Bolivar: American Liberator (20 page)

“VENEZUELA IS WOUNDED IN THE
heart,” Miranda had said when he informed his men about Puerto Cabello. Perhaps it was a genuine expression of disillusionment. Perhaps it was an excuse for what he was about to do. The
next morning, before dawn pierced the skies, his officers saw him pacing the corridor outside his quarters—shaved, groomed, in dress uniform—as if he were readying himself for an important occasion.
“They’ve probably stormed the plaza by now,” he commented to them, referring to Bolívar’s holdout in Puerto Cabello. “It’s absolutely necessary that we take extraordinary measures to save Venezuela.” By this, Miranda did not mean that they needed to infuse troops with a new vigor. Like most of his soldiers, he had long since ceased to place much hope in the foundering republic. Yet his subordinates feared his indignation and so
did not dare raise the possibility of a capitulation until Miranda raised it himself in a passing exchange with the Marquis de Casa León, the newly appointed finance minister. Casa León immediately seized on Miranda’s vague mention of a cease-fire and
suggested that the generalísimo convene an emergency council to discuss the matter. The marquis was Spanish-born, a wealthy landowner worried about his considerable holdings, and had lost heart in the tumultuous republican venture.
He wanted nothing more than a peaceful reconciliation with Spain.

That very day, Miranda called a meeting of the few leaders he could muster—among them two members of the executive body, Francisco Espejo and Juan Germán Roscio, as well as Secretary of War José de Sata y Bussy, Minister of Justice Francisco Antonio Paúl, and the Marquis de Casa León—and proposed the possibility of negotiating with the enemy.
The republic was in extremis, he argued: the western regions, the banks of the Orinoco, the plains, the entire coastline were under Spanish control. In the nation’s breadbasket, the fertile valleys of the
southeast, slaves were slaughtering their masters in the name of King Ferdinand. Even in the streets of La Victoria, the very town in which they stood, Monteverde’s soldiers had been seen racing through the alleyways. The republican ranks were being depleted daily by desertions. And now, with the loss of Puerto Cabello, they had too few weapons to prosecute a war. It was time to talk about an armistice. The men unanimously agreed. The Marquis de
Casa León happily volunteered to be the intermediary.

The discussions with Monteverde began on July 12 in Valencia, just as Bolívar reached Caracas from La Guaira and wrote his first letter of abject apology to the generalísimo. To show the Spaniards a little muscle before joining them at the negotiating table, the
republicans launched a modest attack. But there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that what would be discussed was unequivocal surrender. As negotiations were taking place, Miranda traveled from La Victoria to La Guaira to
charter a ship for his evacuation. He made sure that the Marquis de Casa León put aside
22,000 pesos for his voyage. Here, as one historian has said, is
proof incontrovertible that the generalísimo had abandoned the cause of the republic for his own.

On the 25th of July, after minimal disputation, the republicans agreed to Monteverde’s terms, even leaving it to him to apply all the particulars.
The pact did seem to ensure the most important points: patriot lives and properties would be protected, a complete amnesty for political crimes would be granted; and passports would be available to any republican who wanted to leave the country. The agreement was signed and sealed and, although Miranda made no official announcement, word of it began to trickle back to the republican stronghold of Caracas.

Miranda immediately ordered a freeze on all movement in La Guaira so that neutral ships would be available to him and other leaders seeking to flee the crumbling republic. He made sure that even as his own soldiers were systematically stripped of their weapons, the rebellious slaves, too, were
made to give up their arms. He attempted an orderly withdrawal from La Victoria, but almost half of his troops had already gone over to the Spanish side; many of the rest dispersed into the woods on the long march back to Caracas. Even as Miranda entered the capital on July 29, Monteverde’s troops followed close behind, striking
fear into the waiting populace. From the moment the
banner of independence was lowered and King Ferdinand’s flag was hoisted over the main square, a looming dread spread over the city.

That dread was followed immediately by fury. Creoles who had never liked Miranda were now outraged by his easy surrender. As far as they were concerned, the generalísimo hadn’t made one vigorous attack, hadn’t deployed his six thousand warriors with any verve or skill. Wasn’t a fierce war to the finish preferable to this humiliation? Not one member of the Caracas government had been warned of the capitulation before the city was surrounded by Spanish soldiers. Miranda had made no effort to consult with the city’s leaders; he
had not confided his plans to his military officers; and, for all the service his foreign soldiers had rendered, he had made
no provision in the capitulation for their safe passage. Even as defenders of the republic hastened to escape—or put themselves in positions of favor with Monteverde—few thought to defend Miranda, although it was clear he had not surrendered alone.

Bolívar was astounded by his chief’s precipitous and unilateral resignation, and his surprise, too, turned to rage. What might he have accomplished in Puerto Cabello with all the guns and men under Miranda’s command? And, if Miranda had felt unable to carry on,
why hadn’t he passed the scepter to someone who could? Instead, the generalísimo’s proclamation, posted throughout Caracas, announced that the patriot army had ceased to exist:
less than three hundred of Monteverde’s soldiers now held dominion over
a city of fourteen thousand. To Bolívar, there was only one possible reason for Miranda’s reversal: it was treason of the highest order, and it demanded swift and dire retribution.

Bolívar immediately sought out fellow republicans
in hopes of reconstituting the army and mounting a new front against Monteverde, but it was increasingly clear that the moment had been lost. Many of those men had gathered their families and headed for the port, frightened by the swift collapse of the republic and rumors of violence that accompanied Monteverde’s arrival. But the clamor to emigrate, as Bolívar soon found when he rushed back to La Guaira to witness the situation firsthand, had been foiled by Miranda himself: for four days now, republicans had swarmed over the mountain and onto the docks, ready to board ships, only to learn that the generalísimo had ordered the port
closed. Colonel Manuel María de Las Casas, the port’s commandant, told them categorically that
no vessel could leave until Miranda himself had sailed. Frustrated, fuming, Bolívar and his cohort awaited the generalísimo’s arrival and considered how best to foil his escape.

On July 30, the evening that Miranda was to make his getaway, the dusty remains of the port of La Guaira bustled with fretful life. A
suffocating heat was finally beginning to lift and, through the gaping doorways of improvised inns, one could see the gathering multitudes—pacing, nervous, eager to make their escape. The dim light of lanterns revealed the miserable lot: sailors whose ships had been grounded; soldiers stripped of their weapons; officers with no authority; worried mothers; weeping children. Out in the noisy streets, servants hauled trunks; mules stumbled through rubble; hulking stevedores offered their services.
The sea, ruffled by a rising night breeze, began to grow agitated, and the ships bobbed upon it, trying the seamen’s legs.

Miranda’s baggage had been sent to La Guaira fifteen days before, and it awaited him now, on board the HMS
Sapphire
, the very ship that had borne Bolívar, flush with excitement, from London. Now, two years and a revolution later, the corvette’s captain, Henry Haynes, was eager to board the old rebel and depart the ruins of the republic. As soon as the generalísimo arrived at the port commandant’s house at seven o’clock that evening, Captain Haynes went to implore him to lift the embargo and board the ship at once. Miranda responded that he was much too exhausted to put to sea right away. Once inside Commandant Las Casas’s quarters in the spacious, magnificent old Guipuzcoana building, he made himself comfortable. Las Casas invited him to stay for dinner, encouraging him to spend the night. Miranda was assured that the
22,000 pesos that had been promised were now aboard the
Sapphire
, in the hands of a British agent. All was ready for his departure, his host assured him, but there was absolutely no reason to leave before morning.

Miranda sat down to dinner with Las Casas and the governor of La Guaira, Miguel Peña. Joining them were Miranda’s aide Carlos Soublette and Pedro Gual (nephew of Manuel Gual), his former secretary. They discussed the terms of the capitulation, with
Gual stubbornly doubting that Spain would live up to them. Miranda rudely dismissed
his concerns; Spain was too distracted by war to be able to keep a strong hold on Venezuela, he said gruffly. His hope in time was to ally with New Granada and reenter Caracas from Cartagena. With such dreams did the old generalísimo take to his bed, as Soublette lit his way and promised to wake him early in the morning.

But a nightmare of betrayals was about to descend on Miranda. Colonel Las Casas, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with his new master,
had already communicated with Monteverde. The commandant knew that it would not be long before the Spanish arrived and took control of the port. He had confided as much to Governor Peña. But there were other schemes at work. Days before, Bolívar and his angry cohort had
sought out Las Casas and Peña to persuade them to prevent Miranda from departing Venezuela. Now, with that deed accomplished and Miranda fast asleep in the other room, twelve conspirators—Bolívar among them—gathered in Las Casas’s house to decide what to do. A passionate discussion followed, in which all the bitterness they had long harbored against Miranda was unleashed. They spoke of his
contempt for his countrymen, his past service for France and England, the potential profits that awaited him on board the
Sapphire.
How was it that an English captain had emerged so conveniently out of the sea to rush Miranda to safety? How could anyone be sure that Miranda was not colluding with England and Spain now that they were allies? And why had the Marquis de Casa León (who had since become one of Monteverde’s most prominent advisors) been asked to procure so hefty a monetary reward? Perhaps most puzzling of all: if Miranda trusted Monteverde to honor the terms of surrender, why was he unwilling to stay and see those terms enforced?

By three in the morning, the twelve had come to a decision. They would arrest their former leader,
charge him with treason, and, with the men available to them in La Guaira, mount an attack on Monteverde. Las Casas seemed to go along with it.
He put his troops on alert, soldiers surrounded the house, and one of the conspirators raced up the mountain to prepare the dungeon at the fortress of San Carlos. Bolívar and a cohort rousted Carlos Soublette from sleep and ordered him to take them to Miranda’s bed. The generalísimo was in a deep slumber when Soublette rapped on the door.
“Too soon!” Miranda growled,
misunderstanding the aide’s intent. But he quickly understood that the men at Soublette’s side wanted his urgent attention. “Tell them to wait,” Miranda said. Bolívar and Tomás Montilla stood by tranquilly, confident that enough guards had circled the building to secure it from any ambush. After a few minutes, the door swung open and they saw the generalísimo impeccably dressed and groomed, preternaturally calm. Without preamble or courtesies, Bolívar told him he was being taken prisoner. Miranda seized the hand in which Soublette held the lantern, and thrust it high, so as to study each of his captors’ faces. “Ruffians! Ruffians!” he sighed, putting it down again. “All you know is how to make trouble.” Without another word, he strolled to the front door of the Guipuzcoana building and out into the warm night, submitting easily to the guards who escorted him to the mountain fortress. It was early, July 31, before dawn.

As soon as he received confirmation that Miranda was chained to a wall in the dungeon of San Carlos, Governor Peña set out for Caracas to give Monteverde the news. But as night met the first light of day, he
encountered a party of couriers in full Spanish regalia, riding in the other direction. The communiqué they carried, which the duplicitous Las Casas had been expecting, demanded a lockdown of the port. No ship, no traveler, no citizen of any nation could leave La Guaira without the express approval of Venezuela’s new leader. The edict was a clear breach of the terms of surrender. They were all Monteverde’s prisoners now.

Colonel Las Casas wasted no time in instructing his soldiers to lower the republican colors and raise the Spanish flag.
“It’s no small surprise to me,” Captain Haynes snipped at Las Casas, “to see that in the course of a few hours you have changed loyalties completely.” Haynes’s ship, the
Sapphire
, eventually managed to slip away, along with Miranda’s money.
The USS
Matilda
, which had brought relief supplies after the earthquake, also made an escape, but not without vigorous rounds of cannon fire in its wake. Somehow, in the confusion, Bolívar, too,
succeeded in evading capture. He
hastily improvised a disguise and, in the cover of night, rode off into the trees—up, past the cliffs—toward Caracas.

Miranda was not so fortunate. After months in the impenetrable citadel of San Carlos, the visionary who had once dined with the likes of Jefferson and Washington, and romanced the empress of Russia, was
taken from his vault and
thrust into the dank crypts of Puerto Cabello, where he languished for another half year, contemplating the harsh mill of fortune. There, he wrote letters to everyone he could think of, railed bitterly against the perfidy of Monteverde’s promises; and to get attention even claimed to be in the service of the English crown. On June 4, 1813, he was
hustled onto a shabby little boat and shipped off to Morro Castle in Puerto Rico, and eventually to the dread rat-infested dungeon of La Carraca outside Cádiz, where he died three years later with an iron collar around his neck. His corpse was dumped in a mass grave, along with those of a cartload of common criminals.