chapter 11

Bolívar

Slavery is the daughter of darkness: an ignorant people is a blind instrument of its own destruction.

—Simón José Antonio Bolívar

The sun set behind the Cordillera Oriental, the easternmost range of the Andes Mountains running through Colombia. A damp chill crept over the ruined village and settled among Bolívar’s army. The men grouped around small fires, drying their soaked belongings as best they could. Seen from above, the flickering lights of their campfires resembled a multitude of fireflies.

They laughed and played cards. Behind the jokes and gambling was the unspoken fear of men who had survived the flooded llanos and were now going to attempt to cross the towering peaks of the Andes.

Nate sat alone. Having realized what he had committed to, he was not exactly in the mood for the endless card games and nervous joking.It wasn’t that he was overly afraid for his own safety—as a wilderness expert, his chances of surviving the journey were better than most. However, for many others it would mean certain death—and he wasn’t ready to let these ill-prepared troops get him killed up there.

If he waited until the men turned in and the campfires burned low, it wouldn’t be difficult to make his way past the sentries.

“Private Yankee?” a voice spoke behind him with an Irish lilt.

“Who’s asking?” Nate eyed the tall ginger-haired stranger with the round, beardless face. He looked to be about the same age as Nate.

The officer held out a silver flask. “Mind if I join you?”

“Suit yourself.” Nate accepted the flask and shifted to make room on the moss-covered log, wondering what the man could possibly want with him.

The officer sat mindfully, adjusting the scabbard of his saber and careful not to soil his uniform with any campfire grime. Nate took a draft of the Irishman’s spirits, the joyous liquid scorching his throat and spreading its fire throughout his body.

The officer chuckled as Nate rubbed the water from his eyes. “I’m told it’s an acquired taste.” The stranger matched him with a serious drink of his own—without the drama—then raised the flask a second time. He wiped his mouth with a white linen handkerchief.

Nate grinned at the Irishman’s fussiness.

“My dear grandmother, God rest her soul, always said, ‘You must look the part, Daniel.’ Advice I took to heart.” He replaced the cap and set the flask on the ground between them. He stretched his legs toward the campfire and offered his hand. “Daniel Florence O’Leary.”

Nate had heard of this man: O’Leary fought with the Albion Legion, one of Bolívar’s units composed mostly of British and Irish troops, mainly Napoleonic War veterans. O’Leary had distinguished himself and risen through the ranks of the army to eventually become the personal aide-de-camp to Simón Bolívar. Aside from his reputation as a fighter, O’Leary was known for being especially devoted to Bolívar. Anything Nate said to him would be repeated to the general.

Nate hesitantly grasped the outstretched hand. “Nathanial Joseph Yankee, but I’m called Nate.”

The officer said, “Times are frequently tough in Ireland, Nate, and we Irish are often forced to leave the land of our birth. Too frequently we wind up fighting other people’s wars in places we’ve never heard of. Then there are men like myself, who are lucky enough to find themselves involved in something worth fighting for, and with someone who’s worth following. Why have you joined us, Yankee?”

Nate remained silent. Never one to place his trust in strangers—or friends, for that matter—Nate wondered if the Irishman had guessed that he was going to desert.

O’Leary recapped the flask and put it in an inner pocket of his uniform jacket. “I’ll let you ponder your answer, Private, while you saddle up.”

Nate looked questioningly at the officer.

O’Leary stood. “You’ve been summoned for an audience with Simón José Antonio Bolívar.”

Lanterns hung on poles around the perimeter of the army’s headquarters, their glow illuminating to the edge of the forest. A group of officers sat under a weathered canopy, drinking and playing cards. When O’Leary approached with Nate, a man dressed in a white shirt and uniform slacks rose from the card players to greet the two young men.

“Ah, Daniel, thank you for escorting our American friend. Private Yankee, I believe?” Bolívar asked with a smile and a small bow.

Although Nate had been at the meeting earlier that day when Bolívar announced his decision to cross the Andes, he was not prepared for the general’s immediate presence.

“Sir, at your pleasure,” he answered with a deeper bow.

The general faced the officers; they stopped their game and gave him their full attention.

“Gentlemen, may I present Nathanial Yankee, our one and only North American patriot. Come, Nathanial, please join us.” Gesturing around the table, Bolívar said, “You know Colonel Páez and Lieutenant Rondón, and these are Colonels Rooke, Soublette, Mendez, and José Antonio Anzoátegui. You have arrived just in time to lose all your hard-earned money to Rooke.”

Colonel Rooke acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a nod.

Nate bowed amiably to the group of officers, who were relaxed but still in their uniforms. Atop the roughly carved table was a dish of cold, half-eaten potatoes and a map held in place with empty wine bottles.

“Was that your beautiful tenor that entertained us a short while ago?” Rooke asked.

Before Nate could answer, the general said, “Of course not. The Puritans of New England do not indulge in such frivolity, am I correct?” Bolívar made a stern face, gently mocking. “They are a serious people. However, Private Yankee, I believe if you survive long enough among us you may pick up a song or two.”

“Or a woman or two,” Soublette countered.

After the laughter subsided, Bolívar clipped on his saber and put his hand on Nate’s shoulder. “My American and I will now go for a walk under the stars. But don’t worry, we’ll return shortly to take our money back from Rooke. Daniel,” he said to O’Leary, “you’ll keep the cards warm, I trust.”

Bolívar steered Nate out of the light of the camp. They walked along a track toward the forest edge, the path visible in the moon’s silver light. The banter of the officers faded to a murmur.

Nate was on edge. Páez’s generous offer to join the llaneros, as well as his ready acceptance into the circle of officers, began to strike him as very strange; Bolívar was legendary for his ruthlessness. Nate tried to recollect any perceived slight or inadvertent misdeed, to anticipate where the blow might fall. How much does Bolívar know?

“How did you know I’m from New England?” Nate asked. From his deep tan and stocky build, most people he’d met outside the United States assumed he was one of those frontiersmen who was born in the woods and raised by bears.

Bolívar grinned and shrugged. “Do not look so surprised. You have an accent.”

Before Nate could think of a response, Bolívar linked his arm with Nate’s and continued their walk. It was a South American gesture that Bolívar had (correctly) guessed that the mysterious Puritan would find uncomfortable.

“Unusual men, New Englanders. God-fearing men. Men who fled Europe for the freedom of New England so they could practice their religion in peace. And, once there, became great slavers. That impressed me, I tell you.”

Bolívar stopped and tightened his grip on Nathanial’s arm. “And now, Nathanial Bidwell,” Bolívar said, emphasizing Nathanial’s true surname, “it is time for you to tell me why you are here, don’t you think?”

Nate felt a sharp jab in his side. A man had appeared behind him and was pressing a blade against his ribs. It was Bolívar’s servant, José Palacio. José removed Nate’s facón from where it had been concealed in its sheath.

Seeing the look on Nate’s face, Bolívar chided, “Don’t be so surprised. How am I supposed to drive the Royalists back to Spain if I don’t even know who is in my own army? It is essential for me to know as much as I can, about my enemies, and especially about my friends.”

Nate said tensely, “It’s just that I’d rather have left the name of Bidwell behind, General.”

“Every foreign soldier in my army has a story he’d rather forget. In fact,” Bolívar paused, “this is the main reason we are having this little walk. Maybe you are a spy, maybe you’re not. Or maybe you were, but no longer serve your former master.”

The sharp blade didn’t help Nate’s concentration. Mind racing, he decided that some version of the truth would give him his best chance for survival. He replied, “My apologies, General, I should have come to you directly. My reasons are mercenary—I joined in the hope of getting a land grant.” He quickly added, “That is, once we are successful in ridding your country of the Spanish.”

Bolívar contemplated the line where the sky met the distant coastal plains. The general’s shoulders began to shake, and he erupted into laughter.

Gaining a measure of control, he slowly shook his head while looking at the ground. “Yes, I can see you are indeed a mercenary. You come here and put your life in danger for money. Meanwhile, I have a fortune, and I give it all away for the cause of freedom.”

He nodded to José, who moved back a step but kept his knife drawn.

Nate had not yet recovered from his shock, when the general leaned toward him, his finger pointed at Nate’s chest. “If you are purely a mercenary, I have an offer that should appeal to you. A second chance. An opportunity to prove who you really are, Yankee, or Bidwell.

“I want you to join a select group. A company of mountaineers will cross this damnable pass in advance of the army, avoiding all contact with the enemy and traveling as quickly as possible.”

Is Bolívar forcing me to accept a suicide mission?

“You are to reach Socha early enough to prepare the people for our arrival. We must have provisions, warm clothing, and shelter ready for the army. If we are to take Bogotá quickly, we must ensure as many of our troops survive as possible.

“Surprise and speed.” Bolívar pounded his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. “That is what will bring us victory. And should you be successful, I will make you an officer. You will lead the llaneros, and there will be a land grant for you.”

Did he really have a choice? Nate gave a small bow. “I accept your very generous offer.”

Bolívar smiled widely, deepening the wrinkles that radiated from the corners of his eyes. “Someday, Lieutenant, when this is finished, I will entertain you on my plantation. Your land grant will be next to my estate in the most fertile area on this continent, the Bucaramanga hills. Together, we will grow the best coffee in Gran Colombia. Let these thoughts keep you warm as you cross the mountains.”

He led Nate back to the lights and distant laughter. “Come now, the night is short and you will start at dawn. But first we must win our money back if we’re to properly entertain the women of Santa Fe de Bogotá . . . once the capital is ours.”

Somehow, Nate didn’t find his promotion to officer reassuring. He finally understood the reason for Bolívar’s success: the man was crazy.