Bolivar: American Liberator (69 page)

While Bolívar considered the meager options left to him, Colombia continued to swirl in discord. Congress labored to write a constitution for the greater republic even as its constituent states sped off on separate tracks. Ecuador readied to declare itself a country.
Páez announced that Venezuela’s sovereignty was nonnegotiable: laws would be regarded as null and void if they were concocted in Bogotá. If that wasn’t clear enough, Páez added that he would not deal with Bogotá until Bolívar was ejected permanently from the country.

A flurry of vacillations followed as Bolívar considered taking up the reins one last time—a whim that arose as mercurially as one of his fevers.
He worked himself into a temper, accused General Urdaneta of making a mess of the republic; Urdaneta barked back that Bolívar had killed the republic long ago by pardoning Páez and giving him license. Wanting to fix things once and for all, Bolívar put in a bid for reelection. When Bogotá’s ministers—all of them his friends—
came to tell him that this was madness, that for him to stay was a threat to domestic peace, Bolívar erupted in a fury.
What was he now then? What had his hard work come to? In what capacity would he be leaving the presidency? They answered as evenly as they could: he would leave as First Citizen. When he calmed, he saw that there was no other way.

BOLÍVAR RESIGNED THE PRESIDENCY ON
April 27, 1830. Although Venezuela and New Granada were eager to be rid of him, Ecuador offered him safe haven. In a warm letter to the Liberator, General Flores expressed outrage at Colombia’s ingratitude.
“Come live in our hearts,” he wrote, “and receive the homage and respect that the genius of America deserves.” They were pretty words, but Flores was hardly interested in pursuing Bolívar’s vision of unity. He was seeking a nationhood of his own.

Having returned to Bogotá in March to campaign for reelection,
Bolívar was soon given plenty of reasons to leave.
Not one vote had been cast in his favor. Sucre, the man he hoped would succeed him, had been barred from running at all. The new constitution stipulated that a president had to be at least forty; everyone knew that Sucre was only thirty-five. Even so, with all the barriers Bolívar’s enemies had raised against him,
a Bolívarian went on to win the majority of votes. But as that winner’s name was being read out,
the announcer was shouted down; the people of Bogotá balked. Citizens ran out into the streets, roaring that Bolívar
had tampered with the election. Panicked, the congressmen who had voted for Bolívar’s party now rushed to change their ballots. When these were recounted, Colombia had a new president, a leader both parties could live with, Joaquín Mosquera. None of this augured well for the democratic process. And what it said about Bolívar was clear.

On May 7, three days after congress unveiled its stillborn constitution, rioting hordes surged through the city, cursing the Liberator’s name. Fearing for Bolívar’s life, friends urged him to evacuate the palace and
move into the house of one of his generals, but even there he could hear young men
milling about the streets, shouting taunts. Terrified that another assassination attempt was in the offing, the newly elected vice president, Domingo
Caicedo, insisted on spending the night under the same roof with Bolívar, so that his very presence might be a shield.

Reviled, mortally ill, Bolívar departed Bogotá the next day. Manuela had come to see him off, and they said their
hurried goodbyes in a dim corridor of that humble house. With typical resolve, she had decided to stay until the Liberator returned in glory or sent for her from some foreign shore.
Their parting was sad and sweet, and shortly after he was
striding into the chill of morning.

A throng of loyalists had gathered out front, but as Bolívar emerged he could see that Bogotá’s most powerful were not among them. The archbishop made only a brief, perfunctory appearance. President Joaquín Mosquera was still making his way to the capital from Popayán. Vice President Caicedo, attempting some measure of courtesy, handed him a letter expressing Colombia’s gratitude. Reading it, Bolívar was momentarily overcome.
His hands trembled; his face reddened; he mounted his horse with brimming eyes.
He rode off, escorted by a phalanx
of congressmen, diplomats, soldiers, friends, citizens, foreigners, who were resolved to accompany the Liberator until he was well outside the turbulent city. But they couldn’t protect him completely. As he rode through Bogotá’s main plaza, a knot of rabble ran alongside, pointing, laughing, and barking insults.
“Hey, Sausage!” they called out, using the nickname of a well-known madman who staggered around the city decked out in military gear.

We can only imagine Bolívar’s cavalcade as it snaked out of Bogotá, making its grim way through
the fog-hung morning. There couldn’t have been much to say—only a hard, dour silence. When at last the escort stopped and watched its former president recede until he was no more than a speck in the rising mist, the English ambassador turned away with a sigh and said,
“He is gone, the gentleman of Colombia.”

In Bogotá, few seemed to mourn his departure. By noon, an angry mayhem reigned. Bolívar’s
enemies had circulated a rumor that he wasn’t going to Cartagena, after all. Word had it that he was headed for Ocaña, where two thousand soldiers were billeted and waiting for him in the garrisons; two thousand more were said to be waiting for him farther north. Bolívar’s plan, according to his foes, was to march on Caracas, win it from Páez, then double back with renewed muscle and overrun Bogotá. By afternoon, the capital was teeming with rioters and looters.
Vice President Caicedo had been powerless to stop them.

General Sucre had set out late to join Bolívar’s escort, but mobs had already begun to flood the streets, blocking his way.
Protesters yelled anti-Bolívarian slogans, burned images of Bolívar. In the palace of justice, a throng of hooligans pulled down the Liberator’s portrait and ripped the canvas to shreds. When Sucre finally made it to the house where Bolívar was staying, intent on warning him of danger, Bolívar was gone. Heartsick, Sucre wrote him a final valediction.

When I came to your house to accompany you from the city, you had already departed. Perhaps it was just as well, since I was spared the pain of an impossible farewell. Now, with my heart breaking, I don’t know what to say. Words cannot express my feelings for you. You have known me for some time now so you are well aware that it is not your power but your friendship that inspires my most tender affection
for you. . . . Goodbye, my general. Take, as a measure of my fondness, these flowing tears.

Bolívar was in the northern town of Turbaco, more than six hundred miles away, when he read Sucre’s letter, and it must have deepened his sense of loss to leave such a friend behind. The trip had not been easy on his health or spirit. After an arduous ride to Honda,
he had had to wait for a craft sturdy enough to make the six-hundred-mile journey down the Magdalena. All along, there had been too much time to fear the worst. A few miles outside Bogotá he wrote to Manuela Sáenz, full of worry. The more distance he had put between them, the more he fretted about leaving her behind. Envisioning all the perils—not least her reckless nature—Bolívar dashed off an anxious note:

My love, I am glad to report that I am fine, but I am filled with your grief—and mine—over our separation. I love you, my darling, but I will love you more if you show great prudence, now more than ever. Be careful in all you do, for if you don’t you are bound to bring ruin on yourself, and so destroy us both. Your ever-faithful lover, Bolívar.

By the time he reached Turbaco at the end of May, his condition had worsened. The voyage down the Magdalena, that brown, airless, mosquito-infested river he had navigated so easily in the past, had broken what little vigor he had. He was riding those waters
at the peak of the rainy season, and the river spilled onto the banks, sending snakes, crocodiles, and eels swirling out of the depths. The journey had to have been hard; the rapids, bone-rattling. But
the relentless, fetid heat of the coast was worse, aggravating his pulmonary infirmities. Even so, there was a bit of good news at the end. He received word that the new government in Bogotá had granted him
an annual pension equivalent to $15,000. It was enough, at least, to live on. But when would it begin? How long would he have to wait in that suffocating heat to be able to afford his passage?
The scant money he had raised by pawning his household knickknacks in Bogotá was all but gone. To make matters worse,
his passport was slow in coming, and finding a ship to carry him away had turned out to be a complicated ordeal.

He reached Cartagena at the end of June and set about querying the port about passing ships that might take him. Before long, he learned that
a British packet boat was on its way, but the authorities told him it was relatively small, uncomfortable, hardly fit for a debilitated passenger. When he
learned that it would be full of women, he consented to let it go. A second boat arrived, and the authorities counseled him against that, too, but this time
Bolívar wouldn’t hear of it. He instructed José Palacios to take his luggage down to the beach, wait for the boat’s arrival, and carry it all on board. As he and his servant stood at the water’s edge, awaiting their fate with a crowd of well-wishers, they watched the boat speed toward them. It must have been heartening to see that fleet craft with a full wind in its sails. But the gusts were so strong that the boat soon careened out of control. As they watched, it ran aground, shattering its hull. Undaunted, Bolívar declared he would sail as soon as repairs were made, but the captain of the damaged ship had a better idea. A British man-o’-war bound for Jamaica and England was due within the week. It promised a steadier voyage, larger accommodations, a doctor on board. When the
Shannon
arrived, its English captain was the soul of munificence. He offered Bolívar his own room and every amenity he could afford, but he added that the ship’s first stop would be the Venezuelan port of La Guaira, where Bolívar could not legally go. The captain suggested that he wait a month until the
Shannon
returned to Cartagena, at which point he would gladly ferry Bolívar to Jamaica and beyond. Bolívar agreed, and
took advantage of the ship’s route to Caracas to send a letter to his executor, requesting some desperately needed cash. Relieved that he had been spared the grueling months-long voyage, his friends spirited him off to convalesce in a modest cottage at the foot of Mount La Popa.

The cash from Caracas never came. What did come as Bolívar awaited his fate was
a slew of letters and a bit of remarkable news. Whole provinces of Venezuela had rebelled in his favor. They were calling Bolívar back into the fray. His spirits lifted. He knew perfectly well that for him to return to Venezuela was to risk war with Páez, and yet . . . it was tempting to think that he might live out his days in the land of his fathers—the land for which he had sacrificed all. As he mulled this unexpected turn of events, June slipped into July, ships came
and went, and more bulletins arrived. But nothing would affect him as deeply as
the tragic news he received on the morning of July 1.

Sucre had been assassinated. Unable to find the Liberator in the churning chaos of the capital, the general had decided to undertake the long ride home to his wife and infant in Quito. But days into the trip,
he had been ambushed in the thickest part of a forest, deep in the heart of that most fractious and willful of regions: Pasto. He had set out in the dim light of dawn and was traversing a rocky mount when he heard someone call his name. He whirled around in his saddle to meet a quick battery of gunshot. When his three traveling companions caught up with him, they found him sprawled on the ground with a bullet in his heart, two more in his brain. His dazed mule was standing by.

Days later, a band of suspects was arrested, dragged to Bogotá, and put on trial. In the course of conflicting testimony, none of which was ever substantiated, the leader of the group confessed that he had been dispatched by General Obando. There was logic to this: Obando was the notorious rebel who had sought Peru’s help against Sucre; in a desperate effort to unify the region, Bolívar had forgiven Obando, even promoted him to a position of prominence.
The directive Obando had given to Sucre’s killers, according to one of them, was as urgent as it was explicit. The men were to stop Sucre from returning to Quito—at all costs. It was essential, urgent, a matter of state security: Bolívar’s “favorite son” was in the process of mounting a colossal crime against the Ecuadorian people. He was galloping home, Obando told them, to prepare the country for Bolívar’s coronation.

Whether Obando was complicit was never established. Whether the crime originated in Pasto or Bogotá would remain a mystery as well. But everyone seemed to recall that three days before the murder,
El Demócrata,
a “liberal” newspaper in Bogotá, had published this in one of its editorials:
“Maybe Obando will go ahead and finally do to Sucre what we failed to do to Bolívar.” It was obvious that a contract of some sort had been carried out on Bolívar’s chosen successor.
General Flores, whom Bolívar had shunted aside for Sucre, was also accused of having ordered the assassination, as was anyone who had any reason to want Sucre gone.

No one was ever made to answer those accusations. By the time Bogotá
moved to deliberate the question of Obando’s complicity, Ecuador had proclaimed its independence from Colombia. It was—for all intents and purposes—a perfect hit.

THE NEWS OF SUCRE’S MURDER
couldn’t have been more devastating to a sick man on the brink of exile. Bolívar had been prepared to lose all he had—homeland, family, fortune. But to lose a brave man who had served his dream so loyally was more than he had bargained for. Sucre had been Bolívar’s ideal: a skilled leader who was also a devoted acolyte, a brilliant warrior on whose honesty and principles he could rely. He had won some of Bolívar’s most resounding victories—Ayacucho, Pichincha, Tarqui. He had presided over Bolivia, the nation that bore the Liberator’s name. He had shared in the most intimate aspects of Bolívar’s life, sealing a warm friendship with Manuela. He had warned Bolívar of impending dangers, told him truths no one else dared say. He was the best friend and defender the Liberator had ever had. How could Sucre, a blameless hero—a man who served liberty so selflessly—have been struck dead by a compatriot’s hand? It was barbaric, inconceivable.
“Holy God!” Bolívar roared when he heard of it, “If there is justice in heaven, hurl down your vengeance now!”
That night, Bolívar’s condition worsened; he was overcome by
an insuperable sense of dread.
He had agonized over his mistress’s welfare, worried about his sisters—he had thought them the most vulnerable—
but it was his fearless warrior who had been hunted and killed. If it could happen to Sucre, it could happen to anyone. Shaken to his very soul, he issued a warning to his second most favorite general, Flores,
“Be careful,” he wrote him. “Mind your safety as if you were a pretty little girl.”