Bolivar: American Liberator (68 page)

If my death can heal and fortify the union, I go to my tomb in peace.

—Simón Bolívar

O
n January 20, 1830, five days after Bolívar’s arrival in the capital, congress gathered to define a new government. It was the fourth time in the twenty-year history of the republic that a constitutional convention was called to the task. The representatives elected to serve were so esteemed—such indisputable heroes of the revolution—that the body became known as
“the admirable congress.” As they arrived from every corner of the republic, hopes ran high that they would heal the discord that plagued the land.

The day began with
a twenty-one-gun salute and a solemn Mass in the Cathedral. That venerable structure, with its soaring arches and towers, had just been restored after the ravages of the 1827 earthquake, and it loomed over the proceedings now like an ancient witness to history. Almost three hundred years had passed since
Fray Domingo de Las Casas had celebrated the first Mass on those grounds. It was a typical January day in Bogotá. The crisp mountain breezes had surrendered to the morning sun, and
an air of anticipation hung over the crowd as
it watched its fragile president proceed from palace to altar. Only days before, he had been despondent, inconsolable; one of his letters suggests he was even contemplating suicide:
“I am seeking,” he had written his stalwart Castillo, “that desperate moment when I can end this humiliating existence.” But he had a startling ability to overcome his dark moods when occasion demanded it.
After receiving Communion from the archbishop, he led a procession across the square to the assembly hall, where, with all the pomp and formality the ceremony required, he was sworn in and offered his presidential seat.

There was no doubt Bolívar was still master among those men. Here, with so many of his esteemed generals and advocates in attendance, his prestige and charisma were hardly questioned. For all their distinction he seemed head and shoulders above the rest, a colossus in a
gallery of mediocrities. It was he, after all, who had had
the foresight to convoke this gathering more than a year before, pledging to surrender his dictatorial control.
Congress welcomed him, lauded him, and for a fleeting moment it seemed the Liberator’s power might live forever. It appeared especially so when Sucre—the man he had handpicked to succeed him—was elected to take charge of the proceedings.
“I withdraw in utmost confidence,” Bolívar declared, “for Sucre is my worthiest of generals.” He meant it with all his heart, but it was a rash, impolitic thing to say. General Urdaneta, who had ruled Colombia for almost a year, laboring to preserve Bolívar’s place in it,
was visibly wounded. A British emissary reported that
he clutched his head in dismay. It wasn’t the first time Bolívar had passed over someone for Sucre.
“I, too, had my desperate hour,” General Flores commiserated with the pained Urdaneta. “I’ll never forget when Bolívar dismissed me, sent me home, and then handed my whole army to Sucre.”

It was an awkward moment among anxious souls. Perhaps noting so many strivers under one roof—and perhaps eager to reduce the tension—Bolívar stood, handed Sucre his speech, and left him to deliver it in his absence. If anyone harbored the fear that the Liberator would make one last lunge for power, the words Sucre read aloud made it clear that he had no such ambition. Although congress had paid him polite tribute—although the public seemed to be in his favor—few
politicians gave him unequivocal support, and he knew it. His words bristled with customary candor. He wanted no part of the presidency. He had no desire to extend his power one more day:

Spare me, I beg you, the disgrace that awaits me if I continue to fill a role that can never be free of the charge of ambition. Believe me, a new leader is absolutely vital to the republic. The people wonder if I will ever cease to rule. Our American neighbors regard me with a weary eye, contemplating what ills I will now inflict on them. In Europe, there are those who fret that I have besmirched the radiant name of liberty. Ah! How many conspiracies and assaults have been aimed at my life and authority! . . . Fellow citizens, prove yourselves worthy of the free nation you represent by banishing the idea that I am necessary to the republic. If any one man were indispensable to a state’s survival, that state should not and will not exist. . . .

Do as you will with this presidency; I respectfully return it to your hands. . . . I am ashamed to admit it, but independence is the only thing we have won, at the cost of everything else.

It was a bitter admission. Never before, except in letters to close confidants, had he confessed failure or despaired so openly about the future. Never had he felt so powerless to guide his country from the abyss.
Now, more than ever, he warned, Colombia needed strong institutions, better citizens, a more efficient treasury, a radically reorganized military, a judiciary that protected the rights of man. He appealed to the senators to preserve and protect the Catholic religion, for in the absence of unity the Church represented the only cohesion South Americans had.

“Today, I cease to rule,” began the public proclamation he issued that afternoon, and a broadside with that headline was posted immediately throughout the capital. In the course of twenty years, he told his countrymen, he had served as their soldier and chief. Now all he wanted was to rescue his tattered glory:

Colombians! I have been the victim of reprehensible slander, deprived of a chance to defend my honor and principles. The seekers of
power have gone to great lengths to rip me from your hearts, smearing me with their own ambitions, making me out to be the author of schemes they themselves concocted; ascribing to me aspirations to a crown, which they offered me more than once and which I rejected with staunch republican indignation. Never, never, I swear to you, have my thoughts been tainted by lust for a kingdom. . . . In the name of Colombia, remain united; do not allow it to be said that you were a nation’s assassins and your own executioners.

Defending his reputation had become his paramount goal. In the next days, with what little strength he had, he dedicated himself to it.
He met with foreign diplomats,
wrote to his ambassador in London, José Fernández Madrid, exhorting him to dispel the negative press against Bolívar in Europe. There was so much to defend: the hard-won liberation, the human costs, the iron discipline, the need for unity, the Pan American vision, the Bolivian constitution, the executions. Ambassador Madrid was to insist that Bolívar had never forced the Bolivian constitution on Colombia, nor had he been the one to install it in Peru. It had been put in place by Peruvian ministers, and only after he was gone. This was technically true, although it was well known that Bolívar had mounted a vigorous campaign in Peru’s outlying provinces. Bolívar also instructed his ambassador to refute all charges of duplicity; everything he had ever said or done, he insisted, had been honest, straightforward, with no intent to dissimulate. He rejected all charges that he had been unnecessarily cruel to dissidents and Spaniards; if harsh measures had been taken, he argued, it was in the spirit of wartime reprisal. He maintained all he had ever done was free of self-interest, a fact no one could question. He was a virtual pauper; he had rejected salaries, given away everything he owned. Finally, he denied that any of his actions had ever been governed by cowardice; every attack, every calculated retreat had required grit and daring. In short, Bolívar’s campaign to salvage his name was among the most ardent he ever undertook—and it quickly became a losing proposition. Even at home, he was hardly referred to as “Liberator” anymore; his closest allies had begun calling him simply “the General.” There is no record that he objected to this, but he can’t have helped but notice it. By then, he had convinced himself
that he could let go of all worldly assets—power, possessions, even his homeland—except the one thing he prized most. His glory.

He
retired to his house at La Quinta, where Manuela awaited him. Loving him as she did, she must have been shocked to see him so physically reduced, so emotionally ravaged. In seven short years, he had gone from being a commanding presence, a vibrant lover, to the remnant that appeared before her now.
She received him with customary cheer, but it had to have been disorienting. She was a woman in the prime of life—a spirited, vivacious, thirty-two-year-old—and he an old man in rapid ruin.

Despite his determination to leave the presidency, it became impossible to let go of the reins entirely.
Congress rejected his resignation as it had done on three earlier occasions, but this time it was for practical reasons. The country needed to project some semblance of stability as it went about electing a new leader. Even those who despised him feared that without him at the helm, the country would spiral into chaos. He was pressed, as he had always been, into staying just a little while longer.

There were moments when glimmers of the dream returned, a vestigial impulse he couldn’t quite control. On January 27, even as congress busily hammered out a new constitution, he volunteered to lead an expedition to try to talk Páez out of secession. Colombia’s ministers,
recalling his earlier blunders with Páez, insisted a president could not travel at such a crucial time. Hamstrung and frustrated, he wrote to one of his closest friends in Caracas, José Angel Alamo:
“I’ve asked Colombia to speak up about how it wants to be governed. Let it speak up, then! The whole South has gone and done whatever it felt like doing. Some want a populist government, democratically elected officials, regular change; others, a monarchy; and yet others . . .
sheer idiocies
! Let Venezuela be what it will be. Let it separate, federate, do whatever its heart desires. I don’t care at all, at all, AT ALL! The only thing I want is what any soldier or slave wants—my discharge, my freedom.”

He was feeling petulant, peevish. Seized by another
attack of what he called black bile, he appointed General Domingo Caicedo acting president and announced he was setting out to convalesce in
a country retreat a few miles southwest of La Quinta. The government could hardly refuse.
It was clear to all except perhaps Bolívar that he was on
the verge of physical collapse. With a small retinue of intimates, including José Palacios and his nephew Fernando, Bolívar went off to a house by a pretty little brook, away from the ferment of the capital. He had released all executive power for good. He would never rule Colombia again.

EVER SINCE HE HAD CONFIDED
to General O’Leary that he intended to relinquish the presidency and leave the country, Bolívar had worried about his means to make that possible. He had no money. He had turned down every compensatory award every government had offered him. He had pressed his salaries on others, or neglected to collect them.
By the end of March, he realized the urgency of his situation: he was destitute. He sold his silverware in hopes that it would cover his expenses, but it
fetched little more than $2,000—hardly enough for a transatlantic passage and the cost it would take to sail up the Magdalena to Cartagena. He had nothing to live on come the day he arrived at wherever he was going: whether it was
Europe or a stopover in Curaçao or Jamaica.

His one last financial hope
lay in his copper mines in Aroa, a property worth more than
the equivalent of $10 million. But work there had ground to a stop and the mines were frozen in legal limbo. He had instructed his sister María Antonia to sell them to pay her bills; and, indeed, a buyer in London had surfaced. But niggling questions of title and liens had interfered, and the lucrative mines,
owned outright by the Bolívars since 1773, had ended up in Venezuelan courts, their ownership disputed. The owner, it was claimed, was nowhere to be found. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that this was out-and-out harassment.

In short, the man who had freed Americans from Panama to Potosí, who had commandeered the gold and silver of the Indies—who had been awarded jewel-encrusted crowns and scabbards and million-dollar bonuses, and given it all away—had little to show for the sacrifice.
He had claimed he didn’t care about money, that he needed no more than what was given any soldier. But he had ended up with less: he had no income and no pension. Eventually,
when Venezuela outlawed the sale of the Aroa mines completely, all hope that he would ever recover his rightful inheritance was lost.

He was not surprised. Bogotá had tried to assassinate him, and now in Caracas, where Páez had whipped up a mighty belligerence, they were killing his very name. Bolívar’s old comrades began turning against him with signal relish. His old pal Bermúdez accused him of being
“a despot with criminal designs.” Arismendi, at whose side he had fought many years before, called him
a tyrant with an evil brain. He was persona non grata—a man who had forced his country to kowtow to another capital. Now he would be shown no mercy. He was stripped of his citizenship, his property, his right to ever go home again. At first, when he heard of the court’s ruling, he was outraged, but as weeks turned into months, rage turned into resignation. He wrote to a friend who was trying to assist María Antonia in her legal battles,
“Give up trying to defend me. Let the judge and his cronies take my property. I know them. Scoundrels! Don’t do one more thing on my behalf. I’ll die the way I was born: naked. . . . I can’t take any more humiliation.”

María Antonia, too, had had her share of chagrin. In her attempt to manage her brother’s affairs, she had encountered nothing but opprobrium. As Bolívar languished in limbo,
unable to eat or sleep—his health dwindling alongside his prospects—her door was hung with threats:

María Antonia, don’t be a fool,

But since you are, just mind this rule:

Should you ever want to see Bolívar,

Go on, you’ll find him in the graveyard.

She was barely able to fend for herself. She could hardly be expected to fend for his financial affairs, too.

This is not to say that Bolívar was living like an impoverished man. He was a head of state, slept in palaces, ate well. But the presidency would soon go to someone else, and he was facing penury in a foreign land. He had anticipated neither of these eventualities. He had made no contingent plans. The worst of it was that his fellow Venezuelans had pushed him to the brink of poverty, although few knew how desperate his situation was. He had been celebrated, glorified wherever he went; it would have been natural for them to assume he had become ever
more prosperous along the way.
Even his old mistress in Paris, Fanny du Villars, had written to him and pleaded for money, imagining the Liberator a vastly rich man.
But Bolívar had always been profligate with what little he had. War widows in distress, soldiers who had been incapacitated, officers struggling under debt—legions had benefited from his largesse. He had spent twenty years emptying his pockets for liberty.