As ordered by your Excellency in your written communication of the 22nd of January, the dispatches of Don Rivero—the Colonel and Brigadier as per the titles bestowed upon him by the Junta of Buenos Aires—have been gathered under the Prefect Don Mariano Antezana. . . . His current condition is of concern to me. . . .
WRITTEN COMMUNICATION FROM ARZE TO PUEYRREDÓN1
The General Don José Manuel de Goyeneche, a native of Arequipa, who was destined to be the Spanish Grandee and the Overseer of Huaqui—although his fame would have been better served if he had been simply a good American patriot—did not speak without cause when he bragged of the generosity with which he would treat that country of incorrigible mestizos, of “that evil mix, which is worse there than anywhere else,” as the Marqués de Castel-Fuerte said in his writings about the uprising of Calatayud. After his victory in the bitterly fought battle of Amiraya and the slaughtering of the defeated patriots that followed it, when the committee of peaceful residents from the city and, a short while later, Don Francisco del Rivero himself appeared before him asking him to guarantee the protection of the city, he declared that he would be “as merciful as Caesar after Pharsalia.” Perhaps that is what his learned Honor Burgulla’s beautiful Latin verses were meant to express, only better. The general wanted to try a policy that would be the opposite of the one of the terrifying atrocities that he and all the Spaniards had at first attempted, when they tried to drown the revolution in blood. And, although it was actually better, it was not fated to give him any more satisfactory results. Even if the entire Colonial system had been burnt to the ground, there would have been no way to put out Murillo’s fire. The revolution was one of those great historical events, disastrous according to some, but destined to succeed according to all of us who believed in Divine Providence, as was the custom—and perhaps the only good one—during the times of which I speak.
Blind to this truth—which unfortunately did not illuminate his mind—and under the illusion that the country had been pacified, he continued on to Chuquisaca, leaving Don Antonio Allende behind him as the governor—a praiseworthy and peaceful resident, well respected by everyone—and a garrison of a hundred men under the Commander Santiestevan. He also wished to take with him—which he did—a squadron from Cochabamba, to prove to the Viceroyalties of Perú and Buenos Aires, where his name was already well known, that he now counted on the loyalty and support of the “most rebellious of all the provinces.”*
His personal entourage, however, included two people less than it should have: the primogeniture Don Pedro de Alcántara «Marquis» of Altamira, and Don Juan of ... “of nowhere, nor of anyone.” Thanks to the duende, General Goyeneche would never think of him, nor much less feel any great loss. I do not know what my traveling companion thought, if it was possible for him to have any thoughts at all, about the renowned University of San Javier. For my part, I confess I did not regret it at all, namely because of how utterly repugnant I felt it would be to travel in that manner. And neither have I ever regretted, in the rest of my life, the tragedy of not having my mind enlightened by that source of light, nor of failing to drink from the waters of the Inisterio3 found there, which they used to say were as wonderful as the ones from the Peninsula. What would I have been able to learn there? Did I not have something closer to me in the books, even torn and mutilated as they were, of the famous room of the duende? How could I have learned there everything that I have learned about the world from the misery and misfortune that is taught in the school of the infinite, unexpected turns provided by Divine Providence?
Even Latin, the most emphasized and best taught subject at the university, yes, sir, even my phrases of Latin did I learn from my dear teacher during my Thursday visits, using the book by Nebri-ja.4 This helped to distract both of us from our suffering.
“The study of this dead language,” my teacher used to say to me, “is only necessary for clergymen, and that is certainly not what you are going to be. But it can also offer any intelligent man—as it will offer to you, since you are not an idiot—the wonderful satisfaction of reading the esteemed classics of Virgil and Cicero,5which lose much of their beauty when they are translated into another language.”
Furthermore, I also eventually found that I could live much better, if not actually fine, in the house of Doña Teresa. In addition to the affection of my charming pupil Carmencita, I thought I could count, and finally did, on the friendship of the restless and whimsical Agustín. In keeping with my promise, I told him what I had seen of the battle. On another day, I convinced him to listen to a scene that I read to him from Moreto’s comedy. Then, the day after that, he actually came to me, asking to have it read to him in its entirety, and not being fully satisfied until I had read some scenes twice, as he insisted I do. He swore he would memorize scene XI from act II, between the king and the wealthy man of Alcalá, and this turned out to be quite simple for him, for he was intelligent and had a good memory. After this he often sought out my company, and no longer tried to have me carry out humiliating tasks as part of his pranks. I, in turn, was kind with him so as not to harm his estimation of me. I would make for him, for example, tricorn hats out of paper, wooden swords, and epaulettes from yellow strips of cloth. With these items, acting out the role of King Don Pedro the Cruel, it was a pleasure to watch him recite his part from his favorite scene, especially the stretch of lines that begin with:
So ... art thou the one from town
Who will not extend a chair to the
King himself in your house?
Is the wealthy man of Alcalá
More than the King of Castille?
And not even on these occasions would he strike me with the famous blows to the head with which this scene concludes.
Finally, the servants now treated me with more respect, but this was not due to an explicit order from the lady of the house. All the physical exertion I experienced during my sweet exile, combined with the dreadful drama I had witnessed, as well as my illness, had seemingly sped up my physical growth a little and helped to give my countenance a look of seriousness. This made them see me as a different person than the poor «foundling waif» who had first come crying into their house.
The only thing I never managed was to make myself liked, or even tolerated, by Doña Teresa, who always looked at me with evil eyes and avoided speaking to me as much as possible. In vain did I heroically offer my services to read the corresponding saint’s life for that day. And two or three times I also timidly proposed that I could do some tasks in one of her estates, or take on any kind of work—all in vain. She, for her part, not only wanted to keep the promise she had made to my teacher, but seemed desperately to want to be freed of my presence. But, although a muleteer had already been hired, the political events did not take long to unravel, once again making my trip to Chuquisaca impossible.
After the battle of Amiraya, Don Esteban Arze, the most inexhaustible caudillo of the nascent homeland, had taken refuge in the deep ravines that separate the Valley of Cliza from the Rio Grande, on the southern border of the province, in his private estate in Caine. The moment Goyeneche had left—the very moment Don Arze himself saw the last helmets of Ramirez’s departing soldiers from an inaccessible height at a turn of the deep banks of the aforementioned river—he moved once again to continue working for liberty, the endeavor to which he had devoted his entire life. He went first to Paredón, the town closest to his estate, and, with the magical shout of “Long live the homeland,” brought the entire town en masse, armed with slings and macanas, to rebel. He soon found himself, through similar actions, in control of the rest of the vast Valley of Cliza. Finally, it did not take him long to appear at the outskirts of the city, as he had done previously for the uprising of the 14th of September 1810 with Rivero, arriving there on the 29th of October of 1811.
Governor Allende, in spite of having trenches dug on the street corners in a one-block radius surrounding the main plaza, did not, in the end, offer any resistance. This was due as much to his conciliatory character, as to the fact that he must have been, deep inside, as a good Cochabambian, sympathetic to the goals of the revolution. Thus, with the exchange of only two parleyers—I believe that Brother Justo served as Arze’s—Don Allende surrendered, turning over his arms with only one condition: that Santiestevan, and any of the soldiers who might want to follow him, be allowed to leave freely to rejoin Goyeneche’s army. This was carried out so nobly by the populace that not even one single word of insult was directed to the departing officer, nor was his march, nor that of the soldiers who chose to follow him to Chuquisaca, hindered in any manner whatsoever.
A new open meeting of the citizenry in the Cabildo was called. It named the honorable «citizen» Don Mariano Antezana as the «Prefect» and constituted a new Junta of War over which this same Prefect would preside. I remember I only heard occasional, isolated shouts of “Long live Fernando VII!” The shout for the homeland, however, came out of everyone’s mouths spontaneously. The revolution was now present in its most direct and resolute terms. Even the exotic title of the new authority, and the word «citizen» that adorned his name, stated it quite clearly.
The euphoria, the noise, the zeal, the tireless preparation for war, all returned, as in the days after the first uprising that were filled with so much hope. Don Esteban Arze undertook a new dispatch to Oruro, but did not have the firearms necessary to fight the enemy that had dug themselves into trenches around the main plaza. He was turned back and rushed to the Province of Chayan-ta instead, where he managed to defeat two companies of good, strong troops, sent there under the leadership of the Commander Astete. The name of the highly active and brave caudillo resounded everywhere alongside the shout for the homeland’s independence. But such was not the case with that of his old compatriot, of the people’s previous idol, Governor Rivero, who was now accused of disloyalty.
One day toward the end of February 1812, in which my teacher was very happy to see me pass the “what’s what”—in other words the quis vel quid—of Latin grammar, a gentleman dressed in a very ornate military uniform suddenly came into the cell.
“Esteban!” my teacher exclaimed, immediately rushing to welcome him. “What are you doing in the cell of a poor friar? I would never have expected such a high honor.”
“Yes, Enrique,” the other man answered very fondly, “I know your soul, and I have chosen this place, and I beg your assistance, to carry out a very sad duty.”
They shook hands. Then the Father offered the unforeseen visitor his comfortable armchair, and took a seat on the bench in the place I had just abandoned in favor of a corner of the room where I could stay out of the way. I looked on at those two extraordinary men very much like a fool, with my small mouth wide open.
When Torrente, my favorite historian, is astonished at the ingratitude of the Americans before the generous and loving metropolis, and when he furiously aims his indignation at “Guerrero, Arze, Bolívar, Lamar,”6 and the other principal American «insurgents», I am happy to see the inexhaustible caudillo from my country in such good company. He had “the kind of faith that moves mountains”; he did not lose courage, nor grow disheartened for even an instant during any mishap; “he had learned to win even in defeat,” like the glorious Liberator. . . . God only knows what heights he might have reached if a sad and dark death had not rudely interrupted his endeavors!
Don Esteban Arze was a pure criollo like Rivero; he was tall, anxious, and also endowed with admirable physical strength. On horseback, with a soldier’s lance in his hand, he could have fared very well against one of the Centaurs of the Argentine pampas,7 who earned so much fame under Güemes.8 He had a quick temper and was prone to letting himself get carried away by his anger; he had received a very limited education, but worked within his own admirable school in which, with his natural talent, he had advanced as much or more than Páez,9 for example.
The other man before me, the poor friar who had taught me to read, and who had always been an impenetrable mystery for me, was now transformed in my mind into the sparkling, generous gentleman «Don Enrique» about whom Ventura had spoken to me. He was now the hunter who had traveled everywhere with his ornate carbine, from the peaks of the Cordillera to the vast, pleasant valleys, leaving behind him indelible memories of his kindness in the hearts of the simple peasants, whose misfortunes he still remembered and mourned over like a true friend.
“I have been ordered by Don Martín de Pueyrredón, who is currently reorganizing the auxiliary army,” the victor from Aroma said, “to take back without delay the titles of governor and brigadier that the Junta of Buenos Aires had previously bestowed upon my old comrade-in-arms Don Francisco del Rivero. I know what is in Don Francisco’s heart; I believe he is weak, but not a criminal, and I want him to be able to defend himself. Therefore, as much to carry out my charge in the least painful manner, as to explain to him how much better it would be for him to accept the decree himself, I have asked him to come here, where he will be arriving before very long.”
And, sure enough, as soon as he had said these words, Rivero came in, well hidden with his hood pulled over his head. He closed the door quietly behind him, approached the other two men, and removed his cloak, revealing his worn and pale face, which showed every sign of carrying a heavy burden, of deep dejection, of the fatal illness of the sadness that would accompany him all the way to the grave.
He was welcomed with the greatest display of kindness and even respect by his old comrade-in-arms and by the Father, who had been his fellow student and friend since childhood, and was offered the seat of honor, which he refused. Instead, he remained standing, leaning against the table, and looked distractedly in my direction. My teacher then motioned for me to leave, but Rivero quickly interrupted, saying:
“Let him be. . . . I might hide from my enemies, but why should I hide from that poor boy? I wish every plain soul who has not yet been blinded by hatred would come listen to me!”
Arze, deeply moved, delicately explained his orders to him. The Father, for his part, added a few words of support.
“So be it!” Don Francisco answered, bowing his head in resignation. “The truth is that after the battle of Amiraya, during that time of anguish and terror, a thousand arms reached out imploring me to save the country from the Spanish vengeance—the same arms that today would tear me apart pitilessly for having listened to their wailing back then. But what else have I done, in actuality? They say I accepted a dispatch to be a brigadier for Goyeneche. . . . But did anyone take into account the treachery and shrewdness of the «Three-Faced Man»? Would anyone believe me now if I were to say that I accepted the dispatch without intending to make use of it, promising to myself never to draw my sword against my own country? No! But let history judge me—a day will come when it will be seen that Rivero would not have been capable of betraying the land in which he was born, that he was not another Goyeneche. . . . How much better it has been for Quiroga, the Quiroga who is cursed as I am, but who, when he was furiously pursued by the same snake that has betrayed us both, has fled to the impenetrable mountains of Chapare, among the wild beasts that might put an end to his suffering with more compassion than the men who are killing me with this slow torture of endless calumny!”
How wise it turned out to be for the defeated brigadier from Amiraya to allow a poor boy to hear him speak those words! It is thanks to this fact that our national historians will, I believe, now correct the very severe judgments they have dealt out in regards to his conduct.* Rivero’s sin was quite similar to that of the glorious Miranda in Venezuela when he surrendered to Monteverde thinking that his cause was lost.11 If Rivero had had the same strong will as Arze, Antezana, and the other members of the Provincial Junta, and if he had absorbed all the consequences of the defeat, Cochabamba might have suffered, from that point on, the same kinds of tragedies that were to take place in 1812. And yet, if the governor had done so, his glory would have grown to be much greater in the eyes of his fellow countrymen, as Arze’s did after his fall, and, to a larger degree, as Bolívar’s did after Miranda’s. And this is not because of the blind injustice of man, but because, deep in their hearts, despite all their bewailing when misery strikes, nations want their heroes to consummate not only their own sacrifice, but, if necessary, that of the people themselves in order to persevere in the greatest causes of humanity!
In that same year of 1811, throughout Upper Perú, in the places left behind by the victor Goyeneche, the popular masses preferred their own destruction to the old, subservient condition. The aillos,12 the hamlets, and the towns from the province of La Paz rose up when they were called out by the bold caudillos, those men whose names are forgotten by today’s generation, and thousands of Indians and mestizos rushed to participate in the siege of the sacred Chuquiaguru13 against the garrison troops left there by the victor from Huaqui.* In vain did the hordes come from Cuzco with Choqueguanca14 and Pumacagua15; in vain did Huisi16 return with his hired assassins; in vain did fires devour the ranches and the crops; in vain were thousands of prisoners, women, and children beheaded with a savageness that horrifies everyone, and—how bad it must have been, my God!—is even repugnant to the fanatical Torrente! The “shout” for Independence resounded in the smoke from the fires. It arose, I should say, rather, from the very wounds opened by the weapons, and became louder and grander with the more blood that was spilled from them!
What occurred in that meeting spoke very honorably of the personal sentiments of those who started the American revolution in my country. But perhaps it no longer interests my readers as much as the events that I very briefly mentioned above.