BONES FOR THE DOGS

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“BONES FOR THE DOGS”- A historical novel by Luis Aira

EXCERPTS

The year is 1821. The United States of America runs on a slavery based economy and across the land many voices are rising against the system.

Meanwhile in South America, the very same slaves were set free years ago and were incorporated into a monumental army that has just beaten 300 years of Spanish colonization. It took over a decade of a bloody and relentless fight but on May 6, the nation of Gran Colombia rises from the ashes of a devastated continent with the intent of uniting the entire southern hemisphere into a world power. This is the dream of “The Liberator” Simon Bolivar, the man who led the struggle and devoted a lifetime and a fortune to see the land free from Spanish subjugation.

Bolivar, a Venezuelan aristocrat educated in Europe, understands world politics and is aware that without any European allies his brand new nation will not be able to compete on the international arena against the United States aggressive growth or the British’s naval trade supremacy. Encompassing a vast region, from Venezuela to the heights of Peru, Gran Colombia is the consummation of his dream. But uniting South America is no easy task, he is faced with a war devastated landscape fragmented by a regionalism rooted on race, social status, culture, and religion. “The Liberator” however, is not without world influence; his face is printed on the cover of French Newspapers , small towns named after him are sprouting all over abolitionist communities in the Southern United States, and Ladies all over Europe sport “Bolivar hats”; he hopes to use this power even if imposed to beat regionalism, or any other obstacle in order to set the foundation for a united South America. To some he is a dictator, to others a visionary, and to a few a dichotomy. The latter is how the secretary of State of the United States of America sees him; John Quincy Adams is well acquainted with celebrities.

Plans of a future Bolivarian invasion of Cuba have arrived in Washington, causing alarm in the White House, and a web of ambassadors and spies reported rumors of a French proposition in the shape of a crown. Reports indicate that within Bolivar’s inner core there is an imperialist movement hoping to declare him Emperor. Is Bolivar another Napoleon? There is so much more beyond the surface and Adams is a remarkable man, he can not help to admire one who gave it all for “Liberty”, thus he understands the magnitude of Bolivar’s actions, their monumental consequences, and mostly, his influence. Pamphlets announcing Bolivar’s arrival are spreading from Cuba into New Orleans and up the Mississippi River. They read “I’m your liberator”, and show a picture of the general inside a mirror as the reflection of a slave who looks into it. For these and many other reasons such as an army twice as large as that of The United States, Simon Bolivar has become a national threat.

In the next few months, John Quincy Adams will write The Monroe Doctrine determining that “further efforts by European governments to colonize land or interfere with states in the Americas would be viewed by the United States of America as acts of aggression requiring US intervention,” thus igniting the US’s first intelligence foreign operation but he will also be a reluctant witness as a star fades, a heir falls, and an entire continent falls prey to its own ambitions.

In the next few years, Bolivar will struggle against regionalism. He will unite Inca , Creole, African , rich, and poor under his imposed banner while plagued by a multitude of local generals aiming at his status. He will struggle with his own principles and personal issues, and cry over the assassination of his protégée, a man beloved by the people and the only one capable of keeping the nation united after him. It will be a hard road as a General becomes a politician in a game he does not like or know how to play. Bolivar will fall to the point of whispering “I have plowed in the sea” on his dying bed. Gran Colombia will die with him but beyond the power and caprice of the man the relevance of his continental dream will remain active as it does still today.

The rise and fall of Gran Colombia determined the future of both hemispheres. It is a extremely relevant story today as it describes the crucial events that created the political structure of modern South America and continue to influence it . The story deals with an active ideology yet resolved that is spread and growing through the entire continent as it is reflected on the attitudes of their leaders and people. It is also an untold journey as most subjects on these matters have focused on the independence war and Bolivar’s epic but not the events that followed. In addition, the story’s approach opens the subject to an international arena and especially to the American public which is completely uninformed in spite of over a dozen towns in the south named Bolivar or a statue on Central Park at 7th avenue- Avenue of the Americas.

This is the story of those nine crucial years as we follow the steps of Simon Bolivar, John Quincy Adams and many others; witnesses and participants in the events that set the future of many modern nations. “Bones for the Dog” is a journal of a continent, a story of passion, love and betrayal filled with a multitude of fascinating characters of many races and nationalities but most of all , it is the story of a nation dying and a dream being born.

“Bones for the Dogs” is written as a series of chronological vignettes illustrating the key events in the ten year history of the ill fated “Gran Colombia”

All excerpts are based on historical reference, first accounts, diaries, letters, and documents. Here is a preview:

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Paita, Peru. February 18 1851

Midday is hot in the Equator and the old man has always despised the heat, it is tiring. He faces the wind as he stands on deck staring at what he has left behind. The ocean smells to him like an epilogue. He looks at a passing whaling ship and thinks of the whales out there in the dark blue sea; unsuspecting, defenseless, too big for their own good. They are like the continent, lonesome giants trapped in a greedy world, always winning a loosing battle.

He had been thinking of going back to London, and today standing on a schooner’s deck, he is still wishing he would have had the courage to leave or the money to do it. Yet this, “His Continent”, carries his soul and he cannot die without it, so he turns his back to the ocean and studies the shore he will call home. This elderly Robinson Crusoe, stranded in his own island of solitude, has sailed to this remote Peruvian port to lay his dreams to rest.

“Paita Ahoy”, the sailors shout. This is the last stop for the whalers of New Bedford. They follow the whales all the way down the Pacific and stop here before they go back.

“Paita!” the old man can barely hear but the name triggers his anticipation. He wipes his forehead with the grace of a poet, waving his torn silk handkerchief in the air when he is done. The sea air is refreshing, rejuvenating, but the sea is also tiring.

Seventy something years old he says he is. He can hardly ever remember. Yet he keeps an archive in his mind filled with educational systems and social security plans, things he has planned to extreme detail and continues to develop.

“Seventy something years of a dream that has finally come to an end,” he thinks.

“Paita! Ahoy!” The ship is entering port, and Don Simon Rodriguez is very tired.

The merchant ship docks, and the port lights up with activity. He uses his walking stick to make his way through the crowd, covering his mouth with his perfumed handkerchief in an effort to resist the stench of death that spills from dozens of whaler ships docked at port.

“Peru, Land of The Incas”, he reminds himself as he steps off the creaking wooden ramp while a small army of workers begins to unload. He studies the faces, the attitudes; he recognizes them all. North American whalers are walking by with a dignified roughness, French Aristocrats stroll the latest European fashions, Colonialist Dutch traders are looking for a break, British Spies are passing for Irish sailors, free slaves are looking for a master, Creole liberals on the rise are selling their country for gold, he recognizes them all. Paita is a multicultural trench. It is the place where whales come to die at the hands of men with foreign tongues. At the bottom of that evolutionary ladder stands The Inca, a resilient ghost, undefeated, waiting for a crumb from a catholic soul. “The Land of The Incas” has become a cruel reflection of the failure he feels deep inside.

“We are blind,” he mumbles. “We are blind,” and searches in the crowd for somebody to carry his trunk up the steep hill that leads to town.

Paita is a shantytown of dilapidated shacks that serve as a canvas for a mayhem of sweat and flesh. Arms rise like in primary school, as men offer themselves for hire in picturesque disorder. Don Simon notices a young “mestizo” who forces his strong body through the jobless crowd.

“Aqui Señor! Aqui!”, the young man shouts, and Don Simon signals him to come over.

“Do you know where Doña Manuela’s bakery is?” he asks.

“She sells the best “pasteles” in all the Pacific Señor,” the young man replies with a selling smile and a strong Inca accent “Of course I know where it is. Everybody knows! Would you like me to take you?”

His old trunk bounces on the wagon to the rhythm of the cobblestone, but Don Simon does not care; he checks that his gold watch is still in his pocket and reminds himself that books and letters do not break. Meanwhile the young man pulls hard, carrying his noisy wagon up hill.

“We are blind. Blind I tell you!” the old man says to himself, his mumble turning into an accusation as his body cooks inside his only suit.

Manuela’s bakery sits on a hill facing the wind, protected from the dust by only a few trees. It is a weather beaten wooden house filled with charm and termites. The young man places the trunk next to the steps and extends his hand. Don Simon gives him half the pay.

“Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll pay you the rest”, the old man says as he steps up the bakery’s rotten steps.

“I’ll be needing your help to move,” Don Simon emphasizes. “So come back”.

“Viejo loco” the young man thinks to himself, crazy enough to have a hole in his suit and still pay double the fee.

“Si Señor”, he says in his best Spanish as a pack of scruffy dogs silently come out of the bakery. They growl at the old man who stands on the porch smiling.

“Welcome to Paita”, the man says bowing at the crazy geeser, and scuffles away to spend his money on cheap liquor.

It is hard for Don Simon to go up steps, even if there are just a few. Once he reached the peak of the Andes, but today, three steps and a pack of mutts is enough to make him act very carefully. His knees are shaking, but the excitement makes him feel young again. It has been at least twenty years since he last saw her, maybe more.

“We have no more pasteles today,” Juana Rosa, an ebony skin lady in her mid years, says stepping barefoot through the doorway.

“Obando! Get out of the way!” she says, pushing her way through a pack of barking dogs. A skinny old mutt protects her, growling by her feet with flashing teeth and protuberating eyeballs.

“Quiet Santander,” she says.

Don Simon pours on the charm that is his gift.

“Good afternoon Señorita, this is the house of “The Liberatress” I presume”, he says with a bow as he laughs at the barking beast. Juana steps back with an innocent smile of embarrassment, and switches her tone to a whisper:

“And who, may I ask, is enquiring?” she asks.

“Samuel Robinson”, he answers, keeping the secrets to himself and follows the bouncing of her buttocks towards an exterior corridor that leads to the back of the house. She tells him to wait and tells a teenage servant girl to inform “La Doña” of the visitor. The dogs bark uncontrollably.

“Sssssshh, shut up dogs! ” the young girl shouts from the other end of the corridor.

“Come on in Señor,” she calls Don Simon a few seconds later. He composes himself, nostalgia rushing through his being, and approaches with the royal stance of a knight worthy of his Queen.

Manuela lies in her hammock. Her waist long black hair sits on top of her head in a braided bun. Right now she feels ashamed. She is overweight and confined to a wheel chair. It is a matter of vanity. Nevertheless, she straightens herself in an attempt to feel more feminine and covers her toothless mouth with her fan.

Don Simon steps into the patio; she looks beautiful to him.

“Don Samuel!” Manuela stops short in words, a million memories playing in her head. “How long has it been? Since Lima I think…at least twenty years” she says.

“You are as beautiful as ever,” he exclaims as he kisses her hand.

“And you, charming as always”, she smiles faintly. “ Bring me a chair Juana, and please bring us something to eat. Don Samuel must be hungry.”

“I have heard about your pasteles,” he says and they hold hands for an instance.

“That is how I make a living, selling pasteles and tobacco to the whalers. Can you believe it?” She says with a saddened smile as the little mutt growls. Don Simon finally seems concerned.

“Don’t be afraid of these mutts Don Samuel. Get out of the way, Obando! They are old acquaintances. Is that not so, Santander? That is Obando, Paez, Santa Cruz, and Olmedo. But Santander likes to bark the most,” Manuela tells the old man. “Is that not so?,” she asks the little brown mutt who flashes his teeth at the stranger as Juana returns with the chair.

“Santander get over here, NOW! You too Obando, and you Paez” Juana shouts the commands.

“Santander!” Manuela threatens the dog with her hand “You be quiet”. The tone of her voice brings back memories Don Simon is afraid to remember. Santander steps back reluctantly, his tail between his legs. Don Simon stands up to help Manuela. “Cruel world” he thinks. There she is before him “The Liberatress”; a toothless old woman with hardly enough vitality to slide on a chair.

“It is not so bad” she says, trying to sound like her old self. “I felt and broke my hip bone a few months ago. Just what I needed to add to my misery!” Manuela remarks with a chuckle that exposes her toothless mouth.

“Don Samuel, did you ever imagined we would end up like this? she asks. He sees himself in his only suit traveling with his eighty years and one hundred kilos of disillusion locked in a trunk. A teacher without a pupil he is, for his pupil is as dead as his teachings.

“Well suited names,” he says pointing at the dogs.

“You don’t know,” she answers maliciously. “Sometimes they fight amongst each other”. They laugh with such sadism that it saddens them. Too many memories stone them like an angry crowd. Juana Rosa brings out a tray filled with pasteles, queso fresco, and fruit.

“Grrrrrr”, the old mutt starts again.

“Exquisite “ Don Simon licks his fingers.

The empty tray sits on the coffee table. It has only been a few minutes and he has already run out of small talk. Yet the dogs are still barking.

“Smoke?” says Manuela, in an attempt to keep things light. Don Simon does not have the heart to hurt her; he does not want to talk, so instead, he puffs his cigarette.

“Very good. Is it local?”

“No. Colombian” She says proudly.

Paez, the short stocky dog, approaches and drools at the pastel, his eyes drift towards Manuela.

“The whalers are lucky”, Don Simon addresses the old mutt growling before him.

“Juana Rosa take these dogs away from here,” Manuela shouts. A clear “Si Señora” is heard from the kitchen.

Juana Rosa throws a pair of rib bones near the backyard fruit tree. Santander is the first to run for it.

“Watch” says Manuela.

The dogs become beasts out of control. Don Simon watches as the animals fight for the bones.

“They are identical,” she says with an angry smile.

“Yes, you named them well” the old man responds. He can see the fire in her eyes, a flame about to be extinguished. A long saddened pause takes over their conversation.

“I’m not so sure that it is all over,” Don Simon breaks the ice. “Someday they will see and they will go back to him.”

“I’m glad to know I’m not the only fool in Paita!” she laughs, holding back the tears she has kept prisoner for twenty years.

“They will see” he reassures her. “And they will go back to his dream”.

The dogs growl competing for the bones, growling and sinking their teeth into opposite extremes of a rib in a desperate tug of war. Manuela and Don Simon smile at each other.

“Do you remember?” She says; they could ask each other the same question over and over again. “Tell me about him…” she asks,” about all those years before he became a soldier.”

“He was always a soldier”, Don Simon replies. The boy had stayed under his tutelage for a few months, sharing a house with twenty of Don Simon’s relatives while learning “The lessons of Nature” from his exuberant teacher.

“One day, I took him to one of his family coffee farms and I showed the boy the slaves working under the midday sun.

“They are yours, I said to the twelve-year-old boy. Do you think is right for one man to belong to another?”

“What did he say?” Manuela asks.

“Nothing” Don Simon smiles “he was always a soldier. He knew then what he would do.” The memories come all at once; Don Simon remembers the glow in the young man’s chestnut eyes that hot day in Rome when he turned into a man.

“I will not let my arm to rest, neither rest my soul, until I have broken the chains that oppress us by will of Spanish Power,” the young man said and Don Simon wrote it all down for eternity. He now tells Manuela with the same intensity. She listens to the old man like a little girl at bedtime.

“That day on The Monte Sacro… It was a fulfilled promise”, she says with pride.

“But “His Glory” “, he mumbles sadly as he grabs the last pastel from the tray.”

“His Glory” Manuela repeats with nostalgia.

“That promise could not be fulfilled,” Don Simon exclaims as he looks at the dogs with resentment.

The animals rest in the shade, each chewing its own piece of bone. The memory is bitter. It had all started thirty years earlier. Don Simon Rodriguez was exiled in London hiding under the alias of “Samuel Robinson” and Manuela was a beautiful teenage girl showcasing her Parisian cleavage down the streets of Quito; meanwhile, “He” who united them for eternity, was already riding the pages of history. On the sixth of May of 1821 it seemed like “His Glory” was about to be realized.

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Palace of Government. Santa Fe de Bogotá. Morning of May 6, 1821

Excitement is the air. The district of Venezuela and the viceroyalty of Nueva Granada have joined forces to become, “a great nation”. There are nineteen provinces in the Republic of Colombia and today they have come under one roof to celebrate its birth.

This is the Congress of Cucuta and everyone in this large hall knows the significance of the moment. They have dictated a new constitution and elected a president. The “Republic” now feels like a reality; “Gran Colombia” is now ready to fly with its own wings.

Fifty-seven delegates are wearing their Sunday best. They smile at each other with a sense of camaraderie as they discuss the future of the Republic. But beneath French democratic ideas and the warnings of competing with North America’s expansionism, lies the lusty hunger of regionalism looking for a piece of the pie. The people of Nueva Granada do not like foreigners, and the father of the Republic is one of them.

“Que viva Bolivar, El Libertador!” an enthusiastic Venezuelan delegate cheers as the room is filled with ovations.

“Que viva President Bolivar,” General Francisco de Paula Santander, former Vice President of Cundinamarca, reiterates. He has just been pronounced “Vice President of Colombia” and as the highest officer in the hall he is the recipient of all the attention.

General Santander is an influential “Bogotano”, a man of papers with a degree in law and a strong local following who proved his courage and patriotism during the war of independence. Like most men around these parts, he joined the fight at an early age eventually being assigned to the north under the command of a young Venezuelan Colonel named Simon Bolivar. After several years of service, surviving amazing defeats and many bloody struggles Santander was finally promoted to Brigadier General. He fought in the Venezuelan Llanos, where the impoverished half naked troops marched barefoot and survived on snakes and old dry meat. General Santander is a national hero, yet the grandiosity of all his years of campaigning heroism dwarves against his abilities behind a desk. This is Bolivar’s right hand. The man he has chosen to run Colombia while he pursues his “Glory” in the South. Santander steps up to the podium, his thought lingering somewhere very far away, many years ago.

“We are going to Caracas,” Bolivar shouts, “ that is an order!” Santander recalls. Something appeared through the fog, it was a man riding a horse amidst the humidity and the hum of mosquitoes. Santander can see him clearly, giving orders in a Napoleonic rage, charging in front of the troops like a madman, claiming victory all for himself. Simon Bolivar, “El Libertador”, President of this brand new nation he despises, is the only man in the world that Vice President Santander both fears and admires. The ambiguity of these emotions intrigues even him.

“Viva Colombia” shouts the Vice President with a diplomatic smile as he starts his inaugural speech. But like him, there are too many in the crowd who know the truth; Nueva Granada will never be in the hands of savages. The future of this so-called “Union” is yet to be seen. It is a noble idea but the citizens of Santa Fe de Bogota are not convinced. Santander is well aware.

“General Bolivar is not here,” a local sympathizer mumbles in his ear as he steps off the podium, “but you are Mr. Vice-President. You are. We all know that. Nueva Granada counts on you.”

“The greatness of “El Libertador” is everywhere,” he tells the instigator. “We all owe him much. Believe me my friend. Let us embrace this new nation in the name of the Liberty he has deliver to us.” A group of Venezuelan officers watch him suspiciously from afar. The Vice President cheers and raises his arm to show his solidarity. He can see a burning rivalry lurking behind their smiles; it eats at their cores like a disease even as unity is declared. Nueva Granada and Venezuela are two different places, one contains Museums and Universities the other barracks and cemeteries. The Venezuelans need them more than they do, everyone in Bogota agrees. But this is Bolivar’s idea and it may as well be an 11^th commandment. His countless followers have embraced the idea like an army of devoted bees.

“There is strength in Unity;” The United States are growing fast and General Santander can do the math. Colombia must grow but Santander is hesitant. The foundations of the new republic sits on a gunpowder keg of regionalism. He has never trusted the Venezuelan’s judgments but he also knows he is not to be underestimated. His mind goes back ten years when Bolivar was first promoted to General. The Nueva Granada Government had prohibited the impetuous officer to travel over the mountains into his country of birth yet Bolivar insisted on attacking Caracas in spite of having only five hundred men under his command. If destiny would have only follow the path of reason Bolivar would have died before he could arrive, instead he became “El Libertador”.

“My obligations are to follow under the orders of the State, not yours General” he recalls his complaint to the Venezuelan, “besides we would surely get kill in the attempt,” he remembers every word. Bolivar was furious, he threatened to execute him without a trial; his bulging eyes angrily staring at him have remained imprinted like a ghost in Santander’s memory. He decided to go along with the madness and escape the minute he got a chance. Finally he managed to retreat back to Cucuta where he informed the Government of the “madman’s plans”; they took the fool for dead. He still cannot believe he was wrong. If he was a religious man he would account it as a miracle, but there is more to it than that; a little man whose uncontainable rage is only surpassed by his military genius. The unexplainable feats of the human soul can bring doubt even to a heretic; Bolivar has turned many into believers. He is a visionary man who sacrificed it all and emerged victorious; for that Santander will always praise him.

“Que viva Bolivar,” he cheers with the Venezuelan delegates, tactfully enticing their trust; the shadow of “El Libertador” lurks everywhere. Simon Bolivar is a passionate man, he is the flame that has ignited this continental uproar for a new nation, but it is not “The Liberator” that the Vice President fears; it is the madness he started.

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Washington D.C. March 8 1822

Secretary of State John Quincy Adams sits across from President Monroe. The two men share a moment of silent contemplation in the President’s office. Henry Clay, a congressman from Kentucky, and their political nemesis, has been putting on the pressure for some time and now the two men in charge of the nation have found themselves against the wall. They are about to pass a request to Congress to recognize the independence of the Republic of Colombia. But Colombia is a land of controversy; Negroes and mestizos run free in what has been described to them as a land of violence and devastation. Their President, Simon Bolivar, has been described to them as an aristocrat “euromestizo” with faint traces of both Negroe and Indian blood himself; an ethnic leader who identifies with the landowners more than he does with the people. They have heard Bolivar lies when convenient and that he has no respect for the law, that he is a “Bonapartian” authoritarian who can quote Voltaire and Rousseau as easy as he can order a mass execution. They have also seen the results of his efforts; Colombia seems unstoppable, the Spanish are almost gone from the new world. Vice president Adams is a visionary man; this is America and it stands for equality and freedom that is why John Quincy Adams can not turn his head away from the independence of that southern land of mestizos lead by a man they call “The Liberator”; he understands the significance of supporting the South American Independence as well as the impact of his decision on the European diplomatic community. He has heard rumors that the European crowns are flirting with Bolivar and he is convinced President Monroe must act now before “The Holy Alliance” gets the wrong idea; he can not allow the Europeans to interfere in the affairs of a newborn continent. The United States of America is about to become the first nation to recognize the republic of Colombia; anything else would not be revolutionary enough.

“The south will disapprove, but do they not disapprove of everything else we do? Adams breaks the silence with a joke, “As long as the Royal Navy backs us, I say we act upon it.”

“What if General Bolivar decides to attack Cuba? The President asks with remorse, “ You know it’s in his mind. He’s got in his head to free the slaves.” The President says sliding a lithograph across his desk. “Take a look at this, it was sent to me by our man in Bogota. They say it’s being distributed all the way to Cuba and that copies have made it up the Mississippi.”

President Monroe unrolls the artwork in front of him and studies it with poise. It is a drawing of what appears to be a tropical village, somewhere in South America; a slave woman stands with her children amongst the palm trees. A free slave stands next to her holding a painting of Bolivar which she is pointing out to her children.

“This could be a problem,” the President remarks. The man holding the painting is Bolivar himself dressed in civilian clothes. Both the civilian Bolivar and the one in the painting have slight African features and dark coloring. A phrase is written at the bottom of the poster:

“Aqui esta su Libertador,” President Monroe points, “Do you now what that means?”

“ Here is your Liberator,” Vice President Adams responds, “Wonderful piece of art.”

“ He is going after Cuba. I’m afraid we would not be able to avoid confrontation.”

“Mr. President, many of us have been attacked for our views before. You know my feelings on abolition. I can’t say I disagree with him on this matter. Besides Bolivar has his aim on Peru. By the time such a situation arises we would be prepared to deal with it accordingly.” Secretary Adams responds in his thick Boston accent.

“What if these rumors are true? What if the French do crown him emperor? He will surely take the Caribbean then,” President Monroe rants, “we can not afford a war with Colombia, John. We must stop Bolivar before he goes after Cuba, Mexico or comes after us for that matter. I hear the man is not completely sane! ”

“It is in our best interest, Sir. I’m afraid we have no choice. We must accept Colombia as a sovereign nation and give an example to the world, and it would nice to get Henry Clay off our backs on this Colombian issue!”

“Indeed, sire! Anything to see that gentlemen loose the elections! ”

“ Ye! Perhaps we could find legal ways to alienate Bolivar from foreign aid and avoid a conflict altogether.” John Quincy Adams adds. President Monroe walks to his desk and signs the document recognizing the birth of a nation.

“We could start by asking Congress for funds to establish missions in Latin America,” the Vice president suggests, “ get ourselves situated.”

“I’m listening.”

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Trujillo, Peru. March 8 1824

Another angry night. Jose Palacios dreads these moments. Bolivar is always weakened by the rage and the loyal servant knows the consequences. News of The Monroe Doctrine have arrived in the south and the General who is already upset about a group of traitors he met earlier today is examining the document more than suspiciously.

“Those clever English men think they can outsmart us with a decree,” he chuckles, “They want Cuba and they are afraid I’m going to take it. Why not come out and say it? And to add insult to injury now they conjure up this disparate document? What arrogance! Would they have gained their independence without French and Spanish backing? Who are they to interfere with our business? Hypocrites! Claiming a threat by the French is barely a cheap trick to stop me,” he shouts as he slices a bush with his sword. “What am I suppose to do? Slice myself in two? I can’t,” he complaints to Jose Palacios, “If I go to the north I loose the south if I stay in the south I loose the north!”

Today the general re-established government in the town of Trujillo, decreed the distribution of land amongst the natives who were being robbed of it by local landowners and inaugurated an University. It was a very active day and now the evening finds him prey to depression.

“This country is in a death struggle,” he tells Jose, “ yet there are many amongst us who sacrifice every noble patriotic sentiment for the sake of making a fortune. How are we suppose to compete with the English when our own landowners are so corrupt that they are appropriating state revenues?”

“We will be traveling in the morning Don Simon,” Jose reminds him, “you must get some rest.

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Lima. February 10 1826

It is a magnificent spectacle, a wonderful display of civic behavior. The entire population stands on the streets applauding his arrival. Bolivar’s official return to Lima is nothing less than triumphant; it is a miraculous event. The city was at the edge of self-destruction but the mere news of his arrival was enough to make the political parties quiet down, and a non-partisan party emerged from the ruins. Harmony has become priority. The general parades like a beauty queen down the cobblestones, recipient of the joy of a people who have nothing to offer but despair. The ladies make comments. The gentlemen of Lima show their respect. It is an unavoidable forced resurrection.

“There goes the bastard,” a Creole gentleman whispers to an aristocratic friend.

“Careful,” his friend whispers back with a smirk. “Look at the smile on your sister’s face. She loves him as well.”

“He looks so young without the sideburns and mustache,” O’ Leary hears the Lady’s comment. “Who is that redheaded officer riding besides “El Libertador” , they wonder. Love and betrayal fill the air. The Irish man is impressed by the general’s power over the people, the effect he has upon the crowd is almost messianic; his presence appears to have redeemed the city of Lima of all its sins.

“Quite ironic.” O Leary tells him, “considering Your Excellency is an atheist.”

After a graceful dismount The General attends a solemm “Te Deum” and heads by foot to the palace of government. He stands quietly in the immense room listening to orator after orator; the wishes of the people of Lima are voice without restriction; they want him at the head of the Republic.

“In the name of the members of this honorable council and the people of Peru, I hereby offer you the position of Supreme Commander,” the notable Luna Pizarro says for all to hear, “For only you, “Your Excellency” can help us from the chaos that besets us.”

Bolivar shakes his head in disapproval and points to the older man that sits beside him. General La Mar had taken over the presidency of the council a month ago. The high rank Spanish officer, once hated by everyone, now has an entirely different reputation; his comradely on the battlefield, as well as his obedience to the Liberator, has restored him to the good graces of the zealous patriots.

La Mar salutes the delegates with a faint movement of his arm. His legs feel heavy and his shoulder hurts. The many years of service have caught up with the old man. He smiles solemnly as the room gives him a standing ovation. Their disapproval is as condescending as it is respectful; Bolivar can see the disappointment written on everyone’s expression, they want him, not a decrepit old soldier. The ovation roars; it is a homage to the departed.

La Mar holds back his tears; the old veteran is touched. He came to the new world to submit it and now he finds himself a patriot praised by the same men who were once suspicious of his conduct; it is his life’s greatest irony as well as its greatest achievement.

“It would be an insult to occupy a position which rightfully belongs to General La Mar,” Bolivar declares to the crowd and grabbing the old veteran’s hand, leads him to the chair belonging to the first magistrate. Jose de La Mar is stirred by the proposition. He puts his arms around the energetic Bolivar and whispers a confession:

“I am in poor health. I am in no shape to govern.”

“It is up to the National assembly to consider these excuses,” Bolivar responds, “I am merely placing you in the position I believe you deserve.”

Bolivar the warrior survived on his impulses, riding on waves of instinct, fueled by the passionate fire within him. The politician is a much predictable creature; Colonel O’ Leary has witnessed every step of the transformation. He has always been in awe of the great “Libertador.” It had never occurred to him that someday he would pity him. The General’s role as warrior is over and he is quickly becoming a continental seamstress ever sewing a land ripping apart at the seams. The situation in Venezuela is worsening. The tension in Colombia is growing; O’Leary knows he has no time to be President of Peru. Choosing the old Spaniard to lead the country is merely responsible.

“In your absence,” Bolivar tells LaMar, “General Unanue can take charge of the administration as he has done before. I prefer to keep only my military command,” he tells the members of the council before him.

“How long can this last?” O’ Leary ponders, “there is only one Bolivar. Yesterday it was Chuquisaca, today Lima, tomorrow, Caracas? How long can His Excellency put out the fires?”

“Where is my cape?” The General asks shivering, a southern wind chilling his bones. The road back to La Magdalena is seven long miles, enough distance to hear the voices of the night. Desperation is not devotion; necessity alters the nature of men.

“They call me Zambo*(of mixed race),” he tells his father’s son, Jose Palacios. “Little do they know, they are not insulting us, brother.” Of the many illnesses inherited from his ancestors, racism is the one that embarrases him the most; Bolivar smiles victorious as he rides his horse through a starry night. Zambo or not, he hopes the concept has died on the battlefield.

“But for how long? He asks the galactic witnesses above him. Ideas, and territories; laws, and frontiers, “can one person protect them all?” Caracas cries for his presence and Bogota demands it. Although today seemed like a formal arrival the general knows it was the delicate beginning of a reluctant farewell.

“God bless General Bolivar, Savior of Peru;” grandmothers take turns to pray at the local church.

It’s a starry night in a newborn America. A horseback Messiah heads home.

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