlier. After being discovered by the authorities, Ortiz de Domínguez contacted fellow conspirator and militia commander Ignacio Allende to alert him of the news. Allende immediately traveled to the village of Dolores to meet with the priest Miguel Hidalgo, one of the group’s leaders. In the early morning hours of September 16, 1810, Hidalgo decried the bad government of the Spanish (gachupines) and called for fellow Americans to rise up in defense of the king and the true faith against their enemy Napoleon and the French. Thus began what we now call the War of Independence (all the guerras de independencia across Spain and the Americas, constituting distinct but intimately related conflicts, essentially had the same name).

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Who initially responded to this rather traditional battle cry defending the honor of the monarch and the Catholic religion? And why did the Virgin of Guadalupe, the iconic American representation of Jesus’ mother Mary, become the symbol of a long-lasting insurgency? Historians have painstakingly reconstructed the ethnicity, age, and occupation of thousands of rebels captured by the Spanish in order to put together a collective picture of who they were and why they took up arms. In many ways, they reflected the population as a whole, in which upwards of 60 percent were Indians. And contrary to the assertions of earlier scholars, the majority of combatants in the early years of the struggle were not mestizos but were Indigenous peasants who fought in close proximity to their homes. They generally were in their late twenties and thirties and appeared to support the king and the church, much as Hidalgo had urged. In many ways, the idea of sovereignty appears bound up with Catholicism, although manifestoes from the time draw on a mix of somewhat convoluted political philosophies. In public proclamations, however, Hidalgo unapologetically called to uphold the values of religion, king, and country. Indians like Pablo Hilario (mentioned at the start of Chapter 1) evidently presented the gravest threat to Spanish rule in September 1810. Hidalgo swept aside caste difference and promised to end slavery, affirming that “all will be known as Americans.” With a large number of Black and casta rebels coming together with Indigenous troops, Hidalgo’s forces marched south to take the capital Mexico City. Yet the elision of people of color from the historical record and the denial of their agency happened quickly, and narratives have often portrayed the events as a struggle between white Creoles and royalist white Spaniards, lending credence to the idea of “Creole revolutions.” Peninsulares and Creoles who maintained fidelity to the Spanish crown played a central role in this erasure, as they waged war, rhetorically and literally, against the insurrection. Loyalists such as the peninsular bishop of Michoacán Manuel Abad Queipo, for example, soon downplayed the strength of Indigenous rebels in sermons and in print by arguing that the rebels had been misled.4 In other words, these were simple people instinctively following the orders of others. Abad Queipo insisted that the majority of people of color were virtuous, unlike those who had risen up in the name of what he termed injustice. He emphasized that history itself would transmit false accounts to posterity if eyewitness testimony did not set the record straight. He intoned that the rebellion was not the work of “Indians and Mulattos,” because they had been seduced by evil men and were the blind instruments of others. By reading these kinds of documents against the grain, so to speak, it is evident that Indians and people of mixed race were in fact the driving force of the rebellion. Yet this discourse epitomized the way in which white men like Hidalgo appeared to be the sole protagonists in the struggle, erasing the stories of Indigenous artisans and muleteers who made up the rank and file of the people who initially took up arms against the Spanish empire. The insurgents did not occupy the entirety of the territory in which they operated, nor did they find uniform support in the diverse communities of New Spain. While tens of thousands of armed rebels pillaged some key cities as they moved, including Celaya and Guanajuato, most areas remained in the hands of

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Spanish authorities. After Guanajuato had been retaken by loyalists, the city council (ayuntamiento) decried Hidalgo’s legion of revolutionary troops, composed, they emphasized, of many men from every caste. Rebel sympathizers, in fact, often pushed for greater autonomy and self-government rather than independence in the early years of what soon became a civil war. To push their messages, insurgents and their supporters produced a number of newspapers, starting with El Despertador Americano [The American Awakener], published in Guadalajara by a rebel priest. Writers spoke of bonds fraying between “mother Spain” and her family in the Americas, all of which had been reduced to colonies of France. Another insurgent priest called for equality between Spanish America and Spain in his periodical, with the implicit suggestion that a parliament should be convoked in the Americas rather than in territories occupied by Napoleon. By the late fall of 1810, instability and the threat of a violent overthrow of the Spanish government loomed on the horizon in New Spain. In Venezuela, uncertainty and conspiracy also threatened the viability of continued peninsular rule (see the beginning of Chapter 1). The ruling junta, led by white Creoles who remained divided over whether to seek outright independence, had sent Bolívar on a mission to London in June 1810. Meeting with Miranda, he hoped to find support among powerful British officials and military men who might push the junta toward a policy of separation from Spain. But events in Caracas quickly overtook such incremental steps. In October 1810, a multi-ethnic group of Black and zambo protesters took to the streets to agitate against the suppression of the junta that had formed in Quito and the massacre that had occurred there in August (news traveled slowly between Spanish American cities). Leaders insisted that all those not committed to autonomy from Spain be expelled. Yet their more radical anti-Spanish positions clashed with the more conciliatory approach of others, including officials outside of Caracas in cities like Coro. This series of unanticipated events set the stage for civil war in 1811. The end of the first stage of rebellion in the New World came with the withdrawal of Hidalgo’s 80,000 supporters who had amassed on the hills outside of Mexico City in November 1810. In spite of the overwhelming force of his numbers, and the fact that they had taken other cities such as Valladolid without resistance, Hidalgo did not launch a full-scale invasion and attempt to defeat the small number of soldiers blocking their way on the mountain pass. A few days earlier, they had been pushed back by a trained viceregal detachment that benefited from the cautious tactics of Agustín Iturbide, and Hidalgo and Allende clashed over whether to march ahead (see Chapter 5 for more on Iturbide, who would become emperor in 1822). With additional losses inflicted by loyal militiamen on November 7, an early military victory over Spain slipped from the grasp of the first great insurgency in Spanish America.

The First Republic While rebel armies fractured in New Spain and ultimately could not take the capital city, insurgents coalesced in Caracas, Venezuela, around the returned

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exile Francisco de Miranda to construct the first independent Spanish American republic in 1811. But just as people of color had taken center-stage during the tumult of October 1810 in decrying colonial violence in neighboring Quito, Black and Indigenous people participated actively in organizations and demonstrations that paved the way for the first declaration of independence from Spain. For example, an important group of intellectuals, called the Patriotic Club, formed in Caracas and included men, women, Black, Indigenous, and multiracial members. Much like the circum-Caribbean region of which it was a part, Venezuela was home to a large non-white majority, and pardos formed half of the overall population. Therefore, the congress that took over for the junta and began to craft the outlines of a new state had to carefully consider racial dynamics vis-à-vis ideas of freedom and equality. They certainly supported the decision made by the junta to abolish the slave trade, but they also needed to forge an inclusive new national identity. In April 1811, city residents commemorated the one-year anniversary of the junta taking power with public celebrations—Indians reportedly paraded through the streets wearing the new colors of the flag Miranda had created. People gave rousing speeches and performances and denounced the Spanish, including King Ferdinand VII. This represented an important shift as some separatists no longer publicly venerated the monarch. By July, the congress, following some the same procedures used by the Cortes of Cádiz, had passed significant legislation, including a document entitled Declaration of the Rights of the People and an act of independence published on July 14 (Bastille Day in France). Like leaders in Buenos Aires the year before, signatories to the Acta specifically spoke out against Napoleon’s Constitution that had been written for Spain, passed in the French border town of Bayonne in July 1808 and technically still in effect by 1811. The meetings in Bayonne had included American representatives and, in a sense, had brought up issues of equality between American and peninsular Spaniards for the first time. Therefore, Venezuelan rebels purposefully highlighted the illegitimacy of both French and Spanish rule in their proclamations. Significant obstacles remained in place that prevented the consolidation of a new constitutional regime. Regionalism undermined unification—the Venezuelan cities of Coro, Guyana, and Maracaibo had not been represented in the congress and did not support its edicts. And Cumaná, to the east, soon became of center of a revolutionary movement for autonomy rather than complete independence. The Constitution, finished in December, moderated the radical ideas of those who pushed for Jacobin-inspired policies, and while heralding the sovereignty of the virtuous people of Venezuela, it declared a confederation of provinces, each a free state given sovereignty over its own territory. The Constitution maintained the institution of slavery and provided full citizenship and voting rights only for property owners, regardless of caste distinctions. It began, as the Cádiz Constitution of 1812 would (discussed below), by reaffirming the exclusivity of the Catholic faith as the state religion. These more traditional notions fit uneasily with enlightened proclamations of equality that specifically highlighted historic discrimination against both Indians and people of color.

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So it is no surprise that the so-called First Republic of Venezuela crumbled under the weight of frustrated expectations and the denial of full rights to all people of color. Many prominent clerics, including the archbishop of Caracas, preached a doctrine of loyalism, especially to Black and enslaved people along the coast. On the insurgent side, Miranda cobbled together an army composed of almost all white soldiers, and Bolívar expressed disgust at outbreaks of violence, calling free and enslaved Black loyalists inhuman and atrocious.5 They initially did little to attract pardos to their side. Pardos in Coro and Valencia, west of Caracas, held out against an independent republic that refused to offer everyone citizenship and a voice in forming a government.

The Hispanic Constitution of Cádiz Elections to assemblies such as Venezuela’s congress became the most tangible aspect of a new Hispanic political culture. The language used to justify them endowed representatives with significant powers, because, in the words of proclamations from the time, sovereign authority had been deposited in the deputies (diputados, or elected officials) of the people themselves. Elected representatives symbolized the transition away from Old Regime absolutism and toward modern constitutional government. Elections took place on multiple and at times competing levels, with insurgents calling for congresses and loyalist regions sending representatives to Spain to participate in the writing of a new constitution. Politics and liberal ideas transformed Spain and Spanish America, opening up a number of possibilities for future governing arrangements. In 1810 and 1811, separation and independence had not been achieved, nor were necessarily expected outcomes of the rebel activity in New Spain and Venezuela. Some pressed for greater autonomy from the mother country while others rebelled; but many Spanish Americans maintained loyalty and allegiance to the Bourbon crown. The war in peninsular Spain complicated the dynamics of loyalism and subversion in the Americas. The French took most key cities and regions in the first two years of what had morphed into a guerrilla struggle against a foreign occupying power. They also continued to fight in Portugal where they faced the entrenched resistance of the British expeditionary forces led by the Duke of Wellington. Although Spanish armies had won some key battles in 1808, they eventually retreated south and were only able to hold the Andalusian port of Cádiz, which became an economic and military stronghold as well as the epicenter of a government virtually in exile. The Junta Central took refuge in Cádiz in early 1810, leaving Seville a week before the French marched in and wrested control. But as they awaited elected deputies to arrive from the vast expanses of the Spanish monarchy, leaders agreed to disband and cede power to a caretaker Regency, a group of five officials who would be charged with convoking the Cortes as soon as possible. While not in and of itself a defining historical moment, the decision sparked dissent and even outrage in parts of Spanish America, including in Buenos

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Aires. In May 1810, when news broke that the Junta Central had handed over its powers to a small unelected Regency, American leaders in Buenos Aires, like those in Caracas, insisted that this new group was illegitimate and determined they would not send representatives to the Cortes. Instead, they formed a junta to govern in the name of Ferdinand, whose sovereignty they initially recognized. They soon ordered elections to be held in provincial cities that were modeled after the Junta Central’s plans issued from Spain the previous year, demonstrating close connections between events in the peninsula and in South America. But the junta also sent military expeditions to rein in unruly regions— Charcas and Paraguay—that would not recognize their authority, showing the fragility of the nascent government. They executed local officials, including the intendant of Córdoba, and engendered animosity among Indigenous communities along the way. Toward the end of the year, accounts in the press, for instance in the Times of London, stated that American insurgents “have been somewhat disappointed in their expectations. The revolutionary spirit does not make that rapid and extensive progress they anticipated.” The article continued by noting that the Buenos Aires junta had not been recognized in places like Paraguay, part of the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata, and had quarreled with loyalists in Montevideo who ultimately sided with the Regency. Finally, the author compared the situation to that of Caracas, in which rebels found themselves increasingly divided. It was in this tense atmosphere that representatives from across the world came together in Cádiz to govern and to write a new constitution for all Spaniards. Inaugurated on September 24, 1810, the Cortes took an oath of loyalty just a week after the so-called Grito de Dolores— Hidalgo’s call to rise up against the Spanish—in New Spain. Unlike the Estates General in France, which had been divided into three tiers based on Old Regime privilege and status, the Cortes met as a unified body and ended up counting close to three hundred delegates, 63 of them American. Overall, one-third were clerics, and most identified as liberals—the first use of the term for a modern political movement. At the opening of the congress, just over one hundred men were in attendance, with 27 so-called substitute deputies representing the Americas and two the Philippines (these substitutes generally were men living in peninsular Spain who had ties to or were born in the Americas). With the notable exception of Dionisio Inca Yupanqui, who emphasized his status as a Quechua Indian born in Peru, the men did not represent much of the racial diversity of Spain’s overseas possessions (see Appendix: Document 2). In the church of San Pedro and San Pablo, all of the deputies swore to defend religion, the king, and the integrity of the Spanish nation. A mass celebrated by the archbishop of Toledo consecrated the ceremony; a religious service would be held daily before the polemical debates that followed. Ironically, the almost all-white delegation in Cádiz hit a major barrier in discussions over whether people of color should be counted as the Cortes looked to expand representation from all the territories of the monarchy. At this point, one deputy was supposed to represent 70,000 people, but the New

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World, with close to fifteen million inhabitants, had a much larger population than peninsular Spain, estimated to be home to a little over ten million souls (a common term used at the time to refer to people). Based on the numbers, a truly representative system would have tilted the balance of power inexorably toward American deputies, a prospect that many peninsular Spaniards, even men like the famed liberal orator Agustín Argüelles, could not stomach. Therefore, they fought tooth and nail over the way in which the American population might be manipulated to bring the number down. Of course, this kind of proposition also came with serious risks. By 1811, the Cortes deputies knew well that uprisings and violence in New Spain and South America threatened the fabric of the Spanish state. They even offered amnesty to insurgents. They saw that, despite the end of the Regency government, many American juntas did not recognize the legitimacy of the proceedings in Cádiz, and in the Venezuelan capital, independence had been declared. One of the substitute deputies for Peru spoke to the fact that dissident Spanish American governments already recognized the political rights of all men, regardless of skin color and ancestry. Americans had moved first, but, he contended, the Cortes still might be able to secure the loyalty of people of color if they acted quickly and declared true equality among Spaniards. Despite American deputies having put forward an almost singular voice on the issue, pressing for the inclusion of men of color, the Cortes denied them a voice in the political process. Those with African lineage would not be counted as Spanish citizens—defined as those who traced their origins on both sides of their family to Spanish dominions—although extraordinary Black men of “virtue and merit” might petition to become a Spaniard.6 The Constitution excluded men of African origin and retained both the slave trade and the institution of slavery, only granting white and Indigenous Americans rights as citizens of a unified transatlantic state. This ostensibly leveled the population between the New and the Old World, because the best estimates placed the number of people with African ancestry at a little over five million. On both sides of the Atlantic, approximately ten million Spaniards counted as citizens of a new constitutional regime. Yet intellectuals, such as the editors of El Verdadero Peruano in Lima, continued to argue that pardos should be “decorated with the noble insignia of Spanish citizens for the many services that their talent and courage have rendered to the patria.” Advocates did not give up on voting rights for people of color. When the Cortes voted against an American proposal to liberalize trade and enact economic reforms, however, the division between American and peninsular representatives widened. At the same time, prominent Americans continued to believe that constitutionalism promised a path forward and would cement ties between the peninsula and the Americas. Commissioned by a member of the government in exile in Cádiz to write about the colonial political economy, the Peruvian jurist Manuel Lorenzo Vidaurre, for example, criticized aspects of Spanish rule yet did not call for separation or independence as a remedy.

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Why should a constitution written and implemented imperfectly during a war in Spain and insurrection in the Americas be considered an important document? And why was it so influential in the decade that followed? The product of more than a year of negotiation and contentious voting, The Political Constitution of the Spanish Monarchy, promulgated on March 19, 1812, fundamentally realigned the basis of sovereignty and citizenship in the Iberian Atlantic world. Drawing on the language of the French Declaration of the Rights of Man, Article 3 declared that sovereignty resided essentially in the nation, dramatically curtailing the power of the king within the framework of a constitutional monarchy. In many ways, this was a revolutionary document, abolishing torture, forced labor, and Indian tribute payments. Unlike in the United States, Indigenous men had the right to vote and actively participate as citizens. By 1813, the Cortes decreed the abolition of the Inquisition. According to the bishop Abad Queipo, in a letter filled with superlatives, the Cortes had created the most liberal, just, and prudent document ever seen in human societies. He promised its great benefits would be enjoyed in America, unless the rebels succeeded in impeding it. Bringing an end to the absolutist Bourbon state, the Cádiz Constitution broke with feudal tradition, offered equality under the law, and gave men (heads of households) the vote. Article 325 stipulated that Spaniards would elect assemblies, called provincial deputations, that offered regional representation as well. Yet voting proceeded much differently than it does today, because it took place indirectly in three stages. First, citizens cast votes for electors in local parish churches on the first Sunday of October. Elections then followed on the first Sunday of November (in the peninsula) in the largest town in a district. The chosen electors then traveled to the main provincial city to elect the actual deputy to the Cortes on the first Sunday of December. All of this was spelled out carefully in Articles 34–103 of the Constitution. And the branches of government were not equal; the unicameral Cortes became the most powerful institution under the Cádiz charter. While this did not institute a true democracy in which all people could participate—women, for example, had not been considered active citizens anywhere in the Atlantic world at the time—it certainly established elections as a fundamental part of constitutional praxis. Some historians maintain that the elections themselves, including those for ayuntamientos, represented the most important legacy of the period. They gave residents a greater voice in local governance than they had ever had before, because ayuntamiento seats often had been purchased or inherited by elites to reinforce their economic and political power. Under the Constitution, towns with at least one thousand inhabitants could form an elected ayuntamiento, and by 1814, New Spain had 896 of them, demonstrating the immediate impact of the political reforms legislated in Cádiz. But it is important to remember that even local elections were indirect and took place in two stages. The captaincy-general of Guatemala provides a useful illustration of how political change shaped parts of Spanish America. Elections for a representative to the Junta Central in 1809 and for six deputies to the Cortes in 1810 took

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place in the 15 municipal hubs of the region with few hitches.7 Records from the time demonstrate the influence of the Enlightenment and French ideals in particular. In one instance, the Guatemala City ayuntamiento encouraged their representative to advocate against despotism and to transition the monarch into a “citizen,” echoing the language of the French Revolution. Concurrently, the document advanced a much less democratic vision of a future polity in which many positions were not elected and the Cortes would meet but once a decade. Other officials in Guatemala expressed concern over taxation without proper representation in an elected body. By 1812, buoyed by one of their deputies who had been vocal in support of equal rights for all male citizens at the Cortes, Guatemalan leaders even recommended that white men, Indians, and free people of color be given the vote. Taken together, this kind of evidence accounts for the popular support of the Cádiz Constitution, as Central Americans implemented its provisions, explained its precepts to those who now enjoyed new rights in a transatlantic state, and at times moved beyond its strictures and limitations. But how did the Cádiz Constitution of 1812 impact the ongoing civil strife in the Americas, or did it affect insurgents at all? Venezuela’s 1811 declaration of independence disparaged the arbitrary decisions of the Cádiz Cortes, although the elected deputies had not finished their sessions nor had they completed the Constitution at that point. In light of this, insurgents convened congresses of their own that challenged what they viewed as European-led parliaments and procedures designed to weaken American positions. In Cartagena, in the viceroyalty of New Granada, separatists moved forward with the active participation of communities of color precisely when they received news that the Cortes had rejected American proposals to grant free Black men citizenship. One pardo, who published a pamphlet as an anonymous critique of the Cádiz legislation, inveighed that if “all men are equal without possible argument, then pardos should not be excluded from the elections, because any law established according to religion is for all.” Providing significant symbolic weight, two pardo deputies signed the Constitution promulgated in June 1812 that created a republic of Cartagena and endowed all citizens, regardless of race, with equal rights.8 Taking these ideas one step further, a group that included both free and unfree Black Dominicans conspired to abolish slavery in Mojarra, Santo Domingo, just a month after the 1812 Constitution had been enacted. Enslaved rebels in Cuba also took up arms early in 1812 under the leadership of a free Black militia captain named José Antonio Aponte. Because of the widespread availability of newspapers that covered the debates of the Cortes, they had heard rumors of the abolition of slavery; one American deputy in Cádiz actually denounced it as a violation of natural law (see Figure 2.2). While never seriously looking at the end of slavery as an institution, the Cortes had considered the abolition of the slave trade, which had been decreed in the United States and Britain a few years earlier. As a result, many enslaved Cubans mistakenly believed that the king of Spain (as well as the king of England) advocated emancipation, but Cuban authorities had frustrated his royal will. In an echo of events in SaintDomingue, others thought the King of Kongo was going to deliver freedom by

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Figure 2.2 Diario de La Habana, November 20, 1811

sending troops from Africa to liberate them. By April 1812, the uprising had failed to take hold throughout the island as a whole, and the insurgents, including Aponte, were captured and summarily executed. Clearly, polemics over the Constitution, circulated through the indirect channels of the print media and through word of mouth, had exerted tremendous influence and brought unanticipated consequences to the diverse regions of Spanish America.

Civil Wars in Spanish America The Spanish army in New Spain, composed almost entirely of Americans, remained loyal to the crown and successfully fought to stem the 1810 insurrection. They captured and tried Hidalgo, brutally executing him in July 1811. Yet the drive for autonomy persisted, subsequently led by the lawyer Ignacio Rayón. Rebuffed by the authorities, Rayón had organized a supreme junta, just

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as the resistance movement had in peninsular Spain, weeks after the death of Hidalgo. Located in Zitácuaro, not far from the colonial center of Valladolid where the first conspiracies surfaced, the junta acted as an alternative government for a short time. The biracial priest José María Morelos, along with figures such as Vicente Guerrero, who rejected the Cádiz Constitution because it denied citizenship to people with African ancestry, soon became key leaders in the continuing struggle. They also communicated and strategized with a secretive group that became known as los Guadalupes, an autonomous faction within Mexico City’s white Creole population. With male and female members, such as Leona Vicario, they remained unknown to the Spanish government and facilitated the spread of insurgent ideology, even though they did not actively provoke hostilities and the capital never fell to the rebels.9 With military victories including the capture of the city of Oaxaca in 1812, Morelos and his allies held territory in a large swathe of southern New Spain from Apatzingán in the west to Orizaba, near Veracruz in the east. He often worked with local administrators, especially in Indigenous communities, removing unpopular local officials at times. But Morelos warned against what some viewed as a caste war, which demonstrated the fears of many people even within the insurgent camp. Morelos attempted to establish a legitimate government by holding elections and assembling a congress in Chilpancingo. Close to the port of Acapulco, the city proved to be secure and defensible as deputies met to debate and write a constitution for an independent state. Morelos, who had African heritage, began to argue for an Indigenous lineage for a new American state free from the bonds of colonialism and free from ties to the Old World. In a speech to the congress, Carlos María Bustamante presented larger-than-life figures, such as the Mexica (Aztec) emperor Moctezuma, as symbols of both the past and the future. Spanish rule, by this formula, simply had to be understood as an interregnum between two periods of legitimate government by the American people. Yet the representatives wrote a document, which would come to be known as the Constitution of Apatzingán, that declared Catholicism as the sole religion of the state. It stated plainly that sovereignty emanated from the people. In important ways, it mirrored the language and political philosophy—liberalism—of the Cádiz Constitution. In New Granada, by 1812, two nominally independent republics existed side by side, one in Cartagena (in today’s Colombia) and the other centered in Caracas (in Venezuela). Other regions in New Granada pursued greater autonomy but stopped short of declaring independence, and federations formed and dissolved quickly.10 The Spanish authorities, though besieged in Cádiz and struggling to end French occupation with military help from the British in the peninsula, drew on New World resources to suppress what they perceived as rebellion. Traveling from Puerto Rico, Captain Domingo Monteverde landed in Coro in March 1812 and began to push back on rebel strongholds. With support from an influential Indian leader Juan de los Reyes Vargas, almost all of western Venezuela moved back into the loyalist camp. Unsettled by a massive earthquake later in the month, many towns had switched sides without a fight. Miranda,

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appointed as a military dictator in response, failed to secure the new republic, with Bolívar retreating from a strategically important port city in the summer. At the end of July, a frustrated Miranda, called the “Precursor” of independence, signed a pact, surrendering to Monteverde. The Spanish gave amnesty to those who left the country, and they disbanded the remnants of the insurgent army. But Bolívar had fallen out with Miranda and had him arrested as a traitor to the cause. He delivered Miranda to the Spanish, who transported him to Cádiz, where he died four years later as a political prisoner. The two poles of Spanish American independence along the Caribbean coast of South America—Caracas and Cartagena—converged in late 1812 when Bolívar arrived at the latter destination as a refugee. He penned an open letter, later known as the “Cartagena Manifesto,” that clearly explained his political views. Wary of elections, he decried the participation of coarse peasants, or “rustics” in his parlance, and urban “schemers,” who represented ignorance and ambition, respectively. As a rebuke to liberal politics, he criticized the ethereal republics that had been established in South America by philosophers seeking political perfection. He essentially spoke out against popular democracy and the resultant factionalism that plagued coastal cities and towns like Caracas and threatened to return New Granada to the “slavery” of Spanish rule. Instead, he urged a strong and unified military response to the victories of Monteverde earlier in the year. Total war was soon to come.

Andean Loyalism: Popayán, Quito, Peru, and Chile In the midst of growing instability and burgeoning independence movements in New Granada, competing groups vied for the support of the enslaved populations in peripheral regions such as Popayán, in the southwest of what is today Colombia. Gold mining and the institution of slavery served as the centerpieces of the local economy; enslaved people of African descent made up approximately 17 percent of the population. As insurgencies threatened to seize the area and its mines, Spanish authorities waded into controversy by actively recruiting enslaved men in support of municipal defense forces. In the name of the king, they promised to reward loyalty and patriotism with freedom, according to an unpublished document from the time. In a fascinating twist, the enslaved men fought on the side of the Spanish against their former owners, many of whom had joined the insurgency. They were convinced that a rebellion led by white Creoles would not offer them the rights they demanded. But historical records reveal that the Black soldiers fighting for their collective freedom insisted that their cause was to protect the legitimate government and not to confront those who had enslaved them. During this period, they established autonomous communities of color, with some providing refuge for fugitive slaves from other regions, and the men served in a kind of mercenary capacity for the loyalists. Spanish officials also negotiated with Indians to secure their loyalty, exchanging a reduction in tribute payments for military service. In a letter written from the nearby city of Pasto, Indian leaders justified their decision by emphasizing their loyalty to King Ferdinand.

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The formation of a junta in 1809 had destabilized the city of Quito, to the south of the Popayán region, and the reactionary viceroy in Peru had sent in occupying pardo troops from Lima. But after the contingent evacuated, local authorities positioned themselves as autonomous from both Peru and Spain, although personal rivalries divided leadership. By the end of 1812, loyalists had emerged triumphant and had enacted the Cádiz Constitution, holding elections for local ayuntamientos and for the Cortes. In Chile, much like Quito, autonomists maintained their fidelity to King Ferdinand as they governed in the name of the people, to whom sovereignty had reverted in the absence of the monarch. A junta presided over the region through 1814, organizing armed forces and decreeing free trade (for a more detailed analysis, see Chapter 3). But Peru remained loyal to the Spanish crown for the longest period of time, clashing with the fiercely autonomous government in Buenos Aires over the provinces in between them. To complicate matters, while many Indigenous Peruvians welcomed the end of tribute, others expressed concern over the prospect of new taxes. Around the city of Arequipa (in what is today southern Peru), Indians wrote approvingly of the constitutional change, and they supported the charter in the northern zones of Lambayeque, Piura, and parts of Trujillo. Other Indians in Trujillo, however, did not swear allegiance to the Cádiz Constitution in 1812 out of fear of a renewed cycle of taxation. With ethnic and regional differences, Indigenous peoples in no way acted uniformly during this age of turmoil and political change. In sum, loyalty had many different faces in the Iberian world. Indigenous and Black Americans found different reasons, that spanned political and economic concerns, to support the Hispanic monarchy, while others came to embrace insurgencies. In Portuguese Brazil, the relocated monarchy presided over an empire that appeared much more stable than their neighbors to the south (the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata) and to the west (the viceroyalty of Peru). Loyalty to the Braganza dynasty, along with British military and financial support, provided in the form of massive subsidies, had propped up Portuguese resistance in the Iberian Peninsula, saving the state from French occupation throughout the years 1808 to 1813. But the economy and infrastructure had been devastated, and governmental policies flipped. Rather than privileging traders and financiers in Lisbon, as had occurred in the late eighteenth century, Dom João’s Rio de Janeiro-based court came to favor Brazilian merchants. The government spent lavishly on new construction in Brazil, from palaces for elites to public buildings in the capital city. The king dispensed thousands of new titles of nobility as a way to cement loyalty among his subjects, and the bureaucracy grew.

Conclusion In spite of rebel successes in parts of New Spain and growing autonomist and independence movements in South America, the capture and execution of Hidalgo, along with the arrival of Monteverde on the coast of South America, halted the progress of the first large-scale revolts in Spanish America by the end

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of 1812. The Cádiz Constitution at the very least forced insurgents to grapple with the prospect of an accommodationist government based in peninsular Spain that recognized equal rights for the majority of Spanish Americans, including Indians but notably excluding those with African ancestry. Elected American representatives to the Cortes had been arriving in 1811 and 1812, rebuilding trust among many constituents who simply advocated greater autonomy rather than political separation. While Portuguese Brazil remained relatively calm, conflict ignited once again in 1813 with a revitalized Bolívar spearheading a major military incursion into his homeland of Venezuela.

Notes 1 David Bell maintains that total war can be understood, in cultural terms, as a new brand of militarism that started to erase boundaries between civilians and the armed forces in Napoleonic Europe. 2 Filmed across Europe, Canada, and on the island of St. Helena, the 2003 production Napoleon presents the entirety of the period in a series of made-for-television episodes. It includes dramatizations of the tumultuous relationship between Napoleon and his wife Josephine de Beauharnais, played by Isabella Rossellini. 3 Interestingly, the junta established in Santa Fé on July 20, 1810 by a group of conspiratorial Creoles was done in the name of the Regency, but they shortly revoked their recognition and simply professed loyalty to Ferdinand VII. Decades later in the second half of the nineteenth century, this act became celebrated as Colombia’s Independence Day. Other national symbols and commemorations took longer to develop—they didn’t have a national anthem until 1920. 4 As shown in the film Hidalgo: The Untold Story (2010), directed by Antonio Serrano, opponents of the uprising led by Hidalgo and Morelos condemned the bloody civil war that had broken out as sacrilege, and Hidalgo was excommunicated prior to his trial and execution. 5 The film Libertador (2013), directed by Alberto Arvelo, presents a Manichean vision of an American republic, led by Simón Bolívar, fighting a decadent empire. Although the director recreates powerful scenes from the 1811 battlefront to the west of Caracas, the narrative completely skips over the social and political turmoil of the First and Second republics of Venezuela. 6 Many pardos did in fact apply for citizenship during the wars of independence. Examples include a notary from Panama, militia members and soldiers from Santiago de Cuba, Guayaquil, and Venezuela, two military officers from New Granada, and a surgeon from Lima—all pardos—who submitted formal paperwork on behalf of their petitions to the Cortes for Spanish citizenship. 7 However, Creoles who put pressure on the San Salvador intendant in November 1811 sparked broader unrest as multi-ethnic protestors took to the streets in smaller towns. The Creoles had been pushing for greater autonomy but in some ways unwittingly unleashed a popular backlash against entrenched economic interests led in many cases by Indians and pardos. Rebels wanted to achieve the same things that had been demanded in Caracas the year before. In December, a similar disturbance took place in León, Nicaragua, that also targeted an unpopular intendant. Unrest reached Honduras in January, where members of the lower class demanded political representation in city government. The Spanish captain-general, José de Bustamante, responded by maintaining a high level of vigilance and emphasizing stability over change and disorder. He ultimately focused on counterinsurgency tactics to prevent the “contagion” of revolution from spilling over from New Spain.

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8 Like the other constitutions from the time, the Political Constitution of the State of Cartagena de Indias, published on June 14, 1812, declared Catholicism the official state religion while granting rights and liberties, such as freedom of speech, to all free men (vecinos). This language provided local authorities with leverage over access to political rights, according to scholars. In line with Venezuela’s first Constitution, the document also abolished the slave trade but not slavery. 9 The authorities arrested Vicario in 1813 when her activities, including communications with rebel bands, were discovered. She went on trial for treason and refused to divulge anything that would jeopardize the movement. She later escaped to Oaxaca where she planned to liaise with the lawyer and insurgent sympathizer Andrés Quintana Roo, today the namesake of a southern Mexican state on the Yucatán Peninsula. 10 Numerous competing polities popped up in New Granada between 1811 and 1812. Autonomists founded Cundinamarca (the region around today’s Colombian capital city Bogotá) in 1811 in the name of Ferdinand VII, and the congress elected Antonio Nariño as their second president. Yet subsequent assemblies of regional officials did not cement the foundations of a larger state (the Federation of the United Provinces of New Granada), in part because of disagreements over governing structures. Would a president exercise a large degree of control, as Nariño demanded, or would a federal arrangement prevail in which power was decentralized? At the end of 1811 and into 1812, a number of cities essentially declared independence from both Spain and the United Provinces of New Granada. On the legacy of these divisions, see Chapter 6.

Further Reading Andrews, George Reid. Afro-Latin America, 1800–2000. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Ballesteros Páez, María Dolores. “Vicente Guerrero: Insurgente, militar y presidente afromexicano.” Cuicuilco 18, no. 51 (2011): 23–41. Bell, David A. The First Total War: Napoleon’s Europe and the Birth of Warfare as We Know It. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2007. Blaufarb, Rafe, Ed. Napoleon: Symbol for an Age: A Brief History with Documents. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2008. Chasteen, John Charles. Americanos: Latin America’s Struggle for Independence. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Childs, Matt D. The Aponte Rebellion in Cuba and the Struggle against Atlantic Slavery. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2006. Dym, Jordana. “Central America and Cádiz: A Complex Relationship,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of 1812, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 63–90. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Eastman, Scott. Preaching Spanish Nationalism Across the Hispanic Atlantic, 1759–1823. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 2012. Echeverri, Marcela. “Popular Royalists, Empire, and Politics in Southwestern New Granada, 1809–1819.” Hispanic American Historical Review 91, no. 2 (2011): 237–269. Guedea, Virginia. En busca de un gobierno alterno: los Guadalupes de México. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1992. Guerra, François-Xavier. Modernidad e independencias: ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas. Mexico City: Editorial Mapfre, 1992. Hamnett, Brian R. Roots of Insurgency: Mexican Regions, 1750–1824. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.

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Hamnett, Brian R. The Enlightenment in Iberia and Ibero-America. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2017. Hawkins, Timothy. José de Bustamante and Central American Independence: Colonial Administration in an Age of Imperial Crisis. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2004. Hawkins, Timothy. A Great Fear: Luís de Onís and the Shadow War against Napoleon in Spanish America 1808–1812. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2019. Lasso, Marixa. Myths of Harmony: Race and Republicanism during the Age of Revolution, Colombia, 1795–1831. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007. Lynch, John. Simón Bolívar: A Life. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006. Paquette, Gabriel. Imperial Portugal in the Age of Atlantic Revolutions: The Luso-Brazilian World, c. 1770–1850. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Paton, Diana, and Pamela Scully. “Introduction: Gender and Slave Emancipation in Comparative Perspective,” in Gender and Slave Emancipation in the Atlantic World, ed. Diana Paton and Pamela Scully, 1–34. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Rodríguez O., Jaime E. “We Are Now the True Spaniards”: Sovereignty, Revolution, Independence, and the Emergence of the Federal Republic of Mexico, 1808–1824. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012. Sobrevilla Perea, Natalia. “Loyalism and Liberalism in Peru, 1810–1824,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of 1812, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 111–132. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Tutino, John. Mexico City 1808: Power, Sovereignty, and Silver in an Age of War and Revolution. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2018. Van Young, Eric. The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence 1810–1821. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001.

3

The 1814 Restoration

When King Ferdinand VII returned to Spain in 1814, he aimed to take control of the overseas territories, but much had happened in the intervening years. Between 1808 and 1813, while he remained captive in Fontainebleau, many Americans had decided to forge a new path, often using his name to proclaim juntas as caretaker governments. But as seen in Chapter 2, others, particularly in northern South America, opted to pursue full independence. As Napoleon’s power started to wane after his disastrous 1812 campaign in Russia and his options in the Iberian Peninsula became ever more limited, he decided to negotiate Ferdinand’s release. The king initially rejected the emperor’s advances but finally accepted a plan as laid out in the Treaty of Valençay. Signed in December 1813, it prepared his return to the throne. Although the Regency did not accept the terms, as Spanish, Portuguese, and British forces had already expelled the French from the peninsula, they did welcome the king as he crossed the border to Figueras in March 1814 and made his way to the city of Girona (Figure 3.1). After six years, Ferdinand had been convinced that he needed to reassert his power but had no clear plan of action. Nevertheless, he refused to follow the

Figure 3.1 Vicente López, Allegory of the Triumphant Return of Ferdinand VII, 1814

DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-4

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route set by the Cádiz Cortes, whose representatives had declared they would only recognize him as a sovereign once he swore allegiance to the Constitution, as had been established in Article 173. After spending some time in Teruel and Easter in Zaragoza, the king finally entered Valencia on April 16, 1814. He was expected to meet the head of the Regency, his cousin, Cardinal Luis de Borbón, and bow to the constitutional authority. Instead, a day after his arrival, General Francisco Javier Elío presented a document previously signed in Madrid by 69 deputies calling for the return of absolutist rule. Known as the “Persian’s Manifesto,” it defended the monarch’s right to rule unencumbered by the constitutional arrangement set up in his absence. It critiqued the Constitution, article by article, and rejected the Constitution’s legitimacy, accusing the Cortes of having usurped the king’s sovereignty. Elío had defended the crown in Montevideo, where he had been sent as governor in 1805, taking charge of the port’s defense against the British in 1806 and 1807. A year later he set up a junta to defend the monarchy, concerned that the Frenchborn interim viceroy in Buenos Aires, Santiago Liniers, had wavered in the wake of the Napoleonic takeover of Spain. Because he would not denounce France, Liniers faced charges of treason. Elío continued to fight against anti-peninsular efforts, pushed forward by the autonomist junta set up in Buenos Aires in 1810 (see Chapter 2). In recognition of his actions, he was appointed acting viceroy of the Río de la Plata. But instead of taking the position, he returned to the peninsula in 1812 to serve in the war against Napoleon. Elío was one of the many army officers who were convinced that upon the king’s return things would once again be as before he abdicated, turning back the clock on the liberal experiment, and he was not alone in thinking this was the most desirable outcome. These loyalists, like Captain General José de Bustamante in Guatemala, clung firmly to the idea that they had to defend the king’s right to govern overseas. As seen in Chapter 2, loyalism was important throughout the Americas, and it was not limited to Spaniards born in the peninsula. There were many who chose to support the monarch, including from among the poorest sectors of society. Ferdinand’s return gave American loyalists a boost, making it possible for them to imagine the return of the system that had existed prior to 1808. This was the case in most of the continent with the exception of the very south, where those who had wanted to gain autonomy decided their only option was independence. In regions where loyalism had prevailed throughout the crisis, support for the monarchy was reinvigorated. In places where rebels called for independence, conflict deepened until loyalists fighting for the king gained the upper hand. This was in some cases because troops were sent from the peninsula, but in others because local populations wanted to defend the monarchy, even while they still thought the king was being held as a captive. His return made it possible to envision a strengthened Hispanic monarchy, even if it alienated supporters who had seen the Constitution as a way to redress the power imbalances between Europeans and Americas. In Brazil, the restoration of the king and Napoleon’s defeat presented new challenges for the relationship between the metropolis and the colonies, given the fact that the royal family had moved to America, changing the monarchy’s center of gravity.

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Popular Royalism in the Venezuelan Llanos Throughout the Americas, the number of people who had been born in the peninsula was limited, but loyalty to the crown was found in all sectors of society without regard to their place of origin. This was particularly evident in the interior of Venezuela, where a significant number of llaneros, South American cowboys, many of them pardos, sided with the king and fought under the command of José Boves.1 He fought against the Second Republic of Venezuela, which Simón Bolívar set up after his successful incursion of 1813 (known as the “Admirable Campaign”). The independent regimes created in New Granada had supported and financed Bolívar in the hope he would serve as a buffer and detain the loyalist troops that were fighting to end separatism. In six months, Bolívar had traversed the Andes from San José de Cúcuta to Caracas, winning battles and gaining popular support in urban areas. In June 1813, he decreed “war to the death” in an effort to eliminate and execute Spanish troops, while any Americans fighting for the crown were captured and set free. One of the reasons why it was so important to create this difference between Americans and Spaniards was precisely because the combatants in these wars were not neatly divided into two camps. This has been one of the main explanations for independence, as Creoles claimed they were fighting against oppression—they believed they were being treated like slaves. But this was not something all Americans believed, let alone all of the Creoles. Boves’ campaign against Bolívar clearly shows this, as the declaration of “war to the death” did nothing to dissuade Americans from fighting against other Americans in defense of King Ferdinand. Bolívar’s edict indicted “Spaniards and Canary Islanders: count on death even if you have been indifferent. Americans: count on life even if you have been guilty.” Bolívar, now called the Libertador (Liberator), established the Second Republic very quickly. In his rush to take Caracas, he neglected his rearguard, however, and his enemies gathered strength in the llanos, the grassy prairies east of the Andean valleys. Bolívar dominated the highlands and the urban areas successfully, but in the backlands, Boves excited the loyalists with a demagogic discourse that spoke of “war to whites and those who exploit Africandescendants and Indians,” promising to redistribute the land owned by whites. Although originally from Asturias, Spain, Boves had settled in the llanos after a failed naval career and some time in jail, following accusations that he had trafficked in contraband. He became a tavern-keeper, or pulpero, and developed many contacts with the local mix-raced population of African descendants and Indians with whom he engaged in cattle rustling. He had married a woman from a mixed Black and white family and was locally known as taita, or father. He initially sympathized with those pushing for independence, but he reconsidered once it became clear that the members of the Caracas elite, who led the First Republic, did not consider him one of them due to his relative poverty and lowly occupation. Leading a force of mixed-race llaneros, comprising at least 1000 infantry and 1500 cavalry, Boves successfully defeated the troops sent from Caracas to subdue him. He then led a counter offensive in the name of “the King, Religion

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and the Holy cause” that recruited disaffected agricultural workers, slaves who had escaped captivity during the confusing years of the war, and deserters who no longer trusted that their elite Creole commanders had their best interests at heart. This loyalist movement made such headway because the First and Second Venezuelan republics had failed to consider the needs and desires of those less fortunate in society who had hoped independence would bring real change to their lives. Instead, they had witnessed how most of the policies only improved the situation of those who already had the most. The llanero forces fought as irregulars, and their main strategy was to ensnare those fighting for independence within their territory where they could easily defeat them. Success in recruiting continued to grow, and by the time Ferdinand was back on the throne in 1814, Boves could count on some 20,000 men, including the auxiliary militias who remained deep in the llanos. By this point he had organized small regiments with some 200 men each who, armed with long wooden lances tipped with steel, could attack the enemy from a safe distance, maneuvering their horses with their knees as they rode. This made it possible for his men to engage in more complex campaigns where they fought against regular forces in traditional battles, and where their ability on horseback gave them the upper hand. The infantry remained for attacking urban areas, something they increasingly did. The men who served under Boves were from the lowest social classes, and they were described in documents from the time as being “naked,” as they only wore pants and a straw hat and took a blanket on their horse for warmth at night. They seldom wore shoes, but nevertheless used spurs, and often rode without a saddle directly on the horses, which they controlled without the need of reins. These llaneros did not use the traditional monarchical flag but flew a black cloth with a skull and bones which they would fix to the tips of their lances to further sow terror among their enemies. Bolívar called Boves “the scourge of God” and compared him to Attila the Hun. So when the head of the llaneros placed Valencia under siege in June 1814, the Liberator abandoned Caracas in an attempt to defend communications and supply lines between the capital and Valencia. But once this failed, he chose to evacuate his troops into the forests close to the mouth of the Orinoco River and into Guyana, as the army assembled by the Asturian seemed invincible. The loyalists had an added advantage in that their opposition was in such disarray that each general had a different strategy to defend the Second Republic of Venezuela. This resurgence of loyalism was one of the reasons why, when Ferdinand returned to power, he was convinced his cause could triumph. Even though loyalists in America had, so far, received very little outside support, many local leaders successfully organized armies by recruiting those who had served in the colonial militias to defend the rights of the absent king. This also happened, as mentioned in Chapter 2, across many of the diverse regions of South America, from Peru to Pasto and Popayán in southwest New Granada and to the llanos of Venezuela. An important feature of all these loyalist movements was that many common soldiers had mixed ancestry—they generally were African-descended or

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Indigenous. This is somehow counterintuitive, as it could be imagined that those who had less to lose were more inclined to fight for independence. But what happened was exactly the opposite; it was the white elites descended from Europeans in Venezuela and New Granada and to a lesser extent in Peru and present-day Bolivia who wanted to gain further autonomy and even independence from Spain. The Creoles who had quickly opted for independence had concluded early on that it was in their interest to take control of the extremely volatile situation. If they could, they would be able to maintain slavery, as had been done in the United States, where in the South the economy still relied mainly on enslaved populations. They feared the other option inevitably would result in something akin to the Haitian Revolution, where a slave rebellion paved the way for independence, and whites sought refuge elsewhere. Elites had reason to fear that slaves and Indians would take up arms against them and destroy their way of life. To a large degree the republican experiments they attempted in Venezuela were not successful in convincing mixed-race populations that it was in their interest to support them. In many ways, this was because the elite slave-owners who led the fight for independence had no desire to end slavery. Therefore, disgruntled men from the peninsula who had little to lose and had never been accepted by the Caracas elite, such as Boves, were able to galvanize the discontented and force the fall of the Second Republic of Venezuela after only 14 months of existence (August 1813 to December 1814). Although Boves had been extremely successful in dominating most of the countryside, at the end of 1814, his luck ran out and he was killed in battle. After his death, his mother and sisters received a pension because the Council of the Indies had officially recognized him as fighting in defense of the monarchy. Despite his defeat, those fighting for independence were unable to take advantage of the opportunity it afforded, because they were busy fighting against each other. But more importantly, soon after the death of the taita, they faced a larger obstacle, as an expedition arrived from the peninsula under the command of General Pablo Morillo with instructions to end the fight for independence and decisively defeat the rebels.

The Morillo Expedition As soon as Ferdinand took over, he dedicated himself to organizing his military forces so that they could regain control over the territories that had declared independence in South America. To achieve this, he placed a large expedition under the command of Morillo, a former naval officer from Zamora who had distinguished himself in the war against the Napoleonic invaders, first, at the Battle of Bailén and later under Wellington. He was promoted to general after his participation in the Battle of Vitoria that essentially ended the war in the peninsula and was appointed Captain General of Venezuela in August 1814. The expedition initially had been slated to sail for Montevideo to support the resistance against a prolonged siege undertaken by the junta of Buenos Aires

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and then to continue on to Peru. But news of an uprising in Cuzco that year led to a last-minute change of plans that was shrouded in secrecy. Still anticipating an invasion, Buenos Aires’ government remained on high alert for many months. After months of preparations, 65 vessels, including 18 battleships and dozens of carriers for support personnel and provisions, along with approximately 15,000 men, set sail in February 1815. This was the largest effort made by the Spanish monarchy to regain control over their American territories. Most of the men who participated in this venture were veterans of the Napoleonic campaigns, and they had a deep knowledge and understanding of how to conduct guerrilla wars. By mid-April 1815, they landed on Margarita Island, where the 3000 men still claiming to represent an independent Venezuelan republic surrendered without a fight. Bolívar had abandoned the island in late 1814 to lead the war effort in New Granada, where local loyalists threatened those fighting for independence, just as they had done in Venezuela. Morillo’s success in Margarita proved to be far-reaching, so that only a small detachment was sent to Caracas while the bulk of the expedition continued to the port of Cartagena to commence a siege. Thus, the region that had first declared for independence became the center of counter-revolution, to a large degree because the African-descended, the Indigenous, and the mixed-race populations who lived on the margins of society rejected the ideals of freedom proposed by the white elites. The language the Creoles who fought for independence had used, presenting themselves as “slaves,” brought no sympathy from those who were actually enslaved or had only been free for a generation or two. These populations were more likely to support the king, especially when those who defended him made tangible promises, such as the land reform envisioned by Boves. Rather than giving out property, he sought to ensure the llanos would stay free to use and that the right to take unbranded cattle remained. In New Granada, the situation was slightly different, as the response to the monarchical crisis varied regionally (see Chapter 2). In the southwest, the reaction had been similar to the one in Venezuela, and in fact the loyalists had managed to cling to power with the support of Indians and African descendants, most of them enslaved. But there was a stark contrast between Black loyalists and Black rebels. In the port city of Cartagena, where African-descended people predominated, the desire for political separation was so great that independence had been declared in 1811, shortly after Caracas, when Black residents of the Getsemaní neighborhood pressured local authorities. The pardo militias had taken position on the city walls and turned their guns toward the regular soldiers, preventing anyone from intervening. This made it possible for the crowds made up of lower-class men and artisans to enter the city. They forced open the arsenal doors, took weapons, and marched on to the governor’s house demanding absolute independence and “equal rights of all the classes of citizens.” Meanwhile the leaders of the junta in the viceregal capital of Santa Fe de Bogotá attempted to have all the other provinces recognize them as the preeminent authority in the land, which ostensibly would bring together the

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liberated territories as the United Provinces of New Granada. However, several provinces, including Cartagena, refused to join. In 1815, after returning defeated from Venezuela, Bolívar was employed by the Santa Fe junta to subdue the port city. One objective was to incorporate the area into the proposed United Provinces, while the other was to have a base from which to attack the loyalists in Santa Marta (on the Caribbean coast of today’s Colombia) in the hope of thwarting Morillo’s plans. Unable to achieve either goal, Bolívar abandoned New Granada and sought refuge on the British island of Jamaica, where he penned a famous letter as a response to various questions posed by a local gentleman (see Appendix: Document 3). He began his essay by addressing the legacy of the conquest as well as the general situation on the continent and referred to works by the Baron de Montesquieu and Dominique de Pradt—who had predicted there would be 17 kingdoms in America. Bolívar then detailed how the process of independence was unfolding, the challenges it faced, and offered prophetic visions of the future, assuring his correspondent that “the tie that bound (America) to Spain has been severed.” Bolívar described his ambition to create a union of American countries with a congress to be located in Panama, although he was aware that bringing such disparate regions together was fraught with difficulty. He agreed with de Pradt that the most likely outcome was for them to divide into smaller units, even if they all shared the same language, culture, and religion. His letter assessed the chances several territories had of attaining freedom, concluding that Peru would have the greatest difficulty because it had gold and slaves. He expected that Buenos Aires would establish a centralized government, albeit one dominated by the elite, Guatemala and Panama were likely to create a union, and Chile was the territory most likely to be free. He reserved most of his attention to the proposal of uniting New Granada and Venezuela into a new nation that would take the name of Colombia in honor of the first European to set foot on the continent. Bolívar hoped this state would have an English-style parliament with a hereditary senate and an elected chamber, while the president would be appointed for life, although the post would not be passed on to his heirs. His letter condensed some of his most important political ideas, which he would eventually attempt to implement (see Chapter 5). Jamaican authorities tolerated Bolívar’s presence on the island but, given the fact that the Congress of Vienna had made it clear that the Spanish Bourbons had to be restored in Spain and in their American possessions, the British could not really grant him protection. After an assassination attempt, Bolívar traveled to Haiti where he was received with open arms by the president, Alexandre Pétion. Pétion, the leader of the first Black republic in the Americas, was proud of his accomplishments and wanted to support the liberation of Spanish territories in exchange for a promise to liberate Spanish American slaves. Bolívar, who had grown up on a sugar estate surrounded by enslaved workers, acquiesced. He put together an expedition that would transport more than a thousand men to retake Margarita Island. But given Morillo’s success in pacifying New Granada, this proved to be a difficult moment for those fighting for independence.

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From Reconquest to Restoration Morillo landed outside Santa Marta in July 1815 and renamed his force “the Army of Pacification,” placing the recalcitrant city of Cartagena, that had been self-governing since June 1812, under siege. After five grueling months of hunger and epidemics, the leaders of the independent republic were forced to flee in December, and the expeditionary Spanish forces began taking control. Morillo immediately set to work re-establishing the Inquisition, which would guard against disloyalty and restore traditional religious values. Inquisitors seized books and excommunicated those who had read them. Notable priests who had protested previously against the Spanish government’s policies, especially regarding taxation, got swept up in antiinsurgency campaigns as well. Morillo also embarked on summary trials and executions as well as the confiscation of property. In April, all rank-and-file rebel soldiers could apply for amnesty if they surrendered their weapons and gave up the fight. At the end of May 1816, Morillo entered Bogotá, and the reconquest gave way to the restoration. His first actions were bloody; Morillo asserted his position by executing over one hundred revolutionaries, including Camilo Torres, from nearly all regions. So many men were brought to justice in such a short period of time that there were not enough executioners, and prisoners had to be shot in the back before they were hanged for everyone to see. The leaders’ heads were severed and set into iron frames to be exhibited in public. Some remained outside public buildings for over two years until the only thing left was a skull inside an iron frame. Those who had attacked paintings depicting the king, or his effigy, had their hands cut off, which were exhibited separately. The aim was to set a clear example of how insurgents were going to be punished. But such cruel reprisals were not limited to leaders, as all kinds of victims were executed, including women. The most famous is undoubtedly Policarpa Salavarrieta, a young seamstress from a well-to-do family who lost everything during a smallpox epidemic. In 1817, having recently returned to Bogotá to live with her sister, she was able to preserve her anonymity and not draw attention in crowds. Along with her ability to read and write, her occupation made her an ideal spy. Therefore, she took a position sewing for the loyalists and provided the rebels with useful intelligence, including lists of who supported them and who did not. But when her alleged lover was captured, her position became compromised, as letters filled with information only she could have obtained fell into the hands of the authorities. Salavarrieta was jailed in the local religious school that had been converted to house all the women accused of treason. After a short judicial procedure, she was condemned to die by firing squad on November 14, 1817. Rebels like her were supposed to be shot in the back, but as she walked to the gallows, flanked by two priests, she begged to be allowed to kneel (Figure 3.2). Recorded for posterity, she said:

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Figure 3.2 “Policarpa Salavarrieta walks to her death,” 1825. Pintura (Óleo/Tela). 74,7 x 93,5 cm. Source: Anon. Colección Museo Nacional de Colombia, reg. 555 Fotografía: ©Museo Nacional de Colombia/Juan Camilo Segura.

Despicable soldiers, turn your guns to the enemies of your people, indolent people! How different your fortune would be if you knew the value of freedom! But it is not too late, look how I – a young woman – have plenty of valor to suffer death and a thousand more deaths. Do not forget my example, miserable people, I pity you. Some day you will have more dignity! I die to defend the rights of my fatherland. Unlike the examples of the men previously cited, her body was not publicly exhibited. Even though she was not the only woman executed, her case remained in popular memory and is now considered to be the most important example of fidelity to the new nation from the time. Many died during the socalled “pacification campaign,” but the exact number of those who succumbed is difficult to establish. Many hundreds or even thousands died in less spectacular circumstances, such as those who were shot as they tried to escape, army deserters who were killed by being hit by rifle butts, or those who passed away from hunger and desperation simply trying to escape the violence. Others were victims of forced labor, as many residents had to join work-gangs that were organized to build roads all over New Granada, often without appropriate provisions or adequate places to rest. In addition, Morillo organized sequestration juntas to confiscate the goods and properties of those who had rebelled against the king. This worked alongside a purification council that would revisit the cases of those who had supported the revolution and lessen the charges. Some with close connections to the loyalists

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could find a way to present themselves as less compromised. Men were rehabilitated by paying a fine or served in the army as common soldiers, and in the case of public servants, punishment included removal from their posts. Several women in Bogotá were confined in nearby parishes under the supervision of mayors, priests, and rectors. Twenty prominent members of society were forced to clean the streets, 12 were exiled to Guatemala, and some 95 insurgent priests were sent on foot on the difficult road to Cartagena and La Guaira. Some of the latter group ended up as prisoners in Cádiz after another long journey by sea. The reconquest of New Granada led to a violent restoration of the colonial regime, but in the regions where loyalty had been the norm, the arrival of Morillo led those who had supported the king to ask for recognition. This certainly was the case for slaves at the mine of San Juan, in the province of Popayán, studied by historian Marcela Echeverri. In 1816, their captain, Camilo Torres, had presented a petition in the name of 23 of his companions who were requesting freedom in exchange for the services they had provided to Spain during the years of unrest and warfare. Five years earlier, the enslaved mine workers had heard that they could ask for freedom if they served the crown. Between 1808 and 1816, these slaves had been on their own, enjoying good relations with the loyalists who, unable to control the area, had delegated the task of searching for insurgents to them. Their owner had joined the independence forces, and in his absence, they had remained and continued to work, creating a community that welcomed escaped slaves. Of course, they expected to have their de facto freedom confirmed in exchange for their loyalty. Although we do not know if their request was fulfilled, it is noteworthy that they considered petitioning the crown their best course of action. Events in Venezuela and New Granada show tremendous regional and local variation, and they certainly defy simple binaries pitting “Spaniards” against “Americans.” The return of the king was received positively by those who had chosen loyalty, such as the enslaved, those who lived on the margins of society in the Venezuelan prairies and grasslands, and the many who had chosen to continue supporting the monarchy and had fought against the ideas of revolution. Once Morillo arrived, the balance of power changed, and those who wanted to pursue separation from Spain were defeated as a colonial system was imposed once again. But the spirit of independence was not completely extinguished, because the last remnants of the armies sought refuge deep in the rainforests on the border of Guyana and in the prairie backlands.

Restoration in the Centers of Loyalism From very early on, the Creole-led militias organized as an army fought against the insurgents in the viceroyalty of New Spain, and by 1814 they had managed to retake most of the regions where they had initially held sway. They had captured and executed Miguel Hidalgo, but his legacy lived on with those who sought refuge in more isolated rural locales from the Pacific all the way to the Gulf coast. Rebels had gone as far as to pass the radical Constitution of

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Apatzingán that abolished slavery. Their leader, José María Morelos, remained at large. He was the most important target of the army organized in Mexico City that continued to pressure the insurgents and aimed to retake control of New Spain. When news arrived of Ferdinand’s return, Viceroy Félix María Calleja immediately reversed all the measures implemented by the Constitution of Cádiz, and restoration ceremonies were prepared throughout the viceroyalty. Masses were given, processions were organized to show devotion to the king, and all symbols and documents from the constitutional period were destroyed. The connection between the sovereign and his people was re-established at a symbolic level, and the revolutionaries were seen as an enemy that had to be defeated so that the body politic could completely recover and regenerate. Despite this, Calleja decided to maintain locally elected municipal authorities, because he saw them as a good way to limit the power of judges and to enhance his control over the population. In so doing, he also managed to keep the support of residents who had welcomed the possibility of electing their representatives. The provincial deputations mandated by the Constitution were completely dismantled, and the freedom of the press that had been temporarily suspended was terminated. The Inquisition was reinstated, but it never managed to get to work properly and was used mainly against political prisoners. The rebels found themselves on the defensive and their itinerant Congress of Anáhuac was dissolved toward the end of 1815 when Morelos was captured. After they summarily tried and executed him, the loyalists held out hope that his passing would lead to the end of the insurgency, but it did not. Instead armed bands survived by dispersing and dividing, finding refuge on the fringes of the viceroyalty. There was no center that could be attacked, so it became even more difficult to defeat them. As a result, local militias had to remain vigilant. The insurgents were reinforced temporarily by an expedition led by the Spaniard Xavier Mina, who arrived in 1817 with 300 men. But constant military engagement and a policy of pardons and amnesty ensured that many of the miners, artisans, and agricultural workers returned to the viceregal fold. Forces aligned with Spain grew to incorporate nearly 40,000 men. Engagements between the loyalists and the dispersed insurgent bands demonstrated that while rebels could not consolidate their control over the fringes, they could not be completely extinguished either. Events in Central America paralleled those that transpired in New Spain, as Captain General Bustamante embarked on a campaign of militarization to fortify Guatemala and insulate the surrounding areas. Despite the relative stability of the kingdom, Bustamante’s counterinsurgency campaign, started because of the violence that had spread regionally in 1811 and 1812, combined with the new polices of the restoration regime brought to a boil conflict with autonomist-minded Creole elites. In 1815, Bustamante, under orders from the king, punished liberal figures in the local government for supposed crimes committed in 1810 as they worked with deputies sent to Cádiz. He also castigated them for not having completely erased the history of the constitutional period as required by law and publicly burned the incriminating document. By 1817, however,

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each side in the dispute attempted to navigate fraught political waters by emphasizing patriotic bona fides and the importance of law and order. The crown weighed in by offering pardons to all those accused or convicted of insurrection and reinstated the status of the men previously stripped of their titles, to the dismay of Bustamante. Disgraced, he left office in 1818 and returned to peninsular Spain with Central America apparently at peace. The situation in Brazil was very different. The Braganza dynasty had relocated to Rio de Janeiro and, in so doing, had altered the colonial relationship. What had been part of the periphery became the center of the monarchy. Until the death of his mother Maria in 1816, João (John) had presided over the court as prince regent (in 1799, she had been declared unfit to govern due to mental illness). He took his job seriously and dedicated large portions of his time to the ceremony of the beija-mão in which his subjects from all sectors of society came seeking royal favor. He elevated some 5000 people to the nobility, creating more titles in eight years than all that had been granted in the previous three hundred. This made him a popular ruler who furthered his position by creating a series of institutions and public services that had not been considered necessary for a colonial outpost but became essential once the court relocated. After Napoleon proclaimed a Francophile constitution for the Spanish monarchy in July 1808, João’s consort, Spanish princess Carlota Joaquina, sister of the captive king Ferdinand, sought to be granted the regency over South America in her brother’s absence. This added fuel to the long-standing rivalry between the two crowns in the southern Atlantic and sparked fears in Montevideo and Buenos Aires that the Portuguese monarchy would take over their territory. Although the proposed regency did not come to pass, this intervention led those on both banks of the Río de la Plata to pursue autonomy by creating governing juntas. The first attempt occurred very early on in 1808 in Montevideo with the aim of retaining allegiance to Madrid, as many feared that the French-born viceroy naturally would side with the emperor Napoleon. After significant unrest culminating in the fall of the caretaker government under Liniers, Americans in Buenos Aires set up a rival junta in 1810. They felt that they had to govern themselves in such extraordinary circumstances. As we saw in the case of Santa Fe de Bogotá, the elites of Buenos Aires were convinced that the provinces that had been part of the viceroyalty should come under their command, so they began pursuing an expansionist agenda and sought to assert their pre-eminence. The results were mixed. By 1811, the buffer region of Paraguay, located between the Spanish and the Portuguese empires with a large Guaraní population and numerous mission settlements, had declared independence and repelled the forces sent from Buenos Aires to subdue them (see Chapter 2). The end of the Napoleonic era brought unintended consequences to this region. Paraguay remained independent and, given its isolated position in the center of the continent and its capacity to survive on its own, could remain apart from the larger conflicts engulfing the region. In Brazil, the situation changed greatly for João VI when the Congress of Vienna asserted the rights of

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kings and essentially championed absolutist rule.2 In this case the monarch did not have to be restored, but a new arrangement needed to be found, given the presence of the court in South America. The answer was to create the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil, and the Algarves at the end of 1815. This was swiftly recognized as a new state by the European powers; soon after, the queen passed away and João was finally crowned king. What had happened in this case was that the colonial space was transformed into the heart of the monarchy. However, this led to unrest back in Portugal that in the king’s absence had become a de facto British protectorate. The other bastion of loyalism was Peru, which had become a center of counter-revolution during this period. And, of course, a restoration as such was not necessary as King Ferdinand VII had assumed absolute power once again. The Peruvian Viceroy José Fernando de Abascal had been able to organize a large army to repel the troops sent from the junta of Buenos Aires. This force was made up of Indigenous militias organized by pre-Hispanic nobles, or kurakas. They were eager to support the monarchy because they wanted to ensure that they maintained their privileges. One of the most senior among them, Mateo Pumacachua, was a veteran of the fight against Tupac Amaru and had distinguished himself in service to the crown to such degree that he was promoted to the highest possible rank—brigadier. He received recognition for his loyalty because he had been instrumental in supporting the efforts in Upper Peru in 1811 and 1812 to push back insurgents in the area around Lake Titicaca who threatened the viceroyalty of Peru from Buenos Aires. He also had served as the president of the Cuzco audiencia, the appellate court. In 1814, however, Pumacachua, at the age of 74, became disenchanted with the constitutional project and joined an uprising against the viceroy. To a large degree this was a protest against the changes introduced by the Cádiz Constitution that would have eliminated his status as a noble Indian. The rebellion broke out in Cuzco and was successful in bringing together many disgruntled members of society who resented having to fund and fight in the wars against the Buenos Aires junta far away from home. This was the biggest rebellion seen in Peru during this period, and, like that of Tupac Amaru 35 years earlier, it galvanized Indigenous discontent. African-descended troops were sent from Lima into the highlands and the experienced loyalist Army of the Andes—composed largely of Indigenous soldiers—returned from Upper Peru to defeat the rebels who had held on to several southern Peruvian provinces for over six months. Abascal was busy on all fronts as he had also sent an army of reconquest to Chile. The junta established in Santiago in 1810 initially had not seemed to pose much danger as it claimed to act in the name of Ferdinand, but when they refused to implement the Cádiz Constitution and presented their own Provisional Constitutional Regulation in October 1812, the viceroy in Lima decided to act, considering this a sign of disobedience that had gone too far. The expedition landed in the south, where the loyalist cause had more support and they could recruit locally. Although several small victories followed throughout 1813, the conflict clearly had become a civil war where neither side had the

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upper hand. Given the difficulties faced by both armies, they signed a treaty at Lircay in May 1814. Accordingly, they each agreed that the “government of Chile” would administer its territory with some degree of autonomy but not independently from either the viceroy in Lima or the king in Madrid. Those fighting for autonomy were pressing for a monarchical solution by which they would be ruled directly by the king without any intermediaries. Abascal rejected the treaty, because he did not want to recognize or grant any legitimacy to the rebels. A new army was assembled and sent down to Chile in July 1814, just weeks before the rebellion broke out in Cuzco. It once again headed south where the loyalists had the support of the Mapuche Indians who sought to maintain royal protection over their land. By October, the loyalists had completely defeated the autonomist armies at the Battle of Rancagua, after which the vanquished leaders escaped and sought refuge on the other side of the Andes in the province of Cuyo (in today’s Argentina). A jubilant population welcomed the loyalists in Santiago with celebrations marked by fireworks and bells tolling. Many people in the capital were convinced that this would be the end of a war that had divided elites in the colony and had resulted in the arming of large numbers of agricultural workers who appeared to no longer respect traditional authorities as they had in the past. Initially the commander of the loyalist troops displayed restraint and tried not to alienate Chileans, but as news of the king’s return arrived, the language of “reconquest” was adopted. The message was loud and clear, and coins were minted with the words, “Santiago reconquered on 5 October 1814.” This rhetoric led to growing resentment, even among loyalists who did not share the view that the events represented a reconquest by Peru. In Lima, however, Viceroy Abascal had much to celebrate, because he had triumphed in Chile, in southern Peru, and in Upper Peru. He never really believed in the constitutional project, but having begrudgingly accepted it, the viceroy was jubilant when he found out that the king had returned and brought an end to the Cádiz liberal government. During his time in office, he had managed to maintain the fidelity of the viceroyalty of Peru to the Spanish crown, even in the direst of circumstances. He also had been able to extend his control over territories in Upper Peru that had formerly been under the jurisdiction of the court in Lima, but that had been given to the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata in 1776. Abascal had also reasserted Lima’s pre-eminence over the captaincy-general of Chile (Figure 3.3). In doing so, he had the unwavering support of the commercial elites in Lima who paid for the expeditions to Chile, mainly because they needed to maintain trade as they exported sugar and imported wheat. But the viceroy also had the backing of the regional elites in southern Peru that financed, armed, and recruited the forces that were sent to Upper Peru. They successfully thwarted the juntas set up early on in 1809 in Chuquisaca and La Paz and subsequently prevented the forces sent by the Buenos Aires junta from taking over the region. In the Andes, the wars pitted Indigenous people against each other. In Upper Peru, some eastern regions, nestled in the highlands overlooking the Amazon basin, declared independence early on and were never again subdued. Like the

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Figure 3.3 View of the city of Lima from the vicinity of the bullring, ca. 1780–1812

insurgents in New Spain, they could not be defeated in the valleys far away from the centers of power, but their resistance was not enough to bring about independence. There were still many other Indigenous people who were willing to fight for the king, some because they considered, not unlike the llaneros in the Venezuelan prairies, that the monarch would protect them from the Creole elites who had appropriated the language of enslavement to claim they were the dispossessed. Poorer sectors in society found this particularly jarring. In the case of Peru, the Cádiz Constitution had brought some advantages to these groups. Many Indigenous communities welcomed the possibility of electing their own local representatives. The new Hispanic charter, however, also created friction as noble Indians such as Pumacachua resented the possibility that they would lose their privileges. Responses, therefore, varied greatly. But in general, in the oldest viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru, more people appeared to maintain their loyalty to the monarchy at this point. This certainly was the case in Brazil, where having the monarchy in situ made it easier for diverse communities to imagine a future with a king.

Independence in the Río de la Plata The one region that did not experience reconquest or restoration was the Río de la Plata. Once the Morillo expedition changed its course and sailed to Venezuela, or Costa Firme as it was known at the time, there was no real pathway for these provinces in the southernmost tip of the continent to return to the monarchical fold. For five years, the leaders of the Buenos Aires junta had attempted to claim control over the areas that had formerly been part of the viceroyalty, but the results had been mixed. Paraguay declared independence in 1811, whereas loyalist Montevideo was placed under siege by independenceminded rebels. The leader of those fighting for independence in Montevideo,

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José Gervasio Artigas, had turned from being a loyalist to supporting independence in late 1811 after Elío was named viceroy. But he was unable to take the city, as reinforcements were sent from Brazil that allowed those defending the king to hold out. Artigas was under pressure from the Buenos Aires junta to agree to an armistice, but instead he called for a meeting of a deliberative assembly that decided to abandon the siege, keep their weapons, and seek refuge in the riverine provinces of the Río de la Plata. There, in 1814, they created a loose confederation called the Liga Federal (the Federal League), which included the provinces of Córdoba, Santa Fe, Entre Ríos, Corrientes, Misiones, and the Banda Oriental (the Eastern Bank), leaving Buenos Aires isolated from the rest of the northern and western regions (see Map 3). The Federal League had no central institutions but rather depended on the leaders of each of the provinces who recognized Artigas as the one in charge. Also known as “The Confederation of the Free People,” it had a great deal of support among agricultural workers in these provinces, as a policy of land expropriation was implemented. Equality was considered to be this union’s guiding principle and Indigenous people, who were seen as equals, could organize their own governing structures, based on the missions they originated from. By 1815, while the monarchical restoration swept through the continent, the Federal League provided an alternative vision of how people could be governed. Provincial autonomy was this union’s guiding principle, in addition to the conviction that the Buenos Aires government did not have the right to exercise control over their territory. Nevertheless, the authorities in the former viceregal capital of Buenos Aires were convinced they should lead in this time of crisis. While they had sent troops to Paraguay and Montevideo, most of their attention during this period was fixed on Upper Peru. These mining provinces to the north were extremely valuable economically, and control of them was disputed by the viceroyalty of Peru. Viceroy Abascal wanted to ensure his control over silver production and expand his sphere of influence. Several expeditions sent from Buenos Aires had failed to secure control over the area, but this did not dissuade the porteños and their allies in the northern provinces from continuing their attacks. Early success in 1811 convinced them it was possible to threaten the Peruvian viceroyalty; soon enough, however, the tables turned. Within a year, loyalist armies had reached Salta and Tucumán in the northwest. This was a very bold move, and after overstretching themselves the loyalists were stopped and forced to capitulate in 1812. In spite of this, the armies sent from Buenos Aires were unable to take over the cities of Potosí, Chuquisaca, or La Paz. War continued unabated for over five years, mobilizing entire communities, and Indigenous people fought on both sides. Spanish commander Joaquín de la Pezuela arrived in Oruro, southeast of Lake Titicaca, in 1813. As he explained in his memoir, the men who fought did not wear uniforms but simply fixed a symbol on to their hats and continued to wear their traditional ponchos. Accordingly, they refused to eat anything that had not been prepared by the women who accompanied them and set up the

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camps, and they foraged and stole to ensure they had enough wood, meat, potatoes, beans, and lentils to feed their men. On the side of those fighting for independence, the situation was not very different. Indigenous people fought alongside the men who came from the Río de la Plata, many of them cowboys known as gauchos, who usually were racially mixed descendants of Indigenous people, Africans, or poor Spaniards who had eked out a living rustling cattle on the frontier. Among their most important leaders were Juana Azurduy (1780–1862) and her husband Manuel Ascencio Padilla. A mestiza married to a Creole, and mother to five children, Azurduy took up arms in 1809. She became particularly prominent from 1812 onwards when she took charge of recruitment and put together a force of approximately 10,000 militia members. She wore a soldier’s uniform: wide white trousers, a man’s jacket, sometimes in red and others in blue, and a military hat with a blue and white feather in honor of the colors of Buenos Aires. In 1813, her husband’s battalion transported multiple cannons and ammunition, but after two defeats the porteños turned to guerrilla warfare in the valleys east of the Andes. Azurduy, leading her own troops, captured enemy flags and armaments during a skirmish in 1816. In recognition of her actions, she was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel with command of her own battalion (a town and province are named after her in Bolivia today). By 1816, the leaders of the Buenos Aires junta concluded that the only option available to them was to declare independence. In 1815, a Provisional Statute, inspired by the Cádiz Constitution, was passed, and elections were called with all the provinces invited to send representatives to a congress. As control over Upper Peru remained elusive and the Federal League presented an alternative organization for the provinces, the main issue to be discussed in the proposed congress was that of sovereignty. Most of the provinces were opposed to the idea that Buenos Aires should retain its pre-eminence, so the middle ground of Tucumán was chosen as the site for the meeting. Located not too far from the auxiliary army base that was permanently prepared to attack Upper Peru, Tucumán had contributed a great deal to the ongoing military campaigns. Another advantage was that the city authorities had a good working relationship with the government in Buenos Aires and those in other provinces. Some 33 representatives were elected, of which 18 were lawyers, 9 were priests, 2 were friars and 4 were members of the military. All the provinces that had been part of the viceroyalty were invited to send representatives, but some in Upper Peru could not do so because they were under loyalist control. The Paraguayan government did not even respond to the invitation, while the provinces that were part of the Federal League sent no representatives because they considered this entity to be the enemy. The only exception was the province of Córdoba that sent representatives even though they were technically members of the League. The meeting began in March with colonial-style ceremonies in which the 19 deputies that had already arrived walked in procession to the main church, listened to mass, and swore to maintain the territory of the United Provinces and to “conserve and defend the Roman Catholic religion.”

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The Congress of Tucumán had several issues to resolve, from its internal regulation to questions of leadership. The rules on how they were to function were drafted in the first month of their meeting, and by early May, a new supreme director had been appointed. This led to further conflict between the provinces, as different leaders had been proposed, but the one from Buenos Aires was selected. After much discussion, all attention was placed on deciding the details of the declaration of independence that finally was promulgated on July 9, 1816. Just as the reconquest of Venezuela, New Granada, and Mexico was occurring, on the southernmost tip of the continent, provincial deputies asserted their right to self-determination. The very name, the United Provinces of South America, glossed over the serious conflicts that were taking place with the Federal League. But proclaiming the independence of a potentially very large and inclusive polity was a strategy that allowed for other provinces to join in the future, perhaps even some that had not been part of the viceroyalty. It was a bold move, and the congressional representatives were persuaded they needed to convince other provinces to become members. They had over a thousand copies of the declaration printed in Spanish, a thousand in Quechua, and five hundred in Aymara to distribute and circulate widely. Their hope was that the news would travel all over the continent and that Indigenous peoples would be persuaded to join them. Such a broad-based call for independence had been made due to the ambition of some of the leaders in Tucumán. They wanted to create a monarchy with Cuzco as its capital that would be led by an Inca. This proposal fitted with the general view of the post-Napoleonic restorations that monarchies provided more stability than republics. Although the discussion of a possible monarchy dominated at first, it was ultimately discarded as more pressing issues took center-stage. For example, the Brazilians began an offensive to invade Montevideo, and after further defeats the campaign in Upper Peru seemed once again doomed. Juana Azurduy and many of the other guerrilla leaders there took refuge in the eastern valleys facing the Amazon basin in so-called “small republics,” or republiquetas. After Artigas managed to gain control over Montevideo, more attention was devoted to the port city within the Federal League. After so many failed campaigns to take over Upper Peru, veteran army general José de San Martín decided to implement a new strategy, moving one of the armies of the United Provinces to the border with Chile. To do this, he took the position of governor of the peripheral province of Cuyo, where he recruited and trained as many men as he could, including many émigrés who had fled east after the Battle of Rancagua, and prepared to cross the Andes into Chile. San Martín had only arrived in Buenos Aires in 1812 after having trained and fought in the Peninsular Army. Once in the Río de la Plata, he had shown ability at the Battle of San Lorenzo but refused command of the Auxiliary Army of Peru because he did not think Upper Peru could be taken. His army was made up of local recruits from the province of Cuyo as well as a great number of slaves that had been drafted into the army in Buenos Aires, and who would follow him in all his campaigns. The enslaved were promised freedom in exchange for service in the army for seven years.

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The revolution in the Río de la Plata was successful in maintaining independence from Spain, but the authorities in Buenos Aires were not able to take control over all the areas that had been part of the viceroyalty. This included under-populated regions where most residents depended on agricultural work, cattle rustling, and contraband. A large African-descended population in the port cities of both Montevideo and Buenos Aires had roots in the region’s history as a slaving hub. All the provinces were surrounded by Indigenous lands, so the mixing of people was one of its most important characteristics at the end of the colonial period. During the wars these populations became politically mobilized and began to demand rights. Although no direct attacks were launched from Spain to recover these territories, war became endemic as different jurisdictions fought over who should have sovereign control, and a centralized state remained elusive. Paraguay, for instance, declared its independence early on, and, in Montevideo, loyalism was an expression of a deep desire for autonomy from Buenos Aires. But they were constantly under threat from Brazil, where the egalitarian program proposed by Artigas was despised. In 1816, the troops of King João again placed Montevideo under siege and invaded a year later. The independent United Provinces of South America proposed the creation of a new state, but its boundaries were amorphous, and the relationship between Buenos Aires and the provincial governments remained tense. In 1817, the Congress moved from Tucumán back to Buenos Aires and produced a manifesto explaining the reasons to call for independence. The first section, deeply influenced by the Open Letter to the American Spaniards by Arequipeño exiled Jesuit Juan Pablo Viscardo, accused Spaniards of “treating them with cruelty, destroying and degrading their lands.” The second accused the metropolis of having abandoned the territories to their own devices during the British invasions of 1806 and 1807. The justification for their desire for freedom was that there had been a clear lack of engagement with their needs. The manifesto, however, did not serve as a project for the creation of a new state. Furthermore, even though the inhabitants were not threatened by Spain, the region was still facing war between the provinces, and there was very little clarity regarding what the new independent polity should look like.

Conclusion When King Ferdinand returned to power in Madrid, and the Cádiz Constitution was no longer in force, a series of changes took place that indelibly shaped Spain’s American possessions. In places where loyalism had prevailed, such as Peru, Popayán, Central America, and areas around Mexico City, the experience of returning to absolutism, what we are referring to as a “restoration,” forced Americans to adapt to the reality of no longer having a constitutional government. The change was not as stark as it might have been because amongst those who remained loyal, including elites, the Indigenous populace, the enslaved, and those who worked in the colonial administration, the desire to honor the

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representatives of the crown had never gone away. In the places where there had been more success in seeking autonomy or even independence, a military “reconquest” altered the dynamics in fundamental ways. This was the case in Venezuela, New Granada, Quito, Upper Peru, Chile, and some of the key regions of New Spain. There were, however, other places that had declared their desire for greater self-rule and ultimately independence that were never subjected to restoration or reconquest. These included the southernmost sections of the continent, areas that nevertheless experienced war because fighting broke out between jurisdictions. In the case of Brazil, the experience was different once again, because the king and his court continued to reside in Rio de Janeiro after leaving metropolitan Portugal in 1807. Across the continent, this was a moment in which the monarchical idea of government gained ground, and the rights of kings were reasserted. At the end of 1816, it seemed like it was possible for Spain and Portugal to continue to maintain a significant colonial presence in the Americas.

Notes 1 His story has been portrayed in the 2010 film, Taita Boves. 2 An emphasis on order and stability was the legacy of the 1814–1815 Congress of Vienna, and liberalism was anathema to the architects of this post-war order. Iberian empires clearly had lost their great power status by this point. As a result, Portugal and Spain signed on to treaties abolishing the slave trade. For example, the Times of London noted that King Ferdinand VII, in the spirit of “the general progress of improvement in Europe,” had to decree the gradual end to the slave trade, because it ran “contrary to the interests of humanity.”

Further Reading Arana, Marie. Bolívar, American Liberator. New York: Phoenix, 2013. Areces, Nidia R. “La independencia y los tiempos que siguieron, Paraguay 1810–1850,” in De las independencias iberoamericanas a los estados nacionales (1810–1850) 200 años de historia, ed. Ivana Frasquet and Andréa Slemian, 39–60. Madrid: Iberoamericana, 2009. Di Meglio, Gabriel. 1816. La trama de la independencia. Buenos Aires: Planeta, 2016. Gutiérrez Ardila, Daniel. Un nuevo reino: Geografía política, pactismo y diplomacia durante el interregno en la Nueva Granada (1810–1816). Bogotá: Universidad del Externado, 2010. Gutiérrez Ardila, Daniel. La restauración en la Nueva Granada (1815–1819). Bogotá: Universidad del Externado, 2016. Gutiérrez Ardila, Daniel. El Reino frente al rey. Reconquista, pacificación, restauración. Nueva Granada (1815–1819). Bogotá: Museo Nacional de Colombia, 2017. Hamnett, Brian R. “The Counter Revolution of Morillo and the Insurgent Clerics of New Granada, 1815–1820.” The Americas 32, no. 4 (1976): 597–617. Helg, Aline. Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia, 1770–1835. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2004. Helg, Aline. “The Limits of Equality: Free People of Color and Slaves during the First Independence of Cartagena, Colombia (1810–15).” Slavery and Abolition 20, no. 2 (1999): 1–30.

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Hennes, Heather. “Corrientes culturales en la leyenda de Juana Azurduy de Padilla.” Cuadernos Americanos 132, no. 2 (2010): 93–115. La Parra, Emilio. Fernando VII. Un rey deseado y detestado. Madrid: Tusquets, 2018. Moreno, Rodrigo. “La Restauración en la Nueva España: Guerra cambios de régimen y militarización entre 1814–1820.” Revista Universitaria de Historia Militar 7, no. 15 (2018): 101–125. O’Phelan Godoy, Scarlett, Ed. 1814: La junta de gobierno del Cuzco y el sur andino. Lima: Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, 2016. O’Phelan Godoy, Scarlett and Georges Lomné, Eds. Abascal y la contra-independencia de América del Sur. Lima: Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, 2013. Ossa Santa Cruz, Juan Luis. “1814 en Chile: de la desobediencia a Lima a la ruptura con España.” Anuario de Estudios Americanos 73, no. 1 (2016): 231–260. Ossa Santa Cruz, Juan Luis and Joanna Crow. “¿«Indios seducidos»? Participación político-militar de los mapuche en la Restauración de Fernando VII. Chile, 1814–1825.” Revista Universitaria de Historia Militar 7, no. 15 (2018): 39–58. Ribeiro, Ana. “De las independencias a los Estados Republicanos (1810–1850): Uruguay,” in De las independencias iberoamericanas a los estados nacionales (1810–1850) 200 años de historia, ed. Ivana Frasquet and Andréa Slemian, 61–87. Madrid: Iberoamericana, 2009. Slemian, Andréa. “Instituciones, legitimidad y [des]orden: crisis de la Monarquía portuguesa y construcción del Imperio de Brasil 1808–1841,” in De las independencias iberoamericanas a los estados nacionales (1810–1850) 200 años de historia, ed. Ivana Frasquet and Andréa Slemian, 89–108. Madrid: Iberoamericana, 2009. Sobrevilla Perea, Natalia. “Luchando por ‘la patria’ en los Andes 1808–1815.” Revista Andina no. 52 (2012): 61–90. Straka, Tomás. La voz de los vencidos: ideas del partido realista de Caracas, 1810–1821. Caracas: Universidad Andrés Bello, 2007. Ternavasio, Marcela. Candidata a la corona. La infanta Carlota Joaquina en el laberinto de las revoluciones hispanoamericanas. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2015. Thibaud, Clément. República en armas. Los ejércitos bolivarianos en la guerra de Independencia en Colombia y Venezuela. Bogotá: Planeta, IFEA, 2003.

4

Total War

The historian David Bell identifies the period 1792–1815, during which Napoleon and his imperial armies attempted to occupy and transform much of Europe, as the first total war. He points to the fact that these protracted conflicts brought about significant territorial changes and structural adjustments to governments by and large ruled by absolutists and introduced guerrilla warfare to the continent. Total war, then, did not just bring about militarization but it created a new culture from the ground up. Bell calls it a “culture of war,” which was accompanied by the emergence of nationalist ideologies in Europe and beyond. Accounting for as many as five million deaths, the Napoleonic Wars demanded a complete societal mobilization as states fought against demonized enemies. The Spanish accused the French of being godless atheists, while the British tended to rely on a brand of Protestant exceptionalism to distinguish themselves from the Catholic Other. Of course, the Napoleonic age overlaps with the outbreak of violence and civil war that reshaped the politics of Spanish America in the second decade of the nineteenth century. Scholars without hesitation have described the struggles in New Granada, beginning with Bolívar’s 1813 declaration of “war to the death,” as total war. This chapter explores the continued violence and brutality that characterized the wars between 1816 and 1820 as well as the crucial transnational connections that made them possible.

A Sojourn in Haiti By the end of 1816, Simón Bolívar was a seasoned warrior who had tasted triumph and defeat more than once. He had been successful in pitched battles, such as the so-called “Admirable Campaign” of 1813–1814, yet victories had been short-lived. Repeatedly forced to leave Venezuela, he twice requested and received the support of Alexandre Pétion, the president of Haiti (Figure 4.1). The only thing Pétion, in charge of what was widely considered the most radical state in the Americas, had asked for in exchange was that slavery be abolished in an independent New Granada. At the time of Bolívar’s arrival, the island of Hispaniola was divided along a north-south axis, with the Spanish still administering Santo Domingo. But the northern kingdom of Haiti, led by Henri DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-5

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Figure 4.1 Monument to Pétion, Bogotá, Colombia Source: Photograph by Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 2016.

Christophe, had separated from a southern republic, where the failed South American revolutionaries were received with open arms. A bifurcated Haiti emerged from the fall-out following the collapse of Jean-Jacques Dessalines’ regime. He had declared independence in 1804 and enacted a constitution in 1805 that granted him the title of emperor, and his power emanated from the ranks of the army. But following his failed attempt to take over Spanish Santo Domingo, his disgruntled officers decided he could no longer be their leader. Competing ideas of what was the best form of government and the inability to control territory led to further division into two states, each with its own constitution: Pétion had enacted a charter in 1806, followed by Christophe a year later. Given his beleaguered position, it is surprising that the president of the republic of Haiti chose to support the South American revolutionaries. It was a high stakes gamble, but one that could result in a future alliance between newly liberated American republics. Creole officers such as José Francisco Bermúdez, Santiago Mariño, Carlos Soublette, and Bartolomé Salom, African-descended leaders including José Padilla and Manuel Piar, as well as foreign mercenaries like Henri Louis Ducoudray Holstein and Gregor McGregor all found refuge in the southern port of Les Cayes while Bolívar traveled to Port-au-Prince to try to win Pétion’s backing. Some, like Piar, a pardo and a free Black man from the Dutch island

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of Curaçao, knew Haiti well. He had even served in the Haitian navy. But others, especially the Creoles, had had few first-hand experiences and were therefore surprised by the openness and generosity with which they were received. This was to a great extent because the South Americans had spent most of their campaigns fearing Haiti and fighting against radical ideologies that sought to end slavery. As the historian Juan Francisco Martínez Peria points out, there were advantages for both sides in coming to an agreement. On the one hand, the Venezuelan revolutionaries had no one else to turn to, because the Morillo expedition had succeeded in retaking control of most of the mainland. On the other, the Haitians did not have many friends. If the Venezuelans succeeded, their Haitian patrons would be able to count on an important ally in the near future, and slavery would begin to disappear from South America. Bolívar also received backing from a consortium of foreign merchants led by Robert Sutherland, a Briton resident in Haiti since 1805, who believed that Venezuela’s independence could open up possibilities for British traders. The sojourn in Les Cayes and in Port-au-Prince left an indelible mark on the veterans of the first independence campaigns. After harboring serious reservations about the existence of a Black republic, and having held on to racial stereotypes of hyperviolent Haitian troops, many of these men realized that their endeavor could only survive with the help of the very leaders they had once despised. Morillo and the Spanish authorities on the other side of Hispaniola wrote letters to Pétion requesting neutrality. The Haitian president responded that his government was not helping the revolutionaries, noting that the real backing came from British merchants. Although this was clearly untrue, there was very little that the Spanish could do to counteract such machinations. In addition, Pétion’s support allowed Bolívar to secure his senior position among the insurgent generals, who confirmed it after reaching the island of Margarita east of Caracas. Haitian support, however, had another extremely important consequence. It radicalized the revolutionaries, and the elite among them began to consider abolition a real possibility, something few had desired beforehand. In fact, one of their greatest weaknesses when fighting against the likes of Boves in the Venezuelan llanos had been that the large African-descended populations that lived in those regions did not trust the slave-owning Creoles who led the fight for independence because of their continued support for slavery. The impact of the Haitian interlude on Bolívar was immediate. As soon as he landed near Cumaná in June 1816, he proclaimed the end of slavery. But there was a catch, as freedom was dependent on all men between 14 and 60 enlisting in the army. Women and the elderly qualified only on the condition that their husbands and brothers join the rebel forces. If they did not, their entire family would have to return to servitude. In spite of this change, Bolívar’s incursion into Venezuela failed, to a large degree because his abolition decree did not convince enough slaves to join him and change his expedition’s fortunes. Elites in Caracas and in most of the large cities were still not convinced by abolition, and by September 1816 Bolívar was forced to return to Haiti. Seeking additional help, he included his emancipation proclamations in his correspondence

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with Pétion as evidence that he remained faithful to the cause of freedom. In a letter to Haitian general Ignace Marion, Bolívar emphasized that he had decreed the “absolute emancipation of the slaves.” But he lamented that “the tyranny of the Spaniards … reduced them to such a state of stupidity and instilled in their souls such a great sense of terror that they have lost even the desire to be free!” Regardless of such caveats, the Haitian president believed he would follow through with emancipation and decided to provide more support for a second expedition. That summer, Pétion redrafted the Haitian Constitution and was confirmed in the newly-created post of presidency for life. Bolívar wrote to congratulate him, stating that this was the best possible way to recognize his 25-year fight for Haiti’s freedom. Many years later, Bolívar would be involved in the promulgation of Bolivia’s constitution that included a similar life-long presidency, which he called “the most sublime innovation in the republican system.” As a former slave owner, Bolívar found Pétion to be such an inspiring figure that he favorably compared the Haitian president to George Washington. He even argued that Pétion deserved more recognition than the North American general, given the support the Haitian provided to fellow revolutionaries and the high regard in which his people held him. With a new impetus from the revolutionary Caribbean, Bolívar prepared his second expedition to sail. At the same time, several Venezuelan independence leaders began to see results in different regions. José Antonio Páez had managed to survive the reconquest by going deeper into the western llanos and raising an army of loyal followers with the remnants of those who had supported Boves. Others, like Piar and Mariño, returned with the first Haitian expedition and managed to penetrate the eastern regions of the Orinoco, joining those who had sought refuge there. Margarita Island had also been retaken by those fighting for independence and served as a base for the new campaign. Pétion’s generosity was prodigious as he not only provided goods, ships, and men to the expedition, but he continued to dissimulate in communications with the Spanish authorities in New Granada, Venezuela, Santo Domingo, and even Cuba. He claimed to be neutral, which bought South American revolutionaries crucial time to prepare. As a parting gift, the Haitian president gave Bolívar a sword emblazoned with his country’s emblem. In order to show the high regard in which he held the fledging republic, made up of former slaves that helped him in his desperate hour of need, the Liberator used it dutifully in his military campaigns. On December 18, 1816, his expedition sailed toward Venezuela nearly a year after his first arrival. Despite all the efforts to keep the news of their departure secret, colonial authorities received information from a Danish ship that intercepted Bolívar’s letters to Piar and Mariño. But this information was not enough to stop him, and men ready to fight for independence arrived on Margarita Island at the end of December 1816. The Haitian sojourn changed Bolívar and his men’s fortunes. Without time spent recuperating, their survival would have been in question, and there would have been no real option to prepare two expeditions to attack Venezuela. There were deeper consequences

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as well, as the elite Creoles who had initiated the independence process realized they could count on the republic created by former slaves. This in part shifted their views on race and labor, forcing them to reckon with the fact that in order to prosecute a war, they had to view abolition as a military necessity.

From War to the Death to Total War Bolívar’s 1813 declaration of war to the death, inspired as it was by Dessalines, may be considered an earlier example of Haitian influence. This decree meant that any Spaniard caught by those fighting for independence would be executed, while the Americans would be allowed to live. In theory, this would encourage the American-born to support autonomy from the peninsula. And although those fighting for independence were the first to introduce this practice, Morillo and his men also used capital punishment as soon as their expedition landed. As violence escalated, the military leaders, also known as caudillos, many of whom remained deep in the backlands of Venezuela, continued to wage this kind of extreme warfare. According to the historian John Lynch, Morillo had to lure them out of their lairs in the distant regions where they had remained unopposed. Warlords such as Páez in the western llanos, Manuel Cedeño in Caicara, and José Tadeo Monagas in Cumaná were surrounded by men loyal only to them. These leaders derived much of their power from their control of the land, the promise of bounty, and patron-client relationships they maintained with their subordinates. The geography of the western prairies, as well as the eastern regions south of Cumaná and Barcelona, Venezuela, that change from savannah to the thick rainforest of the Orinoco basin, also facilitated the war. These areas provided guerrillas, waging war against the Spanish, with an ideal space to organize and survive during the years of the so-called “reconquista,” and in the grasslands they grew strong. They recruited from those fleeing persecution who found refuge in the interior of Venezuela. Former loyalist soldiers who had supported Boves bolstered their numbers, because Morillo and his officers dismissed men whom they considered unqualified for the royal army. Recognizing an opportunity, guerrilla leaders suspended the war to the death decree and brought in as many men as they could. Most of these new recruits had been semi-irregulars and were not used to the rigid discipline expected of them. But as they knew no other way to survive except for war, they changed sides. For these individuals, war was less of an ideological endeavor and more of a livelihood. Landowners and their stewards, some of whom had military experience or had even gained a promotion during the conflict, led bands of guerrillas composed of their farmhands. In some regions, enlistment was not voluntary, and slaves were often conscripted. As a result, the ethnic makeup of the guerrillas was diverse and included soldiers of mixed ancestry, large numbers of African descendants, both enslaved and free, and Indigenous people from the Orinoco basin. Officers including Manuel Piar, who remained in Venezuela after the failure of the first Haitian-funded incursion, sought refuge in the eastern region of the Orinoco and forcibly recruited among the Indigenous people settled in missions.

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In a letter to the Tupupuy Indians from February 1817, he wrote that as Spanish rule had ended and the “Patria was free,” they ought to be the first to enjoy its privileges and rights. He added that he regarded them as brothers and that as such they had the same rights as all citizens, but that to earn them they had to contribute in the same way as all the others. Although Piar promised that he would reward their services with fair pay and recognition, in this region war offered little more than a way to survive. Guerrilla camps were set up in distant localities where women, children, and the elderly were protected, and while they were temporarily settled, men would leave to carry out specific attacks. Morillo described the guerrillas as barbarians, equating the camps with the shelters built by the enslaved who ran away during the colonial period. It was precisely at this time that military campaigns devolved into irregular warfare, becoming even more entrenched and brutal than it had been before. Poverty and instability characterized the precarious situation in which soldiers fought for independence as war began to encompass every aspect of life. Most guerrillas operated outside of urban areas, no longer bound to a specific government and with few ties to the land. Upon his return to Venezuela, Bolívar sought to bring such people under his command, and he issued a proclamation urging Venezuelans to elect a Congress and create a government. But even as he explained that “they would have destroyed tyrants in vain” if order were not to be re-established, he also appealed to his authority as a military leader, a general of the armed forces who ought to be respected within the context of a hierarchical society. To ensure guerrilla commanders backed him, he appointed them as generals in his army. He recognized that without their support, any attempt to defeat the loyalists would be impossible. Despite this outreach, a rift emerged between the guerrillas who had honed an irregular war strategy and the army officers who returned from exile with a mix of foreign troops, many of them Haitian, and local recruits. Bolívar landed in Barcelona in January 1817 with 400 men and attempted a direct attack on Caracas from the base he established in this eastern coastal city. He recruited local Indigenous people, some having only bows and arrows with which to fight. But Morillo was prepared for his arrival. Finding it impossible to advance, and with no support from the caudillos, Bolívar changed his strategy and joined Piar in Guyana even further to the east. Piar had managed to put together a disciplined infantry which he used to take control of the Orinoco basin. This allowed him to move freely across a vast area, following Boves’ successful strategy to retake Venezuela from independence forces. As things stood, it was not clear if all the factions would recognize the Liberator as their leader. In the western llanos, Páez remained in charge but incommunicado, while in the eastern territories Piar held the upper hand. Colonial authorities, who prioritized the politics of race, considered this African-descended leader to be the greatest threat, as loyalists were convinced that he was the reason for the alliance with Pétion. Such was their concern over a possible race war that Morillo relocated from Bogotá back to Caracas to address the situation. Their fears were well-founded, for evidence indicated that racial violence

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could break out. In one case, an enslaved man named José Echenagucia publicly called for a Haitian-inspired revolution and to kill all the whites. He was tried in Puerto Cabello in June 1817 for shouting, “shit whites should be treated just like the black Frenchmen in Santo Domingo had done.” Even though he denied having said that, several witnesses testified against him, and he was found guilty of using subversive language. He was sentenced to receive 200 lashes but was saved by his owner, who testified he was a drunkard who did not know the impact his words could have. Meanwhile the vast swamplands of the Orinoco delta, that gave Venezuela its name “little Venice,” proved to be an excellent refuge where rebels could regain their strength. Not only was it impenetrable to all but the most experienced navigators, but it served as a connector both upriver toward the western llanos, where livestock grazed, and downriver to ports. There, cattle could be sold to Sutherland, who remained the insurgency’s biggest financier. The position was also easy to provision with rifles, gunpowder, and uniforms imported from the British Caribbean islands. Piar established his control over Guyana in early 1817 and Bolívar arrived in May, once he was finally convinced that taking Caracas was impossible for the time being. Claiming supreme authority, the Liberator tried to position himself as the leader of the guerrilla forces but faced difficulties convincing the men they should swear their allegiance to him. Out in the western llanos, Páez remained skeptical that Bolívar would be the natural leader of the campaign. Only after weeks of correspondence did the Liberator manage to convince him that his plan to take over Venezuela, using the vast backwater grasslands that extend between Guyana and the viceroyalty of New Granada as a base, was sound. It was much more difficult, however, to achieve the same kind of backing in the Orinoco basin, where several leaders vied for power. Some had very little respect for Bolívar’s credentials. At the start of 1817, Piar managed to dominate the missions surrounding the Caroní River, where farms and ranches produced enough food to sustain an entire army. Spanish-born friars there had previously provided loyalists with horses and supplies while encouraging local Indians to fight against the rebels. When the Libertador arrived at the main camp, Piar was on a merciless campaign to take the city of Angostura, 250 miles upriver. He ignored Bolívar’s command to rein in the violence and instead made a point of killing Spanish prisoners. Some of Piar’s officers had retaliated against the priests by taking 41 men hostage. Seven managed to flee, and 14 died in captivity. Another 20 were executed with machetes and lances and their bodies were burned. When reprimanded, the officers claimed to have misunderstood Bolívar’s orders. He condemned the actions, which he considered savage, but tried to appease Piar by appointing him a full general.

Threats of Race War Piar publicly accepted the promotion and swore loyalty to Bolívar but remained suspicious of his intentions. As Marie Arana points out, in contrast to other

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leaders in this campaign, he did not have any natural constituency in Venezuela. The son of a merchant marine and a biracial woman, he was born in Dutch Curaçao, even though some contemporary rumors linked him to Portuguese nobility. An ambitious man, who took advantage of his light complexion and blue eyes, he did not have any formal education. However, he spoke Dutch, Spanish, and French, as well as a number of languages used by the Africandescended population of the region, including Papiamento, Patois, and Guyanese, a talent which helps explain his popular appeal. He distrusted Bolívar and the Creole Caracas elite and supposedly plotted with Pétion to take over Spanish America. According to the testimony of Juan Francisco Sánchez, who visited him in his camp in Cumaná, Piar claimed to have risen in the ranks because of his ability with the sword and due to his good fortune, bemoaning the fact that, he believed, he would never be allowed to govern because he was a pardo. He therefore imagined that the only avenue open to him was to build his own army and to free his own people. Piar asked for permission to return to Curaçao to recover from health problems. But, instead of leaving Venezuela, he provoked Bolívar by claiming he had been dismissed from duties because of his race. This behavior angered the Liberator, who issued a warrant for his arrest on July 23, 1817, and dispatched a party to find him. Concerned that his decision would be controversial, Bolívar issued a proclamation explaining his actions. He accused Piar of attempting to destroy “society, government and the patria” by ending the “equality, liberty and independence” that had been achieved through so much effort. Leveling various charges of insubordination, Bolívar claimed that Piar threatened to set the races against each other. He went on to assert that in fact white elites had gone against their self-interest by decreeing equality and the abolition of slavery. In contrast, the Liberator described Piar’s project as a race war, coining the term pardocracia to refer to the intended extermination of whites by pardos. He was determined, however, to underscore his continued intention to abolish slavery and bring equality to those of African descent. As discussed in Chapter 2, white elites like Bolívar could celebrate men like Pétion while working to erase other people of color from the historical record. They tended to reduce their importance and emphasize that the true protagonists of the wars were Creoles. Bolívar plainly had this in mind when he asked, in his 1817 manifesto to the Venezuelan people, “Who are the authors of this revolution? Are they not the whites, the wealthy, the aristocracy?” His language echoed that of Napoleon when he stated: “I am for the whites because I am white” in reference to his project to reinstate slavery in Haiti. Bolívar could not imagine the idea that history might highlight the agency of Black men and women as well as pardos and Indians who served alongside whites in every role imaginable, from positions of leadership in city governments to the officer corps and the rank and file of the military. Therefore, he disposed of men like Piar, making an example of him, and in the process preserved white privilege and his own leadership.

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Following his arrest, Piar was taken to Angostura, the city he recently had captured after an 18-month siege. The assembled war council accused the general who continued to protest his innocence. Several of Piar’s closest associates oversaw the charges against him, but the jury was composed of white officers who found him guilty of all counts, including insubordination, sedition, and desertion. Although sentenced to death, Piar remained defiant, expecting to have it commuted at the last minute. When he finally realized this was to be his end, Piar refused to have his eyes covered. On the third attempt to shoot him, it was reported that he flung his cape open and cried “long live the patria” as the bullets tore into his chest. The next day, perhaps seeking to calm tensions, Bolívar informed Black soldiers that slaves were free and that all were citizens with equal rights, but he could not excuse Piar’s conduct. Even though he had been a brave officer who led them to many triumphs, he had also sown discord and division and was a liability to the liberation project. Threats of civil war and anarchy, Bolívar argued, were too dangerous to tolerate. Even though Piar was not the only insubordinate general, he was the only one to receive capital punishment; all the other insubordinate officers were white. Bolívar claimed that what he could not tolerate was Piar’s instigation of a race war. It is more likely that the kind of rebelliousness shown by the man from Curaçao was even more dangerous than simply challenging the Liberator’s leadership. Piar’s positionality called into question the whole idea of an independence movement led by Creoles who claimed they had to fight because they had been “enslaved” by the people from the peninsula. Getting rid of Piar, however, sent a clear message to all the other leaders, because it revealed Bolívar’s ruthlessness and determination. This helped him to consolidate control and allowed for the transformation of the caudillo armies that roamed the prairies as irregulars into a more traditional force with rules and a hierarchy that was respected. To achieve this, he introduced court martial procedures that provided for punishment of those who disobeyed their commanders. His new regulations also allowed for the creation of a “sequestration tribunal,” a special office in charge of confiscating property from the enemy that would ensure the process did not descend into bounty hunting. And even though, according to Lynch, he failed to create the centralized army he envisioned, his efforts did result in an important level of integration and organization that allowed his forces to campaign in a more effective manner. The insurgents continued to consist of regional forces with strong roots to their local communities rather than the professional army he worked so hard to build. But, by bringing together the different guerrillas, the llaneros, and even the bandits who joined, Bolívar managed to put together an infantry and a cavalry that could travel far and wide. Much of Bolívar’s success after 1816 was due to the attention he paid to managing his army. He looked into every detail, including training and provisioning, and he aimed to use the resources he had in the most efficient manner possible. He also received a boost from the volunteers who came from England and Ireland. More than 7000 served, including officers who had experienced the

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Napoleonic Wars and now found themselves unemployed and short of opportunities. Others were mercenaries eager for any military employment they could get, and a good number were young men, with few prospects and a thirst for adventure, who had been recruited by agents. The British government officially proclaimed neutrality but did little to stop the private movement of people, armaments, and munitions that steadily flowed to South America. In addition, Bolívar maintained good relations with merchants, such as Sutherland, who had supported him since his days in Haiti. He understood it was best not to make too much of British backing, as it could lead to diplomatic trouble. Matthew Brown has written extensively about the foreigners who contributed to the war effort and the post-1816 military campaigns in South America. Although many died of tropical diseases early on, those who continued to fight did have a positive impact on Bolívar’s army. Many remained loyal to him, and some became his closest generals. Since they did not follow any rival leader or draw on a local power base, they also were not considered a threat to his power. In fact, some of these members of the British Legion roundly criticized Páez, the other prominent caudillo in the western llanos. They wrote that he was an uncultivated man who did not know how to read or write or even how to eat with a knife and fork. Even though he could “pass as white,” because he was the son of impoverished immigrants from the Canary Islands, they disparaged him for living among “half-breeds” deep in the backlands. Páez had sought refuge far from the coastal cities after killing a man in self-defense. There he rose through the social ranks to become an influential landowner. When total war reached the llanos, his charisma and personal qualities facilitated his ascendancy. When he and Bolívar finally met, both men realized they needed each other to succeed. Even though they could have not been more different in temperament and upbringing, they shared a drive to win at any cost. When they first spoke on the banks of the Apure River, Bolívar needed help moving his more than three thousand men (infantry and cavalry) to the other side. When he explained his predicament, Páez instructed his men to seize the Spanish boats on the river. The llaneros simply rode into the water holding their lances in their teeth, paying no attention to the crocodiles or the bullets being fired and continued until they controlled all 14 boats. The British officers who witnessed this could not believe their eyes. They also marvelled at how Bolívar managed to gain the llaneros’ trust by challenging them to swimming competitions. In fact, despite their differences, the common goals shared by Bolívar and Páez were more than enough to sustain their partnership and set aside any fears of racial unrest Bolívar may have had.

From Angostura to the Republic of Colombia Bolívar and Páez complemented each other. Throughout 1818, they devoted all their energy to taking Caracas, but they failed to threaten Morillo who held on to the city thanks to the protection the high Andean range provided. After

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several unsuccessful attempts to recapture Caracas, the leaders fighting for independence accepted the failure of their military strategy. Convinced that the best course of action was to regroup in Angostura, on the banks of the Orinoco River, Bolívar returned to open the second Venezuelan congress, in which 26 elected representatives from freed territories met to discuss a new constitution in February 1819. Bolívar’s opening address is one of his best-known speeches, and it reportedly moved those in the audience to tears. He promised to implement a democratic system, vowing first and foremost to be a citizen in a republic of equals. He argued against a federal system, emphasizing that it had failed during the period of Venezuela’s First Republic. He noted the deep differences between Spanish America and the United States, which had served as an inspiration. Quoting Montesquieu and Rousseau, Bolívar claimed that laws had to represent the realities of the country in which they would be applied. The fact that these were multi-ethnic societies had to be taken into consideration when writing constitutions in South America, as it was not about the best system being adopted, but the one most suited to their reality (see Chapter 5 for more on this). Throughout the second half of 1818, while he tried to take Caracas, Bolívar tasked General Francisco de Paula Santander with continuing the fight along the border with New Granada, as this grasslands region seemed to be more vulnerable once Morillo relocated his army to Venezuela.1 Santander was from a small town near the frontier that separated New Granada and Venezuela, not far from the city of Cúcuta. Santander came from a well-connected Creole family, and his father had been a local governor and cacao cultivator. As a member of the elite with training as a lawyer in Bogotá, he joined the revolutionary cause in 1810. He participated in all the campaigns and oversaw the retreat into Venezuela after Morillo’s reconquest. Having fought with Bolívar in the “Admirable Campaign,” he joined him in the 1818 attempt to capture Caracas. But as this strategy failed to demonstrate results, Bolívar sent Santander back to the border to put together an army that could serve as the basis for a larger incursion. Páez retained full control of the llanos by masterfully deploying guerrilla tactics, but despite his victories, it was clear to him that keeping the enemy out of the area he controlled was insufficient. As the rainy season approached, Bolívar proposed changing the battlefront to New Granada as the grasslands were about to become immense swamps, making food scarce and illnesses such as malaria and yellow fever rampant. He first confided in Páez and Santander. As his closest associates, they understood the risks of attempting to cross the Andes during the rainy season. He then shared his idea with the rest of his officers at a war council. Although a consensus was reached, Páez began to doubt that his horsemen would be able to survive and perform in the mountainous terrain. Unable to convince him otherwise, Bolívar relented and agreed that Páez and most of his men would head to Cúcuta via the plains and prevent the loyalists from sending reinforcements to New Granada.

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Although Morillo could guess Bolívar’s destination, he certainly did not imagine he would choose to cross the savannahs during the rainy season just as they began flooding. Neither did he anticipate that Bolívar would cross the Andes, at their steepest point, in July, when passes turn icy and snow falls constantly. Travel across the Páramo de Pisba, a bleak plain perched at an elevation of over ten thousand feet, was extremely punishing, and many men did not make it through, collapsing from hunger and exhaustion. Some of the llaneros sent by Páez decided to turn back when they saw their horses were unable to cope. Many women, who tended to the fires, the camps, and the food, made the dangerous crossing alongside the men. They also served as nurses and medics, looking after the wounded and the infirm. Famously, on the night of July 3, 1819, one of these women, the mistress or wife of one of the soldiers, gave birth in the middle of the crossing, strapping the newborn to her back to continue the march under relentless rain the next day. Only three days after the birth, the exhausted troops reached the other side, where they were received by a jubilant local population. Bolívar chose such a difficult path because he knew the loyalists were not expecting it. The surprise proved to be crucial, as his men had time to recuperate before embarking on the campaign to take Bogotá. Bolívar devoted all his attention to ensuring his army was prepared to fight this decisive battle. On his 36th birthday, the 25th of July, after nearly 20 days rehabilitating the men who had just crossed the Andes, he engaged the loyalists in the battle known as the Pantano de Vargas, in swamplands only 120 miles northeast of Bogotá. The llaneros who had successfully crossed made the first charge, followed by the British cavalry, and the battle was won in the midst of intense rainfall. But after the excruciating crossing, this kind of weather no longer fazed the seasoned soldiers who had survived the treacherous trek over the mountains. The battle for the control of Bogotá took place a few days later, on August 7, 1819, near the Bridge of Boyacá (see Figure 4.2). There, Bolívar succeeded in preventing loyalist troops from returning to the capital where they could find reinforcements. His triumph opened the road to the city, and he rode quickly to the capital. Elites in the former viceregal capital received the Liberator with open arms, as by then most of the Spaniards had fled, fearing he would execute them. At this point, though, Bolívar no longer employed the war to the death strategy; he had decided to seek cooperation instead of trying to instill fear. In his official report to the king, Morillo recognized that with one strike the rebels had undone five years of work, noting that whoever controlled Bogotá had the rest of the continent in their hands. Once installed in the viceregal palace, Bolívar hastily organized a ball to celebrate his victory, and a much more ostentatious affair followed more than a month later with a victory parade in which the generals were crowned with a laurel leaf. Bolívar then set out to establish a functioning republican government with a supreme court, provincial governors, ministers, and even a police force. This kind of deskwork tired him quickly, so he appointed Santander to the post of vice president and returned to Venezuela and the battlefield. He stopped at the

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Figure 4.2 “Battle of Boyacá,” 1883 Source: Anon.

border in Cúcuta and, in a proclamation to his soldiers, expressed his ambition to liberate the whole continent. He assured them that their flags soon would be flying over Lima alongside those of their allies to the south, and the battles to come would consolidate absolute independence. Such ambitious plans, however, first required him to free Venezuela and liberate the staunchly loyalist provinces of Popayán, Pasto, and Quito. When he reached Angostura at the end of 1819, nearly a year after departing, he found his generals quarreling and the government in disarray. Instead of engaging in the disputes, he proposed the union of Venezuela and the recently liberated New Granada to create a new republic called Colombia, named in honor of Christopher Columbus.2 He included the Kingdom of Quito, even though he had no control over it, and recognized that much was still needed to bring his dream to fruition. First, he was elected president of the newly created state. The path toward consolidation included a military plan to take the territories still loyal to the crown and a meeting of a new congress in the city of Cúcuta in 1821 (see Chapter 5).

Between Independence and Instability in the Río de la Plata and Chile On the other side of the continent, war also was raging. As discussed in Chapter 3, in the Río de la Plata there was no need to defend against a large expedition of seasoned army veterans arriving from the peninsula. Attempts by the Buenos Aires junta to take over the rich mining provinces of Upper Peru continued to fail, as did their efforts to establish a centralized political entity

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over the lands of what had been the newest viceroyalty on the continent. The proclamation of independence in Tucumán in 1816 did not resolve the issues plaguing the state, including definitions of sovereignty and the resurgence of regionalism. Several strategies for consolidation were pursued simultaneously by a variety of actors. San Martín remained in Cuyo, dedicating himself to strengthening his army, while the congress in Tucumán elected his close ally Juan Martín de Pueyrredón as Supreme Director. His main task was to spearhead the process that the parliamentarians christened, in a decree on August 1, 1816, “the end of revolution and the start of order.” The idea was to quell unrest and put an end to the excesses of the first years of the war. But, a truce with those who advocated regionalism, called the Federalists, did not last, and Portuguese intervention in the Banda Oriental province only increased instability. The complicated nature of the struggle in the Southern Cone was underscored by the January 1817 decision of the Rio de Janeiro government to send 10,000 men over the border to take Montevideo. In the name of the restored king of Spain, they subsequently created the Cisplatine province, thereby challenging the declaration of independence in Tucumán. The intervention was also the culmination of a longstanding desire of the Portuguese in Brazil to have access to the Río de la Plata. At the same time, San Martín devoted all his energy to building up a resilient fighting force in a different region—in the foothills of the Andes—where the city of Mendoza served as his base camp. From there, he was able to bring together local men, exiled Chileans, and the porteños that had accompanied him. As Alejandro Rabinovich has shown, the choice to redirect all tax income into the financing of this fighting force made the project viable. This meant bringing together not only the tithe and the sales tax known as the alcabala, but also raising money through private loans, contributions, land sales, and lotteries. In fact, the whole provincial economy became focused on developing and supporting the army. Cattle was raised specifically for this purpose, while mules and horses were trained for military service. As Juan Luis Ossa has explained, San Martín built a gunpowder factory at the camp known as el Plumerillo, where sulphur, silver, copper, and lead were used to manufacture ammunition. He appointed an English physician as surgeon general and even hired an engineer to build a water-powered mill. This in turn allowed workshops to churn out uniforms, boots, and all kinds of leather goods to outfit the battalions. To recruit the more than 4000 men who served in his army, San Martín employed all kinds of strategies. He encouraged volunteers, implemented a system of conscription that used ballots, and even began a forced draft. Months of training and much attention to detail meant that by early 1817, he had the most professional army the region had ever seen. Many of his lieutenants were trained officers, including veterans of the Peninsular and Napoleonic Wars who had sought their fortune in America. Others, like San Martín, initially had fought for the king but changed sides, and a good number had been members of the colonial militias both in Chile and in several provinces of the Río de la Plata. There were all kinds of men among those serving, from slaves recruited

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in Buenos Aires, for whom freedom was offered in exchange for service, Chilean émigrés who had crossed the border with Bernardo O’Higgins after their defeat at the Battle of Rancagua, to local men from the province of Cuyo. According to Peter Blanchard, San Martín aimed to recruit 10,000 slaves for his army. Some 5000 enslaved men from Buenos Aires joined, while 2600 came from Córdoba, nearly 2000 from Cuyo, and 1000 from the rest of the provinces. In the end, however, he had to make do with fewer troops, because those who were local ultimately had to work the fields and produce foodstuffs and wine (1554 enslaved men actually served). Similarly, though urban slaves tended to be easier to recruit, many abandoned their positions, as they were not used to the harsher aspects of army life. The promise of freedom in exchange for military service generally has been considered an option unique to men. Yet records indicate that women used the same mechanism to achieve their freedom as well. In October 1816, María de la Peña sent an application to the porteño authorities in which she described herself as a “black slave” and wife of Juan Soto, a soldier in battalion number six (see Appendix: Document 4). She asked for her freedom because her husband had not received his salary in almost two years and, at 6 pesos a month, the total amounted to 126 pesos in arrears. Peña expected her owner, Chilean military leader Bernardo O’Higgins, to accept the money as payment for the 154 pesos she was worth, giving her the opportunity to pay the 28 still outstanding in the near future. Although the resolution of her case was not included in the original documentation, ten months later she wrote again. By this time, 180 pesos were owed to her husband, and she had been sold to a new owner. She therefore asked the government to pay for her freedom with the money her husband was due, a request that ultimately was granted. This case shows how the enslaved instrumentalized their participation in the wars of independence, and that the government of Buenos Aires was convinced that it needed to honor its promises of freedom to those who used legal channels. Chilean émigrés were the backbone of the army, and San Martín favored the faction led by O’Higgins that had arrived after defeat by the loyalists at the Battle of Rancagua. In one of his letters, he noted that at least 600 slaves served under the command of the Chilean general. Even though Chilean officers led several battalions, none of them served independently under the Chilean flag, and the force was still called the “united army.” Chileans performed another very important role as spies, providing San Martín with very detailed intelligence of what was happening on the other side of the cordillera. This information was crucial as he formulated his plan to enter Chilean territory. Propaganda was also critical to the campaign, because San Martín wanted to ensure he had as much support as possible from the local population. Indigenous leaders were fundamental to the process that included providing loyalists with false information about the most likely route for a rebel crossing of the Andes Mountains. On January 12, 1817, after nearly two years of preparation, San Martín decided his forces would strike as soon as the snow melted in the high Andean passes separating Cuyo from the Chilean central valley on the other side of the

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mountains.3 He chose the area with the highest peaks, making the crossing particularly treacherous, but much less obvious to the enemy. Despite all of the precautions that had been taken, some of the men froze to death in the sub-zero temperatures of the night. Nearly 3800 men did make it into Chile, carrying everything they needed, including 22 portable cannons and ammunition. To survive the punishing marches at high altitude, soldiers ate jerked beef, fresh onion, garlic, and corn biscuits, drinking wine and brandy. They crossed with around 10,000 mules and 1600 horses as well as at least 600 cows that followed on foot and were eaten throughout the journey. As with all the armies of the period, the men did not come alone and were accompanied by women who took charge of the camps. They cooked, found food, and transported provisions, among other duties. The crossing took a little less than a month. As the first men began descending from the mountains on February 9, it was clear they had succeeded in surprising the loyalists, and the entire force made its way to the valley adjacent to the capital undetected. On February 12, 1817, the armies met at the Battle of Chacabuco, a resounding victory for San Martín and the men who had so recently crossed the Andes. This allowed them to take Santiago, the main city in the region, quickly. To gain the elites’ support, San Martín placed O’Higgins in charge with the post of Supreme Director. O’Higgins immediately set up a Chilean army and wrote to his counterpart in Buenos Aires, Juan Martín de Pueyrredón, thanking him for the support in the campaign for independence and promising to take the fight to Peru soon. While a policy of punishing those who had sided with the loyalists was pursued in Santiago, San Martín returned to Buenos Aires. O’Higgins then traveled south with an army to fight those who continued to support the king. At this point, the war took a turn toward more extreme violence with calls for a “war to the death” like the one that had taken place in Venezuela. As Juan Luis Ossa and Joanna Crow have shown, it was after San Martín’s arrival on the western side of the Andes that Indigenous combatants took a more active part in the conflict. Most sided with the loyalists and participated in the so-called montoneras, militias that essentially waged guerrilla warfare against independence forces and participated in campaigns such as the siege of Concepción alongside Spanish soldiers. The viceroy in Peru sent a loyalist expedition from Lima in December 1817 and fighting began as soon as the troops arrived south of Santiago. Battles intensified as they got closer to the central valley in the year after Chile formally declared independence in January 1818. By March, those fighting for independence had managed to assemble a force of more than 6000 men. Although they only controlled the central valley and some of the provinces to the north, they were convinced that they would prevail. The Battle of Cancha Rayada, exactly one year after Chacabuco, displayed their weaknesses, however, as three hundred men were killed, and O’Higgins ended up wounded. Despite this setback, the loyalists did not push their advantage. Instead, they fell into a trap set by San Martín and lost a battle on an open plain east of the capital. Here, at Maipú, on April 5, 1818, both sides fielded some 4500 men, but

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those fighting for independence emerged victorious. In the battle’s aftermath, though, they still only managed to control the territory surrounding the central valley where Santiago and Valparaíso are located, while the south, in particular the city of Valdivia and the island of Chiloé, remained staunchly loyal to the king. This did not diminish the revolutionaries’ most important success as they had defeated the forces sent by the viceroy in Lima. In fact, this would be the last expedition the beleaguered viceroy sent, because from this point forward he had to look after the defense of Peru. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Andes, the government in Buenos Aires was unable to provide resources, as their central authority was continuously contested by restive provinces.

Monarchies or Republics? After successfully taking control of Montevideo, the Brazilian government appeared to be ascendant. Just as the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves was in the process of consolidation, however, a revolt broke out in the northern province of Pernambuco in March 1817. Military officers and merchants with connections in London, all members of Masonic lodges, conspired under the slogan “Religion, Patria and Liberty,” aiming to establish a republic. The troops followed the instructions set out by their commanders, and the elites of the city even joined in, creating a provisional government. One of their first actions was to abolish caste distinctions, although slavery was maintained. Soon the neighboring regions of Alagoas, Ceará, Paraíba, and Rio Grande do Norte also declared for independence and the republic, complicating matters for the Rio de Janeiro regime. King João VI reacted immediately and sent a powerful army that in just over two months put down the uprising, arresting more than 200 men, executing 20, and dismembering their bodies. By February of 1818, celebrations were in order in the capital of the only successful monarchy in the Americas, as a full decade had passed since the court had relocated from Lisbon. Everything seemed to be going well for the king, although the relationship between the former colony and the metropole began to be strained. In Portugal, many resented the fact that the court continued to reside on the other side of the Atlantic. In the northern provinces of Brazil, regional sentiment and republican ambitions had not completely disappeared, while in the south the guerrillas led by José Gervasio Artigas in the areas surrounding Montevideo kept the Brazilian-led government under constant threat. Rio de Janeiro continued its domination because, as Jeremy Adelman has shown, the economy flourished and merchants consolidated their control over the slave trade. The years of French occupation of Portugal, followed by British campaigns to eradicate the transatlantic trade in human beings, had made Brazilians more competitive in the transport and sale of slaves. As the trade came to center on the port of Rio, rival coastal cities lost revenue. According to Adelman, there were two main consequences. On the one hand, this meant that the Portuguese could no longer compete. But, on the other, as Rio became more powerful, internal differences within Brazil grew. The cost of war in the

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Cisplatine province and in Pernambuco was steep, and the confrontations both in the north and the south impacted the empire’s finances. This was acutely felt back in Portugal and set the scene for a showdown between the new central government in Rio and what had become the periphery in Lisbon, as the latter aimed to reclaim its position. Although at this moment the only monarchy in South America was in Brazil, both Pueyrredón and San Martín were convinced that installing a king to govern the Río de la Plata was the best course of action. Though they were not successful in pushing this agenda forward, in 1817, both supported a truce with the Brazilian forces invading Montevideo. The federalist caudillo Artigas continued to wage war against them, going as far as to request support from the Francia regime. He was rebuffed, due in part to Paraguayan isolationist policies, and his letter remained unanswered. Finding it close to impossible to continue the fight, Artigas called for a plebiscite that asked residents of towns and cities to affirm his policy. The popular support it provided gave him the legitimacy he needed to declare war on the United Kingdom of Portugal and Brazil. Pueyrredón took into consideration the long-standing rivalry between Buenos Aires and the leader of the Federal League and acknowledged the right of the invaders to pursue Artigas, accepting their de facto control over the Banda Oriental. The Portuguese in Brazil, including King João VI, claimed they had intervened to fight against insurgents in a territory that was of crucial strategic importance. Across the Atlantic in Spain, the monarchy prepared a major expedition of some 20,000 men to sail to the Río de la Plata to extinguish autonomist and independence-minded governments that had been installed in the years since 1810. The confrontation in the Río de la Plata between the government of Buenos Aires and the leaders of the Federalist provinces came to a head in 1819 when a full-blown civil war erupted (for more on these political divisions and their aftermath, see Chapter 5). San Martín was called to intervene, as he had the most powerful army, divided though it was between men who were in Chile and those who were back at Mendoza. San Martín, however, was completely dedicated to developing the fighting force to take on Peru. He had convinced the newly created Chilean republic to invest in building a navy led by British officers. He crossed the Andes in search of funds, but in the Río de la Plata, he only found division and competition between factions. As Rabinovich has shown, he refused to be sucked into the conflict and returned to Chile. San Martín was aware he would be judged harshly for not committing to help the central government in Buenos Aires, but he was convinced that efforts in the Río de la Plata would be fruitless. Furthermore, he believed that if he did not begin the campaign in Peru, the whole independence process would unravel. In early 1820, the central government in Buenos Aires fell, and San Martín’s army no longer depended on a nominal national government. To remain legitimate, the general called upon his men to choose their leader, just as troops had done during the French Revolution. Once elected, he felt that he had the legitimacy to continue as the leader of the Army of the Andes, even if it was no longer dependent on a specific territory or state. Shortly after the constitutional republic

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came to an end in Buenos Aires, the expedition that was being put together in Cádiz to sail to the Río de la Plata rebelled and forced the return of the 1812 Constitution. This was a very important turning point in the struggle for autonomy and independence, as it meant that the loyalists in America would have to fend for themselves, and the expected 20,000 men were no longer going to arrive. The newly created Chilean navy began a blockade of coastal Peru at the start of 1819, and by the end of the year Bolívar had created the republic of Gran Colombia in Angostura, clearly establishing the lines where the final battles would take place. San Martín pressed on to Peru, launching an ambitious amphibious attack in August 1820. Without the support of the warring provinces of the Río de la Plata, his expedition was made up of just some 4000 men, while the loyalists had around 10,000 professionally trained troops. This meant that San Martín had to rely on support from local forces once he arrived in Peru. During the 1819 blockade, many slaves joined his cause, most expecting to gain freedom after fighting for independence. Some members of the Lima elite, such as Creole nobleman José de la Riva Agüero, had been in contact with San Martín and were convinced that political separation was the best possible course of action. Unfortunately for these partisans of independence, there was nowhere near the kind of backing the cause had received from the exiled Chileans when San Martín prepared his campaign in Cuyo. The expedition arrived south of Lima in September 1820, just days after the Cádiz Constitution was sworn in for a second time. Following on the instructions sent by the liberal government in Spain, the viceroy organized talks with the representatives of the recently arrived expedition. But no agreement could be reached as there was no way the rebels would accept the king and the Constitution, just as the viceroy was not going to acknowledge the invaders as part of a new sovereign nation. In the campaign that ensued, San Martín employed a pincer movement, sending one of his most trusted generals to cross the Andes and declare independence in all the cities and towns he visited while he traveled north of Lima to pressure the viceregal government. This distraction worked, and by December 1820, the mining city of Cerro de Pasco had been taken in battle and the north of Peru had declared for independence. In addition, loyalists had no control over the Pacific coasts, because the most important ships in their fleet had been taken. Desperation among the loyalist officers led those who had arrived after the peninsular wars to depose the viceroy in a move similar to the one used in Spain to bring back the constitution in 1820 (see Chapter 5). So, in January 1821, army officers chose a new interim viceroy, and his first act was to call for talks with San Martín. During this second round of conversations, the impasse remained. San Martín was adamant that he could not swear allegiance to the Cádiz Constitution, in spite of advocating very strongly that Peru should become a monarchy. After weeks of negotiations that did not reach any conclusion, the loyalists abandoned Lima. Elites were so worried by African-descendants and Indigenous people attacking them that they begged San Martín to take control of the city. Independence was swiftly declared by the municipal authorities in the capital,

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and on July 28, 1821 a formal ceremony took place. As Pablo Ortemberg has documented, the way this was carried out was by following the colonial script for the celebration and legitimation of monarchical power. Four small stages were erected in the main plazas of the city, from which the general repeated the same words that declared Peru to be free and independent from that moment onward. A formal Te Deum mass followed, and then all the corporations had to swear allegiance to the new authorities. In the evening formal balls were organized in the main viceregal palace, while the common people celebrated in the streets as fireworks illuminated the skies. In spite of the ceremonial declarations and the public celebrations, Peru was not independent yet, as only the north of the country and the capital recognized the new status quo, while the Andean valleys and all of the south were still part of the Hispanic monarchy. The new viceroy elevated the city of Cuzco to the status of viceregal capital and continued in control of a vast area that he governed under the auspices of the Cádiz Constitution. San Martín fashioned himself as the “Protector” in what was in reality a thinly disguised military dictatorship. He had taken all the power to govern the newly liberated region, leaving only the judiciary as an independent body. From this position, he tried to push for a monarchy to be implemented in Peru and created a Patriotic Society to debate the style of government most suited to the culture of the diverse inhabitants. This debating society in fact reached the opposite conclusion and strongly advocated for Peru to become a republic. In any case it was a moot point as the country was still not independent, and San Martín did not have a large enough army to achieve a military victory in the Andes (for more, see Chapter 5). Unable to defeat the loyalists in the Andes and in southern Peru, San Martín reached out to Bolívar, who on June 24, 1821, had belatedly taken Caracas at the second battle of Carabobo. Like San Martín, he had negotiated with Morillo for most of 1820, using the time to recover and ensure his army was prepared for the final battle. Bolívar did manage to achieve an armistice with the loyalists and got the Spanish general to leave America. In early 1821, a rebellion near Maracaibo disrupted the peaceful arrangement, and the few loyalists who remained were cornered in Caracas and finally defeated. Páez played a crucial role in the battle. As a reward, Bolívar appointed him vice president of Venezuela, and he traveled to Cúcuta where he was appointed president of Gran Colombia. In his acceptance speech, Bolívar claimed that his only ambition was to be a citizen like all others. And because he was a soldier, he needed to go off and complete what he viewed as wars of liberation in southern Colombia, Quito, and Peru. By 1820 and 1821, the worst of the war had come to an end, although certain areas remained under the control of loyalists. Different options for government were tried, and some, like San Martín, still thought it possible to create monarchies in the Americas. Bolívar believed republics were the only option, even if this included life-long presidencies like the one implemented in Haiti. Both men had proved themselves excellent tacticians, defeating the loyalists by attempting impossibly difficult Andean crossings and engaging in battles they controlled

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and ultimately won. They both had the ambition to free the continent from what they viewed as colonial shackles, and they were dedicated to creating efficient militarized forces. The circumstances in which they fought were different, but they agreed on the importance of ensuring that the whole continent would become independent. Across the distinct regions of South America, hundreds of thousands of people experienced total war between 1815 and 1820. By the start of the next decade, only the two largest and oldest Spanish viceroyalties remained loyal, while republics had been established in Chile (1818) and Colombia (1819). As an ephemeral constitutional experiment fell apart in the Río de la Plata (1820), a new liberal government would be established in Portugal, modeled on that of constitutional Spain, that had dramatic consequences for the monarchy still seated in Brazil.

Notes 1 The 2013 Spanish-Venezuelan Bolívar biopic Libertador, mentioned in Chapter 2, is quite a hagiographic portrayal of the hero. While it glosses over much of his career, the film pays attention to his relationship with Santander as well as the crossing of the Andes and the final battles to take Bogotá. 2 Historians now call this Gran Colombia to ensure people know it is different from the present-day Republic of Colombia, but for Bolívar and his contemporaries, it was simply Colombia. 3 The 2010 film Revolución: el cruce de los Andes recreates the larger-than-life exploits of San Martín through the eyes of a former soldier reminiscing about the 1817 campaign years later in 1880.

Further Reading Bethell, Leslie. Brazil: Empire and Republic, 1822–1930. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Bierck, Jr., Harold A., Ed. Selected Writings of Bolivar. Vol. 1. Trans. Lewis Bertrand. New York: The Colonial Press Inc., 1951. Blanchard, Peter. Under the Flags of Freedom: Slave Soldiers & the Wars of Independence in Spanish South America. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008. Fischer, Sibylle. “Bolívar in Haiti: Republicanism in the Revolutionary Atlantic,” in Haiti and the Americas, ed. Carla Calargé, Raphael Dalleo, Luis Duno-Gottberg, and Clevis Headley, 25–53. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 2013. Frasquet, Ivana and Andréa Slemian, Eds. De las independencias iberoamericanas a los estados nacionales (1810–1850): 200 años de historia. Madrid: Iberoamericana, 2009. Frega, Ana. “Proyectos políticos y faccionalismo militar. Ecos de la crisis de la Monarquía Portuguesa en Montevideo, 1820–1824,” in “Dossier: Facciones y grupos políticos en la Hispanoamérica del siglo XIX,” ed. Ignacio Zubizarreta and Mario Etchechury-Barrera, Islas e Imperios no. 17 (2014): 57–91. Gaffield, Julia. “Complexities of Imagining Haiti: A Study of National Constitutions, 1801–1807.” Journal of Social History 41, no. 1 (2007): 81–103. Lynch, John. San Martín. Argentine Soldier, American Hero. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009.

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Martínez Peria, Juan Francisco. ¡Libertad o muerte! Historia de la Revolución Haitiana. Buenos Aires: Ediciones CCC, 2012. Mosher, Jeffrey C. Political Struggle, Ideology, and State Building: Pernambuco and the Construction of Brazil 1817–1850. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2008. Ortemberg, Pablo. Rituales de poder en Lima (1735–1828) De la monarquía a la república. Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2014. Ossa Santa Cruz, Juan Luis. Armies, Politics and Revolution: Chile, 1808–1826. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2014a. Ossa Santa Cruz, Juan Luis. “The Army of the Andes: Chilean and Rioplatense Politics in an Age of Military Organisation, 1814–1817.” Journal of Latin American Studies 46, no. 1 (2014b): 29–58. Rabinovich, Alejandro. “La máquina de la guerra y el Estado: el Ejército de los Andes tras la caída del Estado central del Río de la Plata en 1820,” in Las fuerzas de guerra en la construcción del estado en América Latina, siglo XIX, ed. Juan Carlos Garavaglia, Juan Pro Ruiz, and Eduardo Zimmermann, 205–241. Rosario: Prohistoria, 2012. Ternavasio, Marcela. Los juegos de la política. Las independencias hispanoamericanas frente a la contrarevolución. Buenos Aires/Zaragoza: Siglo XXI/Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza, 2021.

5

Loyalism, Monarchy, and Constitutionalism in America

In Havana, Cuba, in 1820, festivities, music, and a parade accompanied the reinstatement of the Constitution of 1812 that had been rescinded by royal fiat in 1814. According to witnesses, crowds of Black and biracial Cubans with bouquets of flowers and paper lanterns sang and swayed to the beat of drums, shouting at passers-by “Long live the King.” Similar ceremonies welcomed the reintroduction of liberal government in April and May in Santiago on the eastern end of the island. Yet elites in the Caribbean capital expressed reservations about the political consequences of constitutionalism and soon clamped down on both print media and public discussions of the document. This typified responses to Hispanic liberalism, as reactionary pronouncements and dire warnings tended to accompany celebrations of what might be termed loyalism across the Spanish Atlantic world in 1820. What had happened to bring back an age of constitutionalism and to revive such vitriolic debates over liberty and equality? In Cádiz, in early January, Generals Antonio Quiroga and Rafael del Riego issued a pronunciamiento, or proclamation, ushering in the 1812 charter and a period of liberal rule now known as the Trienio liberal (1820–23). Rather than ship out to the Río de la Plata to put down American separatists, troops under their command proclaimed allegiance to the Constitution and freedom from absolute rule. The next evening, a procession wound through the streets of the Andalusian port city, and residents placed a portrait of Riego on an illuminated plaque dedicated to the work of the Cortes. Songs and vivas to the nation rang through the night. After a month-long battle against royalist forces, Riego emerged unscathed and successfully sought to win over more supporters by promising tax cuts and other popular reforms. By March 1820, King Ferdinand had acquiesced to resurrecting a constitutional monarchy and implored armed rebels on the other side of the Atlantic to end all hostilities. Liberals in Madrid called on all Americans to adopt the Constitution and to begin a process of reconciliation with the peninsula. Would this moment transform struggles for independence in the Spanish and Portuguese empires? These dramatic political changes had profound effects on the mainland territories of Spanish and Portuguese America. In line with a previous amnesty offer from 1817, the Spanish king proposed a general pardon to Americans who had fought against the crown, and thousands of rebel combatants accepted. DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-6

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Spain announced a unilateral ceasefire and the Council of State appointed officials to travel to Chile, New Granada, Peru, the Río de la Plata, and Venezuela for negotiations. In the summer of 1820, commissioners initiated contact with the likes of Simón Bolívar, José Antonio Páez, and the Congress of Angostura (more on this below). In spite of the horrors of the total war that had engulfed so many areas of New Granada, the Spanish sought an armistice and the immediate installation of the Constitution of 1812 as a panacea to ten years of brutal violence. Bolívar delegated the responsibility of negotiating to a group of dignitaries that included Antonio José de Sucre, while he maneuvered his troops into stronger positions and continued to harass Spanish forces. Antonio Nariño clung to the hope that peace might be possible, supposedly saying that “if it were up to him alone, he would that very moment sign his country’s surrender to the king of Spain under the constitutional system.” The diplomats did reach a short-lived accord later that year and even brought the Spanish General Pablo Morillo face to face with Bolívar, where they met and toasted the spread of liberty. Was this a sign that loyalists could reconcile with Americans who fought for principles that were a mirror image of those that many Spaniards also espoused? The Spanish decided not to send anyone to New Spain, convinced that the rebellion there largely had died out. While some insurrectionary bands continued to wage war, the viceroy confidently sent over a thousand copies of the Constitution to cities and towns under his jurisdiction, and five hundred more were distributed across Guatemala. Some historians have stated that loyalist armies simply had defeated the rebels in New Spain: Spain won. Many municipalities took extraordinary steps to implement the revived Constitution and to follow its guidelines in highly symbolic choreographed displays of fidelity to Spain. Leading officials in Mexico City had pledged public oaths of loyalty to the constitutional order, and nearby Puebla rushed to follow suit in early June, holding a ceremony in the cathedral. The next week, elections began under the auspices of parish churches, and new officials soon took vows to “religiously guard the Political Constitution of the Spanish Monarchy.” Shortly thereafter, parts of Guatemala did the same, as residents performed their oaths with pomp and circumstance and Indian communities—for example the regional hub of San Miguel Totonicapán—elected ayuntamientos. By July 1820, a new Cortes had been seated in Madrid and was forced to grapple with some of the issues that had bedeviled its predecessor the previous decade—namely, equal representation. One critic wrote, “It is a sad thing … that America sees their right of representation attacked, reduced to less than onequarter of the total.” American representatives from polities that had not broken away from the monarchy beseeched their colleagues not to pass legislation affecting Spanish America without the participation of at least two-thirds of American deputies, many of whom had not yet arrived (dozens of deputies from New Spain didn’t depart until early 1821, for example). With questions raised about their allegiances, the 78-member American delegation that ultimately served also felt a unique burden to demonstrate their loyalty to Spain rather than

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to their patria chica, or homeland, in the New World. Adding to the tension, liberal legislation, such as the (second) abolition of the Inquisition, the (second) expulsion of the Jesuits, the closure of other religious orders, and the sale of church lands led to growing unrest in the peninsula. As attempts to raise funds and address the deficit, the decisions made perfect sense, but because many interpreted them as attacks on Catholicism and Hispanic identity, they sparked immediate controversy and reaction. Taken together, these measures contributed to a sense of uncertainty about the viability of liberalism in the peninsula and throughout the Americas. Would a liberal constitutional monarchy hold together or fracture permanently? Significantly, constitutionalism spread steadily across the peninsula and the Americas. In August, the Portuguese military garrison in the city of Porto proclaimed their own liberal revolution, modeled on a Spanish template. A newly created junta called for a Cortes to be convoked, and the Lisbon garrison soon declared the Cádiz Constitution to be in effect until a legislative body could convene to compose a charter for Portugal. At the end of August, leaders in Quito published the Constitution of 1812 and implemented its procedures despite unrest in nearby regions. Peruvian Viceroy Joaquín de la Pezuela promulgated the charter in September when he received the official instructions, although he had known of the events in the peninsula since at least May and had begun to prepare for elections under uncertain circumstances. Constitutionalism had its adherents on both sides of the wars that had consumed Spanish America since 1810, and even fervent rebels could proclaim the Constitution of 1812 as a step toward independence from Spain. In both New Granada and Guayaquil (a city in today’s Ecuador) in 1820, officials, including General Morillo, swore to uphold the Cádiz Constitution as the law of the land prior to definitive declarations of independence shortly thereafter (in between, the armistice had been suspended). Yet the return of the Constitution brought to the surface serious rifts between liberal and conservative Spaniards serving in American government and in the armed forces. This led to increased dissatisfaction with manifestations of peninsular rule. What Spain represented now seemed unclear. To make matters worse for loyalists, the uprising of Riego’s troops prevented reinforcements from arriving in South America and New Spain, with negative consequences for the prospect of continued Spanish governance. Of course, as described in previous chapters, independence had been achieved in several South American states. A junta, independent from both the Río de la Plata and Spain, had governed Paraguay for two years before an assembly declared a republic in the fall of 1813, leading to a long-lasting dictatorship by the enigmatic Creole lawyer José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia. A congress in the provincial city of Tucumán (in today’s Argentina) had broken all formal ties to the peninsula and proclaimed the independence of the United Provinces of South America in 1816, promulgating a constitution in 1819 fundamentally influenced by the Cádiz Constitution of 1812. And, in 1818, the army captain Bernardo O’Higgins asserted Chilean sovereignty and independence from the Spanish monarchy, creating a five-member Senate chosen by the executive prior to convening a congress that would write a constitution. However, conflicts

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over land, elections, and power destabilized subsequent regimes in Chile throughout the 1820s. While Chapter 6 explores nations-in-the-making after independence, this chapter dives into the final struggles between loyalists and separatists, many of whom, despite irreconcilable divisions over Spanish sovereignty in the Americas, shared a commitment to constitutionalism.

Constitutionalism in New Spain and New Granada A devout Catholic who had attended theological seminary in Valladolid (Morelia), the Creole Agustín Iturbide had made his way up through the ranks of the military in New Spain. Born the same year as Bolívar to a family with roots in the Basque Country and Navarre, he married Ana María Huarte, the Creole daughter of the district’s intendant and soon began his military service in a Mexico City regiment. By 1820, he had maintained his loyalty to the crown and had retired as a colonel. During a decade of war in his homeland, Iturbide had received praise from his superiors for spearheading the often brutal counterinsurgency campaigns in which he had taken part. At the same time, he had been accused of corruption and numerous transgressions, from false imprisonment of clerics to the abuse of over one hundred women imprisoned without charges. He supposedly burned down haciendas and monopolized trade in key goods. He protested the charges as minor infractions, and during the tumult of late 1820, he dutifully accepted a commission to re-enlist and operate in the south (from Taxco to Acapulco) where rebels continued to maintain strong bases of support. But no clear evidence shows that the Spanish government paid the sum of six thousand pesos that Iturbide had requested to help his family upon departure. A few days after his initial deployment, he penned a prescient letter in which he described the tense political situation in New Spain: “Because of the advantages which it offers, the [Cádiz] Constitution has many true supporters … Some people believe that it will be the means of assuring the permanent union of Spanish America with the Spanish Peninsula.” But, Iturbide added, “Not a few persons love the Constitution because they believe it to be the most certain means by which independence may be attained.” This showed the instrumentality of the charter and the ways in which it could be used by competing forces in the political and social conflicts that had engulfed the Americas, perhaps foreshadowing his own change in thinking. The leadership of the long-running insurgency in New Spain had been placed in the hands of Vicente Guerrero, a former mule driver from a mixed racial background with both Black and Indigenous roots. A combatant from the earliest days of the rebellion, he assumed a dominant role in the years that followed the capture and execution of Morelos in 1815, a period during which the independence movement struggled to survive. But what drove the simmering warfare, and how did combatants choose sides? Did Creole-peninsular rivalries determine the divisions, as an older school of thought maintained? While some recent historians have insisted that local concerns animated the men and women involved in the conflict much more than grand causes or ideologies, other scholars contend

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that regional leaders and peasants more often than not made strategic political demands and engaged in actions designed to bring about fundamental changes. With the embrace of Hispanic constitutionalism in so many parts of New Spain and elsewhere in Spanish America, even diehard rebels began to reconsider their positions and actively discuss the positive aspects of the 1812 charter. Guerrero steadfastly opposed any accommodation with the enemy, however, and refused to even consider a pardon from the Spanish. Like South American revolutionaries, he described the struggle with a simple binary mantra—independence or death. Iturbide did not consistently win the battles he waged in the waning months of 1820, and the frustrated viceroy called on Iturbide to “exterminate” the remaining insurgents. In the middle stood many Creoles, some of whom met at the Mexico City salon of María Ignacia Rodríguez de Velasco and attempted to persuade loyalists (including Iturbide) to push for greater autonomy and ultimately independence. Iturbide, who prioritized his Catholicism over a European or American identity, wanted to moderate the revolution and avoid any potential for more violence. While he may have chafed against discrimination by peninsular Spaniards, only in late 1820 or early 1821 did he make the consequential decision to switch sides and support independence from Spain. His force—perhaps 2500 men—would join those of insurgent commanders to form an imposing contingent that could count on continued desertions from loyalist troops. This Army of the Three Guarantees—Religion, Independence, and Union—swore to defend Catholicism and liberty and vowed to bring a Spanish prince to a newly created Mexican throne. As a whole, Iturbide’s ideology, which found security in traditional institutions like the Church and crown, epitomized the dominant thinking of many of the larger-thanlife figures from this period and reveals the limitations of the democratic promise of these political revolutions. In fact, such positions had widespread appeal and allowed him to build a strong coalition to challenge the vestiges of Spanish power but did not lead to a long-lasting republican government. Instead, he soon would become an emperor. First, Iturbide had to amass popular support for his positions in cities and rural areas that had been racked by a decade of unrest. So he published his so-called Plan of Iguala (named after a small town south of Mexico City) on February 24, 1821 and circulated it widely throughout the viceroyalty. The document, embracing constitutional monarchy rather than republicanism, did not sound like other proclamations of independence from the time, exchanging anti-Spanish rhetoric for a politics of conciliation and Hispanic constitutionalism. In addition, it called for the Cádiz Constitution to remain the provisional law of the land and for King Ferdinand VII to take the throne. In theory, it allowed for ties to be maintained with Spain and paved the way for the elected American deputies to continue their work in Madrid, despite the advent of political independence for Mexico. By way of comparison, the Portuguese followed a similar path, adopting the Hispanic Constitution of 1812 on a temporary basis in 1820. After returning to Portugal in 1821, King João VI swore to defend these new principles and even

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allowed articles of the Cádiz Constitution to circulate in Brazil.1 In this manner, there appeared to be a constitutional path that would reunite Portugal with Brazil and provide the autonomy and equality that the Brazilians now demanded. An elected Cortes of Lisbon wrote and promulgated the Political Constitution of the Portuguese Monarchy a year later. Even with the declaration of Mexican independence, many elected officials held out hope that the Hispanic monarchy would not fracture permanently. In the summer of 1821, two deputies from Mexico, Mariano Michelena and Miguel Ramos Arizpe, put forward a plan that would create three autonomous branches of the Spanish monarchy in the New World, each with its own parliament. The territories would have independent legislative and judiciary branches of government but would help pay down Spain’s debt and would contribute to the navy. The Guatemalan deputy to the Cortes, Juan Estéban Milla, likewise made a sentimental appeal to uphold the fraternal bonds between America and peninsular Spain. He insisted that Americans at present do not think about independence from the Metropole: no, there is nothing to fear. America is convinced and agrees that it is an absolute necessity to be intimately united with the madre Patria: these are their desires … They want the same rights as their peninsular brothers. Some evidence supports Milla’s claims. Important regions and urban areas, such as the city of Puebla, continued to fight against Iturbide to remain within the Spanish fold. There, city leaders demanded that all men join the militia to combat the siege of the Army of the Three Guarantees. In the end, however, their efforts could not undermine support for the Plan of Iguala; separation had become a fait accompli. In August, a Spanish representative sent to negotiate with Iturbide recognized the state of Mexico and signed a treaty and a public apology to all the citizens of the new nation. The culmination of independence came a few weeks later on the eleventh anniversary of Hidalgo’s “Grito.” As described in newspapers from the time, 8000 infantry and 10,000 cavalry troops paraded into Mexico City through a triumphal arch built for the occasion. Although Spanish detractors castigated him as a “traitor,” Iturbide was fêted as a father of Mexico, who promised to keep the patria closed only to “irreligion, discord and despotism.” And despite having a Creole former loyalist military officer as the nominal head of state, a new national identity began to emerge. Celebrations and publications lauded the renewal of Indigenous Mexico, while Spanish colonialism now appeared as an interruption of the Mexica (Aztec) dynasty that had ruled since the fifteenth century. Some even referred to Mexico as Anáhuac, as if sovereignty had reverted to the rightful pre-Columbian inhabitants of the land. At this time, Bolívar and a coterie of South American statesmen also began to establish the artifice of a new state. Having taken the name “Patriot government,” the Congress of Angostura (a city in eastern Venezuela that is today called Ciudad Bolívar), which first met in 1819, publicized its efforts to

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consolidate authority and downplayed the reunion of the Cortes in Madrid. One pronouncement, published in the Times of London on September 13, 1820, hit on practical themes that partisans of independence consistently emphasized across the Americas: “However excellent a constitution may be, it cannot overcome the evils inseparable from distance.” In other words, the ocean separating the continents proved to be an insuperable barrier to justice and equality, and the Cádiz Constitution would not provide adequate protections to American citizens across the Atlantic. Therefore, independence had to be consolidated, even as Spanish officials landed in South America and started earnest negotiations on behalf of the liberal peninsular government. Of course, there was still no consensus over the kind of governments newly independent Americans would adopt. In his proclamation at the 1819 Congress of Angostura, Bolívar advocated for policies that defied simple categorization, including a powerful executive, a hereditary Senate and the gradual abolition of slavery. He argued that the U.S. system of governance was ill-suited to South America and criticized classical democracy, praising instead the British monarchical model. In this manner, both Bolívar and Iturbide promoted political models that diverged from the republicanism that many people today associate with the autonomist and independence struggles fought across Spanish America. After speaking in favor of a kind of an elitist government with limited popular participation, what kind of state did Bolívar and a new congress put together in 1821? First, male property-owners, in addition to those who served in the military, voted in indirect elections, choosing representatives that assembled in the town of Cúcuta, on the border between Colombia and Venezuela today. Bolívar, writing to Nariño in April, addressed the serious problems facing the delegates. He explained that very little had been accomplished because of “the transitional character of the government” and “the nonexistence of a central revenue administration.” He recognized that Colombia, after so many years of strife, resembled a “military camp” more than a body politic or a civil society. In a private letter composed in June 1821, Bolívar admitted the precarious nature of the struggle, stating that even as the “enemy” was “losing territory, public opinion, and supporters,” their forces could still stand up to his army. He concluded, “as Colombia is so large, if we should lose a major action, they would gain a great deal of territory.” The military operation had not been won. Over several months in the summer, the deputies wrote a new constitution for Colombia (known by historians as “Gran” or “Greater” Colombia), a territory that ultimately would encompass the colonial viceroyalty of New Granada, the captaincy-general of Venezuela, and the regions around Quito and Guayaquil. The document privileged presidential powers and tweaked the definition of sovereignty: “the people will not by itself exercise any attributes of sovereignty other than primary elections.” Only literate property-owning men held the franchise, Indian tribute would be abolished, and slavery would be phased out over time. Beginning with a strong statement asserting perpetual independence from the Spanish monarchy, it ended with a proclamation that all of its legislation—close to two hundred articles—conformed to the dogmas of

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the Roman Catholic faith. The congress named Bolívar as the first president of Colombia and elected General Francisco de Paula Santander vice president. As had occurred in Mexico, time ran out for loyalists. Following a decisive victory over loyalist forces at the second battle of Carabobo on June 24, 1821, Bolívar quickly sent an official to discuss a strategic alliance with the Liberator of Mexico (Iturbide) and his new government. Ironically, perhaps, given Bolívar’s own authoritarian leanings, the representative commented extensively on the lack of a strong republican base there and the good relations maintained with departing Spanish troops (although he did note that republican ideas were making headway in some of the provinces). Bolívar had the constitution adopted at Cúcuta printed and distributed in Mexico as a testament to the achievements of the state of Colombia. But he expressed reservations about the provision of Iturbide’s plan that would place a Bourbon monarch on a New World throne. Why? Many feared that this compromise might allow the Spanish to maintain a presence in the Americas or even to attempt to reconquer former territories.

Consolidating New American States Declaring independence proved easier in some ways than consolidating a new system of government. While some former colonies had thrown off Spanish rule by 1821, Peru remained a contested battleground. In other parts of South America, years of war left the population devastated—Venezuela lost approximately 100,000 people between 1810 and 1825. To the north, whether independent Mexico would be a republic or a monarchy became a point of contention and contributed to growing divisions. A questionnaire sent out to local authorities to assess public opinion revealed that monarchy polled higher than the alternative. From Veracruz, Antonio López de Santa Anna wrote: “The republican system has few adherents, and its addicts are persons of little thought.” This undermines the idea that americanos had been pushing uniformly for republicanism while loyalists and peninsular Spaniards simply were partisans of Old Regime monarchism.2 To inaugurate the new regime, officials attempted to convene the first Mexican Congress on the anniversary of the Plan of Iguala. The assembly came together through an amalgamation of proposals that had not produced a proportionally representative system, even though it used the 1812 constitutional model. Indirect elections were maintained, but the status of Yucatán, Chiapas, and Guatemala remained uncertain. Given these complications, the congress faced an uphill battle and a number of potential obstacles to national unity. Despite the measures taken to placate Spain, the peninsular government rejected Mexico’s assertion of political independence in a decree published widely in the former colony in March 1822. Issues of federalism versus centralism, and taxation, remained to be fully resolved as the boundaries of the state grew. Just as Mexico managed to secure its northern border by negotiating a pact of formal recognition with the Comanche Indians, who dominated large swathes of territory on their northern frontier, Central American provinces officially joined Mexico. Declaring

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independence from Spain in the fall of 1821, they joined Yucatán in becoming a part of this larger entity in early 1822. The first Mexican Congress had not mandated the exact form the new government would take, and outspoken members of the print media cautioned against republicanism. The periodical El Sol, for example, opined that Mexicans did not have the civic capacity nor the enlightened values necessary to exercise the vote. In the eyes of the editors, republicanism would be divisive. In the meantime, rebel leaders including Guerrero and Guadalupe Victoria appeared to be laying low, because they continued to harbor doubts about the Plan of Iguala and the treaty with Spain. The army, however, fully backed Iturbide and, like some of the conservative voices in the press, supported the creation of a monarchy. In May, a large group of demonstrators marched to Iturbide’s home in Mexico City, appealing directly to the commander-in-chief to become emperor. Soldiers formed a large part of the cross-class alliance who clamored for him to rule (Congress that very day may have been about to officially call on a member of the Bourbon family to take the throne). The next day, despite a great deal of controversy regarding how many members were present and whether they constituted a quorum, Congress voted to declare Agustín Iturbide the First Constitutional Emperor of Mexico. An official manifesto came on May 22, 1822. Lending legitimacy to the cause, the United States officially recognized the sovereignty of Mexico along with Chile, Colombia, Peru and the United Provinces, signaling a new era in relations between New World nation-states. Like Mexico, Brazil became a monarchy after declaring independence, thereby breaking with the transatlantic aspirations of Portuguese constitutionalists. Made coequal with Portugal in 1815, Brazilians had high expectations when the Cortes met to create a liberal and modern Portuguese state. But directives from the proceedings began to erode the rights and privileges of Brazilians, beginning with a demand for the return of Prince Pedro and the revocation of capital city status from Rio de Janeiro. Deputies quickly abolished many other administrative institutions that had been set up by the court in Brazil since 1808. With stances hardening and reconciliation increasingly unlikely, the king’s son Pedro I took the crown in September 1822 as the Constitutional Emperor of Brazil. Although naval skirmishes briefly pitted forces loyal to the Portuguese Cortes against those supporting independence, Portugal could not control its former colony, belatedly recognizing Brazilian independence in 1825. As was the case with Mexico, Brazil did not eliminate the institution of slavery with a new constitution in 1824, instead opting to retain it while at the same time offering full citizenship to free men of color. Each new state formed out of the ashes of imperial Spanish viceroyalties faced similar difficulties. Namely, Spanish capital fled, resources remained scarce due to the wars, and the economic base had been devastated. Iturbide watched as the Mexican Congress failed to craft a budget without including huge deficits that would seriously hinder any kind of development, let alone permit him to follow through with social programs such as pensions to family members of veterans killed fighting for independence. But even the Army of the

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Three Guarantees, according to a commentator, had not been properly compensated, and many soldiers went hungry. Perhaps, the critic asked speculatively, was it “because many of them are of lower color?” Clearly, the elites—especially landowners and merchants—would have to bear a significant tax burden to aid in the rebuilding process, and the government would have to procure foreign loans. In addition, Congress debated various schemes to populate and colonize land on the northern frontier, including in Texas, where families received generous incentives to settle. These individuals also received permission to keep their slaves, a compromise that undermined the rhetorical commitment to liberty and equality that dated back to Hidalgo and his 1810 declarations. The federation of Central America abolished slavery in 1825, and Mexican states began to formally abolish slavery in the 1820s as well. But the nation as a whole did not decree its definitive end until 1829, on the anniversary of the Grito de Dolores, during the presidency of Guerrero.3 Challenges to the Mexican government came in the form of economic troubles as well as political pressure from restive military figures. Santa Anna, serving in the eastern port city of Veracruz, had to stave off the remnants of the Spanish army that continued to occupy the fort of San Juan de Ulúa, located on an island in the harbor. Obviously, their presence raised fears of a Spanish intervention that could derail the project of constructing an independent state. Accused of corruption by everyone from fellow officers to common citizens, Santa Anna, who nevertheless demanded promotion for his success at keeping the Spanish in check, found himself removed from his post by Iturbide. In response, he rebelled against the emperor, criticizing, among other things, the recent dissolution of the congress. Soon joined by fellow military and political officials, including Guerrero, Santa Anna claimed the mantle of the Army of the Three Guarantees and contributed to delegitimizing a regime that would fall a few months later in March 1823. Those opposing Iturbide’s empire advocated for a form of decentralization that provided for shared sovereignty between the states and the federal government, which became enshrined in the Constitution of 1824.4 This push for political decentralization helped motivate Central Americans to break away from Mexico at this time and establish the Federal Republic of Central America, formalized at a meeting of the National Constituent Assembly’s 34 representatives in 1825. Iturbide, who briefly went into exile, sought to regain his throne but was captured and executed upon his return to Mexico. Feuds between military leaders came to epitomize the instability endemic not only to nineteenth-century Mexico but to other new nations in the Americas. Competing factions too often approached political differences by resorting to military confrontation rather than through elections and dialogue. And the specter of Spanish recolonization represented an additional threat to the Americas for decades to come.

The Last Frontier of Loyalism: Peru Many protagonists in the conflicts of the 1820s had served Spain in the peninsula during the Napoleonic Wars (see Chapters 2 and 3). For example, José de San Martín, a Creole born in the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata, was

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educated in Madrid and became an officer in the army. He notably saw combat during the 1808 Battle of Bailén in which Spanish forces defeated the French. Yet San Martín returned to South America in 1812 and, after attaching himself to a Masonic lodge dedicated to promoting independence, he took up arms against Spain. Like Iturbide, he had switched sides. With stunning victories and bold, brutal campaigns that included a famous march across the Andes, San Martín became the key player in the battles that culminated in Chilean independence (see Chapter 4). Shortly thereafter, in the north of Peru, the intendancy of Trujillo declared independence, in the name of the Catholic faith, Mary, and her immaculate conception. While awaiting liberating forces, the local population handed power to the former Creole intendant who, like the region itself, smoothly transitioned to the cause of independence. Some scholars have argued that this former colonial official, the Marquis of Torre Tagle, desired a form of provisional autonomy. Had loyalist forces regained the upper hand in Trujillo perhaps he would have aligned himself with liberal Spain once again. Political separation did not guarantee stability, and, as in the cases of Mexico and Brazil, Peruvians did not agree on the form a new government might take. Popular figures including San Martín had advocated for monarchy, and attempts were made in 1821 to crown a prince in Peru. Once again, the evidence suggests that many leading patriots as well as common women and men entertained both monarchist and republican beliefs. Some were such committed royalists that they sought to entice a member of the Spanish Bourbon family to serve on an American throne. In the midst of these political debates, San Martín marched into Lima on July 28, 1821 to proclaim Peru’s independence, giving himself the title “Protector of the liberty of Peru” (see Appendix: Document 5). Today, Peruvians celebrate July 28 as Independence Day, even though the wars had yet to end and loyalist contingents held more half of the country with an army of largely Indigenous soldiers based in the south. Nonetheless, solemn ceremonies as far away as Santiago, Chile, marked the arrival of San Martín in Lima, with Te Deums recited in the cathedral raising expectations of complete liberation from the imperial fold. With the help of British Admiral Thomas Cochrane, a mercenary who had purchased ships for a Chilean navy, American sea power appeared solid. The Spanish navy needed reinforcements if they had any hope of countering the insurgencies. Supporters of independence were buoyed by sympathetic reports in the moderate peninsular press that described Cochrane as a humble man who would renounce military accolades in order to bestow honor and liberty to the entire human race. Much as Mexicans struggled to codify new laws and chart a clear course for their independent government, San Martín struggled to hold together the disparate regions of Peru. With his force in arrears and officers uncompensated, he created a legion of honor called the Order of the Sun to recognize virtuous and meritorious conduct that came with a generous pension. The female section inducted women, such as the well-known Manuela Sáenz (1797–1856) for her contributions to recruitment and for having donated fabric and clothing to the

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army. She helped to collect materials from other residents of Lima and won public recognition for her “patriotism.”5 San Martín did not install a system of political representation quickly, opting instead to form a “Patriotic Society” to debate the proper form the government should take. While he may have wanted to pursue his own ends, especially regarding the issue of monarchism, he had yet to consolidate a clear base of power in the way that Bolívar had. The political stances of the Protector of Peru had alienated many liberals. In addition, Bolívar’s men won a significant battle in May 1822 on the slopes of the volcano of Pichincha. Here, troops sent by San Martín, under the command of Andrés de Santa Cruz, played a key role in securing Quito for Colombia. Even though some observed that a majority in nearby Guayaquil wanted to join an independent Peru, the areas comprising modern-day Ecuador were formally merged with Colombia. Recognizing Bolívar’s relative position of strength, San Martín accepted the Liberator’s offer of troops for the continuing campaigns against forces loyal to Spain, and he agreed to travel north for a meeting. In late July 1822, the two men, iconic figures of the period and the most important military leaders in South America, met for the first and only time with no witnesses to record the proceedings. Arriving during the Liberator’s 39th birthday celebration in Guayaquil, San Martín saw first-hand the widespread acclaim that greeted Bolívar in this regional hub and port city. And with his power diminished over the previous months, San Martín’s hopes of a far-reaching conversation were dashed. Monarchism would not be discussed in any serious way, and Peru clearly would not be enlarged. The only point Bolívar negotiated was his share of the military support needed for the liberation of Peru, because Colombia still required a significant number of soldiers. San Martín had to face the fact that he could not win the war himself, and Peruvians watched helplessly as the Protector ultimately abandoned the Andean region. After the opening of Peru’s first congress in September 1822, he sought refuge first in Buenos Aires and later returned to Europe, spending his remaining years far away from America. The Peruvian assembly appointed a threemember executive, but when the military expedition they sent to the southern ports was defeated, the remnants of the army forced the proclamation of José de la Riva Agüero as president of Peru. In the south, loyalists who governed under the umbrella of the Cádiz Constitution re-established a viceregal capital in the city of Cuzco, the former seat of the Inca and the heart of the empire of Tawantinsuyu. Unable to hold off armies loyal to the Spanish crown, Lima briefly fell to loyalists in mid-1823 (and again in 1824), creating more confusion when parts of the government relocated to Trujillo in the north and quarreled with the congress there. At this point, the war in Peru had become a stalemate, as pitched battles between loyalist armies and supporters of independence intersected with political bickering between rivals for postcolonial power. Amidst this chaos, Bolívar returned to Lima in late 1823 and received a great welcome and an invitation to serve as president. The Liberator rebuffed the offer, saying he wanted to dedicate his energy to military matters and the struggle for independence. Ten days after he arrived, however, he accepted the

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role of dictator (he would resign after independence had been obtained). Toasting both San Martín and O’Higgins in the banquet to honor the occasion, Bolívar adamantly spoke out against royalism and a monarchy being established in any part of what had been Spanish America, pointing to the evident failures of both Napoleon in Europe and Iturbide in Mexico. It was an obvious rebuttal to the frustrated aspirations of San Martín as well. The situation in Peru was fluid, with partisans of independence holding a tenuous grip on power at best. Mutinies of troops and disagreements among leaders created the circumstances under which Torre Tagle, who had been serving nominally as president under the dictator Bolívar, opted to side with the Spanish once again after the loyalists took control of Lima in March 1824. To be sure, this highlights the fact that independence had not been secured in Peru at this late date, even as most of the other former Spanish colonies across the Americas had achieved sovereignty over their own affairs. Despite the apparent revival of Spanish forces, political events in the peninsula ultimately derailed and divided the remaining officers who remained loyal to the king and the Constitution of 1812. As americanos struggled to build resilient institutions and establish legitimacy among diverse populations in both urban and rural spaces, Spain returned to absolutist governance once again, and the Trienio liberal came to an end. In April 1823, after three years of constitutional rule, growing unrest in the north and, most importantly, a French invasion designed to prevent the spread of liberalism resurrected Old Regime governance and structures. Under the umbrella of the pan-European Holy Alliance, one hundred thousand French troops in Spain enabled King Ferdinand VII to reclaim authority, embrace his illiberal tendencies, and suppress dissent in the peninsula. He scrapped the Constitution in favor of what critics called arbitrary rule. Concomitantly, the events in Spain essentially proved fatal to loyalist arguments in the Americas that promised unity through the Constitution of 1812. Andean cities and regions that had yet to declare independence could not rely on a stable, liberal Spain under Ferdinand’s new regime. In Peru, loyalists followed the lead of the conservatives and rescinded the Constitution, driving a wedge between more liberal officers and those who felt comfortable with Old Regime rules and norms. Facing endemic conflicts, the last vestiges of Spanish loyalism assembled at Ayacucho in December 1824, nestled in a lush valley on the slopes of the Andes. With an elevation close to ten thousand feet, the town is situated between Lima and Cuzco, the epicenter of resistance to independence forces. With all the troops exhausted and loyalties constantly shifting, the numerically superior loyalist forces relied on a significant Indigenous contingent. Most of these men had few ties to the peninsula, and a large group deserted when commanded to attack on a descent into enemy fire. This significant shift opened the way for the final victory of the independence movement in Peru under the command of the Venezuelan General Antonio José de Sucre. On the heels of victory, Sucre and Bolívar clashed over how to pursue postcolonial governance in the borderland regions between the former viceroyalties of Peru and the Río de la Plata. In the aftermath of Ayacucho, Sucre declared

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Upper Peru to be independent in February 1825. Over the summer, a few dozen men met after convoluted and highly restrictive elections, choosing to name the new polity Bolivia to honor the exploits of the Liberator. Home to over a million people, two-thirds of whom had Indigenous ancestry, the new state would be governed by Bolívar, who set out to write a constitution that ostensibly would provide for stability and a balanced political system. With the experience of Colombia in mind, he crafted a document that truly reflected his belief in strong centralized institutions. Citizens exercised the rights and freedoms associated with the Enlightenment, and the constitution immediately provided liberty to all enslaved peoples. Yet the Catholic religion remained the exclusive faith just as in Spain and in so many of the other independent states in the Americas (despite the fact that Bolívar had objected to this provision). Within a government composed of three branches, the legislative arm would be indirectly elected, while the executive was appointed by the legislature for life. The president had the power to nominate a successor, which would negate the need for the type of consequential election that Bolívar feared would lead to anarchy. Sucre disagreed with some of these provisos (he clearly did not want to be president for life and only held the office until 1828), and others criticized the systematic barriers to voting, such as a literacy requirement. In later years, though, Bolívar remained faithful to his unusual ideology, expressing pride in Bolivia’s Constitution and even in the idea of a life-long presidency, not dissimilar to the one proposed by Pétion in 1816. At the very least, his thoroughly anti-democratic positions distanced him from his liberal, more radical counterparts in South America. The Liberator also dreamed of unifying the newly independent states—all former dependencies of Spain—that he believed were bound together by bonds of pan-Americanism. Contrary to his views on a strong centralized state government, Bolívar’s federalist vision prevailed at an 1826 congress held in Panama, attended by delegates from the Federal Republic of Central America, Colombia, Mexico, and Peru. At the meeting, the Colombian delegation espoused postcolonial unity, perhaps guided by the spirit of European cooperation that had come together in the form of the Holy Alliance. Bolívar himself did not make an appearance, and he later conveyed a sense of ambivalence about the proceedings. The representatives ironed out means to collaborate and support one another, which included the creation of an army to provide for collective security, but trust did not come naturally, and only Colombia ever formally ratified the accords. Yet Bolívar recognized the serious issue of whether or not the new nations of Spanish America would be politically and economically viable. He returned to his homeland in late 1826 facing turmoil and insurrection by former allies who wanted an independent Venezuela. In an appeal designed to prop up support for Colombia, he definitively stated, “only a Venezuela united with New Granada could form a nation that would inspire in others the proper consideration due to her. How can we think of dividing her into two?”

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Divergent Legacies of Civil Wars: Racism and Regionalism This chapter has in part recovered the history of strife and turmoil that came in the wake of civil wars, bedeviling leaders like Bolívar who sought to establish stable national foundations with durable institutions. Contrary to the populist legacy he holds today in many parts of Latin America, he held extremely racist views, in spite of advocating on behalf of enslaved people at times and even pushing for emancipation in some cases. Bolívar had identified a significant obstacle to all of his plans in the form of the multi-ethnic composition of the new American states. He consistently warned fellow Creoles about the rise of pardocracia, deriding the concept of a government led by people of color. To mitigate against this possibility, Bolívar confided that “America can only be ruled by an able despotism.” He spoke out against freedom of the press and seemed to suggest that those who were “slavish copiers of the Spanish liberals” might lead the Americas down a path toward anarchy and ruin as had happened in Haiti. In previous years, Bolívar had disparaged the “savage hordes from Africa … who, like deer, run untamed in the solitudes of Colombia.” He even described slavery in a romanticized light, arguing that, in a relationship based upon dependence, enslaved people naturally “love and respect” their masters. So it came as no surprise to those who knew him that he in no way felt committed to a multiracial, inclusive democracy. The examples of José Prudencio Padilla and Anita Romero illustrate the extent of anti-Black prejudice among Creole elites and show that the greatest fear of many white leaders was ceding power to people of African ancestry. Born in northern Colombia, the pardo Padilla had enlisted in the Spanish military, and he saw action in the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar. When he returned to the multi-ethnic port city of Cartagena several years later, he sided with rebels and came to follow Bolívar during the most heated period of the insurgency prior to independence. Padilla received accolades for his service and found a great deal of popular support, especially in Cartagena’s artisan neighborhood of Getsemaní (see Chapter 3). He never enjoyed the full respect and admiration of powerful white men, however, such as the rival general Mariano Montilla and the merchant Juan de Francisco. The latter refused to invite Padilla’s partner Anita Romero, a parda woman who was the daughter of a prominent independence leader, to a ball, a slight that challenged intertwined notions of honor and masculinity. Montilla disparaged the very idea that elite men would ever marry parda women in a letter he penned to Santander (who had served as president during Bolívar’s military campaigns). Montilla intimated that such unions signaled support for radical republicanism and an upheaval of social norms and institutions. Padilla understood that the humiliating insult came as a result of prejudice against Romero’s skin color and her class, which had been exacerbated because the pair were not married (Padilla had separated from his wife). Racism against Padilla came to a head during the 1828 Ocaña Convention that took place not far from Cúcuta in north-eastern Colombia. Representatives had been elected to decide the fate of the 1821 Constitution and the political

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direction of the country. Bolívar and Santander had diverged ideologically by this point, and Bolívar railed against what he perceived as excessive liberalism. He desired a strong centralized state, but his supporters had not won the election and served as a minority in Ocaña. Santander seemed to enjoy a larger popular following and had become an “idol of the people,” according to Bolívar. The Liberator stood in an unusual position at this time, because many of his own ardent backers, notably the mestizo José Antonio Páez, had begun to push for the breakup of Colombia and turn away from Bolívar’s pan-Americanism.6 Local military leaders in Cartagena, who tended to agree with Bolívar on political matters, publicly demonstrated against the convention, chanting “death to Santander.” With unrest threatening Cartagena, Padilla flouted traditional rules and bypassed the town council with calls to arm local artisans, based in the pardo neighborhood of Getsemaní. His actions also challenged the command of the city’s leading military official, Montilla, who retook control of the city and defused what many feared as the advent of a race war. To white men like Bolívar and his interior minister José Manuel Restrepo, Padilla represented a fundamental threat. In 1823, Restrepo had written in his diary that “it is most probable, and the Liberator always predicts it, that once the war with the Spanish is finished, we will have a new one with the blacks.” In the eyes of many white politicians, liberal pardos signified unrest and dissent, but more importantly, they symbolized the power of poor men and women of color who could deploy the language of liberty and equality in the public sphere. As representatives debated the future of Colombia in Ocaña, Padilla and many pardo artisans in places like Getsemaní continued to advocate for a more just constitutional system that would erode the privileges of Creole elites. In response, Montilla brought court proceedings against Padilla for fomenting race war in Cartagena, a seditious act. In addition, he linked Padilla to a plot to assassinate Bolívar. Most scholars agree that Padilla did not take part, but the case led to his imprisonment and a quick guilty verdict. Manuela Sáenz had no compunction in writing: “God, let them die all these scoundrels called Paula, Padilla, Páez, it will be a great day for Colombia.” Other close allies of Bolívar did not believe that events in Cartagena merited the kind of severe punishment under consideration, especially because anyone convicted might then be seen as sympathetic. Nonetheless, dressed in his full military uniform, Padilla was executed in Bogotá on October 2, 1828. Refusing to wear a blindfold and yelling “cowards” at the firing squad, his last words were “Long live liberty!” The fear of pardocracia pervaded the new republics of South America and led to serious fissures in support for the leaders of the new states. It may be easy to forget that nation-states are not formed through natural or inevitable processes, as evidenced by the fact that a number of the new states that broke off from the Spanish empire dissolved in the 1830s, including Colombia. Both monarchism and the centrifugal pull of regionalism remained strong. By 1829, Restrepo had been talking with British and French officials about the idea of importing a foreign prince to South America and creating a ruling dynasty, as Bolívar contemplated retirement from public office. With a

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growing number of pronouncements in favor of the llanero Páez, Venezuelans, assembled at yet another congress in Valencia, declared sovereignty and independence from Colombia in 1830. A week later, the state’s southern regions broke off and declared the independence of Ecuador under a biracial president, Juan José Flores. A rump state, including all the remaining regions, incorporated simply as New Granada. Other new states would rise and fall, such as the short-lived Peru-Bolivia Confederation in existence from 1836 until 1839. The Federal Republic of Central America also would disintegrate between 1838 and 1839, opening the door to conservative leaders who attempted to clamp down on disorder and violence. The governing structures of the United Provinces of South America likewise did not survive the initial euphoria of separation from Spain. While the 1813 national anthem, still in official use today, albeit in abbreviated form, eulogized the unity of the south, the reality showed otherwise. By 1821, Artigas had been driven into permanent exile in Francia’s Paraguay, and the Oriental province of what is today Uruguay voted to join the Portuguese Brazilian empire, with support coming in large measure from the merchants of Montevideo. Throughout the 1820s, regional power brokers struggled against centralizing politicians, and the Brazilians fought to maintain their outpost in what had been Spanish America. British diplomats attempted to leverage the situation and maintain commercial influence among the emerging states of South America. In summary, John Lynch plainly states that the provinces of the former viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata “fought ruinously among themselves.” By 1828, under the leadership of men like Fructuoso Rivera and Manuel Oribe, the first two presidents, Uruguay had been established as a self-governing polity and promulgated a constitution in 1830. Contrary to the principles articulated and put into practice by Artigas and the Federal League, however, the government privileged property owners and denied the right to vote to the vast majority of residents, including many who had fought in the wars. This came despite the fact that slaves had played a prominent role in the defeat of Brazilian troops, fighting in large part because freedom had been promised in exchange for service. Fewer than 10 percent of the population would be voting by the early 1840s, and agrarian reform stalled. Much like the cases of independent Central American states by this time, the abolition of slavery had been one of the few reflections of the popular liberalism of the earlier generation. Across the river to the west of Montevideo, the United Provinces of South America teetered between a liberal, centralizing form of constitutional government (espoused by unitaristas) and provincial autonomy (supported by the federalistas, or Federalists). Similar to Mexico City, Buenos Aires was economically and politically stronger than competing regional hubs, but the instability caused by the devastating war and disagreements among factions allowed peripheral provinces to vie for power. The new administration’s first task had been to fight against the powerful Brazilian empire; the lack of political unification represented an even more serious hurdle. A new constitution, enacted in 1826, gave the president the power to appoint provincial governors

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in consultation with the senate. The government in Buenos Aires would make all the important decisions and would retain the customs house, one of the most important sources of revenue. In addition, anticlerical policies sparked a backlash, and the reactionary battle-cry of “religión o muerte,” religion or death, illustrated the divergent interests of the core and the periphery. The provinces of La Rioja, Mendoza, Salta, San Luis, and Santiago in the northwest, as well as the Federal League provinces of Córdoba, Santa Fe, and Entre Ríos, rejected the Constitution (although they vowed to continue the war against Brazil). In 1827, with financial pressures mounting and the war against Brazil far from over, the president, Bernardino Rivadavia, resigned. He had been born in Buenos Aires in 1780, and while some described him as biracial, his enemies derisively referred to him as “Dr. Chocolate” as a way of stigmatizing his ancestry. He had been the acting head of the first governing triumvirate in 1811 and held several posts as a centralizing minister, but most of the provinces now rejected his authority. Buenos Aires subsequently became a self-governing province under Manuel Dorrego, a Federalist and a veteran politician who, since the start of the revolution, had been involved in the struggle to create a new political system. Born in Buenos Aires in 1787, he had fought in many campaigns during the war. Dorrego rescinded the Constitution, and his short-lived administration ended besieged by conflict. Unable to continue the war with Brazil, he signed a peace treaty. This became his death sentence, as the army returning from Montevideo did not accept surrender and rose against him in 1828. As soon as the rebels overthrew him, he was sent to the firing squad. General Juan Lavalle, another veteran of the war with Brazil and leader of the unitarios, was elected governor of Buenos Aires in what many considered to be a highly irregular election. Reaction from provincial leaders was immediate, and civil strife continued, pitting those who wanted a federation against those in favor of a unitary centralist republic for more than two years. By the later 1820s, with Uruguay and the eastern provinces independent, the state took the moniker of the Confederation of the River Plata (Río de la Plata) and granted a large degree of autonomy to its 13 constituent provinces. With unrest spreading in spite of the new political arrangement, General Juan Manuel de Rosas, who became governor of Buenos Aires in 1829, accepted extraordinary powers and became a dictator, ushering in a period in history defined by caudillismo. Military men like Rosas symbolize this age in which an executive and the armed forces undermined other branches of government, thereby pushing through authoritarian policies that broke with an emergent liberal tradition across the diverse regions of what had been Spanish America. Rosas had not served in the war of independence, hailing from a wealthy cattle-ranching family with Spanish roots. Yet he organized a rural militia that played an important role in the politics of the early part of the decade. Rosas embraced a vision of federalism mixed with extreme militarism and began a process of transferring vast tracts of public land to wealthy individuals, who became increasingly powerful. He mobilized an army to enforce his policies of

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censorship and violence and cobbled together a personal detachment of men to serve as his guard, the majority of whom were Black or biracial. Rosas embodies the contradictions of the age, holding slaves himself while becoming an icon of liberation for those willing to join the military in exchange for freedom. While the Buenos Aires government had abolished the slave trade in 1812, illegal trafficking had continued and even grew, justified by a decree of Rosas as a way to “allow the unfortunate children of Africa to experience the benefits of civilization.” Using his military power and the services of many former slaves, Rosas defeated his unitarista enemies in Córdoba and later served multiple terms as the leader of Buenos Aires, not relinquishing power until 1852. This period came to be characterized by the actions of vigilante police unafraid to use terror and murder to suppress all dissent. Residents of Buenos Aires had to wear crimson, the color of the Federalists, and they would see the slogan “death to the unitarista savages” on all state documents and correspondence. Rural residents had to carry identity cards to show that they were employed. Otherwise, they might face military conscription or forced labor. Like many other rulers at the time, Rosas called for the extermination of certain Indigenous peoples, a claim that would be echoed by the future Argentine president Domingo Sarmiento. If a group could not live alongside nonIndians in peace, Rosas definitively stated that “it is necessary to destroy them.” Likewise, Paraguay’s Francia, appointed as “Perpetual Dictator” in 1816, had called for the extermination of the Indigenous Mbayás and Guanás as early as 1815. In Uruguay, in 1831, Rivera led an expedition that brutally crushed the Charrúas and forcibly marched those he did not kill to the capital. Men like Rosas illustrate extreme cases of violent conservative backlash to the heirs of Cádiz liberalism. This chapter began with marginalized groups, including Afro-Cubans, celebrating the re-establishment of the Constitution of 1812, which highlighted the contradictions and tensions between Hispanic liberalism, the continuation of slavery, and the successes of independence movements in many parts of Spanish America. Liberators who brought freedom from Spanish rule did not consistently advocate for people of color in the aftermath of separation from the former colonial power, with most new states gradually abolishing slavery, for example. The process would not be complete in most South American nations until the early and mid-1850s. Spanish authorities acted in a similar way, continuing to turn a blind eye to the illicit slave trade and only gesturing to an abolition of peninsular slavery in 1836 and 1837 (Spain did not officially abolish slavery in Cuba until 1886). Furthermore, the elected Spanish Cortes expelled deputies representing the overseas territories in the same year and moved toward government by fiat outside of the peninsula. This had the effect of isolating those americanos who remained loyal to the Spanish crown. From the vantage point of the 1830s, therefore, the promise of enlightened ideas and Hispanic liberalism had yet to be fulfilled in either the new nations of Central and South America or in peninsular Spain.

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Notes 1 Perhaps not surprisingly, officials from regions with a significant population of enslaved and free people of color objected to the Cádiz Constitution’s denial of citizenship to pardos. They wrote that if free people of color were not granted rights and were not “included in national representation,” revolts and disorder would ensue. They feared alliances forming between unfree and free persons that might lead down a path toward revolution, as had occurred in Haiti. 2 The historian Timothy Anna writes: “one suspects that, with the exception of a few thinkers based in Mexico City … when advocates of republicanism used that term they meant it as a surrogate for provincial power and regional autonomy.” 3 By contrast, Chile had abolished slavery in 1823. 4 As a federalist charter, the Constitution begins by asserting absolute independence from Spain and then quickly ensures that Catholicism remains the exclusive religion of state. Most scholars agree that it draws liberally from the Cádiz Constitution of 1812. 5 The 2000 film Manuela Sáenz recreates the encounter between writer Herman Melville and Sáenz decades after the wars of independence, as she reflects on the past and on her romance with Simón Bolívar. It also explores racial dynamics and the relationship she had with her two Black female servants. 6 Interestingly enough, Páez asked Bolívar to crown himself emperor as Napoleon had done. Bolívar rejected the suggestion.

Further Reading Alonso, Gregorio. “Cádiz Reprised: The Liberal Triennium in Spain and Spanish America, 1820–1823,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 245–263. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Anna, Timothy E. The Fall of the Royal Government in Mexico City. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1978. Anna, Timothy E. The Mexican Empire of Iturbide. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1990. Archer, Christon I. “Insurrection–Reaction–Revolution–Fragmentation: Reconstructing the Choreography of Meltdown in New Spain during the Independence Era.” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 10, no. 1 (1994): 63–98. Archer, Christon I. “The Militarization of Politics or the Politicization of the Military? The Novohispano and Mexican Officer Corps, 1810–1830,” in The Divine Charter: Constitutionalism and Liberalism in Nineteenth-Century Mexico, ed. Jaime E. Rodríguez O., 205–234. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2005. Arrom, Silvia Marina. La Güera Rodríguez: The Life and Legends of a Mexican Independence Heroine. Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2021. Barman, Roderick J. Brazil: The Forging of a Nation, 1798–1852. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988. Blanchard, Peter. “The Slave Soldiers of Spanish South America: From Independence to Abolition,” in Arming Slaves: From Classical Times to the Modern Age, ed. Philip D.Morgan and Christopher Leslie Brown, 255–273. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006. Corwin, Arthur F. Spain and the Abolition of Slavery in Cuba, 1817–1886. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1967. Earle, Rebecca. Spain and the Independence of Colombia, 1810–1825. Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2000.

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Eastman, Scott. “‘America Has Escaped from Our Hands’: Rethinking Empire, Identity and Independence during the Trienio Liberal in Spain, 1820–1823.” European History Quarterly 41, no. 3 (2011): 428–443. Loveman, Brian. The Constitution of Tyranny: Regimes of Exception in Spanish America. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1993. Lynch, John. Argentine Caudillo: Juan Manuel de Rosas. Lanham, MD: SR Books, 2006. Marquese, Rafael, and Tâmis Parron. “Atlantic Constitutionalism and the Ideology of Slavery: The Cádiz Experience in Comparative Perspective,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of 1812, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 177–193. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Murray, Pamela S. For Glory and Bolívar: The Remarkable Life of Manuela Sáenz, 1797–1853. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2008. Robertson, William Spence. Iturbide of Mexico. New York: Greenwood Press, 1968. Rock, David. Argentina 1516–1987: From Spanish Colonization to Alfonsín. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1987. Sobrevilla, Natalia. The Caudillo of the Andes: Andrés de Santa Cruz. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011a. Sobrevilla, Natalia. “From Europe to the Andes and Back: Becoming ‘Los Ayacuchos.’” European History Quarterly 41, no. 3 (2011b): 472–488. Ternavasio, Marcela. “The Impact of Hispanic Constitutionalism in the Río de la Plata,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World, ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, 133–149. Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 2015. Weber, David J. Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005.

6

Nations-in-the-Making The Republican Tradition in Latin America

On September 7, 1822, Brazil’s emperor Pedro I stood on the banks of the Ipiranga River and famously proclaimed “independence or death,” flatly stating he had no intention to ever return to Portugal and would no longer be bound by allegiance to his father. Although de facto autonomy from Lisbon had already been achieved, Brazilians have celebrated September 7th as Independence Day since his dramatic declaration. Over the decade that followed, the monarch and his court organized public ceremonies to commemorate the date as a foundational moment in order to ensure that the empire gained popular support. Official celebrations included military, civil, and religious displays and rituals, from forts and warships providing artillery salutes to parades and a formal Te Deum in the imperial chapel. The whole of Rio de Janeiro was lit up for the occasion, and all classes in society went to watch the inspection of the troops. The palace held soirees and theater galas. The former included the traditional ceremony whereby subjects kissed the monarch’s hand, and the latter afforded the rich an opportunity to feel close to the emperor. During the celebrations the city’s residents decorated the streets with flowers. Great crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of the emperor coming in and out of the ceremonies to which only those considered to be the “great and the good” were invited. This gave all members of society a chance to participate. Thus, everyone, from Afro-descended men and women to the white elite, could become a constituent part of the nation, albeit for a short while. While eschewing the trappings of monarchy, new republics in the region used similar public celebrations to establish and reinforce legitimacy, as this was a tried and tested way to develop connections between those who governed and the people. The ceremonies crafted in Brazil and in the new Central and South American states were adapted from a colonial repertoire to suit republican political systems. Festivities, such as independence-day rituals, likewise featured military parades, Te Deums, bell ringing, and illuminated urban spaces for people from all walks of life to gather, eat, sing, and dance in the name of the new nation. The goal was to create a sense of belonging that would develop and grow among citizens. By the 1830s, multiple republics had replaced the administrative divisions of the Spanish Monarchy, although the islands of Cuba and Puerto Rico remained colonies (see Map 4).1 However, the nation-building process was as controversial and contested as the wars of independence that had preceded it. DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-7

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This chapter concentrates on the most important and divisive conflicts of the period, in which governments and citizens debated whether to form centralized states, establish federations, or simply maintain loose unions of provinces. In other words, they fought over the meaning and form of new nation-states. Not surprisingly, given the legacy of Cádiz, disputes over written constitutions took center-stage. Even in the constitutional monarchy of Brazil, parliament played a major role in balancing the needs of the provinces with those of cosmopolitan urban centers. Instability exacerbated by military and clerical intervention in politics also remained a core legacy of the wars of independence. In most regions, army veterans as well as those who had fought in militias or irregular forces continued to rise up when they felt their demands were not being met. In independent Mexico, the Catholic Church and reactionary clerics battled liberals who pushed a secular agenda. Finally, one of the most important measures of postcolonial success continued to hinge upon whether all people, regardless of race and class, were integrated into emergent political systems. Would inclusive national citizenship be the foundation upon which new multi-ethnic states emerged from independence? Who was to be considered a citizen varied widely, but women were excluded from participating as active citizens or in the political sphere. This was far from being an anomaly, as women had not gained suffrage in any of the representative systems of the time. This did not mean that they were completely excluded from politics, however. Women contributed articles to print media, attended parliamentary meetings as members of the public, took to the streets, and wrote petitions to voice their opinions. Often, this was done in support of the church, because elite women continued to be very close to the clergy. Women from lower social classes, such as María Peña, who asked for her husband’s back salary to purchase her freedom, also demanded their rights through the legal system. In a parallel case, Francisca Caballero y Quiroga battled the Peruvian government to keep the pension she was awarded for services rendered in support of the American troops during the wars of independence (see Appendix: Document 6). By the 1830s and 1840s, the early phases of nation-making had come to an end. Yet conflicts disrupted state-building in many areas and confrontations took shape over both politics and continued efforts at separation and independence. For example, as noted in Chapter 5, Uruguay broke off from the Brazilian Empire and became a republic in 1830. That same year Colombia disintegrated into three distinct republics—Ecuador, Venezuela, and a smaller Colombian state—showing the fragility of larger unions. The Federal Republic of Central America, which came into existence through a constitutional assembly organized by the United Provinces of Central America after seceding from Mexico, continued as a federation between the provinces of Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. But the union was tenuous as federal structures competed with provincial ones and caused acute political tensions. After several years of attempting to create a single polity, the Central American federation disintegrated into its constituent parts in 1839. That very

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same year, one last attempt to unify larger regions failed when the Peru-Bolivia Confederation (created in 1836) was defeated by an army sent from Chile. Although the Argentine Confederation did manage to survive this period, it was possibly the most loosely connected of these political experiments and only nominally brought together many of the provinces that had been part of the viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. The single most complex problem to be resolved in recently established polities was the form the government would take. The principal issue for debate was whether a sovereign nation would be a centralized or a federal republic, a subject that had polarized the founders of the newly formed United States as well. The Articles of Confederation, governing the 13 former British colonies in the mid-1780s, had provided each state with sovereignty and economic freedom. But the 1787 Constitution, crafted in large part by James Madison, balanced the competing notions of devolution (state’s rights) and centralization (a strong, unified government), granting the government power over taxation, commerce, and military affairs, while ensuring a high degree of state autonomy. Finding a similar balance between center and periphery in former Spanish American territories, however, often resulted in chronic instability. In most of the new countries, regional factions and former military leaders, who often translated their reputation and rank into significant political influence, contributed to lasting conflicts. In attempts to explain Latin American volatility, social unrest, and the economic problems that characterized this period, some scholars have blamed the negative influence of these so-called caudillos on emerging nations. Others, however, note that the outsized role played by military figures and endemic strife should be interpreted as the consequence rather than the cause of difficulties following wars of independence. Liberal constitutions promulgated in the aftermath of independence served as a template to create new institutions, and some had greater success than others. Constitutions, though, were no panacea. Politicians put forward several constitutional solutions to bring together the fractious regions of the Argentine Confederation, for example, but architects repeatedly failed to reach a consensus that would provide all regions with the kind of representation and influence they demanded. This led to long periods in which the confederation existed without a constitution. States experimented with a variety of solutions to these questions. In the meantime, they cobbled together distinct identities, some of which displayed the limits of racial inclusion.

Centralism and Federalism The 1808 crisis in the Iberian Peninsula led to a transfer of sovereignty from the monarch to the smallest administrative units—the juntas that had formed in towns, cities, and provinces (see Chapter 2). So, to a large degree, the nationbuilding process aimed to return sovereignty from constituent parts to larger, newly created political structures. During their first years of existence, republics had to retool the systems of governance that were already in place, adapting

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what they could to suit their needs against a backdrop of economic scarcity and war. From the very beginning, nascent states such as Venezuela adapted parts of the 1787 U.S. Constitution, hoping it would be a blueprint for success. Venezuela’s First Republic, as well as the United Provinces of New Granada, tailored the doctrine of state’s rights for their own purposes (discussed in Chapter 2). The provinces in Venezuela, for example, would retain their “sovereignty, liberty and independence.” But federalism was blamed for the failure of these polities, and their inability to survive convinced Bolívar that only centralized republics would succeed. This was one of the reasons that led him to create the Republic of Colombia in 1819 as a centralized union in spite of the fact that Quito had not sent its representatives to the congress that decided the matter. Although these regions had been part of the Viceroyalty of New Granada in theory, they had never been part of a centralized structure and were mostly autonomous. Ultimately, these provinces did not manage to integrate, and by 1830 the three constituent regions had become independent republics. The centrifugal forces that led to the disintegration of New Granada did not dissipate with political separation, however, and partisans of centralism (conservative caudillos to a large degree) and federalism (many of whom professed adherence to liberalism) continued to wage ideological warfare in both Colombia and Venezuela for most of the nineteenth century. Even the newly founded republic of Ecuador, small as it was, faced regional sentiment as well. The political struggles that characterized the whole region were felt most acutely in Mexico. In 1824, after Iturbide’s empire crumbled, the country became a federal republic. Given its official new name, the United Mexican States seemed to be inspired by the United States of America. In fact, it owed much more to the Cádiz constitutional experience, not only because the legislative branch was to be more powerful than the executive, but because the language mirrored the 1812 charter in so many ways, including a religious exclusivity clause. The empire was replaced by a constitutional regime that spoke to the importance of provincial autonomy by devolving much of the administration to its 19 states, most of which inherited the colonial borders of the intendancies and provinces. To a large degree, this was a logical consequence of independence, as there was no real political or financial incentive to create a strong federal structure. Taxes were still mostly collected in the states, and militias were raised to protect local needs and guard against insurrection. The federation can be understood as a consequence of the fact that several provinces had declared they were sovereign, or self-governing, during the crisis that precipitated the fall of Iturbide. The provincial governments made a conscious choice to come together as a union of equals. Yet elites outside of the capital, jostling to maintain their status, chafed against the dominance of Mexico City. Were these tensions responsible for much of the instability experienced in Mexico and the repeated confrontations between states? Some provincial elites, in cities such as Guadalajara, Guanajuato, Puebla, and Veracruz, were extremely successful economically. To a large degree, it was precisely this provincial capacity to operate independently of

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the center that prevented the capital city from being able to impose its authority over the country; the result was instability. In addition, non-elite citizens from diverse backgrounds played important roles within emergent nations including Mexico. Cádiz-styled municipal governments continued to be the center of politics for Indigenous communities that elected them. Municipalities focused on issues of access to land and water and at times prevented white power brokers from monopolizing key resources. Peter Guardino has shown that Indigenous and mestizo peasants in places like Oaxaca used the legal system to participate actively in governance and economic networks. Negotiating these spaces in both late colonial and independent Mexico involved selling goods, even maize at times, to larger regional markets far from their own communities. While their attention may have focused on the locality, they deployed discourses and adapted to systems that required engagement with the outside world. Current research demonstrates that Indigenous peoples and peasants helped shape the nation-state and that such interactions reflect a substantive understanding of the emerging politics of the age. Thus peasant actions can be situated in nuanced terms at both the local and state levels. Early Mexican leaders reflected the diverse social milieu of the early nineteenth century, with some raised in relative poverty and others having the multiracial ancestry characteristic of mestizaje. Mexico’s first president, Guadalupe Victoria, born José Miguel Ramón Adactuo Fernández y Félix in the north of what was then the intendancy of New Vizcaya in 1786, was an orphan who studied at the seminary in Durango and later trained as a lawyer in Mexico City. There, he joined insurgents in 1812 and fought with Morelos. Victoria emerged as one of the most important military leaders to subscribe to Iturbide’s Plan of Iguala in 1821 (even while harboring doubts). Long a supporter of republicanism, he was one of the members of the triumvirate that replaced the emperor in 1823. Victoria was then elected president, serving from 1825 until 1829. The biggest challenge for Victoria was to create federal structures on top of a devastated economy. He obtained official recognition from the United States and from Great Britain. The former offered to purchase territory from Mexico, while the latter provided loans, but even these funds were not enough to stabilize the new republic. As historian Timothy Anna has pointed out, one of the main challenges faced by this first generation of federalists was the relationship between Mexico City and the provinces. With 20 percent of the national population and one-third of its economic output, the capital was large enough to be dominant within the federation, while the provinces asserted their own economic and political strength. As has been noted, this problem was not limited to Mexico; many of the other new republics, from Colombia and Venezuela to Peru and Argentina faced similar issues. Factions in Mexico developed around the Masonic lodges which had attracted many of the early independence leaders. In 1827, Victoria had to fight a rebellion from former ally and vice president Nicolás Bravo, a conservative who

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adhered to one of the competing branches of Masons (the Scottish rite). Although he prevailed, the president’s position continued to be precarious. At the end of 1827, he decreed the expulsion of all Spaniards. But this move made matters far worse for the economy, as most of those who were forced to leave took their capital. A year later Vicente Guerrero, a popular independence-era leader who represented the more radical faction of Mexican liberalism and a different Masonic group (the York rite), was defeated in presidential elections. But with the support of generals like Antonio López de Santa Anna, he challenged the unfavorable election results with a revolt. Congress annulled the vote, ratifying Guerrero as president and effectively asserting their authority while legitimizing the violence; the legislative branch had decided who would rule. Instability continued even after Santa Anna rebuffed Spanish forces that attempted a reconquest in 1829 (Santa Anna pushed back a subsequent French invasion in 1838). To many of the members of the lower classes—to the poor and the members of the bajo pueblo—Guerrero was a dark-skinned hero, a harbinger of real change. This made conservative white elites uneasy, as they feared they might lose their social, economic, and political pre-eminence. And after unveiling a series of taxes and other initiatives designed to generate revenue, Guerrero faced an uprising that quickly pushed him out of office, and he was replaced by Vice President Anastasio Bustamante as head of state. At the time, and in many histories that have been written since, federalism has been blamed for the political turmoil, as have the regional military leaders who have become known as caudillos. But these strongmen did not necessarily destroy the federal republic, they were strengthened by its downfall.2 Given the size of Mexico and the difficulties in establishing and financing a functional federal state, the provinces held on to a significant amount of political leverage and economic power. They had their own strong leaders and autonomous militias. From the Cádiz period onward, municipalities had been at the center of governance, and federalism strengthened this. Citizens voted, paid taxes, and experienced government by and large at the state and local level. People in peripheral states found the threat from a centralizing government a powerful incentive to join militias, follow local leaders, and defend their municipalities and the idea of provincial autonomy. Although nominally Bustamante was the president of a federation, both he and his advisers were convinced that Mexico should become a centralized republic. They therefore began a concerted campaign against provincial autonomy with the aim of creating what the priest Fray Servando Teresa de Mier had called a system “federal in name” but centralized in reality. They did so not by changing the law but by targeting those provincial leaders they considered to be too radical and imposing centralist policies. As a result, Bustamante faced several uprisings. In 1831, the former president Guerrero rose up only to lose his life to a firing squad after he was captured. The following year, Santa Anna kept government money coming in through the customs house at Veracruz and launched guerrilla raids, as both sides sought the support of municipal governments. All factions were weakened by the fighting and internal divisions. Although a new president was elected, the

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conflict did not subside until Santa Anna emerged as the consensus figure. Serving as president eleven times over the next two decades, he emerged victorious because he had fought for federalism. But in office, he implemented a centralizing agenda because he realized it was the only way to cling to power. He sought to weaken regional caudillos by strengthening the army and taking power away from local militias. In addition, the vice president under Santa Anna, Valentín Gómez Farías, undertook a major reform of the church in 1833. Among other measures, the state ended the mandatory payment of the tithe, secularized the education system, and began a program of disentailment, or the selling of church lands and properties.3 The government considered implementing other inflammatory policies as well, such as (another) expulsion of all Spaniards, the curtailment of special military privileges known as fueros, and the reduction of the size of the army. The conservative politician-turned-historian Lucas Alamán decried Gómez Farías as the Robespierre of his age, arguing that Mexican politicians had committed excesses only seen previously during the radical phase of the French Revolution in the 1790s. Reactionary sectors of Mexican society rallied under the cry of “religión y fueros,” a program which appeared to hearken back to the Old Regime and Spanish rule. The following year, Santa Anna turned on his own ministers, sacking leading liberals such as Gómez Farías and sending them into exile. By 1835, federalism had disillusioned many who now thought that the system produced chaos. The conservatives led the onslaught in the press and argued that federalism was rooted in extremism, exploiting the fears of the elites that the poor, the Indigenous, and the African-descended would continue to take advantage of a regime where the central government depended on the whims of municipal power. The conservative-dominated congress that met in mid-1835 set out to create a new constitutional arrangement that established a centralized republic. Opposition to this was immediate, beginning with an uprising in Zacatecas and separatist movements that emerged in Texas. In that border territory, pro-slavery militias led by white settlers seized upon Mexico’s chronic instability to secede, handing Santa Anna an ignominious defeat at the Battle of San Jacinto in 1836. In Yucatán in 1839, anti-centralist elites also broke from Mexico. Eight years later, the privatization of land in the peninsula that took place following the uprising set the stage for a larger conflict spearheaded by Indigenous forces known as the Caste War. Many states, especially in the periphery, were fundamentally opposed to the idea of being part of a centralized republic. And contrary to the high hopes elites had that this system of government would bring stability, these years were filled with conflicts including secession, international intervention, and civil war. Many provinces, led by caudillos and militias, refused to accept the new order of things, and the central government, just as the federal one that preceded it, was unable to ensure that local and municipal administrations would comply with their instructions. Texas remained an independent republic for close to a decade, albeit with the support of the United States that had a vested

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interest in its separation from Mexico. The situation reached such an extreme that Mexico’s republic collapsed in 1846 and Congress reinstated the 1824 federalist constitution. The tension between the states and Mexico City was not easily resolved, even as a large portion of territory was annexed by the United States following its victory in the 1846–48 Mexican-American War. A similar dynamic concomitantly played out in Central America. The charismatic mestizo caudillo José Rafael Carrera, president of Guatemala from 1844 until 1848 and again for almost 15 years beginning in 1851, brutally suppressed the remnants of liberal sentiment in the region and the city-states that had become selfstyled republics by the early 1850s. He became president for life beginning in 1854 and monopolized political and economic power by appointing almost all government officials from the same well-connected Creole merchant family, which provided institutional support to go alongside his mass-based appeal. In Honduras, a caudillo clung to power for ten years between 1830 and 1840, another sign of the reaction against the liberal values stemming from the Enlightenment. These divisions, between the conservative, wealthier established Creoles and members of the more liberal professional classes, hardened by mid-century. The conflicts in Central America and Mexico between those who embraced federalism and those who championed centralism were extremely intense, but the region was by no means the only place to experience unrest due to these divergent political agendas. During his time in charge of the province of Buenos Aires, the Federalist Juan Manuel de Rosas refused to have a constitution enacted, even though he was confirmed in his post through several plebiscites and did nothing to promote the creation of a federation. What did exist was a federal pact signed by the representatives of the provinces of Buenos Aires, Entre Ríos, Santa Fe, and Corrientes in January 1831. Two years later, nine other provinces signed on as well. This represented a tenuous union; only in 1835 did the provinces adopt the name Argentine Confederation. A foreign policy, delegated to Rosas, constituted the main tie that bound them together. Even after Uruguay had become independent from Brazil, the region faced similar unrest due to confrontations between caudillos. Between 1839 and 1851, the state became consumed in a civil war known as the Guerra grande, or Big War. This conflagration was closely related to ongoing disturbances in several Argentine provinces where unitarios had not been completely defeated, and many fled to Uruguay, Chile, and Bolivia. Uruguay remained the only region to have seceded from Brazil, even though republicans in the northern province of Pernambuco had attempted to do so in 1817 and in 1824. The second attempt, born from the opposition to the extremely centralist 1824 Constitution, came closer to succeeding, as three provinces in the north-east joined in what advocates imagined would result in a Confederation of the Equator. After some months they were defeated by a hastily organized army and navy. This turmoil in effect caused the Brazilian empire to develop a constitutional and monarchical system in which the emperor balanced competing demands from liberals and conservatives as well as made allowances for provincial autonomy. An additional obstacle to Brazilian stability emerged when Pedro I inherited the

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Portuguese crown in 1826 upon his father’s death. Committed to his South American empire, he abdicated and placed his daughter Maria II on the throne with instructions she should marry his younger brother Miguel. Pedro wanted to ensure that Portugal would remain a constitutional monarchy, but his brother, as King Regent, refused. Pedro abdicated the Brazilian crown in 1831, leaving his 5-year-old son behind in Rio to become Pedro II while he returned to Europe to fight for his daughter’s rights. Deteriorating conditions in Brazil and the uncertainty of Portuguese politics left the empire close to collapse. A number of uprisings threatened the state, such as the Guerra dos Cabanos, spurred by runaway slaves and Indians in Pernambuco. Unrest in Pará, tinged with anti-Portuguese sentiment and factionalism, turned violent in 1834 when poor and Indigenous rebels took revenge on white elites. Enslaved insurgents rose in Salvador in 1835 and in Rio de Janeiro province three years later. A regency, governing in the name of the child emperor, managed to weather the many storms that ensued, including another secessionist rebellion in the southern province of Rio Grande do Sul. The socalled Farroupilha (Ragamuffin) revolt began in 1835 and lasted for the entire decade that a regency ran the government. Gauchos and enslaved men became the protagonists of the rebel force who pushed for republicanism. Pedro II, taking the crown as emperor in 1841, managed to control this escalating cycle of violence, and Brazil remained a united polity. But the peace that settled the revolt in the south freed the slaves that had been the heart of the insurgency. One last attempt at creating a republic came in the northern region of Pernambuco in 1848, but the Praieira revolt was defeated, and the empire completed its consolidation. This turn of events contrasted with the situation in the other larger countries in the region, as both Mexico and Argentina struggled to create viable federal republics. In addition, by the mid-1800s, dominant landowners in Brazil came to view their interests as inextricably tied to a powerful centralized state. Politics mirrored the institution of the family, with benefits exchanged for unquestioning obedience to the patriarch. Thus the monarch, as more than a figurehead, was more powerful than any of the presidents or federal structures that had been established since independence.

Conflict and Constitutions From the Cádiz experience onward, revolutionaries saw constitutions as the basis for creating new political structures. While most Spanish American leaders attempted to use these charters to legitimize republicanism and the rule of law, Rosas in Argentina proved the major exception. After the confederation failed to unify under the constitutions of 1819 and 1826, nearly 30 years passed before the removal of Rosas enabled Argentines to write another, which finally abolished slavery in 1853. Paradoxically, although the new regime was unitary in name, it did retain a federalist structure and gave provinces an important degree of autonomy. Due to the outsized importance of Buenos Aires, the liberals here tended to be centralists, while the conservatives (Rosas) promoted

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federalism. The government of the province of Buenos Aires refused to accept the new political arrangement until 1861, which is when the contours of the Argentina we know today came into existence (see Map 5). The federal state deferred to rural landed interests by creating an appointed Senate but provided a bill of rights and established an independent judicial branch of government. By way of contrast, Benito Juárez, a Zapotec from Oaxaca who had been president of the Supreme Court, enacted a more liberal charter for Mexico in 1857. Promising to bring radical change, the Constitution mandated limited powers for the executive and restricted ecclesiastic privilege; these perceived attacks on the church sparked a civil war that broke out in 1858. Equally febrile constitutional histories pushed other Latin American nation-states to devote significant resources toward developing durable political structures. In Chile, five constitutions were produced in a decade. The first one, a provisional statute promulgated in 1818 on the heels of independence, was soon replaced by a more detailed constitution in 1822 (Figure 6.1). But this charter was short-lived, and after the abdication of Chile’s first president Bernardo O’Higgins, a new constitution was enacted in 1823. It optimistically carried the word “permanent” in its title, but it only lasted for a few months. Due to growing instability, leaders divided Chile into three independent provinces, with a federal constitution enacted in 1826. This was replaced only two years later by a document promising to protect individual rights and religious exclusivity. But a great majority of the political class objected to its liberal provisions, and leaders passed a more conservative and centralizing constitution in 1833. Taken together, these efforts demonstrate the continued relevance of constitutions as legitimizing tools and of the myriad ways that elites could imagine political unions and postcolonial states.

Figure 6.1 “Declaration of Independence, Chile,” 1818, in the National Historical Museum, Santiago, Chile Source: Photograph by Natalia Sobrevilla Perea.

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The inability to reach consensus over their content is evidence that enacting a constitution did not ipso facto produce a viable government. Chile is often considered a successful case of creating social and political cohesion. It was much smaller than most of its neighbors and the capital, Santiago, dominated all other provincial cities. Despite this, the first decade after independence shows that reaching an agreement that worked for the majority was not an easy process. The 1833 Constitution offered an elected head of state two five-year terms that provided for political and economic stability, especially as it legally preserved large landholdings. And because the president could veto any law, the charter strongly privileged executive power. Businessman and conservative politician Diego Portales had been instrumental in its design, even if he never held direct office but moved the strings of power from behind the scenes. Such was his influence that the whole system of government in Chile became known as the “Portalian order.” But this stability was not without its challenges. In 1837, the opposition had become emboldened, as the country prepared to fight a war against the Peru-Bolivia Confederation, and Portales was killed during a barracks uprising. Nevertheless, even after his death, the constitutional arrangement remained, and it survived two civil wars in 1851 and 1859. Peru followed a similar path but with different outcomes. Conflicts over the direction of constitutionalism emerged between the provinces and the center, including a monarchist rebellion led by Indigenous peasants in the highlands near Ayacucho. After the Cádiz Constitution had been abrogated, Peruvians wrote a charter in 1823 that was never fully implemented due to the exigencies of war and to the fact that Bolívar had accepted the title of dictator shortly thereafter. In 1826, the constitution proposed by the Liberator for Bolivia was enacted in Peru, but it proved to be a short-lived experiment that lasted no more than six weeks. Two years later, a newly elected constitutional convention proposed a liberal constitution. Yet deputies feared that a Peruvian federation might soon rupture into smaller republics or even fracture between the north and south, because regional differences remained stark. Instead, the constitution devolved much of the governance to the provinces, called “Juntas Departamentales,” based on the borders of colonial intendancies. The architects of this document hoped that with the passage of time, they could revisit the idea of a federation, and they added a proviso that the charter had to be reviewed in five years. In 1833, during the last year of his term, the incumbent president Agustín Gamarra faced down eight conspiracies. Since he had already survived nine other coup attempts, this level of political instability did not bode well for either the presidential election or the constitutional convention set for that year. Following the election of the liberal candidate, conservative partisans, who could count on strong support from the army, launched a civil war. During a short respite in the fighting, a new constitution, which curtailed the municipalities’ right to self-government, was passed in 1834. While it did not mention federalism, it did open a path toward confederation. Instability continued as regional leaders supported by local militias confronted different factions and fought to maintain their autonomy. The civil war became so convoluted that

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the president of Bolivia, Andrés de Santa Cruz, who had previously been president of Peru and considered himself to be a national of both countries, was asked to intervene. He acquiesced because it had always been his personal ambition to join Peru and Bolivia in a confederation, inspired as he was by the Federation of the Andes that Bolívar had proposed a decade before. He also courted some of the Indigenous monarchist rebels of the late 1820s who now supported a liberal vision of the state. Santa Cruz was convinced that the historic, social, and economic connections between Peru and Bolivia were so solid that the best possible outcome was for these two republics to merge. He called a meeting of three congresses—one in Bolivia, one in southern Peru, and one in northern Peru. As an advocate for dividing Peru into two republics, he maintained more support in the south where the elites resented the way in which the government in Lima sought to centralize and limit their autonomy. Santa Cruz’s project had crucial support from the regions that benefited most from the union—the areas surrounding Lake Titicaca that had suddenly become the center of this proposed political project. But the opposition to his plan was formidable, consisting largely of elites in Lima who stood to lose their pre-eminence. Prominent army officers, defeated in the civil wars, found refuge in Chile and organized two campaigns against the confederation, supported and financed by the Chileans who were wary of having a strong, stable neighbor to the north. Rosas and the Argentine Confederation also joined the fight against Santa Cruz’s project, which ultimately collapsed in 1839. In the aftermath, Gamarra’s first instinct was to call for a constituent congress to pass a new charter inspired by Chile’s 1833 experiment. The resulting Huancayo Constitution, enacted in 1839, was a centralist document that limited the power of the municipalities and dismantled provincial autonomy. Conservative governments, although by no means stable in each case, had taken root in Peru, Chile, and Mexico by the mid- to late 1830s. But in contrast to the Chilean example, the Peruvian Constitution did not lead to stability and immediate economic growth. Following the death of Gamarra during an invasion of Bolivia in 1841, the authority of the central government crumbled, leaving Lima in control over little more than the valleys that surrounded the capital city. A civil war, pitting regional caudillos and local militias against one another, plunged Peru into more than three years of civil war and acute instability. Supporters of provincial autonomy fought against more conservative leaders, most of whom had been members of the army. The caudillo Ramón Castilla, a veteran of the wars of independence, emerged victorious. As soon as he arrived in Lima, he called for a presidential election to confirm his legitimacy and went on to reinstate the 1839 Constitution. In a case of good timing, Castilla’s regime benefited from the influx of funds that flowed into the treasury from the export of guano, a fertilizer that had become a coveted commodity in Europe. Castilla strengthened his position by staking his legitimacy on elections and constitutionalism. He promoted change from within the system, restoring autonomy to the municipalities and rewarding the provinces that had supported

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his campaign by granting them additional powers. He subdivided the former colonial intendancies into smaller departments. Similar to events in Chile, stability was gained through a conservative constitutional arrangement, but this was only achieved after intense confrontation. At mid-century, liberals sought more radical changes, and a new civil war raged between 1853 and 1854. A liberal constitution in 1856 failed to quell the unrest, especially in the southern city of Arequipa. A more moderate constitution, enacted in 1860, temporarily put a halt to the pervasive unrest and violence.4 Peru was the only country of its size in the region that did not attempt to create a federal system during this nation-building period. And its political struggles attest to the continued ideological polarization and conflict between the center and periphery, which continued unabated for decades following the declaration of independence. Colombia experienced turmoil and instability throughout the nineteenth century as well. Regionalism had roots in the competing constitutions written in the 1810s and the factionalism that hindered political change. An attempt was made to bring them together as the United Provinces of New Granada, but this experiment, grounded in the idea of provincial autonomy, was crushed by Morillo’s 1815 expedition. Bolívar, who had initially believed in a federal system, came to advocate a centralist model for Colombia in 1819 at the Congress of Angostura. The constitutional agreement reached in Cúcuta in 1821 further strengthened his stance, and Bolívar attacked the municipal councils that were set up in the 1820s. Challenging this arrangement, federalists refused to participate in the 1828 Ocaña Convention. After this failure to secure a new administrative arrangement as well as a second abortive attempt at constitutional reform in 1830, Colombia dissolved, and Venezuela and Ecuador chose to go their own way. Rafael Urdaneta, a Venezuelan general close to Bolívar and supported by the Bogotá elites, took over the rump state of Colombia in 1831. But several months later, under pressure from the provinces, a convention was called, and the military dictatorship ended. Congress passed a new constitution in 1832, creating a centralist republic for the time being, in contrast to Chile and Peru.5 Former vice president of Colombia and a hero of the independence struggle, Francisco de Paula Santander was elected president. During his time in power, which continued through 1837, provincial leaders continued to manage their localities, even though the government’s structure was centralized. This changed when his successor, the civilian José Ignacio de Márquez, took over. Many outside Bogotá felt they were losing their ability to influence who would be considered for local political appointments, and in some regions unrest grew with perceived attacks on the Catholic Church. As occurred in many parts of Latin America, fighting broke out in what became known as the War of the Supremes. But confrontation was not solely due to the ambitions of specific caudillos. Instead, it had much to do with provincial frustration over control of the national government by aristocratic elites from Bogotá. The fight, as it had been in Mexico, Argentina, Brazil, Chile and Peru, was over the balance of power held by those in the capital city

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and in the provinces. In New Granada, the issue proved still more acute as several cities competed with Bogotá for political and economic pre-eminence. In 1842, the provinces, many of which had declared their own autonomous governments during the War of the Supremes, were defeated, and an ardently centralist constitution was enacted the next year. In an effort to find an alternative to the power of military leaders the centralist regime, supported by Bogotá elites and a series of provincial representatives, consulted representatives all over the country about possible changes to the constitution. But as the tensions between the center and the provincial governments did not subside after the promulgation of the 1843 Constitution, congress enacted a new charter in 1853, allowing for a more decentralized system. Historian James Sanders posits that Colombia was in some ways at the “vanguard” of American modernity, as republicans enshrined a wide range of natural rights and even attempted to abolish the death penalty. In 1855, Panama became a federal state within Colombia, which resembled a confederation of autonomous provinces much more than a federation along the lines of what had been implemented in Mexico or Argentina. As Daniel Gutiérrez has argued, the structures established with the creation of the Granadine Confederation in 1858 resembled the Helvetic Republic in Switzerland more closely than the United States of America. Dissatisfied with the arrangement, however, leaders in the provinces of Cauca and Bolívar declared independence. This led to a civil war in 1860 which resulted in the establishment of the United States of New Granada and, one year later, its renaming as the United States of Colombia. In this newly organized polity, each state had a constitution, separate legislation, and distinct civil, penal, and trade codes. Imagined as a union of equals, the United States of Colombia invited Ecuador and Venezuela to join. Venezuela’s experience was comparable, having experimented with federalism in 1811 before breaking with Bolívar’s centralist government in Colombia. In 1830, representatives at a constitutional convention promulgated a constitution. Independence-era hero José Antonio Páez emerged as the most powerful caudillo in the nation and was sworn in as president in 1831. He continued to exert complete control over the political system as he passed the office to his chosen successor and fellow veteran of the wars of independence, Carlos Soublette, in 1835. Despite this peaceful transfer of power, several provincial uprisings exposed stubborn opposition to the growing predominance of Caracas. In 1838, the conservative Páez was re-elected, and he passed the baton again to Soublette in 1842. In the meantime, regional discontent continued to grow to such a degree that a full-blown insurrection broke out in 1846. Dubbed the peasant revolt, violence lasted for over a year and bled into a civil war in 1848. In its wake, the caudillo José Tadeo Monagas and his brother José Gregorio rotated as president for almost ten years. When, in 1857, the Caracas government attempted to further curtail provincial autonomy, a more violent insurrection erupted. A year later a new constitution was passed, returning autonomy to the provinces, but the political reorganization failed to end the endemic partisan violence that became known as the “long war.”

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The war between centralists, headed by Páez, and federalists lasted from 1859 until 1863, roughly the same period during which the War of the Reform pitted liberals and conservatives in Mexico. For those outside of power, unequal access to land had become a defining point of contention and led to simmering resentment of the fact that generals close to the central government had become rich through land grants. This triggered civil war in 1857, and while federalists triumphed—and a new federal constitution was passed in 1864 creating the United States of Venezuela—the issue of land ownership did not change much. Those who benefited most were the provincial caudillos who took over from elites in the capital. While the new constitution expanded provincial autonomy, in economic terms this only meant that property changed hands and was now controlled by a different group of military leaders. In time, Venezuela managed to establish a system that was federal in name but centralist in nature. Like Brazil, Argentina, and Mexico, Venezuelan leaders invoked federalism and made a series of concessions to regional leaders and provincial elites by providing some level of autonomy, but their governing systems allowed a new generation to consolidate both political and economic power.

Inclusion and Exclusion Although the bajo pueblo, including many Indigenous and marginalized peoples as well as enslaved men, actively participated in the wars of independence, those who benefited most were the white elites descended from Europeans. Other beneficiaries included mixed-race populations who managed to rise on the social scale and gain further acceptance. So does this period constitute a revolution, as so many people at the time described it? Did it lead to long-lasting structural transformation? For many historians, the political and social changes after separation from Spain were so modest that they do not consider the process to have been a revolution. Others argue that the revolutionary aspect of independence should not be dismissed, because electoral systems opened for the first time and allowed for broad political participation from the period of the Cádiz Constitution onward. The greatest change was in the relationship between the people and those who governed them. Despite tremendous variations across the continent and throughout the nineteenth century, the notion that governments could only be viable if they were considered legitimate by the people became deeply ingrained in people’s minds during this period. Access to voting varied quite widely both in space and time. Most of the new countries favored an indirect voting system, following the model laid out by the Cortes of Cádiz. The first elections in Buenos Aires and in Peru represented exceptions in which all men were allowed to vote. But these were rare instances. Even where there was a wide franchise, only the educated and wealthy were chosen to be electors commissioned to vote on behalf of citizens of a given parish (Article 38 of the Cádiz Constitution allocated one elector for every two hundred citizens). Most countries limited voting to men who could read and write, although exceptions to this rule existed in New Granada and Peru.

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There, the electoral process took into consideration the fact that the colonial educational system left many men illiterate (the 1830 Colombian Constitution did not make literacy obligatory until 1840).6 But even in these countries voters generally had to be heads of households, often defined as married property-owning men older than 25; servants and slaves typically were not allowed to vote. Despite all these limits to the franchise, new Latin American countries had a higher level of representative government that many other nations around the world. The institution of slavery did not disappear in spite of the many promises that accompanied the end of colonial rule, although only in Brazil did it remain legal until 1888. There, the empire became so intrinsically linked to slavery that a year after abolition the military forced the monarch to abdicate and installed a republic. Historian Stanley Stein has concluded that, in the second half of the nineteenth century, “the rapid adaptation of coffee cultivation … committed Brazil … to a continuation of colonial patterns of large property [holdings], slavery, patriarchalism, and accentuated class divisions.” The economies of Puerto Rico and Cuba, colonies until 1898, also depended on slavery. With an influx of enslaved people, increasingly brought in illegally, Cubans imported more human labor from West Africa between 1791 and 1867 than had been sold in all of Spanish America through the early 1770s. During this period of “second slavery,” Cuba became the world’s leading sugar producer, and the Spanish government did not emancipate all slaves until 1886. In the intervening years, free womb-laws were enacted in many parts of the Caribbean and Latin America, ensuring that those born to enslaved mothers would be born free and ending the bondage that was transmitted through maternal lines. But in all the countries that implemented these, infants and children of the enslaved had to remain under the control of their owners until they reached a certain age, and during that time they could even be bought and sold. In Buenos Aires, the age of emancipation initially had been set at 15, and in Colombia and Peru 18. With time, however, the age rose and the children of the enslaved were traded and treated as if they remained in bondage. In Peru, the age of majority when freedom was to be obtained had risen all the way to 50 by the 1830s, making a mockery of the whole process. In theory, free-womb laws and the abolition of the slave trade should have been enough to ensure the end of slavery. But this proved to be a fiction, as it only actually ended with outright abolition, as in Chile in 1823. In some places, like Buenos Aires and New Granada, the slave trade was even reinstated, although not for long in either place. The 1821 Constitution proclaimed in Cúcuta provided for the progressive dismantling of slavery, creating institutions to purchase slaves. But in this case, even slaves choosing to join the ranks of the military in order to become free could only do so if their owners received compensation from these funds. The largest country to abolish slavery early on was Mexico in 1829, after it became clear that a gradualist approach was not going to be enough. All the other countries, often described as “societies with slaves” because their economies did not depend on this kind of labor, retained the institution. In the 1840s, civil wars in Uruguay led to the abolition of

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slavery, in large part because warring factions granted freedom to all men who joined their forces. Elsewhere, a new generation of liberals found inspiration in the 1848 European revolutions and the emancipation decree in France. The end of slavery would not be achieved in Colombia until a more progressive government came to power and a new constitution was passed in 1853 in which the institution was abolished outright. Ecuador had just abolished slavery, and the liberals who drafted the 1853 Argentine Constitution outlawed the institution as well.7 This development was replicated in 1854 when Venezuela freed the remaining forty thousand people held in bondage in the country. In Peru, President Castilla announced the official end of slavery as civil war engulfed the Andean nation that same year. But the abolition of slavery did not necessarily result in more equitable societies. In all the places where the practice ended, those who had been taken from Africa and their descendants received no compensation or other assistance to redress the injustices they had been subjected to over generations. Instead, they were forced to work for very little pay, often in the same places they had toiled prior to abolition. Liberals in most of these countries considered compensating former owners, as they had lost their property, further exacerbating differences between the former slaves and their former owners. Ultimately, the push for equality under the law did not extend to an effort to address entrenched economic and social disparities. Liberals approached the issue of Indian communities from a similar utilitarian standpoint. In countries with large Indigenous communities, the Spanish crown had recognized a series of rights and protections based on the idea that the king would safeguard their communal lands in return for tribute payments. Bolívar legislated the end of Indian tribute and then reinstated it in 1828, while proposing to turn the Indigenous into yeomen who owned their own land as individuals. In Bolivia and Peru, however, many Indigenous people considered the act an unacceptable violation of their rights, because they wanted to retain collective rights to the land. Throughout Spanish America, Indigenous lands had been communal property, guaranteed by the king. After independence, Indigenous lands in parts of the former viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata were declared vacant, incorporated into the state, and sold. In Mexico, liberals dismantled Indian municipal governments and privatized communal lands, much of which passed into the hands of the Indigenous nobility. Exploitative agricultural practices created the conditions for unrest. For example, the Yaquis remained at odds with the national government because of proposals to colonize their ancestral lands. In 1828, Juan Ignacio Jusacamea called for a pan-Indian confederation in Sonora in the northwest of Mexico. Fighting under the banner of the Virgin of Guadalupe, much as Hidalgo had done almost two decades earlier, his ideas for autonomy immediately raised flags as the authorities feared a regional race war and the extermination of whites. Violence flared for decades, but not just in the northwest. The defense of communal lands took a violent turn in the Juchitán region of Oaxaca during the so-called Che Gorio Melendre rebellions. Sparked by anti-government sentiment and attempts to seize salt mines, leaders called for

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secession and fought against the centralizing policies of Juárez. Nahuas from Guerrero, hailing from hundreds of villages, confronted the state from 1842 to 1846 in an attempt to address political reform and issues of taxation. Nicolás Bravo called the rebels uncivilized and miserable Indians, giving a powerful voice to the emergent discourse of nineteenth-century racism. The Caste War in Yucatán had its beginnings with anti-conscription sentiment in 1836 and 1838, as small bands struck out in support of liberty and federalism. Peaking in 1847 and 1848, as Yucatecan peasants looked forward to an end to tribute and excessive taxation, the conflict escalated when officials suspected that the Maya intended to spark a race war. Yet this reflected the fears of the time and served to justify cruel reprisals and suppression. Uprisings on the peninsula continued episodically through the 1860s. In New Granada, members of Indigenous communities soon realized that supporting conservatives was in their interest because the liberal agenda included privatization and the end of communal landholdings. Modernizing liberals believed that maintaining this kind of ownership was detrimental to Indigenous peoples, condemning them to backwardness—their traditions hearkened to a colonial institution that kept them mired in the past. Liberals advocated for land ownership as a means of civilizing non-Europeans. But as James Sanders has shown, the Indigenous leaders contested this and used mechanisms within the constitution to protest the attacks on their communal ownership. They argued that they were citizens of New Granada and that, as such, their rights and their communal lands should be respected. This strategy was successful for most of the century, allowing some Indigenous groups to keep their communal lands. Throughout the post-independence period, Indigenous communities in New Granada became integrated into the political system. This was also the case in Peru, where Indigenous peoples continued to have political rights first gained in 1812. In each country, literacy requirements for voting were put on hold, and people from diverse backgrounds exercised their political rights. But this was not the case throughout Latin America, and it was clear in regions such as Argentina, Mexico, and Chile that while Hispanized populations might be incorporated into the nation, those who were not remained outside the political sphere. In Peru, extended periods of political turmoil enabled Indigenous communities to govern themselves for much of the 1800s. Some peoples, like the Huancas in the central highlands of Peru, developed a strong and largely self-sufficient economy based on small-scale commercial agriculture. During this period, minimal state interference affected their way of living, and many Indigenous communities thrived while their populations grew. It was only at mid-century that liberals took an interest in the Indigenous issue and advocated for the abolition of Indian tribute. A colonial tax that San Martín had abolished, tribute returned as a means to generate revenue for the cash-strapped Peruvian state. Many members of Indigenous communities viewed these payments as beneficial, because they believed that the tax confirmed their right to own and use communal lands. But liberals countered this argument by noting it was unfair for Indians to pay a special tax simply because of their ethnicity. Beginning in the 1860s, after liberal

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politicians finally abolished tribute, large landowners began to encroach on newly exposed communal lands. Some Indigenous communities remained outside of the reach of the state. Peoples in the Amazon region as well as in the southernmost part of the continent, called Araucanía by the Spanish, had never been subject to colonial regulation or taxation. In Chile, the Mapuche had remained autonomous since the 1640s when Spanish authorities recognized the region south of the Río Biobío as their territory. They intermarried and mixed with other peoples, including Huilliches and Pehuenches, as they expanded east of the Andes, and their language came to be widely used in the pampas of what is today Argentina. By the middle of the nineteenth century, clashes and conflicts occurred in Mexico, New Granada, Venezuela, and Brazil as Hispanized populations attempted to incorporate Indigenous lands and peoples into the nation-state. The campaigns carried out at the end of the nineteenth century in Chile and Argentina were by far the most forceful.

Conclusion This book begins by exploring the cross-class, multi-ethnic coalitions that challenged and ultimately triumphed in ending colonialism in most of the Americas. We recentered historical actors to demonstrate the importance of previously marginalized people and groups in struggles for autonomy, freedom, and independence. However, aspects of colonialism outlasted independence, and political separation did not lead to a complete break with the past or an embrace of revolutionary ideologies. Analyzing national identity formation, which overlaps with the creation of modern citizenship and representative governance, can complicate histories that may on the surface seem straightforward. Didn’t independence end European colonial rule and lead to new mestizo nations, symbolized by the Mexican veneration of Aztec roots and mixed-race heritage? In Peru, as in parts of nineteenth-century Mexico, many Indigenous peasants actively utilized postcolonial courts to push for a new hybrid form of republican citizenship. Therefore, didn’t the new nation-states of nineteenth-century Latin America usher in an age of political progress that replaced the retrograde structures of colonial empires? In some ways, the conclusion to these narratives of independence reflects the fact that the dominant ideologies of the time still connected Europe with the Americas, regardless of political separation. In Europe, the United States, and Latin America, racialized ideologies became increasingly more important in the mid-nineteenth century, bolstered by the claims of science and studies that ostensibly revealed innate differences between races. These ideas took hold among both liberals and conservatives. In turn, national identities in the post-independence Atlantic World reflected newer notions of white superiority rather than the fluid conceptions of race and caste that predominated under colonial rule. Scholars of race have shown that Latin American leaders drew on this new racial science and the ideas of

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Count Arthur de Gobineau and Herbert Spencer, among many others, to classify and then to shape their states and their populations. Even as abolitionism gained steam, many Latin American thinkers posited the idea that Blackness was a problem to be overcome in order to achieve national progress. Traditional Indigenous societies fit that mold as well and came to be seen as relics of the past to be replaced by the modern, Hispanized propertyowning cultures. Both liberals, who often used the language of centralization to enforce assimilationist policies on non-white populations, and conservatives, who cobbled together inclusive, multi-ethnic armies to serve in post-independence conflicts, almost always imagined the national citizen as both white and male. Thus, even as leaders like Rafael Carrera in Guatemala found significant support among Mayans and people of mixed ancestry (ladinos), he did not construct an inclusive national identity with roots in Indigenous culture. And he pushed for the sale of Indigenous lands to maximize the commercial potential of agricultural commodities. Similarly, although men like Rosas embraced Afro-Argentines for military purposes, he ultimately privatized the pampas and ended the gaucho way of life in Argentina. Some historians have referred to these practices as subordinate inclusion, in which marginalized peoples are treated as second-class citizens, albeit with some rights. While these multiethnic alliances promised inclusivity, the practice stemmed from the same racist discrimination that people of color faced every day and did not lead to equal treatment and solidarity. By way of conclusion, tying together issues of race and class in the late nineteenth century, the fate of the gaucho reflects the rise of a homogenizing discourse of Latin American identity that elided racial difference and emphasized whiteness. The gauchos, the iconic Argentine cowboys often associated with banditry but popularized in literature and folklore, began to disappear as conflicts increased. The gauchos tended to have Spanish, African, and/or Indigenous ancestry, and as a mixed population, they represented the same kind of cultural heritage as mestizo cowboys did in northern Mexico (see Chapter 1). Celebrated and romanticized, the gaucho symbolized the freedom of a new nation. As early as 1817, La Gazeta de Buenos Aires opined that “the title of gaucho, which used to provoke an unfavorable image of the person to which it was applied, has now become a glorious term.” It denoted authenticity and masculinity. But through the combined effects of modern agriculture—sheep farming in particular—and wars against the Indians that culminated in the so-called Conquest of the Desert in 1879, successive governments essentially eliminated mixed and Indigenous populations from the grasslands south of the capital, Buenos Aires. Similar to wars in the United States at the time, these efforts served to whiten the population and erase histories of multicultural and complicated identities. These outcomes, while the products of one case, are important legacies of the wars of independence and nation-building in Latin America.

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Notes 1 Today, territories such as French Guiana and Curaçao might be seen as vestiges of colonial rule, administered by France and the Netherlands, respectively. There are dozens of Caribbean islands in similar positions, technically dependencies or integrated into the metropole. And Puerto Rico remains a part of the United States. 2 Caudillos, as charismatic strongmen, demonstrated a high degree of ideological flexibility. Santa Anna, for example, gained a great deal of popular support after spearheading the defeat of the Spanish at Tampico in 1829, and he supported federalism or centralism, depending on political expediency. In addition, there were more liberal caudillos, often with an authoritarian bent, such as Juan Álvarez, a federalist who revolted against Santa Anna from his base in the state of Guerrero. 3 Revisionist historians have questioned the degree to which these reforms challenged the clergy’s pre-eminent role in education. The state did maintain a supervisory role over church schools, and the numbers of these institutions fell in major cities by the early 1850s. 4 Both documents eulogized the “liberator” Castilla, guaranteed the sovereignty of the nation, and maintained the exclusivity of the Catholic faith. 5 Called the Political Constitution of the State of New Granada, the charter established the state of New Granada in Colombia. The terminology referenced both the historical name of the Spanish viceroyalty and the state of Colombia created upon independence in 1819. Consecrated in the name of God, the Constitution declared Roman Catholicism the only true faith. 6 Estimates of literacy across Latin America in the second half of the nineteenth century range from slightly higher than 10 percent to above 20 percent. According to official Mexican statistics, 17 percent of people over the age of 6 could read and write in 1895. 7 Like the U.S. Constitution, the Argentine Constitution of 1853 established a bicameral legislature with an appointed Senate and an electoral college to indirectly decide the presidency.

Further Reading Anna, Timothy E. Forging Mexico 1821–1835. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. Appelbaum, Nancy P., Anne S. Macpherson, and Karin Alejandra Rosemblatt, Eds. Race and Nation in Modern Latin America. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2003. Beezley, William H., and Michael C. Meyer, Eds. The Oxford History of Mexico. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Graham, Richard. Patronage and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Brazil. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990. Guardino, Peter. Peasants, Politics and the Formation of Mexico’s National State: Guerrero 1800–1857. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996. Guardino, Peter. The Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca, 1750–1850. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Katz, Friedrich, Ed. Riot, Rebellion, and Revolution: Rural Social Conflict in Mexico. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988. Kraay, Hendrik. Days of National Festivity in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1823–1889. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013. Lynch, John. Juan Manuel de Rosas: 1829–1852. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Mallon, Florencia E. “Decoding the Parchments of the Latin American Nation-State: Peru, Mexico and Chile in Comparative Perspective,” in Studies in the Formation of

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the Nation State in Latin America, ed. James Dunkerley, 13–53. London: Institute of Latin American Studies, 2002. Mallon, Florencia E. The Defense of Community in Peru’s Central Highlands: Peasant Struggle and Capitalist Transition, 1860–1940. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983. Méndez, Cecilia. The Plebeian Republic: The Huanta Rebellion and the Making of the Peruvian State, 1820–1850. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Mirandé, Alfredo. Behind the Mask: Gender Hybridity in a Zapotec Community. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 2017. Mosher, Jeffrey C. Political Struggle, Ideology, and State Building: Pernambuco and the Construction of Brazil, 1817–1850, Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2008. Rugeley, Terry. Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry and the Origins of the Caste War. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. Sabato, Hilda. Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth-Century Latin America. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018. Sanders, James E. The Vanguard of the Atlantic World: Creating Modernity, Nation and Democracy in Nineteenth Century Latin America. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. Schaefer, Timo H. Liberalism as Utopia: The Rise and Fall of Legal Rule in Post-Colonial Mexico, 1820–1890. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher. “Imperio y crisis colonial,” in Más se perdió en Cuba: España, 1898 y la crisis de fin de siglo, ed. Juan Pan-Montojo, 31–90. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1998. Schumway, Nicholas. The Invention of Argentina. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991. Stein, Stanley J. Vassouras: A Brazilian Coffee County, 1850–1900. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. Vaughan, Mary Kay. “Primary Education and Literacy in Nineteenth-Century Mexico: Research Trends, 1968–1988.” Latin American Research Review 25, no. 1 (1990): 31–66. Woodward, Jr, Ralph Lee. Rafael Carrera and the Emergence of the Republic of Guatemala, 1821–1871. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1993.

7

Epilogue Postcolonialism

What are the postcolonial legacies of the men and women who lived through the Enlightenment and the Age of Revolutions? How were they viewed by their contemporaries, and how are they perceived now? Nineteenth-century statesman Vicente Rocafuerte, who would become president of Ecuador in 1834, adoringly praised the Liberator, calling him “the hero of America, the Washington of the South, the sublime … the immortal Bolívar.” Manuel Cortés Campomanes, one of the Spanish republicans who rose up in 1795 and subsequently became an architect of the conspiracy in La Guaira, Venezuela, expressed a fundamentally different perspective. A friend of the “Precursor” Francisco de Miranda and a fellow exile in London, he reflected back on his activism in 1826 “after thirty years of perseverance and suffering for the cause of America.” He wrote, “my reward is to be forgotten and abandoned.” He tempered his praise of so-called founding fathers, insisting that “the cause of America was and is for me the cause of humanity and reason,” and “absolutely not the cause of Bolívar, Mariño, Miranda etc.” In conclusion, should the major legacy of this historical epoch be defined by the actions of “heroic” military leaders? This epilogue explores the evident tensions between the recollections of people such as Cortés Campomanes, who sought to shine a light on new ideas and ways of thinking rather than on individuals, and the hagiographical accounts penned by those seeking to romanticize the past. Americans have been venerating their entangled histories for centuries. During the four-hundredth anniversary of the landing of Christopher Columbus in the Caribbean, Hispanists in Latin America and in Spain celebrated the civilizing mission of fifteenth-century conquistadores that, they argued, contributed to the collective progress of humankind. The language and images they deployed did not diverge in any significant way, as many Latin Americans and Europeans found common ground in their cultural heritage and Catholic faith. Earlier in the century, Simón Bolívar had even paid homage to “this great hemisphere of Columbus” in the naming of Colombia. Monuments and tributes glorified Colón, as he is known in Spanish, from Buenos Aires and Santo Domingo to Washington, DC. Today, however, the legacy of this period has received a critical reassessment, in large part because of a public reckoning with the colonial past and a history of racism and violence. Even the pope, speaking DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-8

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on the occasion of the five-hundredth anniversary of the conquest of the Mexica (Aztecs), apologized for the horrors of colonialism and the violence meted out in the name of religion and the church. In response, a conservative Spanish politician representing the city of Madrid, Isabel Díaz Ayuso, attacked the pope and upheld the mission of those who she claimed had valiantly spread the ideals of Spanish civilization and freedom to the American continent. Not all politicians share this perspective, and in 2013, President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner of Argentina replaced a statue of Christopher Columbus with a monument to the mestiza Juana Azurduy in Buenos Aires (Figure 7.1). Her decision to replace a vision of conquest with a tribute to independence publicly commemorates a completely different interpretation of history, honoring a woman who struggled to aid insurgent forces and commanded a battalion of troops fighting the Spanish. Yet almost all monuments to the bravery and strength of specific individuals can be reductive, making the story of a people or a nation about heroes rather than collective action and complex motivations. Having one person symbolize a larger struggle in which so many people switched sides and held conflicting loyalties simplifies histories fraught with complications and contradictions. In other words, history should not be presented as a drama featuring heroes and villains. Cortés Campomanes hoped people would see that men and women had not only been serving under charismatic leaders but had been speaking out in support of powerful ideas that promised change. Yet today there are so many memorials and statues dedicated to Bolívar and other liberators, from Madrid and Barcelona to New York City, that the nuanced stories we have attempted to recover appear less visible, as if seen from a distance. Hugo Chávez changed the name of Venezuela to the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela in 1999, and the currency is the bolívar (Bolivia uses the boliviano). Both Ecuador and Colombia have a Bolívar province (or department), while Ciudad Bolívar lies in a different region in the Colombian department of Antioquia. Venezuelan government

Figure 7.1 Monument to Juana Azurduy, Buenos Aires Source: Photograph by Pablo Ortemberg.

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officials, in proclamations verging on propaganda, eulogize the ferocity and determination of the Liberator in combating imperialism, hearkening back to the Admirable Campaign of 1813, because they claim to continue his struggle today. In Mexico, statues and even state names stand as testimony to the great men (and women) of the independence era such as Hidaglo and Morelos. Known as “historia de bronce,” the messaging can tend toward indoctrination and reduction. Whether presented in the form of statues cast in bronze or taught by rote memorization in schools, the creation of the nation boils down to acts of individual greatness, not the important ideas and concepts espoused by lesser-known historical actors or the obstacles overcome by marginalized peoples. By way of contrast, the historian Tulio Halperín-Donghi paints Bolívar’s legacy as one of authoritarianism, while Joshua Simon points to his “republican imperialism.” Simon interprets Bolivarianism as an ideology of territorial expansion, premised in some ways on the subjugation of places such as the majority Black city of Coro. Other scholars describe a “predatory militarism” that epitomized the militarization of society under many Latin American caudillos, including Bolívar, during the nineteenth century. Bent on total war during the height of the conflict, Bolívar continued to use terror and extreme violence during the later stages of the wars. In Pasto, in 1822, he supported an action in which four hundred civilians were killed in the aftermath of a siege. In addition, Bolívar forged a distinct political path that did not align with the liberalism of many of his rivals, and his racial prejudice stood out even in comparison to the views of contemporary white statesmen. He viewed women as second-class citizens, writing that “a woman should be neutral in public matters. Her family and domestic duties are her first obligation.” Yet he and other military leaders from the time continue to be revered and memorialized in the public square, and historical narratives that tell their stories have been crafted to suit the needs of the present day, especially in Venezuela. Just as in the United States and so many other countries, they gloss over the details rather than problematize their ideologies. Likewise, efforts to create a homogeneous body of national citizens out of the diverse peoples of the Americas paper over the racism that underpinned notions that lauded miscegenation. In the early twentieth century, Mexican education minister José Vasconcelos (1882–1959) argued that a fusion of races, benefiting from the white Spanish colonizers who spread civilization to America, would bring about the final race, “the cosmic race.” This positive spin on mestizaje celebrated Mexican identity while stereotyping the racial Other and denigrating non-Europeans. From a postcolonial perspective, the Martinican intellectual Aimé Césaire (1913–2008) wrote of colonization as an economic enterprise led by “the adventurer and the pirate, the wholesale grocer and the ship owner, the gold digger and the merchant.” He argued that the culprit was religion in service of the ideals of white civilization. If the advent of postcolonialism corresponded to the effort to critically re-examine the remnants and legacies of colonial culture and governance since the mid-twentieth century, then Latin America must be

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part of the conversation. Latin Americans forged the first postcolonial societies. By studying topics such as identity and race as well as colonial institutions and practices that were modified and rebuilt over time, we can understand the persistence of structures that had been challenged and even torn down during the Enlightenment and the liberal political revolutions that brought about constitutionalism and representative forms of government. In the aftermath of dissent and warfare, white elites—conservatives and liberals—came to a consensus that the ideals of European civilization, embodied in the exercise of citizenship, should be limited rather than universal, and race, class, and gender continued to be seen as markers of difference. The debate over how much changed with independence has pivoted on a wide range of issues, from political culture to the theory of economic dependency. Prominent specialists assert that much remained the same, particularly in areas such as the economy and social divisions. Although Latin American revolutions were not as radical and all-encompassing as some had hoped, and their legacies are now tied superficially to larger-than-life individuals, they did bring about new political systems based on the idea of representation. Even though class and race became ever more entrenched, in many cases, the new political systems that emerged did make it possible for more people to be included over time.

Further Reading Bell, David A. Men on Horseback: The Power of Charisma in the Age of Revolution. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020. Brown, Matthew. “Creating National Heroes: Simón Bolívar and the Memories of the Spanish American Wars of Independence,” in War, Demobilization and Memory: The Legacy of War in the Era of Atlantic Revolutions, ed. Alan Forrest, Karen Hagemann, and Michael Rowe, 320–334. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Chambers, Sarah C., and Lisa Norling. “Choosing to Be a Subject: Loyalist Women in the Revolutionary Atlantic World.” Journal of Women’s History 20, no. 1 (2008): 39–62. Halperín-Donghi, Tulio. The Contemporary History of Latin America. Trans. John Charles Chasteen. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993. Mongey, Vanessa. Rogue Revolutionaries: The Fight for Legitimacy in the Greater Caribbean. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2020. Salvatore, Ricardo D. “The Postcolonial in Latin America and the Concept of Coloniality: A Historian’s Point of View.” A Contra corriente 8, no. 1 (2010): 332–348. Simon, Joshua. “Simón Bolívar’s Republican Imperialism: Another Ideology of American Revolution.” History of Political Thought 33, no. 2 (2012): 280–304.

Documents

Document 1: Count Aranda’s 1786 Proposal for America1 Letter from Aranda to Floridablanca, from Paris, dated 12 of March 1786 My heart breaks as I consider the state of our Navy and the monstrous numbers of their officers. I include a copy of the latest reports taken from this year’s Navy almanac and France’s annual directory to convince you and persuade you of this truth. To me they are as useless as four mules in a stable pulling two carriages, because two could do the work … but our numerous officer corps stays to eat their rations, and when they are made to work, they suffocate because they are not prepared. In your latest letter from 10 February, you ask me to suspend all judgment on the Yndianos and Peruleros with regard to Don Vicente Capelo. I do as you ask but, be as it may, you already know what I think of our America. If they detest us, I am not surprised, given how we have treated them—not considering the sovereigns’ goodness, the abuses have been numerous and terrible. I do not believe there is another way to delay the stampede than to treat Americans, there and here, better. I go back to my proposal … A better administration is achieved by dividing the Government into many hands; better employees are chosen by those who already have them trained and prepared and can provide compensation upon their return. Although each minister employs relatives and their dependents, one branch still could fall into the hands of a single family or to their heir … And does this not prejudice the sovereign and the rest of his vassals when they all depend on just one party? At least with four or six, doors open. No one gains more than the sovereign just by having more means of knowing the state of things so far away, because several departments observe each other. This is the best service to his Majesty and the public good, as dependents in each of their offices, each one in their own branch of government, impartially instruct their superiors; naturally they have good reason to speak about their countries, and, conferring together to find a convenient resolution, they can cure great ills: when they are limited to the information of just one person, they have to form judgments based exclusively on the account they have been given, without more direction and without more time to obtain it, nor people to trust in obtaining it … DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-9

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Your Excellency might say, laughingly, that I am but a dreamer, and this confirms it. But my issue is that we can no longer sustain our control of America, due to its size and the malaise of places such as Peru and Chile so distant from our forces, and because of the threat posed by other European powers that can decide to take away a part or spark an uprising. Now then, to the dream. Portugal would be the most advisable for us; it would be more useful to us than the whole American continent, except for the Islands. I would dream of acquiring Portugal so then Peru would be joined to Brazil, taking as its limit the mouth of the Amazon, or even further north at Guayaquil. I would establish a Prince in Buenos Aires, giving it Chile as well, but if it just depended on adding this to Peru to tip the scale to gain Portugal’s support, I would give it all, limiting the Prince to Buenos Aires and its dependencies … I am not talking about keeping Buenos Aires for Spain … Spain would retain Quito including all its possessions to the north, and the Islands it owns in the Gulf of Mexico, which would be enough to achieve the objectives of the crown … But would Sr. Fidalgos agree? But would it be possible if there was the will? Would the other European powers agree and not act against it? But if a hundred Buts? And I will say I was dreaming as a blind man who could see … because my head has been filled with the idea that southern America will leave us, and if it was to happen it was better to attempt change than to do nothing. I am not an economist nor a Prophet, but the latter’s vision is not lunacy, because the nature of things will deliver it … If I were Portuguese, I would accept the change … being a good vassal of the crown I prefer uniting with Portugal even if it seems as if we are giving them a great world.

Document 2: Dionisio Inca Yupanqui, Speech given at the Cortes, December 16, 18102 Señor Inca asked to speak and read the following: I have not come to be one of the individuals that is part of this moral body that represents Your Majesty to provide him with a false account of the situation and as a result cause the ruin of glorious Spain, nor to sanction the enslavement of virtuous America. With all the respect I owe him and all the decorum I profess, I have come to tell Your Majesty bitter and terrible truths if Your Majesty does not take them into account. But they will console and heal if he appreciates them and uses them for the benefit of his people … Sir, divine justice protects the humble, and I dare to assure Your Majesty that if he is not illuminated by God’s spirit, he will not succeed in taking steps toward the liberty of the Patria … His Majesty does not know his duties to the Americas. Most of its Deputies and the Nation barely have any information about this vast continent. Previous governments have considered it little and have only made sure that the consignments of precious metal are sent, the origin of so much inhumanity that has not been used properly. They have abandoned it to the care of unscrupulous men;

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Appendix and the absolute indifference with which they have looked at the most sacred of relations with this paradisial country has extinguished the patience of God and fed into the bitterness of Americans toward European provinces. There is precious little time to rise from this lethargy and abandon the errors and worries that are born from pride and vanity. Shake off the old and odious routines, Your Majesty, and understand that our present calamities are the result of a long period of crimes and prostitutions; do not cast off the luminous torch of knowledge, and do not deprive yourself of the exercise of virtue. A people who oppresses another cannot be free … [The] terrible truth [is that] Napoleon, the tyrant of Europe … wants to turn generous Spain into a tyranny. Although resisting him valiantly, we were neither warned by God nor did we know that we would face the same punishment that your innocent brothers have suffered for three centuries. As an Inca, an Indian and American, I offer Your Majesty the following instructions for your consideration … Sir, will Your Majesty resist such powerful truths? Will you be insensitive to the needs of your European and American subjects? Will His Majesty close his eyes not to see with such brilliant lights the way that heaven has shown for salvation? Having read this speech, I present a decree to send the viceroys and Presidents of the Audiencias of America to scrupulously protect the Indians and take care that their persons and properties are not disturbed or prejudiced in a way that violates their personal liberty, their privileges, etc.

This was met with applause.

Document 3: Simón Bolívar, Reply from a South American to a Gentleman of this Island, Kingston, Jamaica, September 6, 18153 My dear Sir: I hasten to reply to the letter of the 29th which you had the honor of sending me and which I received with the greatest satisfaction. Sensible though I am of the interest you desire to take in the fate of my country, and of your commiseration with her for the tortures she has suffered from the time of her discovery until the present at the hands of her destroyers, the Spaniards, I am no less sensible of the obligation which your solicitous inquiries about the principal objects of American policy place upon me. Thus, I find myself in conflict between the desire to reciprocate your confidence, which honors me, and the difficulty of rewarding it, for lack of documents and books and because of my own limited knowledge of a land so vast, so varied, and so little known as the New World. In my opinion it is impossible to answer the questions that you have so kindly posed … because, although some of the facts about America and her development are known, I dare say the better part are shrouded in mystery. Accordingly, only conjectures that are more or less approximate can be made, especially with regard to her future and the true plans of the Americans, inasmuch as our continent has within it potentialities

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for every facet of development revealed in the history of nations, by reason of its physical characteristics and because of the hazards of war and the uncertainties of politics … “Three centuries ago,” you say, “began the atrocities committed by the Spaniards on this great hemisphere of Columbus.” Our age has rejected these atrocities as mythical, because they appear to be beyond the human capacity for evil. Modern critics would never credit them were it not for the many and frequent documents testifying to these horrible truths. The humane Bishop of Chiapas, that apostle of America, Las Casas, has left to posterity a brief description of these horrors, extracted from the trial records in Seville relating to the cases brought against the conquistadores … Every impartial person has admitted the zeal, sincerity, and high character of that friend of humanity, who so fervently and so steadfastly denounced to his government and to his contemporaries the most horrible acts of sanguinary frenzy. With what a feeling of gratitude I read that passage in your letter in which you say to me: “I hope that the success which then followed Spanish arms may now turn in favor of their adversaries, the badly oppressed people of South America.” I take this hope as a prediction, if it is justice that determines man’s contests. Success will crown our efforts, because the destiny of America has been irrevocably decided; the tie that bound her to Spain has been severed. Only a concept maintained that tie and kept the parts of that immense monarchy together. That which formerly bound them now divides them. The hatred that the Peninsula has inspired in us is greater than the ocean between us. It would be easier to have the two continents meet than to reconcile the spirits of the two countries. The habit of obedience; a community of interest, of understanding, of religion; mutual goodwill; a tender regard for the birthplace and good name of our forefathers; in short, all that gave rise to our hopes, came to us from Spain. As a result there was born principle of affinity that seemed eternal, notwithstanding the misbehavior of our rulers, which weakened that sympathy, or, rather, that bond enforced by the domination of their rule. At present, the contrary attitude persists: we are threatened with the fear of death, dishonor, and every harm; there is nothing we have not suffered at the hands of that unnatural stepmother-Spain. The veil has been torn asunder. We have already seen the light, and it is not our desire to be thrust back into darkness. The chains have been broken; we have been freed, and now our enemies seek to enslave us anew. For this reason America fights desperately, and seldom has desperation failed to achieve victory. Because successes have been partial and spasmodic, we must not lose faith. In some regions the Independents triumph, while in others the tyrants have the advantage. What is the end result? Is not the entire New World in motion, armed for defense? We have but to look around us on this hemisphere to witness a simultaneous struggle at every point … The role of the inhabitants of the American hemisphere has for centuries been purely passive. Politically they were nonexistent. We are still in a position lower than slavery, and therefore it is more difficult for us to rise to the

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enjoyment of freedom. Permit me these transgressions in order to establish the issue. States are slaves because of either the nature or the misuse of their constitutions; a people are therefore enslaved when the government, by its nature or its vices, infringes on and usurps the rights of the citizen or subject … We have been harassed by a conduct which has not only deprived us of our rights but has kept us in a sort of permanent infancy with regard to public affairs … Americans today, and perhaps to a greater extent than ever before, who live within the Spanish system occupy a position in society no better than that of serfs destined for labor, or at best they have no more status than that of mere consumers … Mr. de Pradt has wisely divided America into fifteen or seventeen mutually independent states, governed by as many monarchs. I am in agreement on the first suggestion, as America can well tolerate seventeen nations; as to the second, though it could easily be achieved, it would serve no purpose. Consequently, I do not favor American monarchies … It is a grandiose idea to think of consolidating the New World into a single nation, united by pacts into a single bond … But this is not possible … By the nature of their geographic location, wealth, population, and character, I expect that the Mexicans, at the outset, intend to establish a representative republic … The states of the Isthmus of Panamá as far as Guatemala will perhaps form a confederation … New Granada will unite with Venezuela, if they can agree to the establishment of a central republic … This nation should be called Colombia as a just and grateful tribute to the discoverer of our hemisphere. Its government might follow the English pattern, except that in place of a king there will be an executive who will be elected, at most, for life, but his office will never be hereditary, if a republic is desired. There will be a hereditary legislative chamber or senate. This body can interpose itself between the violent demands of the people and the great powers of the government during periods of political unrest.

Document 4: 1816 Petition by María de la Peña, an Enslaved Woman from Buenos Aires Who Requests Payment of Her Husband’s Salary to Cover the Cost of Her Freedom4 January 26, 1816 Maria de la Peña, a black woman [morena], wife of Juan Soto, foot soldier with Regiment number 6 in Peru, presents this notebook, a register of her husband’s military actions, and asks from her owner and master mister Bernardo O’Higgins, who is soon to travel to Mendoza, given that the State owes him 21 months of payment at a rate of 6 pesos a month, which adds up to 126 pesos, for her liberty for the sum of 154 pesos, delivering the sum to her master, who leaves an agent in this city to receive the accrued payment of the outstanding 28 pesos. Colonel Don Bernardo O’Higgins will now explain if he is in agreement with the proposal made by the petitioning slave, in which case he should name an

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agent to take care of the full remittance of the 154 pesos, which she says is her worth, that will leave her in freedom, so that she can find employment to cover for her future needs. Buenos Aires, April 22, 1816 Maria de la Peña, black slave, wife of a soldier in the 6th Regiment, Juan Soto, presents herself with his records informing us that due to lack of payment the State owes her 180 pesos for his salary. She asks for payment, and in case there is not enough in the treasury, her master Bernardo O’Higgins is told when the deposits are made available until the 154 pesos of her value is paid off, and that even though she remains a slave, he should give her a document that certifies her freedom. She asks for the return of the documents that accompany the petition. She says there is no need for a regular payment … but that if Your Excellency is in agreement, send her some as an advance on the payments owed to her husband. N. 13 expresses the legitimate wishes of the petitioner.

Document 5: Decree of General José de San Martín Assuming Supreme Political and Military Command, with the Title of Protector, August 3, 18215 Don José de San Martín, Captain General of the Army of Liberation of Peru, Great Officer of the Order of Merit of Chile, Protector of Peru etc. etc. etc. When I undertook the task of liberating this country, I had no other motive than my desire to advance the sacred cause of America and to promote the happiness of the Peruvian people. An important part of this already has been achieved, but the undertaking is still incomplete, and my heart is dissatisfied if I do not manage to ensure forever the security and future prosperity of this region’s inhabitants. Since my arrival in Pisco I announced that, due to an empire of circumstances, I was invested with supreme authority and was responsible to the patria for its exercise. These circumstances have not varied, as there are still external enemies to combat in Peru, and therefore it is necessary for me to continue holding political and military power. I hope that by taking this step, it will justify the fact that I am not motivated by ambition but only by the public interest. It is obvious that the only thing I aspire to is to live in tranquility and retire to a peaceful existence after such an eventful life. But I have a moral responsibility that requires the sacrifice of my most ardent wishes. The experience of 10 years of revolution in Venezuela, Cundinamarca, Chile, and the United Provinces of the River Plate has shown me the ills that have resulted from the sudden calling of congresses when enemies were still present in these countries. First, independence has to be assured, then there will be time to think about establishing solid liberty. The religiosity with which I abide by my word

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during my public life gives me the right to be believed. I give my word to the people of Peru that the very moment in which its territory is free, I will surrender my position so that a government can be established by those who are elected. The frankness with which I speak should also be a guarantee of the sincerity of my intentions. I could have organized electors named by the free departments [regions] to designate the person who was to govern until the representatives of the people met; but as a great number of well-respected people of importance in this city have repeatedly invited me to preside over the administration of the state and assured me I would have had a popular appointment; and because I have had obtained the consent of the people that were under the protection of the Liberating Army, I have judged it decorous and convenient to follow this frank and loyal conduct, that should appease the people who are watchful over their liberty. When I have the satisfaction of renouncing power and giving the representatives of the people an account of the time of my administration, I am certain they will not find any of the venality, despotism, or corruption that characterized Spanish government in America. To administer fair justice, to compensate virtue and patriotism and punish vice and sedition wherever they can be found, is the guiding principle that will lead my actions while I am in charge of this nation. It is convenient for the country’s interests to install a vigorous government that will protect it from evil that could be brought by war, abuses of liberty, and anarchy. I therefore declare the following: 1 2 3 4 5

6 7

From today supreme political and military command in the free provinces of Peru will be joined in person under the title of Supreme Protector. The Ministry of State and Foreign Affairs will be in charge of Don Juan García del Río. The Ministry of War and of the Navy will be in the hands of lieutenant colonel Bernardo de Monteagudo, Secretary of War for the Army and Navy. The Ministry of Economy will be headed by Don Hipólito Unánue, Secretary of the Office. All official orders and communications will be signed by the respective secretary, as well as by me; and communications will be transmitted to me through the relevant ministries. As soon as it is possible, the necessary regulations will be passed to improve the system of public administration. This decree will only remain in force until the meeting of representatives of the Peruvian nation that will determine the form and mode of the government.

Given in Lima, August 3, 1821. José de San Martín

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6

Document 6: Pension Request, Francisca Caballero y Quiroga

Your Excellency, Colonel José María Quiroga’s petition (promoted by his sister Francisca Caballero). Everyone knows how relevant the interesting services of Mrs. Francisca Caballero have been to the achievement of independence in this capital. In terms of the particulars, I am aware that the number cannot be accounted for, relevant as they are to the many individuals who will always be grateful to her, and to others who owe her their lives. Her house, my Excellent sir, was the very first one where independence was spoken about, and she herself sent the first communication to his Excellency Don José San Martín in Pisco which was taken by the Spanish. And if her statements had not been so good, they would have shot Alfaro, who was the courier of these papers. Captain Don Martín Guarrin, now deceased, helped him evade falling into enemy arms each time he came with communications from the headquarters in Pisco and Huaura. This is all I can say in the presence of the law. Lima, 8 June 1822 Cipriano Delgado ———————————————Your Excellency, With regards to your Excellency’s Supreme Decree I must say: that having been present at some of the meetings that took place in Francisca Caballero’s house, where the Numancia Battalion discussed changing sides to the army of Liberation, I can attest that this lady is distinguished by her patriotism. Without it, the plans conceived to make this switch would have failed. Its success depended on a decision such as hers to keep a secret that in these circumstances, had she revealed it, would have allowed her to receive great compensation from the Spanish Government. On the contrary, if it had been discovered by another channel, she would have paid with her life for her silence. As for the other services she has rendered to the patriots who were with the liberation army, I am aware of them because the very men who benefited have told me about them themselves. This is all I can say in the presence of the law. Lima, 9 June 1822 José María Tello ———————————————Your Excellency, All the services given by Doña Francisca Caballero in support of the American cause and that are expressed in the accompanying reports are known to me because I was one of the people present in the meetings in her house where various officers from the Numancia Battalion discussed changing their corps’ allegiance to the liberation army. This is all I can say in the presence of the law.

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Lima, 19 June 1822 His Excellency, Agustín Gerladino ———————————————— Your Excellency, Doña Francisca Caballero’s important services in support of the American cause are so well known that there is not one who does not talk about her merit among all the patriots in this capital. Her patriotic enthusiasm made her worthy of trust so that the grave affairs of the Numancia Battalion were discussed in her home; the first conversations about it were due to her. She saved several detained battalion officers from danger, because they carried letters to his excellency General Don José de San Martín that confirmed the decision to switch sides as they left her house. Finally, following on your Excellency’s supreme decree of 27 March concerning the true sentiments of Doña Francisca Caballero, I must express that her patriotism is certain and constant (sustained with all characteristic honor). She is one of the most recognized patriots living in the capital. The services she rendered to ensure the change of sides of the Numancia Battalion are well known, and the officers in this corps owe her for it. Afterward, she attempted to help many of the deserters who changed sides to the liberating army. These and other services rendered were enough to merit Señor Don José Boqui to ask me to include her among the few women who were incorporated into the army of the Protectorate, so that she would be recognized with the national colors. This did not happen due to an error that we believe happened in the ministry, as there was another woman with the same name. This is all I can say to your excellency in the presence of the truth and the law. Lima, 7 June 1822 Manuel Rios y Señal ————————————————Illustrious sir, The services that Doña Francisca Caballero details in her petition are true and well known. She provided information detailing how the tyrannical government tried to oppress her by calling on Colonel Ceballos from the Cantabria Regiment. She was asked to admit all that she knew regarding the defection of the Numancia Battalion, given that the principal protagonist of the enterprise, Sergeant Major Don Nicolás Luzena, lived in her house. But they did not manage to extract a single thing from this woman’s constant heart despite the insults and threats she received. At the same time her house was inspected for signs of Officer Luzena’s baggage, which they did not find, although they nevertheless robbed her of everything they found. Due to that extortion and fearful of the enemies that spied on her house, she decided to leave this Court and, walking past the bayonets, to look for the liberating army. It was then that she found the guerrilla parties under my command that led her to the place

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where I resided, and there she remained until the liberating army entered the capital. This is all I can report to you, illustrious sir, in the presence of the truth and the law. Lima, 21 June 1822 Canto José Nabalas ————————————————Copy of the Senate-approved proposal of Doña Francisca Caballero y Quiroga related to her being given a pension; given on the date stated below Proposal Congress, taking into consideration the right obtained by Doña Francisca Caballero y Quiroga to inhabit a State Property as remuneration for the services rendered to the Patria, and taking into consideration the ones undertaken by her late brother Don José María Quiroga, awards her a 30 peso pension monthly until her death. Lima, January 20, 1859

Notes 1 https://archivos.juridicas.unam.mx/www/bjv/libros/8/3637/10.pdf 2 http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obra-visor/diario-de-sesiones-de-las-cortes-genera les-y-extraordinarias–6/html/0299914e-82b2-11df-acc7-002185ce6064_121.html 3 Harold A. Bierck, Jr., ed. Selected Writings of Bolivar, vol. 1, trans. Lewis Bertrand (New York, 1951), 103–120. 4 Thanks to Gabriel Di Meglio for sharing this document from Argentina’s General Archive of the Nation. 5 “Bando Dado en Lima a 3 de Agosto de 1821,” in Colección de los Bandos Publicados por el Gobierno de Lima Independiente (Lima: Imprenta del Rio, 1821), 25. 6 Historical Military Archive, Lima, Peru.

Glossary

afrancesado/a

alcabala alcalde mayor

audiencia ayuntamiento bajo pueblo Black Legend

casta caudillo corregidor criollo/a (Creole) engenho fueros gachupín gaucho Indias junta kuraka ladino/a

A person who identified with or collaborated with the French, especially during Spain’s War of Independence against Napoleonic occupation. The term had derisive connotations. Sales tax. Judges who also had other significant responsibilities, including the regional economy (similar to the role of a corregidor). High court. Town council. Lower classes, including urban artisans, the working poor, and the unemployed. Emerging from texts such as Las Casas’ Brief Description of the Destruction of the Indies, the idea that the Spanish were zealous, cruel, and bloodthirsty. Caste, or a person from a mixed racial background. A military leader; typically a charismatic nineteenthcentury man on horseback. Magistrate/regional governor. A person of European ancestry born in the Americas. Literally, engine; a term for a Brazilian sugar plantation. Special rights and privileges granted to a group or to a kingdom. A derisive term for a Spaniard. An iconic male figure of the Argentine pampas, often of mixed ancestry (see caudillo). The Indies, or West Indies. A broadly representative group or committee, often called in a time of crisis. An Indigenous Andean community leader. Similar to the term mestizo, ladino connotes a person of mixed ancestry. In places such as Guatemala, ladinos often traced their cultural roots to Spanish colonists.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003011781-10

Glossary

155

They were landowners, merchants, teachers, and officials; they also held power in many predominantly Indian highland communities. letrado/a An enlightened man or woman, often a published writer or scholar. mestizo/a A person of mixed European and Indigenous ancestry. Moreno/a A person of African ancestry. obraje An early modern factory or workshop that produced commercial goods. oidor Judge. Old Regime/Antiguo A term for the absolute monarchies of pre-revolutionary Regimen Europe. pardo/a A person of mixed descent including European, Indigenous, and African ancestry, or simply a free person of mixed descent. patria Homeland or country, alternately defined as fatherland. One’s patria came to have an emotional attachment in the course of the eighteenth century as loyalty shifted away from the person of the monarch. peninsulares Spaniards born in Europe/Spain. porteño/a Resident of Buenos Aires. reparto A division of goods/an exploitative system of forced labor brought by the Spanish to the New World. subaltern Generally a reference to a marginalized group or person. zambo/a A person of mixed Indigenous and African descent.

Index

Abascal, José Fernando de 66, 67, 69 Americanos 6, 39, 63, 104, 109, 115 Argentine Confederation 125 Army of the Three Guarantees 101, 102, 105, 106 Artigas, José Gervasio 91, 92, 113 Ayacucho, battle of 109 Azurduy, Juana 70, 71, 141 Bastidas, Micaela, 19, 20, 21 Bolívar, Simón 4, 5, 9, 11, 33, 40, 42, 49, 51, 56, 60, 75, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 93, 94, 98, 100, 102, 103, 104, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 116, 121, 128, 130, 134, 140, 141, 142 Bonaparte, Napoleon 4, 9, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 40, 41, 54, 55, 65, 75, 82, 109, 116 Bourbon reforms 12, 14, 15, 18, 21 Boves, José 56, 57, 58, 59, 77, 78, 79 Boyacá, battle of 86, 87 Breña, Roberto 7 Bustamante, Anastacio 123 Cádiz Constitution 1, 13, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 55, 64, 66, 68, 70, 72, 93, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 108, 109, 115, 116, 118, 121, 126, 128, 132 Cancha Rayada, battle of 90 Cañizares, Manuela 37 Carabobo, battle of 94, 104 Carlota Joaquina 65 Carrera, José Rafael 125, 137 Caudillos 79, 80, 83, 84, 92, 114, 120, 121, 123, 124, 125, 128, 130, 131, 132, 138, 142 Cerro de Pasco, battle of 93 Charles IV 14, 30, 31, 34, 35 Cisplatine Province 88, 92

Cochrane, Lord Thomas 107 Congress of Tucumán 71 Constitution of Apatzingán 48, 64 Constitution of Cádiz (1812) 1–2, 41, 46, 97–98, 99, 101, 109, 132 Cortes 38, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 55, 97, 103, 115, 132 Dessalines, Jean Jacques 31, 76, 79 Dorrego, Manuel 114 Elections 42, 45, 46, 49, 50, 70, 80, 98, 99, 103, 104, 106, 109, 110, 111, 123, 128, 129, 132, 133 Elío, Francisco Javier 55 Enlightenment 11, 12, 13, 14, 18, 24, 31, 110, 115, 125, 143 Federalism, federalists 88, 104, 110, 114, 121, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 130, 131, 132, 135, 138 Federal League, Liga federal 69, 70, 71, 92, 113, 114 Federation of Central America, Federal Republic of Central America 106, 110, 113, 119 Ferdinand VII 4, 25, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 41, 43, 49, 54, 55, 57, 64, 65, 66, 72, 97, 101, 109 Flores, Juan José 113 Francia, José Gaspar Rodríguez de 99, 113, 115 Gómez Farías, Valentín 124 Guardino, Peter 122 Guerrero, Vicente 48, 100, 101, 106, 123 Haiti 23, 31, 32, 58, 60, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 94, 111, 116

Index Hamnett, Brian 6–7 Hidalgo y Costilla, Miguel 4, 5, 25, 38, 39, 40, 47, 50, 63, 102, 106, 134, 142 Historia patria 5 Indian Tribute 50, 103, 134, 135, 136 Indigenous people 7, 13, 17, 21, 30, 31, 36, 38, 39, 41, 44, 45, 49, 50, 51, 58, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 72, 79, 89, 90, 93, 107, 110, 115, 122, 124, 126, 128, 132, 134, 135, 136, 137 Inquisition 61, 64, 99 Iturbide, José Agustín de 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 121 Jamaica Letter 60 João VI 64, 65, 71, 91, 92, 101 Junta 4, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45, 47, 50, 54, 55, 58, 59, 60, 65, 66, 67, 68, 70, 87, 99, 120 Lavalle, Juan 114 Liberalism 43, 45, 48, 49, 55, 93, 94, 97, 99, 103, 105, 107, 108, 109, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 119, 120, 125, 126, 130, 134, 135, 136, 137, 142, 143 Life-long constitution 78, 110, 128; Presidency 94 Louverture, Toussaint 23, 32 Loyalism, loyalists 5, 7, 24, 37, 39, 42, 47, 49, 50, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 81, 85, 86, 89, 90, 91, 93, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 115 Maipú, battle of 90 Malasaña, Manuela 35 Mexican-American War 125 Militias 14, 36, 38, 59, 63, 64, 66, 88, 90, 102, 114, 118, 121, 123, 124, 128 Miranda, Francisco 11, 21, 22, 23, 24, 33, 40, 41, 42, 48, 49, 140 Monagas, José Tadeo and José Gregorio 131 Morelos, José María 48, 61, 64, 100, 122, 142 Morillo, Pablo 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 68, 77, 79, 80, 84, 85, 86, 94, 98, 99, 130 O’Higgins, Bernardo 89, 90, 99, 109, 127 O’Phelan Godoy, Scarlett 19 Order of the Sun 107 Ortemberg, Pablo 94 Ortiz de Domínguez, María Josefa 38

157

Padilla, José Prudencio 111, 112 Páez, José Antonio 78, 79, 80, 84, 85, 86, 94, 98, 112, 113, 116, 131, 132 Pantano de Vargas, battle of 86 Pedro I 105, 118, 125, 126 Pedro II 126 Pernambuco 91–2, 125–6 Persian Manifesto 55 Pétion, Alexandre, 60, 75, 76, 77, 78, 82, 110 Pezuela, Joaquín de la 69, 99 Piar, Manuel 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83 Pichincha, battle of 108 Plan of Iguala 101, 102, 104, 105, 122 Portales, Diego 128 Protectorate, Protector of Peru 94, 107, 108 Pueyrredón, Juan Martín de 88, 90, 92 Pumacachua, Mateo 66 Rabinovich, Alejandro 88, 92 Ragamuffin Revolt, Farroupilha 126 Rancagua, battle of 89 Regionalism 41, 88, 91, 111, 112, 130 Republicanism 91, 94, 101, 103, 104, 105, 118, 122, 126 Restrepo, José Manuel 5, 112 Riego, Rafael del 97, 99 Riva Agüero, José de la 93, 108 Rivadavia, Bernardino 114 Rivera, Fructuoso 113, 115 Rodríguez O., Jaime E. 6, 26n6 Rodríguez del Toro, Mariana 11 Rodríguez de Velasco, María Ignacia 101 Rosas, Juan Manuel de 114, 125, 126, 128, 137 Sáenz, Manuela 107, 112, 116 Saint-Domingue 8, 22, 23, 24, 25, 32, 46 Salavarrieta, Policarpa 61, 62 San Martín, José de 11, 25, 71, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 106, 107, 108, 109, 135 Santa Anna, Juan Antonio López de 106, 123, 124, 138 Santa Cruz, Andrés de 108, 128 Santander, Francisco de Paula 85, 86, 104, 111, 112, 130 Seven Years’ War 14 Silver 17, 18, 19, 69 Slavery, slaves, enslaved 8, 9, 10, 17, 18, 19, 22, 23, 32, 41, 42, 44, 49, 58, 60, 63, 71, 72, 75, 77, 79, 88, 89, 91, 93, 105,

158

Index

106, 110, 111, 113, 115, 124, 126, 133; Abolition 19, 23, 31, 39, 46, 60, 64, 75, 77, 79, 82, 103, 106, 113, 115, 116, 126, 133, 134; Trade 18, 44, 46, 73, 91, 115, 133; Uprising 24, 46, 126 Sovereignty 30, 31, 35, 36, 45, 70, 71, 103, 105, 106, 120, 121 Sucre, Antonio José de 98, 109, 110 Sugar 10, 18, 22, 24, 32, 60, 67, 133 Trienio Liberal 97, 109 Torre Tagle, José Bernardo de Tagle Marquis of 107, 109 Tupac Amaru II 19, 20, 21, 22, 66 Tupac Katari 20 Tutino, John 38

United Provinces of Central America 119; of New Granada 59, 60, 120, 121, 130; of the Río de la Plata 70; of South America 71, 113 Van Young, Eric 7 Victoria, Guadalupe 105, 122 Vidaurre, Manuel Lorenzo, 44 Virgin of Guadalupe 4, 39, 134 Viscardo y Guzmán, Juan Pablo 22, 71 War to the death 56, 75, 79, 86, 90 War of the Supremes 130, 131 Yupanqui, Dionisio Inca 43