Bolivar: American Liberator (47 page)

HE MADE THE TRIP TO
Guayaquil in early July, passing through breathtaking landscapes that
thrilled and ignited his imagination. He had always been
a lover of nature, and the staggering sight of Ecuador’s perpetually snow-covered volcanoes—great white leviathans, rising from carpets of equatorial green—moved him deeply. He had never seen this part of the world before: a fertile terrain that swarmed with earthly life, yet reached boldly for the heavens. The purple skies, the starlit nights, the land’s fierce tectonic past—all touched something in his soul.

Had things turned out differently, had he not felt the irresistible pull of war and revolution, he might have been a philosopher in his hacienda, contemplating the miracles of this earth.
He thought of this now, as he looked out upon the land. Nowhere in the Republic of Greater Colombia had nature been so prodigal with its gifts as here, outside Quito,
where soaring mountains grazed the vaulted skies—taunting ambition with magnificent zeniths.

Chimborazo, believed then to be
the tallest peak on earth, spurred him to ponder the heights he himself had mastered. Sometime later, holding the image of that volcano in vivid memory, he wrote about it to his old teacher, Simón Rodríguez.
“Come to Chimborazo,” he urged:

Tread if you dare on this stairway of Titans, this crown of earth, this unassailable battlement of the New World. From such heights will you command the unobstructed vista; and here, looking on earth and sky—admiring the brute force of terrestrial creation—you will say: Two eternities gaze upon me: the past and the yet-to-be; but this throne of nature, like its creator, is as enduring, as indestructible, as eternal, as the Universal Father.

He was a writer, after all.
And yet historians disagree as to whether Bolívar could be the author of a
similarly elegiac document about Chimborazo that appeared three years after his death. “My Delirium on Chimborazo,” a prose poem
discovered among a Colombian colonel’s papers and purported to be written in Bolívar’s hand, is a lyrical, phantasmagoric description of his rise to glory. In it, Bolívar is seen astride the very pinnacle of that volcano, high above earth, where Time itself makes him look upon the past as well as an unfurling future. “A febrile ecstasy invades my mind,” he writes. “I feel lit by a strange, higher fire.”

Bolívar could not possibly have climbed Mount Chimborazo, which measures 20,565 feet and which few mortals have conquered, and yet there are those who read the poem as a literal claim that he did. No, he did not reach the top. The naturalists La Condamine and Humboldt—far more prepared for the feat—attempted it and failed. But it is all too possible that the Liberator climbed some of the way, at least enough to take in the panorama.

Most Latin American scholars of Bolívar do not question that he wrote “My Delirium”; perhaps because it makes perfect sense that he would have, perhaps because it confirms, at least metaphorically, what is known: the Liberator was at the zenith of his glory. He was filled with
awe by the transcendence of the moment, by the superhuman vantage it gave him—by the astonishing beauty of his America. He did not feel he was at a loss to describe such emotions. Unlike other warrior heroes who had preceded him in history, he was not afraid to take up the pen.

SAN MARTÍN HAD REACHED SUCH
an impasse in Lima that he had no choice but to respond gratefully to Bolívar’s magnanimous
offer of assistance and the invitation to discuss it in person.
“I accept your generous proposal,” San Martín wrote back immediately. “Before the 18th, I’ll leave from the port of Callao and, as soon as I disembark in Guayaquil, I’ll make my way to you in Quito. . . . I have a feeling that America will never forget the day that you and I embrace.”

Although San Martín was a proud and headstrong man, there was little he wasn’t willing to do for America. But Peru had turned out to be far more complicated than he had anticipated. He was trapped in a political stalemate in Lima—he had produced neither a congress nor a constitution—and, in the process, he had earned many foes. When it was learned that he had sent a delegation to Europe
seeking a prince from a royal family to govern the newly independent republic, Lima’s republican stalwarts were appalled. High-ranking government officials were soon
found guilty of plotting against him. But it wasn’t just in government circles that he was drawing fire. His naval blockade had strangled a thriving Peruvian trade, and the
powerful merchants hated him for it. He was hated, too, for his tyrannical right-hand man, the Argentine Bernardo Monteagudo, who had assumed the reins as San Martín slipped in and out of an opium haze, and
mounted a cruel campaign against Spanish-born citizens. In military matters, too, San Martín’s power was crumbling.
He was at odds with his admiral, Lord Cochrane, who saw his reticence to attack the king’s army as a deficit of courage. He was persona non grata in Argentina for ignoring his president’s orders. Perhaps worst of all, his soldiers had been reduced from a bold fighting force to a sluggish army of occupation. Within the course of a short year, the Protector had lost all the momentum he had once had.

Stymied by political minefields, bewildered by the ferocity of his critics, San Martín now found the Peruvian animus against him so crippling that he was unable to carry out strategy or recruit soldiers to his
side. There was much he needed from Bolívar. Risking everything, he decided to leave Lima in charge of subalterns to go north and make a desperate alliance with the Liberator.
On July 13, he set sail for Guayaquil, intending to march on to Quito.

But Bolívar was no longer in Quito. On the day San Martín received the Liberator’s letter, urging him to a meeting, Bolívar was already making a triumphant entrance into Guayaquil. The city’s leaders were openly alarmed. President Olmedo, a celebrated poet and orator, had made it clear that he favored joining Guayaquil to Peru, and now, watching the ecstatic crowds rushing to meet Bolívar, the president felt power slip from his hands.
Colossal arches glorifying the Liberator’s name towered over the magnificent Malecón; women and girls,
resplendent in white and blue, flocked down the streets to welcome him. When the municipal council officially welcomed him as Guayaquil’s bringer of independence even though independence had been won almost two years before, it was too much for the president and his junta. Offended, they
stalked off in protest.

Two days later,
Bolívar invited Olmedo and all the members of the junta to a conference in his residence to try to dispel the acrimony. The meeting went rather well. But just as his guests were leaving, a crowd swarmed onto the property,
tore down the flag of Guayaquil, and ran up the flag of Colombia. Frightened that this was the start of a violent coup, the junta scurried to safety next door. Bolívar had the flags changed at once. He told his aide O’Leary to make it clear to all present that what they had just seen had been done without his knowledge, and
that he highly disapproved of it. But it was just as clear that the demonstrations on behalf of Colombia—and against Olmedo’s junta—were growing increasingly more ardent and dangerous.
The junta was reconvened to discuss the question, but the debate went on at such length that Bolívar grew impatient and insisted they make an immediate decision. They took the hint.
He took command of the city later that day.

LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LATER,
San Martín’s schooner, the
Macedonia
, and a convoy of Peruvian ships sailed briskly through the dark of an early morning toward the coast of Puna, the lush green island that sits at the mouth of the Guayas estuary. It was July 25, Guayaquil was but
hours away, and San Martín was confident that he would now
take command of it for Lima. But immediately on dropping anchor, he was told that Bolívar was already in the city, and that the island of Puna—like freed Guayaquil—was Colombian territory now. Stunned, the Protector refused to disembark.

The jolly celebrations for Bolívar’s thirty-ninth birthday that had begun the night before were probably still in full throttle
in that cool predawn as San Martín deliberated his predicament. Bolívar had not received San Martín’s letter; he had no notion the man was on his way. When he arose later that morning, he was astonished to learn that his rival was at such close radius. He sent a delegation of two aides with a letter of welcome and, when he was told that San Martín was unwilling to come ashore, he dispatched another:

No, do not dismiss lightly the eagerness with which I welcome to this Colombian soil the dearest friend of my heart and nation. How is it possible that you have come so far only to deny Guayaquil the corporeal presence of a man we’re so anxious to know and, if possible, touch? That cannot be, my admirable friend; I await you, and I will come and meet you wherever you will be so kind as to expect me.

We can imagine San Martín’s consternation: the prospect of setting foot on soil that had been snatched so abruptly from his grasp. It was one more indignity in a long string of humiliations, and the proud Argentine was sick at heart.
Fleet boats of oarsmen traveled up and down the river, negotiating this delicate exchange between liberators, until,
eventually, San Martín responded that he would meet with Bolívar the next day. The
Macedonia
proceeded majestically up the Guayas River through the night and arrived at midday on the 26th. Bolívar went out to meet it. Boarding the Peruvian ship straightaway, he greeted the dour Argentine with all the conviviality and charm he could muster.

San Martín and his official entourage—in all their decorated splendor—were
met by a parade formation of Colombian army officers that led all the way from the dock to the imposing Luzárraga mansion, where he would be staying. He walked past throngs of cheering townspeople who had swept down to the docks when they heard that
the great San Martín, liberator of Argentina and Lima, had arrived. When he finally entered the house, Bolívar and his officers were there to receive him in the vestibule. Agile, animated, filled with the sudden energy of a man who has been handed every advantage, the Liberator strode forward and vigorously shook his guest’s hand.
“At last!” he said, for the benefit of the dignitaries who had gathered around, “I am shaking the hand of the famous General San Martín.”

Indeed it was an occasion with few precedents in history: two warrior heroes—liberators of a prodigious landmass that stretched half the globe, from north of the equator to Antarctica—had executed one of the most remarkable pincer movements in military history. Moreover, they had succeeded essentially without collaboration until now.
Bolívar felt the moment deeply, and showed it. San Martín thanked him and, as was his nature, kept his reserve. Ramrod straight, sober, he replied that it gave him great pleasure to make the Liberator’s acquaintance. They walked together to the great salon, where San Martín was given affectionate
tributes from the women of Guayaquil. At the close of that ceremony, an exceptionally beautiful girl of seventeen—the
youngest of three flirtatious sisters who would correspond with the Liberator for years—approached the venerable Protector and delicately placed a crown of laurel on his brow. Surprised and visibly flummoxed, the general
snatched it from his head. Perhaps it was something in the girl’s face or in the murmurs around the room that made San Martín see the insult of that gesture. He hurried to say that he didn’t deserve her gift, that others merited it far more; that he treasured the hands from which it came, and would always remember the moment as one of the happiest of his life.

The two heroes were left alone to conduct the first of three private conversations. They did so behind closed doors. No secretary, no guard, no third party was present for any of those meetings and the details of their discussions—for almost two centuries now—have remained shrouded in mystery and dispute. With Bolívar likely pacing back and forth, as was his custom, and San Martín sitting stolidly in his chair, they deliberated all that was on their minds, none of it for the record. Nevertheless, looking closely at the considerable correspondence that followed, we can piece together what was said.

The first question that arose was the nationality of Guayaquil. Bolívar assured San Martín that he would hold
a vote to determine the democratic will, but added that he was sure the people would choose Colombia. San Martín waved away all further discussion on this, willing to
ascribe all problems to the city’s fickleness. It was clear he wanted to waste no time. He had told Bolívar in an earlier letter that
a few hours between soldiers would suffice, and it was in this spirit that he went directly now to
“the last battleground in America,” Peru. His strategy for the next campaign, as he described it, was to attack La Serna’s army on two fronts, one by land and another by sea, hundreds of miles apart. Bolívar
commented, as politely as he could, that he thought it a weak option. It would be far better, he said, to gather the liberating army and drive it into the interior like a hard, steel fist.

His
army wasn’t large enough for that, San Martín replied. La Serna and Canterac had assembled a mighty legion in the highlands. San Martín had but remnants of his original battalions, and whatever sailors lingered behind after Lord Cochrane angrily abandoned the cause. Recruiting had not been easy. Brought to the last possible question, San Martín went to the heart of the matter: how many Colombians could Bolívar contribute to the task?

Bolívar
called for one of his aides to bring some documentation from his office. He wanted to show the Argentine in as concrete form as he could that the Colombian army was neither as vast nor as concentrated a force as he had assumed. The most he could offer, he said, was to return the division led by Santa Cruz, replacing all its losses, and add three battalions of Colombians—a contribution of
a little more than a thousand troops. San Martín was flabbergasted. He had counted on the support of Bolívar’s entire army, which at that point
he calculated to be 9,600 armed men. The only reason he could see for this sudden, alarming parsimony was that Bolívar didn’t trust him to lead those troops.