The ploy worked nearly flawlessly. Despard and his detachment, largely consisting of Mosquito Indians, forged and hacked their way through the jungle and around the fort just in time to intercept the Spanish soldiers fleeing from Nelson’s attack. It was Nelson’s first experience of hand-to-hand combat. Once Colonel Polson and the rest of the troops arrive at the island outpost, Nelson and Despard were tasked with reconnoitering the next stage of the route up to Fort San Juan. The scouting party set out under the cover of night, paddling 5 miles from the outpost through the inky darkness of the jungle till at last, at a bend in the river they caught their first sight of the Spanish fort. Even in the black of night, the whitewashed walls of the fort, 14 foot high, 4 foot thick and 65 yards in length, would have shown through the darkness from their perch atop a high promontory on a spur of land jutting out from the south bank of the river. Inside the 50-foot keep, the fort’s commander, Don Juan d’Ayssa, with 149 soldiers and 89 assorted followers, swept the river with 20 cannon and 12 swivel guns.34
It was a formidable structure, but after such a difficult slog up river and through the dense jungle, with the very land itself seeming to conspire against them (the plagues of mosquitos, poisonous snakes, and prowling jaguars had already thinned the force considerably), when Polson and the main body of soldiers arrived before the fort on April 11, Nelson was one of many who argued for a swift assault on the Spanish position. It soon became clear, however, that the Spanish were prepared. Don Juan d’Ayssa had been warned by a single Spanish soldier who had slipped through Despard’s fingers at the island outpost. With surprise no longer on their side, Polson was not willing to risk a direct assault on a well-defended enemy, and so opted for a siege. On April 13, the guns that had been painstakingly hauled from the coast now proved their value. Nelson, with his experience of commanding guns at Kingston, and Despard, in his role as chief engineer, were tasked with placing British guns on a series of hills surrounding the fort. With his first shot, Nelson managed to strike down the Spanish flag fluttering above the keep, but the difficulty of the trip upriver soon began to take its toll on the British besiegers.35
The struggle to haul the heavy equipment through twisting shallow waters meant that much of the shot needed to feed the guns had not yet arrived, or had been lost in the murky depths of the San Juan. The men were beginning to drop as well. Few were felled by Spanish bullets, save one foolish soldier who chased a wild hog under the Spanish walls. Instead, it was disease that began to take hold of the British expedition. It was now April. “Incessant rains, alternating with the most extreme heat” laid low British and Indian alike “in great numbers” as they sat and waited in the stifling damp. But conditions inside the fort were even worse. D’Ayssa and his men were under-supplied, and suffering from the same illness that swept through the British camp. After two weeks of siege, the fort had become “worse than any prison,” and now the Spanish, cut off from the river and their well, were running out of water. On April 29, D’Ayssa bowed to the inevitable and surrendered his fort. But as his own flag rose above Fort San Juan, Nelson, the man who had done so much to drive the expedition forward, was not there to see it.36
From his sickbed back in Jamaica under the able care of Cubah Cornwallis, Nelson wrote to Colonel Polson to congratulate him on the fall of Fort San Juan, assuring his former commander that both he and Governor Dalling had received the news with “the greatest pleasure” and asking that Polson “remember me kindly to the two Despards.” Fort San Juan, despite Governor Dalling’s joyous response to the news of its capture—“the door to the South Sea is burst open”—was only the first step in the British drive to the Pacific, and though the season was late, and many, like Nelson, had fallen ill, there were reasons to hope that success was still close at hand. A week before the fort fell, reinforcements had arrived from Jamaica. Led by Stephen Kemble, a well-connected New Jersey loyalist commander, brother-in-law of Thomas Gage and former Deputy Adjutant-General of Britain’s North American forces, the new arrivals, more than 500 men, sailors, volunteers, and a strong contingent of the Royal American Regiment, had arrived at the mouth of the river in mid-April, and immediately began to ship supplies and soldiers up to the fort. The cautious Polson was relieved of his command, and Despard sent ahead to scout the Spanish defenses on Lake Nicaragua, the key to unlocking Britain’s Central American ambitions.37
The Spanish forces in Nicaragua, led by Bernardo de Gálvez’s uncle, Captain-General Matís de Gálvez, knew they had little chance of relief, little prospect of resupply or reinforcement. To the north and south the Spanish Empire was in throes of revolt. The British, it transpired, had been right to think that the Spanish Empire was ready to explode.
5
REVOLT AND REVOLUTION
IN THE SPANISH EMPIRE
Micaela Bastidas had had enough of her husband’s dithering. He had done much to remove the Spanish yoke from around the necks of the Indians of Peru, but the job was not yet finished. He needed encouragement, even chastisement, to bring his attention back to the important work at hand. Everywhere in the region of Cuzco, the native people had risen up in revolt, inspired and united by her husband’s leadership to once more challenge an increasingly intrusive and demanding Spanish Empire. This was certainly something to be proud of, but such leadership brought with it responsibilities. If the rebellion was to succeed, if the people were to remain free from Spanish tyranny and avoid the repression and retribution that would surely follow failure, her husband would focus all of his energy and attention on binding the rebels together and keeping the momentum of the conflict safely in the revolution’s grasp. Bastidas knew this for a fact, and she at least would not hesitate to use all her power to ensure the revolution did not stall, that her husband would not falter.
And so, in December of 1780 she wrote to her husband, to urge, and even shame him out of his lethargy. “You will kill me with grief,” she admonished, “for you go slowly through the villages . . . with great disregard for soldiers who have reason to get bored and who want to go back to their villages.” Such disregard, she continued, was unacceptable, adding a threat to her admonishment:
I do not have any more patience to face any of this, as I myself am capable of surrendering to the enemy so that they take my life. I see you with very little eagerness in confronting this very serious issue that might take our lives. We are in the middle of enemies and we do not have our lives secured. And it is because of you that the lives of my children are also in danger, and the lives of those who are with us.
His carelessness at such a crucial juncture took her “breath away” when she did not “have any to waste.” The stakes were enormous, she reminded him, and although she herself did not “mind losing my life,” she hoped her husband would consider the fate of his family, writing “but I do mind losing that of this poor family who needs your help.” “You promised that you would honor your word, but from now on I will not believe in your promises, because you have betrayed your world.” If he continued to dally now, his honor would be diminished, the men who had flocked to his cause would abandon him, and the initiative would be lost to the Spanish who were likely already gathering their forces in Lima. There was not a moment to spare.1
Micaela Bastidas had married José Gabriel Condoraqui four years earlier in May 1776 in Surimana, one of the three communities Condoraqui ruled as kuraka, a regional governor-cum-magistrate in the days of the Incan Empire with a similar role in the Spanish Empire that replaced it. The marriage had been a Catholic marriage, performed by Father Lopes de Sosa, a mentor of Condorcanqui, with all the trappings of a Spanish service: a reflection of the couple’s position as members of two worlds: as part of the native elite with ties stretching back to the Incas, and as locals coopted into the Spanish imperial machine. The marriage was a good match. Tall and thin, with an aquiline nose, large dark eyes, and hair down to his waist, Condorcanqui possessed the self-assured manners of a Quechua gentleman. According to one observer, “he carried hi
mself with dignity around his superiors, and with formality among the Indians,” and was “very well esteemed by all classes of society.” Well educated at the Jesuit school of San Francisco de Borja in Cuzco, he had a genteel smattering of Latin, and “spoke the Spanish language perfectly, and Quechua [the indigenous language of Peru] with a special grace.” The son of an important indigenous landowner and regional governor, Condorcanqui was also a wealthy man who “lived in luxury.” More importantly, despite his elevated position, and perhaps because of his ambiguous status as a Western-educated Indian, an official with a foot in both worlds, Condorcanqui was also a man with a conscience, an advocate for the grievances of his people, and a vocal critic of the multiplying abuses of Spanish rule.2
Micaela Bastidas was more than his equal. She had been born in Pampamarca in 1744, the child of a Quechua mother and a father of uncertain heritage. It was suggested by some that her father was of African descent and she herself was referred to as a Zamba in some sources, suggesting a contemporary belief that she possessed some African blood. Others believed her father had been a Spanish priest, and both her parents were listed as “Spaniards” on her marriage certificate, but in a time and place when racial identities were more fluid, this was more a marker of status than a reflection of genealogy. Over time, depictions have tended to present a Europeanized Micaela, with lighter skin and European features. But whatever her background, like her husband, Micaela Bastidas was a liminal figure, with a presence in multiple worlds. She was also, like Condorcanqui, a deeply devout Catholic and a fierce, unapologetic advocate for her own rights and the rights of her people. With the coming of the American War and the growing authoritarianism of Spanish colonial government that resulted, Bastidas and her new husband would emerge as the focal point for a new age of Andean resistance.3
The Spanish Empire in Peru had never been a pretty affair. Beginning with the violent conquests of Francisco Pizarro, the history of Spanish Peru is shot through with bloodshed, repression, and exploitation. For Spain, the conquests in the Americas had brought great wealth—gold and silver arrived at Cadiz by the boatload—and with it the financial muscle to dominate sixteenth-century Europe. But by the dawning of the eighteenth century, the Habsburgs’ American empire was widely believed to be in decline, the wealth that catapulted Spain to preeminence in Europe strangled by inefficiency. Under the Bourbon monarchs, imperial reform was the order of the day, especially after the humbling defeat in the Seven Years’ War. From the 1760s, Spain sought to ameliorate what many saw as the backwardness of the Spanish Empire and its concomitant inability to compete globally with Britain by applying Enlightenment principles to imperial governance. Henceforth, imperial policy would be entirely geared toward returning Spain to the ranks of Europe’s foremost imperial and military powers.
Central to this reorganization was a reimagining of the very purpose of empire. Pamphlets advocating a new relationship between crown and its colonies flourished. In his highly influential New System of Economic Government for America, José del Camillo y Cosíos compared the Spanish Empire to those of France and Britain and found it wanting. José de Gálvez, then still an obscure provincial lawyer, impressed Carlos III with a similar pamphlet, “A Vassal’s Discourse and Reflections on the Dependence of Our Spanish Indies,” which argued that it was of the utmost importance that power in the empire reside at the center in Madrid, that metropole and periphery were not equal partners in the empire, and that the colonies should not be allowed to become “accustomed to living independently.” As had happened in Britain in the years leading up to the American Revolution, many now agreed with Gálvez that the purpose of colonies was first and foremost to enrich the mother country. To achieve this reordering, in 1765 Gálvez was sent to the Indies as Visitor of New Spain to perform an inspection and suggest necessary reforms. After his return in 1771, he was appointed Minister of Indies, from which position he embarked on a complete overhaul of the empire.4
To place the empire on a more rational, and more lucrative, economic footing, in 1778 trade was slowly liberalized, with some select Spanish colonial ports now permitted to trade with relative freedom between the empire and Spain. Monopolies on tobacco and other products were extended to ensure regular crown revenue, smuggling—an endemic problem for all European empires—was targeted with new energy, and taxes were extended and tax collection reorganized. The government of the empire was likewise reorganized. Under the Habsburgs, the empire had been divided into separate “kingdoms” governed by a viceroy and possessing considerable autonomy from each other and from Spain. To streamline policy- and decision-making, to ensure the preeminence of the crown and the supremacy of Spanish interests, and to limit Creole power, the kingdoms were divided and replaced by colonies governed by Spanish officials appointed directly by the crown. Finally, the power of the Catholic Church, long a defender of native peoples and critic of imperial policy, was restrained and the Jesuits—seen as a dangerous conduit for the more radical ideas of the Enlightenment—expelled from the New World.5
It was hoped that the Bourbon reforms would stop the Spanish rot and reinvigorate the empire, preparing it for renewed competition with Britain. In reality, the reforms mostly served to underline and reinforce long-standing grievances among both Spanish settlers and the subject peoples of the Spanish Empire. As both a landlord and official squeezed by the reforms, and a protector of the native peoples, José Gabriel Condorcanqui was among the most vocal of the critics who emerged to challenge imperial policy. Perhaps the oldest and most deeply loathed of these imperial policies was the mita system. Since the late sixteenth century, indigenous communities from across the Andes region had been obligated to provide a quota of men to labor for a year at a time in the infamous mines of Potosí in modern Bolivia. The silver from the mines was the wellspring of Spain’s imperial wealth and the font of Spain’s geopolitical power, but also the graveyard of the peoples of the Andes. Such service obligations were modeled on earlier Inca practices, but extending them to the brutal work in the mines transformed their social effects, leaving lives and communities devastated. Over the course of centuries, the mita obligation had become somewhat lax, but in the 1770s and 1780s was revived in response to the growing imperial need to fund its world war with Britain.6
As kuraka of territories subject to the mita, Condorcanqui and Bastidas had seen the suffering it caused first hand. In 1777, while in Lima seeking official confirmation of his claim to be the direct descendant of the last Inca ruler of Peru, Condorcanqui appealed to the Audiencia for an end to the mita system. On behalf of his people and “the imponderable toils that they suffer in the mita of Potosí,” he begged Spanish officials to consider the “grave damage” caused by this forced labor. His people, he protested, were forced to travel huge distances to the mines, “uprooting” families and “destroying communities.” Many would never return home, “because the harshness and ruggedness of [the] road kills them, annihilates them” or “the strange nature and heavy work of Potosí” takes “away their lives.” This was, Condorcanqui argued, “an unbearable toil,” made worse by the gradual decline in the population of those subject to the mita, meaning that an ever greater burden fell upon those who remained to meet the quotas. In the face of such suffering, he asked that the mita requirement be lifted.
The work that they are forced to do, the tasks that they are forced to comply with, and all other abuses that they suffer have been recorded . . . These complaints have been duly submitted . . . because, even though the truth of Indians is not held in esteem, they are, after all, the unfortunate ones and carry the weight and the worst aspects of their humble condition . . . Wickedness [is done in] hiding the wrongs . . . that merit Your Majesty’s and Your Excellency’s compassion.7
Two other, more recent, practices drew Condorcanqui’s ire. In the 1750s, as part of the wave of reforms, a system of forced consumerism called the repartimiento was formalized. Henceforth, indigenous people would be required to purchase a set quota of
European goods regardless of need or desire. Those who refused or could not pay faced forced labor or jail. The idea was to forge a stronger link between indigenous communities and the Spanish market economy both by creating a reliance on European goods and by forcing them to produce marketable trade items to pay for the products they were now obligated to purchase. More recently with the expansion of Spain’s role in the American War, a series of new tax policies were introduced. New taxes were levied on goods like wine and sugar, previously exempt native handicrafts and textiles were now to be taxed, and customs duties were raised twice. To ensure the new taxes were rigorously collected, customs houses were set up throughout the Andes. The new taxation, like that faced by British colonists in North America, was part of the logic of imperial reform movements that sought to alter the balance of power between the metropole and the periphery, forcing more and more of the costs of empire onto the colonies while at the same time restricting colonial autonomy. But higher taxes and more efficient collection reflected more immediate needs as well. By 1780, Spain was once more at war with Britain, and if the empire was to be maintained, if Britain was to be defeated, every peso the empire could provide was desperately needed.8
To Begin the World Over Again Page 20
