The Cambridge Companion to Latin American Independence 1108679331, 9781108679336

Table of contents :
Front Matter
Introduction. Rethinking Latin American Independence in the Twenty-First Century
1. On the Origins of Latin American Independence: A Reappraisal of Colonial Crisis, Popular Politics, and Atlantic Revolution in the Eighteenth Century
2. Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America during the Independence Processes
3. Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America. Local Dynamics, Atlantic Processes
4. Public Opinion and Militarization during the Wars of Independence
5. Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting. Science and Independence in the Spanish and Portuguese Americas
6. Brothers in Arms. Freemasonry in Latin American Independence
7. Beyond Heroes and Heroines. Gendering Latin American Independence
8. Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula
9. Shades of Unfreedom. Labor Regimes in Latin America in the Nineteenth Century
10. Early Liberalism. Emancipation and Its Limits
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Cambridge Companion to Latin American Independence Bringing together experts across Latin America, North America, and Spain, The Cambridge Companion to Latin American Independence innovatively revisits Latin American independence within a larger regional, temporal, and thematic framework to highlight its signiûcance for the Age of Atlantic Revolutions. The book offers a synthetic yet comprehensive understanding and assessment of the most current studies in the ûeld and their analytical contributions to the broader historiography. Organized thematically and across different regions of the Iberian Peninsula and Spanish and Luso America, the chapters deepen well-known conclusions and reveal new interpretations. They offer analytical interventions that produce new questions on periodization, the meaning of anticolonialism, liberalism, and republicanism, as well as the militarization of societies, public opinion, the role of sciences, labor regimes, and gender dynamics. A much-needed addition to the existing scholarship, this book brings a transnational perspective to a critical period of history in Latin America. ÿ÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ ÷÷ÿ÷÷÷÷÷ÿ is Associate Professor of History at Yale University. Her book Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, öþÿ÷–öÿ÷þ won the ÷÷øþ Latin American Studies Association (LASA) Michael Jiménez Prize. ÷÷ÿ÷øÿÿ÷ ÷
÷ÿ÷ÿ
is Associate Professor of History at The University of Texas at Austin. Her book Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela won the ÷÷øþ Bolton–Johnson Award from the Conference on Latin American History (CLAH).

The Cambridge Companion to

Latin American Independence Edited by M÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ E÷ÿ÷÷÷÷÷ÿ Yale University C÷ÿ÷øÿÿ÷ S
÷ÿ÷ÿ
The University of Texas at Austin

Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge ÷÷÷ ÿ÷÷, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, ÷÷th Floor, New York, ÿÿ ø÷÷÷ÿ, USA ÷þþ Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, ÷ÿ÷ ö÷÷þ, Australia öø÷–ö÷ø, örd Floor, Plot ö, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – øø÷÷÷þ, India ø÷ö Penang Road, #÷þ–÷ÿ/÷þ, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore ÷öÿ÷ÿþ Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/þþÿøø÷ÿ÷þ÷÷þ÷ ÷
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ÿ: Cambridge ; New York : Cambridge University Press, ÷÷÷ö. | Series: CCHS Cambridge companions to history | Includes bibliographical references and index. ÿ÷÷ÿøÿ÷ÿ÷÷÷: ÿ÷÷ÿ ÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷þÿ (print) | ÿ÷÷ÿ ÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷þþ (ebook) | ÿ÷÷ÿ þþÿøø÷ÿ÷þ÷÷þ÷ (hardback) | ÿ÷÷ÿ þþÿøø÷ÿþ÷þøÿþ (paperback) | ÿ÷÷ÿ þþÿøø÷ÿÿþþööÿ (epub) ÷÷÷ÿ÷÷ø÷: ÿ÷÷ÿ: Latin America–History–Autonomy and independence movements. | Latin America–History–Wars of Independence, øÿ÷ÿ-øÿö÷. | Latin America–History–Autonomy and independence movements–Historiography. | Latin America–Politics and government. | Latin America–Social conditions. ÷ÿ÷÷÷ÿ÷ÿ÷÷øÿ
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To the Memory of Juan Pablo Echeverri

Contents

List of Figures page ix List of Maps x List of Contributors xi Acknowledgments xv

Introduction: Rethinking Latin American Independence in the Twenty-First Century ÿ÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ ÷÷ÿ÷÷÷÷÷ÿ ÷ÿ÷ ÷÷ÿ÷øÿÿ÷ ÷
÷ÿ÷ÿ


ø

ø On the Origins of Latin American Independence: A Reappraisal of Colonial Crisis, Popular Politics, and Atlantic Revolution in the Eighteenth Century ÷ ÿ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ø ÿ
ÿ ÷
ÿ ÷ø ÷ Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America during the Independence Processes ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ø ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ
þ÷ ö Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America: Local Dynamics, Atlantic Processes ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ø
÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ
÷ ÷ ÷ ÷
þþ ÷ Public Opinion and Militarization during the Wars of Independence ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷
ÿ . ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÿ
÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ø ÿ ÿ ÷ ÷
÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ
ø÷÷ þ Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting: Science and Independence in the Spanish and Portuguese Americas ÿ
÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ - ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ øö÷ ÿ Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÿ ÷ øÿ÷

viii

Contents

þ Beyond Heroes and Heroines: Gendering Latin American Independence ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ . ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ øÿþ ÿ Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷
÷ ÷ ÷
÷ ÷ ÿ ÿ
÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÿ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ø ø ÷ ÷øö þ Shades of Unfreedom: Labor Regimes in Latin America in the Nineteenth Century ÿ÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ ÷÷ÿ÷÷÷÷÷ÿ ÷ÿ÷ ÷
÷÷ÿÿ÷ÿ÷
÷÷÷÷÷ÿ÷÷ ø÷ Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits ÿ
÷ ÿ ÿ . ÷
÷ ø ÿ ÿ ÿ
÷ÿþ Bibliography Index öö÷

÷ÿÿ

÷öþ

Figures

÷.ø Billingsgate at Bayonne, or the Imperial Dinner! page þþ ÷.ø Manuel Belgrano’s portable printing press øøþ ÷.÷ Royalist ûag captured by the revolutionaries during the takeover of the city of Montevideo in øÿø÷ øøþ þ.ø Hunter Negroes Returning to Town or The Return of the Negroes by a Naturalist (Nègres chasseurs rentrant en ville or Le retour des nègres d’un naturaliste) ø÷ö ÿ.ø The Masonic Chart øÿ÷ þ.ø Doña Maria Quitéira de Jesús øþÿ þ.÷ Simón Bolívar, Liberator and Father of the Nation (Simón Bolívar, Libertador y Padre de la Patria) ÷÷ø ø÷.ø Memorial plaque for the Spanish Constitution of øÿø÷ ÷þ÷ ø÷.÷ Liberty as an Indian Woman, Year of öÿöþ (La India de la Libertad, öÿöþ) ÷ÿ÷

Maps

The Americas, øþÿ÷ page xvii The Americas, øÿþ÷ xviii Portuguese Brazil and Viceroyalty of Río de la Plata, øþÿ÷ ÿ÷ The Greater Caribbean, øþÿ÷ ÿø Forces dispatched by the Spanish Comisión de Reemplazos to the Americas, øÿøø–øÿ÷ÿ ÷÷ö þ.ø Migrations to Latin America from China, Africa, and Iberia ÷÷ÿ ÷.ø ÷.÷ ö.ø ö.÷ ÿ.ø

Contributors

E÷ÿ÷÷ø
B÷÷÷ÿ is Associate Professor of History at Cornell University. He is the author of An Aqueous Territory: Sailor Geographies and New Granada’s Transimperial Greater Caribbean World (÷÷øÿ). His research interests include the emergence of globalization during the early modern period; hemispheric connections and mobilities; indigenous–European encounters in the Caribbean Basin; the rise of capitalism; the development of plantation societies in the Caribbean; the ûow of ideas, people, and commodities across the Atlantic Ocean; and the role of oceans in world history. J
÷÷÷ C÷÷ÿÿ÷÷÷÷-E÷÷÷÷÷÷÷ is the Alice Drysdale Shefûeld Professor of History and Director of the Institute for Historical Research at the University of Texas at Austin. He is the author of numerous articles and books, including How to Write the History of the New World (÷÷÷ø), Puritan Conquistadors (÷÷÷ÿ), Nature, Empire and Nation (÷÷÷þ), and Entangled Empires (÷÷øÿ). Áÿ÷÷÷
C÷÷
B÷ÿÿ
is a postdoctoral visiting scholar with the Program for Latin American Studies at Johns Hopkins University, and an associate researcher with the National Agency for Research and Innovation in Uruguay (Agencia Nacional de Investigación e Innovación). His contributions to the study of the Age of Revolutions in the Iberian Atlantic have appeared in Petitioning in the Atlantic World: Empires, Revolutions and Social Movements (÷÷÷÷), Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos’ Report on the Agrarian Law and Other Writings (÷÷øÿ, ÷÷øÿ), and El sur en revolución (÷÷øþ), among others. S÷÷÷ÿ C. Cÿ÷ÿ÷÷÷÷ is Professor of History at the University of Minnesota. Her research explores political culture, citizenship, law, gender, migration, and exile during the transition from colonialism to independence in Spanish America. In addition to articles in English and Spanish, she has published Families

xii

List of Contributors

in War and Peace: Chile from Colony to Nation (÷÷øþ) and From Subjects to Citizens: Honor, Gender, and Politics in Arequipa, Peru, öþÿ÷–öÿþ÷ (øþþþ), as well as coedited Latin American Independence: An Anthology of Sources (÷÷ø÷) and Honor, Status, and Law in Modern Latin America (÷÷÷þ). M÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ E÷ÿ÷÷÷÷÷ÿ, Associate Professor of History at Yale University, is the author of Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, öþÿ÷–öÿ÷þ (÷÷øÿ) and coeditor of the special issue of Historia Mexicana ÷þ÷ (÷÷øþ) “Los écos atlánticos de las aboliciones hispanoamericanas” (“The Atlantic Echoes of the Spanish American Abolitions”). She is currently at work on a book-length research project about slavery and anti-slavery in the Spanish American mainland republics between øÿ÷÷ and øÿÿ÷. R
÷÷ÿÿ÷ÿ÷
F÷÷÷÷ÿ÷÷, Professor of History at the University of Pennsylvania, is the author of Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Atlantic World: Angola and Brazil during the Era of the Slave Trade (÷÷øö). His new book on the abolition of the transatlantic slave trade in West Central Africa is forthcoming with Princeton University Press in ÷÷÷ö. G÷÷÷ÿ÷ÿ P÷÷÷÷øø÷ is Professor of History and associate provost for academic affairs and faculty development at the University of Maine. He is the coeditor of Spain and the American Revolution: New Approaches and Perspectives (÷÷÷÷) and Connections after Colonialism: Europe and Latin America in the öÿ÷÷s (÷÷øö). His articles on various aspects of Latin American independence have appeared in the Historical Journal, Revista de Occidente, Journal of Transatlantic Studies, and European History Quarterly. J
÷ÿ M. P
÷øÿÿÿ
is Professor of History at the University of the Basque Country in Spain. He has been Prince of Asturias Professor at Georgetown University and Tinker Professor at Chicago University. He specializes in the history of political and constitutional cultures in Spain and Spanish America. He has published numerous books, including Historia mínima del constitucionalismo en América Latina (÷÷øþ), Entre tiros e historia. La constitución de la autonomía vasca öþþÿ–öþþþ (÷÷øÿ), and Una historia atlántica de los orígenes de la nación y el Estado. España y las españas en el siglo XIX (÷÷÷÷). F÷÷÷ÿ÷ÿ
P÷÷÷
is Associate Professor of History at the College of William and Mary. He is the author of Edge of Empire: Atlantic Networks and Revolution in Bourbon Río de la Plata (÷÷øþ), which was translated into Spanish as

List of Contributors

El Borde del Império. Redes atlánticas y revolución en el Río de la plata Borbónico (÷÷÷ø). His research interests focus on cross-border dynamics; social networks; commerce; contraband trade; colonialism and empire; capitalism and slavery; and the social and economic history of Latin America and the Atlantic World. Aÿ÷ÿ÷ÿ÷÷
M. R÷÷ÿÿ
÷ÿ÷ÿ earned his Ph.D. from the School for Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences in Paris. He is a researcher at the National Scientiûc and Technical Research Council in Argentina, and author of Anatomía del pánico. La batalla de Huaqui o la derrota de la Revolución (÷÷øþ); La société guerrière. Pratiques, discours et valeurs militaires dans le Rio de la Plata, öÿ÷ÿ–öÿþ÷ (÷÷øö); and Ser soldado en las Guerras de Independencia. La experiencia cotidiana de la tropa en el Río de la Plata (öÿö÷–öÿ÷÷) (÷÷øö). He was awarded the Prix d’Histoire Militaire by the French Ministry of Defense. K÷÷÷ÿ R÷÷ÿÿ÷ is Professor of Latin American History at the University of Guelph. She is author of Francisco de Miranda: A Transatlantic Life in the Age of Revolution öþþ÷–öÿöÿ (÷÷÷÷), and The Journal of James A. Brush: The Expedition and Military Operations of General Don Francisco Xavier Mina in Mexico, öÿöÿ–öÿöþ (÷÷÷÷). Her work has appeared in English Historical Review, Hispanic American Historical Review, The Americas, Journal of Caribbean History, Historia Paedagogica, and other scholarly journals. She is ûnishing a book on Spanish Americans in London from øÿ÷ÿ–øÿö÷ and a general history of Latin American independence in an Atlantic context. N÷ÿÿ S÷÷ÿ÷÷ is Associate Professor of History at Brown University, where he also served from ÷÷øö–÷÷÷ø as Beatrice and Julio Mario Santo Domingo Director and Librarian of the John Carter Brown Library. He is the author of Measuring the New World: Enlightenment Science and South America (÷÷÷ÿ) and co-editor, with Joan-Pau Rubiés, of Cosmopolitanism and the Enlightenment, forthcoming from Cambridge University Press. C÷ÿ÷øÿÿ÷ S
÷ÿ÷ÿ
is Associate Professor of Latin American history at The University of Texas at Austin. She is the author Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela/(÷÷øÿ), which received the ÷÷øþ Bolton-Johnson Award by the Conference of Latin American History, and the ÷÷÷÷ Fernando Coronil Prize for Best Book about Venezuela. Soriano is working on a new book project on the effects of imperial transitions in the Island of Trinidad during the Age of Revolutions.

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List of Contributors

M÷÷÷÷ÿ÷ T÷÷ÿ÷÷÷÷ÿ
is Researcher at the National Scientiûc and Technical Research Council as well as Professor at the National University of Rosario and at the Torcuato Di Tella University in Argentina. Her research focuses on Ibero-American political history of the nineteenth century. She is the author of numerous books, including Los juegos de la política. Las independencias hispanoamericanas frente a la contrarrevolución (÷÷÷ø); Candidata a la Corona. La infanta Carlota Joaquina en el laberinto de las revoluciones hispanoamericanas (÷÷øþ); Gobernar la revolución. Poderes en disputa en el Río de la Plata, öÿö÷–öÿöÿ (÷÷÷þ); La revolución del voto. Política y elecciones en Buenos Aires, öÿö÷–öÿþ÷ (÷÷÷÷). Sÿÿ÷ÿ÷ÿ÷ Tÿ
ÿ÷
ÿ teaches Latin American history at New York University. His research focusses on indigenous and popular politics, colonialism and anticolonial movements, historical memory, and the Andean region. He is the author of We Alone Will Rule: Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency (÷÷÷÷); co-author with Forrest Hylton of Revolutionary Horizons: Past and Present in Bolivian Politics (÷÷÷þ); and co-editor of The Bolivia Reader: History, Politics, Culture (÷÷øÿ).

Acknowledgments

The publication of this volume marks twenty-two years of friendship and professional collaboration that began when we started the Ph.D. program in history at New York University in ÷÷÷ø. The year ÷÷÷÷ marked the commencement of a decade-long celebration observing the ÷÷÷ years of the culmination of the Wars of Independence in Latin America and the beginning of complex processes of state formation. This important commemoration invites students and the public to learn more about this crucial period, while it requires scholars to revise the historical signiûcance of these processes, reevaluate historical narratives, and offer new questions and paths for historical interpretation. Reûecting on the impressive and transformative growth of Latin American Independence scholarship, we both saw the need for a comprehensive and innovative survey presenting a rich view of both the many advances in the ûeld and the new questions and formulations that have emerged in the last ûfteen years. The chapters in this book show that the history of Latin American independence is a rich ground from which to explore the Age of Revolutions. This volume offers a synthetic yet comprehensive tool for understanding and assessing the most current studies in this ûeld and their analytical contributions to the broader historiography. The chapters take up classic themes in the history of independence and demonstrate new shifts and interventions that deepen our knowledge of the ûeld and produce new questions about periodization and regional connections, the meaning of anticolonialism and liberalism, constitutional transformations, militarization of societies and public opinion, the role of the sciences to legitimize independence, commercial relations and diplomacy, and labor regimes, among others. First, we want to thank our wonderful colleagues who contributed chapters to this volume: Ernesto Bassi, Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, Álvaro Caso Bello, Sarah C. Chambers, Roquinaldo Ferreira, Gabriel Paquette, Fabrício Prado, José M. Portillo, Alejandro M. Rabinovich, Karen Racine, Neil Saûer, Marcela

xvi

Acknowledgments

Ternavasio, and Sinclair Thomson. We deeply appreciate their generosity, expertise, professionalism, and excitement for this project. Despite the disruptions and challenges produced by a pandemic, we were able to spend several hours on Zoom calls exchanging ideas and thinking through the agenda and goals for this volume. We also would like to thank our colleagues Zara Anishanslin, David Bell, Divya Cherian, Thomas Dodman, Durba Mitra, Sara Kozameh, and Massimiliano Tomba, who, as fellows of the Revolutionary Change Seminar at Princeton University’s Shelby Cullom Davis Center, read a couple of chapters of this book and offered invaluable suggestions and insightful comments. We would like to thank Erna Von der Walde for her incredible work and patience as she translated two chapters of this book; Yoly Velandria for designing the maps; and Micaela Miralles Bianconi and Mariana Diaz Chalela for their assistance in editing the endnotes and preparing the ûnal bibliography. We are grateful to the Subvention Program and the Birle Family at Villanova University as well as Yale’s Hilles Fund for providing funds to support translation and image costs. From the very beginning of our work on this Companion, we have felt the strong support from the Cambridge University Press team. Our ûrst editor, Deborah Gershenowitz, showed enthusiasm for the project and worked hard to make the process smooth. Later, our second editor, Cecelia Cancellaro, took over the project and provided crucial editorial advice and support throughout the project’s various stages. We are very grateful to the staff of Cambridge University Press for the care and support they have given us while we prepared the manuscript for publication. In June ÷÷÷÷, right before we began the production process for this volume, Marcela’s brother, Juan Pablo, passed away unexpectedly. We dedicate the book to his loving memory.

M E  C S

Introduction Rethinking Latin American Independence in the Twenty-First Century Two hundred years ago, in , Bernardo Monteagudo, a revolutionary publicist from Buenos Aires who supported José de San Martín and later became Simón Bolívar’s interlocutor and ally, wrote an essay in which he reflected on the “extraordinary epoch” that América was experiencing. “Each century,” he wrote “brings with it the seeds of those developments that will unfold in the following century. . .. The Revolution that has swept the American world stems from the development of ideas that emerged in the eighteenth century, and our triumph is nothing more than the repercussion of the bolts of lightning that struck the European thrones that dominated the rest of the world.” For Monteagudo, the profound and radical changes experienced in different Spanish American regions (from Mexico to Chile) in the nineteenth century, which gave place to their definitive independence from Spanish domination, were tightly and deeply connected to the Era of the Revolutions that had transformed Europe and North America in the previous century. In his proposal for the creation of a confederation that could unite the various regions of América, Monteagudo acknowledged challenging impediments, “The immense distances separating the various sections that are now independent nations, and the difficulties of all sorts that obstruct communication and potential collaborations for the provisional governments, have postponed the project of a general confederation.” In addition, he stated that the relatively scarce knowledge that communities in the southern regions had about americanos north of the equator, and vice versa, had kept them increasingly isolated from each other and ignorant of their particular histories and circumstances. The American regions that previously were part of the Spanish monarchy were indeed diverse, complex, and dynamic and, according to Monteagudo – who was assassinated before he could finish his essay – if the emergent leaders of these regions wanted to create a “Hispanic American



Marcela Echeverri and Cristina Soriano

Confederation,” they needed to be aware of the common past and present threads that connected these regions, and willing to experiment with an original political program that could guarantee the preservation of the independence and sovereignty of the new nations. The idea of an Hispanic American confederation had different genealogies, including the early vision of Francisco de Miranda for a continental Colombia and Simón Bolívar’s own attempt to bring it to life through the Panama Congress, which he convoked soon after Colombia claimed independence. Both Bolívar’s and Monteagudo’s projects for an American Confederation encountered a fervent and stiff resistance; the failure of the  Panama Congress cast a heavy shadow over any future confederation plan. By the s, the emerging national projects in Gran Colombia, the United Provinces of Central America, Mexico, the Empire of Brazil, Chile, and the United Provinces of Río de la Plata turned their backs on those shared realities that used to connect the American regions among themselves, and more so, sought to distance themselves from their past links with the Iberian world. However, Monteagudo’s consideration of Latin American independence within the Era of Revolutions that shook the western world, as well as his reflections on its longer temporality (which included eighteenth-century ideological forces and crises), invite us to take a step back and reconsider Latin American independence in a larger and more comprehensive context, one that can help us distill, analyze, and restore the geopolitical dimensions of this process, its uniqueness, and the complexity of its outcomes. The field of Latin American independence historiography has undergone a major renovation in the past three decades precisely by having reframed the region’s transformations during the nineteenth century in an Atlantic context. The rich works by and profuse dialogue among historians in Latin America, Europe, and the United States in the late twentieth century were fueled by new questions about the revolutionary character of the independence processes from an imperial perspective. Building upon these contributions, the chapters in this Companion explore the intersections of the study of Latin American independence with several crucial historiographical subjects. These include the approach to the Age of Revolutions from Latin America, the study of Atlantic geopolitics in the nineteenth century, as well as research on science, gender, the public sphere, and labor. The main goal of the present volume is to offer a critical introduction to current studies about Latin American independence while also expanding the field in new directions. The authors in the Companion are therefore taking up subjects that are fundamental to the study of the region in the period known as “independence” both from a deep historiographical perspective and from a contemporary, and moreover forward-looking, view of the field. From the foundational texts penned by the

Introduction

protagonists of the process in the nineteenth century through works of historians in the twentieth century, the independence wars have been the subject of historical narratives and inquiry addressing questions such as the chronological depth of the colonial crisis, Enlightenment thought in relation to scientists’ and intellectuals’ anticolonial and republican visions, the fluid transatlantic networks of these intellectual and military actors – including freemasons – central to the revolutionary processes, and the Iberian colonial legacies that impacted state formation across Latin America. There were shifts in the approaches to these questions during the mid twentieth century with the rise of social and economic history that focused on class and fiscal affairs. While in some cases critical of the patriotic narratives of the nineteenth century, for the most part these histories continued to uphold views of the nation as the unit of study. In the last decades of the twentieth century, political history regained importance as it blended with social and cultural theory and expanded the very meaning of “the political” for the study of the past. At the core of this new historiography stood the question of anti-colonial or independence revolutions, which required scholars to revisit, from multiple regional perspectives, the complexity of what is known today as the Age of Atlantic Revolutions. The foundational paradigm of R. R. Palmer became an important springboard from which scholars of Atlantic history revisited questions of political modernity, social transformation, and institutional innovation, reinventing conceptual tools for the study of the revolutionary Atlantic world. Latin American historiography of the process of independence (–) has been at the forefront of this generative revisionist school, and has demonstrated the potential of two particular shifts in perspective: First, the expansion of the regional frame to include the Iberian Atlantic offers a more complex representation of the cycle of revolutions that led to the emergence of new republics in the Americas and the reordering of Atlantic societies – of which these were part – around liberal and republican principles. Second, the adjustment of the analytical lens at the micro level in the study of Latin American independence allows us to focus on social sectors that played critical roles in the configuration of the new republics but were generally excluded, or had their participation distorted, in traditional histories. Giving special importance to the years of the crisis of the monarchies in –, this most recent political history’s reinterpretation of the independence processes based on an imperial / Atlantic perspective has definitively freed narratives from the teleology of nation-formation. In Jeremy Adelman’s words, “As empires gave way to successor systems in their colonies, those regimes began to call themselves nations not in order to cause imperial crises, but as the result of such crises. The study of imperial crises and the study of the origins of nationalism in colonial societies should inform each other more than they do.”

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So, what was the depth of this imperial crisis? Monteagudo was correct, the eighteenth century had certainly brought important transformations for the Spanish and Luso-American worlds. The noticeable growth by the end of the seventeenth century of the population in most of these regions provided the necessary labor to respond to an increasing global demand for American goods, boosting in turn the economies of these provinces. While in the Andean region and Mexico the economy shifted from mining to a relatively diverse agricultural production, in Portuguese Brazil, the attention moved towards mining activities in the western part of the country, as the importation of African enslaved labor continued growing. In backwater regions such as Venezuela and Río de la Plata, planters discovered the economic potential of commercial crops such as cacao, sugar, tobacco, and other products such as cattle and leather goods that could be easily transported and commercialized in Europe. The Bourbon monarchs, who had recently occupied the Spanish throne in , recognized the economic potential of its American possessions and, inspired by Enlightenment principles but also responding to circumstances on the colonial context, designed a series of reforms – commonly known as the Bourbon reforms – to optimize imperial administration and secure larger revenue for the crown. In a similar fashion, during the eighteenth century, the Portuguese monarchs developed new administrative measures under the guidance and administration of the royal minister, the marquis of Pombal; these were known as the Pombaline reforms. For both Spanish and Portuguese monarchs, the ultimate goal of the reformist projects was to increase imperial revenue and strengthen their empires’ economic power by promoting colonial exports in the European markets, raising taxes, and reducing bureaucratic corruption in the American colonies. “There were,” says Gabriel Paquette for the case of Spain, “state-led attempts to overhaul the navy, improve and expand the army and colonial militias, revamp coastal fortifications, modify university education, enact a less regulated trade regime, boost mineral yields, encourage export-led agricultural production, and wrest control of Church property and patronage.” As Sinclair Thomson argues in this book (Chapter ) , these reforms did not merely respond to metropolitan interests to establish a top-down European “modern” system, but were also the product of reflections on the problems and challenges to colonial rule that had erupted on the ground in the Americas during previous decades. The increased vigilance and administrative control over American labor, land, and resources, the imposition of new criteria of economic efficiency, and the growing disciplining of social practices brought about by the reforms raised discontent among the population that inhabited different corners of the Spanish American and Brazilian territories; the reactions, however, varied by region and by socioracial group. While some members of the white creole elite embraced the

Introduction

new ideas that promoted government efficiency and economic growth, others resented the imposition of new geopolitical administrative divisions that restricted their power and undermined their authority locally. White planters and merchants in Venezuela, Buenos Aires, and Cartagena, for example, benefitted from the attention that the Bourbon monarchy paid to their ports and economic activities, but some also denounced the increasing control that Spanish authorities and commercial companies had over certain economic activities, and advocated for more open, fair, and flexible market rules. On the other hand, though the crown’s centralizing thrust was grounded in legal changes that brought paternalist discourses closer to subordinated groups like indigenous, mixed-race, and black communities, these groups bore the brunt of the new taxes and of the implementation of more severe controls. The Bourbon reforms, for example, increased the tribute that indigenous communities were supposed to pay, while curtailing old mechanisms that these communities had used previously to avoid the burden of paying tribute. New commercial taxes were imposed too on small traders and merchants, and local authorities were stricter in the collections of such taxes, and new mechanisms of collection were implemented. Although the African and African-descent populations were not required to pay tribute, new commercial taxes on transportation and trading affected them notably. Both the Bourbon and the Pombaline reforms increased the hardships of most of the population in the Americas. It was not long before diverse groups began to organize protests and openly rise up against the colonial state and everything they perceived as unfair governance. As Thomson shows in Chapter  of this book, following the  “Rebellion of the Barrios” that erupted in Quito, the decade of the s witnessed the Comunero rebellion’s spread in parts of New Granada and Venezuela, while the impressive movements of Túpac Amaru, Tomás Katari, and Tupaj Katari extended throughout the southern region of the Viceroyalties of Peru and Río de la Plata (today Peru and Bolivia). Although traditional historiography has held that the latter movements, composed of different socioracial groups including white creoles, mestizos, indigenous and black people, did not question the legitimacy of the distant Spanish king and merely demanded “good and fair government,” Thomson offers compelling evidence that the rebels’ discourses were often ambiguous – as they appealed to diverse constituencies – and that some leaders expressed radical statements that showed a clear rejection of Spanish colonial domination, as calls for a legitimate Inka ruler became more frequent. In addition, the series of demands that accompanied these movements – such as the suppression of forced consumption, elimination of tribute and monopolies, and even the emancipation of slaves – show that they were anticolonial campaigns that called for a new political order that could overcome the critical abuses and oppression exercised by the colonial government.

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As Spanish authorities in Spain and in the Americas managed to control the crisis with a combination of repressive strategies and negotiation, on the Atlantic side of the continent, the spread of information about the North American and French Revolutions, and the Saint-Domingue rebellions fanned the fires of revolutionary politics in Spanish America and Brazil. In December , Venezuela’s captain-general warned the authorities in Madrid that since the previous August “gazettes, dailies, and supplements from or about France, providing news about current events in Paris, have entered Venezuela.” According to him, the “evil designs” of these texts represented a danger to the province and he was ready to use all possible means to protect the territory from the “revolutionary contagion that has shaken the world.” During the same year, Cuban colonial authorities worked tirelessly to confiscate foreign newspapers that might spread word of the revolutionary events in France among the population, including illiterate groups of color who relied on open readings and oral debates. Colonial authorities in Havana, Caracas, Cartagena de Indias, Rio de Janeiro, Lima, Mexico, and Buenos Aires expressed concerns about the circulation of revolutionary information among the local population, arguing that in meetings and public spaces such as the markets and the streets, foreign newspapers and pamphlets with news about the French Revolution were not only read aloud to curious listeners, but were also transcribed and spread among the population. Foreign and locally produced papers, however, were not their only source of concern, as colonial authorities also denounced that the official newspaper La Gazeta de Madrid – widely read in the Spanish Caribbean region – offered detailed and “dangerous” information about both the French and the Haitian Revolutions that could incite sedition and insubordination among local groups. During the s, several French and Haitian-inspired “conspiracies” were uncovered in different urban centers in Latin America, such as Buenos Aires, La Guaira, Cartagena, and Salvador da Bahia. In all of the cases, colonial officials realized that groups of discontented laborers, artisans, and even enslaved people met regularly with French immigrants and other foreigners in private homes and in semi-public spaces to read and debate not only about the events of revolutions, but about how ideals of liberty and equality would change their fate. Official records of the inquiries revealed that the insurgents translated foreign writings and produced a considerable number of materials designed to instruct their followers in the principles of their movements. Among these documents were local texts, such as proclamations of insurrection, poems, stories, letters, songs, as well as translations and adaptations of foreign documents like the “Declaration of the Rights of Man.” As Thomson shows in Chapter , for decades prior to  there were protests at the local and regional level in Spanish and Luso America that strongly challenged

Introduction

metropolitan privilege and colonial rule. These movements combined local struggles against imposed socioracial hierarchies, questioned the legitimacy of royal authorities, and even claimed rights for political autonomy and self-rule. Most of these late eighteenth-century movements promoting alternative projects – whether for indigenous rule, republicanism, independence, socioracial equality, or abolitionism – have been perceived and depicted within the Latin American Independence historiography as weak, isolated, fragmented, and disavowed. Yet as we open up the scope to analyze a larger temporal context of Latin American independence and its connections with the Age of Revolutions, it seems clear that these movements shaped the contemporary political landscape and left strong marks on Spanish and Portuguese communities on both sides of the Atlantic. Spanish and Portuguese imperial rule struggled to contain, control, repress, or negotiate with rebellious and subversive actors who questioned the status quo and called for major change. Among colonial authorities, there was an urgency to bring back peace and order, but they also recognized a shift in the political scenario. These changes shaped the political actions and decisions of contemporary actors in Spanish- and Portuguese-held territories well before the Spanish throne was usurped by Napoleon and the Portuguese court was forced to move to Brazil. The Napoleonic wars in Europe (–) triggered an important crisis within the Iberian monarchies that radically impacted the American possessions, opening a new and unstoppable phase of transformation. In November , Napoleon – now emperor of France –invaded Portugal with the support of Spain. Facing the threat of capture, Prince Regent João of Portugal accepted the protection of the British to evacuate the royal family and the entire court from the Iberian Peninsula and transplant them in Rio de Janeiro. Brazil’s economic prosperity offered a comfortable and secure environment to protect the crown and the court and, overall, to secure the preservation of the Portuguese empire. The presence of the Portuguese court in Brazil certainly inaugurated a new chapter in the LusoAmerican world, one that was characterized by an increasing imperial control, but also by the development of new institutions and intellectual, technological, and bureaucratic innovations that generated changes within Portuguese and Brazilian political culture. For example, as Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Neil Safier discuss in Chapter , the presence of the Portuguese monarchy on American soil brought about the transformation of discourses and practices related to technological innovations and scientific engagements that went from the operation of the first printing presses in Brazil to the foundation of important institutions like scientific academies and intellectual societies. This transformation went hand in hand with an imperial interest in improving the exploitation of natural resources, increasing enslaved labor, and the optimization of agricultural production and industry. João of Portugal, for

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instance, opened Brazilian ports to international trade in February of , a complementary decree followed in April when he authorized manufacturing in Brazil. In addition, as Marcela Ternavasio discusses in Chapter , the moving of the seat of the Portuguese monarchy to the American territory also initiated a chain of events that opened debates about the appropriate constitutional structure that should be put in place, as well as questions of political representation among both peninsular and American inhabitants. Napoleon’s invasion of Spain in  followed a different path than in Portugal and had divergent effects both in Spain and Spanish America. After imprisoning the Spanish king, Ferdinand VII, and his father Charles IV in Bayonne, in the southwest of France, Napoleon ordered his brother Joseph to fill the Spanish throne. Napoleon’s capture of the Bourbon monarchy, however, activated a series of actions and events that escaped his control. Based on the Spanish principle that in the absence of their legitimate king sovereignty transferred back to the people (el común), local elites formed governing juntas in different Spanish and American cities. The members of these juntas swore to protect the rights of Ferdinand VII while acting as temporal governing bodies. It was in this context of invasion and war with France, that Spanish and Spanish American government officials and intellectuals inaugurated an intense period of political debates in which they produced new ideas about constitutionalism, the idea of the “nation,” citizenship and patriotism, and liberalism. As José María Portillo discusses in his chapter (), it was Joseph I who provided the first constitution for Spain, but most Spaniards who rejected the dynastic and constitutional changes joined efforts to create a Supreme Central and Governmental Junta of the Kingdom, known as the Junta Central. In Spain, the Junta Central coordinated the Spanish resistance from Cádiz, while in the rest of the country, Spanish guerrillas resisted and fought against the French troops. The Spanish monarchy undoubtedly faced an extremely complicated challenge, the product of the combination of a dynastic crisis with a constitutional one, and both the peninsula and the American territories were deeply affected and transformed by this inter-imperial war. They were also at the core of the “mutation” that occurred with the formulation of a constitution that could govern in the absence of the monarch. The Constitution of Cádiz was drafted by the Cortes with representatives of all Spanish possessions, proclaimed in , and led to a revolution at all levels of government across the monarchy. The effort to maintain an empire-wide unity through constitutional rule and establish, as Ternavasio calls it, “a bi-hemispheric nation,” asserts the relevance of the imperial perspective on the period. As Adelman wrote, “the nation did not necessarily define itself in opposition to empire” but rather in a dialectical political dialogue in which American developments also shaped profoundly the European

Introduction

structural shifts. In this line of inquiry, contributions in this Companion by Ternavasio (Chapter ), Caso Bello and Paquette (Chapter ), and Portillo (Chapter ), discover new layers of the Atlantic and Iberian perspectives on the themes of representation, liberalism, and the view of Latin American independence from the peninsula, and they insist on the importance of the integrated imperial / Atlantic lens for studying the period. This is also fundamental to the current historiography that focuses on royalism in the revolutionary age, which accounts for the transformative processes unleashed by the Spanish liberal charter and other dimensions brought about by the war. Because experimentation and negotiation of loyalty were fundamental to politics in the period, people of all classes mobilized in defense of the monarchy. On the other hand, the series of events that the “Napoleonic moment” brought about in the Iberian monarchies opened divergent, yet parallel, paths for Spanish America and Brazil that need to be studied and analyzed with integrative and comprehensive lenses. In the last twenty years, historians like João P. Pimenta, Jeremy Adelman, Gabriel Paquette, Antonio Annino, Marcela Ternavasio, Manuel Chust, and Ivana Frasquet, for example, have shown us that an integral scope that considers both the Spanish American and the Luso-Brazilian independence developments allow us to better understand how the process of independence unfolded in Latin America by observing connections between actors from the Portuguese and Spanish realms. Pimenta’s work has suggested that instead of repeating the assertion of an obvious singularity of the Brazilian case, it is more productive to inquire into the impact of the Spanish American independences on Brazil, and vice versa. In this spirit, the chapters in this book have all pursued the goal of studying Spanish America and Luso-America together, within the context of the Atlantic Revolutions and through different thematic lenses. In particular, the chapters by Marcela Ternavasio (Chapter ), Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado (Chapter ), Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Neil Safier (Chapter ), Karen Racine (Chapter ), and Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette (Chapter ) have emphasized those historical connections between the actors and processes involved in both realms. As Brazil witnessed the unique and unprecedented historical experience of its transformation from colony into a center of imperial power, Portuguese authorities and officials became increasingly concerned with the effects of the Spanish monarchical crisis in America, a territory that, in their views, was not only vulnerable to a potential French domination but that was about to confront its own transformational crisis. The multiple commercial networks that connected Brazil with regions of Spanish America, such as Montevideo and Buenos Aires, allowed for the circulation of rumors, news, and papers that informed the Brazilian public about the vulnerability and instability experienced in different American provinces. In this

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book, Alejandro M. Rabinovich and Cristina Soriano’s chapter () shows that the first decade of the nineteenth century brought about novel communicational infrastructures in Spanish and Luso-America – like the press, publishing houses, and political societies – that allowed for the consolidation of new institutional arrangements to pursue popular sovereignty. In fact, the increasing influx of news and discussions about the Spanish monarchical crisis, the absence of a concerted and unequivocal response in the Spanish American local governments, and the temporary solution of creating governing bodies representing the rights of Ferdinand VII aggravated the crisis. Although it is true that the news of the abdication of the Spanish king and the creation of the Junta Central incited fervent manifestations of support and loyalty to the crown throughout Spanish America, it is also true that the dramatic rupture of the pact between the king and the people, which consolidated the unity of the Spanish nation, created a power vacuum that opened a variety of options and possibilities for Spanish Americans to take control of their destiny. During the years of –, political instability, confrontation, and social turmoil dominated the landscape of Spanish America. Events developed at disparate rhythms and evolved differently according to the peculiarities of each region. In some provinces, members of the white elite (both, Spaniards and creoles) formed governing councils and swore loyalty to the captive king, but in other regions, more radical individuals (including white creoles, but also mixed-race, indigenous, and black people) questioned the legitimacy of the Junta Central – or of its subsequent replacement, the Council of Regency – expressed their discontentment over the lack of equal representation in the Spanish Cortes, and called for a definitive rupture and independence from Spain. In Peru and New Spain, the white creole elite did not find reasons to advocate for a definitive rupture, and diligently installed the local juntas following the Spanish model. While the Peruvian viceroy, Fernando de Abascal y Sousa, was able to halt the revolutionary impulse for a decade, the viceroy of New Spain, José de Iturrigaray confronted a coup organized by members of diverse colonial institutions (the Audiencia, the consulado, and the church) who removed him from office in . Between –, the Viceroyalty of New Spain experienced a series of upheavals and revolts that responded not only to the political uncertainty and instability, but also to economic problems derived from droughts, famine, and increasing discontent among popular groups. In September , the priest and educator Miguel Hidalgo led an insurrection in Dolores and nearby towns in central Mexico that attracted more than , people, most of them indigenous and mixed-race, who sought to either eliminate tribute or improve their socioeconomic conditions. The Hidalgo insurrection was controlled by the beginning of , but other popular movements emerged in New Spain in the following

Introduction

years, and although none was successful, they showed that the temporary government had weak control over the region. In Caracas, the capital of the Captaincy of Venezuela, a group of prominent white creoles deposed the captain general and installed a junta in April of . Yet within a year and responding to increasing discontentment with the Spanish Junta and to the pressure by more radical local voices, they created an elite congress and declared Independence in July of . A similar situation occurred in other regions in New Granada, Quito, and Chile. At the beginning of , in Buenos Aires, the capital of the Viceroyalty of Río de a Plata, a group of Spaniards and white creoles had tried to create a junta to depose the interim viceroy, Santiago Liniers, but by May , more radical figures questioned the legitimacy of the Council of Regency and, supported by a large group of creole militias – that had previously succeeded defending the city from a British invasion – deposed the viceroy and created a new junta in May . They maintained, however, a formal loyalty to the Spanish king, even as they challenged the authority of the viceroyal authorities in the continent and waged war against them. The Río de la Plata declared independence from Spain in May . These declarations of Independence occurring in different regions during the s marked just the beginning of what would become years of confrontation and civil wars. The warfare resulted from the growing polarization between the proindependence faction and another one defending the legal experiment of the Cádiz charter, which redefined political relations across the monarchy under liberal principles. Indigenous people, for instance, became citizens in the new legal framework and military opportunities became one possible avenue for people of African descent to gain recognition as citizens. Most importantly, Cádiz introduced the logic of representation for Spanish vassals while the republican experiments, most of them at the municipal level or through provincial alliances, were also leading to new constitutions. Embedded in this intense legal process was the military mobilization of large sectors of the population in favor of the Spanish monarchy. People of all social classes, including Indians and slaves, joined the Spaniards to put down the insurrection. The year of  opened a new chapter in the history of Spain and America as King Ferdinand VII returned to the throne, abolished the Constitution of Cádiz, dissolved the Court, and sent a great military expedition to the Americas with the intention to put an end to revolutionary processes unfolding in different regions. Pablo Morillo, a field marshall who had served against the French forces in Spain and supported the restoration of absolutism, was appointed as commander of the Spanish Expeditionary Force. Its most important goal was the nullification of all the constitutions that had emerged in the Americas since  and the “pacification” of

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the provinces. The arrival of Morillo’s Ejército Pacificador (Pacifier Army) in Venezuela and New Granada in  elevated the struggle into a greater conflict that changed the revolutionary path of New Granada. Morillo and his followers – including large numbers of slaves – employed all kinds of political and military tactics to restore Spanish monarchical rule in New Granada. Although by  the Spanish crown seemed to have New Granada under control, shortly after, in , republican forces put a definitive end to Spanish rule in the region. Pushed by popular royalist uprisings in different regions and by the massive Royal expedition in , the years of – witnessed the eruption of violence and war, and an increasing militarization of society in different regions of the continent, including Chile and Peru where royalist troops were able to repress local juntas. In Río de la Plata, the revolutionaries did not confront a royal expedition like the one that was sent to New Granada, nor local royalist opposition like the one that had interrupted the first and second republics in Venezuela. However, the junta established in Buenos Aires confronted a strong regional resistance to its authority and control, creating a complex military and political scenario involving porteños, Spaniards, Paraguayans, royalists in Montevideo, and the Portuguese in Brazil. As Rabinovich and Soriano discuss in Chapter , the ubiquitous presence of war in the different regions of America gave rise to a process of “militarization” that generated concerns among groups of lawmakers, publicists, and politicians who argued that although military leaders were pivotal during the wars, their power and popularity could shake the sacred values of the Republic and put in danger the stability of the emerging nations of the s. After surviving several years of uprisings and dispersed rebellions, by the year of  the Viceroyalty of New Spain had reached a period of relative calmness and stability. This brief period of stability was, however, interrupted by a new crisis in Spain, when Spanish liberals pushed for Ferdinand VII to reinstate the Cádiz constitution of . In New Spain, white creoles supported the re-implementation of the Cádiz constitution as it would reinforce their political role in the region. Colonel Agustín de Iturbide, a former royalist, assumed command of the Army of New Spain and advocated, along with a group of conservatives, for the independence of Mexico. In February of , he proposed the “Plan de Iguala” to local leaders. It proclaimed three crucial guarantees: independence from Spain, equality and unity for creoles and Spaniards, and the supremacy of Catholicism as the nation’s religion. In the following months Iturbide’s army took control of the country, gaining more support as well from the population. In August , the “Treaty of Cordoba” was signed by the representative of the Spanish king, officially proclaiming the independence of Mexico from Spain.

Introduction

The ending of the Napoleonic wars in Europe and the radicalization of the wars of independence in Spanish America brought new scenarios for Brazil. On the Iberian Peninsula, Portuguese elites continued putting pressure on the government and the royal family to return to Lisbon, but the court preferred to continue ruling from Brazil – a region that economically was the most important in the empire – and especially during a time when the Spanish American possessions were breaking apart from the empire. In December of , the prince regent issued a decree that described the monarchy as the “United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil, and the Algarves,” a formulation that raised Brazil to a status equal to that of Portugal. It was then clear that the purpose of this decree was to bind the provinces of the monarchy together while banishing once and for all any ideas that Brazil was just a colony. This prevented Portuguese Americans from following any revolutionary path that could reproduce the crisis of Spanish America. This decree also confirmed the power and centrality of Rio de Janeiro within Brazil, and this also carried its own problems. In , for example, the residents of Pernambuco (in the northeast of the country) rose up and declared the independence of their captaincy, creating an autonomous revolutionary republic that openly challenged the authority of the prince regent and the court in Rio. The movement was controlled and repressed after three months, but a wave of fear and concerns lingered among royal authorities and officials preoccupied by Brazil’s instability and potential fragmentation. In the early s, liberals in Portugal convened a parliament and initiated a constitutional revolution; by  the government in Lisbon demanded that the prince regent and his family return to the Portuguese capital, where a new constitution would be drafted. João returned to Europe but left behind his son Pedro as the prince regent in Brazil. When Pedro also faced increasing pressure from the government in Lisbon to return to the peninsula, he refused and instead proclaimed the independence of the Empire of Brazil in . This narrative arc that offers a frame for the chapters in the book is grounded on the main interpretive guiding principles of the Companion. In periodizing independence, we have taken up again the question of the colonial crisis that – though in the most recent historiography had generally been approached by situating it in  with the Napoleonic invasion – remains unsettled, as we hope to show. While most of the chapters go up to the creation of the republics and the independence of the imperial monarchy in Brazil in the s, some variation is due to the way in which authors adjust their chronology to the specific theme that they investigate. For example, Echeverri and Ferreira’s chapter on labor regimes (), which includes slavery and other forms of unfree labor in Latin America after independence, begins with independence and goes up to the late nineteenth century.

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

Marcela Echeverri and Cristina Soriano

Meanwhile, Cañizares-Esguerra and Safier (Chapter ) delve into the history of science in the Iberian empires to show the fundamental process of erasure of the imperial past in the Hispanic republican projects and the difference with the parallel rise of a Brazilian science that was more solidly grounded on the Portuguese past. This Companion offers a pluridimensional and panoramic view that expands and complements the complex political narrative that has emerged from the historiography in the past fifty years. With its wider regional lens, the last historiographical turn had tended to focus mainly on questions of legal reform and invention, constitutionalism, and the restructuring of political representation, both in relation to military processes. Uncovering these common elements across Latin America, and overcoming a narrow focus on military figures which had characterized the previous narratives of the “wars of independence,” some of the most significant new views on the cultural shifts underlying the period had to do with the public sphere. Yet the work on this theme was generally focused on political peninsular debate, while rarely including a full array of social actors and perspectives. The Companion goes deeper into this question by offering three innovative reinterpretations. One involves periodization and consists of conceiving of a sphere of public opinion in latecolonial society; in other words, it sees the public sphere as having longer historical roots. Another is putting in the same frame the question of the public sphere with that of militarization, to see how both aspects were entangled and complementary. The other is to investigate how our regional narratives are enriched beyond the institutional and jurisdictional debate on constitutions when we explore a wide range of agents involved in the production of knowledge and those – like the Freemasons in Chapter  – who were ubiquitous and influential but appear less involved in the official national narratives. While the topic of race has had relevance in recent studies of independence, Chapter  by Chambers and Chapter  by Echeverri and Ferreira, are proposing themes that take the social analysis of independence in new directions. Chambers centers the question of gender in her study of independence and argues that, in the Atlantic context of the Age of Revolutions, “Latin America offers a more complex case for analyzing intersectional identities.” In deepening our knowledge and understanding of the gendered dimension of independence, Chambers’ work is a fundamental analytical reinterpretation of the changes at the level of political culture as well as institutional forms, inviting us to move beyond the better studied aspects of class and race. For their part, Echeverri and Ferreira are taking up the study of independence in relation to questions of economic change, one of the subjects that has received less attention in the new historiographical turn. By putting this latest iteration of the field that defines independence as a political revolution in dialogue with the

Introduction

transregional studies of slavery and other forms of unfree labor, these authors provide massive evidence of the contradictory processes underway across Latin America in this period. This opens up two avenues of investigation. It situates liberal and republican political discourses and institutions alongside the practices that created new forms of exploitation and marginalization of populations in the region. It also expands the spatial lens to reconnect Latin America to a global scenario of migrations and commodity flows. Indeed, this theme of labor, along with the commercial and diplomatic aspects that Bassi and Prado explore (Chapter ), are pointing to other dimensions whereby we can rethink Latin America’s place in the world, and not only in the Atlantic. Their chapter on the diplomatic and commercial entanglement of Latin America during the period of the independence wars is perhaps one of the best gateways to revisit the theme of Latin America’s place in the economic transformations of nineteenth-century capitalism and the creation or reinvention of links between the Americas and Europe, Asia, and Africa. Additionally, Bassi and Prado point to one element – the informal networks of trade and diplomacy – that tends to get lost in the most recent historiography which is generally bounded within the Iberian Atlantic and within the study of the emergence of independent states. Their chapter illustrates why it is necessary to consider the fuller scope of foreign participation in the region through independence. This refers not only to the British presence, though, as seen in Echeverri and Ferreira’s chapter, it is certainly necessary to rethink Britain’s role, especially the British crown’s ambiguous position vis-à-vis unfree labor and the abolition of slavery (both in its possessions and elsewhere). The commercial and diplomatic engagement of the emerging republican regimes was also intense in a broader international sphere including the United States and Haiti. Similarly, Chapter  is a rich account of the vital and expansive networks of freemasons who were instrumental in propelling the changes in the period. One fascinating aspect of Racine’s research is that it reveals, as Bassi and Prado also show, that we need to go beyond the official narratives and institutional frameworks of states to explore the social, political, economic, and cultural processes in this revolutionary era. Aside from highlighting connections to other regions of the Atlantic – Britain, France, the United States – Racine also questions the stark division between monarchical and republican regimes as the key explanatory tool for studying freemasons. In Racine’s piece, we see the importance of freemason networks to intellectual and scientific exchange across regions, reminding us of why both the subjects of freemasonry and science have been so powerful in the longstanding narratives of enlightenment thought.





Marcela Echeverri and Cristina Soriano

The chapter by Cañizares-Esguerra and Safier (), takes us into the heart of one of those narratives in order to turn it upside down. They uncover how and why the anticolonial lens of the republican founders distorted understandings of the legacy of the Spanish monarchy. Their careful comparative examination of the battles over knowledge in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries both in Spanish America and Brazil is grounded in the rich historiography of science in the Iberian world. That literature reveals the fundamental place of scientific research and investment, the participation of multiple social sectors in that endeavor, and the clear connection of scientific figures to the independence processes. The chapter thus contributes to critical thinking about monarchical pasts (through a lens different from the one used in the growing studies of royalism) and links the colonial and independence periods in a sophisticated framework of analysis that also speaks to the history of science in the process of republican state formation. The theme of monarchy in this period and its persistence both in Brazil and in the Spanish Caribbean is a key factor that the chapters also speak to from different perspectives. While the Spanish Caribbean’s particular trajectory in this period calls for a separate analysis, it is important to note that Cuba is central to the studies in the chapters both on labor () and Freemasonry (). They prompt us to revitalize the dialogue between the historiography of the mainland independence processes and those of the Spanish Caribbean. What are possible ways to do this? If seen through the lens of the study of the Age of Revolutions, as Ada Ferrer has shown, Cuba’s case is radically different from the rest of Spanish America. While other regions enter the independence wars in the s moving toward abolition, Cuba expands its slave economy in unprecedented ways. Yet it is in fact urgent, as we see in Chapter , to situate the new republics in the historiographic discussion about slavery’s transformations and the rise of new forms of unfree labor in the wake of independence. Shifting the longstanding assumptions about the differences between mainland and Caribbean zones, based on their divergent trajectories at the political level, we can begin to see connections and commonalities that enrich our understanding of the period. The chapter by Portillo () also delves into the interpretation of the Iberian past and the specific manifestations of liberalism in the new independent regimes that emerged there. He does so by interrogating the fundamental concepts of liberty and emancipation as they transformed during the first decades after independence. This reveals conflictive readings of the political and philosophical legacies of Iberian corporatism and constitutionalism within a framework dominated by the example of the United States. With the most recent works that have redefined the history of republicanism from a polycentric perspective and, conversely, a renewed understanding of the

Introduction

fundamental republican experiments for Spanish American nation-building, our Companion is an invitation to rethink Latin American independence from multiple thematic perspectives. By putting Spanish America and Brazil side by side, we are asking generative questions that seek to overcome inherited paradigms. In the current context of the bicentennial commemorations, the Companion seeks to highlight key questions for the scholarship of Latin America, Europe, and the United States and in that way spur a dialogue that will foster new inquiry and understanding.

Notes  Thanks to Alejandro Rabinovich and Sinclair Thomson for their feedback on earlier drafts.  Bernardo Monteagudo, Ensayo sobre la necesidad de una federación general entre los estados hispanoamericanos (Mexico City: Latinoamérica, Cuadernos de Cultura Latinoamericana; Universidad Autónoma de México, ), . Translated by authors.  Ibid.  Ibid, .  Lina del Castillo, “Inventing Columbia/Colombia,” in The First Wave of Decolonization, ed. Mark Thurner (London: Routledge, ), –.  An exception is John Lynch, The Spanish American Revolutions, – (; New York: W. W. Norton, ). See also Alfredo Avila, “Las revoluciones hispanoamericanas vistas desde el siglo XXI,” HIB. Revista de Historia Iberoamericana , no.  (): –.  R. R. Palmer, The Age of Democratic Revolution: A Political History of Europe and America, – (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ). A comprehensive approach to the Age of Revolutions including Latin America was inaugurated by Lester Langley, The Americas in the Age of Revolution, – (New Haven: Yale University Press, ); and Wim Klooster, Revolutions in the Atlantic World: A Comparative History (New York: New York University Press, ). See also Roberto Breña, “Independence Movements in the Americas during the Age of Revolution,” Forum for Interamerican Research , no.  (): –.  Clément Thibaud suggests a “polycentric” approach to the rise of republicanism that reappraises Latin America’s place in Thibaud, “Para una historia policéntrica de los republicanismos atlánticos (–),” Prismas – Revista de Historia Intelectual , no.  (): –. See also the forthcoming encyclopedia, edited by Wim Klooster, Cambridge History of the Age of Atlantic Revolutions (New York: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming).  Jeremy Adelman, “An Age of Imperial Revolutions,” The American Historical Review , no.  (): .  John Fisher, Allan Kuethe, and Anthony MacFarlane (eds.), Reform and Insurrection in Bourbon New Granada and Perú (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, ); and Juan Pedro Viquiera Albán, Propriety and Permissiveness in Bourbon Mexico (Willington: SR Books, ).  Gabriel Paquette, “The Reform of the Spanish Empire in the Age of the Enlightenment,” in The Spanish Enlightenment Revisited, Oxford University Studies in Enlightenment, ed. Jesús Astigarra (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, ), .  Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, “Algunas reflexiones sobre las Reformas Borbónicas y las rebeliones del siglo XVIII,” in Entre la retórica y la insurgencia: las ideas y los movimientos sociales en los Andes, siglo XVIII, ed. Charles Walker (Cuzco: Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos Bartolomé de Las Casas,





Marcela Echeverri and Cristina Soriano





  







 

  

); Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority: Challenges to Spanish Rule in EighteenthCentury Southern Andes (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Juan Pedro Viqueira Albán, Propriety and Permissiveness. On how the Bourbon reforms were perceived and utilized by Indians and slaves particularly in the courts, see Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority; Bianca Premo, The Enlightenment on Trial: Ordinary Litigants and Colonialism in the Spanish Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, ); and Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), esp. –. Anthony McFarlane, “Civil Disorders and Popular Protests in Late Colonial New Granada,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; Fisher, Kuethe and McFarlane (eds.), Reform and Insurrection in Bourbon New Granada and Peru; and Gabriel Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of the Atlantic Revolutions: The Luso-Brazilian World, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). “Expediente de la Intendencia relativo a asuntos de Francia,” AGN-Caracas (Archivo General de La Nación – Caracas), Diversos, LXVI, –. Ada Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror: Cuba and Haiti in the Age of Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –. See ibid, –; Aline Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia, (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); Claudia Rosas Lauro (ed.), El miedo en el Perú, siglos XVI al XX (Lima: Seminario Interdisciplinario de Estudios Andinos, ); Lyman Johnson, Workshop of Revolution: Plebeian Buenos Aires and the Atlantic World, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgency, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (New Mexico: University of New Mexico Press, ). Cristina Soriano, “Newspapers and Revolutions: The Circulation of the Gazeta de Madrid in the Spanish Caribbean,” in Exchanging Knowledge across Global Eighteenth Century: Ideas and Materialities, ed. James Raven and Mark Towsey (London: Boydell and Brewer, forthcoming). Some of these movements were the “Tiradentes Conspiracy” in Minas Gerais (), the “French Conspiracy” of Buenos Aires (), the “La Guaira Conspiracy” (), the “Tailors’ Revolt” in Salvador da Bahia (), the “Pirela Conspiracy” in Maracaibo (), and the Cartagena Conspiracy (). João Paulo Pimenta, Brasil y las independencias de Hispanoamérica (Castelló de la Plana: Publicaciones de la Universitat Jaume I, ); Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of the Atlantic Revolutions; and Kirsten Schultz, Tropical Versailles: Empire, Monarchy, and the Portuguese Royal Court in Rio de Janeiro, – (New York: Routledge, ). Brian R. Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule on the American Continent, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). See José María Portillo Valdés, Revolución de nación. Orígenes de la cultura constitucional en España, – (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, ); Hilda Sabato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth Century Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ). On the notion of “mutation,” see Chapter . Adelman, “An Age of Imperial Revolutions,” . Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution; Marcela Echeverri, “Presentation,” for special issue on “Monarchy, Empire, and Popular Politics in the Atlantic Age of Revolutions,” edited by Hendrik Kraay, Varia Historia , no.  (): –; and Marcela Echeverri, “Royalists, Monarchy, and Political Transformation in the Spanish Atlantic World during the Age of

Introduction



  



  





 

Revolutions,” in The Cambridge History of the Age of Atlantic Revolutions, ed. Wim Klooster (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). See Jeremy Adelman, Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ); Antonio Annino and Marcela Ternavasio (eds.), El laboratorio constitucional Iberoamericano: /– (Madrid: Iberoamericana Vervuert/AHILA, ); Manuel Chust and Ivana Frasquet, Tiempos de revolución. Comprender las independencias iberoamericanas (Madrid: MAPFRE, ); Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of the Atlantic Revolutions; Marcela Ternavasio, Candidata a la Corona. La infanta Carlota Joaquina en el laberinto de las revoluciones hispanoamericanas (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ); and Pimenta, Brasil y las independencias de Hispanoamérica. See also the recently published edited volume that brings together Spanish and Portuguese imperial histories in a deep and comprehensive way, Fernando Bouza, Pedro Cardim, and Antonio Feros, The Iberian World, – (New York: Routledge, ), especially the chapter by Anthony McFarlane and João Paulo Pimenta, “Independence in Iberian America,” –. Pimenta, Brasil y las independencias de Hispanoamérica, . Ibid, –. François-Xavier Guerra, “Lógicas y ritmos de las revoluciones hispánicas,” in Revoluciones Hispánicas. Independencias Americanas y liberalismo español, ed. François-Xavier Guerra (Madrid: Editorial Complutense, ), –. Antonio Annino (ed.), La revolución novohispana, – (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); and Eric Van Young, The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ). Jaime Rodríguez O. (ed.), Revolución, independencia y las nuevas naciones de América (Madrid: MAPFRE, ). María Teresa Calderón and Clément Thibaud, La majestad de los pueblos en la Nueva Granada y Venezuela (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ). Stephen Stoan, Pablo Morillo and Venezuela, – (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, ); Clément Thibaud, République en armes. Les armées de Bolivar dans les guerres d’indépendance du Venezuela et de la Colombie (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, ); Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, La Restauración de la Nueva Granada (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ); and Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule, –. See also, Núria Sales de Bohigas, Sobre esclavos, reclutas y mercaderes de quintos (Barcelona: Editorial Ariel, ); Peter Blanchard, Under the Flags of Freedom: Slave Soldiers and the Wars of Independence in Spanish South America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); and Echeverri, “Royalists, Monarchy, and Political Transformation.” On military dynamics see Anthony McFarlane, War and Independence in Spanish America (New York: Routledge, ); and Juan Marchena and Manuel Chust (eds.), Por la fuerza de las armas. Ejército e independencias en Iberoamérica (Castellón: Universidad Jaume I, ). Jaime Rodríguez, The Independence of Spanish America (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ); Van Young, The Other Rebellion; and Rodrigo Moreno, La trigarancia. Fuerzas armadas en la consumación de la independencia. Nueva España, – (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas / Fideicomiso Felipe Teixidor y Monserrat Alfau de Teixidor, ). Pimenta, Brasil y las independencias de Hispanoamérica; and Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of the Atlantic Revolutions. See Soriano, Tides of Revolution.





Marcela Echeverri and Cristina Soriano  Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror; Marcela Echeverri, “Slavery in Mainland Spanish America in the Age of the Second Slavery,” in Atlantic Transformations: Empire, Politics, and Slavery during the Nineteenth Century, ed. Dale Tomich (Albany: Fernand Braudel Series, State University of New York Press, ), –.  José Antonio Aguilar and Rafael Rojas, El republicanismo en hispanoamérica. Ensayos de historia intelectual y política (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Thibaud, “Para una historia policéntrica de los republicanismos atlánticos”; and Sabato, Republics of the New World.

S T



On the Origins of Latin American Independence A Reappraisal of Colonial Crisis, Popular Politics, and Atlantic Revolution in the Eighteenth Century The word “origins” is disturbing, because it is ambiguous.

Marc Bloch

How should we understand the origins of Latin American independence? Bearing in mind Marc Bloch’s words of warning, a cluster of difficulties immediately present themselves. If we take “origins” to refer to “beginnings,” it is not easy to isolate a single starting point for any historical phenomenon. If we take the term to mean “causes,” these are not readily determined in historical analysis. If we conflate the two meanings, with beginnings taken as causes (post hoc ergo propter hoc), we add to the problem of explanation. Going beyond Bloch’s attention to our language, concepts, and logic, we confront the complex ideological contests that arise over any significant object of historical analysis. It is no wonder then that the origins of Latin American independence have generated a wide range of contrasting interpretations by historians since the early nineteenth century. Witnesses and participants in the fraught conflicts of the s were already reflecting on and narrating their origins as part of a bid to establish new political communities. For the rest of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth, there emerged a general body of historiography that we can broadly characterize as historia patria. The patriotic accounts of independence in the different countries of the region fed into public pedagogy retelling the origin stories in celebratory and heroic mode. Military, political, and constitutional affairs featuring prominent generals and statesmen held pride of place in these accounts. As new revolutionary and nationalist forces began to gain ground around the region in the s and s, they pointed to the failures of the aristocratic republics and laid claim to the mantle of independence for themselves. However, their own public discourse continued in the patriotic national mode while most academic historywriting was limited to elite circles and concerned itself with the traditional themes.



Sinclair Thomson

In the historia patria accounts, the main spatial frame for origins was that of the state that emerged after independence, and the central political subject was an oppressed yet militant people-in-formation. The interests of popular subjects were assumed to be represented by creole leadership. The conflicts of the late-colonial period were commonly viewed as anticipating or causing the rupture with Iberian empires in the s, and a discourse of precursors, prolegomena, and prototypes marked the narrative of origins. The first major challenge to the historia patria discourse emerged from the s to early s. This first revisionism, deploying Marxist, materialist, structuralist, and quantitative approaches, broke new ground in social and economic history and destabilized traditional nationalist narratives. While acknowledging the reality of colonial domination, the revisionists pointed to the class and racial divisions within colonial society that self-satisfied national narratives papered over. Historians increasingly found the origins of independence less in presumed common national interests or the deeds and ideas of great men than in broader structural forces and processes, such as the reforms of the Bourbon state, the antagonisms between creole and peninsular Spaniards or Portuguese and the formation of American consciousness, or imperial fiscal crisis. For these scholars, against the structural backdrop of building tensions in the region and fraying relations with the metropolis, the Napoleonic invasion of the Iberian Peninsula in  and the ensuing crisis of the Spanish and Portuguese thrones served as the trigger for imperial collapse, while the restoration of absolutism in  proved a final breaking point in American– Spanish relations. This body of work continued to be written primarily within the spatial frame of the different Latin American countries and conceived of the origins of independence in a temporal frame of medium-term causality. It took seriously the idea of a crisis in the colonial relationship – whether fiscal or of growing political alienation – and it paid greater attention to the role of subaltern political actors. A second challenge to the historia patria narratives, but also to the preceding Marxist, structuralist, and economic approaches, emerged in the s, and came to dominate historiographic production on independence into the current bicentennial era. Contrary to nationalist visions, this post-revisionist paradigm reframed Latin American independence from a metropolitan and imperial standpoint. It conceived of a unified Hispanic world, integrated under the monarchy through a common political culture that spanned from the Old World to the New. It interpreted independence not as a revolution born of cumulative contradictions between metropole and colony but as an outcome of the disintegration of Spanish empire due to a political process that erupted unexpectedly in  on the peninsula and radiated out to provoke deep transformations in the American territories. After the abdications of Carlos IV and Fernando VII under French pressure, the vacuum

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

of sovereignty spread to engulf the empire as a whole and generated intensifying regional contests to claim legitimate authority. In this view, the origins of independence resided in a highly contingent political crisis within the metropole itself. That crisis gave rise to a liberal revolution throughout the Hispanic world, which in turn eventually led to the separation of the American territories. This crisis issued in the “irruption” of political modernity – associated with individual rather than corporate political identities, a new public arena for politics, and the political principle of popular sovereignty and democratic representation – after the long epoch of the old regime (antiguo régimen). As the public bicentennial commemorations unfolded in the first two decades of the twenty-first century, they were accompanied by an outpouring of rich new scholarly work on independence. The post-revisionist school has been responsible for some of the most sophisticated and important advances. This is evident in diverse realms of political culture, including deeper study of monarchism, constitutionalism, liberalism, republicanism, elections, regional and municipal governance, the public sphere and communication, along with political language, ritual, representation, and imaginaries. At the same time, it has brought closer attention to the contingency and timing of cascading revolutionary events after . It has also refined our sense of the close linkages and reverberations between the metropolitan and American political arenas. For all its contributions, the prevailing post-revisionist current has also been marked by limitations. It tended to bracket off the economic sphere as essentially secondary to contingent and conjunctural political processes and thereby sidestepped crucial considerations, for example, about the fiscal challenges for the empire that had been building since the s and cresting before the Napoleonic invasion. It privileged elite actors as the protagonists of its political history, leaving outside its frame the vast majority of the population, which occupied subordinate social spheres, assumed to be organized in simple, seamless, or transparent corporate communities. It mapped out an expansive Iberian American geography, eschewing national territorial frameworks for understanding the political process, yet tended to see the Iberian story in isolation from other imperial and revolutionary processes in the contemporary Atlantic world. The temporal focus of this post-revisionist current was strained by two distinct problems. First, the narrow emphasis on  as the starting point for the imperial crisis and revolutionary developments was at odds with a deeper engagement with political processes or conjunctures stretching back to the eighteenth century. Second, despite the school’s critique of nationalist teleology, it reinscribed its own teleological norms in an epochal metanarrative of transition from tradition to modernity. This familiar but schematic abstraction carried with it a problematic set of associations: It assumed that prior to

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the decisive turning point of , the “old regime” was lacking in public political sociability, debate, or consciousness, and it held that Latin America’s postindependence travails derived from a disjunction or asynchrony between its modern political system and its traditional society. One other less noted, because less explicit, tendency of the post-revisionist approach has been to displace the notion of Iberian colonial domination and to downplay anticolonial dimensions of the independence story. From this perspective, Iberian America was simply an overseas extension of peninsular polities, not marked as a juridically inferior realm nor treated as a dependent territory for economic exploitation. By the same token, radical challenges to Iberian rule, separatist projects, or alternatives to monarchism were if not completely unthinkable then at least negligible in importance. Only after the rupture of , by this account, could the virtually unthinkable come into being, and only after Ferdinand VII’s military invasion of American territory in  was the anticolonial option sealed. The problem here is that the narrative tended to smooth out the antagonisms between locals and foreigners in the earlier period, while skimming over the challenges mounted to the constituted power structures. It assumed that the “old regime” and absolutism were essentially the same things in Europe and in America. This chapter reconsiders the origins of Iberian independence in a political key to help widen our vision without denying the strengths of the latest historiographic currents. It accepts the scholarly consensus that the events of  were a catalyst for an imperial crisis that was not predetermined and out of which different independence processes would eventually emerge. But it moves back in time to focus on medium- to longer-term political developments without rehearsing nationalist teleology. The chapter focuses on a particular set of challenges to the colonial order during the eighteenth century around the region, from conspiracies to relatively spontaneous local mobilizations to large-scale insurrections. A review of these cases offers a new opportunity to confront the following questions: What did the origins of independence have to do with colonial crisis? What role did subalterns or popular sectors play in the origins? And how were the origins connected to a wider Age of Revolution in the Atlantic world? Building on new work and recovering some that has been left aside, the chapter adopts three broad-lens approaches. First, in terms of temporal framework, it adopts a deeper, more layered approach to the political process, recognizing how critical experiences and evolving patterns in the late-colonial period could shape political imaginaries and interventions in the early nineteenth century. Second, in terms of political subjectivity, it takes the practices and consciousness of popular actors into account to better situate elite engagements, just as it takes seriously dissident and anticolonial pressures to better locate mainstream and loyalist positions. Third, in

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

terms of spatial framework, it qualifies the metropolitan perspective by considering the distinctive dynamics of the Iberian American setting and it relates the Iberian experience to other colonial contexts in the Atlantic world. In line with these approaches, the chapter argues that well before the Napoleonic invasion of , anticolonial pressures and a proliferating cluster of political crises put imperial legitimacy and sovereignty in dispute in Iberian America; subaltern actors became increasingly politicized and a crucial reference point in the political contest between dissident and official or loyalist currents; and the political field in Iberian America was shaped by the struggle between revolutionary and counterrevolutionary forces in the Atlantic world. Recognizing the crises of colonial legitimacy and sovereignty, changing popular political subjectivity, and the influence of Atlantic revolutionary struggles in turn can help to understand the subsequent independence period. The chapter does not insist, in a strong sense, that the eighteenth-century struggles were the beginnings or remote causes of independence. Independence was not a foregone conclusion in  after the multi-continental and inter-imperial Seven Years’ War, in the early s at the time of the revolutions in North America and the northern and southern Andes, in the s at the time of the French and Haitian revolutions, or even in . However, the political trials and turbulence of the eighteenth century would shape the unfolding and outcome of the processes after  that eventually gave rise to independence. Moments of Crisis

Over the course of the eighteenth century, colonial crises were a recurrent, spreading, and mounting phenomenon in Iberian America. If one accepts that a crisis can be diffuse and gradual, rather than a sharp, sudden rupture, it can be seen in more general processes such as the breakdown of indirect colonial rule (cacicazgo) and tributary pacts in indigenous communities, the erosion of the traditional dualrepublic system governing Indian and Spanish administrative jurisdictions, and the destabilization of racial, class, and gender hierarchies in urban settings. However, this chapter focuses more narrowly on political crises expressed in the form of conspiracies, revolts, and revolutionary movements that challenged colonial political authority and legitimacy as well as social and economic structures associated with them. The flashpoints highlighted here are the Andean uprisings between  and , the “Rebellion of the Barrios” in Quito in , the cycle of revolts in northern Mexico in –, the Andean insurrection of –, the Comunero uprising of , the Minas Gerais conspiracy of  and the Bahia conspiracy of  in Brazil, and the Coro rebellion of  and La Guaira conspiracy of  in Venezuela.

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There is no single beginning point out of which the political fissures in latecolonial Iberian America would open. The most common interpretation is that imperial conflict in Europe, coming to a head in the intercontinental Seven Years’ War (–), provoked the Spanish and Portuguese crowns to bolster economic activity, extract more revenue from their American possessions, fortify their military capacity, and update their state administrative apparatus in the second half of the colonial crises of eighteenth century. These so-called modernizing reforms placed new pressures on their New World territories and generated increasing resentment in the Americas. The Bourbon restructuring in Spain is most often associated with the reign of Carlos III (–) and in Portugal with the governance of the Marquis of Pombal (–). This offers a coherent overarching narrative, albeit within a simplified scheme of state action and societal reaction, yet the history appears more complex and multilayered when we take into account unfolding processes in different parts of the Americas. Within Spanish America, the Viceroyalty of Peru was the site of an important cycle of conflict from the s to . Conspiracies and revolts expressing sharp anticolonial sentiment broke out in the southern valley city of Cochabamba in  under the leadership of mestizo artisan Alejo Calatayud, in the highland city of Oruro in  under the influence of creole leader Juan Vélez de Córdoba, in the central highlands of Peru between  and the s under Juan Santos Atahualpa, among indigenous artisans in the city of Lima in , and in the indigenous highlands of Huarochirí in . They commonly challenged exploitative outsiders – the “many foreign demons” as they were referred to in Cochabamba. They also often imagined or enacted restored Inka rule in the region. Claiming native royal descent, Santos Atahualpa asserted, “He had not gone to rob another’s kingdom, and the Spaniards had come to rob his. But now the time of the Spaniards has ended, and his has arrived.” In Huarochirí, the leadership denounced the illegitimacy of the conquest and the centuries of oppression for Indians and mestizos, extolled the examples of the Portuguese and Sicilian nations that had thrown off the Spanish yoke, and proclaimed the valiant example they themselves would provide for future nations. Coming well before the Seven Years’ War and the heyday of Bourbon reform, these Andean cases are often ignored or downplayed in broader historiographic approaches. Their awkward fit with the usual narratives about the Atlantic Age of Revolution, political modernity, and independence points to the limits of those narratives. Charles III and his ministers began to implement their aggressive package of reforms to enhance metropolitan power, which provoked widespread protests around Spanish America from the s to early s. Often seen by historians as tax revolts seeking restoration of the status quo ante, on numerous occasions they

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

exceeded those aims. Quito’s “Rebellion of the Barrios” in  began as a defensive reaction to state imposition but morphed into a serious legitimacy crisis and insurrectionary challenge to the regional structures of colonial power. As the movement gained in strength, the traditional structures of social hierarchy and deference broke down and plebeian forces negotiated with and imposed their will on faltering urban and royal political institutions. They took local neighborhood governance into their own hands and exerted strong influence from below on urban authorities appointed with their approval. They envisioned and partly, if temporarily, succeeded in expelling wealthy European Spaniards seen as exploiters and in ruling themselves at local and wider regional levels. A similar dynamic unfolded in the northern Mexican mining districts of Guanajuato, Real del Monte, San Luis Potosí, and in the western hinterland of Michoacán in  and . A defense of religious life and local moral economies bred radical challenges to the colonial order of things. European Spaniards, perceived as arrogant and thieving gachupines, came under verbal or physical assault. There were also explicit and seemingly extravagant denunciations of the Spanish crown and proposals for a local monarch. Yet the mixed-race plebeian and indigenous movements cannot be dismissed as merely naïve and quixotic. In fact, they achieved partial concessions from the local authorities and temporarily opened up spaces of local sovereignty. In the words of Royal Inspector José de Gálvez, the protagonists sought to live in “rebel independence.” When the southern Andean revolution of the early s was at its height, indigenous forces imagined and began to put into practice a range of projects for communal, regional, and continental sovereignty. Tupac Amaru envisioned a society in which Indians, creoles, and others born in Peru would live together fraternally – “like brothers and joined in one body” – destroying the Europeans, but now under rightful and royal Inka rulership:revolutionary reinstatement of governance. He took care not to disavow publicly the Spanish crown and in the early stages of the uprising even claimed to act on orders from Charles III. This pretense would have been scarcely credible to creoles at the time, and yet a number of creoles and mestizos in the provinces rallied to the cause at the start. While Amaru’s correspondence and public declarations reflect strategic ambiguity, political practice behind rebel lines reveals that his followers treated him as their legitimate king, and he comported himself as such. On entering provincial towns, for example, he had local priests receive him with the protocol befitting monarchs. Word of his royal standing spread far and wide, and at times led to overt repudiation of the Spanish crown. In the province of Lampa, a witness reported, “An Indian with a staff in hand came forward to answer in the name of all others and, with scandalous

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and sacrilegious audacity, resolutely declared . . . they did not recognize the King of Spain as their sovereign, but only their king Tupac Amaru.” A long historiographic tradition has held that Amaru harbored no separatist project and merely aimed to restore the “good government” supposedly once enshrined in a legitimate pact between indigenous communities and the Hapsburg crown prior to Bourbon absolutism. But such an interpretation is no more convincing than the alternative tradition that Tupac Amaru prefigured the birth of the Peruvian nation-state after . His political discourse and conduct reflected the ambiguity of a leader appealing to very different constituencies, and they shifted as the conflict sharpened. But his forceful challenge to colonial domination and assumption of native sovereignty were manifest. The most radical statement of his project appears to come from the late phase in the insurrectionary war and to have been propagated only in restricted circles. The so-called Coronation Edict was found in his pocket when he was captured and he did not repudiate it even under interrogation. Its heading reads, “Don José I by the grace of God, Inka king of Peru, Santa Fé, Quito, Chile, Buenos Aires, and the continents of the southern seas.” The body of the decree declares, “The kings of Castile have usurped my crown and my people’s dominions for close to three centuries, burdening my vassals with unbearable levies, tributes, commutations, customs-houses, commercial duties, monopolies, property taxes, tithes, royal fifths, viceroys, audiencias, corregidores, and other ministers, all of them equal in tyranny.” During the Comunero uprising in New Granada, multiracial and cross-class mobilization again forced a contest over sovereignty. The anticipated arrival of the forces of Tupac Amaru created the temporary conditions for bold anticolonial bids, but this time under creole leadership. The crowd in the town of Socorro rose up in April  after the public reading of a lengthy political verse calling on the Común (community) to throw off illegitimate new Bourbon impositions. The poem declared that the exactions were unjust since the authorities lacked a hereditary right to rule and thus constituted tyrannical government. In June, Comunero captains in the town of Silos publicly read Tupac Amaru’s Coronation Edict, the audacious claim to rule over the vast territory from Bogotá to Buenos Aires. When they eventually negotiated the peace settlement with Archbishop Antonio Caballero y Góngora at Zipaquirá, the Comunero leaders insisted that the kingdom should never again be subject to royal inspection (visita). They rejected royal interrogations (residencias) of any outgoing authorities. Most radically of all, they demanded that all political and administrative posts should henceforth be held only by native-born residents of the kingdom. Together, the demands added up to a profound challenge to the traditionally constituted colonial regime. While their position did not repudiate the crown, it made metropolitan power essentially

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

superfluous. Rather than a restoration of any colonial status quo ante, it meant effective home rule, a new political order that had never before been seen in the territory. In Brazil’s gold mining region of Minas Gerais, the conspirators in  aimed to rouse the plebeian population, cast off Portuguese rule, and form an independent republic allied with Britain. Joaquim José da Silva Xavier, nicknamed ToothPuller (Tiradentes) due to his occupation, expressed his anticolonial convictions this way to one collaborator, “Europe like a sponge was sucking all the substance, and . . . every three years came governors, bringing a gang that they called servants, who after devouring the honor, finances, and offices that should have belonged to the natives returned happily to Portugal bloated with riches.” He allegedly asserted that “the mines could be independent, free of Royal subjection, and a Republic, because they possessed all the riches and natural resources (produções) and that all America could be free.” A new and even graver threat emerged in  in the city of Salvador da Bahia, the old colonial capital. Local social frustrations and the new context of the French and Haitian Revolutions set the stage for the so-called Tailors’ Conspiracy. Its gravity derived not only from the aspiration to independence but, in contrast to the Minas case, from the multiracial and cross-class nature of the movement, with plebeian men of color playing a leading role. The meaning of liberté in France could translate in Brazil to freedom from empire and racial-class subjugation. Seditious public declarations proclaimed that the “detestable metropolitan yoke of Portugal” would come to an end. They appealed to the “Republican Bahian people” and the “supreme tribunal of Bahian democracy.” According to João de Deus, a pardo tailor of modest means, “All [Brazilians] would become Frenchmen, in order to live in equality and abundance . . .. They would destroy the public officials, attack the monasteries, open the port . . . and reduce all to an entire revolution, so that all might be rich and taken out of poverty, and that the difference between white, black, and brown would be extinguished, and that all without discrimination would be admitted to positions and occupations.” Some conspirators in  sought to do away with slavery, but the region’s dependence on the institution plus the example of violence in Saint-Domingue put a brake on the abolitionist agenda. The motives of the Coro rebels in Venezuela in  have long been disputed. While there is evidence that insurgents, who were headed by the mixed-race zambo José Leonardo Chirino, invoked the inauguration of “new laws,” careful scrutiny by historians has found that the colonial officials, manipulating fears of the French Revolution, exaggerated the claim that the movement had a republican agenda. There is no evidence of a repudiation of the Spanish crown, but neither of any positive invocation or even mention of it. Insurgents did speak of ending slavery and

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ridding themselves of their white masters – witnesses heard menacing lyrics during the revelries of the enslaved: “flame down, flame up, death to the white, life to the black!” But when they marched to the outskirts of the town of Coro, Chirino’s forces promised to refrain from violence if the recently imposed commercial tax were lifted and slavery abolished. Clearly the insurgents, through a combination of direct action and negotiation, sought to undo tax and tributary exactions and to live free of racialized subjugation. The “tides of revolution” reaching the Venezuelan port of La Guaira in  included the political ideas and models from North America and France, anti-absolutist dissidence in Spain, slave insurrection in Saint-Domingue and Guadeloupe, and contests over metropolitan-colonial relations around the Atlantic world. The La Guaira conspiracy is often associated with its two white creole leaders, Manuel Gual and José María España. But no less influential were a cohort of Spaniards exiled from Madrid for their roles in the San Blas Conspiracy of . After arriving in Venezuela, Juan Bautista Picornell and his fellow exiles not only challenged monarchical absolutism, but now adopted outright republicanism. They advocated separation from Spain, holding up the example of the “rich and independent” inhabitants of North America. They also saw the revolutionary and sovereign “American people” as a multiracial subject liberated from colonial slavery and caste hierarchy. But the revolutionary cause would be torn over antislavery and race relations. To more fully appraise these local and regional crises in the eighteenth century, there are three subjects that merit particular attention: the problem of disavowal of the Spanish king, the reactions of colonial authorities, and the relations between creoles and subalterns. On the first point, not all challenges to colonial rule in the eighteenth century repudiated the Iberian monarch, and it would be a mistake to make such repudiation the sole criterion for identifying an anticolonial agenda. And yet there were repeated instances of such disavowal, proposals for alternative sovereignty, or outright separatist projects. The millenarian imaginings in the Southern Andes concerning the return of the Inka and the movements associated with Vélez de Cordoba, Santos Atahualpa, and Tupac Amaru all clearly posed an alternative to Spanish royal rule. Even when they did not engage in overt statements denouncing the kings of Castile as usurpers of the Inka throne, and even if Tupac Amaru at times declared loyalty to Charles IV, the radical implications for political sovereignty were not lost on the population any more than they were on disturbed Spanish authorities. In northern Mexico, there were an array of expressions challenging the Spanish crown. The expulsion of the Jesuits led to charges that the king and his ministers were heretics, Jews, or enemies of the faith. In Guanajuato, the crowd exclaimed,

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

“Long live the King of Heaven and death to the King of Spain and his gachupines!” Authorities alleged that mine-worker José Patricio Alaniz had proclaimed himself Great Mighty One (Gran Potente), adopted the heraldic motto “New Law and New King,” and set up court in one of the inner chambers of a mine in the Cerro de San Pedro. Indians and mulattoes in Uruapan, Michoacán cried “Long live the King of the Indies!” (¡Viva el rey indiano!), seemingly invoking a mysterious “prince incognito” who, rumor had it, had come to govern in New Spain. In Guadalcázar, the leaders held that the king of Spain had ruled long enough and they now wanted an Indian king, while the crowd called for coronation of the Conde de Santiago, a creole of noble descent residing in Mexico City. The Comuneros likewise generated a range of direct and indirect expressions of repudiation. These included the invocations of Tupac Amaru as an American king, denunciations of the historical legitimacy of Spanish rule, the destruction of royal insignia, the offer of a crown to the colonial magistrate (oidor) José de Osorio (a similar offer had allegedly been made to the Conde de Selviflorida in Quito in ), and passive non-recognition without active rejection of metropolitan authority. For the Brazilian movements, there is little evidence of outright denigration of the figure of the king, yet the separatist aims of the conspirators in Minas Gerais and Bahia were clear-cut. In Venezuela, the Coro insurgents likewise did not invoke or disavow the king, while the independence movement in La Guaira openly denounced the crown. On the second point, the crises elicited a stream of commentary from colonial officials at all levels of state administration. It was shot through with profound concern about the causes of the crises, their significance, and the possibilities for reform. After the Lima and Huarochirí movements of , Peru’s Viceroy Conde de Superunda attributed the anticolonial sentiment in the Andes to the inevitable outcome of a situation in which the dominated indigenous nation had not been assimilated by its rulers to form a single people. After the “Rebellion of the Barrios” in , an ecclesiastical official in Lima wrote to the Pope pointing to a different cause: treasonous priests and creole agitators. Warning of a possible general insurrection in Peru and the district of Quito, he declared: “The mortal hatred and antipathy that creoles feel for Europeans and the King of Spain are more evident in the city and all the kingdom of Quito than in other kingdoms in the Indies.” The viceroys of New Granada and Peru reached similar conclusions about the causes of the conflict. When Royal Inspector José de Gálvez arrived in northern Mexico in , he described the “critical state in which the kingdom found itself.” He also found a different source for the troubles: the Indian population was mingling dangerously with the multiracial castas, forming a mixed-up mob that sought “to subjugate

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(avasallar) and even extinguish the conquistador and dominant nation.” He did not carry out reprisals against creole collaborators but reconquered the region with vicious counter-insurgency tactics targeting popular sectors. Back in Madrid, the American turbulence and potential for political separation prompted the Conde de Aranda, president of the Council of Castile, to devise closer integration of the crown’s distant possessions. The Council’s  report urged, “Those countries should no longer be regarded as simple colonies but as powerful and considerable provinces of the Spanish empire.” It likewise recommended representation for the American viceroyalties in the system of metropolitan administration and creole appointments to clerical and judicial posts in Spain where the American Spaniards would be “as so many hostages for the retention of those lands under the gentle dominion of His Majesty.” Yet these measures never prospered as they contravened the reigning spirit of colonial absolutism. After the revolutionary crisis in the early s, a few high-level imperial officials called for a change of direction in light of the alarming events. The intendant of Venezuela José de Ábalos wrote to the crown in September  to share his reflections on the inevitability of independence in Spanish America. He had witnessed the rapid spread of enthusiasm for Tupac Amaru and the Comuneros in his own jurisdiction and believed that the uprising in Peru would have been victorious if it had had white leadership. He saw the example of North America as the proof that political separation could not be prevented. Francisco de Saavedra, a special commissioner of Charles III to the North American and Caribbean theater at the time of the war with Britain, spoke in late  of the “universal discontent of the entire realm” and “the present critical situation in which the New World found itself, in view of the examples of the English colonists and those of Peru and Santa Fe [de Bogotá].” For Saavedra, the solution required an end to the Europeans’ despotic and disdainful treatment of the New World creoles, and a closer integration of the colonies into the Spanish nation as Aranda had recommended back in . He flagged in particular the need for “equitable trade and tax regulations, which . . . have to do with matters peculiar to sovereignty.” Without tax and trade reforms, he continued, “the Americans will not prosper and the mother country will run the risk of losing the colonies when least expected.” But once again, these reform proposals were set aside. In Brazil in , the governor of Minas Gerais Visconde de Barbacena referred to the “great peril which the sacrilegious insolence of certain perverse men threatened,” and held that “The hand of the Almighty . . . has just defended this country if not from its ruin or total loss, at least from very grave damage irreparable for many years.” In Salvador da Bahia a decade later, the governor of Salvador da Bahia Fernando José de Portugal likewise acknowledged that grave harm would

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

have resulted if the uprising had occurred, “especially in a country with so many slaves, and in the present epoch.” To play down the significance of these conflicts in the eighteenth century compared to those that would follow in the early nineteenth, some historians have alleged that official alarm in these cases was overstated. We should not underestimate the intelligence that colonial officials were able to collect on these movements, although there were cases in which authorities deliberately exaggerated their radical features in order to justify prosecution. But even if their worst fears did not materialize, the authorities acted on those fears and their mix of repressive and conciliatory responses had very real effects. While they succeeded in containing the recurrent challenges, the popular movements and state responses to them became an integral part of public political consciousness in the colonial territories. On the third point regarding the crises, the cases show that there were consistent attempts to forge multiracial and cross-class alliances against colonial impositions, that those alliances were precarious and short-lived, and that in their aftermath creole majorities settled for compromises with the crown that would not destabilize the social order. From the s to the early s, from the Andes to Mexico, the alliances typically broke down as creole sectors recoiled in the face of powerful indigenous and plebeian mobilization and self-assertion. The inability to build and sustain a unified indigenous and creole movement was a decisive factor in the ultimate defeat of the Andean revolution in . In the aftermath of these crises, most creole elites sought to strike a delicate balance between their metropolitan overlords and their American subordinates. They resented peninsular prejudice, the limits on their political participation, and excessive state exactions, but they also feared state reprisals against dissent and the dangers of subaltern mobilization. They placed their hopes in better economic opportunities within an imperial regime that still secured their relatively privileged racial and class position. The minority of creole exiles and conspirators who advocated outright independence after the s, such as Francisco de Miranda from Venezuela and Juan Pablo Viscardo y Guzmán from Peru, drew their own lessons from the South American insurrections. They saw in the Comunero revolution the potency of multiracial and cross-class coalition under creole leadership, in contrast to the violent and failed Indian-led revolution in Peru. They also saw as heinous the Spanish authorities who refused to honor their agreements in Zipaquirá and who imposed cruel punishments on those who sought to defend the patria against the illegitimate exercise of power. In Brazil and Venezuela in the s and s, there were also repeated attempts to unite dissident whites, free people of color, and the enslaved in emancipatory movements. However, these ran up against not only state repression,

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but the deep cleavages found within colonial societies defined by slavery. Creole elites were largely unwilling to risk the mobilization of the enslaved population, especially looking into the mirror of Saint-Domingue. In , Bahia’s governor Fernando José de Portugal summed up the problem of fear, “That which is always most dreaded in colonies is the slaves, on account of their condition, and because they compose the greater number of inhabitants. [It is therefore] not natural for men employed and established in goods and property to join a conspiracy which would result in awful consequences to themselves, being exposed to assassination by their own slaves.” After the real and imagined threats posed to the Brazilian and Venezuelan colonial order in the late s and s, imperial authorities as well as most local elites, middling sectors, and popular groups had reason to settle for a tentative compromise. The crises would be superseded through monarchical government that imposed fewer political and economic restrictions and allowed channels for the resolution of widespread grievances. This calmed the waters, at least for another decade. Mutations of Political Culture

In these cases of eighteenth-century conspiracy and revolt, we can see processes of politicization underway in rural districts and cities, in wider regions and sometimes across regions. At the same time, politicization entailed a pluralization of the political field that brought heightened controversy and division. These tensions and contests were played out increasingly in public forums and through diverse media of social communication, representing the emergence of public spheres of political awareness, expression, and action. Subaltern sectors were significant participants in these unfolding processes. The study of popular royalism in the late-colonial and independence period has taken further social historians’ previous critiques of the idea that subaltern groups were altogether lacking in political awareness or agency, politically naïve or irrational, or stuck in static traditionalist mentalities. In fact, this work has shown counterintuitively that even when subaltern communities mobilized within a royalist framework, they could challenge longstanding colonial norms and hierarchies. The movements I am focusing on here were not royalist, but the underlying point still holds. The participation of subalterns in these processes of politicization challenged elite expectations of subaltern deference and official efforts to restrict popular intervention in public affairs. Rather than viewing popular subjects in these movements as part of traditionalist projects to restore legitimate colonial pacts, we can see how their attitudes and actions upset hegemonic norms of colonial political culture.

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

Going back to the s in the southern Andean region, there was vigorous popular political deliberation, organization, and protest in urban settings like Cochabamba and Lima. Political news and documents from the urban movements quickly flowed from the city to rural areas to light new fires. In the countryside, the politicization of indigenous communities could build over many years. Powerful struggles against corregidores and their forced distribution of commodities (repartimiento de mercancías) in the region of La Paz gained ground from the s to the s and generated anticolonial projects for communal autonomy. In northern Potosí in the s to early s, Tomás Katari and other community leaders combined legal maneuvering in the courts and petitions to royal authorities with armed direct action to pursue their aims. They developed discerning views of the splits among regional elites and officials and used them to their advantage. They deployed the discourse and ritual performance of royal justice to undermine local power structures and carve out their own de facto sphere of self-governance. The impact of rural community insurgencies then ricocheted back in the cities. In La Plata (today Sucre, Bolivia), urban plebeian sectors which had gained leverage defending the city from indigenous attack in  cast off the traditional norms of racial and class deference. They pursued alliances with patricians constituting a new collective political subject and exerted public pressure on colonial officials to protest Bourbon militarization efforts. Turning to the end of our period, we can see similar dynamics of politicization and the breakdown of traditional social hierarchies. With slave revolution under way in Saint-Domingue, the English traveler John Barrow noted a new sense of “black power” in Bahia in , and that whites no longer received the formerly deferential treatment to which they were accustomed: “The secret spell that caused the Negro to tremble at the presence of the white man is in a great degree dissolved . . .. The supposed superiority, by which a hundred of the former were kept in awe and submission by one of the latter, is no longer acknowledged.” In , the conspiracy involved a range of actors largely missing from the movement in Minas Gerais a decade earlier. Not only were there soldiers, but artisans, sharecroppers, and schoolteachers, with pardos playing a leading part. The rallying cry “Long live the king and death to bad government!” echoed through many eighteenth-century protests in Spanish America. Historians have long interpreted the phrase as a sign of popular devotion to the king and a feature of a hegemonic political culture – expressing an acceptance of the font of royal power even while objecting to its actual exercise. Yet rather than assume the phrase to be evidence of naïve monarchism, we need to consider the possibility that it could be deployed strategically by protestors. The leader of one group of mixed-race plebeian militiamen turned mutineers marching on Arequipa during the  revolt against

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the new customs-house advised his followers to shout the slogan conspicuously, so as to shield themselves against any later legal persecution on charges of treason. Naturally colonial authorities did not take expression of the slogan to be a naïve or harmless political custom. The very proliferation of the exclamation can be seen as a sign of the increasing politicization among popular sectors in this period. When crowds uttered the slogan, it demonstrated political reflection and open participation in public discourse. But rather than assume it to be a transparent reflection of the population’s general loyalty, we can see it as part of a progressively more complex and pluralized political field. It not only drew a distinction between the king and his administrative proxies, who should have been treated as the king’s “living image” according to a prominent current of monarchical theory. The very affirmation of the king also implicitly contained the counter-possibility of his disavowal; an alternative of potential dissent from the king was raised by the very assertion of loyalty. Both possibilities – that the king could be detached from the illegitimate deeds of his ministers and that he could ultimately be held responsible for injustice – appeared in one pasquinade against the new customs-house in La Paz in : “Long live God’s law and the purity of Mary! Death to the king of Spain and may Peru come to an end! For he is the cause of such iniquity. If the monarch knows not the insolence of his ministers, the public larceny, and how they prey upon the poor, long live the king and death to all these public thieves.” There were numerous variations on the familiar refrain in which crown sovereignty was replaced by principles of religious sovereignty, municipal sovereignty, popular sovereignty, or simply left out of the formula altogether. In Guanajuato in , as we have seen, roving bands in the street chanted, “Long live the King of Heaven and death to the King of Spain and his gachupines!” The Cédula del Común in Socorro proclaimed, “Long live Socorro and death to bad government!” In La Guaira, conspirators coined the slogan “Long live the law of God! Long live the American people and death to bad government!” There were also multiple cases in which the Spanish king was replaced by a native ruler or explicitly disavowed in the refrain, as we have seen in cases from New Spain and the southern and northern Andes. In the Comunero territory of Silos, the slogan heard was “Long live the Inka king and death to the king of Spain and his bad government and whoever defends it!” All these cases reveal an often-vibrant public sphere of political deliberation and communication, despite the state’s frustrated efforts to prevent its emergence. In Mexican cities, for example, the widespread circulation of news and critical opinion about political affairs was present during the expulsion of the Jesuits and the seditious movements of the s, again in the early s, and yet again at the

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

time of the French revolution. While the authorities sought to censure such expression, they were only partially successful, and their very efforts to suppress the news contributed to some extent to the broad public awareness of sensitive threats and conflicts. Even conspiracies that did not take root and lead to mass mobilization still had public ramifications that the state found difficult to silence or control. In Minas Gerais, once the authorities arrested prominent collaborators, Governor Visconde de Barbacena lamented that “all dissembling and secrecy are useless.” The application of royal justice – such as the spectacular execution of Tiradentes – inevitably focused public attention and discussion on actors and programs deemed seditious by the state. One important finding of new research is that the existence of a public sphere cannot simply be read off the presence or absence of the printing press. Even where no printing press was in operation, political discourse reached lettered and unlettered groups. The circum-Caribbean region and coastal Venezuela in particular provide illuminating examples. Rumor was one major vector for the transmission of knowledge. In Coro, word spread throughout the countryside that the king had declared the emancipation of all slaves, though the local officials and slaveowners had suppressed the decree. In the port city of La Guaira, some nine hundred political prisoners and their slaves from revolutionary Saint-Domingue brought word of the republican emancipation sweeping the Atlantic. Other vectors were literary and semi-literary. The propagation of information not only involved the importation and reproduction of subversive European texts. In some cases, local intellectuals recast French literature and in others they generated their own documents. Picornell and his coterie also created new pedagogical materials that would speak in accessible terms to the local population, including short stories, fictional epistles, catechistic dialogues, and songs. Popular spaces like barbershops and bodegas became crucial semi-public sites for reading aloud and airing news and opinions. Communication through these diverse channels in spaces that brought together people from mixed racial and class backgrounds also became a way of testing out the possibilities for a new political community. Iberian America and Atlantic Revolution

The conspiracies, mobilizations, and insurrections we have considered in eighteenth-century Iberian America were connected to wider Atlantic phenomena of imperial warfare, anticolonial revolution, and struggles over slavery. These processes shaped the designs and fears of colonial officials, the strategies of regional elites, and the aims and outlooks of subaltern political actors. Thus, they were not

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merely remote points of background reference or external boundaries for internal dynamics. Rather, they could play directly into the political antagonisms unfolding within the Spanish and Portuguese colonies. Nor were their internal effects foreseeable and inevitable. Instead, their repercussions depended on the conditions found within colonial society, the different meanings that metropolitan and colonial actors attributed to external events, and the opportunities and risks they perceived for their own political communities. Even before the outbreak of the Seven Years’ War and the consolidation of the absolutist project under Charles III, the anticolonial struggles within Andean society were not detached from wider processes in the Atlantic world. Though this has rarely been noted, it is no coincidence that both the Oruro conspiracy of  and the Juan Santos Atahualpa insurgency occurred at the time of regional military conflicts between the Spanish and the British during the War of Jenkins’ Ear (–). The Oruro manifesto of grievances explicitly noted that the time for revolt was propitious since the King’s arms and men had left Lima to defend Porto Bello in Panama, which would come under attack from Admiral Edward Vernon in late . Juan Santos Atahualpa began his campaign in , shortly after Commodore George Anson’s raiding along the Pacific coast and his attack on Paita in northern Peru in November . Santos Atahualpa claimed to have spoken with the English in his world travels and to have agreed on a joint campaign against Spanish forces in Peru, with the English arriving by sea and him by land to recover his crown. There is no positive evidence of direct communication between the Andean insurgents and British forces, yet insurgent leaders were evidently aware of the hemispheric military context, and Spanish colonial officials’ fears of British invasion and alliance with Indian rebels were not a pure figment of their imagination. By the s, there was already concern within Spanish officialdom about the resilience of its empire in the Americas. The Anglo–Spanish War of – had led to the failed British blockade of Porto Bello in Panama. In the War of Jenkins Ear over a decade later, Britain targeted Spain’s four primary ports of Porto Bello (which this time did fall to Admiral Vernon), Cartagena, Veracruz, and Havana. The War of Austrian Succession (–) in Europe bred ongoing naval hostilities with Britain in the Caribbean. The Seven Years’ War finally led to the seizure of Havana in , a deeply disturbing development that spurred major reform measures under Charles III. But the foreign enemy was not the only source of concern. Spanish security and sovereignty depended as well on the loyalty of the crown’s colonial subjects, and this could not be presumed. Political economic thought at the time had already posed the idea that metropolitan domination would inevitably lead to colonial independence. This was the Marquis Mirabeau’s thesis in

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

L’Ami des hommes (), a work well known to thinkers in Bourbon Spain. A cluster of Spanish administrators would reiterate the idea as hardline state reforms advancing a more centralized agenda for metropolitan power provoked and responded to protests in the colonies between the mid-s and the early s. At this point, a full-blown revolutionary crisis consumed the Atlantic world. In , Spain formally declared war on Britain and took sides with France in support of the forces fighting for independence in the Thirteen Colonies of North America. The consequences were quickly felt even on the Pacific rim of South America. In , a Cuzco pasquinade rudely mocked the Spanish military campaign and all Spanish authority. Pasquinades in Arequipa praised the English crown over the Spanish and celebrated Spain’s decadence. In La Paz, an anonymous public letter called on the leading citizens to “throw or shake off the yoke of obedience on the example of the colonists (colonos) of part of America,” in the words of one colonial official. It applauded the “admirable colonists” who were “worthy of memory and enviable.” A colonial official in Cuzco wrote to Inspector Areche, in May , that the local conspirators must have been “inspired by a superior authority who stirs them up with a deeper motive than that of the exactions from the customshouse duties,” that motive perhaps even being “absolute independence.” In fact, there is no evidence of British intervention in any these movements, nor of any overarching revolutionary leadership throughout the region. Yet the building challenge to colonial political power and legitimacy in the southern Andes now converged with a wider Atlantic crisis in which anticolonial revolution was already a reality and imperial sovereignty was at stake. And just as warfare and revolution in the northern hemisphere were being felt in the south, the impact of the Andean crisis and revolution began to be felt further afield. Even before the dramatic appearance of Tupac Amaru in November , news of the protests against colonial governance were spreading around the South American mainland and filtering out through networks of Atlantic correspondence, commerce, press reports, diplomacy, and political conspiracy. When the new insurrectionary wave crested, it released a surge of panic among regional elites, inspired far-flung networks of dissidents, and spurred debates over imperial reform among metropolitan officials. As the Andean mobilizations spread to New Granada, regional officials feared a two-pronged assault, from within by creole, plebeian, and indigenous insurgents and from without by British naval forces. Viceroy Manuel Antonio Flores’s displacement of colonial military troops to the coast to fend off the external enemy caused colonial power in the capital to collapse, exposed Bogotá to the Comunero army, and created the conditions for the rebels to set the ambitious terms of the settlement at Zipaquirá. There is limited evidence that the insurgents in New Granada in  were citing the example of revolution in North America. Yet, that example

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would have a lasting effect according to one dismayed man of letters in Bogotá in : “Since the establishment of the Anglo-American provinces as a free republic, the peoples of America have taken on a character which is entirely different from that which they had. All who count themselves as enlightened are enthusiastic panegyrists for the ways of thinking of those (Anglo-American) people: the common coin of erudite discussion groups is to discuss and even form plans around the means of enjoying the same independence that they enjoy.” He would go on to add, “Events in France have infused these pernicious reasonings with a new vigor.” Cosmopolitan intellectual elites in Minas Gerais took inspiration from revolutionary writings and examples in Europe and the United States in the s. They read the Articles of the Confederation and the constitutions of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas, and Massachusetts from the s. They viewed the North American revolution as one in which creole patriots led popular sectors in a process free of internal social violence. Through clandestine student networks in Europe, they established correspondence with Thomas Jefferson during his diplomatic tenure in France. They absorbed Abbé Raynal’s views of Brazil’s economic potential and its exploitation at the hands of its decadent colonial overlord Portugal. Enlightened republicanism with economic liberalism seemed to be the wave of the future. But after the dismantling of the Minas conspiracy in , the repercussions of the French revolution in the Caribbean in the s transformed the political context in Brazil. As the Tailors’ Conspiracy in  showed, free people of color could seize upon the revolutionary principle of equality to cast off colonial racial hierarchy. Elites could now see how the revolutionary principle of freedom not only promised liberation from foreign despotism but also threatened an economic regime based on enslaved labor. The violence unleashed in Saint-Domingue proved sobering if not terrifying even for reform-minded elites. Admiral Donald Campbell, who had served as the commander of the Brazilian squadron of the Portuguese navy, wrote, “The transactions at St. Domingo had plainly evinced that there was no stability in the sovereignty of whites in a country necessarily worked by blacks.” There is evidence that the conspirators in Bahia entered into direct contact with an emissary of the French military who would propose invasion to his own government, and that they envisioned political and economic alliance with France after independence. Yet in the aftermath of the failed project and in the face of radical alternatives, creole sectors arrived at a renewed pact with the metropolitan government – monarchy with more favorable political and economic terms for the colony offered the safest solution to the crisis. Coming one after the other, the North American revolution in the s to s and the French Revolution in the s posed a dramatic challenge to the

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

constituted structures of imperial and monarchical rule in Iberian America. By some reckonings, the second wave struck the Atlantic world even more forcefully than the first. However in the circum-Caribbean region, the Haitian Revolution may have carried the greatest and most immediate impact. Most obviously, the principle of radical antislavery threatened societies dependent on bonded labor and the racialized subordination of people of African descent. The material reality of revolutionary Saint-Domingue also affected international commodity production and trade, imperial diplomatic negotiation and military confrontation, the circuits of Atlantic migration, the political calculus of colonial critics, reformers, and administrators, the terms of local social struggle, and the hopes and fears of men and women in different walks of life. Yet there was not a simple and predictable spread of revolutionary “influence,” as the new literature on Haiti in the Atlantic world shows. Its consequences were not predetermined, but instead depended on the meanings that different social actors made of it, and the uses to which they put those meanings. And these hinged upon shifting local circumstances. Insurgent slaves and free blacks in Coro in  mobilized in the shadow of Saint-Domingue apparently to intimidate local elites, gain leverage in negotiations with colonial officials, and pursue their own aims of emancipation. Conspirators in La Guaira invoked the United States, France, and Saint-Domingue to inspire a multiracial and cross-class revolutionary movement pursuing anticolonial, republican, and abolitionist aims. The alarm and prejudice of local elites and state officials could lead to the partial silencing and disavowal of revolutionary antislavery and to a mix of repressive and conciliatory measures to maintain public order. Saint-Domingue and the “novel character that distinguished the present epoch from all previous ones” thus could cause colonial authorities, the creole majority, and even some enslaved, free-black, and mixed-race sectors to work out an unsteady new balance of power. Ultimately, Brazil, like Cuba, would generate a new surge of sugar production based on the importation of enslaved African labor, while Venezuela would follow a path away from slavery toward contracted local labor. Given the Atlantic context, revolution in Iberian America was not unimaginable. Rather, the images revolution conjured up led crucial colonial sectors to turn away from it. Final Reprise

The “time of politics” was not inaugurated in . Nor should it be associated solely with the genesis of political liberalism, republicanism, and the institutions of the nation-state in nineteenth-century Latin America. Over the eighteenth century, we can see a recurrent pattern of external and internal factors contributing to

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complex local or regional political crises which were only partially resolved or contained in their aftermath. The structures of political legitimacy and sovereignty were repeatedly tested and strained, and colonial domination was put on trial. The crisis after – was indeed of a new order of magnitude, but recognition of the growing political contestation and crises at the local and regional levels in the Americas should temper any notion that Iberian empire in America enjoyed placid, stable rule in the late-colonial period before suddenly mutating at the time of the Peninsular War (–) and the abdications of Bayonne. As one historian of Iberian empire has written, “It was sovereignty of and within empires, monarchies, nations, and republics that was at stake during the great epoch of upheaval and struggle from the middle of the eighteenth to the middle of the nineteenth centuries.” This essay has focused on problems of sovereignty within the Iberian empires and monarchies, drawing on classic and new social and political history that has found numerous legitimation crises and effective power vacuums in rural and urban settings in the eighteenth century. When conflicts escalated at the town, provincial, or wider district (audiencia or reino) level and colonial officials came under fire for conduct deemed despotic, their authority could collapse and many were chased from their jurisdictions or even executed in rude acts of popular justice. Insurgent forces not only imagined but experimented, however temporarily, with alternative bases of legitimacy, political self-representation, and autonomous governance. Most anticolonial political expression, strategically or not, did not entail an overt repudiation of the king or a separatist stance. In practice, the king could be invoked as a remote symbol of justice against local adversaries or simply ignored in assertions of local or regional self-rule. Yet contrary to common assumptions, challenges to the crown and Iberian right to rule were not unthinkable. Ambitious movements promoting alternative projects – whether for indigenous rule as in the Andes, republicanism as in the United States or France, independence as in the United States or Haiti, or revolutionary anti-slavery as in Haiti – marked the contemporary political landscape, even if they were isolated, disavowed, or repressed. They were part of the political fields and shaped the political conduct of contemporary actors in Spanish- and Portuguese-held territories well before the Spanish throne was vacant and the Portuguese court transplanted. The conflicts and crises of the era both reflected and generated the politicization of the population and the pluralization of political subjectivity. This essay has highlighted dissident elements and more radical cases, yet they must be seen in relation to antithetical positions and the middle-ground between them. The very constitution of any of the points on the political spectrum – including the ostensible loyalism of those who cried, “Long live the king and death to bad

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

government!” – depended upon their position vis-à-vis alternatives. As one historian of popular politics has written, “That not all chose emancipation or more radical political solutions is less important than that all found themselves forced to choose.” During the eighteenth century, the creole majority followed a moderate course, proclaiming its loyalty to the king while seeking to defend and pursue its interests within the imperial frame. But this stance was not predetermined so much as a refusal of more radical alternatives that were attempted in the Andes, Mexico, New Granada, Brazil, Venezuela, and elsewhere and that were on display in the United States, France, and Haiti. One of the broad political transformations of the age was the proliferation of public deliberation and expression, including by subalterns. However, this emerging public sphere does not neatly fit the Habermasian model or notions that it was an elite, lettered domain that only burst forth after . This transformation was connected to the struggles over political legitimacy, representation, and sovereignty in which local communities communicated about and participated in the negotiation of authority. It played out more in the arena of political discussion and practice than elaborated political ideology, in doing politics more than normative or doctrinal formulations about politics. What was thinkable was often not expressed in texts, and the display or exercise of power mattered more than abstract theorizations. Ultimately, this participation in the public contestation of power undermined basic tenets of absolutist political culture, and public communication reflected attempts to explore new political communities overcoming longstanding colonial social cleavages. New work has argued we should not read Iberian and Latin American independence processes off of Enlightenment thought or revolutionary experience in the North Atlantic. By the same token, it holds, we should not assume there was a single model of what constituted Atlantic revolution or that a single wave swept from North America and France to produce the liberal revolution in Spain and separation from Spain in Latin America. Yet neither should we read the American processes too strictly off of those in Iberia. A unilateral narrative of metropolitan diffusion from the Iberian Peninsula is no more satisfying than a narrative of northern Atlantic diffusion. An imperial model assuming a homogeneous Iberian or Old Regime political culture tends to flatten metropolitan–colonial tensions and variation in regional experience within the empire. It also tends to downplay the linkages and repercussions across imperial boundaries in the Atlantic and American theaters. This is evident when we consider the effects of international warfare, anticolonial revolution, and struggles over slavery. Just as a model privileging the diffusion of political patterns from the Iberian metropoles to their overseas possessions stands to miss intra-regional developments and inter-imperial dynamics, the

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new literature on the Atlantic world can provide us a broader frame for understanding Iberian imperial dynamics. We should not then treat  as a Big Bang creating a new political universe out of empty space. Some post-revisionist work has held that the Napoleonic invasion generated a common process of political fission and dissolution reaching from the Iberian metropole to the American territories, with independence an unforeseeable outcome of contingent events on the peninsula. The problem is that an oversimplified metropolitan perspective can look upon America as essentially empty ground overtaken by the European political process or an empty screen upon which Iberian dynamics projected themselves. Yet events in the Americas unfolded in a variety of different ways after , depending on complex local conditions which themselves derived from recent and longer-term historical developments. Another familiar argument is that the conspiracies, protests, and uprisings of the eighteenth century were categorically different from what took place between  and  because the nineteenth-century context had changed dramatically. However, the argument is often overstated. It would take another chapter to develop the similarities between the earlier movements and the independence moment, but this chapter has pointed to some of them. To recapitulate: Sharp reactions against aspects of colonial domination – from economic extraction to political imposition to military intervention to peninsular privilege – were widespread and recurrent. These movements could generate local or regional power vacuums and lead to temporary experiments in self-rule. In conjunction with the movements arose critiques of Iberian political legitimacy and alternative visions of sovereignty even on a continental scale. Multiracial and cross-class alliances testing the possibilities for new political communities repeatedly emerged, and their limitations were repeatedly exposed. Prevailing forms of political culture – such as relations of social deference or restrictions on public political expression – and other colonial structures underwent wrenching change. These developments took place in a fraught international arena marked by imperial rivalry, the ascendance of new political ideologies and models of governance, and changing regimes of labor exploitation and capital accumulation. Metropolitan, colonial, absolutist, and royalist forces attempted to fend off the challenges through a mix of concessions and repression. In the new context of the first quarter of the nineteenth century, these already recognizable features came together in exceptionally concentrated fashion and along with other factors yielded far-reaching and long-lasting political transformations. But the past and future – the times before and after the Napoleonic invasion – were not incommensurate or unconnected. To observe that prior experiences could resemble and shape later ones is not to subscribe to historical teleology or a doctrine of (national) predestination.

On the Origins of Latin American Independence

This chapter has not sought to introduce a new explanation for the origins of Latin American independence, but it does favor broadening our vision. The political effects of the Peninsular War beginning in  and the sudden dislocations of the Iberian monarchies were unquestionably important. But the crises of metropolitan rule involved a wider array of factors. Among them were the political conflict and instability that marked the colonial territories of the Iberian powers. The point here is not that anticolonial resistance or nationalism brought down empire, as some patriotic narratives have asserted. What officials like Gálvez referred to as “the critical state in which the kingdom found itself” may not have been a constant and generalized phenomenon. But colonial crisis was a recurrent one at local and regional scales and the tensions over colonial absolutism in the Americas cast the empires’ future prospects in an unsteady light. To adopt a broader perspective on the decline of the Iberian empires and the origins of independence, we need to pay attention to medium-term as well as short-term political processes, to the full range of actors including subaltern communities, and to the wider Atlantic theater in which the struggles over sovereignty played out.

Notes  Marc Bloch. The Historian’s Craft (New York: Knopf, ), .  The author wishes to thank Cristina Soriano and Marcela Echeverri for their editorial guidance and long-standing conversations about the issues in this chapter, as well as Rossana Barragán, Ada Ferrer, Sibylle Fischer, Kirsten Schultz, and Sergio Serulnikov for their valuable comments.  The following gloss of the historiography is highly reductive. The three main bodies of work referred to are all voluminous and multifaceted, and this broad-stroke depiction of them inevitably misses much of their complexity. I devote more time to the third as it remains the prevailing paradigm. For a sample of historiographic surveys that touch on the origins question over successive generations, see Charles W. Arnade, Arthur P. Whitaker, and Bailey W. Diffie, “Causes of the Spanish American Wars of Independence,” Journal of Inter-American Studies , no.  (): –; John Lynch, “The Origins of Spanish Independence,” in The Independence of Latin America, ed. Leslie Bethell (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –; Brian Hamnett, “Process and Pattern: A Re-examination of the Ibero-American Independence Movements, –,” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –; Victor Uribe-Uran, “The Enigma of Latin American Independence: Analyses of the Last Ten Years,” Latin American Research Review  (): –; Alfredo Avila, “Las revoluciones hispanoamericanas vistas desde el siglo XXI,” HIB. Revista de Historia Iberoamericana , no.  (): –; Gabriel Paquette, “The Dissolution of the Spanish Atlantic Monarchy,” The Historical Journal , no.  (): –; and Karen Racine, “Latin American Independence,” Oxford Bibliographies Online, www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-/obo-- .xml.  John Lynch’s The Spanish American Revolutions, – (st ed., ; rev. nd ed., New York: Norton, ) offered a rare panorama of the distinct national emancipation processes, becoming the standard account in English but synthesizing much of the historiography produced within the

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different Latin American countries and exemplifying the revisionist scholarship. Tulio Halperín Donghi’s Reforma y disolución de los imperios Ibéricos, – (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, ) offered a similarly overarching and exemplary perspective. This post-revisionist current was announced with Francois-Xavier Guerra’s Modernidad e independencies: Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas (Madrid: MAPFRE, ) and his influence extended widely in the French, Spanish, and Latin American academies. It gained sway in the United States as well, where Jaime Rodríguez O.’s prolific work ran parallel in many ways. See, for example, Jaime Rodríguez O., The Independence of Spanish America (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). For an overview of rebellion in eighteenth-century Spanish America, see Anthony McFarlane, “Rebellions in Late Colonial Spanish America: A Comparative Perspective,” Bulletin of Latin American Research , no.  (): –. On Portuguese America before the late eighteenth century, see Luciano Figuereido, Rebeliões no Brasil colônia (Rio de Janeiro: Editora Jorge Zahar, ). Francisco Loayza, Juan Santos, el invencible. Manuscritos del año de  al año de  (Lima: Ed. D. Miranda, ), . On Juan Santos Atahualpa, see also Stefano Varese, Salt of the Mountain: Campa Asháninka History and Resistance in the Peruvian Jungle (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, ); and Steve J. Stern, “The Age of Andean Insurrection, –: A Reappraisal,” in Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness in the Andean Peasant World, Eighteenth to Twentieth Centuries, ed. Steve J. Stern (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, ). Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales. Perú y Bolivia, – (Cuzco: Bartolomé de las Casas, ), –; Luis Miguel Glave, Los nuevos rostros del Perú en el siglo XVIII y el “memorial de agravios” del moqueguano Juan Vélez de Córdoba () (Lima: Biblioteca Nacional del Perú, ); Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, “Una rebelión abortada. Lima : La conspiración de los indios olleros de Huarochirí,” Varia Historia  (): –; Karen Spalding, Huarochirí: An Andean Society under Inca and Spanish Rule (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ), –. William Taylor, Drinking, Homicide, and Rebellion in Colonial Mexican Villages (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ). Taylor profiles the typical village riot and ensuing restoration of authority in eighteenth-century rural Mexico, and his account offers a useful description of local peasant grievance and action in many parts of colonial Spanish America. Yet in the Andes, protest movements often exceeded this common pattern. See Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales, –; and Steve J. Stern, “The Age of Andean Insurrection.” The classic study of the Andean utopian tradition is Alberto Flores Galindo, Buscando un inca. Identidad y utopía en los Andes (Lima: Instituto de Apoyo Agrario, ). Dueñas treats the long rhetorical tradition critiquing colonial injustice in the Andes. See Alcira Dueñas, Indians and Mestizos in the “Lettered City”: Reshaping Justice, Social Hierarchy, and Political Culture in Colonial Peru (Boulder: University of Colorado Press, ). For one of the few historians to acknowledge the Andean movements as part of the challenges to Spanish empire writ large, see Brian Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule on the American Continent, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), . For protests in the wider context of the Viceroyalty of New Granada, see Anthony McFarlane, “Civil Disorders and Popular Protests in Late Colonial New Granada,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. The pioneering study on indigenous rebellion in the Quito district is Segundo Moreno Yáñez, Sublevaciones indígenas en la Audiencia de Quito. Desde comienzos del siglo XVIII hasta finales de la colonia (Quito: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Ecuador, ). Salgado offers a new perspective on the anticolonial indigenous insurgencies in Riobamba in  and Otavalo in . See Mireya Salgado Gómez, “Indios altivos e inquietos.” Conflicto y política popular

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en el tiempo de las sublevaciones: Riobamba en  y Otavalo en  (Quito: FLACSO-Ecuador; Abya-Yala, ). On the Quito revolt, McFarlane argues that both creole elite and plebeian political cultures were traditionalist and conservative, seeking to restore a legitimate colonial order violated by Bourbon reform. See Anthony McFarlane, “The ‘Rebellion of the Barrios’: Urban Insurrection in Bourbon Quito,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. Kenneth Andrien perceives a more radical political agenda emerging among plebeians. See Kenneth J. Andrien, “Economic Crisis, Taxes and the Quito Insurrection of ,” Past and Present , (): –. In San Nicolás de Armadillo, the rebels wrote of “not putting down our arms until we establish the new law and faith that we seek, and wipe out all the gachupines.” In Guadalcázar, protestors publicly demanded the expulsion of all gachupines within three days. See José de Gálvez, Informe sobre las rebeliones populares de  y otros documentos [], ed. Felipe Castro Gutiérrez (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, ), , , , . Gálvez, Informe sobre las rebeliones, –. For a synthesis of Royal Inspector José de Gálvez’s role in New Spain, within a broader imperial frame, see Allan J. Kuethe and Kenneth J. Andrien, The Spanish Atlantic World in the Eighteenth Century: War and the Bourbon Reforms, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –, –. The essential treatment of the revolts of northern New Spain is Felipe Castro Gutiérrez, Nueva ley y nuevo rey. Reformas borbónicas y rebelión popular en Nueva España (Zamora, Michoacán: Colegio de Michoacán; UNAM-Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, ). Tutino highlights the insecurity and heterogeneity of the mobilized communities and the key role of creoles in stymying the revolts. See John Tutino, Making a New World: Founding Capitalism in the Bajío and Spanish North America (Durham: Duke University Press, ), –. For a synthetic overview, see Sergio Serulnikov, Revolution in the Andes: The Age of Túpac Amaru (Durham: Duke University Press, ). On northern Potosí, see Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority: Challenges to Spanish Rule in Eighteenth-Century Southern Andes (Durham: Duke University Press, ). On Cuzco, see Charles Walker, The Túpac Amaru Rebellion (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, ). On La Paz, see María Eugenia del Valle de Siles, Historia de la rebelión de Túpac Catari, – (La Paz: Don Bosco, ); and Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule: Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, ). Ward Stavig and Ella Schmidt, The Túpac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions: An Anthology of Sources (Indianapolis: Hackett, ), . Dated March , , the document was probably drafted and circulated by members of Tupac Amaru’s inner council at a key turning point in the war, after the breakdown of the creole alliance in the southern region of Oruro in late February. We know Tupac Amaru was cagey about making radical declarations. Admonishing one follower “because of his excessive expressions,” he said, “it was a time to employ other styles.” See Bohumir Roedl, “Causa Tupa Amaro. El proceso a los tupamaros en Cuzco, abril–julio de ,” Revista Andina  (): –. For the text of the edict, see Boleslao Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru y los orígenes de la independencia de Hispanoamérica, expanded rd ed. (Buenos Aires: Hachette, ), –; and Stavig and Schmidt, The Túpac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions, , –. This translated passage is from Thomson, We Alone Will Rule, . The entire poem – attributed to Ciriaco de Archila, a Dominican lay friar in Bogotá – is found in Pablo Cárdenas Acosta, El Movimiento Comunal de  en el Nuevo Reino de Granada: (reivindicaciones históricas), vol.  (Bogotá: Ed. Kelly, ), –. Jane Loy, “Forgotten Comuneros: The  Revolt in the Llanos of Casanare,” Hispanic American Historical Review  (): –; John Leddy Phelan, The People and the King: The Comunero Revolution in Colombia,  (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, ), –.

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Sinclair Thomson  The analysis here is indebted to the compelling but contradictory interpretation of Phelan, The People and the King, –. While his general thesis was that the Comunero cause was conservative and backwards-looking, he also recognized that the creole claim to self-government represented a political and constitutional revolution.  In Brazil prior to this, small-scale slave and indigenous resistance was common, large-scale marronage did occur, and there were repeated outbreaks of local social protest over issues such as food, taxes, and commercial monopolies. See Luciano Figuereido, “Beyond Subjects: Revolts and Colonial Identity in Portuguese America,” Itinerario , no.  (): –; Figuereido, Rebeliões no Brasil colônia.  Kenneth Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies: Brazil and Portugal, – (New York: Routledge, ), –, .  Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, . See also Luís Henrique Dias Tavares, Historia da sedição intentada na Bahia em  (“A conspiração dos alfaiates”) (Sao Paulo: Livraria Pioneira Editora, ); and István Jancsó, Na Bahia, contra o emperio. História do ensaio de sedição de  (São Paulo: Ed. Hucitec/EDUFBA, ).  On the Coro revolt, see Ramón Aizpurua Aguirre, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro en : Una revisión necesaria,” Boletín de la Academia Nacional de la Historia  (): –; Pedro Gil Rivas, Luis Dovale, and Luzmila Bello, La insurrección de los negros de la sierra coriana,  de mayo de  (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, ); and Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ), –. Soriano analyzes the “shadow” cast by Saint-Domingue in Coro.  María Jesús Aguirrezábal and José Luis Comellas, “La conspiración de Picornell () en el contexto de la prerrevolución liberal española,” Historia contemporánea  (): –; Juan Carlos Rey, “El pensamiento político en España y sus provincias americanas durante el despotismo ilustrado (–),” in Gual y España: la Independencia frustrada, ed. Juan Carlos Rey, Rogelio Pérez Perdomo, Ramón Aizpurua Aguirre, and Adriana Hernández (Caracas: Fundación Empresas Polar, ); Adriana Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España. Una mirada desde el expediente judicial,” in Gual y España, ed. Rey, Pérez Perdomo, Aizpurua Aguirre, and Hernández; Clément Thibaud, Libérer le Nouveau Monde. La foundation des premières républiques hispaniques (Colombie et Venezuela, –) (Paris: Les Perséides, ), –; Soriano, Tides of Revolution, –.  Picornell, “Constituciones (Ordenanzas),” in Juan Bautista Picornell y la conspiración de Gual y España. Narración documentada de la pre-revolución de independencia venezolana, ed. Casto Fulgencio López (Caracas: Eds. Nueva Cádiz, ), ; Picornell, “Proclama a los habitantes libres de América Española,” in Pensamiento político de la emancipación venezolana [], ed. Pedro Grases (Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, ), . Picornell’s revolutionary manifesto, the “Preliminary Discourse Addressed to the Americans,” asserted, “The greatest union should exist among whites, Indians, pardos, and blacks . . .. The king has sought by every possible means to foment disunity and discord among all . . .. All the excesses that we have committed against one another are the effect of the government’s perverse measures to make us look upon one another not as fellow men but as being of distinct nature.” See Grases, ed., Pensamiento político de la emancipación venezolana, .  Fear of black and pardo violence and the turmoil in Saint-Domingue prompted some of the leaders to try to contain the imminent threat of revolution by putting themselves at its head. See Ramón Aizpurua Aguirre, “La conspiración por dentro: Un análisis de las declaraciones de la Conspiración de la Guaira de ,” in Gual y España, ed. Rey, Pérez Perdomo, Aizpurua Aguirre, and Hernández, –, –. To court creole slave holders, the leaders proposed that they would receive indemnification for the slaves they freed, and that these new citizens would continue to serve as

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hired day-laborers on their former masters’ estates. See Articles – of Picornell’s “Constituciones (Ordenanzas),” in López, Juan Bautista Picornell y la conspiración, –. However, creole landlords were ultimately instrumental in dismantling the conspiracy. Castro Gutiérrez, Nueva ley y nuevo rey, –, –, –. Loayza, Juan Santos, el invencible, ; Spalding, Huarochirí, . On the Lima official Bernardino de San Antonio, see Salgado Gómez, “Indios altivos e inquietos,” –. On the viceregal opinions, see McFarlane, “The ‘Rebellion of the Barrios,’” . Gálvez, Informe sobre las rebeliones, –, –. John H. Elliott, Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America – (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), –; Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule, –. Ábalos considered the vast and remote territory of America too susceptible to corruption, insubordination, and foreign interference. To avoid imperial ruin, he proposed to dismember the crown’s unwieldy possessions, forming several regional principalities for South America and the Philippines. A well-known memorandum supposedly written by the Conde de Aranda after negotiating the peace treaty with England in  made a proposal similar to that of Ábalos. For both texts, see Manuel Lucena Giraldo (ed.), Premoniciones de la Independencia de Iberoamérica. Las reflexiones de José de Ábalos y el Conde de Aranda sobre la situación de la América española a finales del siglo XVIII (Madrid: Fundación Mapfre Tavera, ). Escudero López makes the case that the Memorial de Aranda was a fabrication from the s. See José Antonio Escudero López, El supuesto memorial del Conde de Aranda sobre la independencia de América (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional de México, ). Francisco de Saavedra de Sangronis, Journal of Don Francisco Saavedra de Sangronis during the Commission Which He Had in His Charge from  June  until the th of the Same Month of , ed. Francisco Morales Padrόn (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, ), , –. Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, , . Ibid, . On the role of fear in Latin American independence, see Manuel Chust Calero and Claudia Rosas Lauro (eds.), Los miedos sin patria. Temores revolucionarios en las independencias iberoamericanas (Madrid: Sílex Universidad, ). Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, , –; Stuart B. Schwartz, Sugar Plantations in the Formation of Brazilian Society: Bahia, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –; Soriano, Tides of Revolution, –, –, –, –; Cristina Soriano, “‘Avoiding the Fate of Haiti’: Negotiating Peace in Late-Colonial Venezuela,” in The Specter of Peace: Rethinking Violence and Power in the Colonial Atlantic, ed. Michael Goode and John Smolenski (Leiden: Brill, ), –. For examples of this relatively new and dynamic historiographic field, see Cecilia Méndez, The Plebeian Republic: The Huanta Rebellion and the Making of the Peruvian State (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Marcela Echeverri, “Presentation,” Varia Historia , no.  (): –, and the range of articles in this special issue of the journal, edited by Hendrik Kraay, on monarchy, empire, and popular politics in the Atlantic Age of Revolutions. According to absolutist principles, sovereignty derived from divine right and royal patrimony; governance and the relations of rule were not subject to social scrutiny; there was no right for the king’s subjects to express political opinions; and plebeians were expected to accept their natural state of social subordination and separation from public authority. In this sense, politicization and public contestation ran against the norms of Bourbon absolutism. They are also difficult to square with the thesis that Hapsburg pactism prevailed through the late-colonial period. Those scholars who hold a contractualist view of colonial society argue that consensus rather than coercion was the constitutive





Sinclair Thomson

  

 











feature of a Hapsburg political culture established in the sixteenth century and sustained long thereafter. For example, this would been seen in an “unwritten constitution” that followed neoscholastic notions of legitimate government, popular sovereignty, and the right to rebel against tyranny (Phelan, The People and the King) or in customary bargaining and mutual accommodation between government and colonial elites that sustained Spanish empire (Rodríguez O., The Independence of Spanish America). Yet the sharpening social conflicts, increasing entrance of subaltern actors into the public arena, and questioning of political authority and legitimacy in this period contravene “old-regime” patterns of corporate and consensual political culture. My thinking relies especially on the incisive work of Sergio Serulnikov, which looks at the crisis of late-colonial authority through the lens of political culture. See Sergio Serulnikov, “‘Las proezas de la ciudad y su ilustre ayuntamiento’: Simbolismo político y política urbana en Charcas a fines del siglo XVIII,” Latin American Research Review , no.  (): –; Sergio Serulnikov, “Crisis de una sociedad colonial. Identidades colectivas y representación política en la ciudad de Charcas (Siglo XVIII),” Desarrollo Económico , no.  (): –; Sergio Serulnikov, “El fin del orden colonial en perspectiva histórica. Las prácticas políticas en la ciudad de La Plata, – y ,” Revista Andina  (): –; Sergio Serulnikov, “La lógica del absolutismo. Vecinos y magistrados en Charcas en tiempos del reformismo borbónico,” Colonial Latin American Review , no.  (): –. Thomson, We Alone Will Rule. Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority. See Serulnikov’s comparative analysis of the little-known creole patrician and plebeian mobilizations against Bourbon military intervention in the city in  and  and the phase of junta mobilization in . Serulnikov, “El fin del orden colonial.” Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, –. Phelan, The People and the King, viii, –, . On mystical and mythic monarchism in independence-era Mexico, see Eric Van Young, The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); and Marco Antonio Landavazo Arias, La máscara de Fernando VII. Discurso e imaginario monárquicos en una época de crisis. Nueva España, – (Mexico City: Colegio de México/Universidad Michoacana de San Nicolás de Hidalgo/Colegio de Michoacán, ). David Cahill, “Taxonomy of a Colonial ‘Riot’: The Arequipa Disturbances of ,” in Reform and Insurrection in Bourbon New Granada and Peru, ed. John Fisher, Allan J. Kuethe, and Anthony McFarlane (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, ), . The regalist Capuchin writer, Joaquín de Finestrad, denouncing what he saw as the Comunero challenge to royal sovereignty in , categorically declared the motto to be seditious. Joaquín de Finestrad, Vasallo instruido en el estado del nuevo reino de Granada y en sus respectivas obligaciones [], ed. Margarita González (Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, ), . Finestrad equated this separation between the monarch and his representatives with a denial of vassalage, for “the ministers of the king are living images of his royal person.” Finestrad, Vasallo instruido, . See Phelan, The People and the King, –; and Alejandro Cañeque, The King’s Living Image: The Culture and Politics of Viceregal Power in Colonial Mexico (New York: Routledge, ). Archivo General de la Nación Argentina, IX, --, “Intento de sublevación en la ciudad de La Paz. Año ,” f. . The conditionality of the last phrase was also heard in an ironic tone on the streets of La Plata in : “Yes, long live the king, if the customs-houses, tobacco monopolies, and new taxes are removed.” See Serulnikov, “‘Las proezas de la ciudad,’” . Rafael Gómez Hoyos, La revolución granadina de . Ideario de una generación y de una época, –, tomo I (Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Cultura Hispánica, ), –; Phelan, The People and the King, –; Cárdenas Acosta, El Movimiento Comunal de , vol. , .

On the Origins of Latin American Independence  Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración,” ; Soriano, Tides of Revolution, .  The phrase “¡Que viva el rey de Inga y muera el rey de España y todo su mal gobierno y quien saliese a su defensa!” could also be interpreted to mean death to whoever defended the Spanish monarch, not just his bad government. See Cárdenas Acosta, El Movimiento Comunal de , vol. , .  Torres Puga’s study for Mexico upsets common notions that we cannot speak of a public sphere of political opinion in the late-colonial Americas. Though he concludes there was widespread expression of political opinion, including among women, his findings can likely be extended further. His urban focus and use of Inquisition records prevents him from exploring the countryside and indigenous sectors. Gabriel Torres Puga, Opinión pública y censura en la Nueva España: Indicios de un silencio imposible, – (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, ). Thibaut works with the concepts of “public” and “counter-publics” in Colombia and Venezuela in Libérer le Nouveau Monde, –, –. An early work positing an incipient public sphere in the eighteenth century is Victor Uribe-Urán, “The Birth of a Public Sphere in Latin America during the Age of Revolution,” Comparative Studies in Society and History , no.  (): –.  Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, , –.  The pioneering work on the circulation of political news in the Caribbean is Julius Scott, The Common Wind: Afro-American Currents in the Age of the Haitian Revolution (London: Verso, ). I rely here on the groundbreaking methodological approach in Soriano, Tides of Revolution. Other recent creative treatments for the circum-Caribbean include Sibylle Fischer, Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolution (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Ada Ferrer, “Talk about Haiti: The Archive and the Atlantic’s Haitian Revolution,” in Tree of Liberty: Cultural Legacies of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, ed. Doris Garraway (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, ); Ada Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror: Cuba and Haiti in the Age of Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Gregory Childs, “Scenes of Sedition: Publics, Politics, and Freedom in Late Eighteenth-Century Bahia, Brazil” (Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, ); Ernesto Bassi, An Aqueous Territory: Sailor Geographies and New Granada’s Transimperial Greater Caribbean World (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Edgardo Pérez Morales, No Limits to Their Sway: Cartagena’s Privateers and the Masterless Caribbean in the Age of Revolutions (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, ). Bowen’s study of Chile offers another original contribution to new work on political communication. See Martín Bowen, The Age of Dissent: Revolution and the Power of Communication in Chile (–) (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, forthcoming).  Soriano, Tides of Revolution, –.  Glave, Los nuevos rostros del Perú, .  Loayza, Juan Santos, el invencible, .  Elena Schneider, The Occupation of Havana: War, Trade, and Slavery in the Atlantic World (Chapel Hill: Omohundro Institute/University of North Carolina Press, ).  Elliott, Empires of the Atlantic World, –; Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule, –.  Pernille Røge, Economistes and the Reinvention of Empire: France in the Americas and Africa, c. – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –.  Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru, –, –, , –; Cahill, “Taxonomy of a Colonial ‘Riot,’” –.  Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru, . Like some colonial authorities, Lewin assumed that nuclei of revolutionary leadership influenced by the independence movement in North America must have existed given the simultaneity of protests with such common and radical features across such a wide territory. While the thesis of a coordinated plot is weak, Lewin’s monumental work deserves credit for perceiving the depth of the colonial crisis and the extent of anticolonial politics in .





Sinclair Thomson  On the Atlantic repercussions of the Andean turmoil, see Sinclair Thomson, “Sovereignty Disavowed: The Tupac Amaru Revolution in the Atlantic World,” Atlantic Studies , no.  (): –.  The viceroy of New Granada Manuel Antonio Flórez did assert that “the form of independencia won by the English colonies of the north is now on the lips of everyone . . . in the rebellion,” though McFarlane finds this opinion implausible. Anthony McFarlane, “The American Revolution and Spanish America, –,” in Spain and the American Revolution: New Approaches and Perspectives, ed. Gabriel Paquette and Gonzalo M. Quintero Saravia (London: Routledge, ), –.  McFarlane, “The American Revolution and Spanish America,” –.  Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies, .  István Jancsó and Marco Morel, “Novas perspectivas sobre a presença francesa na Bahia em torno de ,” TOPOI , no.  (): –.  Kenneth Maxwell, “The Impact of the American Revolution on Spain and Portugal and Their Empires,” in A Companion to the American Revolution, ed. Jack Greene and J. R. Pole (Malden: Blackwell, ); Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies.  McFarlane refers to its more “corrosive” effects in Spanish America. McFarlane, “The American Revolution and Spanish America,” –. For a study of the impact in Peru, see Claudia Rosas Laura, Del trono a la guillotina. El impacto de la revolución francesa en el Perú (–) (Lima: PUCP/IFEA/Embajada de Francia, ).  Jeremy Adelman, “The Rites of Statehood: Violence and Sovereignty in Spanish America, –,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –.  Geggus provides an overview of the scope and limits of the revolution’s impact. David Geggus (ed.), The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, ). See also Alejandro Gómez, Le spectre de la Révolution noire. l’Impact de la Révolution haïtienne dans le Monde atlantique, – (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, ).  This account draws especially from Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, ); Fischer, Modernity Disavowed; Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror; and Soriano, Tides of Revolution. The quote comes from a decree of the Cuban authorities in . See Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror, .  Elías José Palti, El tiempo de la política. El siglo XIX reconsiderado (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ).  This account has highlighted the brightest flashpoints of conflict, but there was also a proliferation of routine and low-intensity confrontation that could have also eroded the established structures of colonial rule. It would benefit us to think more about the ways in which the significant economic, demographic, and cultural shifts in late-colonial society converged and played out in the political realm. Alongside increasing fiscal extraction and labor exploitation, the scholarship has identified a drift away from metropolitan commercial controls and the expansion of internal markets and popular economies. It has brought attention to the demographic increase in the period and the growth of the mixed-race, urban, plebeian population in particular. It has found that social mobility could test racial segmentation, class hierarchy, patriarchal structures, honor codes, legal practices, and modes of inherited power. In the countryside, it has addressed the breakdown in indirect community rule (cacicazgo), tributary pacts, and the dual system of Spanish and Indian republics.  Kuethe and Andrien provide an overview of the eighteenth-century Spanish Atlantic that emphasizes the “bitter political clashes on both sides of the Atlantic.” Kuethe and Andrien, The Spanish Atlantic World, .  Jeremy Adelman, Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), .

On the Origins of Latin American Independence  Serulnikov, “El fin del orden colonial,” .  Bowen refers to the period from the late eighteenth to the early nineteenth century as an “age of dissent,” one in which political transformation went beyond changes in institutional structures. He sees increasing political experimentation and contestation involving a range of different actors which challenged the principles of unity and transcendence that underlay colonial politics and produced a more pluralized and profane political field. Bowen, The Age of Dissent.  Jaime Rodríguez O. has been a leading voice in arguing for the primacy of Hispanic political traditions in the origins of Spain’s liberal revolution and Latin America’s independence movements. Rodríguez O., The Independence of Spanish America; Jaime Rodríguez O., “Sobre la supuesta influencia de la independencia de los Estados Unidos en las independencias hispanoamericanas,” Revista de Indias LXX  (): –. Roberto Breña has questioned the value of a unified Atlantic approach to revolutions in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. Roberto Breña, “Independence Movements in the Americas during the Age of Revolution,” Forum for Interamerican Research , no.  (): –.  Hamnett notes that an exclusively Atlantic frame would also be too narrow. Hamnett, End of Iberian Rule, . See Fradera for an ambitious approach to Spanish empire spanning the Atlantic and Pacific. Josep Fradera, Gobernar colonias (Barcelona: Editorial Península, ); Josep Fradera, La nación imperial. Derechos, representación y ciudadanía en los imperios de Gran Bretaña, Francia, España y Estados Unidos (–) (Barcelona: Edhasa, ). Echeverri points to the distinctive Pacific theater in Latin American independence. Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists.  The metaphor appears in José M. Portillo Valdés, Crisis atlántica. Autonomía e independencia en la crisis de la monarquía hispana (Madrid: Marcial Pons, ), ; and Serulnikov, “Las proezas de la ciudad,” .  For example, Thibaud in Libérer le Nouveau Monde employs a Hispanic lens to argue that municipal institutions under the monarchy contributed to republicanism in post-independence Latin America. He adopts an Atlantic lens to show that the struggles over slavery and racial subordination going back to the late eighteenth century shaped republicanism in the nineteenth-century Americas. Thibaud, “Para una historia policéntrica de los republicanismos atlánticos.”  The thesis of a generalized late-colonial crisis or decay of Iberian empires remains in dispute. For the case of Spain, those who favor a thesis of decline prior to  underline several points. Spain’s fiscal deficit was mounting in the s and s and it found no solution for managing its debt before Napoleon intervened to depose the royal house. The geopolitical position of the monarchy was deeply compromised when it entered into alliance with revolutionary France in  to fend off Britain and after it suffered military defeat at the hands of the British navy in . There were significant tensions over policies pushing absolutist and unitary governance. Yet the post-revisionist literature sees no crisis ensuing until after . The case of Portugal is less controversial. It avoided the problem of crown acephaly by transferring the court to Brazil in , yet it then faced a new challenge in balancing peninsular and American interests. But this imperial dilemma had already emerged critically in the s, when the centralist project in the metropole clashed with burgeoning regional forces in the colony.

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M       T        

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Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America during the Independence Processes

Introduction

The incorporation of Latin America into the cycle of Atlantic Revolutions is a relatively recent topic of historiographical debate. The most novel approaches have looked at the processes of independence of the Hispanic and Portuguese world in global perspectives, thus overcoming the classical paradigms based on the nationstate matrix and on the characterization of Latin America as an anomaly in which disorder, anarchy, and political arbitrariness prevailed. Subjecting these paradigms to criticism has transformed as much the general perspectives of analysis as the view on particular topics, such as the one discussed in this chapter, namely the role of constitutions and political representation in the tumultuous period that culminated in the collapse of the Iberian empires. This subject has been extensively revisited by specialists, giving rise to sharp discussions that would be impossible to account for in these brief pages. Suffice it to say, however, that in most cases a common ground can be observed: Ibero-America became, in the nineteenth century, a great laboratory of political experimentation where various forms of government were tried out, dozens of constitutions were tested, and multiple electoral processes were developed to appoint all kinds of authorities. The emergence of popular sovereignty had different impacts, which were perceived at different rhythms, due both to the divergent solutions adopted by the Iberian monarchies to the crises in their respective metropolises and to the division in the Hispanic territories between loyalist and insurgent regions. Following these rhythms is not a simple task and this requires from the start that we challenge the widespread notion that the Brazilian case constitutes an exception. Several assumptions have led to this idea of exceptionality: that the transition to independence occurred without major convulsions; that the monarchic option was a natural option in the face of the arrival of the Court of Braganza to its main colony in

Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America

; and that the Brazilian empire – at the same time constitutional and slaveholding – was a model of political stability in contrast to the instability that marked the republican trajectories of Spanish American countries. Although the LusoBrazilian case displays manifest singularities, the most recent literature has shown that Ibero-America as unit of analysis is especially productive in revealing the common challenges and intimate connections between these polities, as well as the differences that led to separate political directions. Within the framework of this great laboratory of experimentation, the objective of this chapter is to draw the route map followed both by constitutions and the representation of the electoral base in Spanish and Portuguese America from the Napoleonic occupation of the peninsula ( / ) until the creation of new sovereign states at the end of the wars of independence (ca. ). In this vast geography, the constitutional and electoral processes were displaying and combining various options: absolutism and constitutionalism, autonomism and independence, monarchy and republic, centralism and federalism, representative system and direct exercise of sovereignty, broad suffrage and restricted suffrage, among many others. There were no inexorable answers or predetermined paths in the face of these many possibilities. The reactions of the actors involved were dominated by uncertainty and defined by crucial moments of inflection, which will be discussed in what follows, in their chronological order: the Iberian crises of , the Spanish American revolutions and the Spanish constitutional process between  and , the Restoration after the fall of the Napoleonic empire, the liberal revolutions of  in Spain and Portugal, and the definitive independences of the former colonies. The argument that articulates the discussion here and the dialogue between the Hispanic and Lusitanian world is that the constitutional and representative question assumed, jointly and with many variants, a constructivist dimension regarding the dilemma of sovereignty. The argument I shall be making is based on a material fact: In the period I discuss here, constitutional debates and experiments dealt more with the problem of how to map the representation of territories than with the question of how to census the representation of populations. This is due, firstly, to the fact that the dilemma of sovereignty was formulated in two dimensions: One, of a vertical nature, had to do with the ties between the metropolitan centers and the colonies; another, of a horizontal nature, reflected the disputes within the overseas territorial entities themselves that aspired to self-rule with respect to the most immediate political centers on which they depended. While horizontal conflicts were indeed particularly intense in the Hispanic world (between towns, cities, provinces, and projects of indivisible nations), the Portuguese world was not exempt from these tensions. Secondly, because in drawing the boundaries between inclusion and exclusion of

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citizenship rights, the old social and ethnic categories (vecino, freeman, slave, freedman, caste, Indian, etc.) projected themselves into the political space and adopted new meanings, according to the regions and social structures. Thus, the predominance of communal and corporate notions of society prevailed over individualistic notions of political representation that circulated among intellectual and political groups through different channels. In this chapter, I argue that in the context of the crisis of the Iberian monarchies, representation of the territories played a central role in constitutional experiments and electoral regulations. Faced with the fact – or danger – of dismemberment of preexisting political bodies, the adoption of a constructivist stance was manifest as much in the leaders who attempted to restore and safeguard the unity of the bioceanic monarchies as in those who sought to legitimize the emergence of new communities aspiring to be sovereign. By following the clues of these entanglements, we can elucidate the intense conflict situations that the Luso-Hispanic populations experienced on both sides of the Atlantic as the links between rulers and governed peoples and between the centers and the peripheries were redefined. These conflicts involved a plurality of collective actors, from the highest to the lowest ranks of society. It can be observed in all cases that a selective appropriation, adaptation, and reinvention of the devices of political organization was put into practice and that there was a struggle – sometimes overt and sometimes veiled – to impose, resist, or negotiate their scope. The innovative nature of these devices did not displace the entrenched legal cultures of the old system, nor the deep social and ethnic inequalities or the practice of slavery. However, by , Spanish and Portuguese America had contributed substantially to the first major process of decolonization that had begun with the emancipation of the United States and had continued in Haiti. In this process, as José Portillo Valdés states, the Iberian scenario was, strictly speaking, the only one where a “proper Atlantic revolution” took place by trying out a kind of constitutionalism that sought to reconstitute the spaces of the previous monarchies and “establish an idea of a bi-hemispheric nation” that the revolutionary experiences of North America and France had explicitly ruled out. The Napoleonic Moment

Two extraordinary voyages defined the course of the territories that were part of the Iberian empires in the Americas. The first was the one undertaken by the Portuguese royal family to Brazil in late . The second was the shorter but no less shocking one a few months later that led the Spanish royal family to the French city of Bayonne (see Fig. .). Both events had momentous consequences in the

Fig. . Billingsgate at Bayonne, or the Imperial Dinner! by Thomas Rowlandson. Rudolf Ackerman editor, London, July th, . Hand-colored etching. The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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short and medium term: The Braganza tried to save the crown and the empire by moving the seat of the monarchy to their possessions in the Americas and the Bourbons renounced the crown causing an unprecedented crisis both to the monarchy and the empire. In this context, debates arose around historical constitutionalism and modern constitutionalism, which involved also the links that united the metropolitan centers with their overseas domains. Although these debates could be traced back to the eighteenth century, when, prompted by the Enlightened matrix, a set of reformist processes took place in the Iberian monarchies, the advance of the Napoleonic troops triggered an accelerated reconfiguration. Specialists in critical history of law and in political and intellectual history have contributed in recent years to highlight a series of matters regarding the outcomes of this turbulent moment that are highly relevant to our comparative perspective. It is worth mentioning them at this point in order to frame from the start the most significant issues that will be discussed in this chapter. Firstly, within the Spanish “composite monarchy,” overseas territories in the Americas lacked their own legal and political status – they were neither kingdoms nor colonies – because they were “accessory” parts of the crown of Castile. Portugal, on the other hand, did not constitute in Europe a composite monarchy but a single kingdom. Within the framework of this singularity, although Brazil did not have an institutional designation as a principality or kingdom, it had been of crucial importance for the metropolitan center since the seventeenth century. In fact, the overseas dominions defined the territorial character of the kingdom of Portugal as a “pluricontinental monarchy.” Secondly, the illegitimacy of the abdications of the Bourbons in Bayonne and the captivity of the royal family in France immediately triggered the Juntista reaction in Spain, while in Portugal local juntas were formed later, inspired by the model of the neighboring country, and were more ephemeral. In the first case, the creation of the Central Junta in September  sought to put back together the federalization of the deposit of sovereignty (depósito de soberanía), which had until then rested upon the now captive king. In the second, the juntas not only failed to converge on a common center but they also lacked the support of the court now settled in Brazil, as it considered that their existence could encourage “federative government.” The Portuguese juntas were dissolved with the landing of the English army in August , which reestablished and reformulated the Regency Council created by the prince regent before his departure for America. The third issue is the vacatio regis in Spain, which led to a constitutional crisis that put into question the nature of the fundamental laws of the ruling order; this situation culminated in a constituent assembly that sanctioned the Constitution of . In Portugal, the transfer of the crown avoided the creation of a legal

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vacuum, but it could not prevent the constitutional question from being set on the political agenda in these early stages. With the Court of Braganza having abandoned its traditional European headquarters, the Portuguese elites promoted various initiatives, which, however, did not materialize, including a “plea” submitted to Napoleon in April  by a group of afrancesados. In that “plea,” he was asked to appoint a member of the Bonaparte family as constitutional king and to grant a constitution similar to that of the Duchy of Warsaw, inspired by the French Constitution of the Year VIII. The fourth question concerns the representation of the American territorial units during the respective monarchical crisis. While Rio de Janeiro became, de facto, the capital of the Portuguese monarchy without any alteration to its institutional status, Spanish America became recognized as “an essential and integral part of the monarchy,” as established by the Royal Order of January , , issued by the Central Junta. This change in their legal status meant granting overseas territories, for the first time in three centuries, the right of representation within the metropolitan government. And while the representation conceded to the dominions in the Americas was very small compared to the one the peninsular provinces enjoyed, it was not even contemplated in the frustrated petition submitted by the Portuguese group pleading for a constitution from Bonaparte. The “plea” conceived the election of “representatives of the nation” as a European matter, to be carried out through municipal chambers in accordance with “ancient customs,” and the “integration of the colonies into the Kingdom” (integración de las colonias en el Reino). Finally, it is worth noting that the Royal Order of  was preceded by, and largely inspired on, the Charter of Bayonne, granted to Spain by Napoleon and drawn by an assembly of notables that included representatives from the overseas territories in the Americas. The Charter followed the Napoleonic constitutional models and established two relevant issues: the recognition of legal equality between the metropolis and the overseas dominions, and the right of the latter to have parliamentary representation and participation in government bodies. This innovation posed a threat to the Spaniards who were waging war against France and the reign of Joseph Bonaparte – at that point in alliance with England and Portugal – and this undoubtedly accelerated the decision to grant a new status to the colonies and then to establish a new constitutional status for the monarchy. Thus, the sequence of events that the “Napoleonic moment” brought about in the Iberian monarchies marked the initial course of their divergent paths, both politically and in terms of their empires. In Spanish America, various alternatives opened up in a context of widespread dynastic loyalty. On the one hand, there were attempts to establish local juntas, following the metropolitan example, as was the

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case in Mexico, Montevideo, Caracas, Buenos Aires, Quito, Charcas, and La Paz between  and . On the other hand, a different option emerged around the infanta Carlota Joaquina de Borbón, Ferdinand VII’s older sister, who was the wife of the prince regent of Portugal and had been living in Rio de Janeiro since the beginning of . From Brazil, the princess claimed her dynastic rights and promoted the initiative to be appointed regent of the domains in the Americas while her family remained captive in France. Both options, even though they purported to defend the current order, were rejected – and in some cases harshly repressed – by the colonial authorities. The elections of representatives for the Central Junta took place in this climate of uncertainty, and due to delays in the process no American deputy ever had the chance to be integrated into it; the junta was dissolved at the beginning of  as the French troops marched in. The Cádiz Moment

When the news of the peninsular events arrived in Spanish America, the region turned into an erupting volcano in which the constitutional question and the issue of representation converged in a new political and war scenario. Starting in April , local autonomous juntas were formed in some regions and insurrectionary movements emerged that ignored the Regency Council, which had replaced the Central Junta (Venezuela, Nueva Granada, Río de la Plata, Chile, Mexico). Initially, the juntas swore to uphold the crown’s sovereignty for the duration of the monarch’s absence. At the same time, in Spain there was a debate about convening the Cortes Generales and the form of representation that they should adopt. Liberal groups managed to impose the criterion used in France and as a result a unicameral assembly was convened to meet in the city of Cádiz in September. This assembly assumed in its inaugural session the constituent power and sovereignty of the nation, instigating a legal revolution – which Portillo Valdés calls a “revolution of the nation” – by displacing the principle of the king’s sovereignty. The spirit that had initially animated those who led the motion of convening the Cortes was that, by bringing in representatives from the overseas domains and integrating them, the demands of insurgent movements would be neutralized, and all the territories would unite around the prospect of sanctioning a constitution for the bi-oceanic monarchy. Moreover, official and unofficial documents reveal that, at this critical juncture, the peninsular leadership underestimated the revolutionary power of the juntas that had been established in those months, at the same time that it displayed great concern about the potential interference of the Portuguese government, now settled in Brazil, in the Spanish American jurisdictions. The age-old disputes over boundaries in the overseas territories and the mistrust that

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characterized the relationship between the Iberian monarchies was not bound to disappear with the sudden change of international alliances. On the contrary, the plans of Infanta Carlota Joaquina revived the fears of the Spanish authorities regarding Portugal, both in the Americas and in the peninsula. The princess played her cards on both sides of the Atlantic, competing first for the legitimate deposit of sovereignty, which the Spanish juntista movement had assumed, and then challenging the constituent alternative with a dynastic solution to the crisis. In this turbulent political climate, the constitutional initiative of the Cortes of Cádiz was tied to the dilemma of representation. The number of deputies for each jurisdiction was established following the Royal Order of , which did not recognize the principle of proportional representation according to population. The aspiration to achieve the unity of the Spanish nation on both hemispheres was quickly challenged: The overseas territories in the Americas were split between those that accepted and those that declined to participate in the assembly. The central arguments put forward by the latter to justify their refusal were both the rejection of the reduced representation of the overseas territories and the election of alternate deputies among the American residents established in Cádiz until the definitive representatives could be elected and travel to Spain. This argument became even more powerful when it was linked to the widespread denunciation of the “three centuries of colonial despotism” and the perception that what was proclaimed in the field of rights was not implemented on the ground. If the dominions in the Americas were no longer colonies, but an essential part of the monarchy, then their inhabitants were being subjected to unequal treatment by the metropolis. The map that emerged from the formation of the first autonomous juntas was then consolidated by the intense politicization brought about, on the one hand, by the revolutionary creed and the principles of freedom and equality it espoused and, on the other, by the immediate militarization of the conflict. The constituent experience of Cádiz not only divided Spanish Americans but also transformed the political life of the populations that inhabited loyalist regions, from the viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru to cities or provinces that did not bow to the revolutionary authorities who controlled the jurisdictions to which they belonged. The nature and impact of that experience and of the implementation of the Constitution of  have been, perhaps, one of the most visited and debated topics in recent historiography. Specialists have discussed the “liberal” and at the same time “jurisdictional” character of the constitution, the prevalence of the models it was inspired on and the Hispanic Catholic culture, the enshrined rights, its institutional devices, the mechanisms it applies for the division of powers, and electoral representation, among other relevant issues. Of the abundant critical corpus available, it is worth mentioning one of the aspects that most studies

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highlight, namely how the constitutionalization of the bi-hemispheric monarchy radicalized the logics of territorial fragmentation in the Americas, associated with its jurisdictional nature as well as its representative design. This design established a system of indirect suffrage and enabled three instances of participation to appoint members of ayuntamientos with more than one thousand inhabitants, members of the provincial councils, and representatives to the Cortes located in the peninsula. However, despite the division between loyalist and insurgent areas, the unprecedented electoral experience opened up common dilemmas throughout the Hispanic world. On the one hand, establishing the principles of political representation posed serious difficulties in terms of territorial distribution. The disputes over the plural representation of the “peoples” or the single and indivisible “nation” created conflicts that contributed to delineate confederalist, federalist, and centralist tendencies. Such disputes went through the constituent debates of Cádiz, where American deputies unsuccessfully demanded greater rights to self-rule; this helped the rebel areas to justify their separatist positions vis-à-vis the metropolis and divided the revolutionary leadership internally, both those that sanctioned constitutions and those that did not. At the core of these conflicts was the problem of defining the new subjects in which sovereignty would be vested. On the other hand, the delimitation between those who were included or excluded from citizenship rights opened controversies about which social and ethnic segments could exercise active voting (elect) and passive voting (be elected). This differentiation was based on two assumptions. The first concerns the definition of the representative system, which implies recognizing that sovereignty is vested in the people and that its exercise is delegated to the representatives through suffrage. The second was in tune with the dominant concern of the time, that of ensuring the selection of the “best” to govern. In the light of the studies available on the Cádiz and non-Cádiz areas, it has been observed that there was a certain consensus in guaranteeing the principle differentiating between those with the right to vote and those who could be elected to office and in adopting community (not individual-based) categories to define access to citizenship rights. Hence the generalization of the male vote to men considered “free” or “vecinos” and the absence – or weak presence, as the case may be – of census criteria for the definition of active suffrage. As Antonio Annino has pointed out, because of the “communal nature” of Spanish American societies, the “protagonist subject” of suffrage corresponded to legally and politically recognized groups in society. The new concept of citizenship was intertwined with the old notion of vecindad, of Spanish origin, which generated a good deal of ambiguity. The definition of “freeman” (which excluded slaves) became an object of dispute both in the realm of legal norms and in that of political practices.

Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America

Electoral Practices

Mapping the representation of territories and censusing the representation of populations in Spanish America were undoubtedly complex challenges. The low quality of both political maps and population censuses, or the absence thereof, made the task of designing electoral rules and, above all, of putting them into practice, extremely difficult. Nonetheless, those in charge of these designs made use of the instruments and calculations available, which in many ways revealed both the tensions between the two types of records and the objectives pursued by the leaders of the day. Some examples illustrate these tensions. The extension of citizen rights to indigenous peoples but not to free people of African descent in the regions loyal to the metropolis, as established by the Constitution of Cádiz, had a profound impact on all of Spanish America. The issue was crucial not only because of the racial distinction on which it was based, but because the exclusion of free people of color implied an imbalance in territorial representation within the monarchy. The constitutional provisions that established the number of representatives according to the size of the population in each jurisdiction – which had not been taken into account to convene the assembly – left out millions of people of African descent in the Spanish American territories from this calculation. And while it is true that the censuses were not reliable, it was evident that the exclusion of castes gave peninsular representation an advantage in the “national representation” in the Cortes. The demands raised by the overseas deputies in this regard were ignored in the constituent assembly, just as their demands for greater self-rule in the Americas were disregarded. These constitutional limitations did not, however, prevent electoral participation practices from transforming the preexisting territorial, ethnic, social and political balance. Case studies show the relevance that the new political representation of Cádiz had, especially at the local level, as it multiplied the number of constitutional ayuntamientos; all that was required for a town to elect its own authorities was to have at least a thousand inhabitants. Thus, for example, elections held in New Spain gave rise to inter-ethnic pacts and negotiations and strengthened the rural and communal character of representation. In Peru, pacts between indigenous and criollos were more frequent in rural villages far from the main cities, while agreements between criollos and Spaniards were key in intendencia capitals. In any case, the immense documentation on the elections in the different corners of the empire reveals the emergence of an intense political life and the mobilization of a plurality of social actors through the vote. In the regions deemed to be insurgent, the picture is more heterogeneous. In some jurisdictions, political positions tended to become radicalized, such as the cases

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of New Granada and Venezuela, where the first independences from Spain were declared in , the first written constitutions of the Spanish world were promulgated, and the first republics were instituted. The dynamism, precocity, and originality of this first constitutionalism in Tierra Firme contrasts with other insurgent experiences, such as those of the Río de la Plata or Chile. In the southern cone, the process was more gradual as governments were formed that did adopt republican forms, but without declaring independence or sanctioning constitutions, issuing, instead, provisional regulations, until after the Restoration. Radicalization or gradualism can also be seen in the forms taken by political representation within each of these regions. As Carole Leal Curiel has shown, in Venezuela the first electoral regulation of  extended representation to cities, towns, and villages, and established the equal participation for “free men of all kinds,” whether residents (vecinos) or registered as such (avecindados). In electoral practice, the author shows that free black, pardo, moreno, and Indian voters who met any of the conditions of having a “populated house” or property were registered as “free men.” The inclusiveness of the initiative led by Caracas contributed to reunify the rebel provincial juntas and led to the rapid creation of the Confederation of the United Provinces of Venezuela, which sanctioned a federal constitution in . Although it was a short-lived republic due to the vicissitudes of the war of independence, the Venezuelan case contrasts with what happened in New Granada. There, the territorial fractures and the weakness to constitute a political center that would be recognized by the various territorial units led to different constitutions and electoral regulations, which only ruled in each of the emerging sovereignties, until the Act of the Federation of the United Provinces of New Granada in . The example of Tierra Firme differs also from the case of Río de la Plata, where the juntista movement that emerged in Buenos Aires was not replicated in other cities. The attempts of the capital to maintain control of the dependent provinces met with resistance in several regions, which contested, among other issues, the representative disparity of the territories. These challenges had to do with representation in government bodies being limited to the cities, without integrating rural areas and without following the principle of the amount of population in each constituency, which came to be recognized in the Provisional Regulation issued in . In the context of these differences, two common aspects should be highlighted. The first refers to the argument made here earlier regarding the constructivist dimension of the constitutional and electoral experiments. Such experiments show the prevalence of the territorial question, both in the desire to restore the unity of the body politic – of the bi-oceanic monarchy and of the jurisdictions dismembered from the metropolis – and in the attempts to safeguard the aspiration different

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peoples had voiced of achieving self-rule by freeing themselves from the political centers from which they depended. The second aspect in common is the importance of electoral participation in the diverse geographies of loyalist and insurgent areas. Elections brought together a plurality of social actors, including voters who did not enjoy the right to active citizenship. The ambiguity of some of the requirements established by the applicable regulations left a wide margin of discretion for electoral authorities, who were managed locally, to allow individuals to vote or exclude them from voting. The vote, however, was not the only way of participation in political life. The representative system coexisted with practices of direct exercise of sovereignty, such as open cabildos, popular assemblies, petitions, armed movements, rebellions, or riots that reveal the emergence of a new culture of mobilization. Hilda Sabato highlights in her studies that this culture manifested itself in Latin America through elections, public opinion, and armed citizenship. Freedom of the press, new forms of sociability, and intense militarization encouraged the mobilization of urban and rural populations and integrated segments of social groups that lacked political rights. Slaves, women, minors or dependents enrolled in both the revolutionary and royalist sides and were part of that unprecedented experience characterized by a strong popular component. Gabriel Di Meglio suggests in this regard that the simultaneity and intensity of the mobilization throughout Spanish America can be explained by the fact that “the disappearance of the king in a framework of structural crisis of the colonial system” (la desaparición del rey en un marco de crisis estructural del sistema colonial) spelled a major impact and by the unprecedented politicization that this situation triggered. In his analysis of the different repertoires of participation that were tried out from Mexico to the southern cone, the author concludes that this experience led the popular classes to perceive that they had become “protagonists of the transformation of their own world” (protagonistas de la transformación de su mundo) and that their actions served both to defend and to attack a cause. In this turbulent context, the leadership faced a double challenge: to constitutionalize a legal order and to confront in the field of political practices the various ways of “representing” the people. The stakes were complex not only because of the divergent positions over the principles of legality and legitimacy, but also because of the war scenario in which they were deployed. Nonetheless, looking at this process from a global perspective, I conclude with the words of the authors of El momento gaditano, who affirm that the constitutional and representative logics in Spanish America were characterized “by a high rate of institutionalization – the opposite of ‘anarchy’ or ‘barbarism’ – which explains the legitimacy and consensus that they would enjoy among all social strata” (“por una alta tasa de institucionalización – todo

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lo contrario a la ‘anarquía’ o a la ‘barbarie’ – , lo que explica la legitimidad y el consenso del que gozarían entre todos los estratos sociales”). The Iberian World during the Restoration

The Spanish American map I have drawn so far contrasts with what happened in Brazil. In their new headquarters, the Braganza sought to maintain absolutism, recreate court life, and make careful management of the “economy of grace” to balance social and political hierarchies between the exiled Portuguese and the local elites. But that palatial life in the tropics was under constant threat. As the studies of João Paulo Pimenta have shown, the events in Spain were the source of a double concern for the Portuguese court. On the one hand, it could not but be alarmed by the revolutionary movements in the neighboring regions; on the other, it observed with unease the effects of the Cádiz constitution. I have already mentioned the initiatives taken in this context by Infanta Carlota Joaquina through her networks of transatlantic agents. In addition, the southern borders of the Iberian empires in the Americas were experiencing mounting Portuguese pressure and saw the intervention of the Portuguese troops in the confrontation between fidelistas (loyalists) and revolutionaries in the Banda Oriental of the Río de la Plata between  and . These events, as well as the extensive information that circulated through printed materials, agents, and networks of exiles of various ideological signs based in Rio de Janeiro, clearly show that Ibero America, as a whole, was experiencing a feeling of vertigo in the face of a future plagued by uncertainty. That sense of vertigo seemed to subside in , with Bonaparte’s abdication and the advent of restoration in Europe. In the new international order, the OldWorld courts gathered at the Congress of Vienna, reestablished monarchical legitimism, and restored Ferdinand VII to the throne after the long years of comfortable palace seclusion in France. With the king’s return to Spain, the constitutional cycle inaugurated in Cádiz was abruptly interrupted. The abolition of the Constitution of  and the reintroduction of absolutism occurred at a time when the Spanish American independence movements were in sharp decline. If in the previous stage, constitutional experimentation had been expanding intensely, with Restoration there is a kind of impasse. The first revolutionary impulse declined in step with the advance of the royalist forces. With the fall of the Napoleonic empire, the Iberian crowns ended up having the same aim, that of preserving the old order on both sides of the Atlantic. However, this common goal did not translate into a Luso-Hispanic war alliance to jointly repress the American revolutionary foci. Despite the Court of Madrid’s diplomatic initiatives in this regard, Portugal did not get involved in the military reconquest

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efforts of the Spanish monarch and played its own strategies with a clear intention of consolidating the monarchy in the Americas. To this end, while Ferdinand VII sought to bring his overseas dominions back to the situation before  through a high-intensity colonial war, João de Braganza adopted a new policy with respect to the territory in the Americas: At the end of , he created the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves. The elevation of Brazil to the status of kingdom had been suggested by CharlesMaurice de Talleyrand, minister of foreign affairs of the newly restored king of France, to the count of Palmela, representative of Portugal at the Congress of Vienna. Talleyrand argued in favor of extinguishing the humiliating colonial status of the Luso-American dominions to prevent revolutionary movements, such as those on the border areas with the Spanish colonies. Aware of the fact that the elevation of Brazil would not be well received by the European Portuguese, he proposed that the prince regent send his firstborn to Lisbon to calm down the feelings of the elites who felt abandoned by his court. Talleyrand’s concern had already been raised in late  by the British government to its ambassador in Rio de Janeiro. British Foreign Secretary Viscount Castlereagh believed that the prince regent should return to Lisbon, but suggested leaving a branch of the royal family in Brazil or, failing that, that the king send his son to Europe instead, fearing “that any attempt to re-downgrade the dominions of South America to the colonial level would be immediately fatal to the interests of the monarchy in that part of the globe.” England and France were looking for alternatives to maintain the balance of the monarchy that had been split since . João de Braganza, however, showed no sign of wanting to leave the tropics or of sending his son to Portugal. On the contrary, with the elevation of Brazil to the status of kingdom, the court strengthened its ties with local subjects, demonstrated its willingness to remain a European legitimist enclave in the Americas, and postulated itself as guardian of the absolute monarchy in the areas threatened by the advances of popular sovereignty and republican forms of government. He made this clear through two symbolically loaded events in Rio de Janeiro: the acclamation of João VI as monarch of the now United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves after the death of Queen Maria I in ; and the celebration of the marriage of his eldest son, Prince Peter, to Leopoldina of Habsburg, daughter of the Emperor of Austria. The Americanization of the Portuguese monarchy was increasingly based on a new imperial ethos that turned its back on Europe, or in any case, that privileged its possessions in the Americas over the former seat in the Old World. In that scenario, Portugal advanced with its troops on the Banda Oriental of the Río de la Plata and occupied Montevideo in January . The advance was part of the unresolved controversies with Spain over the southern limits of their

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respective empires in the Americas, but now justified as a preventive measure against the revolutionary threat in the Brazilian frontiers. This event sparked an intense and prolonged diplomatic conflict with Spain, at the same time that it redefined the war situation in the South Atlantic. At that point, the revolutionary war had become a true war of independence, the main scenarios of which were Venezuela and New Granada, where Simón Bolívar commanded the armies, and the southern cone, where José de San Martín had initiated a campaign from the Río de la Plata to liberate Chile and then Peru on the Pacific. The “times of war” had a profound impact on the “times of politics” influencing constitutional projections and the ways of conceiving representation in these agitated societies. The more radicalized political semantics of the previous stage gave way to moderate positions that sought to neutralize federalist tendencies and claims to rights and freedoms. In Colombia, a centralist republic was imposed with the Fundamental Law of , which decreed the integration of the territories of New Granada, Venezuela, and Quito consolidated with the constitutional charter sanctioned in Cúcuta two years later. This constitution curtailed Bolívar’s original project to create a hereditary Senate that, within the framework of the mixed government model, was intended to control the excesses of popular sovereignty. In the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata, the Constitution of  also imposed the centralist model and the ideal of mixed government through the combination of elective and non-hereditary aristocratic mechanisms. But in this case, unlike the republican matrix of the Bolivarian projects, the constitution promulgated in Buenos Aires – and never enforced – “made no mention of the noun republic or the adjective republican” (“no hacía mención alguna del sustantivo república o del adjetivo republicano”), as Natalio Botana has noted. This silence was not alien to the constitutional monarchical plans encouraged by the government and congress, which were processed through diplomatic channels during the years of the Restoration. The House of Braganza was heavily involved in plans seeking to find princes of European sovereign houses willing to be crowned under a vernacular constitution. Although the monarchical projects failed, it must be noted that the Portuguese tried by means of negotiations through their diplomatic agents to establish kingdoms headed by members of their dynasty in the neighboring territories. But as the projection of the Portuguese monarchy in the Americas was consolidating, relations with its former European headquarters were weakening. After the fall of Napoleon, there were no justifiable reasons to remain in Rio de Janeiro, and the members of the Regency in Lisbon made it known to the monarch that there was discontent in the “nation” with his acclamation in Brazil and insistently requested his prompt return. The tone of this appeal, dated March , intensified from then on. The

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demand for troops recruited on the European side to sustain the occupation of the Eastern Province and repress the republican and separatist revolution that broke out in Pernambuco in  put additional strain on the already resentful ties between the leadership and the populations on both sides of the Atlantic. Revolutions and Independences

Ferdinand VII’s recalcitrant colonialist spirit and the renewed imperial ethos of João VI converged in the common response from their European headquarters when the  liberal revolutions broke out. The uprising of the Spanish army frustrated the expedition that was being sent to reconquer Buenos Aires and led to the restoration of the Constitution of , which forced Ferdinand VII to be sworn in as constitutional king. A few months later, the uprising in the city of Porto, which quickly spread to the whole kingdom, forced João VI to return to Portugal and swear in the Constitution promulgated in Lisbon in . Both events began the “liberal triennia” of the Iberian monarchies, interrupted by the intervention of the French armies in Spain and by the absolutist reaction led by Princess Carlota Joaquina in Portugal. The ties that united the Iberian liberal revolutions have been investigated by specialists, both in the field of constitutional law, which has compared “Doceañismo” () and “Vintismo” (), and in the field of political history.48 For the purposes of the topic we are discussing, the impact of the Constitution of Cádiz on Portugal must be highlighted. The constituent courts, meeting in Lisbon in January , temporarily adopted the Spanish Constitution of  and followed the same path of the neighboring country: They assumed the sovereign authority of the nation and integrated the elected deputies representing the Brazilian provinces into the assembly. But, as happened in Cádiz, the dilemma of overseas territorial representation was a turning point. Portuguese liberal deputies rejected both maintaining kingdom status for Brazil and keeping Pedro de Braganza as prince regent in Rio de Janeiro. Tensions between Portugal and Brazil worsened, which led to a decree convening the Cortes in Brazil and to the declaration of independence in September . The kingdom became the Empire of Brazil, and Prince Pedro became emperor. On the other hand, the course of the second Cádiz constitutional experiment in the Hispanic world had to deal with the experience of the recent past in the peninsula and with a decade of devastating war in Spanish America. Could the same constitution aspire to the unity of the bi-oceanic nation after the divisions it had caused in the overseas territories? Ivana Frasquet illuminates this question by exploring in detail the debates that took place in the Cortes of the triennium and

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the proposals of the American deputies to achieve what they had not achieved eight years ago: greater self-rule and autonomy for their jurisdictions. The extent to which these demands had failed was visible on the other side of the Atlantic. By that time, independence had consolidated on the insurgent map drawn up in , and the situation in the areas that had remained loyal was much more complicated than before. In New Spain, the failed attempt by Spanish American deputies in the Cortes to create a confederal monarchy coincided with the signing of the Treaties of Córdoba and the declaration of Mexican independence in September . In Peru, news of the reestablishment of the Cádiz charter arrived at the time when the forces of General San Martín were landing in Lima. Although San Martín was open to the possibility of swearing in the Spanish Constitution in exchange for the recognition of Peru’s independence, the negotiations with the viceroy were cut short due to this demand and by the events that followed. Peruvian independence was declared in Lima in July , and was consolidated after the Battle of Ayacucho, fought in December , which put an end to the wars of independence. With these events, the Ibero-American constitutional map began to move toward a new stage: that of laying the legitimate and legal foundations of the new sovereign states. A wide-ranging repertoire was used to achieve this purpose. In Spanish America, the republican threshold was imposed as a form of government, with the exception of the constitutional monarchical model that ruled for a short time in Mexico, under the rule of Agustín de Iturbide. The nascent republics tried out centralist, federalist, or confederalist constitutions, designed various mechanisms for the division of powers, and held elections at all territorial levels under representative regimes with a greater or lesser degree of inclusion in terms of citizenship rights. In the Empire of Brazil, the constitution granted by the emperor came into force in  after dissolving the constituent assembly that had begun to meet the previous year. The new charter established a parliament with two chambers, fixed the powers of the executive, legislative, and judicial branches, and created a fourth power called “moderator,” which was exclusive to the emperor and whose main function was to appoint ministers. Political representation was regulated on the basis of an indirect electoral system in two degrees to select deputies and senators, while in the municipalities the authorities were elected by a direct system and the presidents of the provinces were designated by the central government. Political rights were differentiated according to the requirements for active and passive voting, enabling men over twenty-five years of age with a minimum annual income of , reais to vote. This restriction was not so limiting when one considers that the majority of the free working population was above that income level and that no exclusions were set in terms of race or literacy. However, it is worth

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remembering that the segment that was excluded from civil and political rights was the great mass of enslaved people on which the plantation economy of the empire was based. This exclusion prevailed also in Spanish America, where abolition and defining the status of freedmen or those born under the “freedom of wombs” laws was an issue that was not resolved until much later in the nations that emerged from the collapse of the Spanish empire. Looking at the Ibero-American cases in comparative perspective, the difference that stands out at this stage of the time period is the adoption of constitutional monarchy in Brazil in contrast to the republican systems that shaped the new political orders in Spanish America. Of course, this difference has to do with the fact always highlighted by historiography: the prolonged stay of the Braganza in their tropical colony, which endowed Prince Pedro with an undoubted legitimacy to embody the architecture of a constitutional empire. However, this does not imply that the monarchical model represented a natural and inexorable way out for an independence that was declared without going through the convulsions and wars suffered by the emerging neighboring nations, and was rather the result of a political choice among other alternatives. As I indicated earlier, the notion that Brazil constituted an exception until the advent of the republic in  poorly reflects a trajectory that presents several points in common with the Spanish American countries. Its constitutional design, although based on the hereditary principle of dynastic succession of the monarch, was framed in the liberal language that founded legitimacy on political representation, individual and civil rights, and the mechanisms of division of powers. Its political life was also very intense. Electoral practices displayed strong local and community content, mobilized the interest of the majority of the population, and often expressed themselves in violent and tumultuous struggles. Taking these data into account, recent literature questions the notion of Iberian patrimonialist legacy as a long-standing feature in Brazilian history. Independence implied a rupture that was, in short, as radical in the Portuguese world as in the Hispanic world, even if their old legal cultures persisted, in both cases, for a long time. Closing Remarks

What conclusions can we draw from what has been said so far? If we go back to the argument put forth in the introduction of this chapter regarding the constructivist dimension of the constitutional and representative experiments in Ibero-America, some points should be highlighted. In the formation stage of the new nations, the vertical disputes over sovereignty – which involved the ties between metropolises and colonies – reveal that the Iberian constitutionalism sanctioned in European

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headquarters was not able (or did not have the will) to design a representative cartography for the territories in the Americas that would address their claims of autonomy and self-rule within the framework of the respective monarchies. While the constitutional initiatives that emerged first in Cádiz and then in Lisbon were intended to put an end to monarchical absolutism and limit the power of the sovereign, they were basically aimed at preventing the dispersion of their territorial sovereignty over their empires. In the case of Spain, the first constituent experiment tried precisely to contain this dispersion in the context of the juntista explosion, both in the peninsula and in Spanish America, and the second one was deployed to save what was left of the empire and curb the authoritarian drift of Ferdinand VII’s government after Restoration. In Portugal, the constitutional experiment sought to avoid the definitive transfer of its monarchy to the overseas territories and put an end to the split of its government in two continents. Constitutionalizing the Europe-based empire implied downgrading Brazil to the colonial and subordinate status it had prior to the crisis. In both cases, attempts to build bi-oceanic nations failed, and even encouraged the struggle for definitive independence. As for the horizontal disputes over sovereignty in the Ibero-American domains, the situations varied. In the Hispanic territories, the fiery claims for the “rights of the peoples” within the constitutionalizing projects and experiments in the new nations continued after the declarations of independence. With varying intensities, depending on the region, the conflicts between centralist, federalist, and confederalist positions demonstrated that the constructivist will that the leaders placed in constitutions and representation was not enough to guarantee the unity of the political body. The Republic of Colombia, created by Bolívar, ended up fragmented into three independent states – Venezuela, Colombia, and Ecuador; Central America seceded from Mexico by dividing into several states; from the former viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata emerged four countries: Argentina, Bolivia, Paraguay, and Uruguay; Argentina achieved constitutional unity after going through a prolonged confederal situation; and there were even some experiments of unification, such as the Peru-Bolivian Confederation, which dissolved soon after. In the decades after independence, Spanish American intellectual and political elites were engaged in a crucial debate that eventually led to two major positions: a position following the enlightened matrix that aspired to transform societies “from above” and a historicist position that postulated that constitutions and laws should adapt to preexisting situations. Brazil, in turn, was not free of regional tensions and disputes that would constantly challenge central power. The republican and independentist Farroupilha Revolution in  in the province of Rio Grande do Sul is perhaps the most illustrative example of these tensions, both because the rebellion lasted

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several years and because of the influence it had on similar movements in other Brazilian provinces. However, imperial unity remained for decades within the framework of the “one and indivisible” nation created after independence. In this constitutive stage, the key that largely explains the unity of this enormous territory is not only the constitutional design based on the legitimacy of the monarch but also the way to handle potential conflicts institutionally. Following the hypothesis of Andréa Slemian, it was the intense process of “valorization of the administrative sphere and, in particular, the formation of institutions that were created around a discourse about their capacity to generate stability in the most distant and remote territories” (“valorização da esfera administrativa e, em especial, à criação de instituições que nasciam amparadas por um discurso acerca de sua capacidade de gerar estabilidade nos mais distantes recônditos do território”) of the empire that contributed to the demands of “the peoples” (dos povos) being channeled by the “overriding affirmation of the ‘collective interests’” (“afirmação prioritária dos ‘interesses coletivos’”). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss the role played, in each case, by the creation of an administrative apparatus as a way of explaining the strength or weakness of emerging states or to understand the greater or lesser stability of their political orders throughout the nineteenth century. This would require introducing crucial issues that fall outside the purpose of this analysis, such as ideological controversies between liberals and conservatives (with their multiple variants and convergences); the debates between civil and ecclesiastical power and the place of religion in the political sphere; the nature of the authorities responsible for territorial control, including armies and militias; or factional and partisan disputes shaped by the challenges each country faced. However, it is worth stressing that the crises of the Iberian empires posed the central dilemma of all the Atlantic Revolutions: to reconstitute the unity of the polity on the basis of the new principle of popular sovereignty. Whether in republican or monarchical format, the dilemma resulted in renewed efforts to reconcile the plurality of voices that the representation of the people brought about and the need to conceive of a sovereign subject capable of representing and unifying this heterogeneous choral ensemble. As we have seen, the responses to successive challenges were expressed not only through the mechanisms created by constitutionalism and representation, but also through agitated public opinion and revolutionary repertoires that often appealed to the use of arms in the name of the right to resist oppression and despotism. The coexistence of different ways of political participation must not, however, lead us to reproduce the classic images that interpreted nineteenth-century Ibero-America as the realm of disorder, political arbitrariness, and institutional vacuum. On the contrary, the renewed will of the leaders to constitutionalize the political order

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and legitimize their power through periodic elections demonstrates that it is precisely within the framework of this institutionalization – and not outside it – where conflicts between territorial bodies, factions, and parties and the different social interests were addressed. It was also because of the divergences stirred by the institutionalization process of the new nations that the constitutional and electoral experiments reached such a high degree of politicization. And it was, finally, through these experiments that the projections of the different political actors were processed, becoming thus integrated into the emerging culture of mobilization.

Notes  The notion of political and constitutional “experiment” has been used, among other authors, by José Antonio Aguilar Rivera, En pos de la quimera. Reflexiones sobre el experimento constitucional atlántico (Mexico City: Centro de Investigación y Docencia Económicas, ); Antonio Annino and Marcela Ternavasio (eds.), El laboratorio constitucional iberoamericano. /– (Madrid: Iberoamericana Vervuert/AHILA, ); Hilda Sabato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ).  For a revision of the historiographical image of Brazilian exceptionality, see João Paulo Pimenta, “La independencia de Brasil como revolución. Historia y actualidad sobre un tema clásico,” Nuevo Topo  (): –.  As with any map, the larger the territory it seeks to cover, the smaller the scale of issues it can represent. The exercise requires a maximum simplification of the historical processes and of the multiple issues that have been explored, and demands an economy of bibliographical references given the vastness of the existing critical mass. For this reason, the literature cited is hardly representative of a much broader historiographical universe that could not be possibly covered in these brief pages.  Among the perspectives that jointly address the Portuguese and Hispanic worlds in the context of the Atlantic Revolutions, see Jeremy Adelman, Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ); Roberto Breña, “Independence Movements in the Americas during the Age of Revolution,” Forum for Interamerican Research , no.  (): –; Manuel Chust and Ivana Frasquet, Tiempos de revolución. Comprender las independencias iberoamericanas (Madrid: MAPFRE, ); Stefan Rinke, Las revoluciones en América Latina. Las vías a la independencia – (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, ); João Paulo Pimenta, La independencia de Brasil y la experiencia hispanoamericana, – (Santiago de Chile: Dibam/ Centro de Investigaciones Diego Barros Arana, ); Jaime Rodríguez O. (ed.), Revolución, independencia y las nuevas naciones de América (Madrid: MAPFRE, ).  For a theoretical reflection on the concepts of “mapping” and “censusing” representation, see Michel Foucault, Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France, –, trans. Graham Burchell (London: Palgrave MacMillan, ). Foucault introduces here the category of “governmentalization,” understood as the set of institutions, procedures, calculations, and tactics that enable the exercise of a specific form of power. Analyzing the transformations that took place between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, he postulates that these changes involved moving from “governing territories” to “governing people”; or in other words, a mutation that represents moving from sovereignty over the territory to the regulation and control of populations.

Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America  See Antonio Annino, Silencios y disputas en la historia de Hispanoamérica (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia-Taurus, ).  The “constructivist” hypothesis has been proposed by Darío Roldán in his analysis of political representation in the Río de la Plata in the first decades of the nineteenth century. Our argument takes up and expands this hypothesis on an Ibero-American scale to rethink the links between constitutionalism and representation. See Darío Roldán, “La cuestión de la representación en el origen de la política moderna. Una perspectiva comparada (–),” in La vida política en la Argentina del siglo XIX. Armas, votos y voces, ed. Hilda Sabato and Alberto Lettieri (Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –.  José M. Portillo Valdés, “La constitución en el Atlántico hispano, –,” Fundamentos  (): –.  For the Iberian reform process and their respective crises, see Tulio Halperin Donghi, Reforma y disolución de los imperios ibéricos, – (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, ). For a comparative perspective on the crises of the Iberian monarchies, see Annino and Ternavasio, “Crisis ibéricas y derroteros constitucionales,” in El laboratorio constitucional, –.  For the legal status of the Spanish Indies, see Carlos Garriga, “Patrias criollas, plazas militares. Sobre la América de Carlos IV,” in La América de Carlos IV, ed. Eduardo Martiré (Buenos Aires: Instituto de Historia del Derecho, ), –.  The concept of “pluricontinental monarchy” is from Nuno Gonçalo Monteiro, “As reformas na monarquia pluricontinental portuguesa. De Pombal e dom Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho,” in O Brazil colonial: Volume  (ca. –ca. ), ed. João Fragoso and Maria de Fátima Gouvêa (Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, ), –.  Regarding the meaning of the term “deposit of sovereignty,” Adam Sharman notes that “The phrase that was habitually used at the time, depósito de soberanía, presents translation difficulties of its own, condensing into one phrase the place where sovereignty is deposited, the act of depositing, and the thing deposited.” See Adam Sharman, Deconstructing the Enlightenment in Spanish America: Margins of Modernity (London: Palgrave Macmillan, ), .  For the Spanish juntista process, see François-Xavier Guerra, Modernidad e independencias. Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas, (Madrid: MAPFRE, ), –. For the Portuguese case, see Rui Ramos, “La ‘revolución’ de  y los orígenes del liberalismo en Portugal. Una reinterpretación,” in Las experiencias de  en Iberoamérica, ed. Alfredo Ávila and Pedro Pérez Herrero (Mexico City: Universidad de Alcalá/Universidad Autónoma de México, ), –.  For the consequences of the vacatio regis in Spain, see José M. Portillo Valdés, Crisis atlántica. Autonomía e independencia en la crisis de la monarquía hispana (Madrid: Marcial Pons, ).  For the Portuguese crisis and the constitutional responses, see Antonio Manuel Hespanha, “Bajo el signo de Napoleón. La Súplica constitucional de ,” in “Anejo VII: Crisis política y deslegitimación de monarquías,” comp. María Victoria López-Cordón, número especial, Cuadernos de Historia Moderna (): –.  See Eduardo Posada Carbó, Representación y democracia en las independencias hispanoamericanas, – (Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, ), –.  The Royal Order of January ,  stipulated that each viceroyalty, captaincy general, or province in the overseas domains could elect one representative, while Spain was awarded two deputies per province.  Hespanha, “Bajo el signo,” –. The italics are mine.  For the impact of the Bayonne Charter, see Eduardo Martiré, La constitución de Bayona entre España y América (Madrid: Boletín Oficial del Estado, ).  José M. Portillo Valdés, Revolución de nación. Orígenes de la cultura constitucional en España, – (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, ).

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Marcela Ternavasio  For the tensions between Spain and Portugal and the role of infanta Carlota Joaquina, see Marcela Ternavasio, Candidata a la Corona. La infanta Carlota Joaquina en el laberinto de las revoluciones hispanoamericanas (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ).  For the General and Extraordinary Cortes, Spanish Americans had the right to elect  deputies in contrast with the more than  delegates from mainland Spain.  Among the vast literature available on the subject, see the following works, which between them cover several different cases: Scott Estman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea (eds.), The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of  (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, ); Marta Lorente and José M. Portillo Valdés (eds.), El momento gaditano. La constitución en el orbe hispánico, – (Madrid: Cortes Generales, ); and Roberto Breña (ed.), Cádiz a debate. Actualidad, contexto y legado (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, ).  It should be noted that I do not discuss each of the items mentioned, the relevance of which would require focusing on specific aspects that lie beyond the scope of this chapter. Some of them, however, are addressed in other chapters in this book (see Chapters  and ).  Cristóbal Aljovín de Losada, “Ciudadano y vecino en Iberoamérica, –. Monarquía o República,” in Diccionario político y social del mundo iberoamericano. La era de las revoluciones, –. Iberconceptos, ed. Javier Fernández Sebastián, vol. , – (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales / Fundación Carolina, ).  Antonio Annino, “El voto y el desconocido siglo XIX,” Revista Istor  (): .  An extensive literature exists on the electoral processes in America during the constitutional experiment of Cadiz. A non-exhaustive list includes: Lorente and Portillo Valdés, El momento gaditano; Antonio Annino (ed.), Historia de las elecciones en Iberoamérica, siglo XIX (Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Antonio Annino (ed.), La revolución novohispana, – (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Manuel Chust, La cuestión nacional americana en las Cortes de Cádiz (Valencia: Fundación Instituto Historia Social, ); Virginia Guedea (ed.), La independencia de México y el proceso autonomista novohispano, – (Mexico City: UNAM / Instituto Mora, ); Víctor Peralta Ruiz, La independencia y la cultura política peruana, – (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, ); Marie-Danielle Demélas, “El sufragio indígena en los Andes durante el período revolucionario (–). ¿Electorado cautivo o guerra de castas?” Elecciones  (): –; Cristóbal Aljovín de Losada and Senesio López (eds.), Historia de las elecciones en el Perú. Estudios sobre el gobierno representativo (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, ); Gabriella Chiaramonti, Suffragio e rappresentanza nel Perú dell’. Parte prima. Gli itinerari della sovranità (–) (Torino: Otto edittore, ); Natalia Sobrevilla, “Elecciones y conflicto en la historia del Perú,” Elecciones  (): –; Scarlett O’Phelan, “Ciudadanía y etnicidad en las Cortes de Cádiz,” Elecciones  (): –; Claudia Guarisco, Etnicidad y ciudadanía en México y Perú, – (Toluca: El Colegio Mexiquense, ).  Clément Thibaud, “En busca de la república federal. El primer constitucionalismo en la Nueva Granada,” in El laboratorio constitucional, –.  On the institutional gradualism of the revolutionary process in the Río de la Plata, see Marcela Ternavasio, Gobernar la revolución. Poderes en disputa en el Río de la Plata, – (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ). For the Chilean case, see Juan Luis Ossa Santa Cruz, “Revolución y constitucionalismo en Chile –,” Revista de Historia Iberoamericana , no.  (): –.  Carole Leal Curiel, “El Reglamento de Roscio y las elecciones de : Una convocatoria a la igualdad,” Argos  (): –.  For the process in New Granada, see Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, Las asambleas constituyentes de la independencia. Actas de Cundinamarca y Antioquia, – (Bogotá: Corte Constitucional,

Constitutionalism and Representation in Ibero-America

 

 

  

 



 



  





Universidad Externado de Colombia, ); Isidro Vanegas, Todas son iguales: Estudios sobre la democracia en Colombia (Bogotá: Universidad del Externado de Colombia, ). Marcela Ternavasio, La revolución del voto. Política y elecciones en Buenos Aires, – (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ). See Marta Irurozqui, La ciudadanía en debate en América Latina. Discusiones historiográficas y una propuesta teórica sobre el valor público de la infracción electoral (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, ). Sabato, Republics of the New World. See Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Marixa Lasso, “Los grupos afrodescendientes y la independencia. ¿Un nuevo paradigma historiográfico?,” in L’atlantique révolutionnaire. Une perspective Ibéro-américaine, ed. Clément Thibaud, Gabriel Entin, Alejandro Gómez, and Federica Morelli (Bécherel: Les Perséides Editions, ), –. Gabriel Di Meglio, “La participación popular en las revoluciones hispanoamericanas, –. Un ensayo sobre sus rasgos y causas,” Almanack  (): –. Lorente and Portillo Valdés, El momento gaditano, . Kirsten Schultz, Tropical Versailles: Empire, Monarchy, and the Portuguese Royal Court in Rio de Janeiro, – (New York: Routledge, ); Jurandir Malerba, A Corte no exílio. Civilização e poder no Brasil às vésperas da independência – (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, ). Pimenta, La independencia de Brasil y la experiencia hispanoamericana. On the impact of the Restoration on the Spanish American revolutions, see Marcela Ternavasio, Los juegos de la política. Las independencias hispanoamericanas frente a la contrarrevolución (Buenos Aires-Zaragoza: Siglo XXI / PUZ, ). On the elevation of Brazil to a kingdom, see Vera Lucía Vieira, “El impacto de la elevación de Brasil a Reino Unido a Portugal y Algarves bajo la éjida del Congreso de Viena,” Outros Tempos  (): –. Oliveira Lima, D. João VI no Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks, ). Castlereagh to Strangford, London, November , , Foreign Office / no. , quoted in Gran Bretaña y la independencia de la América Latina –. Documentos escogidos de los archivos del Foreign Office, vol. , ed. Charles Webster (Buenos Aires: Kraft, ), . For the Portuguese imperial ethos in Brazil, see Valentim Alexandre Os sentidos. Questão nacional e questão colonial na crise do antigo regime português (Oporto: Edições Afrontamento, ); Gabriel Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of Atlantic Revolutions: The Luso-Brazilian World, c. – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ); Jorge Pedreira and Nuno Gonzalo Monteiro (eds.), O colapso do Império e la revolucao liberal – (Madrid: MAPFRE, ). Natalio Botana, Repúblicas y Monarquías. La encrucijada de la independencia (Buenos Aires: Edhasa, ), . Ternavasio, Los juegos de la política. Ricardo Raimundo Nogueira, Memórias políticas. Memória das coisas mais notáveis que se trataram nas conferências do governo, – (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra, ), . See in this regard Antonio Manuel Hespanha, “O constitucionalismo monárquico português. Breve síntese,” Historia Constitucional  (): –; Joaquín Varela Suanzes-Carpegna, “El constitucionalismo español y portugués durante la primera mitad del siglo XIX (Un estudio comparado),” in Visiones y revisiones de la independencia americana, ed. Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero and Julio Sánchez Gómez (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, ), –. See Marcia Berbel, A Nação como artefato: Deputados do Brasil nas cortes portuguesas, – (São Paulo: Hucitec, ).





Marcela Ternavasio  Ivana Frasquet, “Independencia o constitución. América en el Trienio Liberal,” Historia Constitucional  (): –.  Sabato, Republics of the New World; José Antonio Aguilar Rivera and Rafael Rojas (eds.), El republicanismo en Hispanoamérica (Mexico City: Cide / Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); and Alfredo Ávila, “El radicalismo republicano en Hispanoamérica. Un balance historiográfico y una propuesta de estudio,” Estudios de Historia Moderna y Contemporánea de México  (): –.  José Murilo de Carvalho, Desenvolvimiento de la ciudadanía en Brasil (Mexico City: El Colegio de México / Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –.  See Magdalena Candioti, “Regulando el fin de la esclavitud. Diálogos, innovaciones y disputas jurídicas en las nuevas repúblicas sudamericanas, –,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte Lateinamerikas  (): –.  Andréa Slemian, Sob o imperio das Leis. Constituiçâo e unidade nacional na formaçâo do Brasil, – (São Paulo: Editora Hucitec, ), .  For more on these debates, see Rafael Rojas, Las repúblicas de aire. Utopía y desencanto en la revolución de Hispanoamérica (Buenos Aires: Taurus, ).  Slemian, Sob o imperio, –. For the construction of the state apparatus in Brazil during the empire, see José Murilo de Carvalho, A Construção da ordem /Teatro de sombras. A política imperial (Formação do Brasil) (Rio de Janeiro: Editora Civilização Brasileira, ).

E B  F P



Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America Local Dynamics, Atlantic Processes In Rio de Janeiro, on October , , the plenipotentiaries of the United Provinces of Río de la Plata (present-day Argentina) and the Empire of Brazil (see Map .), with the mediation of Great Britain, signed an armistice that recognized the province of Montevideo as an independent country: the República Oriental del Uruguay. The armistice concluded the two-decade-long process of political emancipation in South America. Despite the protagonism of local and regional agents in creating independent republics in Spanish South America, it is noteworthy that the independence process of Río de la Plata, in particular, came to a close with a treaty celebrated in the capital of the recently independent Brazilian empire, and with the direct intervention of Great Britain as a mediator. Thirteen years earlier, and about , miles northwest, in Kingston, Jamaica, Simón Bolívar was struggling to convince British authorities to support his stumbling military effort to liberate New Granada and Venezuela from Spanish rule (see Map .). Before reaching Jamaica, Bolívar had already taken part in the collapse of two republican experiments in Caracas and had witnessed the beginning of the decline of the young Republic of Cartagena. Far from seeking to end the war, Bolívar was hoping to obtain the means to reignite an effort that until then was marked more by crushing defeats than by astounding victories. By the end of , after six months of inauspicious attempts to secure British aid, Bolívar sailed to Haiti, where President Alexandre Pétion opened his republic’s coffers and offered Bolívar weapons, money, and men to return to the South American mainland. The episode of the Convenção Preliminar de Paz and Bolívar’s Caribbean adventures in search of critical aid are revealing of the significant involvement of foreign powers in the process of independence of Ibero-America in general and in the processes of Río de la Plata (the region of modern-day Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay, and southern Brazil) and New Granada (modern-day Colombia,

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Venezuela, Ecuador, and Panama) in particular. Both episodes also reveal the key role Great Britain played as revolutionaries sought, first, to turn the tide of war in their favor through a military alliance with Britain and, second, to secure independence by obtaining British recognition. The central roles of Brazil (from – as the center of the Portuguese empire, and later as an independent monarchy) and Haiti, in addition, demonstrate that Great Britain was far from the only foreign power whose favor both royalists (Spanish and Spanish American) and revolutionaries actively courted. Throughout the process that resulted in the triumph of independence and republicanism in most of Spanish America, strong networks of trade and nascent diplomatic relations with Great Britain and its Caribbean colonies, the Portuguese empire and later Brazil, Haiti, St. Thomas, Curaçao, and the United States allowed revolutionaries to resist, escape, return, persist, and ultimately prevail. At times, as was the case with the relations between the United States and Mexico, enthusiasm for independence coexisted with, and eventually gave way to, a growing threat of expansionism and invasion. The independence process of South America, thus, was intrinsically connected to broader Atlantic processes and networks of the Age of Atlantic Revolutions. Rather than seeing Jamaica, Haiti, the United States, Britain and other key sites in the Caribbean and the Atlantic as outside the scope of the confrontations, in this chapter, we integrate this international sphere into a broader geography of conflict. While the battles waged in this sphere were less violent and deadly than those fought on the Spanish American mainland, the commercial negotiations and

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Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado

diplomatic confrontations in the Caribbean, Brazil, the United States, Great Britain, and France were no less important to determining the outcome than the military confrontations throughout Spanish America. The Convenção and Bolívar’s Caribbean trajectory alert us to the importance of paying attention to the openended nature of the process, making us acknowledge that just as the Convenção and independent Uruguay could have ended up not coming into being as the result of the war between Brazil and the United Provinces, the republican experiments of Cartagena and Caracas could have ended up enduring. Similarly, while the emergence of Cuba as the “ever faithful” often positions the island as an outsider in the process that resulted in the birth of most Spanish American republics, it is important to acknowledge that, just as the rest of Spanish America, Cuba and its inhabitants actively engaged with foreign actors (mostly the United States) during this transformative era of the early nineteenth century. That Cuba remained a colony, does not mean that it was isolated from the revolutionary upheaval and foreign influences around it. Foreign interactions, pivotal as they were for the actual outcomes, could just as well have contributed to the realization of an alternative future. Focusing on the commercial and diplomatic relations of Spanish American rebels, their royalist counterparts, and Brazilian monarchists, this chapter not only recalibrates geographic scales of analysis but also allows for an expansion of the wars’ temporal framework and reconsiders conventional interpretations of what diplomacy encompasses, what the actors engaged in diplomatic relations do, and what the outcomes of those engagements were. In the past decades, a lively scholarship on the wars of independence in Spanish America has deepened our knowledge of the revolutionary process while illuminating the roots of the process of state and nation formation in nineteenth-century Latin America. Common to these analyses is a characterization, sometimes implicit, sometimes explicit, of the process of Latin American independence as a civil war within the Spanish empire that culminated with fragmentation and the emergence of different independent polities in the first half of the nineteenth century. Despite the importance given to Napoleon’s invasion of Spain as trigger to an unprecedented legitimacy crisis in the Spanish empire, these historical interpretations largely fall short of considering the full scope of foreign participation in the Iberian empires’ debacle and in the revolutionary cycles that ensued. The role of foreign states in the revolutionary process of Spanish and Portuguese America was paramount. Historians of diplomacy, foreign relations, and the history of ideas have pointed out how Latin America’s independence shifted the balance of power among Old World empires. In the early twenty-first century, a new historiography emerged examining networks of communications, ideas, commerce, and people’s movement

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

across the Atlantic. Such fluid cultural, social, political, and economic dynamics transcended the Iberian empires’ limits and played a crucial role in shaping local communities in Spanish and Portuguese America and how they reacted and participated during the crisis of the Iberian monarchies in . Napoleon’s invasion of the Iberian Peninsula provoked a radical change in Great Britain’s relationship with Spain, Spanish American territories, Portugal, and Brazil after . Remarkably, Britain had switched from a traditional threat to a new ally of Spain. For Portugal, Britain actively supported the transference of the Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro in , led the liberating efforts in Portugal, and gained privileged access to Brazilian markets. Britain’s new status permitted the creation of direct connections to South American communities. Such direct networks would play a decisive role after the outbreak of independence revolutions in South America. While the United States provided an example of political viability for the emergence of new republics in Spanish America, Britain’s alliance with Spain and Portugal during the peninsular war ensured that neither Britain nor other European countries would formally recognize and support the independence of Spanish American colonies or Brazil. If formal British support did not become a reality during the s, the informal commercial British presence was an essential economic variable both in the Spanish Empire’s territories and the Brazil that hosted Portuguese king, João VI from  to . Although Britain’s position was critical for the revolutionaries in Spanish America, for the Brazilian monarchists, and for Spain and Portugal alike, other regional and foreign powers in the Americas had a direct influence in the process of independence in South America and in the Caribbean. Geography, old transimperial networks of commerce and contraband, and the relocation of the Portuguese crown to Brazil ensured that Portugal, and later Brazil, had significant interests in the Río de la Plata’s revolutionary process. In the Caribbean Basin, Haiti and colonies of other European powers were also linked by networks of trade and politics with revolutionaries. To the north, the United States’ neutral status provided safe shipping for Spanish goods, while US merchants and seafarers also traded with and served as privateers for revolutionary governments in Río de la Plata and in the Greater Caribbean. The present pages focus on the commercial networks and formal and informal diplomatic relations at play during the independence period; thus, decentering the state as the focus of analysis and paying closer attention to merchants, seafarers, envoys, and other border-crossing denizens of the Atlantic. By focusing on the networks of individuals and groups with which they interacted, this chapter integrates the regional processes of Spanish and Portuguese America into the larger context of the Age of Atlantic Revolutions.

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Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado

Before the Collapse

On May , , US citizen Thomas Lloyd Halsey wrote from Buenos Aires to his associates in the United States reporting that “most likely this country will be established into a separate Government than that of Spain.” Halsey added a full report on how the people in the plaza and the militias on the main city streets forced Viceroy Cisneros’ resignation, only to remind his business associates that a consulship for himself would advance their businesses in the region. By the time the monarchical crisis of  arose, foreign merchants, slave traders, artisans, and seafarers were already a regular presence in the Río de la Plata. Longstanding Luso-Brazilian commercial and familial networks that thrived in the region since the days of Colonia do Sacramento (–), a Portuguese port city across from Buenos Aires, had made the Río de la Plata a hub for transimperial trade. During the s, US, Hamburg, and Danish merchants, seafarers, and slave traders joined the Luso-Brazilians and became important agents connecting the region to Europe, the Caribbean, North America, Brazil, and Africa. Throughout South America’s Atlantic seaboard, similar networks had connected Spanish colonies with foreign territories for centuries. During the second half of the eighteenth century, the connections had grown stronger largely due to the lifting of a number of commercial restrictions that legalized trade that had previously been deemed contraband. Between  and , royal ordinances liberalizing the slave trade and authorizing commercial exchanges with neutral powers offered legal opportunities for the growth in transimperial trade. While British merchants were the ones best positioned to take advantage of the new commercial regulations during the early s, in , with the eruption of Anglo-Spanish confrontations, US, Danish, and Luso-Brazilian merchants became the key beneficiaries of the permissions to trade with foreign neutrals. Thanks to strong connections with US, Danish, and Luso-Brazilian traders, British capital managed to maintain a hegemonic presence in coastal Spanish America. By the turn of the century, British manufactures, especially clothes, were easily available along South America’s Atlantic seaboard. With war an almost permanent feature of the Atlantic’s geopolitical landscape from  to the s, the importance of neutral trade grew stronger toward the end of the eighteenth century. Throughout Spanish America ships flying neutral flags bore a great part of the burden of supplying Spanish American ports with provisions and foodstuffs. Neutral ships, mostly Portuguese, US, and Danish, but also from Hamburg and the Netherlands, also sustained the flow of goods, information, and capital between Spanish America and Spain. In the South Atlantic, Portuguese neutrality offered much-needed protection to Spain’s silver cargo from Río de la Plata and Chile. The Luso-Brazilian neutral route, thus, not only

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

strengthened existing commercial connections between Brazil and the Río de la Plata, but also, to a considerable extent, allowed Spain to maintain its possessions in the South Atlantic. Neutral United States merchant vessels were also instrumental in the maintenance of trade between Spanish American territories and Spain. Shortly after the end of the American Revolution, US vessels became a common presence in the circumCaribbean. During the late s and even more so during the late s, US vessels sailing from Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Charleston played a critical role in the supply of flour to New Granada’s Caribbean ports. With their commercial incursion in Caribbean waters, US merchants joined Danish and Dutch traders as a visible commercial presence in New Granada’s ports. Additionally, with the acquisition of Louisiana in , the United States began to use New Orleans as commercial base to trade with New Spain (Mexico). The US influence in the circum-Caribbean, however, did not match that of the British, who, from their commercial center of Kingston, were better positioned to supply ports in New Granada, Venezuela, and other Spanish possessions throughout the Caribbean coast. The succession of revolutionary upheavals of the last quarter of the eighteenth century (American, French, and Haitian revolutions) sent shockwaves all over the Atlantic. Throughout Spanish America, viceroys, governors, and other royal officers, aware of the danger associated with the spread of ideas of liberty, emancipation, equality, and republicanism, feared revolutionary contagion. In Venezuela, in particular, during the last decade of the eighteenth century, revolutionary ideas seemed to have found fertile ground. Between  and , at least four movements drew inspiration from the language, ideas, and actions of revolutionaries in the French Caribbean. Rebels and conspirators in Coro (), La Guaira (), Cariaco (), and Maracaibo () learned about revolutionary ideals and received news of the progress of events in French Saint-Domingue from a growing number of French-speaking refugees who smuggled and circulated political pamphlets and broadsides. While before  the geopolitical conditions were not conducive to turning these ideas into attainable realities, the ideas were there for anyone paying attention to the “common wind” to grasp them. By the time Napoleon’s troops invaded the Iberian Peninsula, the flow of goods, people and ideas was a lived reality throughout Ibero-America. Trade and Informal Diplomacy in Times of War: The s

The French invasion of the Iberian Peninsula changed the geography of power in both Portuguese and Spanish America. Napoleon’s invasion of Portugal, in , first led to the British-backed transfer of the Portuguese crown to Brazil, making Rio

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de Janeiro the new capital of the Portuguese Empire. The newly founded LusoBrazilian empire in South America at the same time allowed for direct connection between Brazil and British traders, but also opened opportunities for Portuguese expansionism. As Spain entered into an unprecedented crisis of legitimacy after the French Invasion of , the Luso-Brazilian Empire would attempt to fulfill its century-long ambition of expanding its territories into the Río de la Plata basin. With a captive king, provinces and viceroyalties in Spanish America were forced into action. The critical juncture created by the Napoleonic invasion opened a number of options to Spanish Americans. They could recognize Napoleon’s brother as their new king, declare loyalty to Fernando VII, recognize Seville’s Junta Central (and the Council of Regency that superseded it) as the legitimate authority during the king’s absence, establish a self-governing body to run local affairs as long as the king remained captive, or even take the radical path of declaring independence. Initially, the response was characterized by almost unanimous rejection of the “usurper,” Joseph Bonaparte, and manifestations of allegiance to Fernando VII. On how to run affairs and whether to recognize the authority of Seville’s junta and the Council of Regency, the different juntas created throughout Spanish America differed, their stance often depending on the choices of cities and provinces perceived as rivals. The political choices of the ruling elites of Buenos Aires, Caracas, and Cartagena, as well as those of their long-time economic and political rivals Montevideo, Córdoba, Maracaibo, Santa Fe, and Santa Marta, offer good examples of how Spanish Americans reacted to the monarchical crisis. In all three cases, given their proximity to foreign powers and their longstanding commercial relations with foreign territories, international relations, whether through the actions of foreigners in Spanish American territories or through the engagements of Spanish American envoys in foreign lands, played a crucial role in the development and outcomes of the military confrontations of the s. These foreign interactions took the form of what can be characterized as an “informal diplomacy,” in which merchants, privateers, military men, and envoys with dubious diplomatic credentials were the key players in negotiations to obtain weapons and recruit combatants. These informal diplomatic engagements offered a critical path for the warring parties to attempt to secure the upper hand in the conflict. Throughout , many Spanish American cities, from Mexico in the north to Río de la Plata in the south, established government juntas to run political affairs in the absence of the king. Buenos Aires, Caracas, and Cartagena were among the cities where juntas were first created. In Buenos Aires, where Spanish authority had been tenuous since the local population fended off British invasion in , the creole elite ousted Viceroy Baltazar Hidalgo de Cisneros and established a governing junta

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

on May , . By expelling the viceroy, the Buenos Aires junta immediately established itself as one of the most radical anticolonial bodies in Spanish America, even without explicitly declaring outright independence. Its political stance caused ripples across the different provinces of the Viceroyalty of Río de la Plata. While Buenos Aires soon emerged as the center of the United Provinces of Río de la Plata, an alternative revolutionary movement emerged in the countryside of the Banda Oriental led by the caudillo José Gervásio Artigas, the Liga Federal de Pueblos Libres. The Liga Federal quickly gained supporters in the provinces of Santa Fe, Corrientes, and Entre Rios, marking opposition to the revolutionary project of the United Provinces centered in Buenos Aires. Other cities and provinces, however, did not follow suit in breaking away from Spain. While Córdoba became a royalist stronghold in the interior of the viceroyalty, the port city of Montevideo became the major royalist bastion in the Spanish South Atlantic. By the end of , Montevideo became the epicenter of the Spanish loyalism in Río de la Plata. After the deposition of Viceroy Cisneros and Montevideo’s rejection of Buenos Aires’s authority, the Spanish Council of Regency appointed Montevideo’s governor, Javier de Elío, as new viceroy of the fragmenting viceroyalty. In January , Elío declared war against Buenos Aires, and Montevideo was soon besieged by Buenos Aires forces. The monarchist bastion gained another enemy when Artigas also rejected Elío’s rule. Montevideo’s royalist fleet, however, was able to impose a strong maritime blockade to Buenos Aires’s port. The loyalist elites and administration of Montevideo, once isolated between revolutionary movements, quickly sought the support of the Luso-Brazilian court in Rio to maintain Spanish rule in the port city. After the transfer of the Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro, the Luso-Brazilian port became a political hotspot in the South Atlantic, as Spanish, British, and other diplomatic authorities flocked to the Portuguese court. The arrival of the court in Rio in , meant the end of Brazil’s colonial status. The opening of the ports to friendly nations, the establishment of a printing press, a bank, and privileged commercial treaties with Great Britain allowed for the deepening of the commercial connections between Brazil and British merchants. This process of elevating Brazil from colony to capital of the empire, which would culminate in  with Brazil becoming the political center of the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves, was characterized by historian Maria Odila Dias as the “interiorization of the metropole.” Between  and the independence of Brazil in , British merchant firms and banks entered Brazilian markets establishing direct partnerships with local merchants, as well as financing the operation of the Portuguese crown. Luso-Brazilian political ambitions and British interests did not always coincide. In face of Ferdinand VII’s captivity, the Portuguese monarchy attempted expanding

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the Luso-Brazilian dominion to the north bank of the Río de la Plata by incorporating Montevideo and Buenos Aires. The first Luso-Brazilian effort was led by Carlota Joaquina, Ferdinand VII’s sister, who sent a formal offer of protection and petitioned for recognition as the legitimate sovereign of the region. In , as part of Carlota’s failed bid, the Spanish loyalists of Montevideo received a printing press to publish counter revolutionary propaganda. While Carlota’s claim over Spanish territories was rejected by all South American juntas, her husband, D. João VI would effectively intervene in favor of Montevideo’s loyalists. Despite British attempts at curtailing Portuguese ambitions in the Río de la Plata, the Luso-Brazilian empire would directly intervene in the region’s revolutionary process – first against the expansion of the Buenos Aires revolution (), later against Artigas and the Liga Federal (–), and eventually by annexing Montevideo and the Banda Oriental (–). The junta of Caracas, established in April , was one of the first juntas established in Spanish America in the aftermath of the Napoleonic invasion of Spain, and the first to reject the authority of the Council of Regency that claimed to rule all Spanish territories in the absence of the king. Still claiming allegiance to Fernando VII, the Caracas junta invited other Venezuelan provinces to follow both its example and leadership. While some provinces (e.g., Cumaná, Barinas, Margarita) joined Caracas in their rejection of the Council of Regency, others (Maracaibo, Coro, and Guayana) chose to proclaim allegiance to the Council of Regency, thus becoming bastions of royalism. With these internal political lines drawn, Caracas, through a combination of the ideological leadership of the recently created Patriotic Club and the demands of the province’s large population of African descent, moved quickly from autonomism with allegiance to the captive king to the radical stance of declaring total independence. On July , , when its junta declared independence from Spain, Caracas became the first republic to emerge in Spanish America. The processes of Mexico and New Granada evolved along similar lines. Initial hesitance and open declarations of loyalty to the captive king, were quickly followed by the establishment of juntas that sought to advance home rule. In both Mexico and New Granada, the emergence of leaders capable of mobilizing the popular sectors and radicalizing the process resulted in massive movements that sought to overthrow viceregal government. While in Mexico, insurgent leaders Miguel Hidalgo and José María Morelos never sought to overthrow the entire Spanish system of government, their calls for autonomous rule represented a major challenge to Spanish authorities holding on to Mexico City. In New Granada, the multiplicity of juntas established throughout the viceroyalty included both staunch royalists, such as the leaders of Pasto and Santa Marta, and radical supporters of total

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

independence, among which Cartagena’s junta took the most radical path of establishing the independent republic of Cartagena. Both in Mexico and New Granada, the insurrectionary process was violent and resulted in massive death and destruction. In both places, royalist forces (sent from Spain in New Granada’s case; organized locally in Mexico) managed to weaken the insurgency to the point of reestablishing Spanish power by . In all these cases, transimperial and transregional interactions were critical to the evolution and outcome of the war during the s. Both supporters of independence and those in favor of the continuation of Spanish rule courted British authorities and had to cope, as well as they could, with Britain’s insistence on maintaining its neutrality in the conflict. Throughout Spanish America, the growing presence of US merchants and the increasing number of a type of military adventurer a historian recently called “rogue revolutionaries” were also common elements encountered by royalists and rebels. Specificities having to do with geographic location, including the central role of Luso-Brazilian authorities in the South Atlantic and the critical presence of independent Haiti in the Caribbean, marked key distinctions in the processes of Río de la Plata, northern South America, and Mexico. Clearly aware of the fact that British support could turn the balance in their favor, both royalists and revolutionaries engaged some of their best men in enlisting British official aid. In the Caribbean, this effort took the form of a diplomatic battle a Colombian historian called “the dispute for the favors of Jamaica.” Starting in , the newly established juntas of Caracas and Cartagena sent envoys to the British island, charging them with the tasks of securing official British support, obtaining weapons and other war supplies, and recruiting men to fight on the Spanish mainland. Even before openly adopting a pro-independence stance, the junta of Caracas, as well as royalist authorities from Maracaibo and Coro, sent envoys to Jamaica, Trinidad, Barbados, and Curaçao (then under British control) to request from Admiral Rowley official support with the supply of weapons. In  and , Caracas’ envoys experienced Jamaican authorities’ enforcement of “the strictest neutrality.” In subsequent years Ignacio Cavero and John Robertson (envoys from Cartagena), as well as Simón Bolívar, also suffered the frustration of failing to secure official support from British authorities in the Caribbean. Far from limiting their diplomatic outreach to the British Caribbean, Venezuelan and Neogranadan leaders also sent emissaries to the United States, France, and Great Britain. During the first half of the s, when Napoleon was still in power, the missions of Telésforo de Orea, Manual Palacio Fajardo, Pedro Gual, José María del Real, Enrique Rodríguez, and others carefully used European geopolitics in their favor. In the United States, Gual focused his efforts on obtaining

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weapons and granting letters of marque to privateers interested in trading with rebel ports in South America. The efforts in Europe took on a more formally diplomatic character. After successive failures both in London and Jamaica to secure British official aid, the agents shifted to France. In , Palacio Fajardo came close to securing Napoleon’s support, his efforts, however, came to naught when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo in July . With Napoleon out of the way, British authorities, nevertheless, had more to gain from maintaining a neutrality that assured British hegemony in Europe and its commercial interests in Spanish America. For Venezuelan and Neogranadan rebels, lack of support from British authorities did not mean complete inability to obtain support in Jamaica. Using old commercial networks that had connected Jamaica and the Spanish Main for decades, envoys from Caracas and Cartagena succeeded in contracting with private merchants, such as the brothers Maxwell and Wellwood Hyslop, whose revolutionary sympathies went well beyond the business realm. The support of private merchants, however, was neither exclusively nor preferentially granted to revolutionaries. Selling weapons to both insurgents and royalists, in fact, turned the s into a golden age for Kingston merchants trading with Spanish America. Vice Admiral Stirling, the highest naval authority in the British Caribbean, explained the benefits for Britain saying, “The trade that is done by [Jamaican] merchants with different ports of Spanish America, whether belonging to the monarchy, or the opposite party, seems to deserve protection, so that Britain can feed its treasury and continue the war against the common enemy.” For Stirling, this laissez faire approach of allowing both sides to visit the island without interfering in their private transactions with Jamaica’s merchants not only resulted in economic gains for the British treasure but also had the political effect of not alienating any of the contending parties in the Americas. Like Britain, the United States adhered to a policy of neutrality that, without formally recognizing any nascent political entity, allowed its merchants to expand their already visible presence throughout the hemisphere. Like Kingston merchants, US traders saw the conflict in Spanish America as a unique opportunity to sell foodstuffs, weapons, and munitions to both insurgents and royalists. While generally speaking US merchants saw commercial engagements through the prism of economic benefit, their actions (and presumably the trading partners they chose) were also influenced by the “belief that the progress of rational liberty in Latin America would have a considerable cash value for the United States.” This coincidence of economic and political interests was certainly present in the celebratory tone of US merchant, David Curtis De Forest, when, upon receiving the news of the ousting of Viceroy Cisneros and his replacement on May ,  by a creole-led junta, he

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

wrote in his journal, “Hooray, hooray, hooray, for the revolution has succeeded.” In the ensuing decade, De Forest would become one of many US merchants directly involved in supporting revolutionary Buenos Aires. The outbreak of the revolution provoked a change in the nature and intensity of the commercial linkages between the United States and the Río de la Plata. Buenos Aires, the revolutionary epicenter in Río de la Plata, benefited immensely from the informal support of United States merchants that maintained trans-Atlantic trade flowing under the guise of neutrality, and, crucially, supplied weapons and ammunition to the rebels. Furthermore, US ports on the east coast, notably New York, served as reexporting centers through which a “flood of weapons” of British origin was sold to the Spanish American armies, whether royalists or revolutionaries. Although the greatest British direct shipments of weapons went to the LusoBrazilian empire, which waged war against revolutionary movements in Portuguese America (Revolution of , in Pernambuco), and in Río de la Plata (against Artigas and the Liga Federal, and later against Buenos Aires), by , United States neutral ships had delivered hundreds of thousands of US and British manufactured muskets, millions of rounds of ammunition, thousands of rifles, pistols, and cannons to revolutionaries throughout Latin America. The revolutionary government of the United Provinces also leveraged their existing commercial networks with United States merchants to ensure the supply of weapons for the Revolutionary Army when waging war against Peru on the West Coast of South America. When San Martín led the Ejército de los Andes into Chile, Buenos Aires merchants Lynch and Zimmermann, associates of De Forest, were able to contract and coordinate the delivery of weapons to Chile. The US ship Mercury sailed from Providence, RI, loaded with , muskets, , carabines, and , cavalry sabers. The Mercury was not an exception. Throughout the s, a growing number of US ships left the ports of Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Providence loaded with weapons for Buenos Aires and Chile. The United States’ neutral shipping was not only crucial for supplying the revolutionary forces with weapons. United States merchant vessels kept export and import trade flowing during the revolutionary years. US merchants were also responsible for introducing copious quantities of timber, pitch, tar, and ropes for military and naval use. Furthermore, in the Río de la Plata, US neutral ships became critical for the supply of textiles, manufactured goods (often re-exports from England), and wheat flour and salted pork meat. Because of the prolonged warfare in the countryside and intermittent naval blockades, United States’ produce became crucial for the supply of foodstuff for military forces and the general population. The revolutionary decade marked the growth in the demand for wheat flour in a region that, during the colonial period, had been an exporter of wheat.

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Furthermore, because of the neutral status of US ships, United States merchants were able to enter ports controlled by the different warring factions, which, in the Río de la Plata, meant access to both Montevideo and Buenos Aires. In northern South America, due to the intense nature of the conflict, both royalists and insurgents required a constant influx of foodstuffs and weapons. In Venezuela, during the s, US merchants conducted business with both sides. On the one hand, they benefited from supplying Spain and carrying Spanish goods under the US neutral flag; on the other hand, US merchants established profitable commercial connections with Venezuelan revolutionaries. As yet another result of Napoleon’s invasion of the Iberian Peninsula, the United States’ government secured contracts to supply wheat and provisions to Spain’s armies in Iberia and Venezuela alike, turning Spain into an expanding market for US produce. However, the outbreak of the revolution in Caracas created a split in the US mercantile community engaged in the Venezuela trade. United States citizens profited from and aided both warring factions: the revolutionary governments of South America, by actively working with and for revolutionary agents, and Spain, by keeping imperial trade routes afloat through neutral shipping. Their participation in the war, while not as decisive as the battles that pitted royalists and revolutionaries on land, certainly played a central role in the lives of many royalists and revolutionaries and contributed to the prolonged duration of the wars of independence. The growing group of merchants-cum-military adventurers whom Vanessa Mongey called “rogue revolutionaries” perfectly embodies the linkages between trade and revolution. These privateers or corsairs were central not only to the growing connection of Spanish American insurgents to the United States but, more broadly, to the hemispheric and maritime nature of the war during the s. In Caribbean waters, following the establishment of the Republic of Cartagena in late , privateers became a naval force whose presence and might Spanish authorities could not ignore. During the first half of the s, Cartagena’s privateering navy boasted about  ships manned by more than , sailors, most of them of African descent. Vessels flying the flag of Cartagena shared the Caribbean, Atlantic, and even Pacific waters, and many times worked together, with privateers working for Mexico’s Supremo Congreso de la Nación and revolutionary governments established in Caracas, Río de la Plata, and even Chile. In the South Atlantic, US privateers had a significant and decisive presence. Between  and , David De Forest, whose activities as merchant are well documented, was also the owner or a partner in at least five privateering vessels. Just De Forest privateers’ import tax payments to the Buenos Aires customs totaled . percent of the total customs revenue. United States privateering, albeit briefly, also served as the naval force for the

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

 independentist uprising in the captaincy of Pernambuco, in Brazil, before the movement was squashed by monarchical Luso-Brazilian forces. In both the Caribbean and the South Atlantic, privateers granted a veneer of legitimacy to emerging republics whose future was far from settled. Newly established republics like Caracas, Cartagena, Galveston, and Amelia Island, independent Buenos Aires, the short-lived Liga Federal, or the rebels in Mexico and Pernambuco were not recognized by Spain, Portugal, the United States, or any other nation. However, through their flags, their letters of marque, and the procedures they developed to distribute prizes from captured vessels, they engaged in some of the acts of legitimate and internationally recognized states. Another dimension by which newly created republics sought to establish themselves as sovereign and legitimate governments was through consular appointments, or better, hosting consuls from internationally recognized countries. Although consulships had eminent commercial functions, they provided another sign of international acceptance of the new governments. Despite falling short of officially recognizing the new Latin American countries, the United States appointed commercial agents to the main port cities and capitals of the newly established governments in order to ensure US citizen’s interests and property. These agents would play a crucial role in establishing lucrative trade in weapons and would lay the foundations for the US diplomatic presence in the region. While commercial consuls did not constitute formal recognition of independence in the s, they constituted a vital step toward much desired sovereignty and international legitimacy for the new republics. Foreign intervention during the s tended to be informal and indirect, with US and British governments turning a blind eye and generally allowing both royalists and revolutionaries to conduct business in their territories and engage in commercial transactions with their citizens and subjects. The actions of privateers and merchants were the most common form of foreign intervention during the s. Two cases, that of the Portuguese empire and the Republic of Haiti, stand apart for the way in which these governments directly intervened in the war. In the Río de la Plata, the intervention of the Luso-Brazilian empire decisively shaped the political and military evolution and outcome of the wars of independence in the region. By intervening in the Banda Oriental in  in favor of Montevideo’s monarchists and again in  against the revolutionary project of Artigas, the Luso-Brazilian empire annexed the Banda Oriental as the Cisplatine Province. As part of the arrangements for such a territorial expansion and intervention against Artigas, the Portuguese court in  informally recognized the United Provinces’ government and lifted the naval blockade of the port of Buenos Aires.

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In exchange, Buenos Aires’s administration did not intervene against the LusoBrazilian expansion in the region. In stark opposition to both Artigas’s Liga Federal and the Buenos Aires-based United Provinces, Montevideo’s elites quickly positioned themselves as committed royalists and sought the support of the Luso-Brazilian empire to maintain monarchism and prevent what they described as “anarchy.” In April of , to prevent the capture of Montevideo by revolutionary forces, more than , Luso-Brazilian troops entered the territory of the Banda Oriental from Brazil. The “Pacifying Army” and a Luso-Brazilian fleet dispatched to strengthen the naval blockade of Buenos Aires offered critical support to Montevideo’s royalists and effectively turned the Río de la Plata independence process into a full-fledged regional conflict with broader geopolitical consequences. While the Luso-Brazilian intervention was successful in guaranteeing a lifeline to the royalists of Montevideo, the possibility of annexation of the Banda Oriental by Rio de Janeiro alarmed British authorities, whose commercial interests were threatened by the blockade of Buenos Aires. This first occupation was short-lived. By the end of , under diplomatic pressure from Great Britain, the Luso-Brazilian forces withdrew from the Banda Oriental, leaving Montevideo’s royalist administration and commercial elites surrounded by the revolutionary army of Buenos Aires. Without direct Luso-Brazilian support, the royalist stronghold’s future was hanging by a thread. It did not take long for Buenos Aires to launch an offensive. In April , Buenos Aires forces, after a prolonged siege, captured Montevideo. Shortly afterwards, the tensions among revolutionary factions turned to open conflict when Artigas’s forces besieged and wrestled the city away from Buenos Aires’s revolutionaries. In the face of Artigas’s occupation and control over Montevideo’s port, the mercantile elites of Montevideo sent delegates to Rio de Janeiro to negotiate the terms of a new Luso-Brazilian intervention in the Banda Oriental. In early , more than , troops entered the Banda Oriental by land, and a small fleet of Brazilian vessels entered the estuary to occupy Montevideo. While this new Brazilian occupation signaled the beginning of the end of Artigas’s Federal League, the cycle of Brazilian occupation followed by revolutionary capture followed by Brazilian reoccupation also signaled Spain’s complete lack of presence in the region and, consequently, its total inability to regain control in the Río de la Plata estuary. The only other instance of direct and official foreign intervention during the s happened in the Caribbean, where the government of the Republic of Haiti, under President Alexandre Pétion, offered Simón Bolívar and other revolutionaries refuge, ships, men, and weapons that proved vital to the resurgence of the independence struggle in northern South America. After six months attempting to secure

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

official British aid in Jamaica, Bolívar was only able to obtain some financial support from specific merchants on the island. Shortly after arriving in Les Cayes, in southern Haiti, Bolívar met Pétion in Port-au-Prince. This meeting and the epistolary exchange that followed between Bolívar in Les Cayes and Pétion in Port-au-Prince clarified the support Haiti was going to offer and made possible the preparation and departure, on March , , of Bolívar’s first expedition from Haiti to Venezuela. The dramatic defeat Bolívar and his men suffered shortly after landing on Venezuela’s soil forced him to return to Haiti, where, once again, Pétion welcomed him enthusiastically. As earlier in the year, Pétion supplied Bolívar with men, weapons, and munitions that allowed him to sail once again, this time from Jacmel on December , , to continue his fight for independence in Venezuela. While Bolívar eventually became the most famous insurgent to receive aid from Haiti’s government, he was not the only one. With Pétion’s aid multiple European and American revolutionaries used Haiti as launchpad for expeditions to different sites of northern South America, Central America, and the Gulf of Mexico’s coast. Francisco Xavier Mina, a Spanish liberal who became an ardent supporter of Spanish America’s independence, used Haiti and Pétion’s aid to launch an expedition to Mexico. After obtaining some financial support and recruiting some men in London and Baltimore, Mina spent about two weeks in Haiti in October . There, besides recruiting some men and securing aid from Pétion, he met Bolívar, who had just returned from his unsuccessful first expedition to Venezuela. After their meeting on October , Bolívar told his friend Luis Brion that he considered changing his plans and joining Mina in the expedition to Mexico. This plan never materialized and both insurgents went their separate ways. While Bolívar left Haiti to find glory in Venezuela and South America, Mina, who sailed from Port-auPrince toward the island of San Luis (in Mexican territory off the coast of Texas) with four ships and about  hundred men, did not succeed in his revolutionary endeavor. After a number of important victories in northern Mexico during the first half of , Mina’s early success turned to dramatic failure when Spanish troops captured him in October. Less than a month later, on November , , he was executed. Pétion’s enthusiastic support of Bolívar, Mina, and other revolutionaries responded to his aim of increasing the legitimacy of the Republic of Haiti in the international arena. In his calculation, the more republics emerged in the Americas, the stronger the case for republicanism and, therefore, the higher the chances of survival for the Haitian Republic. Pétion’s support, however, was limited by Haiti’s avowed neutrality and promise of non-aggression against “a nation [Spain] that has not yet pronounced itself against the [Haitian] republic.” Another commitment,

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Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado

enshrined in Haiti’s constitution, stating that Haiti would not endeavor to export the revolution to any foreign territory, further limited the extent to which Pétion was willing to make public his support to Bolívar. Therefore, while he asked Bolívar to abolish slavery in Venezuela, he also requested the Venezuelan leader “not to proclaim anything” in the name of Haiti and not “to mention my [Pétion’s] name in any of your acts.” Thus, Haiti’s aid, while direct and decisive, was to remain concealed. Diplomatic Recognition and the Birth of New Republics: The s

After returning to the mainland from Haiti, Bolívar’s prospects, and those of the independence party, began to change dramatically. The irregular record of dramatic victories and devastating defeats that had forced him into exile and given the royalists the upper hand in northern South America and the Andes gradually shifted to favor insurgent forces. After revolutionary victories in Boyacá (), Carabobo (), Pichincha (), and Maracaibo () and the revolt in Spain (January ) of an army that was ready to sail from Cádiz to Buenos Aires, any prospect of continued Spanish rule vanished. While pockets of royalism remained in the area of Santa Marta (on the Caribbean) and in the corridor connecting Lima, Quito, and Popayán (the royalist block of the Pacific), the s began with insurgent forces poised to take over all of Spanish South America. Even without the threat of Spanish reconquest, the Banda Oriental, where the Luso-Brazilian empire continued to exert its influence, was among the few areas where the prospect of republican independence remained questionable. Mexico, where the conservative revolution under Agustín the Iturbide resulted in the creation of the Mexican Empire, was another site where independence did not entail the immediate creation of a new republic. This new geopolitical reality shifted negotiations in the international sphere from trying to secure aid to fight and win a war to focusing on obtaining diplomatic recognition to guarantee the longevity of the emerging republics. By the beginning of the s, the prospect of persuading US, British, French, and even Haitian authorities to consider official diplomatic recognition had become a reasonable proposition. A mere week after the approval, on December , , of the Fundamental Law that officially established the Republic of Colombia, Francisco Antonio Zea received from Secretary of Foreign Relations José Rafael Revenga, the instructions that were to guide his actions as Colombia’s plenipotentiary minister in Europe and the United States. Zea’s goal was to ensure “that our independence be recognized and, if possible, protected” by the United States, Great Britain, and France. In addition, he was charged with obtaining “weapons, munitions, and

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

military uniforms” and with promoting “the migration [to Colombia] of agriculturalists, artisans, and some mineralogists.” In , the US government passed a legislative act recognizing not only Colombia but also Mexico and the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata. While US recognition increased the credibility of the nascent states in the international sphere, in the Mexican case recognition was not without controversy. Because the Mexican government James Monroe recognized was the Mexican imperial government of Iturbide, US envoy to Mexico, Joel Poinsett (in Mexico “on a mission of inquiry”) thought that recognition “made the United States a party to the factional conflict in that country,” aiding, in his opinion, “the wrong faction.” In Europe, the efforts of Zea, Revenga, and Manuel José Hurtado were rewarded in late  and  when Great Britain recognized Colombia’s independence through a treaty of friendship, trade, and navigation. In addition, Britain also granted recognition to Mexico. For British Secretary of Foreign Affairs George Canning, recognition of Colombia and Mexico was the result of a diplomatic balancing act through which Britain avoided potential French intervention in Spanish America. It was also an important motive for celebration that offered Britain a unique opportunity to exert its influence in the region. Once recognition was a done deal Canning celebrated saying, “The deed is done, the nail is driven, Spanish America is free; and if we do not mismanage our affairs sadly, she is English.” While envoys in France, particularly José Fernández Madrid, made important inroads toward French recognition of Colombia, a political crisis that resulted in the secession of Venezuela from Colombia and the establishment of the Republic of New Granada, postponed official recognition by France until . In one corner of South America, the expulsion of the Spanish did not automatically result in the end of independentist movements. The formal annexation of the Banda Oriental by the Luso-Brazilian Empire in  ensured that Montevideo and its adjacent territory became formally independent from European rule in  when Brazil broke away from Portugal; thus, lasting independence from Iberian powers was attained under the Brazilian monarchical project. The Brazilian independence of  was a direct consequence of the deepening of Luso-Brazilian merchant elites’ interests in Brazil and the direct presence and investments of British traders in this “tropical Versailles.” The severance of political links between Portugal and Brazil could not by any measure be classified as revolutionary, which meant the maintenance of direct connections to Angola and other parts of the Portuguese Empire centered around the slave trade, and the continuity of expansionist policy in the Río de la Plata. British formal opposition to Brazilian independence previous to  did not prevent

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Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado

British bankers, merchant firms, arms dealers, and mercenaries from supporting the newly established monarchy. While Brazil had been the economic center of the Portuguese Empire since the late eighteenth century, it was after  that British firms had the opportunity to invest directly and exploit the vast markets of Brazil, and to participate in the trade of gold and diamonds. When in , Don Pedro I declared the independence of Brazil, British merchants not only provided loans for Don Pedro’s House and the newly established government but served as brokers to raise private funds in the City of London and with private bankers such as the Rothschilds. Crucially, Samuel Philips Co.’s role in supporting Brazil’s state finances by ensuring loans of more than . million sterling pounds between  and  was not only critical for the success of the Brazilian State, but also solidified British commercial and financial presence in independent Brazil for the next decades. Between  and , new loans on the order of three million pounds ensured Brazilian capacity to maintain territorial unity by acquiring hundreds of thousands of muskets, more than . tons of cannon, paying Lord Cochrane’s forces to establish the Brazilian navy to suppress opposition in Pernambuco and Maranhão, and to wage war in Río de la Plata. British formal recognition of Brazil, however, would only come in , when Britain forced D. Pedro I to sign a treaty ending the slave trade in  (ratified by the Brazilian Congress in ). The independence of Brazil and the United Provinces, however, was not the final act in the independence movements in the Río de la Plata. In , a group of caudillos from the Banda Oriental, backed by the Buenos Aires government, rebelled against Brazilian rule and the Cisplatine project. The so-called Cruzada Libertadora, led by Juan Antonio Lavalleja, meant the start of a war between the Empire of Brazil and the United Provinces over Montevideo and its adjacent territory. This prolonged conflict came to an end in  when the British plenipotentiary mediated an armistice between the two warring South American states and stipulated the creation of Uruguay as an independent country. Despite the centrality of local agents and regional dynamics, the process of independence in Río de la Plata was intrinsically entangled with the geopolitical and commercial interests of the broader Atlantic World. If the involvement of Luso-Brazilian, United States, British, and Haitian merchants and governments was influential in the early phases of the revolutionary process of Spanish America, the direct involvement of these foreign and regional agents played a critical role in the ultimate establishment of the South American republics. While the Haitian and Luso-Brazilian governments saw in direct intervention the best way to advance their interests, the United States and Great Britain initially opted for a laissez faire approach that was limited to letting their merchants

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America

engage in commercial relations with all contending parties. With Spanish defeat, however, both governments concluded that peace and the official recognition of the emerging republics offered the best way to advance their interests in the former Spanish and Portuguese colonies in the Americas. Conclusions

Interactions with foreigners and the direct and indirect interventions of foreign governments were key to the coming, development, and outcome of the wars of independence in Latin America. During the last decades of Spanish and Portuguese rule in the Americas, new trade regulations and intermittent warfare led to increased interactions between Ibero-American subjects and foreign merchants. As a result, interactions between Ibero-American subjects and agents of foreign powers such as the United States, Haiti, and even Britain were not a novelty by the time of the crisis of the Spanish and Portuguese monarchies. In fact, alongside the circulation of people and goods, revolutionary ideas also found their way into the Americas. After , the role of foreign agents, including merchants, privateers, and political leaders, as well as that of Spanish American agents working abroad, became central to the social, economic, and political processes of independence. As a result, a thorough and deep understanding of the wars of independence requires embracing the maritime, hemispheric, and Atlantic dimensions in which the historical agents lived and acted upon. Foreign agents’ and countries’ informal involvement (e.g., weapons’ sales by US merchants to both insurgents and royalists in Río de la Plata) and official interventions (e.g., the Luso-Brazilian interventions in Río de la Plata in  and ) dramatically altered the course of the confrontations. Even inaction (e.g., Jamaican authorities withholding aid to Simón Bolívar in ) had a significant impact on royalists and insurgents’ capacity to advance their goals. At critical moments decisive foreign intervention could have altered the course of the conflict. Just as the refusal of British authorities in Jamaica to offer official aid to Bolívar and to Cartagena’s envoys in  ended up playing an important role in the demise of Cartagena, the direct intervention of the Luso-Brazilian Empire in the Banda Oriental in  ensured the failure of Artigas’s nascent project of the Liga Federal. While both instances of foreign intervention certainly influenced the development of the conflict, it is worth bearing in mind that, for those living through the wars, the outcome was far from predetermined. For Cartagena’s envoys to Jamaica and the Brazilian, Buenos Aires, and Artigas’s forces vying over the Banda Oriental alternative paths were not only considered possible but, most importantly, were worth fighting for.

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Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado

Notes  For the wars of independence as inaugurating “republican experiments,” see Hilda Sábato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ).  For the ambiguity at the heart of the relations between early independent Mexico and the increasingly powerful United States, see Caitlin Fitz, Our Sister Republics: The United States in and Age of American Revolutions (New York: Liveright, ).  While Cuba’s independence only came much later in the nineteenth century, with its independence process usually interpreted as starting in the s, recent studies have stressed the active political engagement of Cubans during the s and s. See for instance, Ada Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror: Cuba and Haiti in the Age of Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); and David Sartorius, Ever Faithful: Race, Loyalty, and the Ends of Empire in Spanish Cuba (Durham: Duke University Press, ). Since this chapter focuses on the first three decades of the nineteenth century, the Cuban process falls outside the scope of our analysis. For Cuba’s independence process, see Ada Ferrer, Insurgent Cuba: Race, Nation, and Revolution, – (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ).  John Lynch, Latin American Revolutions, –: Old and New World Origins (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, ); Jaime Rodríguez, The Independence of Spanish America (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ); Eric Van Young, The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Peter Guardino, The Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Marixa Lasso, Myths of Harmony: Race and Republicanism during the Age of Revolution. Colombia, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Gabriel DiMeglio, ¡Viva el bajo pueblo! La plebe urbana de Buenos Aires y la política de la revoluciόn de mayo y el rosismo (–) (Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, ); Lyman Johnson, Workshop of Revolution: Plebeian Buenos Aires and the Atlantic World (Durham: Duke University Press, ); José Carlos Chiaramonte, Mercaderes del litoral Buenos Aires. Economía y sociedad en la provincia de Corrientes, primera mitad del siglo XIX (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Roberto Schmit, Ruina y resurrección en tiempos de guerra. Sociedad, economía y poder en el oriente entrerriano posrevolucionario, – (Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, ); Rebecca Earle, Spain and the Independence of Colombia (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, ); Antonio Annino and Francois-Xavier Guerra, Inventando a la nación. Iberoamérica siglo XIX (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ; Wim Klooster Illicit Riches: Dutch Trade in the Caribbean, – (Leiden: Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies Press, ); and Tulio Halperin Donghi, Revolucion y Guerra. Formación de una élite dirigente en la Argentina criolla (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ).  Jesse Cromwell, The Smugglers’ World: Illicit Trade and Atlantic Communities in EighteenthCentury Venezuela (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); Ernesto Bassi, An Aqueous Territory: Sailor Geographies and New Granada’s Transimperial Greater Caribbean World (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Fabrício Prado, Edge of Empire: Atlantic Networks and Revolution in Bourbon Rio de la Plata (Berkeley: University of California Press, ); Neil Safier, Measuring the World: Enlightenment Science and South America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ); Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ); and Alex

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America





 



    

     

Borucki, From Shipmates to Soldiers: Emerging Black Identities in the Rio de la Plata (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ). Anthony McFarlane, “El contexto internacional de las independencias hispanoamericanas,” in Independencias hispanoamericanas: Nuevos problemas y aproximaciones, ed. Pilar González Bernaldo de Quirós (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –. Halperin Donghi, Revoluciόn y guerra; John Street, Artigas and the Emancipation of Uruguay (Manchester: University of Manchester, ); and Matthew Brown, ed., Informal Empire in Latin America: Culture, Commerce and Capital (Malden, MA: Blackwell, ). Thomas Halsey to Brown and Ives, Buenos Aires, May , . John Carter Brown Library, BFBR Box  Folder . Real cédula de su magestad concediendo libertad para el comercio de negros con las islas de Cuba, Santo Domingo, Puerto Rico, y Provincia de Caracas, a españoles y extranjeros, baxo las reglas que se expresan (Madrid: Imprenta de la viuda de Ibarra, ); Real cédula de su magestad concediendo libertad para el comercio de negros con los virreinatos de Santa Fe, Buenos Aires Capitanía General de Caracas, e islas de Santo Domingo, Cuba y Puerto Rico, a españoles y extranjeros bajo las reglas que se expresan (Madrid: Lorenzo de San Martín, ); and Barbara Stein and Stanley Stein, Edge of Crisis: War and Trade in the Spanish Atlantic, – (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univeristy Press, ). Between  and , more than  vessels flying the Spanish flag called in Brazilian ports to transship merchandise into Portuguese ships or to cross the Atlantic flying the Portuguese flag under the protection of the Portuguese fleet. In addition to silver, people and critical information (about troops, agricultural production, commerce, tax collection, social unrest, and foreign threats) also flowed from Río de la Plata to Spain on Portuguese vessels via Brazil. Fabrício Prado, “Transimperial Networks in the Crisis of the Spanish Monarchy: The Rio de Janeiro-Montevideo Connection, –,” The Americas , no.  (April ): –. Alfonso Múnera, El fracaso de la nación: Regiόn, clase y raza en el Caribe colombiano (–) (Bogotá: Banco de la República / El Áncora Editores, ). Arthur Whitaker, The United States and the Independence of Latin America, – (New York: Russell and Russell, ), –. Julius Scott, The Common Wind: Afro-American Currents in the Age of the Haitian Revolution (London: Verso, ). Maria Odila Dias, A interiorização da metrópole e outros estudos (São Paulo: Alameda, ), –. British diplomacy was effective in preventing Portugal from decisive intervention and expansion into the Río de la Plata until  when the death of Lord Strangford, the British minister in Rio, and changes in the Portuguese Cabinet ousting the pro-British faction from power. The Luso-Brazilian invasion and annexation of the Banda Oriental in  marks a rupture between Brazilian and British interests. Allan Manchester, British Preeminence in Brazil (New York: Octagon Books, ), –. Anthony McFarlane, War and Independence in Spanish America (Abingdon: Routledge, ), –. For a useful summary of the processes of Mexico and New Granada, see McFarlane, War and Independence, –. Vanessa Mongey, Rogue Revolutionaries: The Fight for Legitimacy in the Greater Caribbean (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, ). Daniel Gutiérrez, Un nuevo reino. Geografía política, pactismo y diplomacia durante el interregno en Nueva Granada, – (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ), –. D. A. G. Wadell, Gran Bretaña y la independencia de Venezuela y Colombia (Caracas: Ministerio de Educaciόn, ), ; and Bassi, An Aqueous Territory, –. Gutiérrez, Un nuevo reino, –.





Ernesto Bassi and Fabrício Prado  Ibid, –.  Ibid, –; and Bassi, An Aqueous Territory, –.  Quoted in Gutiérrez, Un nuevo reino, . See also Bassi, An Aqueous Territory, ; and Frances Armytage, The Free Port System in the British West Indies: A Study in Commercial Policy, – (London: Longmans, Green, ), –.  Whitaker, The United States and the Independence, .  David Curtis DeForest, September , . Personal Journal, vol. . Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University.  In September , a few months after the events of May , the leaders of the Buenos Aires junta placed outstanding orders for importing rifles, pistols, and ammunition from the United States. US merchants were assured at least a  percent additional premium for the introduction of ten thousand rifles. BFBR, Box  Folder , Halsey to b&I, BsAs, September , .  Rafe Blaufarb, “Arms for Revolutions: Military Demobilization after the Napoleonic Wars and Latin American Independence,” in War, Demobilization and Memory: The Legacy of War in the Era of Atlantic Revolutions, ed. Alan Forrest, Karen Hagemann, and Michael Rowe (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, ), .  Gazeta de Buenos Ayres, November , . US ship Sachgen, Cap. John Illam.  Earl C. Tanner, “The Voyage of the Mercury,” Rhode Island History Journal , no.  (): .  Additional weapons shipments were carried in the ships Lion, Adeline’s, Bengal, Savage, Curiacion, Two Catherines, Columbus, Midas, and Dragon. For additional information on US weapon shipments, see William Neumann, “United States Aid to the Chilean Wars of Independence,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (May ): –.  Gazeta de Buenos Ayres, November ,  and December , . Ship Neptune, from New York, consigned to Lynch and Zimmermann.  For wheat production in the colonial period, see Jorge Gelman, Campesinos y estancieros, una región del Río de La Plata a finales de la época colonial (Buenos Aires: Los libros del riel, ).  Between  and , a minimum of seventy-three US vessels entered the Río de la Plata ports under the guise of neutral trade to conduct business with both revolutionaries and monarchists. Fabricio Prado, “Conexões Atlânticas: redes comerciais entre o Rio da Prata e os Estados Unidos (–),” Anos  no. ,  (July ): –.  Edward Pompeian, Sustaining Empire: Venezuela’s Trade with the United States during the Age of Revolutions, – (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, ).  Mongey, Rogue Revolutionaries; Marcus Rediker, Outlaws of the Atlantic: Sailors, Pirates, and Motley Crews in the Age of Sail (Boston: Beacon Press, ), ; and Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic (Boston: Beacon Press, ), –.  Edgardo Pérez Morales, No Limits to Their Sway: Cartagena’s Privateers and the Masterless Caribbean in the Age of Revolutions (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, ), –.  Johanna von Grafenstein, “Hacer negocios en tiempos de Guerra. Comercio, corso y contrabando en el Golfo de México y Mar Caribe durante la segunda década del siglo XIX,” in Entre lo legal, lo ilícito y lo clandestino. Prácticas comerciales y navegación en el Gran Caribe, siglos XVII al XIX, ed. Johanna von Grafenstein, Rafal Reichert, and Julio César Rodríguez Treviño (Mexico City: Instituto Mora, ), –.  AGN IX .., Exp. . .  Hugo Raul Galmarini, Los negocios del poder: reforma y crisis del estado, – (Buenos Aires: Corregidor, ), –.  For the US involvement in the  movement in Pernambuco, see Tyson Reeder, Smugglers, Pirates, and Patriots: Free Trade in the Age of Revolution (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania

Foreign Interaction and the Independence of Latin America















      

Press, ), –. British Almirant Lord Cochrane led the Luso-Brazilian naval forces. See Thomas Cochrane, Memoirs of Services in the Liberation of Chili, Peru, and Brazil (London: Piccadilly, ), vol. . Simeon Simeonov, “Consular Caribbean: Consuls As Agents of Colonialism and Decolonization,” in Memory, Migration, and (De)Colonization in the Caribbean and Beyond, ed. Jack Webb, Rod Westmaas, Maria del Pilar Kaladeen, and William Tantam (London: University of London Press, ), –. By , of the ten US foreign legations, five were in Europe and the remaining five were in Latin America (Santiago, Buenos Aires, Bogotá, Mexico, and Lima). See Whitaker, The United States and the Independence, vii. Karen Racine, “A Transitional Man: Xavier Mina between Spain and America, –,” Intellectus , no.  (): –; William Davis Robinson, Memorias de la revoluciόn mexicana. Incluyen un relato de la expediciόn del general Xavier Mina, translated and with an introduction by Virginia Guedea (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autόnoma de México, ), –; and Harris G. Warren, “The Origin of General Mina’s Invasion,” Southwestern Historical Review , no.  (): . Pétion to Bolívar, Port-au-Prince, February , , in Paul Verna, Petiόn y Bolívar: Cuarenta años (–) de relaciones haitiano-venezolanas y su aporte a la emancipaciόn de Hispanoamérica (Caracas, ), . For royalist resistance, see Steiner Saether, Identidades e independencia en Santa Marta y Riohacha, – (Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Antropología e Historia, ); and Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists. Revenga to Zea, “Instrucciones a que . . . habrá de arreglar su conducta el E. S. Francisco Zea en la misión que se le ha conferido por el gobierno de Colombia para ante los del continente de Europa y de los Estados Unidos de América,” Bogotá, December , , Archivo General de la Nación, Colombia, Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, Delegaciones – Transferencia , , v. Whitaker, The United States and the Independence, –; William Kaufmann, British Policy and the Independence of Latin America, – (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), ; and Daniel Gutiérrez, El reconocimiento de Colombia. Diplomacia y propaganda en la coyuntura de las restauraciones (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ), –. Prado, Edge of Empire. Kristen Shultz, Tropical Versailles: Empire, Monarchy, and the Portuguese Royal Court in Rio de Janeiro, – (New York: Routledge, ). Leslie Bethell, Brazil: Essays on History and Politics (London: Institute of Latin American Studies, ), –. Carlo Gabriel Guimarães, A presença inglesa nas finanças e no comércio do Brasil imperial (Rio de Janeiro: Alameda, ), –. Ibid, . Blaufarb, “Arms for Revolutions,” –; Cochrane, Memoirs of Service; and Prado, Edge of Empire, –. Prado, Edge of Empire, –.



A M. R  C S



Public Opinion and Militarization during the Wars of Independence

Just a few months after the deposition of the Viceroy of Río de la Plata in May , the newspaper that served as the official voice of the new revolutionary government, the Gazeta de Buenos Ayres, published an intriguing text. The text was a military catechism “written in such a way as to be accessible to the intelligence of the common soldier.” This catechism was supposed to “prepare the sons of the patria to fulfill with dignity the higher destiny that the circumstances of the day bestowed upon them.” It was, in essence, a pedagogical dialogue between a wise man and a simple-minded one. Q. What is a soldier? A. A man dedicated by profession to sustaining the Patria. Q. Is the militia useful? A. So necessary that without it we could not survive. The text then went on highlighting an idea that was at the core of the Iberian social and military creed: Q. And should everyone dedicate themselves to it? A. Every man is a born soldier, but not everyone is obliged to exercise it. Q. And will be there a case they are all obliged? A. If the patria is threatened, everyone must offer their lives for its defense until the public need subsists. The idea of a universal military obligation that needed to be called upon during a state of emergency had been ingrained within the Iberian population since medieval times. What became new in  was that both revolutionary and royalist governments in the Americas would keep such state of emergency for the duration of a war that lasted almost fifteen years. The process by which larger and larger portions of the male population were ascribed to different forms of military service is what modern historians understand as militarization. And as we see in the quote

Public Opinion and Militarization

here, the use of the official press – and the rational appeal to a larger public – was an integral part of that effort. Napoleon’s invasion of the Iberian Peninsula at the end of  had created an imperial crisis that opened new ways for Spanish and Luso-Americans to develop a series of political practices that played a crucial role in shaping the incipient nineteenth-century Latin American nations. Atlantic warfare represents one of the most important developments, but it was not the only one, as military confrontation was accompanied by another important political force: public opinion. During the Latin American wars of independence, emergent political and military leaders believed that public opinion and participation in the armed forces were crucial vehicles for the expression of popular sovereignty, but also the best guarantees for the success of their political and military campaigns. Fighting against an imperial power required both the emergence of a politically educated population and an intense military recruitment to fight in the wars. Now, for the most part, the historiography has treated the development of a public opinion and the militarization process in Latin American independence as two separate aspects. This does not come as a surprise since most of the contemporary sources perceived the two processes of social mobilization as distinct, if not antagonistic in nature. The men of letters that historians commonly associate with the press and the development of public opinion, regularly condemned the threat that military ways posed to the liberties of a young republic. Military officers, on their part, were usually quick to disregard “doctors” and “politicians” as factious men that did not befit the needs of a war to the death. This classic clash between the plume and the sword – with its subsidiary issues as the debate over the necessity of a standing army, the call to elections in times of war, or the right of military men to rule – was indeed, as we shall see, a central topic of the revolutionary period. But is it useful to uncritically follow historical sources and study the two matters separately? Wouldn’t be more fruitful, analytically, to examine them as complementary aspects of a single phenomenon? In this chapter, we argue that the development of the public opinion and the militarization process in nineteenth-century Latin America represent two sides of the same coin. To fight and to vote, to serve and to debate, were both inherent rights and duties of every citizen engaged in a revolutionary war. During the Age of Revolutions, war was essentially politicized as politics were militarized. The public sphere – expressed in the expansion of press and the configuration of groups for political debate – functioned as an arena were factions and enemies engaged in rhetoric battles. It involved men of letters and public writers, but also military officers, soldiers, and militiamen. Manifests, proclamations, and even journals were regularly published in the barracks. In the same way, soldiers intended to fight for

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Alejandro M. Rabinovich and Cristina Soriano

their own political convictions, and the military officers that commanded them felt the obligation – and the right – to lead their countries into victory. Thus, engaging in public opinion was seen as a form of struggle and confrontation, while participating in the militias or the army implied a certain awareness of the political concepts and debates of the time. Here we analyze both, public opinion and militarization, as processes that went hand in hand in shaping the formation of the new Latin American republics. The Public Sphere As a Belligerent Space during the Revolution

Following the path charted by Benedict Anderson on the role of printing capitalism in the configuration of the idea of the nation, historians of Latin America have focused on the press – and other urban institutions such as philanthropic associations – as crucial instruments for the formation of political communities during the nineteenth century. Many of these historians argued that low literacy rates, the absence of independent printing presses, and the State’s intolerance to dissent voices represented relevant limitations and, as a consequence, a public sphere would not be fully formed in the region until the nineteenth century as part of processes of independence. Recent works, however, challenge this “printing and public sphere” causal approach, and argue that an incipient public sphere, one on which private individuals exchanged opinions and engaged in public debates, emerged in different regions of Latin America at the end of the eighteenth century as a response to new social practices introduced by European enlightenment and Spanish reformism. Periodical publications proliferated in the Spanish American cities and towns at the end of the eighteenth century. Although newspapers printed in Mexico, Buenos Aires, Lima, and Santa Fe de Bogotá devoted significant space to news copied verbatim from Madrid newspapers, local publishers also adapted the formats and style to local interests and concerns, offering information more in tune with colonial realities. In Peru, for example, Viceroy Gil de Taboada y Lemos, along with the Lima elite, supported the project of the newspaper El Mercurio Peruano, created in  by members of the Sociedad de Amantes del País with the goal of promoting local knowledge and the love for the country, while finding a common ground between “reason” and faith. El Mercurio was clear evidence of the need in part of Peruvian intellectuals to be producers of their own knowledge while keeping an eye on sedition and insurrection. In New Spain, the newspaper El Diario de México was founded in  by educated white creoles as an alternative to the official newspaper La Gazeta de México which until then monopolized the written information that circulated in the region. El Diario de México offered a new vision of periodical texts as a form to educate the common people (including indigenous

Public Opinion and Militarization

people) of New Spain on diverse fields of knowledge such as sciences, society and the common good, agriculture, and literature. During the s several French-inspired “conspiracies” were uncovered in different urban centers in South America, such as Buenos Aires, La Guaira, Cartagena, and Salvador da Bahia. Although these movements varied in intentions, social composition, and results, they all exhibited the dynamism of a nascent public sphere. In all the cases, colonial officials discovered that groups of discontent laborers, artisans, and even enslaved people met regularly in private homes and in semi-public spaces to debate about the events of Atlantic Revolutions. In most of the cases, official records of the inquiries revealed that the insurgents had translated foreign writings and produced a considerable number of written texts designed to instruct their followers in the principles of their movements. These networks of circulation of texts might have been, then, the first steps that Latin Americans took to create public spaces where autonomous individuals discussed matters of common interest, while successfully evading the control of colonial institutions. If the last decades of the eighteenth century had witnessed transformation of social practices ingrained into an urban culture where reading, debating, and exchanging of opinions became new forms of sociability in Latin America; the nineteenth century saw the consolidation of new institutional arrangements and the generation of discourses about people’s participation in politics that were grounded on emerging infrastructures for social communication like the press, publishing houses, and political societies. According to François-Xavier Guerra, the emergence of new forms of public opinion in different cities of Spanish America took place between  and , both as an expansion of the metropole’s modern forms of sociability that were at the core of the transition to political modernity and as a consequence of the crisis that the Napoleonic invasion generated in Spain. Guerra’s main argument is that the monarchical crisis of  was what really sparked a higher demand, both in the metropolis and the colonies, for information and the subsequent proliferation of newspapers and public spaces for political debate. Following this idea, Hilda Sabato argues that late-colonial expressions of a modern sociability gained much weight through the notion of public opinion during the first years of the revolutions, as different social and political groups resorted to a variety of means to raise their voices and participate in political debates; “after the demise of colonial rule, and in the context of the formation of the new polities,” she writes, “public opinion secured its place in the political rhetoric of the incoming regimes.” In fact, Noemí Goldman shows that between  and  the expression “public opinion” first emerged in Spain, Portugal, and their American provinces to characterize not only the right of people to publicly express their opinions about local or state matters, but also as an effective mechanism individuals could use to control

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Alejandro M. Rabinovich and Cristina Soriano

government’s decisions and actions. The need to persuade and control the public will then become a priority for emerging political leaders and rulers. Because these new dynamics developed during the complex process of an imperial breakdown, the public sphere that emerged during the independence wars will become a space of struggle, rivalry, and confrontation to dominate public opinion: a battleground made of paper and ink and activated by oral debates. Political actors from Mexico to Chile firmly announced in newspapers that reading and writing were forms of struggle, a media of expression for a new committed citizen who would fight by using both the sword and the word. Between the years –, a period often known as Spain’s first liberalism due to the expansion of new ideologies that called for the monarchy to open to new freedoms, Spain experienced an explosion of newspapers, flyers, and pamphlets. According to Alberto Gil Novales, more than  newspapers were published in the Spanish peninsula during this critical period. This drastic surge of newspapers was a clear response to the freedom of press law promulgated by the Cortes in Cádiz in November of , copied and reproduced later in different American provinces. Although this law protected the Catholic religion and government authorities from public derision and criticism, it became a radical novelty that grounded on the principle of popular sovereignty, gave vital importance to the right that individuals had gained to freely express their opinions and participate in political matters. Therefore, during this period, readers in Spain and Spanish America witnessed a rich and complex editorial diversification of local newspapers. In Spain, for example, newspapers were broadly divided between “afrancesado” (French like) and patriotic. Afrancesado newspapers supported the Napoleonic invasion and functioned as propaganda for the French government, while providing a platform to publish royal orders; the patriotic press on its part became an important tool to give public voice to the debates developing in different Juntas across the peninsula, it was dedicated to support the Spanish legitimate monarchs, criticize Napoleon’s brother rule, and offer ideas that will cement into the new Spanish liberalism. As Gil Novales says, “the press that is published in Spain during those years was a press of war,” meaning that these newspapers not only carried out news on the political and military conflicts, but that they frenetically opposed each other and became spaces for heated debates about the future of Spain and its colonies. The fleeing – due to Napoleon’s invasion of Portugal – of the Portuguese royal family and its arrival in Brazil at the beginning of , provoked an important transformation of the colony’s political, educational, and cultural scenery that in this period did not translate into conflict but rather into an increasing state control of Brazil’s public opinion. Although the Brazilian population had already created a dynamic public sphere, grounded in part on the extensive circulation of Portuguese

Public Opinion and Militarization

periodicals and local manuscripts, the history of the official press and of scientific societies in Brazil begins in , when the provisional relocation of the court produced a drastic transformation of the colony to become the empire’s administrative and cultural center. The royal – and first – press of Brazil, for example, was founded in May  and its operation depended on the job of a board that examined and censored all the content to be published. As a consequence, the court’s publishing house became also a censorship agent with the task of silencing opinions that could threatened the stability of the Portuguese monarchy. The nation’s first newspaper, Gazeta do Rio de Janeiro, for example came out in September  and was almost entirely dedicated to print Royal orders and republish European newspapers articles that served as tools for state propaganda; Salvador, Brazil’s second city, welcomed its first gazette, Idade de Ouro do Brasil, in . Although the content of these Brazilian official newspapers was heavily controlled until , they found strong critics on the other side of the Atlantic, where editors like Hipólito José da Costa – a Brazilian Freemason with residence in Lisbon – published the rival newspaper, Correio de Brazil, which ran news, analysis, and criticism of Atlantic politics and questioned many of the decisions made by the court in Brazil. In , the same year that Napoleon took over the Portuguese and Spanish monarchies, the Venezuelan colonial government received its first printing press. It operated in the shop of Gallagher and Lamb, where it was set up to give birth to the first Venezuelan newspaper: La Gazeta de Caracas. Published under the direction of Andrés Bello, La Gazeta was initially destined to support the rights of Ferdinand VII and give voice to a loyal government concerned with the effects of the crisis. “We will die before giving up to Napoleon’s yoke” was written in the first issue of La Gazeta in October of . But in April of , right after Caraqueños decided to declare independence and create the Junta Suprema de Caracas, the Gazeta became a platform for deliberations about the crucial role that the Caracas’ Junta would play during the crisis. The newspaper also highlighted the crucial importance that public opinion would acquire with the creation of the Junta: “When societies obtain the Civil Liberty that constitutes them as such – an editorial note stated – is when public opinion recovers its rule and newspapers gain influence among the people.” During , Caracas residents witnessed the proliferation of new periodical publications that gave expression to new divergent voices that went from moderate points of view to the most radical ones; all were invested in mobilizing people to their cause. Unlike in Venezuela, readers in the Viceroyalty of New Granada had access to local newspapers since , when the first number of the Gazeta de Bogotá was published. By , the governor of Cartagena finally authorized the operation of its

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first printing press and papers informing about the situation in the metropole began to circulate. In September that same year, the first new grenadine periodical publication responding to the monarchical crisis was born under the name Noticias Públicas de Cartagena de Indias. While several newspapers were already circulating in the city of Bogotá by , after  “public opinion will become a thermometer of the political circumstances, as well as a fundamental mechanism to build the legitimacy of power.” The formation of diverse juntas in New Granada by , gave place to the emergence of new periodical publications in Bogotá and Cartagena that also gave voice to divergent political agendas and projects. The monarchical crisis and the initiatives of independence had produced a notable increase of periodical publications in the Spanish American territories during the critical years of –. In cities like Caracas, Bogotá, Cartagena, and Buenos Aires, for example, there was a strong presence of “autonomist” pamphlets and newspapers that questioned the peninsular authorities of the Junta Suprema in Cádiz and were critical to the debates that will give birth to the Constitution of Cádiz in ; but there were also numerous papers in Mexico City, Lima, and Havana who supported the Junta Central and fervently promoted the benefits of the Cádiz Constitution. New Spain, for example, witnessed an impressive eruption of newspapers in the – period, many of these papers republished articles and editorial notes originally printed in the Spanish patriotic press while others confronted and criticized local rebellious movements. Although politically relevant, insurgent publications were rather weak in number and permanence. The emergence of rivalries and confrontations between different newspapers and editors during the initial period of independence support Elías Palti’s opinion that although Latin American emerging public opinions expressed the hope of national unity, they were in fact the product of fractious polities that cannot be easily categorized as conservative, liberal, republican, or monarchical but that integrated critical debates about what those political projects entailed in each region and for different social groups. The space of public opinion will therefore become a critical one where editors and public writers would try to educate and influence their readers, and political projects and agendas will be formed taking into consideration peoples’ motivations and reactions to political writings and debates. Whether or not they supported the first American juntas, most editors and redactors of these first political newspapers encouraged the new “American citizens” to educate themselves and to follow the debates of the day with “serenity and rationality.” Because, that was, in fact, the crucial contribution that these “men of letters” – printers, redactors, editors, and public writers – of the new press had to offer to their communities during this period of freedom of the press: the opportunity to learn and think clearly and rationally about the changes they were

Public Opinion and Militarization

experiencing and to reflect on how their active participation could bolster the transformation of their realities. It is in this context, that pedagogical texts like political catechisms and instructional newspaper articles proved to be crucial to impart political knowledge to the common people. In , a curious manuscript entitled “Catecismo político cristiano dispuesto para la instrucción de la juventud los pueblos libres de la América Meridional,” written under the pseudonym of José Amor de la Patria, circulated in the streets of Santiago in Chile. This political catechism exposed radical ideas encouraging the people of Chile – and all Spanish Americans – to form their own juntas. The main goal of the text, however, was to educate the pueblo (citizens), and especially the youth, on their basic rights so everyone can “obtain their noble freedom and independence.” The document presented succinct explanations on the types of government that existed, the difference between them, and which one was the most desirable for America: “The republican government, specifically the democratic one, is the one that allows the people to rule through the election of their representatives,” therefore, this type of government – the document stated – was the only one that preserves the “dignity and majesty” of the people, and the “equality among men that God had created” since the beginning of time. During the May Revolution of , the new revolutionary government of Buenos Aires felt urged to reach out to the general population to get support for recognition and legitimization of the authority of the First Junta. This need for popular support put public opinion and the press at the center of the revolution’s priorities, therefore in June of , the First Junta of Buenos Aires decided to create the political newspaper, La Gazeta de Buenos Aires, with the goal of spreading information about their political project while educating the general public on political matters. The lawyer, Mariano Moreno, was appointed as the head of the newspaper, but also as secretary of the Department of Government and War. Moreno took on the job of writing and editing news on the political and military events, as well as opinion articles in which he explicated and justified the revolutionary government of Buenos Aires. Moreno’s crucial role in the Gazeta exemplifies the intellectual character and pedagogic role of the “public writer” during revolutionary times: a well-educated “man of letters,” a publicist who took on the role of instructing the pueblo about the current events while offering interpretations to shape the opinions of the citizens in a nation that was in the making. For Moreno, the press was the ideal media to fight against ignorance and irrational violence and instill “civility and reason” among common people. However, as internal conflicts drove revolutionary leaders to take drastic military actions, the role of the “public writer” became secondary. In Latin America, the revolution required the new citizens to urgently become soldiers and fight the real

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war: either those wars that rapidly erupted due to internal conflicts within the viceroyalties, or the wars that began in  when Ferdinand VII returned to Spain, abolished the Constitution of Cádiz, dissolved the Court, and sent an impressive military expedition to the Americas with the intention to put an end to revolutionary processes. Many pamphlets and public papers published during times of war and conflict then encouraged men in Spanish America to join the troops to defend the patria. For example, the Catecismo público para la instrucción de los neófitos, published in Buenos Aires in  firmly stated, “in times of war there should be no man that is not a soldier,” only in this way, “the patria will be saved in the arms of one hundred thousand citizens.” Here notions of the citizen and the soldier overlapped and became imbricated, and they will remain inseparable during the following decade precisely because as Veronique Hébrard argues between  and  “men of arms” played two determining roles: They were integrated into the modern political body of the citizens; and they were crucial in the configuration of a network of values that helped to build a shared “national” memory. Between  and , most Spanish American regions witnessed a cruel and relentless war that took the life of thousands of Spanish and American soldiers and that translated into the increasing militarization of society with the raising of military leaders determined to shape the new nations. During this convoluted time, the political opinions of soldiers and militia men became not only relevant, but crucial for the survival of revolutionary and royalist governments. As larger portions of the population became politically relevant with the ascent of public opinion, and the fate of revolution was to be decided on the battlefield, political debate entered new spaces heretofore forbidden. The Redeployment of the Political Debate in a Militarized Society

The first major military campaign launched by the revolutionaries in South America was the Rioplatense’s advance toward the strategic provinces of Upper Peru (modern-day Bolivia), which had been recently annexed by the viceroy of Peru. In July , a nucleus of , men left Buenos Aires and throughout their long march north, they would recruit many more troops up to a force of nearly , men when they finally clashed with the Peruvian army at Huaqui, in June . At this moment, war in the region was just beginning and nobody really knew what to expect from the confrontation. From the revolutionaries’ perspective, even though almost everybody involved was born in Spanish America and served the same king, there was a great and fundamental difference between their army and that of their foe. In their eyes, the Peruvians sent by the viceroy in the name of the metropolitan authorities were mercenaries, even slaves that fought against liberty and their own

Public Opinion and Militarization

interests. On the contrary, as a Rioplatense publicist claimed, the revolutionaries’ was “an army composed of men who had feelings, who had minds of their own.” This could of course be an asset: As revolutionary France had proved, citizensoldiers that believed in a cause fought harder and accepted sacrifice to a larger extent that professional combatants. But it could also be a curse, for “their lack in military discipline and their dissensions and discussions on matters of rights and sovereignty had placed them in a desperate situation.” This notion of a force that was moved (but also corroded) by political ideas and debates highlights the very definition of a revolutionary army, and poses several questions that are central to the argument of this chapter. In the context of a revolution that quickly turns into a large-scale civil war, it is by no means unexpected that political opinions shall permeate the military ranks, especially when soldiers are mostly recruited among citizen militiamen. But how were these opinions expressed within an institution ruled by military discipline and strict obedience? How did the barracks’ political deliberations relate to those of a broader public sphere, and through which communication channels? Were there any specificities linked to the fact that military men’s political stances carried the weight of an “armed opinion?” The Rioplatense army in the Upper Peru offers a good starting point for these inquiries. At its head, the revolutionary junta had placed not only a military commander, but a political “representative.” This figure echoed that of the French “representatives on mission”: a very powerful official who had the “task to distribute to the troops the bulletins, addresses, proclamations, and instructions of the Convention, and in general to maintain the republican spirit in the armies.” What lied behind these functions was the Montagnards’ vision of the army as “a school of Jacobinism.” Juan José Castelli, the Rioplatense representative in the army who was aligned with the most radical wing of Buenos Aires revolutionaries, was not foreign to these notions. But after the army’s departure the government came to be controlled by the opposite faction, that of the moderates, that did not oppose the monarchical principles per se. The government was then appalled to learn that, under Castelli’s tutelage, a number of officers had come to manifest some extreme views that were in clear opposition to its official diplomatic strategy. For instance, witnesses declared that some felt that the purpose of the army was “to establish a new government and achieve independence from the rule of Fernando VII,” that officers “talked about independence, liberty, and equality,” and that Castelli himself had claimed “that they would not bend the knee to any crowned head.” Thus, at least a significant portion of the officer class had a political positioning regarding matters such as independence, liberty, or the legitimacy of the king’s rule,

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and their opinions contradicted the government’s policies. The largest army of the country had in fact become the stronghold not only of revolution, but of a particular revolutionary faction. The possibility of a confrontation between government and army was very real, and some sworn declarations pointed to the existence of a plan to return to Buenos Aires with the troops and overthrow the ruling party. This however did not happen, for the army, divided as it was between opposing loyalties, was badly beaten by the Peruvian troops. Castelli was removed from command and many officers were put on trial. It was not, however, only the officers’ political opinions that were to be handled very carefully, but also the troops. As Raúl Fradkin shows, since the onset of the revolution a series of popular tumultos took place both in the cities and the countryside, playing an important role in revolutionary politics and public debate. In these revolts, people from lower social classes, common soldiers and militiamen rioted in protest of the government policies and presented demands under the threat of the use of force. Administrations were challenged by these “movimientos de pueblo”; some of them, as the First Triumvirate in , did not survive and were overthrown. Thus barracks, bivouacs, and military camps became essential public arenas were political stances had to be defended if they were to be adopted by the new citizens in arms. It is in this scenario that a scarce artifact was adopted. As Vanessa Mongey states: Revolutionaries fought the Spanish crown not only with swords, guns, and rifles but also with small printing presses with which they could easily travel from place to place, issuing proclamations, pamphlets, songs, laws, letters of marque, and commissions on the way.

Manuel Belgrano, the general that eventually replaced Castelli in the army of the north, being himself a lawyer and a renowned publicist, understood this quite early. He brought with him a portable printing press (see Fig. .) that he would use to great effect, issuing proclamations to the troops and to the pueblos, and publishing a weekly bulletin and a military journal of the army. This last publication ran for over a year and had quite a success, being distributed to other armies as well. Dedicated to “our brothers in arms,” its four pages dealt mostly with republican military virtues, but also took every opportunity to preach “blind obedience” to the revolutionary government and determination to defeat “the barbaric and intruder King” and break “the chains that bounded us to his horrific domination for three hundred years.” The decisive but destabilizing role that the military were to play in the new political context was also present in Chile, as Juan Luis Ossa abundantly proves. In , the return to Santiago of José Miguel Carrera, a military officer who had

Public Opinion and Militarization

Fig. . Manuel Belgrano’s portable printing press. This portable press, made in wood and bronze by the British company Howard and Jones, was used by Manuel Belgrano during the nd campaign to the Alto Perú (March –January ). He used it to print a variety of documents such as proclaims and bandos. This printing press belongs to the patrimony of the Instituto Belgraniano, and it is permanently exhibited at the Museo Histórico Nacional del Cabildo de Buenos Aires y de la Revolución de Mayo. Courtesy of the Instituto Belgraniano and the Museo Histórico Nacional del Cabildo de Buenos Aires y de la Revolución de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

served in the Peninsular War, sparked a deep militarization of politics that would last well into the s. Carrera had indeed the plan to turn the military into “agents of the revolution,” and promptly led a revolt of young officers that ended the moderate government that had ruled Chile up to that point. Facing an attack from the south ordered by Peru’s viceroy, Chilean revolutionaries plunged the country into a heavy military effort in which they hoped to enroll only patriotic, determined, and like-minded citizens, as an s Bando stated: “This Junta has agreed not to recruit civilians and military who are not devoted to the Patria, stating, as well, that the anti-patriot or individual who has contrary views must be stripped off of his current position.” However, Carrera’s views were criticized as a form of “praetorianism,” the internal disputes that mired the revolutionary

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movement took a toll and eventually led to defeat at the hands of the counterrevolutionary offensive. It was in the wake of these early experiences with the debilitating effects of personal rivalries and ideological debate, that a reduced group of revolutionaries – most of which were military officers – decided to favor another form of political action through the establishment of a secret lodge that would effectively limit political agency to a few dozen people. La “Logia Lautaro,” as it would be called in Río de la Plata and Chile, managed to influence (and eventually run) the government in both countries, pushing forth an agenda of political independence and military offensives against the royalist, while at the same time, trying to restore law and order and quelling most revolutionary hopes of social reform. This strategy proved successful in financing San Martín’s campaigns to “liberate” Chile and Peru, but it didn’t really engage with the public opinion, left out a lot of political players, and ignored the crucial weight that popular mobilization had gained since . It is thus not very surprising that it met some fierce resistance and was labeled as another form of tyranny: that of the military men (see Fig. .). Under these circumstances, the fear of a standing army and the militarization of politics, which had had such a prominent place in North American political debates, resurfaced in the southern part of the Continent with great force. The distrust of the military was particularly strong in the views of federalists such as José Artigas, the revolutionary leader of the Banda Oriental (modern day Uruguay). In a Jeffersonian vein, Artigas promoted a more decentralized and popular agenda that put him at odds with Buenos Aires policies and garnered him support in many provinces. More precisely, dreading the consequences that military rule could have on the newly established republics, his representatives to Congress had instructions to “annihilate military despotism with constitutional checks in order to warrant the inviolability of the people’s sovereignty.” The civil war that broke out over these principles would last until , when the central government of Río de la Plata collapsed. This outcome was not only due to the power of the Federalist’s cavalry, but to their ability to use the printed word. Indeed, Chilean revolutionary José Miguel Carrera had managed, during his exile in the United States, to buy a portable printing press that he brought to Montevideo to use it against the Logia Lautaro. Helped by local typographers and publishers, he tried to learn how to operate it himself and, after joining the ranks of the Federals in their open war against Buenos Aires, he would launch incendiary proclamations, satirical cartoons, and even a newspaper (El Hurón) denouncing before the “sacred tribunal of public opinion” the monarchical views of the Chilean and Rioplatense rulers, with great effect on both sides of the Cordillera. The government reacted

Public Opinion and Militarization

Fig. . Royalist flag captured by the revolutionaries during the takeover of the city of Montevideo in . The flag shows the crest of Spain at the center, and four crests of the city of Montevideo on the corners. Courtesy of the Museo Histórico Nacional del Cabildo de Buenos Aires y de la Revolución de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

with alarm to the writings, asking congress for extraordinary powers to ensure public safety and implementing extreme measures such as closing communications with Montevideo, banishing supporters of the enemy faction, and prosecuting those who distributed the papers. One of these propaganda agents, the military officer Tomás de Iriarte, recounts in his memoirs how the libels were introduced to Buenos Aires: They came hidden in sacks of lime that he picked up from customs, and then, during the night, with the help of a couple of friends he would throw them into the houses through patios, balconies, and windows. A similar debate on the topic of the political role of the military emerged in the revolutionary bastions of New Granada (modern-day Colombia) and Venezuela, where the push toward republicanism had been much more decisive and quicker that in the southern parts of the Continent. In fact, by  most of these large

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territories had already declared their independence and waged war against the remaining royalists. Although militarization was very intense, the distrust of standing armies and military professionals was clearly articulated in the early government’ plans and constitutions. In the same way that colonial rule had to be abolished, or at least profoundly reformed, military institutions had to be “regenerated” to better serve the people and to not threaten their liberty. As Clément Thibaud acutely points out, the main idea behind these efforts was Montesquieu’s admonition that a Republic should never allow the military to become a separate estate: Only a force of citizen-soldiers and patriotic militiamen could both protect the republic’s borders and its principles. Sovereignty laid with the people in arms: To vote, to hold office, and to serve in the militias were all intrinsic aspects of being a citizen. In fact, in the case of Venezuela, a congress’ proclamation published in Caracas newspapers in November of  announced for the first time that citizenship – and the right to vote – was to be rewarded to all the “patriotic men” that were willing to participate in the military service. The patriotic militias, however, did not pass the test of battle, and after the first wave of military disasters over the course of , Venezuelan officers, and Simón Bolívar in particular, would start promoting another model: that of a strong and professional army capable of engaging in a large-scale struggle. Offering awards, honors, and even freedom to those enslaved men who joined the military service, Venezuelan military leaders used the press and the publication of war bulletins to swell the military ranks while also defining the enemy they had to fight: the Spaniards. In , for example, the coronel and congressman, Antonio Nicolás Briceño, wrote and published a proclamation in which he proposed the confiscation of Spaniards’ properties (which were to be given to men of any social standing who joined the patriotic cause), and promised military promotion based on the number of Spanish men that each member of the army killed. In this case, the press became a tool to threaten the enemy and to declare a “guerra a muerte” (war to death). Pushed, however, to the brink by popular royalist uprisings and a massive Royal expedition in , revolutionaries came to identify Republic and Nation with the army and its chiefs. To be a citizen and to fight in the army was one and the same thing, to the point that officers and noncommissioned officers played a crucial part in the vote to establish the national Congress in . After the tide turned in  with the revolutionaries’ victory in Boyacá, the “Liberators” would become the main political actors in the novel Republic of Colombia where, in order to build an army capable of ending the war, a centralized government and very heavy impositions were to be put in place. It was, as Daniel Gutierrez Ardila states, a “military government” headlined by Bolívar and its lieutenants, which adjourned the normal dynamics of partisan

Public Opinion and Militarization

politics to a later peaceful time. In this context, the only opinion that mattered was that of the soldiers. As Bolívar would write in  regarding the civilian lawmakers and politicians of the country: These men think that the people’s opinion is their own, without acknowledging that in Colombia the people is in the Army, as it really is; the people that wants, the people that acts, the people that can; everything else are men that vegetate with more or less maliciousness or patriotism, but without any right to be considered anything but passive citizens.

In this manner, as Colombian troops expanded their range to Quito and Guayaquil (modern-day Ecuador), and then to Peru and Upper Peru, up to , men were enrolled and military officers came to rule over most of the provinces as governors. This “militarization” of the republic was emphatically denounced by the “civilists,” a group of lawmakers, publicists, and politicians who argued that although military leaders were important during the war, they were not only uneducated and intellectually weak, but politically fragmented and unfit to occupy political positions. In the opinion of these men of letters, the nascent Colombian Republic did not need caudillos and feisty men, but a solid society attached to the rule of law and to civil values. This could only be achieved if military leaders were put aside, and their political power diminished. Though they managed to take over after the fall of Bolívar in , their struggle to rein in the military would be a main feature of New Granadian, Ecuadorian, and Venezuelan politics all through the s.

From Royalist Bastions to Independent States

Were the aforementioned struggles over the political role of the military a specific feature of Latin America’s revolutionary hubs? What happened in those royalist strongholds that had not yet adopted republicanism? This is a crucial matter, for in , even after a decade of revolutionary warfare, the three most powerful and richest Spanish colonies in America (the Viceroyalties of Peru and New Spain and the Captaincy General of Cuba) were still in loyalists’ hands, as was Portugal’s own American colony of Brazil. But the fact that the royal authorities had survived there for that long should not lead us to believe, by any means, that their political landscapes remained unchanged. After all, with the partial exception of Cuba that had been relatively protected by its insular condition, Peru, New Spain, and Brazil had been forced to wage war on a large scale since the onset of the revolutionary movement. Their populations had been massively mobilized for military service, huge swaths of their territories menaced by the enemy, and their resources stretched

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to the limit. Even more importantly, political innovations by their revolutionary neighbors set a disturbing example, as did the constitutional debates in Spain. The Spanish constitutional revolution of  played a major role in the outcome of the royalist’s fate in the Americas. By then, after years of planning and scheming, King Ferdinand was ready to play his last card in the war for absolutist restoration over his empire: a large expeditionary force, recruited and equipped through great hardship, that was about to sail to America to crush the insurrection. This mighty army, barracked near the port of Cádiz, employed many liberal officers that the King was eager to expatriate to the other side of the Atlantic. Most of these officers resented and opposed Ferdinand’s policies since  and, right before their departure, embraced the opportunity to force the king’s hand through rebellion. Thus, on January , , Colonel Rafael del Riego mutinied, took control of part of the expeditionary army, proclaimed the return of the Constitution of , and triggered a chain reaction of similar events across the Iberian Peninsula. Typically, Riego’s coup took the form of a pronunciamiento. As Will Fowler states, a pronunciamiento was a form of revolt where a group of important men (mostly high-ranking officers, but also civilians) issued a written proclamation of grievances or demands that could result in an armed rebellion if the government did not attend to them. Thus, Riego’s comrades in arms took a public political stance on a transcendent matter (the validity of the  charter and the very nature of Spain’s political regime) and, with the help of numerous liberal uprisings all over the country, eventually forced the king to comply. The constitutional government that resulted from this movement not only reestablished the freedom of press – that the king had eliminated in  – opening up again a space for the spreading of political newspapers and oral debates, but also pushed forward a whole agenda in regard to the political role those military men should play within a liberal state. Most notably, believing that arms should lay in the hands of politically active and engaged citizens, they instituted a national militia of volunteers that elected their own officers, took orders from their city councils and generally defended the Constitution against all threats, domestic or foreign, including the absolutists elements in the regular army itself. Riego’s pronunciamiento was critical not only because of how it affected the military equation in South America – effectively allowing Rioplatense, Chilean, and Colombian revolutionaries to converge against the viceroy of Peru’s royalist forces – but because of the copycat effect it would have in the largest and wealthiest Spanish American viceroyalty: that of New Spain, where after ten years of popular mobilization, revolutionaries were still unable to break through thanks to the (up to that point) unshakeable loyalty of the regular army officers. However, the

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reinstatement of the Constitution deeply affected local sensibilities and political alliances, and on February , , Colonel Agustín de Iturbide, newly appointed general commander of the South, echoed Riego’s gesture with his own pronunciamiento in the village of Iguala, unleashing a process that would ultimately lead, seven months later, to the achievement of Mexican independence. In a thought-provoking essay, Rodrigo Moreno Gutierrez depicts the mechanics of Iturbide’s gesture and its expansion over most of New Spain’s territory. Its findings are central to the argument of this chapter, for they highlight the fact that contemporary military men felt they had not only the right, but the responsibility, to take action and lead the people on the most important political matters of the time but did so with a keen eye on how public opinion would react. Therefore, when, after correspondence and negotiations with other regional commanders, Iturbide finally decided to act, he did not simply resort to violence, but he carefully followed a script designed to prove the legitimacy of its claims to the world. As the proceedings of the pronunciamiento recall, Iturbide gathered the main officers of his army at his house in Iguala and told them that the only way out of the internal struggles that mired the country was the proclamation of independence. He then invited them to follow him – or not – according to their conscience and displayed a plan of action: a draft of a letter to the viceroy and a proposed list of the members of the new government junta. The officers agreed, cheered, and requested him to assume the supreme command of the army. However, the deed was not yet accomplished, because this sort of first act (the pronunciamiento per se) was followed the next day by an equally important second one: the oath. In front of the people and the troops, Iturbide and his officers swore allegiance to the “Three Guarantees” that inspired the movement (Religion, Independence, and Union), then went to church to share in the mass and Te Deum. In the afternoon, it was the turn of the troops to take the oath amid general rejoicing, music, and refreshments up into the night. Interestingly, this twofold procedure, described in detail in the periodicals published and distributed by the trigarantes, served as a template that the military, civil, and ecclesiastic authorities could replicate in every garrison and town. As a result, over the next seven months, a wave of very similar pronunciamientos and oaths swept the country, providing Iturbide’s movement with the support it needed to battle against the forces that remained loyal to the viceroy and establish the Mexican empire. This independent constitutional monarchy proved to be shortlived because Emperor Agustín I (as Iturbide came to be named) was dethroned in March . However, the struggle between monarchical and republican principles, a very active political role of the military and the pronunciamiento itself as a political practice, would indeed become a staple of Mexican politics throughout the nineteenth century.

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In the other stronghold of royalist power in America, the Viceroyalty of Peru, the political crisis created by the Riego’s revolution was even more complex than in New Spain. Since Ferdinand’s restoration, the Peruvian army was commanded by a group of Spanish officers that had been exiled from the peninsula due to their liberal ideas. Malcontents with the conduit of the war and the delays in the implementation of the Constitution, in January  they issued their own Pronunciamiento of Aznapuquio, where they demanded Viceroy Joaquín de la Pezuela’s resignation. In this they were successful and their leader, general La Serna, became the new viceroy thanks to “the opinion of the Army,” being later ratified by the King. But the military equation in Peru was quite different from that in Mexico, because here the royalists were facing a foreign revolutionary army composed of Chilean and Rioplatense’s troops led by General San Martín. When peace negotiations with the invaders stalled, a protracted war emerged in which the revolutionary “liberators” and the royalist “liberals” had to fight not only for military victory, but for popular support to their cause. The language they used to do this was very similar; in terms borrowed from the Cádiz Constitution, and highlighted in Riego’s uprising, they called upon citizens to take up arms to defend their rights. The military’s political leadership was also on display in both sides. San Martin’s protectorate was, in fact, a military dictatorship, and when he finally ceded power to congress and left the country, a group of high-ranking Peruvian military officers revolted in February  and imposed a president of their liking, José de la Riva Agüero. This “militarism,” as Peruvian historiography calls the fact that most presidents and governors were military men, would last for as long as it did in Mexico, but always within a constitutional order with freedom of the press, regularly held elections and strong municipal governments. From all the Spanish major colonies in the Americas, Cuba was the only one not to be destabilized by the revolutionary crisis. Which is not to say that the political situation of the island remained the same or that challenges were not faced. In fact, since , Cuba was the subject of several revolutionary projects, including a large one with the support of Simón Bolívar in , but all these plans either aborted or were crushed in their early stages. Much has been said about the exceptional “loyalism” of Cuban elites and their fears of a racial uprising in case of a revolutionary struggle. However, as Allan Kuethe has shown, another important factor in the equation was that the sugar plantation elites – the Havana oligarchy in particular – had a very firm grasp not only on newspapers and public opinion, but also of both militia and veteran regiments, and that they were very comfortable with the prosperity that bestowed them under bourbon rule. The war for Cuban independence would come, but more than half a century later.

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The other comparatively quiet colony was that of Brazil where the relocation of the Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro during the Napoleonic invasion of the peninsula prevented the emergence of a revolutionary movement and the emergence of a challenging public opinion of the kind experienced by its Hispanic neighbors. Nevertheless, recent historiography shows that the peaceful character of Brazil transition to independence has been greatly overstated. The crown led campaigns against the indigenous population since , had to quash a fierce republican revolution in Pernambuco in , and faced many other military uprisings that not necessarily led to war, but affected the course of politics from  onward. On the other hand, the political awakening unleashed by the August  Portuguese constitutionalist movement and the consequential proclamation of the freedom of press opened a new chapter in the history of public opinion in the region. Brazil went from publishing two newspapers in  to publishing twenty-one periodicals in , thanks to the establishment of new presses in different cities. However, as Marcello Basile shows, “the principal vehicle for political debate consisted of approximately five hundred pamphlets that circulated at this time,” which certainly contributed to an intense “war of pamphlets” and effervescent political debates. In addition, Brazil’s revolutionary neighbors posed a real threat to internal stability and had to be met on the battlefield. For nearly two decades (–) Portuguese troops and fleet had to be deployed in the Río de la Plata region to face Buenos Aires regular armies and local guerrillas. Modernday Uruguay’s territory was occupied and then annexed to the empire as the Cisplatin province. During these wars, both military and social challenges emerged. The revolutionary ranks counted many free blacks and emancipated slaves, and the fact that fugitives from Brazilian haciendas were well received by José Artigas’ militias put a lot of pressure on Rio Grande’s slave owners. The need for men to fill the ranks was nevertheless paramount, and the Portuguese army resorted to free black regiments to be deployed against Artigas. Some ranch owners went as far as mobilizing their own slaves in their fight against the revolutionaries. It is in this context that differences over Brazil’s status, once the king returned to Portugal, led to the proclamation of Brazilian independence in  with Prince Regent Pedro as the new emperor. The army was divided in two factions over the allegiance to Portugal and military confrontations erupted in the provinces of Pará, Maranhão, Ceará, Piauí, Bahia and Cisplatina. The impasse was resolved only when most of the Lusitanian troops returned home. On the other hand, the expansion of the press continued during Pedro I’s reign (–), but as Basile argues this expansion was not linear nor progressive. While the years of  and  witnessed an eruption of political newspapers dedicated to cover the Constituent

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Assembly’s debates, in the next two years the press contracted significantly due to repressive strategies displayed by the Imperial government that dissolved the Assembly in November . The establishment of a new Brazilian parliament in  and the emergence of two opposing political factions (the moderate liberals and the radical liberals) would bring a new life to Brazilian public opinion, one that tended to be dominated by civil servants. Military mobilization and the emergence of an intense public opinion thus certainly played an important role in the achievement of independence and the formation of the Brazilian empire. It did not, however, seem to have reached the destabilizing extremes experienced by the Spanish former colonies. Coincidentally, military men did not gain similar political predominance and were mainly kept under civilian control. Conclusion

During the Latin American wars of independence, the intellectual and lettered men who had defended the freedom of press and the value of public opinion in the midst of the profound monarchical crisis of , firmly argued that political debates and decisions needed to be taken within the civil and urban spaces of the government and between informed citizens, and not in the battlefield or the barracks, where according to them, violence and passion blinded the reason and civility of individuals and threatened the stability of the emerging republics. As the most difficult period of war began in different regions of Spanish America, intense political, juridical, and ideological confrontations erupted between military leaders – who called for massive participation of men in the military service – and a group of intellectuals and public writers who tended to dominate the operation of printing presses and of political societies, and had taken on the job of educating the population on political matters. These confrontations created a false dichotomic image that public opinion and militarization ran as two separate processes with different protagonists, scenarios, and results. This chapter has shown, however, that the emergence and solidification of the public opinion and the militarization of politics and society in early nineteenth century Latin America were intertwined processes that did not necessarily opposed, but that rather complemented and integrated with each other. Since the beginning of the wars, political and military leaders, but also public writers and editors, reinforced the idea of the citizen-soldier, a man whose political convictions were to be affirmed by their active participation in the wars and whose opinions were shaped by both public debates and battles. The same ways editors and public writers invited common people to join the military service and serve their country in a critical moment, military leaders published bulletins and found ways to impart

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political knowledge to their soldiers. By the second decade of the nineteenth century, men of letters could not deny the important role that generals and soldiers played in the successful independence, but they firmly maintained that their prominent political presence, their popularity, and their permanence in power went against the most sacred values of the republic and could turn into a serious threat for the stability of the new emerging nations.

Notes  The authors would like to thank Marcela Echeverri and João Paulo Pimenta for their comments to earlier versions of this chapter.  Gazeta de Buenos Ayres, Thursday, September , , no. , –.  Military and political catechisms proliferated in Latin American during the wars of independence. These texts mirrored the use of catechistic formulas traditionally used to impart religious knowledge to children. See Nydia Ruiz, Gobernantes y gobernados. los catecismos políticos en España e Hispanoamérica (siglos XVIII–XIX) (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, ).  James F. Powers, A Society Organized for War: The Iberian Municipal Militias in the Central Middle Ages, – (Berkeley: University of California Press, ).  Alejandro M. Rabinovich, “La militarización del río de la plata, –. Elementos cuantitativos y conceptuales para un análisis,” Boletín del Instituto de historia argentina y americana, Dr. Emilio Ravignani , no.  (): –.  Hilda Sabato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in NineteenthCentury Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ).  Mónica Ricketts, Who Should Rule? Men of Arms, the Republic of Letters, and the Fall of the Spanish Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, ).  General views in Pierre Serna, Antonino de Francesco and Judith Miller, Republics at War, –: Revolutions, Conflicts, and Geopolitics in Europe and the Atlantic World (London: Palgrave Macmillan, ); Laurent Bourquin et al. (eds.), La politique par les armes. Conflits internationaux et politisation (XVe–XIXe siècle) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, ). For Latin America, see Anthony McFarlane, War and Independence in Spanish America (New York: Routledge, ); and Tulio Halperín Donghi, Revolución y guerra, formación de una élite dirigente en la argentina criolla (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, )  Fabián Herrero, “Prensa de guerra, imaginario político, facciones. Buenos Aires, año ,” Anuario de la Escuela de Historia, , no.  (Córdoba, ): –.  Rebecca Earle, “Information and Disinformation in Late Colonial New Granada,” The Americas , no.  (): –; François-Xavier Guerra, Modernidad e independencies. Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –; and Carlos A. Forment, Democracy in Latin America, –: Volume , Civic Selfhood and Public Life in Mexico and Peru (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ).  See Pablo Piccato, “Public Sphere in Latin America: A Map of the Historiography,” Social History , no.  (): –; Víctor Uribe-Urán, “The Birth of a Public Sphere in Latin America During the Age of Revolution,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, XLII,  (): –; and Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution, Information, Insurgency, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ).  One of the first and most complete studies of Spanish American newspapers is José Torre Revello, El libro, la imprenta y el periodismo en América durante la dominación española (Buenos Aires: Facultad

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de Filosofía y Letras, ). See also, Carlos Miró Quesada, Historia del periodismo peruano (Lima: Librería Internacional, ); Antonio Cacua Prada, Orígenes del periodismo colombiano (Bogotá: Editorial Kelley, ); Luis Reed Torres and María del Carmen Ruiz Castañeda (eds.), El periodismo en México:  años de historia (Mexico City: Edamdex, ); and Rebecca Earle, “The Role of Print in the Spanish American Wars of Independence,” in The Political Power of the Word: Press and Oratory in Nineteenth Century Latin America, ed. Iván Jakšić (London: Institute of Latin American Studies, ), –. Elisabel Larriba, El público de la prensa en España a finales del siglo XVIII (–) (Zaragoza: Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza, ), –; and Francisco A. Ortega and Alexander Chaparro, “El nacimiento de la opinión pública en Nueva Granada, –,” in Disfraz y pluma de todos. opinión pública y cultura política, siglos XVIII y XIX, ed. Francisco A. Ortega and Alexander Chaparro (Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia y Universidad de Helsinski, ), –. A complete catalogue of newspapers and periodical publications published in Spanish America is found in Sara Núñez de Prado et al. Comunicación social y poder (Madrid: Universitas, ), –. Victor Peralta, “Las razones de la fe. La iglesia y la ilustración en el Perú, –,” in El Perú del siglo XVIII. La era borbónica, ed. Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy (Lima: Instituto Riva-Agüero y Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, ), –; Jean-Pierre Clément, El mercurio peruano, –, vol.  Estudio (Madrid, Frankfurt: Iberoamericana and Vervuert, ); and Carmen McEvoy, “Seríamos excelentes vasallos y nuevos ciudadanos. Prensa republicana y cambio social en Lima, –,” in The Political Power of the Word, ed. Iván Jakšić (London: Institute of Latin American Studies, University of London, ), –. Esther Martínez Luna, “Diario de México: ‘Ilustrar a la plebe,’” in La república de las letras. Asomos a la cultura escrita del México decimonónico, publicaciones periódicas y otros impresos, vol. II, ed. Belem Clark de Lara and Elisa Speckman Guerra (Mexico: Universidad Autonóma Nacional, ), –. For example, the “French Conspiracy” of Buenos Aires (), the “La Guaira Conspiracy” (), the “Enteados and Tailors Revolt” in Bahía (), and the Cartagena Conspiracy (). Lyman Johnson, Workshop of Revolution: Plebeian Buenos Aires and the Atlantic World, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Aline Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia (–) (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); and Soriano, Tides of Revolution. François-Xavier Guerra, “Forms of Communication, Political Spaces, and Cultural Identities in the Creation of Spanish American Nations,” in Beyond Imagined Communities, Reading and Writing the Nation in Nineteenth Century Latin America, ed. Sara Castro-Klarén and John Charles Chasteen (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, ), –. Sabato, Republics of the New World, . For a rich discussion on the history of the concept of Public Opinion, see Noemí Goldman, “Legitimidad y deliberación. El concepto de opinión pública en Iberoamerica, –,” in Diccionario politico y social del mundo iberoamericano. La era de las revoluciones, –, ed. Javier Fernández Sebastián (Madrid: Fundación Carolina and Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, ), –. Alberto Gil Novales, Prensa, guerra y revolución. Los periódicos españoles durante la Guerra de la Independencia (Madrid: CSIC, ), –. Goldman, “Legitimidad y deliberación,” ; also Sabato, Republics of the New World, . Gil Novales, Prensa, guerra y revolución, . Marco Morel, “Da gazeta tradicional aos jornais de opinião. Metamorfoses da imprensa periódica no Brasil,” in Livros e impresos. Retratos do setecentos e do Oitocentos, ed. Lúcia Maria Bastos P. das Neves (Rio de Janeiro: Editora da Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, ), –.

Public Opinion and Militarization  Leila Mezan Agranti, “Os bastifores da censura na corte de d. João,” in Anais do Seminário Internacional D. João VI : Um Rei Aclamado na América (Rio de Janiero: Museu Historico Nacional, ). See also, Hendrik Kraay, Celso Thomas Castilho, and Teresa Cribelli, Press, Power, and Culture in Imperial Brazil (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ).  See Chapters  and .  La Gazeta de Caracas, October , , no. , . See also Christopher Conway “Letras combatientes: relectura de la Gaceta de Caracas, –,” Revista Iberoamericana,  (): –; and Elke Nieschulz de Stockhausen, Los periodistas en el Siglo XIX, Una Elite (San Cristóbal: Universidad Católica del Táchira, ).  La Gazeta de Caracas, April , , no. , .  El Semanario de Caracas, for example, sought to defend the creation of the Junta de Caracas, attacking not only its opponents from Coro and Maracaibo, but providing a juridical framework to cement the institutional stability of the local junta. On the other hand, the newspaper, El Patriota de Venezuela became the public voice of the Patriotic Society of Venezuela, a group with radical views that proposed the definitive juridical rupture of Venezuela from Spain. Tomás Straka, “El nombre de las cosas. Prensa e ideas en tiempos de José Domingo Díaz, –,” in Disfraz y pluma de todos, Ortega and Chaparro (eds.), –.  Angel Alvarez Romero, “La imprenta en Cartagena durante la crisis de la Independencia,” Temas Americanistas no.  (): –.  Francisco A. Ortega and Alexander Chaparro, “Introducción,” in Disfraz y pluma de todos, Ortega and Chaparro (eds.), –.  In New Spain, they went from publishing two newspapers in  to publishing sixteen different newspapers in . François-Xavier Guerra, “La difusión de la Modernidad. Alfabetización, imprenta y revolución en Nueva España,” in Modernidad e independencias, Guerra (ed.), –.  José Elías Palti, La invención de una legitimidad. Razón y retórica en el pensamiento mexicano del siglo XIX (Un estudio sobre las formas de discurso político) (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ).  Ortega and Chaparro, “Introducción,” .  José de Amor de la Patria, “Catecismo político cristiano dispuesto para la instrucción de la juventud los pueblos libres de la América Meridional,” in Biblioteca Nacional de Chile, www.memoriachilena .gob.cl//w-article-.html.  Ibid, .  Ibid, –.  Noemí Goldman, “Buenos Aires, . La Revolución y el dilema de la legitimidad y las representaciones de la soberanía del Pueblo,” Historia y Política  (): –; and Ariel Alberto Eiris, “Mariano Moreno y la construcción del discurso legitimador de la Revolución de Mayo a través de la Gazeta de Buenos Ayres,” Temas de Historia de Argentina y América [online],  (): –.  “Catecismo público para la instrucción de los neófitos ó recién convertidos al gremio de la Sociedad Patriótica” (Buenos Aires: Imprenta de los niños expósitos, ) in El Catecismo Político Cristiano, ed. Ricardo Donoso (Santiago de Chile: Imprenta Universitaria, ), –.  Veronique Hébrard, “¿Patricio o Soldado: Qué’uniforme’ para el Ciudadano? El hombre en armas en la construcción de la Nación (Venezuela, a mitad del siglo XIX),” Revista de Indias LXII, no.  (): –.  The idea of an innate military superiority of revolutionary troops had its origin in the French victories of . Recent historiography has proved that this was largely a myth, but a very pervasive

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one, even in Spanish America. See Alan Forrest, “L’armée de l’an II. La levée en masse et la création d’un mythe républicain,” Annales historiques de la révolution française  (): –. Ignacio Núñez, “Noticias históricas de la República Argentina,” in Biblioteca de mayo, colección de obras y documentos para la historia Argentina, vol., ed. N. M. Saleño (Buenos Aires: Senado de la Nación, ), . The main example is obviously the French case. See Jean-Paul Bertaud, The Army of the French Revolution: From Citizen-Soldier to Instrument of Power (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ); John Albert Lynn, The Bayonets of the Republic: Motivation and Tactics in the Army of Revolutionary France (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, ), –; and Alan Forrest, Napoleon’s Men: The Soldiers of the Revolution and Empire (New York: Hambledon Continuum, ). Bertaud, The Army of the French Revolution, –. Fabio Wasserman, Juan José Castelli. De súbdito de la corona a líder revolucionario (Buenos Aires: Edhasa, ), –. Marcela Ternavasio, Gobernar la revolución. Poderes en disputa en el río de la plata, – (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ). On the political views of military officers see Virginia Macchi, “Guerra y política en el Río de la Plata. El caso del Ejército Auxiliar del Perú (–),” Anuario de la Escuela de Historia Virtual  (): –. On the lack of discipline in the officer corps, Alejandro Morea, El ejército de la revolución. Una historia del Ejército Auxiliar del Perú durante las guerras de independencia (Rosario: Prohistoria, ), –. Quotes and an in-depth analysis of the campaign to the Upper Peru in Alejandro M. Rabinovich, Anatomía del pánico. La batalla de Huaqui, o la derrota de la Revolución () (Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, ), –. Raúl Fradkin, “Cultura política y acción colectiva en Buenos Aires (–). Un ejercicio de exploración,” in ¿Y el pueblo dónde está? Contribuciones para una historia popular de la revolución de independencia en el Río de la Plata, ed. Raúl Fradkin (Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, ), –. Fabián Herrero, “Sobre algunos temas políticos en la trayectoria de Bernardo Monteagudo, –,” Dimensión Antropológica , no.  (): –. Vanessa Mongey, “The Pen and the Sword: Print in the Revolutionary Caribbean,” in L’Atlantique révolutionnaire. Une perspective ibéro-américaine, ed. Clément Thibaud et al. (Rennes: Les Perséides Éditions, ), . Military journals, bulletins, and newspapers would become a staple of revolutionary armies in Latin America. For examples in the New Grenada, see Isidro Vanegas, La Revolución Neogranadina (Bogotá: Ediciones Plural, ), ; in Upper Perú (Bolivia), Esther Aillón Soria, “Imprenta, guerra y economía. La formación de espacios públicos en la Independencia de Charcas (Bolivia),” Cuadernos de Historia  (Departamento De Ciencias Históricas Universidad De Chile, ): –. “Diario Militar del Ejercito Auxiliar del Perú, No. . Tucumán, th July ,” in Diario Militar del Ejercito Auxiliar del Perú, ed. Raúl de Labougle (Buenos Aires: Academia Nacional de la Historia, ). On the history of Belgrano’s press, see Facundo Nanni, “Reciclar la vieja imprenta militar. La lucha facciosa en Tucumán y su escenificación en proclamas, manifiestos y otros impresos, –,” Revista de estudios marítimos y sociales  (): –. Juan Luis Ossa, Armies, Politics and Revolution. Chile, – (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, ). Claudio Rolle, “Los militares como agentes de la revolución,” in La Revolución Francesa y Chile, ed. Ricardo Krebs and Cristian Gazmuri (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, ), . Quoted in Ossa, Armies, Politics and Revolution, .

Public Opinion and Militarization  See Felipe S. Del Solar, “Masones y sociedades secretas. Redes militares durante las guerras de independencia en América del Sur,” Amérique Latine Histoire et Mémoire. Les Cahiers ALHIM [online],  (); and Pilar González Bernaldo, “Phénomènes révolutionnaires et formes d’organisation politique au Río de la Plata (–),” in L’Image de la Révolution Française, vol. , ed. Michel Vovelle (Paris: Pergamon Press, ), –.  See Gabriel Di Meglio, ¡Viva el bajo pueblo! La plebe urbana de Buenos Aires y la política entre la Revolución de Mayo y el Rosismo (–) (Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, ); and Raúl O. Fradkin and Gabriel Di Meglio, Hacer política. La participación popular en el siglo XIX rioplatense (Buenos Aires: Prometeo Libros, ).  Bernard Bailyn, The Ideological Origins of the American Revolution (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, ), , .  About Artigas, see Ana Frega, Pueblos y soberanía en la revolución artiguista. La región de Santo Domingo Soriano desde fines de la colonia a la ocupación portuguesa (Montevideo: Ediciones de la Banda Oriental, ).  “Instrucciones dadas a los diputados del pueblo oriental ante la Soberana Asamblea Constituyente de las Provincias Unidas del Río de la Plata,  de abril de ,” in Comisión Nacional Archivo Artigas, Archivo Artigas, Tomo XI (Montevideo, ), –.  Beatriz Bragoni, José Miguel Carrera. Un revolucionario chileno en el Río de la Plata (Buenos Aires: Edhasa, ), , –; and Guillermo Feliú Cruz, La imprenta federal de William P. Griswold y John Sharpe del General José Miguel Carrera (–), Estudio Histórico y bibliográfico (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, ).  Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, Un nuevo Reino. Geografía política, pactismo y diplomacia durante el interregno en Nueva Granada (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ).  María Teresa Calderón y Clément Thibaud, La majestad de los pueblos en la Nueva Granada y Venezuela (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ), .  Clément Thibaud, “El soldado y el ciudadano en la guerra en la Nueva Granada. Ejército, milicia y libertad: una tensión inaugural,” in Conceptos fundamentales de la cultura política de la independencia, ed. Francisco A. Ortega Martínez y Yobenj Aucardo Chicangana-Bayona (Bogotá: Universidad nacional de Colombia, ), .  “Proclama del Supremo Poder Ejecutivo” El Publicista de Venezuela, no. , November , . See also Hébrard, “Patricio o soldado: Qué uniforme para el ciudadano?” .  Antonio Nicolás Briceño, “Plan para libertar a Venezuela. Cartagena de Indias,  de enero de ,” in Hébrard, “Patricio o soldado: Qué uniforme para el ciudadano?” . See also Rodolfo Ramírez Ovalles, La Opinión sea consagrada. Articuliación e instauración del aparato de opinión pública republicana, – (Caracas: ANH and Fundación BanCaribe, ), .  Clément Thibaud, République en armes. Les armées de Bolivar dans les guerres d’indépendance du Venezuela et de la Colombie (Rennes, Presses Universitaires de Rennes, ), –. On this transformation of the “citizen-soldiers” into “soldier-citizens,” see Véronique Hébrard, Le Venezuela independent. Une nation par le discours, – (Paris: L’Harmattan, ), –.  Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, , Campaña de la Nueva Granada (Bogotá: Universidad Externado de Colombia, ), –.  “Simón Bolívar a Francisco de Paula Santander, San Carlos,  de junio de ,” in Doctrina del Libertador, Simón Bolívar (Caracas: Fundación Biblioteca Ayacucho, ), .  Juan Carlos Chaparro R., ¡Desmilitarizar las Repúblicas! Ideario y proyecto político de los civilistas neogranadinos y venezolanos, – (Bogotá: Editorial de la Universidad del Rosario, ), –.  Juan Marchena, “¿Obedientes al rey y desleales a sus ideas? Los liberales españoles ante la ‘reconquista’ de América. –,” in Por la fuerza de las armas. Ejército e independencias en





Alejandro M. Rabinovich and Cristina Soriano



  





 











Iberoamérica, ed. Juan Marchena and Manuel Chust (Castellón: Universitat Jaume I, ), –. Margaret L. Woodward, “The Spanish Army and the Loss of America, –,” The Hispanic American Historical Review , no. . (): –; Roberto L. Blanco Valdés, Rey, cortes y fuerza armada en los orígenes de la España liberal: – (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno, ). Regarding the civil elements of the  Revolution, Jaime E. Rodríguez, “Los caudillos y los historiadores. Riego, Iturbide y Santa Anna,” in La construcción del héroe en España y México (–), ed. Manuel Chust y Víctor Mínguez (Valencia: Universitat de València, ), –. Miguel Alonso Baquer, El modelo español de pronunciamiento (Madrid: Rialp, ). Will Fowler, Independent Mexico: The Pronunciamiento in the Age of Santa Anna, – (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ). Rodrigo Moreno Gutiérrez, La Trigarancia. Fuerzas armadas en la consumación de la independencia. Nueva España, – (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, ), –. Juan Ortiz Escamilla, Guerra y gobierno. Los pueblos y la independencia de México, –, (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, ); and Christon I. Archer, “The Army of New Spain and the Wars of Independence, –,” The Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. Ivana Frasquet, Las caras del águila. Del liberalismo gaditano a la república federal mexicana (–) (Castelló de la Plana, Publicaciones de la Universitat Jaume I, ); and Moisés Guzmán Pérez, “El Movimiento Trigarante y el fin de la guerra en Nueva España (),” Anuario Colombiano de Historia Social y de la Cultura , no.  (): –. Moreno Gutiérrez, La Trigarancia, –. Juan Ortiz Escamilla, “Veracruz: monarquía, imperio o república,” Revista de Indias  (): –. An academic project directed by Will Fowler https://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/ pronunciamientos/actually identifies over , pronunciamientos between  and . See also Christon I. Archer, “The Militarization of Politics or the Politicization of the Military? The Novohispano and Mexican Officer Corps, –,” Estudios Ibero-Americanos , no.  (): –. Timothy E. Anna, The Fall of the Royal Government in Peru (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, ); and John Fisher, “The Royalist Regime in the Viceroyalty of Peru, –,” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –. Ascensión Martínez Riaza, “Contra la independencia. La guerra en el Perú según los militares realistas (–),” in Tiempo de guerra. Estado, nación y conflicto armado en el Perú, siglos XVII– XIX), ed. Carmen McEvoy and Alejandro M. Rabinovich (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, ), –. For an in-depth analysis of Aznapuquio’s events, see Rodrigo Moreno Gutiérrez, “Los últimos golpes. Análisis comparativo de las deposiciones de los virreyes de Nueva España y Perú en ,” Revista de Indias , no.  (): –; and Víctor Peralta Ruiz, La independencia y la cultura política peruana (–) (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, ), –. Gustavo Montoya, La independencia del Perú y el fantasma de la revolución (Lima: Institut français d’études andines, ), –; and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, “Las campañas a los puertos intermedios y la fase ‘peruana’ de la independencia,” Revista de Indias , no.  (): –. Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, “De vasallos a ciudadanos. Las milicias coloniales y su transformación en un ejército nacional en las guerras de independencia en el Perú,” in Independencia y Democracia, ed. Carmen McEvoy and Elias Palti (Lima: Editorial Bicentenario, ), –. On the

Public Opinion and Militarization

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









     



reception of liberal ideas in Peru, see Víctor Peralta Ruiz, “El impacto de las Cortes de Cádiz en el Perú. Un balance historiográfico,” Revista de Indias, , no.  (): –. Also, Gabriella Chiaramonti, Ciudadanía y representación en el Perú (–). Los itinerarios de la soberanía (Lima: UNMSM, SEPS, ONPE, ); and Marissa Bazan Diaz, La participación política de los indígenas durante las Cortes de Cádiz. Lima en el ocaso del régimen español (Lima: Fondo EditorialUNMSM, ). Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, “Ciudadanos en armas: el ejército y la creación del estado, Perú (–),” in Las fuerzas de guerra en la construcción del Estado: América Latina, siglo XIX, ed. Juan Carlos Garavaglia, Juan Pro, and Eduardo Zimmermann (Rosario: Prohistoria, ). The political situation in the Caribbean region was of course much more complex that we can state here. For a broader outlook, see Johanna von Grafenstein, “Revolucionarios americanos en el circuncaribe –,” in L’Atlantique révolutionnaire, Thibaud et al. (eds.), –. Antonio Santamaría García and Sigrifido Vázquez Cienfuegos, “Cuba a principios del siglo XIX y su proyecto no revolucionario,” in Las revoluciones en el largo siglo XIX latinoamericano, ed. Rogelio Altez y Manuel Chust (Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, ), –. Allan J. Kuethe, “La fidelidad cubana durante la edad de las revoluciones,” Estudios Americanos , no.  (): –. Allan J. Kuethe, Cuba, –: Crown, Military and Society (Knoxville: University of Tennessee, ); and Sigrifido Vázquez Cienfuegos, “Comportamiento de las tropas veteranas en Cuba a principios del siglo XIX,” Temas Americanistas  (): –. David Sartorius, Ever Faithful: Race, Loyalty and the End of Empire in Spanish Cuba (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Ada Ferrer and M. Ferrandis Garrayo, “Esclavitud, ciudadanía y los límites de la nacionalidad cubana. La guerra de los diez años, –,” Historia Social  (): –. For a comparison of Portuguese and Spanish American independence, see João Paulo Pimenta, La independencia de Brasil y la experiencia hispano-americana (–) (Santiago de Chile: DIBAM, ). João Paulo Pimenta, Estado y nación hacia el final de los imperios ibéricos. Río de la Plata y Brasil, – (Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, ). Hélio Franchini Neto, Independência e morte. Política e guerra na independência do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks, ). Marcello Basile, “The Print Arena: Press, Politics, and the Public Sphere,” in Press, Power and Culture, Kraay, Castilho, and Cribelli (eds.), . Gladys Sabina Ribeiro, A liberdade em construção. Identidade nacional e conflitos antilusitanos no Primeiro Reinado (Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará, Faperj), . Gabriel Aladrén, Liberdades negras nas paragens do Sul. Alforria e inserção social de libertos em Porto Alegre, – (Rio de Janeiro: Editora FGV, ), –. Basile, “The Print Arena,” –. A classic perspective in José Murilo de Carvalho, A construção da ordem. A elite política imperial (Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, ), –. A more recent, in-depth look at the military postionings in José Iran Ribeiro, O império e as revoltas. Estado e nação nas trajetórias dos militares do Exército imperial no contexto da Guerra dos Farrapos (Rio de Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, ). Ricketts, Who Should Rule?; Víctor Uribe Urán, Vidas Honorables. Abogados de familia y política en Colombia – (Medellín: Banco de la República, Fondo Editorial Enfit, ); Rosalba Cruz Soto, “Los periódicos del primer período de vida independiente (–),” in La república de las letras, Belem Clark de Lara and Elisa Speckman Guerra (eds.), –; Chaparro, ¡Desmilitarizar las Repúblicas!

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J C-E  N S

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Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting Science and Independence in the Spanish and Portuguese Americas What role did Enlightenment “science” play in the movements toward independence in Spanish and Portuguese America? The conventional understanding within many Latin American historiographical traditions is that science went hand in hand with political liberation from the metropole, which relied to a great extent on the scientific traditions forged during the colonial period. Many of the ubiquitously recognized “heroes” of Latin American independence – Francisco José de Caldas in New Granada, José Antonio Alzate in New Spain, Hipólito Unánue in Peru, and José Bonifácio de Andrada e Silva in Brazil, to name only a few – were also scientific practitioners who took a keen interest in the natural phenomena of their native lands, frequently advocating for new patriotic societies that viewed the economic well-being of their respective patrias as linked to scientific innovation, and a fundamental element to their future development as independent nations. For these individuals, the study of the natural world – be it through geology, geography, medicine, or astronomy – regularly aligned with their economic and political interests, and in many cases served as the evidence for supporting particular economic policies, political reform more generally, and calls for separation from the mother country. Trained under reformed university curricula promulgated in both Spanish American and Portuguese educational institutions during the second half of the eighteenth century, these elite individuals were also sensitive to the feelings of dependence they experienced in relation to the structures of Iberian rule. Not surprisingly, the history of Latin American independence movements often came to be remembered and recounted by charting the unique itineraries – and scientific bona fides – of many of these enlightened individuals. This association is in and of itself strange, because as will become clear in the pages that follow, independence came in the wake of massive imperial investments in science and reform in the Americas. Science inspired just as many royal absolutists and pro-commonwealth monarchists as it did independence-minded patriots. The

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

association between independence, republicanism, and science that seems to be at the heart of the historiography on Spanish America, in particular, makes little sense when considering that all the enlightened scientific patriots – and by enlightened, we mean those who believed in a kind of knowledge that was less supernatural and more aligned with everyday needs of the local populations – had been previously trained in institutions that were sponsored or financed by the Bourbon monarchy. For every enlightened creole patriot there was an enlightened peninsular bishop or army officer that had been trained in imperial cartography and military engineering. In this chapter, we argue that the correlation between science and independence is part of a larger historiographical phenomenon that includes the forgetting of other elements as well, the most striking of them being the role that a longstanding imperial tradition of training scientific cadres played either in accelerating the demise of the empire or in perpetuating it. In the case of Brazil, it is clear that the scientific reforms executed by the marquês de Pombal in the s and s did not turn Luso-Brazilians away from the monarchy or cause them to feel differently about being part of a larger global bureaucracy of empire. Colonial-era scholars and scientists in Brazil and throughout the Portuguese empire were recruited to Lisbon and Coimbra and from there gained access to the printing presses, universities, academies, and other centers of learning and scholarship. It took the wholesale relocation of the royal court to Brazil in  for a full-blown scientific bureaucracy and printing press to emerge in Brazil, both of which operated on an imperial scale until independence. Prior to the arrival of the crown in Rio de Janeiro, despite some local efforts at organizing academies in Bahia and Rio in particular, scientific institutions still had not left much of an infrastructural footprint in the Brazilian colony. A handful of expeditions arrived in Brazil during Pombal’s administration (and even more under the administration of minister plenipotentiary, Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho) and dozens of enlightened reforms affected urbanism and productivity in mines and plantations from Minas Gerais to Maranhão, and from Bahia to Pernambuco. The monarchy and African slavery flourished alongside one another in Brazil during this period of scientific reforms instituted by Pombal and his agents. Yet few scientific institutions of note emerged locally until later in the nineteenth century. Luso-Brazilians still went to Portugal to receive an education, train in the sciences, and be part of expeditions that would send them to Angola, Goa, Macao, and Brazil. In the Brazilian case, then, scientific institutions did not appear to contribute significantly to the creation of local political identities. Brazil was not affected by local revolutionary upheaval because Brazil did not have a tradition of rooted elites with traditions of municipal, learned, local patriotism stretching back to the sixteenth century. In Spanish America, on the other hand, the Bourbon reforms and their myriad new scientific institutions developed locally in fertile ground, which had for at least

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two centuries witnessed municipalities and religious corporations sponsoring and promoting colleges, universities, academies, and printing presses. Although the Bourbons encouraged the transregional and intra-imperial circulation of local Spanish American enlightened learned bureaucracies – particularly in the navy, natural history expeditions, and mines – the Spanish American scientific enlightenment heightened conflict within new local institutions of learning, as creole elites felt displaced by peninsular or European foreign experts. Science in Spanish America led to conflict and competition between outsiders and creole insiders. This is key to understanding historiographies to come. The odd historiographical association between enlightenment science and republican patriotism in Spanish America was not inevitable. In Brazil, science never took on the political connotations of independence and republicanism that it did in Spanish America. Even when military manuals were produced explicitly for the use of Brazilian generals and militia, such as Alpoim’s Exame de Artilheiros (), science always kept a firm connection to monarchy and empire, a connection that got only deeper as the crown moved the royal household and all imperial institutions of learning to Brazil in . Empire and monarchy in Brazil became firmly associated with the institutions of learning and science, including a new botanical garden, a national museum, a national library, and an aggressive program of new publications by the imperial printing press. This chapter thus seeks to elucidate the ways in which the public sphere in both Spanish America and Brazil cultivated very different narratives and historiographies. In Spanish America, the press and the republican public sphere aggressively set out to erase all connections between Spain, monarchy, and empire, which in turn became antithetical to science. The erasure was deliberate and painstaking, a careful process of both forgetting and ignoring. By the time national historiographies emerged, the idea of revolution, republican patriotism, and science as casually connected became inextricably linked. In Brazil there was a different process of forgetting. Science, empire, and monarchy never became disconnected and antithetical. Yet the meaning of science did take a strange turn as science became, in print, the handmaiden of industry in a society that continued to witness a significant expansion of plantation slavery. Historiography deliberately engineered a memory of modernity that sought to separate learning and scientific rationality from the business of transatlantic slavery. A Battle over Knowledge during Spanish and Portuguese American Independence

For at least seventy years prior to the wars of independence, Spanish America witnessed a major cultural transformation from the top down, with new institutions of learning and sociability emerging from Mexico City to Lima and beyond. These

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included many universities and colegios – such as the Colegio Mayor del Rosario in Bogotá, where José Celestino Mutis introduced Newtonian science to a broad group of students under a renovated curriculum – as well as more innovative institutions that came to replace Jesuit colleges, such as the Real Convictorio de San Carlos, in Lima, where Newtonianism was fully ensconced by the s. In the case of Portuguese America, this institutional efflorescence came somewhat later – and largely due to the arrival of Dom João VI and his royal family in Brazil in  – but similarly witnessed the establishment of institutions such as the Escola Anatômica, Cirúrgica e Médica (Rio de Janeiro, ); the Academia Real Militar (Rio, ); the Royal Botanical Garden (Rio, ); the Royal Museum, known earlier as the “Casa de Pássaros” (Rio, ); and the Royal Library (). Beyond the association of these institutional settings with a new orientation toward northern European science, Enlightenment philosophical influences came to be associated in Spanish and Portuguese America with a movement that undermined the religious and ideological hierarchies of the ancien régime: criticism of ignorance and Iberian superstition; the arrival of new forms of sociability, including a public sphere that spread new values and sensibilities through newspapers and “print” culture; and a new empiricism in botany and natural history that trained at least one generation to rely on empirical evidence rather than deductive scholasticism and divine law. A powerful historiographical tradition linked these cultural, philosophical, and scientific movements to the wars of independence, which in turn was seen to bring about a profound transformation in Spanish American life, as republican patriots sought to create polities based on the open circulation of secular “knowledge” for the collective good, pooled from many quarters, and not controlled institutionally through the Church. Schools, public libraries, theaters, museums, and hospitals opened while constitutions promised collective access to information and knowledge. The mobile printing presses that were active during the wars of independence in Spanish America – though explicitly absent in Brazil – produced broadsides seeking to make public sanitation, political economy, and other topics accessible to a broader audience, who were now able to hear decrees and other printed pamphlets read aloud in public plazas. The role of print culture was also critical in developing a memorialization of alleged radical discontinuity – in the Spanish American case, at least – in which revolution brought science and modernity to the new nations, where it had not been present before, thus putting an end to centuries of Spanish obscurantism. The creation of new states by Spanish American patriots was first and foremost an act of silencing and forgetting, inventing a “colonial” past in which “Spaniards” kept the population within the clutches of ignorance, magic, religion, and superstition. The creation of new republics of knowledge involved the forgetting of the republics of knowledge that came before: urban patrias of blacks, indigenous peoples, and castas

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equally interested in the democratic creation and distribution of knowledge. The alleged rupture between these two periods was a figment of a political republican liberal project that could not rescue the roots of democratization in the colonial past and therefore chose to follow a model of imitation of knowledge produced in France and Britain. Patriots and later the governing parties of the republics themselves invented historical traditions that flew in the face of massive troves of empirical evidence from the annals of Iberian science. Thus, the experience within the public sphere was one of both remembering and forgetting, rendering invisible the massive investment in modern science of the late Bourbon monarchy and shining a spotlight on a new generation of creole scientists who in fact owed much to their predecessors – and Iberian counterparts – during the colonial period. The creation of the nation-state was thus not only a battle over the democratization and expansion of the franchise but also over the consumption and production of knowledge: Whose knowledge mattered, and why? Many elements of this model – including a sudden transition in the democratization of knowledge from colony to independence, and from monarchy to republic – were themselves the cultural product of the wars of independence. Patriots vigorously embraced the Black Legend of Iberian backwardness and cast the colonial era as the antithesis of a new republic of useful knowledge. They saw the colonies as localized patrias that were ruled over by inquisitorial censure and in which a clerical monopoly reigned over wasteful and antiquated knowledge. To be republican and modern, the argument went, one needed to embrace the sciences of France and Britain, and to denounce a fictive obscurantism of the past. All the while, this broad-based culture of empiricism and extensive collecting practices affected everyone, and not just patriots. Royalist bishops and staunch monarchists were just as “enlightened” and knowledgeable about Newtonian science as were patriots. There were plenty of patriots who remained wedded to the authority of the classics and the authority of textual traditions as old-fashioned Aristotelian scholastics. As such, it is reductive to draw a direct line between a fundamental belief in Newtonianism and empirical science and support for political independence, despite the way that postindependence historiography has sought to portray the role of the “heroes” of Spanish American independence. In the Brazilian case, the reforms instituted by Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, the marquês de Pombal, in various academic and museum settings in the middle of the eighteenth century had an undeniable impact on science and on the unity of the empire. Pombal and his minions were responsible for undertaking the most significant educational reforms of the early modern period in Portugal, which came to be known as the Pombaline reforms; it is nearly impossible to describe the history of science in Portugal without narrating the itineraries and

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

trajectories of those monarchs and ministers who were either brought in to carry out these reforms or those who received the most immediate benefit from them. For the independence period, however, the linkage between science and political reforms was most closely associated with the reformist minister Dom Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho and his entourage. During this period, which largely coincided with the final decade of the eighteenth century, attention has most often been given to a class of eighteenth-century actors who were “guided by a common academic orientation and by profound diplomatic and scientific experience.” As a result, they were engaged in a “deep and committed reflection on the Portuguese empire,” which was in turn built upon the “inseparable relationship between economic regeneration of the kingdom as a whole and the wholesale use of overseas natural environments, which translated into an effort to preserve Luso-Brazilian unity.” Even with this emphasis on the so-called enlightened intellectuals (intelectuais ilustrados) and their efforts to maintain unity throughout the empire by emphasizing the economic benefits of a united kingdom (reino unido), the traditional interpretation of political independence has tended overall to suppress and subordinate science to a limited role. This in contradistinction to what was the case with the traditional narrative of Spanish American independence, which saw a connection between the natural sciences and political liberation, albeit through a largely prosopographical lens focused on figures such as Francisco José de Caldas, Hipólito Unanue, or Francisco Antonio Zea. In essence, like independence itself, the growth of the natural sciences during the period that preceded Brazilian independence was understood as a consequence of the royal court’s move to Brazil, rather than as a movement or ideology that had any role in creating the circumstances leading to a separation between colony and metropole. As Márcia Moisés Ribeiro has written in the context of medical practice in early nineteenth-century Brazil, the emerging independent nation underwent a “broad process of expanding scientific thought that began with the arrival of the royal family in Brazil,” with the changes catalyzed by the presence of a European monarchy on American soil transforming multiple practices related to scientific engagement: from the existence of the printing press to more formal institutions like botanical gardens and scientific academies. Although Moisés Ribeiro’s focus on the changes to medical practices may mirror other “scientific” practices during this period, there is no single and unified narrative that has described the nature of “science” writ large in the transition from Portuguese colony to independent Brazilian nation. Instead, each area – from medicine and agriculture to geography and mining – deserves an individual (and as of now largely unwritten) narrative where the dynamics of each discipline are played out against the backdrop of European academies, American practices, and Portuguese efforts to harness

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natural knowledge that could be used to improve conditions for the metropole and Portugal’s far-flung colonial possessions. One of the key arguments of this chapter is that in order to understand the role of the sciences vis-à-vis independence, science needs to be understood as serving often as a handmaiden to the widely disseminated concept of industry, which was a watchword and an ideology within Spanish America and the Luso-Brazilian empire – and more broadly throughout several European empires and their colonial possessions – during this period. This is especially true in the Brazilian case. Although agriculture and economic botany were primary drivers of a Portuguese push toward a new conception of industry founded on the exploration and exploitation of natural resources, and not merely a dependency on exporting precious metals and diamonds from the flagging mines of Brazil’s interior, this scientific impulse toward building a new economy based on natural resources also affected other areas considered to be significant in the realm of early-nineteenth-century science: from medical practices to improving the health and well-being of enslaved populations, and from new geographical understandings to facilitating the use of rivers by riverine populations (ribeirinhos) and urban environments by immigrants and merchants alike. It is thus Brazil’s widely recognized wealth in natural resources that is the fundamental linkage between the sciences and independence in the post-colonial period. Without knowledge of the vast potential for extracting material resources, it is conceivable that the monarch would never have imagined leaving Europe for America when Napoleon invaded the Iberian Peninsula. In this, the Italian naturalist Domenico Vandelli, who had been imported from Bologna by Pombal to reinvigorate Portuguese science, was the greatest advocate, influenced as he was by mercantilist ideas and the physiocratic impulse of Italian and French authors, as well as widely held principles of classic English economic thought. At the same time, Rio de Janeiro never would have been imagined as a viable imperial capital had not the tremendous wealth associated with the trade in sugar and slaves catapulted it to increased importance in the eighteenth century. As a result, science and slavery were directly intertwined as well, evidenced by several important academic treatises published by the leading institutional presses (like the Memórias económicas da Academia das Sciencias de Lisboa), newspaper articles in the periodical press (most notably the Correio Braziliense, published in London), medical discussions in independently published books and manuscripts, and new legal frameworks promulgated by the crown, focusing in particular on the medical “improvements” in the treatment of slaves during the middle passage.

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

Spanish America: Local Traditions and Bourbon Reforms

However, in order to understand these transformations in Spanish and Portuguese America in the second half of the eighteenth century, it is necessary to provide a more nuanced and sophisticated understanding of global Iberian science during the earlier period of Habsburg rule. Throughout this period stretching from the fifteenth through the seventeenth centuries, science was a transversal activity that occurred nearly everywhere: in cities, mines, ports, cathedrals, apothecaries, barbershops, plantations, indigenous cabildos, and universities. It was empirical and conceptual. It was premodern (Galenic and Hippocratic and Aristotelian), but it was also “modern” (empirical and experimental). Its content varied from locality to locality, from community to community. There was no standardized transcendental agreement on what was a body and how it worked. Exorcist Jesuits, saints’ hagiographers, indigenous shamans, slaves and free colored mohanes, as well as African healers invented individual bodies every day to read the palimpsest of the social in individual cases. Social knowledge of nature and humans occurred in public debates at courts, universities, and hospitals operated by religious orders. But social knowledge happened first and foremost as the private practice of petitioners seeking royal mercedes through probanzas. One particular aspect of this augmented scientific activity was promulgated through the pursuit of gracia, a force of innovation from mining and agriculture to maritime technology and instrumentation. Royal and viceregal petitioning transformed Potosí into one of the hubs of global technological innovation by the s. Lacking printing presses, academies, and anything resembling a “Habermasian” public sphere, Potosí still witnessed the development of dozens of dams and artificial lakes, thousands of aqueducts, water-wheels driven by sophisticated turbines, complex industrial machinery (stomping mills, innovative new smelting furnaces and deamalgamating ovens), and relentless chemical experimentation to produce silver out of the manipulation of liquid mercury. What happened with silver mining in Potosí happened elsewhere with regards to the cultivation of cochineal, the grafting of grapes, the extraction of quinine, and experimentation with a host of other natural products such as indigo, palo de Campeche, pearls, feathers, and myriad materials that revolutionized global technologies. From fever management and dyeing to diving and oyster reef racking, petitioners innovated in the hopes of gaining privileges ex post facto, gathering witnesses to make their case before viceregal and imperial authorities for pensions, jobs, titles, and coats-of-arms. Individuals used private communication with kings, viceroys, archbishops, and popes (even coded) via the social testimony of service, known as probanzas.

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By the eighteenth century, however, the baroque science most firmly associated with the Habsburg empire began to follow a model of absolutist science first introduced by the Bourbons in France. The historiography of Latin American independence has associated this French model with a brand of “colonial science” that included dozens of crown-sponsored expeditions that gathered information on plants, animals, minerals, coastal formations, mountains, rivers, rocks, antiquities, and local and regional economies, seeking to change the political economy of the early modern state as a whole. The crown conceived the entirety of the global monarchy as a common market (liberating trade within), thus connecting formerly disconnected spaces with one another, while seeking to crack down on smuggling and free trade between local economies and other European imperial regions. This large geopolitical-economic reorganization led to information collecting on scales previously unknown. As part of this reorientation of what science meant within Spanish America, the circulation of cosmopolitan knowledge and networking – so prevalent during the Bourbon period – took center stage. Local elites came together through the vicarious reading of newspapers and/or the continental and transatlantic circulation of expeditions and expertise related to mining, botany, and cartography. The nature of the Bourbon reforms at the core of a new imperial political economy of commonwealth, which included shared, free imperial markets that were protected from foreign imperial rivalry and smuggling, created a common perspective. The reforms included nearly sixty royally-sponsored continental scientific expeditions during the eighteenth century; dozens of newly specialized schools to train surgeons, physicians, coin-makers, typesetters, book illustrators, geologist-miners, naval officers, engineers, and cartographers; the royal support to train talent overseas in Spain, France, Germany or Italy; and the creation of new royal academies, gardens, and zoological, botanical and ethnographic collections to conduct scientific research on plants, national literatures, history, engineering, mathematics, and physics. As members of these expeditions, urban elites became connected via bureaucratic migration (a practice that was especially prevalent in the Portuguese world). Whether merchants, students, officials, or members of the new science-driven navies and armies, they engaged in regional, continental, transoceanic, and even global migrations. Independence thus created an intelligentsia with socially constructed knowledge steeped both in the Hapsburg decentralized, bottom-up urban patria and the cosmopolitan top-down, centralizing, new-Bourbon institutions. From the s onwards, academies and armies, navies and newspapers, local associations for the improvement of agriculture and industry (sociedades económicas de amigos del país), merchant courts (consulados), reformed universities, botanical gardens, and curiosity-archival-collecting expeditions dedicated to the retrieval of material from the

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

botanical to the cartographic provided the generation credited with Latin American independence with perspectives from throughout the Spanish and Portuguese monarchies. The generation that led the wars of independence in Spanish America were by and large “urbanites,” members of old and recently founded urban cabildos to complement their local urban patrias. The Bourbon monarchy introduced a French mercantilist model of top-down knowledge amidst a -year, reliable, decentralized, bottom-up system of gracia and petitioning. This generation of independence (unlike, say, the generation associated with the Wars of Succession in the early s) enjoyed a system of knowledge that came bottom-up through gracia petitioning as well as another that came top-down via transatlantic continental institutions and print culture. Such a duality explains some of the tensions created by scientific knowledge in the wars and their aftermath. The cosmopolitan knowledge that circulated within a newly invigorated public sphere of print made possible new networks that would undergird novel connections between far-flung compatriots within the broader Spanish American world. The wars themselves would also eventually bring together local elites physically through exile, and not just through the vicarious reading of newspapers or the continental and transatlantic circulation of experts in mining, botany, and cartography. This again was related to the nature of the Bourbon reforms at the core of a new imperial political economy of commonwealth. The juntas represented traditional Habsburg local urban oligarchies. These urban elites, however, were now connected via bureaucratic migration as members of expeditions and transatlantic, continental, and regional migration as merchants, students, officials, or members in new science-driven navies and armies. These urban elites also began to be connected through the circulation of semanarios and newspapers brought into being through top-down initiatives by Bourbon reformers. Pombalian Reforms and the Portuguese Global Patria

If the circulation of periodicals and other forms of ephemeral literature was critical for the formation of a sense of community within Spanish America, print culture in Brazil followed a different and distinctive path. Notwithstanding at least one ephemeral press that operated within the Portuguese colony prior to , printing got its formal start with the arrival of the royal family and the first officially sanctioned press in Rio de Janeiro. Almost immediately upon its arrival, the royal family established the “Impressão Régia,” with the specific intention of producing administrative documents as well as didactic materials for the instruction of natural history and other proto-scientific topics. From the perspective of a burgeoning urban culture in Rio de Janeiro, it is relatively easy to tell the story of science and

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independence in Brazil, since what happened there conforms to all of the traditional narratives and stereotypes of how Enlightenment science developed in northern Europe: a royal court, a printing press, laboratories, scientific academies, and botanical gardens all coalesced within months of the arrival of Dom João VI and his entourage. The Impressão Régia was an organ of the state, but several early publications related directly to the ways that scientific disciplines – despite being in service to the state – were beginning to infuse Brazil’s inchoate yet expanding market of readers. The Elementos de Geometria (), translated by Manoel Ferreira de Araujo Guimarães from the French of A. M. Le Gendre, was meant to be distributed to the students of the newly founded military academy, the Academia Real Militar. The Memoria sobre a Canella do Rio de Janeiro (published in  and based on an original manuscript from ) was focused on a particular kind of “cinnamon” that grew in the outskirts of Rio, and that had properties that could be cultivated in Brazil as it was in the East, an emerging example of materia medica that could be studied and written about anew from the colony-turned-metropole. This example stands in stark distinction to the oblivion that struck Spanish America as it sought to discount colonial science in its move toward consolidating a new and independent form of republican science. In the case of Brazil, as we see here, much earlier efforts from the colonial period were seen as praiseworthy contributions to the broader imperial effort, now centered in the Brazilian capital. Despite this swift appearance of print in the new Portuguese imperial capital, an Old Regime in the Tropics was quite different from the Old World capital that Dom João and the Impressão Régia had recently left behind. Rio de Janeiro was at the center of a vast network connecting African and Asian worlds within and outside the control of the Portuguese, subjecting the governance of the empire to many forces beyond its own control. One of the least acknowledged contributions to scientific knowledge in the Luso-Brazilian world – one that was most clearly erased from the annals of natural history and cast into a different category of natural historical oblivion – was that provided by Africans and Afro-descended peoples in Brazil. In the printed scientific treatises that are still used today as evidence of Portuguese scientific prowess, in the translations that were produced of instructions and guides for carrying out philosophical voyages, African and Afro-descended peoples usually appear only in the margins, if at all. In many of the texts of this period (including José Mariano da Conceição Velloso’s Fazendeiro do Brazil), darkened figures that are performing manual labor in the indigo fields and sugarcane presses appear as caricatures and supernumeraries rather than as protagonists. One conspicuous exception was produced in the wake of independence in the context of Africans’ and Afro-descendants’ participation in the agro-botanical enterprise. The French artist, Jean-Baptiste Debret, published a lithograph in  of the Nègres

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

Fig. . Hunter Negroes Returning to Town or The Return of the Negroes by a Naturalist

(Nègres chasseurs rentrant en ville or Le retour des nègres d’un naturaliste). The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Print Collection, The New York Public Library. New York Public Library Digital Collections.

chasseurs rentrant en ville, or Le retour des nègres d’un naturaliste (Hunter Negroes Returning to Town, or The Return of the Negroes by a Naturalist). A better title might be “Le retour des nègres naturalistes,” (“The Return of the Naturalist Negroes”) emphasizing the active role these black naturalists played in the quotidian work of scientific collection, management, and display (see Fig. .). This anecdotal appearance of African-descended naturalists within the visual register calls attention to the active role played by members of the substantial African population in Brazil, opening a window onto further research possibilities at the intersection of science, freed people of color, and knowledge exchange. The transfer of knowledge from African-descended practitioners in the Spanish American world, and their influence on the period of independence, remains to be written. Another fundamental element of Portuguese science and its connection to an independent Brazil is the emphasis on industry. Writing in  as part of an encomium to the military officer and Porto protagonist Antonio da Silveira Pinto da Fonseca, the Portuguese poet and playwright José Maria da Costa e Silva (–) connected the flowering of agriculture, industry, and the sciences to

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a new era in Portuguese history: “If Pomona’s gifts and the gifts of Ceres / embellish our fields / If our wise Industry flourishes in prosperity / If on the Tagus [river] flourish / the sophisticated Sciences . . . / . . . It was Silveira’s work / the work of Heroes, who at his side / for the benefit of our dear Patria, / intrepid, exposed themselves to death.” In Costa e Silva’s view, the union of Portugal and Brazil, the diminution of Brazil to the status of dependent colony, and the return of the Portuguese monarch Dom João VI (which was one of the desired effects of the Portuguese Cortes held in late-) would be the catalyst for a flourishing of “wise Industry” and the sciences, supported by Silveira and his allies. This text was apparently distributed to the Portuguese Assembly on October , , making explicit the hope that science and industry would bolster a newly invigorated Portuguese nation on both sides of the Atlantic. For the purposes of this chapter, it is enough to see industry mentioned here as a noble goal of this particular Portuguese faction, similar to its appearance in the Manifesto da Nação Portugueza aos Soberanos e Povos da Europa (), one of the most important political manifestos produced by the Junta Provisional do Governo Supremo do Reino during the tumultuous time of the Portuguese Cortes, and which references “Commerce and Industry” as two fundamental elements “that can never properly prosper unless under the beneficent shadow of peace.” Similarly, Francisco Soares Franco, in his four-part Ensaio sobre os melhoramentos de Portugal e do Brasil (), exemplified a broad vision for a unified Portuguese nation that would be agriculturally prosperous, racially unified, and politically strong, and would rely on certain “scientific” industries to ensure that was the case. The great protagonist of Brazilian independence, José Bonifacio de Andrada e Silva, was equally focused on how industry could benefit Brazil as an independent nation. Illustrative of the linkage between agriculture, industry, and the need to create an institutional setting in Brazil to advance Brazil’s interests is a short text composed by José Bonifacio: “The Need for an Academy of Agriculture in Brazil” (“Necessidade de uma academia de agricultura no Brasil”), which is undated but is presumed to have been written in , when José Bonifacio had returned to Brazil and was assisting in the preparation of Pedro I’s more permanent reign in an independent nation (of which José Bonifacio was one of the central architects). At the time, he composed a short treatise that envisioned the creation of an academy of agriculture. Such an academy, “whose establishment should for the utmost utility be carried out at Court, and in the principal cities of the largest and principal captaincies, or provinces, of Brazil,” was in many ways a mirror image of José Bonifacio’s image of an independent Brazil, whose power emanated from the capital (Rio de Janeiro) but that had important outlets in cities and regions across the nation. “It is with that condition that the provincial associations or academies should have been made subject to the large assembly of members who must always

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

reside in the imperial capital.” In the initial outline of this new academy, José Bonifacio draws a clear line between the industrial future of the new nation and agriculture, which he calls the “first factory of human industry and the most interesting of them all,” and goes on to explain that “all of the natural, civil, mechanical and other knowledge” that relate to agriculture should form the basis of a future plan of study. Closely associated with the idea of an agricultural infrastructure that would connect Portuguese industrial ingenuity with Brazilian natural resources, the notion of pátria was also regularly referenced in print as a conceptual feature of the emerging Luso-Brazilian nation. For the community of naturalists and imperial agents traditionally associated with the pursuit of science and the applied use of nature for agro-economic purposes, the idea of pátria was critical to a transterritorial vision that enabled any member of the broader Portuguese or LusoBrazilian family, wherever they may be, to participate in strategies for material and economic improvement on behalf of the global Portuguese body politic. Rather than pulling in the direction of separation between Brazil and Portugal, the work of naturalists and those who worked within the natural sciences in many ways retarded that process, providing connective tissue for agents throughout the broader LusoBrazilian world to feel a connection with one another across vast territorial reaches. This sense of belonging to a universal Portuguese community may have received its first impulse in the era of Portugal’s earliest circumnavigations, when colonial outposts on the feitoria model created numerous opportunities for citizen-sailors of Portuguese extraction to contribute to the well-being of the empire. They did this simply by spending a few days, weeks, or months in one of these distant colonial outposts, in stages, and their principal purpose was to extract wealth at a low cost to the mother country. But regardless of the origins, this universal pátria thought to be held within the bosom of every Luso-Brazilian, whether in Asia, Africa, America, or the metropole, became part of a concerted effort on the part of Portuguese ministers in the second half of the eighteenth century. In particular, Dom Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho sponsored a series of efforts that culminated in an entire generation of Brazilian-born, Portuguese trained imperial agents – many of whom had backgrounds in the natural sciences – who would go on to careers spanning the breadth of the Atlantic and several sites within the colonial world. Sousa Coutinho’s program was a “vast and coherent” effort conceived and executed while he was minister and secretary of state for the Navy and Overseas Dominions (–), as well as the shorter period while president of the Royal Treasury (Real Erario) and secretary of state for Agriculture (Fazenda). And it succeeded in creating a patriotic generation that nevertheless saw value – and in certain cases, urgency – in separating Brazil from the empire to which it had so long been associated.

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Spanish America Inventing Colonial Legacy of Ignorance

The patriotic generation of Spanish American independence clearly found it difficult to make the massive investments in knowledge-making systems that had been made by the Spanish monarchy. And because the new republics could not acknowledge colonial superiority in the quality and scale of scientific knowledge, local urban elites, after suffering the brutalities of the civil war that was independence, ruled out Spain and its monarchy as a source of modernity and science. Through the massive private expansion of print culture via periodicals and newspapers, the urban intelligentsia embraced the British and French version of the “Spanish Black Legends,” which cast Spain as a source of superstition, absolutism, violence, corruption, and economic backwardness. Acknowledging the large scale of Bourbon science came to be deeply embarrassing to the new Spanish American republics, and Republican elites deployed print culture to curate their own historical memory and archives in a way that left Iberia out of the picture. Tapping into the gothic tradition of Inquisitorial horrors, republican elites (both conservative and liberal) instead created a pantheon of suffering martyrs, unsung heroes to the Enlightenment. Quito (Ecuador) chose Eugenio Espejo, Nueva Granada Caldas, México José António Alzate and (especially) Juan Servando Teresa de Mier, among others. This trope of Galilean martyrs to the Enlightenment – humiliated by cruel, tyrannical, ignorant overlords, and sometimes even tortured and killed – spread throughout Spanish America. Ironically, figures like Eugenio Espejo in Ecuador became founding fathers of patrias they actually despised. His case is instructive. Espejo was an enlightened figure who was allied with governors and local aristocratic elites. They understood that for Quito to get out of its economic depression – triggered by the English and French smuggling of textiles that sent its obrajero industry into spiraling collapse – the Audiencia needed to open new botanical markets (particularly quinine) through free trade as well as new ports to reduce control by Limeño merchant capital. Espejo, in turn, as secretary of the newly founded Sociedad de Amigos del País, supported a reformist agenda and fought those opposing Enlightenment. In order to do so, he edited a periodical called Primicias de Quito, but its patronizing tone quickly managed to alienate everyone, and the periodical was closed within three months for lack of subscriptions. Espejo eventually established a reputation as a libeler, hired to undermine the reputation and prestige of good or honorable vecinos, who fought in court against Espejo’s libelous accusations, presenting him as mestizo and Indian (a background he repeatedly denied). In the s, he was investigated for authoring a libelous account of the reformist minister, José de Gálvez, and his family, but ultimately, he was found not guilty. Espejo was a creature of powerful aristocratic

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

families in Quito battling other powerful families. In the s, his brother, Juan Pablo, a presbyter, was accused of having illicit sexual relations with a woman who accused him of distributing broadsides promoting a rebellion of the Quiteños against a tyrannous king for tax abuses. Espejo went to the Viceroyalty of Santa Fe with his brother to speak to the viceroy, but he and his brother were imprisoned. Espejo was declared not guilty and released and immediately went to die in Quito. Later his sister, Manuela, accused the viceroy of having murdered his brother and discredited the honor and reputation of her family. But in the end, was Espejo a reformer or a manipulator, who used science to gain upward social mobility? His case ultimately shows that Bourbon Enlightenment and science, like in the Hapsburg period, could not be disentangled from conflicts and factionalism, and opposing groups used the crown’s various systems of justice and mercedes to defeat opposing rivals. Yet Espejo’s transformation into a martyr to science and anticolonial racism began after independence. By the mid-nineteenth century, Espejo began to acquire a stature he did not have while alive. By the early-twentieth century, Espejo became the quintessential Galilean mestizo, if not Indian, allegedly born to a humble Indian father who was overseer of the colonial hospital in which Espejo was raised. In the new patriotic republican versions, Espejo was not only a rebel who stood up to authorities; he also became the alleged forerunner to global epidemiology and bacteriology. The actual Espejo penned a few arbitrios of recommendations to stem the spread of epidemics in Quito, in an age when Quito experienced massive collective death, earthquakes, and sharp economic crisis. In time these works became evidence of Espejo’s scientific precociousness. Factionalism and Epistemological Pluralism as Characteristic of Spanish American Colonial Science

Any student of colonial Spanish American would promptly acknowledge the degree of factionalism that characterized Spanish America since its inception. Arndt Brendecke has argued that factionalism was a constitutional characteristic of the early modern Spanish American empire. The crown gained legitimacy by acting as broker in perpetual corporate feuds, needing information, not knowledge, to rule the colonies. Factions scribbled furiously to the monarch and Council of the Indies to keep the latter informed. The crown, in turn, deliberately pitted factions against each other to force vassals to rely on far away mediating bureaucracies. Espejo’s case illustrates that conflicts continued to plague the late-colonial reform efforts to improve “industry,” even as the crown invested heavily in botanical projects to improve the production and collection of many species. In particular, as Matthew

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Crawford has shown, quinine bark was central to the crown’s Andean agricultural efforts, but factions and corporate interests frequently undermined the views of their rivals: administrators battled botanists; local elites put forth arguments to undermine administrators and botanists; and so forth. There was an investment in science, but this was a society centered on factionalism and decentralized corporate interest that never conceded to “scientists” any greater epistemological authority. Unlike “scientists” in the British and Dutch empires, who came to be seen as ideologically detached from the social and political contexts in which their practices were embedded, “scientists” in the Spanish empire did not enjoy any greater cultural epistemic authority than did other social actors. Bark collectors, local healers, merchants, and bureaucrats wielded as much epistemic power as did leading court physicians, metropolitan naturalists, and worldly chemists. In fact, as Crawford shows, Enlightenment scientists became bark collectors, merchants, bureaucrats, and policy advisors themselves. During and after independence, the factionalism of local urban societies within and without got worse, and the resources dwindled to accomplish much beyond local cartographic expeditions or botanical collecting. What is paradoxical about the science of the new republics is that, as science shrank, print culture and the public sphere expanded rapidly. But printing became subordinated to the production of newspapers as a means to mobilize factions and to move an armed citizenship to contest elections. The new republics constituted extraordinary laboratories of republican experimentation as republics could only survive in the Americas, and the United States spearheaded a form of republicanism largely for whites. The contrast between the knowledge that new republics could afford and that achieved by the late-colonial societies created other paradoxes of silencing the past. It was not only that the new republics created scientific martyrs by pitting creole heroes as new Galileos against the obscurantism of the Spanish monarchy. The new republics simply failed to unearth the vast collection of resources the Spanish monarchy had made available to the new polities: archives, mapping, botany, mineralogy, antiquities, history, and so on. The new republics rather took the works of foreign travelers such as Humboldt as original new research and went on to invent the persona of the foreign colonial traveler as an original genius or first discoverer of their patrias. From Colonial Absences to the Persona of the Traveler

The idea of a Luso-Brazilian pátria came to rely on a burgeoning print culture as well, but the incorporation of foreign perspectives about Brazilian nature and the

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

scientific potential of an independent Brazil would only begin in earnest in the years following the arrival of the royal family (and the opening of Brazil to foreign travelers following the broader opening of Brazilian ports in ). In the meantime, for a certain literate public within Rio de Janeiro during the period of the royal court’s presence, it was manifested through early nineteenth-century print culture as O Patriota, a periodical published monthly by the Impressão Régia from  to  that included a variety of articles treating politics as well as natural history of the colony-turned-imperial capital. Despite the almost complete absence of the term pátria in the text of the periodical itself, the semantic context in which O Patriota was produced and circulated can best be understood as what one scholar has called “the consolidation of a modern cultural public sphere, and the inchoate and embryonic formation of a Republic of Letters with Brazil – and Rio in particular – at its core.” The link to the sciences was subtle, but present. According to Lorelai Kury, O Patriota can best be understood as a “continuation of the editorial program promoted by frei Mariano da Conceição Veloso,” whose Arco do Cego editorial project was “a kind of anthology of intellectual production about Brazil.” In order for the idea of pátria to be extended throughout the Portuguese world, there had to be a transformation in the nature of print, and this was effected through publishing projects on both sides of the Atlantic. In any event, these three interconnected spheres of the Luso-Brazilian Enlightenment – that of industry as a particular manifestation of a scientific worldview; that of the “pátria” as a way that LusoBrazilian naturalists and “scientists” avant la lettre understood their role in a broader sphere of influence; and that of print, which worked against several earlier Portuguese impulses that made it surprisingly difficult for many of the most expansive and extensive expeditions to share their experiences reconnoitering for the crown – were part of the culture of collecting and a natural history of oblivion that defined the colonial period in the Luso-Brazilian world but also, increasingly, its transition to metropole and later independent nation. Brazil had no Humboldt to consolidate its own scientific vision – if anything, Carl Friedrich Philipp von Martius played that role in the essay he penned on how to write the history of Brazil in the Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro in  – but it did not experience the radical break with its own imperial past as did Spanish America. For most of the new Spanish American republics, Alexander von Humboldt was the figure who was hailed as innovative and precocious. In retrospect, Humboldt would appear to have produced and collected singlehandedly enough in four years to fill thirty-one massive volumes of “original” research on political economy, statistics, demography, agriculture, slavery, botany, zoology, minerology, geology, and antiquities. During the colonial period, however, the creation of this aura of the Romantic genius would not have been possible,

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since colonial scientists could have demonstrated that Humboldt’s works were nothing more than an extraordinary synthesis of the Spanish American Enlightenment. Having spent most of his time in archives, government offices, and libraries of local scholars pouring over their findings – from botany, cartography, and mineralogy to antiquities, political economy, and statistics – Humboldt’s experience of American nature itself was quite limited. Similarly, the Spanish American Enlightenment had no patience for the oversized claims of originality of the “philosopher-travelers” Montesquieu and Rousseau. The traveler was considered a naïve individual, thoroughly at the mercy of interpreters and local brokers who often amused themselves at the expense of the visitor. La Condamine, for example, who had come to South America to settle the French-versus-English debate over the shape of the earth, was not very well received in Quito, largely because the French academician and his companions thought they were bringing wisdom to the land of the ignorant – and acted so in turn. We know, however, that La Condamine often did nothing else than synthesize (if not plagiarize) the voice of local guides and experts (from Native Americans to Jesuits) while using French print culture to make more extensive claims to originality. The Spanish monarchy knew that the French academicians would act as “discoverers and conquistadors” of American nature, dismissing “Spain” in the process. The crown, therefore, had two Spanish scientists accompany the French to produce a printed record of their own (published as the Relacion histórica de un viage a la América meridional, published in Madrid in ). Moreover, when the French academicians dared to memorialize their expedition in Quito as an act of French patronage under Louis XIV, the Spanish crown had the monuments destroyed. When the wars engulfed Spanish America in the years that followed Humboldt’s passage through South America, Humboldt’s accounts had no counterweight in print culture. He became the model of the philosophical traveler stepping into an empty wilderness. This model was useful at the beginning of the wars. Patriots could cast the colonies as sites of ignorance and colonial obscurantism while at the same time using Humboldt’s writings to present to European investors and governments the new emerging republics as sites of great economic potential and therefore worth recognizing diplomatically. Humboldt was a blessing in print culture but also a curse. Throughout the nineteenth century, there were many Humboldts who arrived in Spanish America, making exaggerated claims to originality and demanding acknowledgment while connecting locals to wider European and US networks of science. Over the course of the nineteenth century, local publicists and intellectuals in Spanish America ridiculed the travelers, while powerless to change the hierarchy of geo-epistemological control. North Atlantic travelers used the knowledge of locals with impunity, offering access to networks of knowledge in exchange for collections. This dynamic only reinforced the trope of the North Atlantic genius savant.

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

Conclusion: Continuities and Discontinuities, Remembering and Forgetting

In the aftermath of the wars of independence, many continuities remained between colonial Spanish American institutions and the republics that inherited them. The new republics drew on many of the places, collections, and personnel that they were bequeathed by the previous regimes. The great colonial transformations of lay, ecclesiastical, and military bureaucracies – across regions and across the Atlantic – also sparked patriots to create large transregional patriot armies. The ayuntamiento revolution of  led to the multiplication of local urban political agendas, creating conflict, fragmentation, and internecine diplomatic strife among and within cities. Yet the circulation of cadres of naturalists, militia, and army officers, as well as new collecting and archiving bureaucracies, also made the creation and consolidation of large patriot armies possible. Without these armies, monarchist militias would have always stood as a greater threat to the independence of dozens of city-states. Yet for all the continuities there were also profound discontinuities. One discontinuity was reflected in the scale of science and technology projects within the new republics. The ambitious naturalist missions and cartographic expeditions of the colonial period dwarfed those of the early republican period in size and scope. And although a revolution in print was sparked by the wars themselves, with ephemeral presses and regular communications transforming the way in which individuals and larger communities communicated with one another, this had the paradoxical effect of rendering even more invisible the earlier (large) scale of latecolonial science. The more accessible the technology of print seemed to be within Spanish American republics, the more silence and ignorance of the deeper Iberian past set in. The case of the first museum of Mexican history – inaugurated immediately after independence by the Mexican republic using the collections, images, institutions, and expertise of the late-Bourbon regime – is an example worth considering. Unlike the stability and permanence of the colonial-era institutions, this new museum had little in the way of stable resources, and little power to control the movement of objects within the republic and without. Travelers plundered collections of antiquities and codices in exchange for collections of birds. The museum also had little control over local communities which would have allowed them to obtain antiquarian and natural history collections. Institutionally and legally, the museum was a mere shadow in comparison to colonial-era schools, academies, and expeditions. The museum may have been organized on ideas of history radically different from those of colonial society – it collected bird feathers, for instance, as intently as it collected

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knowledge of the ancient Toltec past – but the three centuries of colonial society that immediately preceded its own existence did not seem to concern the republican-era curators and administrators. The museum was an institution that daily manufactured ignorance of the colonial history of Mexico. There was simply no room to collect or think about three hundred years of a powerful, nearly omnipresent colonial regime. Following independence, neither the early Habsburg nor the Bourbon model appeared to succeed as republics faced new conditions and new circumstances. The new polities did not resolve the problem of innovation through extra-territorial royal gracia as cities and municipalities multiplied tenfold. Political participation exploded through a revolution of ayuntamientos that fought to control regions, leading to further segmentation into ever smaller provinces. Nevertheless, ayuntamientos could not settle the problem of sovereignty, namely, the recognition of arbitration by a congress and a presidential executive to replace a council and a distant monarch as source of rewards. But the Bourbon model did not succeed either. It lacked the resources to work and train cadres in transatlantic continental institutions, and most localities, cities and regions turned inwards, emphasizing development and circulation within the republic rather than focusing on transatlantic exports (with the exception of some mining regions). The colonial Atlantic model of plantations and exports lost its appeal as political mobilization led to the emancipation of slaves and ultimately the end of slavery itself. Political mobilization triggered by the ayuntamiento revolution led to the reorganization and renegotiation of the relationship of indigenous cabildos with local and regional hacendados and caciques. Fragmentation only continued as republics were transformed into full-fledged nations. Local neo-Bourbon elites created small museums and academies, for which they hired a few outside experts. Some even launched small scale, poorly funded expeditions, while public debt soared. Amidst a geopolitical environment that was hostile to republican and national ideas of citizenship, slave emancipation, and the expansion of the franchise to free blacks and indigenous peoples, funding difficulties exacerbated the challenges faced by these polities, as institutions devoted to training hundreds of thousands of new vecinos – in the fields of scientific agriculture, cartography, botany, geology, and mining – dwindled in reach and in scope. Most initiatives on improvement became more highly localized, associated to former sociedades económicas de amigos under new patriotic names. Once again, Brazil had a different trajectory moving out of this period. Over the course of the s, several new institutions would advance the vision of the conservative economist José da Silva Lisboa of a new industrial center in South America that might eventually compete with its European counterparts. In ,

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting

the Sociedade Auxiliadora da Indústria Nacional sought, through a subscription model, to provide new rural machinery in order to support a national industry. And while the political conditions of – put a pause on these advances, by  there was a new institutional platform for the instruction of geometry, applied mechanics and mathematics, and other commerce related to agriculture and botany, all of which had its origin in the earlier Sociedade. Similarly, new medical schools that emerged in the s would receive more formal footing with the Imperial Decree of , which established autonomous medical and surgery academies. Finally, the continued study of the natural sciences was supported by a Royal Museum – the precursor of the recently incinerated Museu Nacional – that had its origins in an  decree to create an institution that would increase commerce, industry, and the arts. One of the ways in which it did this, in addition to the founding mineralogical collection of the German geologist Abraham Gottlob Werner (–), was to request that scientific travelers collect, conserve, and send materials of natural historical interest to the newfound institution, under the direction of the Franciscan José Batista da Costa Azevedo. To this end, a Portuguese version of the French instruction manual was printed in Rio in , entitled Instrucção para os viajantes e empregados nas colonias sôbre a maneira de colher, conservar, e remetter os objectos de historia natural. The scope and breadth of Portuguese overseas scientific activities during the period stretching from Pombal’s administrative reforms in Portugal to the independence of Brazil was extraordinary, ranging geographically from Macau and Goa in Asia to Mozambique and Angola in Africa and across the Atlantic to the interior of Brazil. Unlike the concerted efforts of the Spanish crown to sponsor scientific expeditions as a way of recognizing the unique attributes of the empire’s colonized territories – starting as early as the sixteenth century with Francisco Hernandez’s voyage to Mexico – Portugal’s early efforts at reconnaissance, when they happened, tended to be more commercial in focus, following a feitoria model whereby maritime trading outposts (such as Goa or the Malacca islands in the East) would serve as scientific entrepôts and natural products from the interior would find their way aboard ships without a similarly thorough process of terrestrial exploration. But science was always a global enterprise for the Portuguese, from the coast of Africa to Japan, and maritime science always went hand-in-hand with an interest in spices and new botanical species. Industry seems to have been a more consistent throughway for the fledgling Brazilian nation than it managed to be for many of its Spanish American counterparts. In conclusion, the path followed by Spanish American nations as they entered into the complex period of political independence seemed to take on inverted attributes as compared to the Portuguese. Whereas Brazilian institutions seemed

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to rely and indeed thrive on their relationship to the colonial period – often recuperating earlier scientific accounts and remaining comfortably wedded to many of the scientific structures inherited from the Old Regime – newly minted Spanish American nations engaged in a process of oblivion, reacting against the ambitious efforts of Spanish science during the colonial period and attempting to suppress any relation to it. Another interesting contrast is in the relationship between postcolonial productivity – and aspirations to foster industry on a national scale – and maintenance of slavery and the slave trade, including the broader plantation complex of which it is a part. In the case of Spanish America (although not necessarily Cuba or Puerto Rico, which retained an imperial model of plantation agriculture and slavery well into the nineteenth century), there was a conscious rejection of the Caribbean model and efforts made to disrupt dependence on slavery as a motor of economic productivity, mirroring to some degree the movement within the British Caribbean that sought to disrupt plantation slavery in response to calls for its abolition. In the case of Brazil, as is well known, the plantation model was more explicitly embraced as part of the broader effort to create a national industrial complex intertwined with the institution of slavery, which lasted until the very end of the nineteenth century. Carlos Augusto Taunay’s Manual do agricultor brasileiro () sought to instruct rural Brazilian property holders in proper management of the plantation environment, including slaves. Once again, there appears to be more continuity in the Brazilian case – from the colonial period through independence and beyond – than in the case of Spanish America, which sought to distance itself in the post-independence period from an imperial phase that had done much to stimulate institutional development before and after American independence. If the legacy of this period in Spanish and Portuguese America has tended to become oversimplified over the course of the past two hundred years, it is likely due to this schizophrenic process of remembering and forgetting: of inscribing and sending into oblivion in equal measure at different times. The origins of this process can be found deep within the colonial period, but the after-effects extend forcefully through the wars of independence, the post-colonial reconfiguration of polities and institutional infrastructures, and well beyond.

Notes  See, among other classic articulations of this interpretation, Thomas F. Glick, “Science and Independence in Latin America (with Special Reference to New Granada),” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; José Luis Peset, Ciencia y libertad: El papel del científico ante la Independencia americana (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Centro

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

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de Estudios Históricos, ). For a more focused analysis, see Miguel de Asúa, La ciencia de Mayo. La cultura científica en el Río de la Plata, – (Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ). In the past two-and-a-half decades, there has been a resurgence of interest in the period and a host of new studies that have sought to integrate European and American perspectives and politics into a more nuanced understanding of these dynamics. In the Brazilian case, this has meant not only a better understanding of Portugal, Spain, France, and Britain during the tumultuous period of the Napoleonic wars, but also finding new ways of connecting Brazilian independence with the Hispanic-American experience, recognizing that despite the unique circumstances of the Spanish American colonies and their independent paths toward separation from Iberian rule, the broader Atlantic context had much in common – and much to compare – with Brazil’s otherwise unique historical circumstances: to wit, the transfer of the Portuguese crown, and all of its governing apparatus, to what was once an important, but subordinate, New World colony. See João Paulo Pimenta, A independência do Brasil e a experiência Hispano-Americana (São Paulo: Hucitec, ). See also, Ana Rosa Cloclet da Silva, Inventando a nação. Intelectuais ilustrados e estadistas Luso-Brasileiros na crise do antigo regime português (–) (São Paulo: Hucitec, ); and the earlier synthetic volume by Fernado A. Novais and Carlos Guilherme Mota, A independência política do Brasil (São Paulo: Hucitec, ). Some of those efforts included the academies in Bahia and fledgling communities of intellectual and literary activity elsewhere, such as the Sociedade Literária do Rio de Janeiro, founded in the lateeighteenth century. For more on the Bahian academies and incipient efforts to construct scientific sociability in colonial Brazil, see Íris Kantor, Esquecidos e renascidos. Historiografia académica LusoAmericana (–) (São Paulo: Hucitec, ). Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, How to Write the History of the New World (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Daniela Bleichmar et al., Science in the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Daniela Bleichmar, Visible Empire: Botanical Expeditions and Visual Culture in the Hispanic Enlightenment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ); and Neil Safier, Measuring the New World: Enlightenment Science and South America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ). Renán Silva, Los ilustrados de Nueva Granada, –. Genealogía de una comunidad de interpretación (Medellín: Banco de la República, Fondo Editorial Universidad EAFIT, ); Silva, Prensa y revolución a finales del siglo XVIII. Contribuciόn a un análisis de la formaciόn de la ideología de independencia nacional (Bogotá: Banco de la República, ); and Silva, Universidad y sociedad en el nuevo reino de Granada. Contribuciόn a un análisis histόrico de la formaciόn intelectual de la sociedad colombiana (Medellín: La Carreta, ). In the Brazilian case, see the classic study by Maria Odila Leite da Silva Dias, “Aspectos da Ilustração no Brasil,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro  (): –. As Nicola Miller has argued, the battle of the nineteenth century was one over how to integrate the many forms of knowledge that Spanish American societies had produced, and also – crucially – whose knowledge should be excluded. Nicola Miller, Republics of Knowledge: Nations of the Future in Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ). John E. Woodham, “The influence of Hipólito Unanue on Peruvian medical science, –: A Reappraisal,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. João Carlos Brigola, Colecções, gabinetes e museus em Portugal no século XVIII (Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, ); Kenneth Maxwell, Pombal: Paradox of the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). Cloclet da Silva, Inventando a nação, . (“Guiados por uma orientação acadêmica comum e por suas ricas experiências diplomáticas e científicas.”)





Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Neil Safier  Cloclet da Silva, Inventando a nação, . (“Profunda e dedicada reflexão sobre o Império português . . . indissociável relação entre a regeneração econômica do Reino e o aproveitamento da natureza ultramarina, o que, de modo mais preciso, traduziu-se no empenho em preserver-se a unidade lusobrasileira.”)  Márcia Moisés Ribeiro, “Rumo ao Brasil. A transferência da corte e as novas trilhas do pensamento medico,” in Ensaios de história das ciências no Brasil. Das luzes à nação independente, ed. Lorelai Kury and Heloisa Gesteira (Rio de Janeiro: Editora da Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, ), . (“Amplo processo de abertura do pensamento científico iniciado com a chegada da família real ao Brasil.”)  While much recent scholarship in individual areas – such as medicine, agriculture, geography, and mining – has not sought out a grand synthesis, the classic account by Maria Odila Leite da Silva Dias, “Aspectos da ilustração no Brasil,” still serves as the most authoritative and expansive account of colonial science as it transitioned to the period of the royal family’s presence in Brazil. See Silva Dias, “Aspectos.”  Adam Warren, Medicine and Politics in Colonial Peru: Population Growth and the Bourbon Reforms (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); and Sophie Brockmann, The Science of Useful Nature in Central America: Landscapes, Networks and Practical Enlightenment, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ).  Fernando Novais, “O Reformismo Ilustrado Luso-Brasileiro: Alguns Aspectos,” Revista Brasileira de História  (): .  See José Pinto de Azeredo, Essays on Some Maladies of Angola, trans. Stewart Lloyd-Jones, ed. Timothy D. Walker (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, ); Luis Antonio de Oliveira Mendes, Discurso academico. Determinar com todos os seus sintomas as doenças agudas, e cronicas, que mais frequentemente acometem os pretos recém tirados da África. . . (Lisbon: Real Academica, ); Dom João VI, “Alvará sobre o Commercio da Escravatura” (); and Hipólito José da Costa, “Escravatura no Brazil,” Correio Braziliense  (): .  Pablo Gómez, The Experiential Caribbean: Creating Knowledge and Healing in the Early Modern Atlantic (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); James Sweet, Domingos Álvares, African Healing, and the Intellectual History of the Atlantic World (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); Iris Montero Sobrevilla, “The Slow Science of Swift Nature: Hummingbirds and Humans in New Spain,” in Global Scientific Practice in an Age of Revolutions, –, ed. Patrick Manning and Daniel Rood (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ), –; Marcy Norton, “The Quetzal Takes Flight: Microhistory, Mesoamerican Knowledge, and Early Modern Natural History,” in Translating Nature: Cross-Cultural Histories of Early Modern Science, ed. Jaime Marroquín Arredondo and Ralph Bauer (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, ), –; and Allison M. Bigelow, Mining Language: Racial Thinking, Indigenous Knowledge, and Colonial Metallurgy in the Early Modern Iberian World (Chapel Hill: Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture and University of North Carolina Press, ).  Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “Bartolome Inga’s Mining Technologies: Indians, Science, Cyphered Secrecy, and Modernity in the New World,” History and Technology  (): –.  For a survey of the impact of the colonial industries of palo de Campeche, pearls, bezoars, etc., see Mark Thurner and Juan Pimentel (eds.), New World Objects of Knowledge: A Cabinet of Curiosities (London: Institute of Latin American Studies and University of London Press, ).  For a typical example of this type of Bourbon science, see Juan Pimentel, La física de la Monarquía. Ciencia y política en el pensamiento colonial de Alejandro Malaspina (–) (Aranjuez: Doce Calles, ).  Matthew James Crawford, The Andean Wonder Drug: Cinchona Bark and Imperial Science in the Spanish Atlantic, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); Safier, Measuring

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting













 





the New World; and Antonio Lafuente and Antonio Mazuecos. Los caballeros del punto fijo. Ciencia, política y aventura en la expediciόn geodésica hispanofrancesa al virreinato del Perú en el siglo XVIII (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, ). For surveys of science and independence in Spanish America, see Thomas Glick, “Science and Independence in Latin America (with Special Reference to New Granada),” The Hispanic American Historical Review  (): –; Peset, Ciencia y libertad. El papel del científico ante la Independencia americana. For a more focused analaysis, see de Asúa, La ciencia de Mayo. La cultura científica en el Río de la Plata, –. On reforms, see Fidel Tavarez, “Colonial Economic Improvement: How Spain Created New Consulados to Preserve and Develop Its American Empire, –,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. For a sampling of these periodicals, see Gazeta de Literatura de México (–); Mercurio Peruano (Lima, –); La Gazeta de Guatemala (–); El Telégrafo mercantil, rural, político, económico e historiográfico del Río de la Plata (Buenos Aires, –); El Semanario de Agricultura, Industria y Comercio (Buenos Aires, –); and Semanario del Nuevo Reino de Granada (Bogotá, –). Debret arrived in Brazil in , and he later became not only a painter at the Imperial Academy but went on to be a professor there until , when he returned to France, becoming a member of the Académie des Beaux Arts. Although he published his work about Brazil in France in the s, he drew his experiences from an earlier period, when naturalists including Auguste de Saint-Hilaire, Carl Friedrich Philipp von Martius, and Maximilian von Wied-Neuwied were all relying on indigenous and Afro-descended experts to assist in their accumulation of specimens, the formulation of natural experiences, and the accumulation of other forms of knowledge that only they could provide. For some fundamental insights into how such a history could be written, see Gómez, The Experiential Caribbean: Creating Knowledge and Healing in the Early Modern Atlantic; and Diego Armus and Pablo F. Gómez, The Gray Zones of Medicine: Healers and History in Latin America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ). “Se de Pomona os dões, e os dões de Ceres, additão os nossos Campos / Se próspera floresce a sábia Industria / se no Téjo floreião / cultas Sciencias . . . Obra foi de Silveira / Obra foi dos Heroes, que ao lado dele, Em prol da cara Patria, Impavidos á morte se expozerão.” José Maria da Costa e Silva, Ode ao Illmo. e Exmo. senhor Antonio da Silveria Pinto da Fonseca, vice-presidente da junta do supremo governo do reino, distribuida na Assemblea portugueza na noite de  de outubro de  (Lisbon: Nova Impressão da Viuva Neves e Filhos, ). Junta Provisional do Governo Supremo do Reino, Manifesto da nação portugueza, aos soberanos e povos da Europa (Lisbon: n.p., ). José Bonifácio, “Necessidade de uma academia de agricultura no Brasil,” in José Bonifácio de Andrada e Silva, ed. Jorge Caldeira (São Paulo: Editora , ), . (“Cujo estabelecimento deveria, para maior utilidade, ser feito na Corte, e nas cabeças das grandes e principais capitanias, ou províncias do Brasil .... E com tal condição que as associações ou academias provinciais fossem ou ficassem sujeitas à grande assembléia dos membros que devem residir sempre na capital do Império.”) Luis Miguel Carolino, “Dom Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, a ciência e a construção do império lusobrasileiro: a arqueologia de um programa científico,” in Formas do Império. Ciência, tecnologia e política em Portugal e no Brasil. Séculos XVI ao XIX, ed. Heloisa Meireles Gesteira, Luis Miguel Carolino, and Pedro Marinho (Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, ). Lina del Castillo, “Caldas as Galileo: Republican Print Culture Invents an Obscurantist Monarchy to Legitimate Rule,” Anuario Colombiano de Historia Social y de la Cultura  no.  ():





Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Neil Safier



  





     

  

–. For primary sources on the denunciation of Spanish ignorance right after , see José Amor de la Patria, “Catecismo político cristiano,” Santiago, , vol. , –; Antonio José de Irisarri, “Reflexiones sobre la política de los gobiernos de América,” Semanario Republicano de Chile February , vol. , –; and Francisco Antonio Zea, “Manifiesto a los pueblos de Colombia,” , vol. , –. These sources are in José Luis Romero and Luis Alberto Romero (eds.), Pensamiento político de la emancipación (Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, ). On Espejo, see Christian Büschges, “Eugenio Espejo, la Ilustración y las élites,” Anuario de Historia de América Latina  (): –; and Philip Luis Astuto, Eugenio Espejo (–). Reformador ecuatoriano de la Ilustración (Mexico City: Fondo De Cultura Económica, ). On medical genius, Enrique Garcés, Eugenio Espejo Médico y Duende (Quito: Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana, ). Arndt Brendecke, The Empirical Empire: Spanish Colonial Rule and the Politics of Knowledge (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, ). Crawford, The Andean Wonder Drug; Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “The Secret of Imperial Failure? The Case of Quina and Epistemic Tolerance,” Arcade (August , ). On the massive expansion of print culture via newpspapers, see Luis Miguel Glave (ed.), Del pliego al periódico. Prensa, espacios públicos y construcción nacional Iberoamericana (Madrid: Fundación MAPFRE Tavera, ); and Paula Alonso, ed., Construcciones impresas. Panfletos, diarios y revistas en la formación de los estados nacionales en América Latina, – (Mexico and Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ). On the turn to the Black Legend, see, Jorge CañizaresEsguerra, “De hispanoamerica a los Estados Unidos,” Revista de Occidente  (October ). James E. Sanders, The Vanguard of the Atlantic World: Creating Modernity, Nation, and Democracy in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Durham and London: Duke University Press, ); and Hilda Sabato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in NineteenthCentury Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ). Marco Morel, “Pátrias Polissêmicas. República das Letras e imprensa na crise do Império português na América,” in Iluminismo e império no Brasil: o Patriota (–), ed. Lorelai Kury (Rio de Janeiro: Editora FIOCRUZ, ), . Lorelai Kury, “Descrever a Pátria, Difundir o Saber,” in Iluminismo e império no Brasil: o Patriota (–), ed. Lorelai Kury (Rio de Janeiro: Editora FIOCRUZ, ), . Andrea Wulf, The Invention of Nature: Alexander Von Humboldt’s New World (New York: Vintage Books, ). Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Mark Thurner (eds.), The Invention of Humboldt (London: Routledge, ). Cañizares-Esguerra, How to Write the History of the New World. Safier, Measuring the New World. Lafuente and Mazuecos, Los caballeros del punto fijo. When Humboldt went to America with Bonpland, a similar debate ensued as to whether Humboldt should have his own Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa following him and Bonpland around, namely, scientists trained in Spanish institutions, just making sure there was no plagiarism or wrong attributions by securing a parallel archival record and an alternative publication. It did not happen. See José Antonio Amaya, “Cuestionamientos internos e impugnaciones desde el flanco militar a la Expedición Botánica,” Anuario Colombiano de Historia Social y de la Cultura  (): –. Miruna Achim, From Idols to Antiquities: Forging the National Museum of Mexico (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ); and Miller, Republics of Knowledge. Achim, From Idols to Antiquities. François-Xavier Guerra, Modernidad e independencias. Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Jordana Dym, From Sovereign Villages to

Natural Histories of Remembrance and Forgetting







 



National States: City, State, and Federation in Central America, – (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ); and Federica Morelli, Territorio o nación. Reforma y disolución del espacio imperial en Ecuador, –, trans. Antonio Hermosa Andújar (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, ). Lina del Castillo, Crafting a Republic for the World: Scientific, Geographic, and Historiographic Inventions of Colombia (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ); Paul Gootenberg, Imagining Development: Economic Ideas in Peru’s “Fictitious Prosperity” of Guano, – (Berkeley: University of California Press, ); José Carlos Chiaramonte, Nacionalismo y liberalismo económicos en Argentina – (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Solar, ); and Sergio Villalobos R. and Rafael Sagredo Baeza (eds.), Ensayistas proteccionistas del siglo XIX (Santiago: DIBAM, ). Peter Guardino, The Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Peter Guardino, Peasants, Politics, and the Formation of Mexico’s National State: Guerrero, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Mark Thurner, From Two Republics to One Divided: Contradictions of Postcolonial Nationmaking in Andean Peru (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Cecilia Méndez G., The Plebeian Republic: The Huanta Rebellion and the Making of the Peruvian State, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Timo H. Schaefer, Liberalism as Utopia: The Rise and Fall of Legal Rule in Post-Colonial Mexico, – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). Lina Del Castillo, “Entangled Fates: French-Trained Naturalists, the First Colombian Republic, and the Materiality of Geopolitical Practice, –,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. See also, Frank Safford, The Ideal of the Practical: Colombia’s Struggle to Form a Technical Elite (Austin: University of Texas Press, ); Edward Beatty, Technology and the Search for Progress in Modern Mexico (Berkeley: University of California Press, ); and Teresa Cribelli, Industrial Forests and Mechanical Marvels: Modernization in Nineteenth-Century Brazil (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Mark Thurner, History’s Peru: The Poetics of Colonial and Postcolonial Historiography (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, ). Robert Jones Shafer, The Economic Societies in the Spanish World (–) (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, ); Gabriel Paquette, Enlightenment, Governance and Reform in Spain and Its Empire, – (New York and London: Palgrave, ), esp. –; Manuel Rubio Sánchez, Historia de la sociedad económica de Amigos del País (Guatemala: Editorial Académico Centroamericana, ); Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero, Memorias de la Ilustración. Las sociedades económicas de Amigos del País en Cuba (–) (Madrid: Real Sociedad Bascongada de los Amigos del País, ); Lucas Mattei Rodríguez, La sociedad económica de Amigos del País de Puerto Rico. Su historia natural (Puerto Rico: n.p., ); and Facundo Lafit, “Crónica de una frustración ilustrada. Los proyectos de los ‘Amigos del País’ en el Río de la Plata tardo-colonial,” Cuadernos de Historia (Santiago) no.  (): –. Maria Rachel Fróes da Fonseca, “A institucionalização das práticas científicas na corte do Rio de Janeiro,” in Ensaios de história das ciências no Brasil. Das luzes à nação independente, ed. Lorelai Kury and Heloisa Gesteira (Rio de Janeiro: Editora da Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, ). See also Maria Margaret Lopes, O Brasil descobre a pesquisa científica (São Paulo: Hucitec, ).

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K R

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Brothers in Arms Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

Freemasonry was one of the major social and political conduits through which new ideas and political strategies spread during the Age of Revolution, connecting people and movements in various Latin American regions not just with each other but also with like-minded others throughout the Atlantic World. Then, as now, the practice of Freemasonry carried with it a whiff of danger. It was a secret society with strange – possibly blasphemous – rituals, whose conspiratorial and revolutionary-minded members were all the more frightening because they lived among us and looked like everyone else. And yet nearly every major figure of the Latin American independence era has been named as a Freemason: emperors, viceroys, state ministers, archbishops, parish priests, royalist soldiers, insurgent generals, local politicians across the spectrum, women, urban workers, slaves, and regular folk all could have been – and in many cases were – affiliated with Masonic lodges or para-Masonic clubs at some point during those tumultuous decades. More recently, historians and cultural anthropologists have tended to frame Freemasonry as a meaningful school for sociability and civic society formation rather than merely a secret channel for coordinated political action. This chapter uses the case study of Freemasonry to argue that Latin American independence was not a series of separate, nation-based events, but rather was connected, collaborative, and continental in scope by: () highlighting the personal friendships and Masonic connections among the generation of independence leaders, bridging nationality, language, and geographic space, () discussing membership in a Masonic lodge as an open-ended, fluid experience that shifted and changed along with political conditions, and () offering a new emphasis on the importance of Freemasonry as a vector for business, trade, and enterprise, including foreign investment, banking, and the emergence of various national publishing

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

industries – all of which were dominated by people with transatlantic Masonic connections. Freemasonry is a secretive, fraternal society that has its origins in the unexpected cross-class fusion of elite philosophical discussion clubs and working-class laborers’ mutual aid organizations in England in the seventeenth century. The name Freemasonry reflects the movement’s initial membership that brought together the building trades (stonemasons, carpenters, woodcutters) and educated middleclass professionals (physics, geometry, geology, astronomy, secular history). For this reason, many of the Freemasons’ most well-known symbols derive from their occupational tools: the square and compass, ladders, a hammer, an apron tool belt, the keystone of an arch, a blue cable tie, and a pyramid with an all-seeing eye. Freemasons deployed these items as powerful, public metaphors for their selfappointed mission to build a secular, proto-scientific new society that would be based on principles of reason, personal merit (not inherited social or economic status), constitutional order, equality before the law, moral rectitude, and charity toward all. In fact, the modern practice of laying and dedicating a cornerstone for a new building emanates from masonic symbolism. Freemasons’ beliefs and practices ranged across a broad spectrum from the divine and occult to the practical and service-oriented to the intensely political. All Freemasons, however, shared a belief in God or god-like entity who they called the Great Architect of the Universe and whose work on earth was reflected in geometrical harmony as revealed in the physical sciences of the material world. In political terms, Freemasons found harmony in a republican style of government, with its separation of jurisdictions and balance of power; although constitutional monarchies could, if structured well, serve the same goal by limiting the abuse of power and providing for universal improvement and moral rectitude. Freemasons saw themselves as a society of virtuous men working together for the general welfare and indeed, in some very concrete ways, they were. In other ways, however, Masonic organizations – particularly those in major urban centers – spawned their own, different kinds of race and class hierarchies through the imposition of expensive monthly dues, by requiring a personal introduction to join the sect, by using elaborate initiation rites with special regalia, with knowledge exams and mandatory fees as one ascended the thirty-three grades of the Masonic Order, and simply by needing leisure time to devote to the craft. Freemasons used code words to signal membership in their fraternity across distances. For example, if a letter of introduction used the word “particularly” (as in “I am particularly acquainted with . . .”), the recipient would know the person had been initiated as a mason and could be trusted. Swedish Freemasons typically added a cross (✛) to

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Fig. . The Masonic Chart. New York: Courrier and Ives, . Library of Congress Print Collection: .

their signatures, a habit other Masons in the multilingual, multicultural Caribbean also adopted. In general, illiterate folk, racialized Others, and women were functionally excluded from general membership, although Parisian women formed their own lodges during the early years of the French Revolution, and there was a strong African-American Freemason network in the major cities of the United States during the Early Republic. Neither of these constituencies seem to have played much of a role in Latin American Freemasonry, despite a few tantalizing hints of their existence provided in contemporary documents (see Fig. .).

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

The earliest historians of Freemasonry were Freemasons themselves. Part of their lore and identity was based on a historical genealogy which they traced back to Hiram Abiff, the chief architect of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem who was murdered when he refused to violate his professional oath of secrecy. For this reason, Freemasonry draws its authority from historical lineages and make truthclaims based on the idea of universally accessible Reason that has been revealed over time. Well into the twentieth century, both liberal and conservative historians viewed Freemasonry as a quasi-religious conspiratorial secret society similar to the Knights Templar or the Jewish kabbalah, although they had vastly different ideological interpretations of its goals and purpose. Across Latin America, nineteenth-century liberal historians like Bartolomé Mitre, Miguel Luis Amunátegui, Diego Barros Arana, and Lorenzo Montúfar saw Freemasons as heroes – “the ideological motor of independence” – and praised them as the champions of liberty, fraternity, equality, reason, education, republics, and revolution. In contrast, their Catholic and conservative counterparts like Francisco Antonio Encina, Lucas Alamán, and José María Luis Mora considered lodge activity to have been divisive; some opponents even went so far as to locate Freemasons along the spectrum of spiritual sins from the merely heretical to the outright demonic and considered them to be the “enemy of the altar and throne.” Paul Rich and Guillermo de los Reyes Heredia have modernized the argument and describe Latin American Freemasonry in the independence era as “a school of government for political preparation,” meaning that practitioners gained experience in complex organization building and decision-making within constitutional structures. Since the s, professional historians have undertaken serious archival work related to Freemasonry and have started to consider it as a more complex political, social, and cultural phenomenon. In , French historian Maurice Agulhon wrote an influential book that documented the social composition of French Freemasons as workers, penitents, and community members and argued that Freemasonry was an early form of democratic sociability. This interpretation has influenced the current generation of scholars of Latin American and Caribbean Freemasonry including María Eugenia Vázquez Semadeni, Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo, and Guillermo de los Reyes. Historian Margaret Jacob understands Freemasonry as part of a global intellectual and scientific movement that grew out of Newtonian philosophy and the reordering of humans’ place in the natural world. In her early work, Jacob coined the phrase “Radical Enlightenment,” which stressed that the Freemasons were just one group among many that emerged between  and  with an interest in constitutional practices, experimental science and materiality, self-help organizational structures, and community service.

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Background and Origins

Freemasonry as an organized, intentional association of like-minded brothers in service of an ideal has both a mythical, millenarian origin story and a very specific foundational date rooted in a particular historical context. Masonic lore hearkens back to Jesus’s professional as a humble carpenter and recognizes Hieronymus (St. Jerome) as its founding father. On more solid evidentiary ground, others locate Freemasonry’s formal origins in medieval Scotland, where descendants of the Knights Templar had taken refuge from Catholic persecution in the early fourteenth century; this would be the origin of the Scottish Rite tradition. Certainly the post-Reformation decades brought the rise of lay organizations of many types, including professional guilds, mutual-aid societies, drinking clubs, and more. Modern historians, however, date the coalescence of an entity that later became recognizable as the Masonic Grand Lodge in the s, when guilds of working masons and stonecutters in Scotland, running short of funds began to open their membership to outsiders in hopes of attracting patrons and financial resources. They were quickly joined by upper- and middle-class, educated men with interests in the new natural and physical sciences, which included geometry, math, astronomy mysticism, and secular history. In practice, though, Freemasonry should be dated from the foundation of the Great Lodge of London in . In , James Anderson compiled their rituals and principles in a foundational document called The Constitution of the FreeMasons, which reveals its early character as “an aggressively royalist” fraternity whose leadership had a distinctly British view of legal codes, procedural order, and the Newtonian logic of social relations. The Masonic movement spread quickly throughout the British Isles and across the English Channel to the European Continent, where its popularity provoked a backlash among nervous princelings and the Catholic Church hierarchy because of its appropriation and redeployment of many elements of Christianity. In , Pope Clement XII issued the Papal bull In Eminenti which officially banned Masonic lodges and prohibited Catholics from joining, aiding or participating in what he called a “highly suspicious association.” Beginning in , religious and secular authorities both emitted a flurry of hostile edicts against Freemasonry and its practitioners. Pope Benedict XIV issued a bull called Providas Romanorum that threatened Freemasons with excommunication. Shortly afterward, Charles VII of Naples banned the sect in territory under his control and Ferdinand VI did the same in Spain and its dominions. In his royal edict, Ferdinand archly described Freemasonry as “something suspicious to Religion and the State and . . . inconvenient to my authority.” Historian María Eugenia Vázquez Semadeni notes that the backlash against Freemasonry reflected elites’ fears

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

manifesting in what she calls “theory of the plot”; indeed, similar accusations of membership in shadowy international conspiracies also were launched against Jews, Protestants, atheists, and racialized Others. Predictably, elites charged that Freemasonry was subversive, threatened state security, assumed for itself powers granted by no established authority and that by arrogantly creating its own rituals, it mocked religious rituals and thus was deeply heretical. Anti-Masonic rhetoric and action in the Iberian Peninsula and the Americas preceded any meaningful presence of the Freemasons themselves. There are hints that Masons may have been operating in the merchant and military enclaves of Gibraltar as early as . In , a person named Alejandro French was accused in Madeira of having been initiated into a lodge in Boston and became the first person to face an Inquisition trial on a charge of being a Freemason. In the s, Portuguese police regularly rousted, arrested, interrogated, and tortured men suspected of being Masons, the most famous being the Inquisition trial of John Coustos, a Swiss businessman who joined a Scottish Rite lodge in London, relocated to Lisbon and was persecuted for trying to establish a lodge there. In , Fray Joseph Torrubia published a sustained attack on the Masonic order in Italy that was translated to Spanish and published the next year under the title Centinela contra fracmasones; this tract was widely disseminated among literate population on both sides of the Atlantic and was still being reprinted by the Catholic press well into the s. Historian Brian Hamnett found no evidence that Masonic sociability had much of a profile in Spain until the s when high-level government reformists themselves encouraged it as a vector for the dissemination useful knowledge and the establishment of commercial networks. It is not a coincidence that Luso-Hispanic lodges sprang up in port cities with a strong connection to transatlantic trade (Lisbon, Porto, Cádiz, La Coruña, Barcelona, Veracruz, Havana, Cartagena, Salvador da Bahia, Rio de Janeiro), and in military regiments and garrison towns; both demographics had practical reasons to embrace nonreligious, para-social communities and had regular contact with foreign people and ideas. Other prominent figures in the Iberian Enlightenment seemed to have been similarly inclined. In , the Peruvian, Pablo de Olavide, a close friend of the conde de Campomanes and occasional adviser to Charles III, was tried and sentenced by the Inquisition as a “major heretic” when his plans to reform the land tenure and university systems bumped up against entrenched interests. Olavide was sent to a monastery in Sahagún to serve his sentence and Denis Diderot took up his cause, calling him “a martyr to fanaticism.” And yet, Freemasonry itself continued to operate semiopenly at the highest levels of government. In , the same year that Olavide escaped prison and fled to France, Spanish lodges emancipated themselves from English oversight and formed their own Gran Oriente Español whose Grand Master

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was the prime minister, the conde de Aranda. In Portugal, the chief minister, Marquis de Pombal, also tolerated the presence of Freemasons among the British expatriate merchant community. He recognized that the Masonic sect with its commitment to science and reason to improve material conditions could be a wealthy, well-connected, secular ally in his efforts to dislodge the Jesuits from a prominent role in public life. Freemasonry in the s: The French and Luso Atlantics

Hipólito José da Costa was a Brazilian-born lawyer living in Philadelphia as an agent for the Portuguese minister of the Navy and Overseas Dominions, Dom Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, the conde de Linhares during the s when he was inducted into the Washington Lodge No. . In , da Costa travelled to London with the cover story of buying a modern typeset press for the Portuguese crown’s printing arm, the Impressão Régia de Lisboa, but he also had a secret mission to affiliate four Portuguese lodges – Virtue, Concord, Union, and Love of Reason – with the central headquarters of the British Grand Orient. At the meeting held in London on May , , da Costa secured the connection and a further promise to “grant relief to Portuguese brethren of good character in distress in England.” Just three days after his return to Lisbon at the end of July , da Costa’s former patron Linhares ordered him arrested and his papers seized. Da Costa was locked up in a police dungeon for six months before being handed over to the Inquisition in January . Da Costa’s Inquisition trial stretched intermittently over three years during which he was found guilty of lèse-majesté, treason, and spreading seditious material. In his memoir, da Costa described himself as “a witness of the manner in which Justice is administered in Portugal” and promised to meet rumor and calumny, as a Freemason would, with “a simple narrative of facts” including relevant “legal and historical quotations.” When the Philadelphia certificate was found among his papers, da Costa did not deny his membership, claiming that he had joined merely out of curiosity and to make connections with the most respectable members of American society. Furthermore, he pointed out, there was no Portuguese law against Freemasonry, “it being a natural consequence of civil liberty that every man should enjoy the moral faculty of doing everything which is not prohibited by laws.” Upon his release, da Costa fled to London where he wrote a lurid bestseller called Narrative of the Persecution of Hippolyto Joseph Da Costa . . . Imprisoned and Tried, In Lisbon, by the Inquisition, for the Pretended Crime of Free-Masonry. Appealing to rational minds everywhere, da Cunha railed against:

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

The evil designs of the Inquisition are in nothing more apparent than in their zeal to perpetuate ignorance. All the world knows, that after they had formed a large, prohibitory catalogue of a multitude of books, they then extended their restraint to all books whatever, written by an heretic. Soon, however, not satisfied with this, they proceeded to such lengths as to prohibit any book printed in any office . . . so that at last, scarcely any book remained (or rather was permitted) to be read.

His book acted like a firecracker, rapidly being translated and igniting sparks of indignation throughout Europe and the Americas. Da Costa became one of the modern world’s first and most famous political exiles, spending decades in London as the editor of the influential monthly magazine, El Correio Braziliense, which circulated throughout the Americas and spread ideas about scientific material improvements and the benefits of constitutional government. He also enjoyed a close, lifelong friendship with his patron and fellow Mason, King George III’s sixth son, Prince Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex and eventually ascended to the rank of Grand Master Mason for the English county of Rutlandshire. Through the travels, personal networks, and publication of people like da Costa, Freemasonry facilitated the transatlantic spread of revolutionary ideas during the s and s. Brazilian students at universities in Coimbra, Montpellier, Perpignan, and Edinburgh in the s and s returned home with a new, more cosmopolitan understanding of the world and, in more than a few cases, having been inducted into Masonic lodges while abroad. A Carmelite friar named Miguel Arruda da Câmara, for example, came from Europe and founded a paraMasonic secret society called Areópago de Itambé in Pernambuco in the s. The personnel of several other para-Masonic fraternal associations have been linked to the two major anticolonial revolts of the s: the Inconfidência Mineira of –, and the Conspiracy of the Tailors of . In , Freemasons Vicente Guedes da Silva and Francisco Álvaro da Silva Freire returned to Rio de Janeiro after seven years engaging in trade in Mozambique and were immediately arrested when they were found to have print material advocating republican ideas in their luggage. By  there were established lodges operating in Rio de Janeiro and Niterói, both affiliated with the French Oriente, and four others based in Lisbon with typical Masonic names like: Love and Reason, Virtue, Concord, and Union, all of which had triangular connections with merchants and traders in Britain, Brazil, and Africa. Freemasonry, with its roots in mutual-aid organizations, was an important mechanism through which residents of French Caribbean colonies, especially Saint-Domingue, connected with each other and sought help and refuge in the aftermath of the French and Haitian Revolutions. Between  and , at least

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sixty Freemasons who had fled from Saint-Domingue resettled in Santiago de Cuba, reconstituted their lodge, and petitioned for recertification from the French Grand Oriente. Another exile group established themselves at Baracoa and before long, there were nearly a dozen Masonic lodges dotted across the island dedicated to helping fellow refugees settle, find employment, and sustain community ties. The names of these exiles’ lodges reflect their identity and sense of loss: the “Reunion of the Hearts of Jérémie Lodge” and the “Reunion of the French American Hearts of Port-au-Prince Lodge.” As the ,–, refugees from Saint-Domingue resettled throughout the Caribbean Basin region, including coastal South America, New Orleans, Norfolk, and as far north as Philadelphia, they founded more than thirty Masonic lodges. By , there were at least six other Spanishdominated Masonic lodges in Cuba that received their charters from the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania, and which facilitated the movement of personnel, goods, and ideas along that route. Francisco de Miranda and the British Connection

In , many of the British naval officers who invaded Buenos Aires were Freemasons. They founded several lodges in the Río de la Plata region to help influence locals in their favor (linked to their newspaper, The Southern Star). Around the same time, the famous Venezuelan precursor to Spanish American independence, Francisco de Miranda, was using his home in London as a conspiratorial base from which he could both gather and disseminate information. Miranda most certainly befriended many Freemasons during his tours throughout the United States and Europe and could have received his own initiation in one of many cities: Washington, Philadelphia, New York, London, Paris, or Moscow; some scholars even claim he was initiated into the French lodge by the marquis de Lafayette in the s. One thing is certain. By , Miranda was openly identifying himself as the Grand Master of a London-based Masonic lodge he called the Gran Reunión Americana (Great American Reunion), sometimes identified as the Logia de los Caballeros Racionales (Lodge of Rational Gentlemen) and confused with a Cádizbased lodge of the same name. Although one historian has characterized it as a purely political association dedicated to the twin aims of independence and republicanism, it is clear from contemporary captured correspondence and later-in-life interviews with lodge members that its adherents did observe the oaths, rituals, and graded hierarchies of a genuine Masonic brotherhood. Miranda’s London lodge, like so much of his activities, served the cause of emancipation by creating an interconnected continental network of like-minded patriotic men who drew on each other’s friendship, inspiration, refuge, and material resources for the next

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

twenty years. Oddly enough, although the famous Libertador Simón Bolívar met Miranda in London in summer  while on a diplomatic mission, there is not much reliable evidence that he joined Miranda’s lodge – or any other Masonic entity – or even that the sect represented anything more meaningful to him than a practical vehicle for network building and masculine sociability for a life spent on and around battlefields. Between  and , many young Americans soldiers in Spanish service congregated at Cádiz where they followed the debates taking place at the Cortes. Cádiz was a notoriously liberal port city with a vigorous press culture and home to many Spanish Masonic lodges including “Tolerance and Fraternity,” “Legality,” and one whose name, “The Sons of Oedipus” was a not-very-subtle nod to the exiled Ferdinand VII, who had ousted his father, Charles IV, from the Spanish throne in  and handed the crown to the Bonapartes shortly afterward. Eventually, the Spanish Americans formed their own lodge under the umbrella title of the Caballeros Racionales and then took the movement back to their own home regions: Cuba (José Álvarez de Toledo, Andrés Arango, José Sotolonga, the marqués de San Felipe y Santiago), Mexico (Servando Teresa de Mier, Tadeo Ortiz de Ayala, Miguel Santamaría), Buenos Aires and Chile (Carlos María de Alvear, José de San Martín, Ramón Eduardo de Anchoris, Manuel Rodrigo, Luis Velasco), and New Granada (José María Vergara, Juan Batrés). Their motto – “Union, Firmness, Valor” – appears in pamphlets, pronouncements, manifestoes, and newspaper articles throughout Spanish America during the independence era and is a coded signal that an author likely had a Masonic connection. Álvarez de Toledo, for example, was a secret agent for the patriot side before until he betrayed his friends and become a royalist spy; he regularly, signed his vitriolic early pamphlets with masonic mottos, symbols and punctuation and used Masonic membership to gain trust and access to important people in various cities. In  and , some of these Cádiz initiates passed through London, where they visited Miranda at his Grafton Street home, met other Spanish American residents, and received induction into his Gran Reunión Americana lodge. A royalist cruiser captured some of their home-going correspondence on a mail packet near Puerto Rico. In one, Argentine Alvear sent a letter to his Masonic “brother” Rafael Mérida in Caracas, expressing gratitude for having “slipped away from the tyrants’ power” in Spain and promising to work together for the independence of the Americas. Alvear mentioned that American Lodge No.  had been incorporated in London and was continental in scope. Its members were: Argentines Carlos and José Matías Zapiola, José de San Martín and Vicente Chilavert; Mexicans Servando Teresa de Mier and the marqués del Apartado; Guatemalan Wenceslao Villaurrutia; and Venezuelans Luis López Méndez and Andrés Bello. The letter opened with the

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standard motto “Union, Firmness, Valor, Health” and closed with the Masonic abbreviation, “C.. A.. V.. P..,” which suggests Alvear had ascended to the fifth grade. Méndez sent a letter to the government of Venezuela’s First Republic that contained a long and detailed description of the current state of European politics; he also informed the secretary of state that it was unlikely that Britain would do much for their fledgling republic at that moment. Méndez used typical Masonic language when he recommended that “the Venezuelan provinces must band together for security in their perfect union, and constant firmness and valor.” The Venezuelan Republic fell in , leaving Méndez and others stranded abroad but the personal friendships and Masonic continental networks continued to serve as important channels for communication, logistics, inspiration, and refuge over the next twenty years. The Lautaro Lodge in the Río de la Plata and Chile

South American soldiers returned home to Buenos Aires where they organized the famous Lautaro Lodge, a Masonic network that helped unite the independence armies in Argentina and Chile and whose members played a central role in the early stages of constitution-making and state-building in the newly emancipated countries. José de San Martín, José Matías Zapiola, and Carlos María de Alvear (known within Argentine Masonry as the Triangle) founded the Lautaro Lodge in Buenos Aires in mid . They invoked the name of Lautaro, the sixteenth-century Araucanian indigenous resistance leader who fought against the Spanish invaders and whose name had become synonymous with patriotism, martial masculinity, and national independence. One of the Lautaros’ symbols was the Inca sun, an image that neatly blended an old Masonic signifier of divine energy and a new dawn with the creole embrace of an idealized American indigeneity harnessed to the patriotic cause. The lodge itself remains the subject of a long and highly-contested debate over its true nature – whether it was a genuine Masonic entity or not – but without question, Lautaro Lodge members exhibited a Masonic ethos and ethic even if the group never obtained a formal charter of affiliation. It had a constitution, a system of thirty-three grades, arcane and eccentric initiation rituals, and used nomenclature that was identical to Masonic notations. Members signed their correspondence and proclamations with abbreviations such as “U.. F.. y V..,” meaning Union, Firmness, and Virtue, and referred to other members in text as H: for Hermano, or Brother. Top secret documents used the Masonic global signature O—O. On the other hand, the Lautaro Lodge does not seem to have had a substantial philanthropic or parasocial component that was standard in European Masonic institutional structures,

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

and for that reason Chilean historian Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo has characterized them as a sort of Jacobin Club instead. If the Lautaro Lodge was not a formally chartered, fully committed lodge, it certainly adopted its forms and structures to build transnational solidarity and operational security through membership in a proto-Masonic patriotic secret society. Argentine general José de San Martín, leader of the Army of the Andes which liberated both Chile and Peru, was a Lautaro member and a man of his word. He forever maintained his oath of silence and never spoke of the lodge’s membership or practices. San Martín’s lifelong friend, Matías Zapiola, however, at the age of ninetyfour, sat for a long interview with historian Bartolomé Mitre and answered many of the historian’s questions about the Lautaro Lodge and its role in the emancipation movements in Argentina and Chile. According to Zapiola, the Cádiz lodge, Miranda’s London lodge, and the Lautaro Lodge all used the same, explicitly democratic and political oath of initiation. Members of the first grade promised to work for American independence; upon ascent to the second grade, they swore to “not to recognize as a legitimate government of the Americas any but that which was chosen by the free and spontaneous will of the people, and to work for the foundation of a republican system.” Zapiola remembered that the lodge’s constitution required any member who became part of a central or provincial government to consult with the Lautaros to promulgate their agenda and to found satellite branches in the territory under their control. Zapiola even claimed that twenty-five of thirty-four members of the  General and Sovereign Constituent Assembly (also called the Assembly of the Year XIII) were active Freemasons, and that their influence can be seen both in the form and legislative acts of the new government (republicanism, abolition of both the slave trade and the Inquisition, declaration of the freedom of religion, and suppression of noble titles) and its chosen national symbols (sun, blue and white colors, omniscient eye, building tools). As an organization created by military men operating in a time of war, one historian has argued that the Lautaro Lodge’s “central objective is to control the organs of government” and to “discipline the revolutionary elite to avoid the emergence of factions.” That unity served them only until  or so, when the sect fractured along personalist lines during the tense period –, and finally broke down altogether in . Lodge member Miguel Zañartu wrote to Chilean supreme director Bernardo O’Higgins to tell him that “everyone hates San Martín and sees in him an enemy of the Society . . . they attribute the people’s uprising and the country’s disgrace to him. I really think they are going to burn him in effigy.” By , the Lautaro Lodge ceased to have any cohesion or meaning as the various factions emerged. Juan José Pueyrredón, Carlos María de Alvear, and Manuel

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Belgrano each assumed leadership of a para-social political organization in Argentina. In Chile, José Miguel Carrera, who had joined the American St. John’s Lodge, first degree, at Tammany Hall in New York in , challenged O’Higgins, who had been affiliated with English-style Freemasonry since his residence in London in . These Masonic affiliations translated into political alliances as well; in , Carrera had allied with the American consul, Joel Roberts Poinsett (who also invoked his Masonic credibility to meddle in Mexican politics in the s), while O’Higgins brought British naval officer Admiral Thomas Dundonald, Lord Cochrane, and dozens of other British naval and mining personnel to bolster his regime in the s. San Martín embarked northward with his Liberating Expedition to Peru and had more immediate tactical and supply concerns. By December , Zañartu informed O’Higgins of the existence of a new Lodge that would exclude traitors and those of bad faith, specifically naming their former brothers Pueyrredón, Juan Pedro Aguirre, Julián Álvarez, Manuel Luis de Oliden, Pedro Lezica, Manuel Pinto, José Rondeau, and Matías Yrigoyen. The next year, he reported that “another lodge has grown out of our extinguished O—O,” which was made up of the governor and secretaries of Buenos Aires province, clerics José Eusebio Agüero, Antonio Sáenz and José Nicolás Ortiz de Ocampo, the journalist Ramón Eduardo de Anchoris, and a few other secular types including “the useless [Juan Florencio] Terrada.” As late as , a branch claiming lineage from the original Lautaro Lodge operated in Montevideo and called itself The Lodge of Brotherhood. In the independence era, the Lautaro Lodge, both as an organized entity and as an aspirational vision, remained a patriotic, powerful symbol, membership in which signaled an adherence to the new republican, cosmopolitan, constitutional order and transcended geographic or national space. Constitutions, Conspirators, and Commerce in the Caribbean Basin in the s

There can be no doubt that Masonic lodges were vectors for the diffusion of news about events elsewhere in the Atlantic world and also were hubs where like-minded individuals devoted to the new science and political experimentation could meet, collaborate, and conspire. New Orleans, Haiti, Cuba, the Yucatán Peninsula, and the Caribbean island coastal hangouts of insurgent privateers were home to an interconnected commercial system that used Masonic membership to vouch for one’s trustworthiness and political affiliations and facilitate financial transactions. The Cuban Freemasons, like their counterparts in Buenos Aires, tended to be white, middle-class merchants, professionals and mid-ranking military officers who sought

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

freer access to markets, ideas, and movement. Joaquín Infante, liberal author of the first constitution written on Cuban soil, was a lawyer and a fiscal agent in Havana who had lobbied actively for loosened trade restrictions with the United States and elsewhere and who was deeply implicated in the island’s Masonic-inflected conspiratorial movements. While the rest of continental Spanish America experienced republican revolts and open warfare between  and , Cuba was a small island citadel that remained firmly under the control of the crown and so it was particularly risky to engage in conspiratorial or Masonic activities there. On October , , three government officials, along with ten military men from the naval outpost awakened Lieutenant José Peñaranda in his bed at  , arrested him, and seized all his papers. He was taken before Oidor D. José Antonio Ramos and charged with lèse-majesté, high treason, and crimes against the state. Crown agents hammered at Peñaranda, demanding that he reveal the extent of a plot against the government including the names of his co-conspirators. For the next five weeks, Peñaranda asserted his innocence and instead railed against the cruel treatment he was receiving in a state of illegal imprisonment. By late November, Peñaranda finally acknowledged that he was aware of Masonic activity, but diverted suspicion to a silversmith and foreign sea captain who were, conveniently, no longer present on the island. He claimed that he himself had always counselled friends to steer clear of the lodges and requested a passage to Spain to clear his name because, now that he had been accused of such an atrocious affiliation, he feared “the public vexations of the mob who speak of arrestees as subjects worthy of general contempt for having plotted against Religion and the Government.” Almost exactly one year later, in October , and right after the news of the Hidalgo Revolt in Mexico arrived on the island, rumors of the Masonic plot resurfaced. Paranoid crown officials moved against Peñaranda’s associates and this time the trials were both swifter and more severe. Militia captain Ramón de la Luz was sentenced to ten years in a Spanish fortress-prison followed by “an absolute and perpetual prohibition on residence in Americas” ever again. Captain Luis Basave received eight years and a similar lifetime ban. José María Montano, Francisco Álvarez, and Gabriel Pantaleón de Ercazti each received three-month custodial sentences and fines. Manuel Ramírez was banished to Spain and many others were convicted in absentia. Several free black militia members were also implicated and colonial officials’ fears of race riots mean that they received the most severe punishment despite having the least culpability: First Sargeant Ramón Espinosa, Second Sargent Juan José Gonzales, Corporal Buenaventura Cervantes, and soldier Carlos de Flores who each received ten years in the presidio, were shackled with a ball and chain and denied salary for three years. The slaves, Juan Ignacio González and Laureano [Infante], received the harshest treatment of all: eight years hard labor

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Karen Racine

in chains at the presidio and a public-facing exemplary humiliation of  lashes in the street and fifty more while tied to the pillory. Infante managed to dodge the authorities and used his Masonic networks to escape to New Orleans, then went via Jamaica to Caracas where the existence of the new autonomous republican junta promised safe harbor for freethinkers. There, Infante’s Venezuelan brothers validated his professional credentials and secured him a job as Auditor of War at the Navy in Puerto Cabello. On July , , Infante was taken prisoner alongside fellow Masons and held at the dungeon of the Castillo de San Felipe before being returned to Havana to answer for his role in the  conspiracy. His trial began on October ,  with a long list of charges, including one that characterized him as “a second Robespierre.” Eventually, the case was dismissed for lack of concrete evidence, but the crown’s perception of Infante as an ongoing threat remained. His draft constitution for Cuba was dated  but printed in Venezuela in  and circulated clandestinely. Among the  clauses included in Infante’s constitutional design, those that deal with religion show a marked Masonic influence, including the establishment of full religious toleration, the requirement that priests wear regular civilian clothes, and desire to Cubanize the church by situating its head office locally. Sometime later, Infante was rearrested in Puerto Príncipe (now Camagüey), put on trial, and turned over to Spanish authorities to be transported to Ceuta for the crime of being a Freemason. Infante remained a highly mobile, active, and influential figure around the margins of Caribbean conspiratorial action in the s. His black coachman, Laureano [Infante], was one of the few enslaved men whose participation in Cuba’s Aponte rebellion of  was significant enough to result in a jail sentence. Indeed, there is some evidence of a connection between Afrodescended black cofradías (brotherhoods or mutual aid organizations) and their para-Masonic activity, although the lodges themselves tended to be racially segregated. By , Infante had been released from Ceuta and returned to the United States where he joined Francisco Xavier Mina’s expedition to liberate Mexico. He served as the General’s press secretary in charge of drafting proclamations and supervising the printer. Mina’s personal correspondence and public proclamations from this period often close with a very Masonic sounding phrase “Health and Liberty,” causing speculation that he was a practitioner. At the same time, and also in the Caribbean theater, other secret societies existed that were Masonic or para-Masonic in their structure and activities. The most wellknown was a group called Los Guadalupes, which was particularly active in supporting the insurgency in central Mexico from –. In the wake of the Hidalgo Revolt, a conspiratorial cell disguised as a social club formed at the hacienda of Manuel Díaz and Antonia Peña on the outskirts of Mexico City and drew its

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

support from the middle-class, professional, and urban sectors. Known members included a sizable number of prominent lawyers, merchants, and intellectuals, such as Juan Wenceslao Barquero, Anastasio Zerecero, José María Llave, and Juan Nazario Peimbert; others suspected of allegiance were Audiencia judge José María Fagoaga, canon of the Metropolitan Church José María Alcalá, Veracruz merchant Tomás Morphy, Dionisio Cano Moctezuma, Carlos María de Bustamante, Andrés Quintana Roo and his wife Leona Vicario, and José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi, the author of the first Mexican novel. Their network of spies was extensive and crossed race and class divisions, including a mestizo strolling mandolin player called “blind Andrés,” a guard at the San Cosme sentry port, and a viceregal secretary named Joaquín Torres Torrija who made copies of important government documents and gave the patriotic cause an information advantage. The Guadalupes functioned as a pre-political, para-Masonic social aid group that provided crucial early material support and intellectual solidarity for the proindependence factions while they were on the run. They used their money and positions to acquire and smuggle arms, offered material support to patriots (and their families), provided a network of safe houses, and seated autonomist partisans among Mexico’s delegation to the Cortes of Cádiz. Their most notorious public influence, however, was deploying the print medium to influence public opinion. Early in , the Guadalupes bought a printing press that their wives delivered to rebel general Ignacio Rayón; apparently the women were able to prevent their carriage being searched along the way by accusing royalist inspectors of trying to violate them. Royalists captured correspondence between anonymous partisans using the pseudonym Los Guadalupes and patriot leader José María Morelos in that year, which gave rise to their collective designation on official records. The group’s activities tapered off after a series of setbacks in : the return of Ferdinand VII to the throne and the end of the constitutional order, royalists’ defeat of Morelos, and Viceroy José María Calleja’s vigorous, violent, anti-insurgent crackdown. The stakes were high. Calleja considered Los Guadalupes to be criminals, hidden traitors and a league of rebels, in a summary of country conditions and promised the king that he would not permit anyone to “refuse to obey its legitimate sovereign while I yet live and am responsible for its preservation, even though it may become necessary for the country to suffer blood and fire until the infamous ones are annihilated and the flag of the Spanish monarchy is planted everywhere.” In the mid s, therefore, the center of Masonic activity in Mexico shifted to the Jalapa and Mérida, both of which had its close commercial and shipping relationships to Veracruz, New Orleans, Havana, Kingston, and other Atlantic ports. If Los Guadalupes had functioned as a pre- or para-Masonic organization, these groups were formally constituted lodges that received their charters from

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Grand Orientes based in Cádiz and Philadelphia. Those affiliated with the Caballeros Racionales lodge in Cádiz tended to be military officers who had trained in Spain, had their consciousness raised by fellow Americans, and then returned to Mexico while still in royal service. By , a fully functioning chartered Masonic lodge existed in Jalapa, headed by the recently returned canon priest, Ramón Cardeña, Vicente Acuna, and two officers in the Regimiento de Lobera named Juan Bautista Ortiz and Evaristo Fiallo. This group was more heterogeneous and working class than Los Guadalupes, including a notary, a watchmaker, a pharmacists, a silversmith and at least two women attendees. Inquisition records, newspapers, and personal correspondence indicate the existence of at least three other lodges established in New Spain’s port cities during the later s: The Reunited Friends No.  in Veracruz (), The Meeting of Virtue No.  in Campeche (), and the most active and well known, The Aurora No.  in Mérida (). Constitutionalists and Freemasonry in the s

The return of the liberal constitutionalist order in Spain and Portugal in  had tremendous repercussions in the Americas. Once again, a representative, deliberative body convened and restored the freedoms of the Cádiz era, most notably freedom of the press. As a result, pro-emancipation factions and entrenched royalist authorities both energetically renewed their political activities. As David Murray noted, Cuba was “the staging post for any potential recovery of the lost colonies,” so it should not be surprising that the island was also a hub of espionage, conspiracy, counterconspiracy and imperial paranoia. Havana’s Patriotic Society, backed by Bishop Juan José Díaz de Espada – a man rumored to be soft on seditious pamphlets and possibly a Freemason himself – sponsored the establishment of a University Chair to teach constitutional law and governance. It was filled by the independenceminded Catholic prelate, Father Félix Varela, who and trained  young jurists in the so-called class of liberty before he left to take up a seat in the Cortes of Cádiz. By , there were more than a dozen Masonic fraternities in Cuba, most of which received their patents from lodges in Philadelphia or New Orleans. Their names reveal their orientation and aspirations: The Temple of the Divine Shepherdess No. , Delights of Havana No. , Reward for Virtues No. , Rectitude No. , Constance No. , Union of Regulations No. , Fidelity of Havana No. , True Philanthropy No. , Benevolence No. , and so on. But the Masonic movement was as conflicted, fragmented, and paranoid as the society from which it sprang. The Havana’s Grand Oriente was acutely aware of the danger of appearing to support seditious or separatist movements in a society where the use

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

enslaved African labor was dramatically expanding and white planters’ racial fears were stoked. In , it printed a notice for all affiliates which reminded them that “The Grand Lodge, in one of its regulatory articles, promises to work for the common tranquility. Their sworn, sacred oath obligates all Masons to respect and obey the laws of the country in which they reside.” Another Masonic pamphlet, printed on the lodge’s own in-house press and operated by enslaved typesetters, appeared to uphold the traditional structures of authority. Using a common Masonic metaphor, the author compared his textual project to the process of erecting a monument and engraving it with the names of the current members of Havana’s ayuntamiento (town council) and their contributions to universal history. The pamphlet’s twenty-eight short elegies to these rational heroic men, all of whom were praised effusively for their devotion to the constitution. But the tone of the pamphlet is excessively obsequious, claiming that “an astrologist told me that to sketch such a regidor [town councilor], one could not find his equal among all the inhabitants of the planetary system.” In the final mini biography, that of Ayuntamiento Secretary Licenciado Francisco Sánchez del Prado, the anonymous author taunts readers – and the establishment – that he, in fact, may be the anonymous author and knows first-hand that “the Constitution, in the hands of these hare-brained men, is like a razor in the hands of a boy, who hacks away at his face wanting to be as handsome as an adult.” The author also dedicated his labors to future historians of Cubanacán, which was the name of the fictive future republic of Cuba that existed in the minds of the island’s Masonic conspirators. Along with liberal and conservative lodges, there was also some ethnic fragmentation and national rivalry discernible in the membership of different Caribbean lodges. For example, Joseph de Glock tried to entice some Cuban lodges to affiliate with the Grand Orient of France by offering lower fees and greater benefits. Other, more locally identified dissident Masons attempted to form their own Grand Lodge of the Island in Cuba in June  to be affiliated with the York Rite based in Philadelphia. Generally speaking, the Cuban Masonic movement radicalized with each passing year. In April , an issue of the periodical titled El Esquife Constitucional included a Masonic document, replete with secret typographic codes and signed by “El Filantrópico Manuel Bernardo Lorenzana” and the not-verybrotherly motto of “Constitution or Death!” Several hemispheric figures with Masonic connections and republican sympathies spent time in Cuba either as exiles or travelers in the early s including: Ecuadorean Vicente Rocafuerte, Mexicans Servando Teresa de Mier and Miguel Ramos Arizpe, Peruvian Manuel Lorenzo Vidaurre, and Colombian José Fernández de Madrid. These men moved freely between the United States, Cuba, Mexico, and South America and all were active

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members of their respective countries’ similar congressional constitution-writing projects of the s. In July , Captain General Francisco Dionisio Vives was quite aware of the escalating political turmoil in Spain as conservative ultra-royalists were dislodging, jailing, and exiling the liberal constitutionalist sympathizers and so he declined to act on an order to permit more open discussion of ideas and the formation of political association. Ironically, as the historian David Sartorius notes, Vives acted out of fear of the blacks and pardos, and yet it was the middle-class, professional urban whites who had initiated an anti-government, pro-independence conspiracy that has come to be known by the name of their Masonic lodge Los Soles y Rayos de Bolívar (The Suns and Rays of Bolívar). Its leader was Francisco Lemus, an audacious character who fought with Bolívar in the Colombian theater; although by  Bolívar was occupied by the war in Peru and appears to have had no substantive interaction with the Soles y Rayos movement that invoked his name. Lemus styled himself general of the independent Republic of Cubanacán and used a network of lodges throughout the country to build support for the movement. Adherents could identify themselves to each other and signal their allegiance through a series of code words, gestures and dress, such as by wearing a hat with a small feather and a coat with a ribbon of the same color. One letter sent from Havana, replete with cryptic Masonic punctuation and dated A. L.  (Anno Lucis, meaning Year of Light, or ) accompanied copies of pamphlets being sent to an affiliate lodge in Trinidad and instructions for their use at the meeting. The idea of an independent Cuba been circulating for quite some time, but the relaxed restrictions on publication during the – Liberal Triennium, coupled with constant news of republicans’ successes on the continent, gave confidence to those who wanted to make it happen. In Cuba, Masonic lodges took the leading role not just in diffusing ideas throughout the island but also in recruiting new members and building fraternal solidarity. Lemus’s conspiratorial movement had bases in Matanzas, Guanabacoa, and San Antonio. The Soles y Rayos de Bolívar Conspiracy called for Cuba’s independence and the formation of a republic. Its main demographic support came from white Cuban men, who were clearly aware of the contradictions of a liberation movement that did not extend its definition of freedom and citizenship to people of color. Nevertheless, they faced intense hostility from the white planter class who warned fellow residents that the Soles y Rayos “traitors” were planning a race war like the one that had engulfed Haiti, which was a living memory for many French refugees on the island and their Cuban hosts. In the end, it was their timidity that sealed their fate. In the latter months of , acting upon tips from slaves, servants, and apprehensive working-class people, imperial authorities arrested  people, twenty-nine of whom were considered dangerous

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

enough to be sent to prisons across the ocean in Spain. Seventy-one people received fines ranging from –, pesos. Press censorship increased, police surveillance grew, and the range of ideas taught at universities narrowed as professors fled the country. The Masonic-inflected Soles y Rayos de Bolívar Conspiracy has been described as “the first large-scale challenge to Spanish rule in Cuba.” Freemasons, Empires, and Constitutions in the s

In all three Latin American countries that experienced an imperial interregnum in their transition from colony to nation – Haiti, Brazil, and Mexico – the Masonic orders participated actively as liberal journalists, legislators, or lobbyists. Furthermore, the tremendous pomp, ceremony, rich decorative style and clearly delineated ranks that had characterized imperial practice could get a new, more respectable makeover in the context of Masonic meetings, thus helping to smooth the social and visual transition between old and new regimes. As Jessica HarlandJacobs put it, Freemasonry was not a religion, but “it was fundamentally a religious institution” with an ethical system, rituals, symbols, dress, hierarchies, feast days, and a sense of divine mission. In Haiti, Masonic lodges played an important role in cementing some of the personal and professional networks that had been created during wartime. A series of printed Masonic handbooks, along with copies of meeting minutes and membership rosters from the – period show that the some of the country’s most important legislators were also part of the Cap-Haytien lodge, where they operated under the same sort of constitutional order, with attendant rites and regulations, as the political body they were also in the process of establishing. Their signatures indicate a strong and longstanding devotion to Freemasonry; Alexis Dupuy had reached the highest grade  (with use of the honorific title Sovereign of Sovereigns), while Pierre Lacroix, Jacques Simon, and Jean-Baptiste Filliâtre each had attained the penultimate grade  They and other senators such as Philémon Charlemagne, Augustin Achille, and Toussaint Toussaint debated policies and stood for elections to positions of authority in the lodge, and then went across the street and did the exact same thing in the Haitian government’s chambers. The Cap-Haytien lodge adhered to the Scottish Rite lodge operating under a charter from the English Grand Orient, an affiliation that is not surprising given the close connection that post-independent Haitian leaders had with British merchants, abolitionists, educators, and naval captains. In Brazil in , Freemasons in the Loja Comércio e Artes (Lodge of Commerce and Arts) were determined to create their own Brazilian Grand lodge, which they oddly named the Obediencia, separate from the Grande Oriente

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Lusitano sited in Lisbon. That was, of course, the same year that Brazil was elevated to the status of coequal kingdom in the Portuguese monarchy and the two national impulses are not unrelated. The major revolt in favor of an independent republic that erupted in Pernambuco  was, to a great degree, fomented by priests at the Olinda Seminary who operated a Masonic lodge in the same space. That very same year, on the other side of the ocean in Portugal, a decorated veteran of the Peninsular War, General Gomes Freire de Andrade was accused of being a conspiratorial Mason, tried, and summarily executed for the crime of lèse-majesté. It should not be surprising, then, that just as the military men who supported the Riego Revolt in Spain in  were both Freemasons and liberals, so too were the leaders of the Porto revolt in Portugal who demanded the return of their King from Brazil. In January , shortly after the declaration of the new Brazilian Empire, Dom Pedro’s agent José Bonifácio de Andrada e Silva manoeuvered himself into a position of authority in the Grande Oriente and worked to keep its members as loyal vassals of the crown. On May , Pedro himself received the Masonic title of Perpetual Defender of Brazil and operated a lodge-like entity out of the Palace, which José Bonifácio called the Apostolate of the Noble Order of the Knights of the Holy Cross, and which he modeled after the Italian Carbonari. True to form, the Brazilian Masons created their own constitutional order, known as the Régulateur da maçon, which set out the criteria for membership: attained the age of twenty-one years, a status as a free person or head of household, and people willing to vouchsafe his honor and virtue. Almost immediately, Brazilian Freemasonry split into two factions, a traditional one led by José Bonifácio and the palace, and another more radical group gathered around the outspoken republicans Joaquim Gonçalves Ledo and Father Januário Barbosa. In the year of intense politicking and debate leading up to the creation of the Brazilian Constitution in , membership in these two Masonic branches tended to overlap substantially with the factions vying for influence over the foundational document. United States consul Condy Raguet recognized the overlapping nature of the Masonic schism and the political factions of the Cortes. He reported to John Quincy Adams the words of a Padre deputy from Minas who rejected the emperor’s promise to accept a constitution as long as it preserved his station and dignity. The fiery priest shot back, “if we are to make only such a Constitution as he liked, he had better make one himself. It is for us to make the Constitution, and if he does not accept of it, he knows what course is open to him.” Raguet worried about the arrest of individuals merely for belonging to secret associations, observing that the people had a right peaceably to assemble in that way, and was astonished that such proceedings should have taken place, “immediately under the eye of the Emperor and his Ministers.” In the  Constitution, however, Dom Pedro and the traditionalists got their way and secured a sort of

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence

super-veto known as the moderating power, that could override the popular will in the name of general security. A very similar process occurred in Mexico in the wake of Agustín de Iturbide’s short-lived empire. With the establishment of federal republic under a new constitution in , Mexican Freemasonry, and the political spectrum, fractured along two lines. On the one side, the former Bourbonist party made up of mining and merchant elites and aristocratic landholders who favored a strong central government tended also to be members of the Scottish Rite Freemasons; on the other side, a more avowedly federalist and democratic group adhered to the York Rite Masonic practice. These factions certainly revealed themselves during the Constitutional Congress and its deliberations in , and they also manifested in external alliances. The Scottish Rite group, which included President Guadalupe Victoria and Nicolas Bravo, preferred to seek trade agreements and alliances with Great Britain through its agent, Henry George Ward; the York Rite group, including José María Alpuche e Infante, J. M. Tornel, Vicente Guerrero, Valentin Gómez Pedraza, and the printer Antonio J. Valdés, conspired with US diplomat Joel R. Poinsett and had their eyes fixed on fortunes to be made in the Texas territory. When Poinsett arrived in Mexico in , he had with him a box of trifles that included his Masonic insignia, and set about using Masonic meetings as covers for pro-American factional plotting. As one young historian described them, they were lodges in form but political parties in function. In this context, politicized Freemasonry reached its apogee in the particularly violent and murderous influence on the  presidential elections before settling into something more sociable, ceremonial, and respectable over the course of the nineteenth century. Freemasonry was a significant daily presence in the lives and livelihoods of Latin Americans during the independence era. As a transatlantic organization devoted to the advancement of fraternity, reason, liberty, and virtue, adherents could align themselves with something avowedly modern and aspirational that harnessed their own local movements to a transnational, or daresay even a universal, energy. As a secret society, Masonic lodges functioned as conspiratorial vectors along which likeminded men and ideas could travel, using signs and symbols to identify friends and steer clear of enemies. In practical terms, membership in Masonic lodges provided practical training in the creation, operation, and advancement of participatory constitutional government. It facilitated international mercantile connections and crucial military supply chains across mountains and waters, languages, and cultures. On a personal level, the practice of Freemasonry extended throughout the Atlantic World, creating and fortifying friendships and a sense of camaraderie that transcended mere political convenience and turned people from disparate ranks and regions into genuine brothers in arms.

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Karen Racine

Notes  Margaret Swett Henson, John Davis Bradburn: A Reappraisal of the Mexican Commander of Anáhuac (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, ), .  Andreas Önnerfors, “Swedish Freemasonry in the Caribbean: How St. Barthélemy Turned into an Island of the IXth Province,” REHMLAC , no.  (): .  Cécile Révauger, Black Freemasonry: From Prince Hall to the Giants of Jazz (New York: Inner Traditions, ); Peter P. Hinks and Stephen Kantrowitz (eds.), All Men Free and Brethren: Essays on the History of African American Freemasonry (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, ); Cécile Révauger, Prince Hall au XVIIIe aux États-Unis, Noirs et Franc-Maçons (Paris: Edimaf, ); and Paul Lawrence Dunbar, “Hidden in Plain Sight: African American Secret Societies and Black Freemasonry,” Journal of African American Studies  (): –.  French women lobbied hard to be granted public political participation, including the vote. See James Smith Allen, “Sisters of Another Sort: Freemason Women in Modern France, –,” The Journal of Modern History , no.  (December ): –; and Janet M. Burke and Margaret C. Jacob, “French Freemasonry, Women, and Feminist Scholarship,” Journal of Modern History , no.  (September ): –.  María Eugenia Vázquez Semadeni, “La masonería en México, entre las sociedades secretas y patrióticas, –,” REHMLAC , no.  (): . See also her overview of the field, “Historiografía sobre la masonería en México. Breve revisión,” REHMLAC , no.  (): –.  Paul Rich quoted in Guillermo de los Reyes Heredia, “Los estudios masónicos estadounidense y su impacto en la masonería latinoamericana. Una aproximación historiográfica,” REHMLAC , no.  (): .  Maurice Agulhon, Pénitents et francs-maçons de l’ancienne Provence (Paris, Fayard, ); and Ran Halévi, Les loges maçonniques dans la France d’Ancien Régime. Aux origines de la sociabilité démocratique (Paris: Librairie Armand Colin, ).  María Eugenia Vázquez Semadeni, La formación de una cultura política republicana. El debate público sobre la masonería, México – (Mexico City: UNAM/ El Colegio de Michoacán, ); Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo, “Loges en réseaux. Circulation atlantique et sociabilité militaire pendant les guerres d’indépendance en Amérique du Sud,” in Diffusions et circulations des pratiques maçonniques, XVIIIe–XXe siècle (Paris: Classiques Garnier, ); and Guillermo de los Reyes, Herencias secretas. Masonería, política y sociedad en México (Puebla: Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla, ). Many of the early works, notably Américo Carnicelli, La Masonería en la independencia de América (Bogotá: n.p., ), were compiled by amateur historians and, while useful, do not document their sources and tend toward the breathless and conspiratorial.  Margaret Jacob’s major works include: The Origins of Freemasonry. Facts and Fictions (College Park: University of Pennsylvania Press, ); Living the Enlightenment: Freemasonry and Politics in Eighteenth Century Europe (New York: Oxford University Press, ); and The Radical Enlightenment: Pantheists, Freemasons, and Republicans (London and Boston: George Allen and Unwin, ).  Guy L. Beck, “Celestial Lodge Above: The Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem as a Religious Symbol in Freemasonry,” Nova Religio: The Journal of Alternative and Emergent Religions , no.  (): .  Jacob, The Origins of Freemasonry, .  James Anderson, The Constitution of the Free-Masons; containing the History, Charges, Regulations, of that Most Ancient and Right Worshipful Society (London: William Hunter, ); and Jacob, The Radical Enlightenment, .

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence  David Gueiros Vieira, “Liberalismo, masonería y protestantismo en Brasil, siglo XIX,” in Protestantes, liberales y francmasones. Sociedades de ideas y modernidad en América Latina, ed. JeanPierre Bastian (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), .  Spain - King Ferdinand VI, “Real Decreto: Prohibiting Freemasonry” (Aranjuez, July , ), Archivo General de Indias, Ultramar .  María Eugenia Vázquez Semadeni, “La imagen pública de la masonería en Nueva España, –,” Relaciones , no.  (): –.  Eugenio Martínez Pastor, Orígenes de la masonería en Cartagena (Cartagena: Imprenta Carreño, ), ; and Manuel Hernández González, Entre el apoyo a la emancipación americana y el servicio al colonialismo español. Las contradictorias actividades del liberal madeirense Cabral de Noroña en los Estados Unidos (Madeira: Centro de Estudos de História do Atlântico, ), .  John Coustos, The Sufferings of John Coustos: For Free-Masonry, and for His Refusing to Turn Roman Catholic in the Inquisition at Lisbon (London: Printed by W. Strahan for the Author, ).  The pamphlet inspired a second generation as well. See Aviso Importante al pueblo, o sea Centinela Alerta para defensa de la religión (Mexico City: Imprenta de D. Alejandro Valdés, ). Original in Puebla: Imprenta Liberal, .  Brian Hamnett, “Liberal Politics and Spanish Freemasonry, –,” History , no.  (): .  Mónica Ricketts, Who Should Rule? Men of Arms, the Republic of Letters and the Fall of the Spanish Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, ), .  Estuardo Núñez, “Cronología” to Pablo de Olavide, Obras selectas (Lima: Biblioteca Clásicos del Perú, Banco Crédito del Perú, ), .  The best biography is Isabel Lustosa, O jornalista que imaginou o Brasil. Tempo, vida e pensamento de Hipólito da Costa, – (Campinas, São Paulo: Editora Unicamp, ); and Neil Safier, “A Courier between Empires: Hipólito da Costa and the Atlantic World,” in Soundings in Atlantic History, ed. Bernard Bailyn (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, ), –.  United Grand Lodge Meeting Minutes (May , ), Hipólito José da Costa file, Freemasons’ Hall Museum of Freemasonry Archives, London; and Bruna Melo dos Santos, “Hipólito José da Costa e o Correio Braziliense. A idealização de um tipo de sociabilidade maçônica,” REHMLAC , no.  (May–November ): .  “Processo de Hipólito José da Costa,” Portugal, Torre de Tombo, Inquisição de Lisboa, PT/TT/ TSO-ISL//.  Hipólito José da Costa, Narrative of the Persecution of Hippolyto Joseph Da Costa Pereira Furtado de Mendonça . . . Imprisoned and Tried, in Lisbon, by the Inquisition, for the Pretended Crime of FreeMasonry (London: W. Lewis, ).  Da Costa, Narrative of the Persecution, .  Isabel Lustosa, “His Royal Highness e Mr. da Costa,” in Hipólito José da Costa e o Correio Braziliense. Estudos, ed. Alberto Dines (São Paulo and Brasilia: Imprensa Oficial and Correio Braziliense, ).  Alexandre Mansur Barata, “A Maçoneria e a Ilustração brasileira,” Manguinhos: História Ciências, Saúde , no. (): .  William Almeida de Carvalho, “Pequeña história da maçonaria no Brasil,” REHMLAC , no.  (): ; and Vieira, “Liberalismo, masonería y protestantismo en Brasil,” .  Alexander Mansur Barata, “E é que os homens se convencem mais pela experiência do que pelo teoria: cultura política e sociabilidade maçônica na mundo luso-brasileiro, –,” REHMLAC , no.  (): .  Agnès Renault, “Los francmasones franceses de la jurisdicción de Cuba al principio del siglo XIX,” REHMLAC , no.  (): –.

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Karen Racine  Jan Jansen, “Brothers in Exile: Masonic Lodges and the Refugees of the Haitian Revolution, s– ,” Atlantic Studies , no.  (): .  Manuel Hernández González, Diego Correa, un liberal canario ante la emancipación americana (La Laguna: Centro de la Cultura Popular Canaria, ), .  Carnicelli, Masonería, vol. I: .  María Teresa Berruezo León, La lucha de Hispanoamérica por su independencia en Inglaterra, – (Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica, ), .  As with everything else Bolivar-related, there is polarization and controversy over his status as a Mason. José María Ferrer Benemeli, perhaps the most measured scholar of the subject, thinks he may have been inducted in a Paris lodge in . See his article, “El masón Simón Bolívar entre el mito y la realidad histórica,” REHMLC , nos. – (July–December ): –; Manuel Pérez Vila, “La experiencia masónica de Bolívar en París,” in Visión diversa de Bolívar (Caracas: Pequiven, ), –; and José Antonio Ferrer Benimeli, “Bolívar y la masonería,” Revista de Indias , no.  (): –.  José R. Guzmán, “Fray Servanto Teresa de Mier y la Sociedad Lautaro,” Anales del Instituto Nacional de Antropologia e Historia  (–): . In Sophocles’ trilogy, the mythic king, Oedipus, was a Theban king who famously murdered his father and married his mother.  Carlos María de Alvear to Rafael Mérida (London, October , ) with four lodge membership lists as enclosures. Mexico City, Archivo General de la Nación, Indiferente de Guerra, Vol. , ff. v. Copy.  Nicolás Kanellos, “José Álvarez de Toledo y Dubois and the Origins of Hispanic Publishing in the Early American Republic,” Early American Literature , no.  (): .  Carlos María de Alvear to Vice President of Lodge No.  (London, October , ), Mexico City, AGN, Indiferente de Guerra, vol. , ff. v–. Copy.  Luis López Méndez to Señor Secretario de Estado del Supremo Gobierno de Venezuela (London, October , ), reprinted in Julio Guillén, “Correo insurgente de Londres capturado por un corsario puertorriqueño, ,” Boletín de la Academia Chilena de Historia  (): –.  Joanna Crow, “From Araucanian Warriors to Mapuche Terrorists: Contesting Discourses of Gender, Race, and Nation in Modern Chile, –,” Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies , no. (): .  Jesús Díaz-Caballero, “El incaísmo como primera ficción orientadora en la formación de la nación criolla,” A Contracorriente , no.  (): .  The debate over the Lautaro Lodge and its possible Masonic connection is related to deep political fissures over national identity, the Catholic Church, and ownership claims to the legacies of founding fathers. Jaime Eyzaguirre says it was not Masonic but had Masons as members. La Logia Lautarina (Buenos Aires: Editorial Francisco de Aguirre, S. A., ), .  Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo, “Secreto y sociedades secretas en la crisis del antiguo régimen,” REHMLAC , no.  (December ): .  Matías Zapiola quoted in Bartolomé Mitre, Historia de San Martín y de la emancipación sudamericana (Buenos Aires: Imprenta de ‘La Nación’, ), vol. I: .  Ibid, –.  Ibid, n.  Del Solar, “secreto y sociedad secretas,” ; and Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo, “Masones y sociedades secretas. Redes militares durante las guerras de independencia en América del Sur,” Amérique Latine Histoire et Mémoire  (): –.  Miguel Zañartu to Bernardo O’Higgins (Buenos Aires, February , ) in Archivo de don Bernardo O’Higgins (Santiago de Chile: Imprenta Universitaria, ), VI: .

Brothers in Arms: Freemasonry in Latin American Independence  Felipe Santiago del Solar Guajardo, “José Miguel Carrera. Redes masónicas y sociedades secretas durante las guerras de independencia en América del Sur,” in La Masonería Española. Represión y exilios, ed. J. A. Ferrer Benemeli (Zaragoza: Gobierno de Aragón, ), , .  Zañartu to O’Higgins, (Buenos Aires, December , ), Archivo O’Higgins, VI: .  Guillermo Furlong Cardiff S. J., El General San Martín ¿masón, católico, deista? (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Theoría, ), . The entire book is dedicated to debunking claims that San Martín was anything but a devout and fervent Catholic all his life.  José de Peñaranda to Señor D. Juan Herrera Dávila (Havana,  November ) in Spain, Archivo General de Indias, Ultramar , ff. –.  José de Peñaranda to Excmo Sr. D. Juan de Herrera Dávila (Habana, November , ), AGI, Ultramar , ff. –.  Sentences issued by junta investigating conspiracy of  (Habana, November , ), AGI, Ultramar , ff. –; Miguel de Lardizabal (Real Isla de León, May , ), AGI, Ultramar , f. ; and Francisco Morales Padrón, Conspiraciones y masonería en Cuba, – (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispanoamericanos, ), .  Leida Fernández Prieto, “Una mirada sobre las independencias americanas: el diario político de Joaquín Infante, de lo local a lo continental,” Revista de Indias , no.  (): –.  Emeterio Santovenia, “Estudio Preliminar,” in Joaquín Infante, Proyecto de constitución para Cuba, ed. Santiago Key-Ayala (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, ), –.  Black Freemasons tended to have some degree of investment and status within colonial regime, most commonly working as soldiers, printers, or transportation workers. See Henry Lovejoy, Prieto: Yorùbá Kingship in Colonial Cuba during the Age of Revolution (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ), , –.  Manuel Ortuño Martínez, “La expedición de Xavier Mina en el contexto inter-americano,” Cuadernos de investigación histórica  (): –.  Xavier Mina to José Antonio Torres (Fuerte del Sombrero, August , ), University of TexasAustin, Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Library, Hernández y Dávalos Collection, HD -..  Ernesto de la Torre Villar (ed.), Los ‘Guadalupes’ y la independencia, con una selección de documentos inéditos, nd ed. (Mexico City: Editorial Jus, ).  Wilbert Timmons, “Los Guadalupes: A Secret Society in the Mexican Revolution for Independence,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): , –, .  Virginia Guedea, “Las sociedades secretas durante el movimiento de la independencia,” in The Independence of Mexico and the Creation of the New Nation, ed. Jaime E. Rodríguez O. (Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center, ), .  “Informe del Exmo Sr. Virrey D. Felix Calleja sobre el estado de la N. E. dirigido al Ministerio de Gracia y Justicia en  de agosto de ,” University of Texas-Austin, Benson Library, Joaquín García Icazbalceta Collection, JGI XXVI-.  Servando Teresa de Mier, “Sixteenth Declaration,  November ,” in Colección de documentos para la historia de la guerra de independencia de Mexico de  a , ed. Juan E. Hernández y Dávalos (Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de la Revolución Mexicana, ), –, document .  Virginia Guedea Rincón-Gallardo, “Las sociedades secretas de los Guadalupes en Jalapa, y la independencia de México,” in Masonería y sociedades secretas en México, ed. José Luis Soberanes Fernández and Carlos Francisco Martínez Moreno (Mexico City: UNAM, Instituto de Investigaciones Jurídicas, ), –.  Vázquez Semadeni, “La masonería en Mexico,” .  David Murray, “The Slave Trade, Slavery and Cuban Independence,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): .

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Karen Racine  Manuel Hernández González, Liberalismo, masonería y cuestión national en Cuba, – (Santa Cruz de Tenerife: Ediciones Idea, ), –.  Luis Leal, “Félix Varela and Liberal Thought,” in The Ibero-American Enlightenment, ed. A. Owen Aldridge (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, ), .  “La G∴ L∴ Española. A todos los mazones de su jurisdicción y dependencia. Salud.” Oriente de la Habana: Dia  del  m∴ m∴ A∴ L∴  [].  Categorias de la parte físico-moral con relación al hombre público, ó sea anatomía racional de los miembros que componen el Ayuntamiento constitucional de la Habana en el presente año de  (Habana: Imprenta Fraternal de los Díaz de Castro, ).  Hernández González, Diego Correa, –.  El Esquife Constitucional no.  (Wednesday, April , ), . Imprenta del Amigo de la Constitución D. Pedro Nolasco Bolaño. The nautical-inspired title translates as The Constitutional Skiff.  David Sartorius, Ever Faithful: Race, Loyalty and the End of Empire in Spanish Cuba (Durham: Duke University Press, ), ; and Henry Lovejoy, Prieto: Yorùbá Kingship in Colonial Cuba during the Age of Revolution (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ), .  Paul Niell, “Bolivarian Ideology and Racial Imagery in Early Nineteenth-Century Cuba,” in Simón Bolívar: Travels and Transformations of a Cultural Icon, ed. Maureen Shanahan and Ana María Reyes (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, ), , –.  Sartorius, Ever Faithful, .  Francisco Javier de Lamadriz, Grand Secretary Grade , to Señor Antonio Marín in Trinidad (Habana, [January?] , ) reprinted in: Roque E. Garrigo (ed.), Historia documentada de la conspiración de Soles y Rayos de Bolívar (Habana: Imprenta ‘El Siglo XX’ for Academia de la Historia de Cuba, ), II: .  Niell, “Bolivarian Ideology and Racial Imagery,” .  Morales Padrón, “Conspiraciones,” .  Sartorius, Ever Faithful, .  Jessica Harland-Jacobs, “‘Hands Across the Sea’: The Masonic Network, British Imperialism and the North Atlantic World,” Geographical Review , no.  (April ): .  Hayti, Freemasons meeting minutes (November –February ), Freemason’s Hall Archive, South America .  Hayti, List of Names- Cap Haytien Lodge (), Freemason’s Hall Archive, South America /E/.  Karen Racine, “Britannia’s Bold Brother: British Cultural Influence in Haiti during the Reign of Henry Christophe, –,” Journal of Caribbean History  (October ): –.  Carvalho, “Pequeña história,” .  Vieira, “Liberalismo, masonería,” .  Barata, “A maçoneria,” ; and Éric Saunier, “La emergencia de la masonería liberal en tiempos de la Santa Alianza,” in La Masonería hispano-lusa y americana de los absolutismos a las democracias, –, ed. José Miguel Delgado Idarreta and Yván Pozuela Andrés (Oviedo: Centro de Estudios Históricos de la Masonería Española, ), n.  Carvalho, “Pequeña história,” –.  Condy Raguet to Secretary of State John Quincy Adams (Rio de Janeiro, May , ), US National Archives, State Department, Microcopy T-, Roll , f. –.  Enrique Florescano, National Narratives in Mexico: A History (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, ), .  Dr. Joseph Johnson to Joel R. Poinsett (Charleston, July , ), Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Poinsett Collection , vol. , folder , #.  Feather Crawford Freed, Joel Poinsett and the Paradox of Republicanism: Chile, Mexico and the Cherokee Nation, – (Unpublished MA Thesis, University of Oregon, ), –.

S C. C

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Beyond Heroes and Heroines Gendering Latin American Independence

Women’s historians who cover the era of Latin American independence usually identify the wars (c. –) as a brief exception to a long-term marginalization of women from politics. In such tellings, women left their homes to aid men in anticolonial struggles but were quickly sent back once the crisis had passed. No wonder, then, that general works on independence narrate and analyze events with virtually no attention to gender. This chapter, by contrast, argues that we cannot fully understand the political transformation from colonies governed by paternal monarchs to republics based on fraternal popular sovereignty, a particularly Spanish American characteristic, without also attending to the ways in which norms of both femininity and masculinity were in flux from the late eighteenth into the middle of the nineteenth century. Reorienting that chronology reveals that after the wars women did not return to “traditional” roles but instead, like men, were cast into new ones. Gender analysis does not explain the outbreak of independence movements but is essential to understanding the emergence of a political culture that de-emphasized colonial hierarchies based upon rank and race in order to celebrate national fraternity among citizens. While contemporaries may have couched this transition in universalist terms, as historians we can trace the shift from subjects, who were differentiated along multiple axes, to citizens who were first and foremost men. During the colonial period, status and ethnicity were frequently more salient characteristics than gender, allowing a range of socially acceptable activity for both women and men across public and domestic arenas, and even the tolerance of some gender-fluid identities. Women with property acted alongside men as economic agents representing households and extended family networks, and expectations that they be chaste and obedient were somewhat flexible in practice. Colonial legal pluralism also accommodated gender expectations and roles in indigenous and African-descent communities that differed from those introduced by Europeans.

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Sarah C. Chambers

Women and men were far from equal in Latin America before independence, but they shared the status of royal subjects and vecinos: namely community members, ranging from small proprietors to wealthy elites, with a stake in local affairs. Women were barred from colonial public offices, but the opportunities for men to exercise formal political authority under a monarchy were also limited. When Napoleon’s capture of the Spanish king in  triggered movements both in defense of empire and in favor of independence, therefore, women and men alike took sides that reflected their intersectional social positions rather than specific gender interests. Nevertheless, the subsequent construction of republican states was a highly gendered process. Rather than women returning to the prior status quo after the wars ended around , as commonly narrated, gender became a dominant identifier for both women and men as the category of national citizen (ciudadano) came to predominate over that of vecino. Many constitutions enfranchised workingmen of independent means while excluding anyone deemed to be dependent; minors, servants, and the enslaved could theoretically emancipate themselves, but women could not change their status. Political transitions to republicanism and liberalism sharpened gender distinctions. Even so, practices did not change overnight. Women did not immediately abandon political activism and embrace domesticity, and many men continued to regard them as serious allies and collaborators. Nonetheless, the arenas in which republicanism took hold – particularly military mobilization and electoral politics – were increasingly masculine spaces. Women were not literally confined in a private sphere, but by the middle of the nineteenth century, liberal ideologies lauded them primarily for their roles, both real and symbolic, as wives and mothers. The heightened importance of gender, however, does not mean that all women had the same experiences. It was difficult for poorer women and women of color to meet raised standards of feminine respectability, and many found themselves subject to increased policing. Moreover, Brazil and the Spanish Caribbean followed a somewhat different timeline than the republics of mainland Spanish America. Prince Pedro’s declaration of Brazilian independence from Portugal in  entailed less military mobilization and secured the monarchy until , while Cuba and Puerto Rico stayed within the Spanish empire until . Although gender norms in those regions did begin to shift gradually, the full impact of republicanism would not be felt until the end of the nineteenth century. These trends were part of larger processes during the Age of Atlantic Revolutions. The historiography on gender is most robust for the French Revolution, where feminist scholars drew attention to how the French republic was predicated on the exclusion of women: the “sexual contract” that was intrinsic to the social contract in Carole Pateman’s formulation. Subsequent historians have

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

nuanced this thesis, drawing attention to growing gender parity until the reactionary Napoleonic regime. Critically, female activists found themselves in what Joan Scott calls the “paradox” of having to highlight gender difference while advocating universal equality. Britain did not undergo revolution, but gender did become a more important criteria than rank in determining who had legitimacy to engage in politics when suffrage was expanded in . In the Americas, race added another key dynamic. Whereas the United States opted to exclude all people of Native and African descent from the body politic, Latin America offers a more complex case for analyzing intersectional identities. Drawing on and reinterpreting both older and recent research, this chapter will trace these gradual and uneven shifts in gender identities, norms, and roles from the influence of the Enlightenment in the eighteenth century, through anticolonial rebellions and independence movements, to the construction of new nations in the nineteenth century. Historiography: From Heroines to Gender

Each country in Latin America has celebrated “heroines” who contributed to national liberation, but such biographical sketches often domesticate their roles as temporary helpmates to husbands, fathers, and brothers. Nineteenth-century writers reflected the transatlantic movement of romanticism, which recognized the capacity of women to undertake heroic actions but attributed it to their sentimentality. As one obituary put it, “once the imagination of women is sparked by some beautiful objective, they forget the weakness of their sex, they are moved by a strength of which even they had been unaware, and with the soul burning in the flame of enthusiasm, they surrender themselves fully to the ardent passions of the purest inspiration.” Biographies published in the mid-twentieth century, after the ideology of separate spheres had consolidated, often emphasized to an even greater extent women’s roles as wives and mothers. Feminist accounts in the s reemphasized women’s political contributions but remained largely biographical. As women’s history developed in the s, works in English on Latin America began to appear, but only a handful addressed the independence period. A content review of the leading English-language journal, the Hispanic American Historical Review, shows that in the s and s, about twelve articles addressed some area of gender analysis, the majority firmly rooted in family history; only one addressed the independence period. The number of gender articles doubled each decade in the s and s and remained at that level in the s. Articles analyzing late colonial rebellions and independence remained more or less steady during the same period, but increasingly focused on non-elites. Falling between the cracks, however, was attention to the gendered dynamics of this political transition with only three

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Sarah C. Chambers

articles. Similarly, a catalog of theses on Mexican history from – listed  titles under the category of gender history and ninety under independence, but only one from  that fell under both. A combination of timing, academic opportunities, and methodological trends, such as the prominence of social over political history in the s, limited the attractiveness of research on women or gender during Latin American independence. Two of the three women whose dissertations at US universities in that decade addressed women during the Spanish American wars of independence never published their theses as books and shifted to other themes in their careers. In “Women in Latin America: The State of Research, ,” Meri Knaster quoted Asunción Lavrin, who was poised to become prominent in the field, calling to move beyond “one vignette after another of celebrated heroines and illustrious women.” Unfortunately, the recognition that focusing only on heroines was a limited approach initially seems to have discouraged feminist historians from analyzing the independence period more broadly in terms of gender. Silvia Arrom’s dissertation, the only one from the s to be published as a monograph in English, was chronologically and thematically broader; strikingly, Knaster’s description of it does not even mention the section on women’s activism during independence. In hindsight, we might wonder why few feminist scholars brought insights from social history of other periods to a reconsideration of independence from a gendered lens. Apparently, the time was not yet ripe to tackle head on that bastion of political history as a narrative of great men. A reexamination of the earliest works on female protagonists, however, reveals contemporary attitudes toward gender and politics that belie assumptions about a strict separation of spheres. Writers from the generation of independence were more likely to acknowledge women as political actors in their own right, albeit not the equals of men. In an almanac from , José Joaquin Fernández Lizardi identified four “Mexican Heroines” first as “citizens” and only secondarily in relationship to a father or husband, and depicted them as motivated by reason rather than sentiment. In praising Mariana Rodríguez for holding out longer under interrogation than her male collaborators, for example, Lizardi asked his readers, “Let’s hear if fools can still say that women are incapable of valor, discretion, and steadfastness.” Even the  obituary for María de la Luz Uraga y Gutiérrez, cited here as an example of romanticism, offered a mixed vision of republican femininity, praising both her knowledge of Latin and her “eminently sensitive and passionate soul,” both her actions in favor of independence and her dedication to charity and “domestic duties.” A more nuanced look at female protagonists, therefore, reveals multiple views about the proper roles of women and men during the decades before and after independence. Revisiting such stories with an analytical lens allows us to trace

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

broader transformations. The generation that lived through those transitional years did not consider the sexes to be equal, but they saw women in relationship to various categories beyond their position in the family, such as class, ethnicity, status, and age. To praise heroines for their masculine qualities simultaneously called attention to differences between the sexes as well as the possibility of blurring them. Ideals of masculinity were also in flux, as men might emulate aristocratic, bourgeois, or martial values. Drawing particularly from works published during the last two decades, the following sections explore gradual shifts in gender norms and roles from the late eighteenth century through the movements for independence and into the initial decades of nation-state formation, when republicanism reinforced separate spheres for men and women. Colonialism and the Enlightenment

Iberian colonialism established legal inequality between women and men, privileging the authority of white, male heads of household to manage property and discipline subordinates, whether wives, children, indigenous servants, or enslaved African laborers. Daily lived experience, however, often departed from elements of this ideal. Many households, across racial and socioeconomic categories, were headed by women. Laws protecting property and inheritance rights meant women were active participants in the economy, whether as landowners or smaller-scale producers and vendors. Although wives were legally required to have the license of their spouses to make contracts and sell goods, courts assumed such permission if husbands did not publicly object. Women could not hold public positions, but neither did most men, especially those born in the colonies. Within indigenous communities, by contrast, married couples often jointly exercised authority and hereditary posts could pass to daughters as well as sons. Therefore, gender was not the most salient status in all situations: Wealthy, white women exercised authority over women (and some men) of color, and indigenous communities practiced customs that often departed from Iberian norms. During the late eighteenth century, Latin Americans engaged in transatlantic debates over shifting gender ideals. In salons, often hosted by elite women, they discussed the works of Spanish thinkers Benito J. Feijoo and Josefa Amar, who argued that women and men were intellectual equals, as well as Rousseau’s contrasting ideas that women’s influence should be exercised only with the home. Articles in Spanish American journals variously promoted one or the other of these Enlightenment-era gender ideologies. In both serious and satirical essays, many authors criticized elite women for spending too much money on fashion and too much time socializing outside their homes. They advocated social and medical

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practices aimed at making them better mothers: avoiding abortifacients, watching their diets during pregnancy, and breastfeeding their infants rather than entrusting their children’s care to women of indigenous or African descent. There is little evidence, however, that women followed such advice, particularly since the same journals ran advertisements for wet-nurses. Moreover, other articles defended women’s intellectual capacities or called for reforming men’s behavior, targeting, for example, young fops (petimetres) whose fashion choices might be construed as effeminate. Satirical essays also associated the decadence of Lima with its subculture of African-descent people who displayed nonbinary gender identities (maricones). As with advice to women, however, such articles seem to have had limited influence. Whatever views they held toward maricones, the city’s residents secured the services of those who worked as dance instructors, cooks, and launderers. Although many ignored the advice in the reform-oriented periodicals, there were subtle changes regarding gender in colonial governance and litigation. The eighteenth century saw an expansion of educational opportunities for elite girls, an increase in and diversification of women’s participation in the economy and in charitable endeavors, and a slight liberalization in ecclesiastical divorce (separation without possibility of remarriage). Silvia Arrom connected these social trends to politics through the enlightenment idea of women’s “social utility.” Bianca Premo similarly highlights that women increasingly went to court to sue patriarchs they identified as “tyrants,” asserting their natural right to live free from severe violence. As Latin Americans debated women’s intellectual capacities and rights, therefore, the more restrictive view was far from dominant. Anticolonial Rebellions

Given women’s activity in the economy and the courts, their participation in riots and rebellions should come as no surprise. Their roles might be gendered, whether out of practical need to provide for family welfare or more symbolically by calling upon royal authorities to act as responsible father figures. But men too acted in part from familial interests, and ethnicity or social status was often a more salient characteristic than gender for women. Communities of indigenous and African descent, for example, followed practices of gender and authority distinct from IberoAmerican customs. Notably, when massive rebellions against colonial rule broke out across the Andes from –, indigenous and mestiza women exercised leadership roles alongside men. Micaela Bastidas had already operated as a full partner in her family’s trading enterprises and shared her husband’s duties as a hereditary leader (kuraka), and she became a co-equal collaborator in the Peruvian uprising associated with his

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

name, Túpac Amaru. She took particular responsibility for provisioning the troops and gathering intelligence, but through extensive correspondence also recruited allies, threatened adversaries, and gave advice on military strategy. According to one witness held prisoner in the rebel camp, “I saw more rebelliousness in Micaela . . . to the point that she was to be feared more than her husband.” Once captured, her attempt to play upon Spanish gender stereotypes to excuse her actions as merely following her husband’s orders failed. While a white, female insurgent might have been imprisoned, Bastidas was executed and her body mutilated alongside other members of her family as well as her ally, the female kuraka Tomasa Tito Condemayta. Sources on the roles of African-descent women in anti-slavery rebellions are more limited. Nonetheless, Matt Childs points to evidence that women voted and held positions of authority in African associations (cabildos de nación) in Cuba and hence played a significant role in the  rebellion named for the most visible leader, José Antonio Aponte. Marcela Echeverri notes that a revolt in New Granada in  may have been triggered by rumors of the arrival of a Black queen bringing freedom. It is likely, therefore, that throughout the region African-descent “queens” in such organizations exercised more than symbolic leadership. Women of Iberian descent also played active roles, though less frequently in leadership positions, as movements against (and also in defense of ) colonial rule broke out after Napoleon’s capture of the Spanish king in . Just as Bastidas’s activities built upon her prior responsibilities, women during the independence period often acted in the interest of their families as units of production. When residents of Quito responded to the captivity of the king by electing a local assembly in , resident heads of household (vecinos) voted regardless of sex. María Antonia Bolívar believed she, better than her brother Simón, represented the interests of their extended family by defending the crown. Since her husband was disabled, she acted as head of household, “father and mother” to her family. Despite patriot orders threatening with execution anyone who collaborated with the royalists, she protected Spaniards on her Venezuelan estate. A high-ranking magistrate later testified to her services remarking, “This is a lady to whom I owe great favors.” Her contemporaries thus had no qualms admitting they benefitted from her protection rather than depicting her as a vulnerable woman in need of their protection. Similarly, in Brazil, Princess Leopoldina, the Austrian-born wife of Prince Pedro, at first resisted the rise of liberalism but came to actively support the independence of Brazil with her husband as emperor as a way to ensure her children’s future. Men as well as women weighed their political interests alongside responsibilities to families. In Chile, the Carrera siblings (one sister and three brothers) opted for

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revolution. When royalist forces put down this first attempt at an autonomous government in , they fled with other separatists to Buenos Aires, where they plotted (unsuccessfully) to return to power. Sister Javiera brought along her youngest but left the rest of her children back in Santiago for years in the care of her husband; in retrospect she would be criticized as a negligent mother. Her brothers, having been raised to regard filial and paternal responsibilities as part of their masculine identity, were also affected by family separations. José Miguel expressed his frustration at not being able to care for his wife and children while on military campaigns and tried to impress his father with newspaper articles about his prominent reputation in the United States. A witness to two other brothers’ execution reported that Juan José, preoccupied with what would happen to his beloved wife Ana María, lost his composure until Luis, the only bachelor, called to him in the spirit of classical republicanism, “Let us calm ourselves! Remember that we are Chilean soldiers and should die as such.” Women and men of the Carrera clan did not play identical roles in the independence movement, but, with the possible exception of Luis, they acted equally out of political convictions and concerns for their familial responsibilities. On the other hand, some women, like men, entered the political fray independently of and even against the wishes of their relatives. Leona Vicario, an orphan from a wealthy Mexican family, defied her guardian to invest her inheritance in supporting the cause of independence. She also wrote and carried correspondence aimed at recruiting collaborators and sharing intelligence, activities that resulted in her imprisonment. Manuela Sáenz, born out of wedlock to a Spanish merchant and elite woman in Quito, similarly ignored the wishes of her husband, an English merchant based in Lima. In pursuit of independence, both political and personal, she abandoned married life altogether and became a revolutionary collaborator and romantic partner of Simón Bolívar. Highly regarded by others, she built networks and alliances by hosting meetings and carrying on a prolific correspondence as she traveled throughout the territory that would become the nations of Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia. Women were not motivated by gender interests to support either the patriot or royalist side, but they did tend to play particular roles. Elite women like Vicario, Sáenz, and Carrera raised funds and maintained political networks both in person, by hosting salons, and through correspondence. Women across the social spectrum smuggled letters, arms, and provisions and conducted espionage. Colombia’s most famous heroine, seamstress Policarpa Salvarrieta, listened to conversations as she sewed dresses in royalist households and passed along the intelligence to rebel forces. And, like all premodern armies, troops relied upon women to keep soldiers fed and clothed as well as nurse the sick and wounded. As enslaved men turned up for

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

military service in response to offers of manumission, enslaved women also played critical support roles. In some cases, soldiers were able to use their earnings to purchase freedom of family members; rarely, however, did women earn their own manumission through their services to armies. Enslaved people themselves may have preferred more collective familial or community routes to freedom, such as a group who allied with royalists in New Granada and subsequently requested freedom both for the male combatants and the right to purchase the freedom of their female companions and children at a discounted price. Nonetheless, such strategies were less likely to succeed than individual manumissions. Women’s wartime contributions were considerable, and though they rarely participated in combat, considered a masculine pursuit, the few female warriors were taken seriously as comrades in arms. An anonymous broadsheet exhorting women in Mexico to go to war against the viceroy, for example, included an illustration of figures in dresses but bearing swords. Saénz often appeared in military uniform, particularly to rally the troops, and General José Antonio de Sucre recommended she be awarded the rank of colonel. In the territory that became Bolivia, Juana Azurduy fought first alongside her husband, Manuel Padilla, but continued after his death and rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel based on her feats in sixteen battles, including one in which she captured the royal flag. Brazil’s process of independence from Portugal involved less military combat, but the country does celebrate Maria Quitéria, who ran away from her family to join the pro-independence army under a male name. She was promoted to the rank of lieutenant and decorated with the Order of the Southern Cross, but after the war resumed life as a woman (see Fig. .). To fight officially as a soldier, one took on masculine characteristics, and while some were virile “amazons,” there is no way to know how many soldiers may have been assigned female identities at birth but lived adult lives as men. During a regional republican revolt in southern Brazil from – (the Farroupilha or “Ragamuffin” War), women mostly performed support roles similar to those during the earlier Spanish American independence wars. Ana María de Jesus Ribeiro da Silva, aka Anita Garibaldi, also impressed contemporaries with her dexterity with horse and sword. Retrospectively, when editing Giuseppe Garibaldi’s memoirs for publication, Alexandre Dumas cut descriptions of her on the battlefield, even though Garibaldi had portrayed her “as a brave Amazon, who fought like a man, and even better than a man.” Later depictions of Spanish American women also softened the image of uniformed heroines on horseback by emphasizing their simultaneous roles as mothers in the military camps. The rarity of female soldiers and the increasing incompatibility of femininity with martial values would later affect women’s status in the republics established after independence.

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Sarah C. Chambers

Fig. . Doña Maria Quitéira de Jesús in Gravura do livro Diário de uma viagem ao Brasil e de uma estada neste país durante parte dos anos de ,  e  de Maria Graham (Book Journal of a Voyage to Brazil and Residence There during Part of the Years , ,  by Maria Graham). Design by Augustus Earle, engraving by Edward Francis Finden, .

Critically, both royal and patriot authorities regarded women as dangerous adversaries, regardless of whether they served in combat roles, and held them responsible for their actions. Far from being excused from culpability if they claimed to be following the lead of fathers or husbands, women were ordered to put loyalty to crown or country above fidelity to family. Chilean separatists issued decrees prohibiting the provisioning of royalist troops and carrying correspondence across

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

enemy lines, whether these missives were attempts to provide intelligence to the enemy or simply to contact loved ones displaced by war. One officer declared, “that the Enemy has sustained its Espionage, inflicting incalculable evils upon the Republic, by means of the women.” Royalist commander Agustín Iturbide threatened to execute female prisoners as retribution for each attack by insurgents in Mexico, and in Venezuela José Tomás Boves forced women to dance with his officers at a ball while outside their husbands were shot. Punishment for political activism was determined as much by status as gender. Across the continent, women of all classes were incarcerated; those of lower status were also flogged, and in some cases even executed for their actions. Political discourse from this era of transition and flux reveals contemporary ambivalence about the consequences of war on gender roles and relations. Women under prosecution appealed to Iberian stereotypes of feminine weakness and ignorance, but such a defense rarely resulted in absolution. Nevertheless, independence leaders often characterized feminine contributions to their cause as passive and depicted women as defenseless victims of royalist atrocities, a tendency Rebecca Earle attributes to their anxieties about women’s participation in politics. Highlighting such apprehensions in the discourse of Simón Bolívar, Catherine Davies notes, “The feminine is presented . . . as both in need of protection and as a threat to order.” Anxiety extended to masculinity. As Matthew Brown has argued, martial masculinity was hierarchical, but compared to aristocratic honor in the colonial period, allowed for some social mobility and republican fraternity between troops and charismatic leaders. Indeed, Bolívar was more concerned about disorderly men than women. He believed that the survival of the republic depended upon “real” men who demonstrated martial virtues and sacrificed their particular interests for the public good, rather than men made effeminate by passions of jealousy and vengeance that drove them to factional conflict. From the late colonial period through the movements for independence, gender was one among various salient categories, and there was some fluidity in norms of femininity and masculinity. Inhabitants of Lima patronized the services of people who worked in trades associated with women but displayed nonbinary gender traits. Widows in powerful families could exercise authority over their dependent male and female relatives, and some writers argued that intellectual capacities had no sex. During wartime, the vast majority of soldiers were men, but anyone who displayed masculine valor could also take up arms. Familial roles were gendered, but important for men and women alike. In the nineteenth century, however, implementation of republican forms of government in Spanish America (and to a lesser degree in imperial Brazil and Cuba), initiated a gradual solidification of dominant gender

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roles that authorized men to act politically as citizens, while women tended primarily to domestic responsibilities. Republican Gender Roles

In wartime, ideologies of gender difference existed alongside recognition that women could make choices independent of their feminine roles and provide valuable services to their preferred cause. Although such juxtapositions persisted into post-independence nation building, the ideal that women should be virtuous mothers raising future citizens while men were the providers and statesmen became increasingly dominant. Elements of this ideology of separate spheres had emerged in the late eighteenth century, but with limited impact. Whereas few girls in the colonial period received a formal education, they had access to the same books as their brothers in elite family libraries. Throughout the nineteenth century, opportunities to attend school expanded, but the curriculum was highly segregated by sex. Middle-class and elite boys studied Latin and science, while their sisters took music lessons, read catechisms, and practiced needlework; children from working families, if they studied at all, learned trade skills appropriate to their assigned sex. As in other parts of the world, educated women of the transitional generation appealed to their maternal roles to participate in constructing new nations, especially in educational and charitable activities, but also chafed against domesticity. As James Sanders points out, “Gender interacted with race, class, and partisan ideologies in complex and locally determined ways to both create male political subjects and open or close possibilities for women to forge political discourses and practices for themselves.” Mariquita Sánchez hosted political meetings in Buenos Aires during the independence movement and subsequently led that city’s Beneficence Society. She acknowledged that managing orphanages and schools was an appropriate task for society matrons, but also challenged plans to eliminate French and music from the curriculum in favor of more practical domestic pursuits. At least as important as maternal identities to Sánchez, and even more so for the childless Manuela Sáenz, were friendships with leading political and intellectual figures. Their very exclusion from voting and holding office, moreover, allowed women to claim they worked for national unity rather than political parties and could, therefore, serve as important mediators in civil conflicts. Whereas Bolívar had identified envy and revenge as feminine passions, Saénz implied that masculine ambition and partisanship threatened the stability of the new republics. Nonetheless, women active in public affairs increasingly found themselves on the defensive. When conservative Lucas Alamán belittled Leona Vicario in , attributing her support for independence to her love affair with patriot leader

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

Andrés Quintana Roo, she declared, “love is not the only motive for women’s actions . . . desires for the glory and liberty of the Patria are by no means foreign to women.” Some men came to Vicario’s defense in , but as time passed politicians exalted heroines who played more passive roles. In an  speech delivered just after Javiera Carrera’s death, Benjamín Vicuña Mackenna felt obliged to explain why she had left her husband and children, departing “from the path of the intimate joys of the heart where her temperament would have radiated benign influence.” Whereas her sisters-in-law were remembered as self-sacrificing wives rather than political activists in their own right, Carrera would be blamed in retrospect for exercising an influence beyond what later generations considered proper. Women, especially in Colombia and Venezuela, continued to refer to themselves as “citizens” into the s, but in court they were more successful if they sued men for alimony and child support as vulnerable dependents rather than assertively demanding rights. After new civil codes passed in the mid-nineteenth century outlawed paternity suits, unwed mothers lost even that protection. Latitude for elite women in Brazil, Cuba, and Puerto Rico, who continued like men to be royal subjects, may have persisted longer. Portuguese aristocrat Maria Bárbara Garcez Pinto de Madureira embraced constitutionalism and made Brazil her new homeland while her husband served as a deputy to the parliament in Lisbon. She also took over full management of their sugar mill and supervised her sons in the family business. In Pará, near the mouth of the Amazon River, women gathered in a club entitled “New Amazons: Society of Enlightened Women.” Members moved through the ranks by performing meritorious acts that demonstrated “their love of the Patria [Homeland] and devotion to Liberty.” Although their bylaws referred to them in familial terms as sisters, daughters, wives, and mothers, they sang an anthem in which they declared that as Amazons they were also warriors ready to offer their lives if called to defend liberty and the homeland. During the Farroupilha War, monarchists condemned as immoral those women, such as Anita Garibaldi, who joined the rebellion but welcomed the support of elite women. Several found patronage at court and published poetry and even essays that attributed the war to “irrational masculine brutality in direct conflict with the feminised rule of Enlightenment reason.” Similarly, in what was left of the Spanish empire, opportunities for women intellectuals that had opened in the eighteenth century persisted into the nineteenth. Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda moved from Cuba to Spain where she became an acclaimed author. Her first two novels – Two Women and Sab – criticized women’s subordination within marriage with the second also promoting an anti-slavery perspective. Although she was unsuccessful in her application to join the Royal Spanish Academy, she was inducted into the Lyceum in Havana and founded a magazine for women readers in Cuba.

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When movements for independence from Spain erupted in Cuba, first unsuccessfully from – and definitively from –, women took on roles similar to those during the movements on the Spanish American continent decades earlier: as couriers, journalists, and even, especially for women of African descent, soldiers. More often than before, however, they mobilized explicitly as women. Reflecting the rising veneration of motherhood, the most celebrated were those like Mariana Grajales, a woman of color and the mother of martyred hero Antonio Maceo, who urged her ten sons to sacrifice themselves for the homeland. Unlike earlier in the nineteenth century on the mainland when female activists did not articulate a discourse of women’s rights, Cuban patriot women also established formal political clubs, especially in exile, and a few explicitly tied their services to demands for suffrage. Although such calls were not successful at independence, Cuba in  became one of the first Latin American countries to grant women the right to vote. In the meantime, some of the men who rose through the ranks of the Cuban rebel army, especially those of African descent, were sidelined after the war as insufficiently meeting raised standards of masculine morality required for leadership. New nations required new symbols. Feminine, often indigenous, figures appeared as allegories representing America (as patriots across the continent called their homeland), alongside portraits of military leaders and founding fathers, as in a famous picture of Bolívar (see Fig. .). Women were scripted to pay homage to these heroes, gladly accepting the sacrifice of husbands and sons for the nation. Such a stoic part was not easy to play. Women suffered both emotional and material losses, and their public grief dampened efforts to commemorate the glory rather than the horror of the independence struggle. The Chilean government expanded eligibility for pensions of military widows and orphans, in hopes that by “drying their tears,” they could begin healing partisan rifts and honoring national heroes. As women across the social spectrum were increasingly cast in supporting roles, officers and enlisted men alike took central stage. The performance of valor on the battlefield allowed for some upward mobility. In Mexico, General Vicente Guerrero, of African, indigenous, and Spanish descent, rose from war hero to president in . Decades later when the country was invaded by the United States and later France, the government again called up citizen-soldiers, and veterans claimed the recognition and rights they considered their due. But the rising salience of gender in determining citizenship did not completely eliminate other factors. In Colombia and Venezuela, men of color were recognized as brave warriors, but less often as fellow statesmen as warfare gave way to governance. Admiral José Padilla was passed over in favor of a white officer for promotion to Cartagena’s commander-in-chief, and when the authorities accused him of inciting a race riot in , Bolívar ordered

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

Fig. . Simón Bolívar, Liberator and Father of the Nation (Simón Bolívar, Libertador y Padre de la Patria) by Pedro José Figueroa (). Oil painting. Collection at the Museo Quinta de Bolívar, Bogotá, Colombia. Courtesy of the Museo Quinta de Bolívar. Photo by Jairo Gómez.

his execution. In Brazil especially, where slavery remained the dominant labor force, soldiering was associated with conscripted men of African descent who earned no honor or rights. Norms of masculinity remained relatively capacious into the nineteenth century, but gradually the ideal of the father who provides for and governs his household became dominant over martial masculinity. In barracks and barrooms, men could get away with some degree of swagger and bravado, but when hauled before the

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police they emphasized their respectability as family providers. Until the middle of the nineteenth century, Spanish American constitutions imposed few property or literacy requirements on male suffrage. Among those arrested after street fighting during an  presidential campaign in Peru, for example, were a shoemaker and tailor who indignantly protested an order that they be conscripted, “they should do it with vagrants, and not with honorable and married artisans . . . unless it could be considered a crime to have manifested our opinion as free citizens.” As men of higher status transitioned from military to civilian service, assemblies, clubs, and government offices became almost exclusively homosocial spaces in contrast to the salons of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Tolerance for the public performance of nonbinary gender declined in the nineteenth century, but as Víctor Macías-González has explored through male correspondence, men formed intense, often homoerotic, friendships and even shared intimate domestic spaces when traveling on official state business. Conclusions

One of the most important historiographical shifts in studies of Latin American independence has been to uncover the important roles played by subaltern actors, and the consequent establishment of republics that, in comparison to Europe and North America, had relatively broad male suffrage. Much less recognized has been the gendered nature of that transition: that the extension of political subjectivity and rights to nonelite men was predicated on the formal exclusion of all women. Around the Atlantic world, revolutions had raised anxiety that all preexisting bases for the organization of power might be overthrown. As republics abolished rank as a qualification for access to politics, most identified gender as a presumably natural distinction. Spanish American republics, where the military mobilization of large numbers of men of diverse origins had been critical to defeating the royal armies and remained an important element of post-independence politics, established particularly broad definitions of citizenship that erased explicit racial distinctions and often had no or low property qualifications for voting. Elite concerns over instability in the wake of such dramatic change focused on gender. In addition to service as citizen soldiers, men were expected to present themselves as hardworking, respectable heads of households. Whereas inequality along various axes had been taken for granted during the colonial period, the formal equality before the law promised by liberal republics in practice applied only to male citizens. The shifts in gender and authority in post-independence Latin America parallel in many ways similar transitions throughout the Atlantic world, but their intersection with race and ethnicity offer some particular variations. On the one hand, in Cuba as well as Brazil, which remained a slave society under a constitutional

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

monarchy and where military mobilization had not been key to independence, politics remained more of an elite affair until the end of the nineteenth century, and the influence of white women of wealth and rank continued at court and in high society. On the other hand, the effort by Spanish American nation-states to create a more uniform citizenry resulted in the official minimization of de jure racial distinctions to the extent that even raising the issue of ongoing de facto discrimination could trigger charges of instigating caste war. Even for people of color, therefore, gender became a heightened identifier after independence. Indigenous men had an ambivalent status in many of the new nations. Both the Spanish  Constitution and the subsequent national constitutions defined indigenous peoples as potential citizens. Those who were attached as indebted laborers to landed estates, however, were excluded as dependents from suffrage rights, and in borderlands such as northern Mexico, settlers justified violence against native peoples in part by labeling them as uncivilized for their nonconformity with dominant gender ideals. Members of indigenous communities were economically independent but often held onto communal rights and responsibilities that were in tension with the individualism central to political liberalism. Bolívar had hoped to redistribute community lands as private property to male heads of households, but the fiscal needs of Andean states resulted in pacts in which indigenous men continued to pay a head tax (tribute) in exchange for access to communal land until the s. In Ecuador, making indigenous men appear child-like and therefore non-citizens was decried by many politicians. While it is clear that new nation-states aimed over time to incorporate the indigenous population under the same laws and homogenous national identities, how political transformation affected gender relationships within communities is more difficult to trace and likely varied across the region. In both the Andes and Mesoamerica, indigenous commoners, often invoking Enlightenment ideals and Bourbon policies, had been protesting the privileges of the native nobility during the late colonial period. Official sanctions against nobles who participated in the great Andean rebellions followed by the constitutional abolition of hereditary offices across Spanish America virtually eliminated their authority. Whereas indigenous noblemen were still eligible for posts in village governance, formal political positions that could be held by indigenous women disappeared. Indeed, as David Garrett notes, because cacicas as compared to male caciques qualified for their positions based only on their lineage, they “personified hereditary, aristocratic authority in Indian [native Andean] society.” Women’s labor continued to be essential for couples to fulfill religious and civic duties to indigenous communities, and they might therefore exercise informal influence, but only husbands attained formal political representation from this service. Access to positions in village or municipal governance did trigger contests over generational patriarchal power in some communities. In

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Mexico, men could draw authority from military mobilization and constitutional guarantees of universal male suffrage to bypass some of the community service previously required to hold office, but male elders might also wield moral authority to limit their exercise of authority by younger men. It is even more difficult to trace the impact of independence on gender within African-descent communities. As with the indigenous population, gender likely became more salient in their interactions with the dominant society and the state. Free men of color could make citizenship claims based upon military service and independent labor as artisans or small farmers. Whereas some formerly enslaved men had been able to secure manumission through military service during the wars, however, they did not have the same opportunity after independence. Enslaved women by contrast often used the language of maternity to pursue freedom for themselves and their children, particularly when and where nations adopted “free womb” laws. More research might reveal whether or not there were also shifts in gender relations during slave rebellions or within maroon communities during the nineteenth century. For almost  years, attention to gender during the independence period was limited to short, nationalistic accounts of heroines while the masculinity of heroes went uninterrogated. Even within this genre, however, the depictions of women varied according to the dominant ideals of the period. Strikingly, the earliest accounts were most likely to take women seriously as political actors, whereas later tales tended to position them primarily in relationship to famous men. Recent historiography of the transition from colonialism to nation building has yielded a fuller picture of gender norms that has yet to be incorporated into general works on independence. The prevailing view that women mobilized briefly for war before returning to their domestic roles in the home contains a kernel of truth but lacks nuance. Rather than being subordinated simply owing to a colonial legacy of patriarchal domination, women actually lost rights as they went from sharing with men the status of colonial subjects to their exclusion from citizenship. By the middle of the nineteenth century, the image of women as “angels of the home” had indeed become ascendant. Such ideals allowed elite and middling women to extend their maternal influence into educational and charitable endeavors, but only by mobilizing as women. Poor women could neither live up to these heightened ideals of feminine domesticity nor earn the title of citizen like men by supporting the troops or providing for their families. The late eighteenth century initiated a period of flux in norms of both femininity and masculinity during which other social markers were often more salient, but by the middle of the nineteenth the construction of republican nation-states was predicated on an ideology of separate spheres.

Beyond Heroes and Heroines

Notes  In addition to Marcela Echeverri, Cristina Soriano, and Sinclair Thomson, I wish to thank the members of the Workshop in the Comparative History of Women, Gender and Sexuality and the Early Modern Atlantic Workshop at the University of Minnesota for their insightful feedback on drafts, especially M. J. Maynes, Víctor Macías-González, Kirsten Fischer, Lisa Norling, Katharine Gerbner, Nicole LaBouff, James Robertson, and Benjamin Wiggins.  James E. Sanders, The Vanguard of the Atlantic World: Creating Modernity, Nation, and Democracy in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Durham and London: Duke University Press, ); and Hilda Sábato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in NineteenthCentury Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ).  This analysis is influenced by Joan Scott’s formulation of gender as “a primary way of signifying relationships of power” and of the concept of intersectionality as originally put forward by Kimberlé Crenshaw; Joan W. Scott, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” The American Historical Review , no.  (): –; and Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics,” University of Chicago Legal Forum (): –.  The third arena identified as central by Sábato, public opinion, allowed for greater female participation in its informal if not formal dimensions; Sábato, Republics of the New World, –.  See the Introduction to this book for additional historical context.  For examples of the historiography on gender and the French Revolution, see Carole Pateman, The Sexual Contract (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Joan B. Landes, Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, ); Joan Wallach Scott, Only Paradoxes to Offer French Feminists and the Rights of Man (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ); and Suzanne Desan, The Family on Trial in Revolutionary France (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, ).  Mary Beth Norton, Separated by Their Sex: Women in Public and Private in the Colonial Atlantic World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, ); and Judith S. Lewis, Sacred to Female Patriotism: Gender, Class, and Politics in Late Georgian Britain (New York and London: Routledge, ).  Jeanne Boydston, “Making Gender in the Early Republic: Judith Sargeant Murray and the Revolution of ,” in The Revolution of : Democracy, Race, and the New Republic, ed. James Horn, Jan Ellen Lewis, and Peter S. Onuf (Charlottesville and London: University of Virginia Press, ), –; and Kate Haulman, “Women, War, and Revolution,” in The Oxford Handbook of American Women’s and Gender History, ed. Ellen Hartigan-O’Connor and Lisa G. Materson (New York: Oxford University Press, ), –.  “Artículo Necrológico,” Panorama de las señoritas. Periódico pintoresco, científico y literario (Mexico City: Imprenta de Vicente García Torres, ), .  For examples, see Germán Arciniegas, América mágica. Las mujeres y las horas (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, ); Carmen Clemente Travieso, Mujeres de la independencia. Seis biografías de mujeres venezolanas (Mexico City: Talleres Gráficos de México, ); Carmen Perdomo Escalona, Heroínas y mártires venezolanas (Caracas: Ediciones Librería Destino, ); and Ermila Troconis de Veracoechea, Gobernadoras, cimarronas, conspiradoras y barraganas (Caracas: Alfadil Ediciones, ). On narrating women’s actions as melodrama, see Carolina Pizarro Cortés, “Dos aplicaciones del modelo melodrámatico. Manuela Sáenz y Leona Vicario en el imaginario contemporáneo sobre las independencias,” Letras de Hoje , no.  (): –.

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Sarah C. Chambers  See also Sueann Caulfield, “The History of Gender in the Historiography of Latin America,” Hispanic American Historical Review , nos. – (): –.  The catalogue included some theses completed outside Mexico, including Janet R. Kentner, “The Socio-Political Role of Women in the Mexican Wars of Independence, –,” Ph.D. dissertation, Loyola University, ; Josefina Zoraida Vázquez y Vera, et al., (eds.), Catálogo de tesis de historia de instituciones de educación superior: – [E-book] (Mexico City: Comité Mexicano de Ciencias Históricas, ). The online version extended to . Kentner’s dissertation is still the only title in both categories: www.institutomora.edu.mx/cmch/SitePages/ Inicio.aspx.  According to Kentner’s obituary, she worked as a “college professor and legal researcher,” but there are no indications she published her research: http://boards.ancestry.com/localities.northam.usa .states.michigan.counties.stjoseph//mb.ashx. Evelyn Cherpak defended her Ph.D. dissertation, “Women and the Independence of Gran Colombia, –,” at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in . Cherpak published one essay from the thesis and later worked as an archivist at the Naval War College, where she pursued her interest in women’s history but not Latin America.  Meri Knaster, “Women in Latin America: The State of Research, ,” Latin American Research Review , no.  (): –. See also Knaster, Women in Spanish America: An Annotated Bibliography from Pre-Conquest to Contemporary Times (Boston: G. K. Hall, ), – and . Asunción Lavrin (ed.), Latin American Women: Historical Perspectives (Westport and London: Greenwood Press, ) included articles by Evelyn Cherpak on independence and by Johanna S. R. Mendelson on depictions of women in the press between  and . This was followed a decade later by Asunción Lavrin (ed.), Sexuality and Marriage in Colonial Latin America (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ). Lavrin did publish later on women in the nineteenth century: “Spanish American Women, –: The Challenge of Remembering,” Hispanic Research Journal , no.  (): –; and “Women in the Wars of Independence,” in Forging Patrias: Iberoamerica –: Some Reflections,  vols., ed. Guadalupe Jiménez Codinach (Mexico City: Fomento Cultural Banamex, ), vol. , –. On doing women’s history in the s and s, see Lavrin, “ CLAH Luncheon Address: Recurdos/Remembrances,” The Americas , no.  (): –.  Silvia Marina Arrom, “Women and the Family in Mexico City, –,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, .  José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi, Heroínas mexicanas (Mexico City: Biblioteca de Historiadores Mexicanos, ), . On shifting views of heroines, see also Alicia Tecuanhuey, “La imagen de las heroínas mexicanas,” in La construcción del héroe en España y México (–), ed. Manuel Chust and Víctor Mínguez (Valencia: Universitat de València, ), –; and Pamela S. Murray, “Loca or Libertadora?: Manuela Sáenz in the Eyes of History and Historians, –c.,” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –.  “Artículo Necrológico,” –.  For a thorough bibliography, see Sarah C. Chambers, “Gender during the Period of Latin American Independence,” in Oxford Bibliographies in Latin American Studies, ed. Ben Vinson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), www-oxfordbibliographies-com.ezp.lib.umn.edu/view/document/obo/obo--.xml.  Margarita R. Ochoa and Sara Vicuña Guengerich (eds.), Cacicas: The Indigenous Women Leaders of Spanish America, – (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, ).  Mónica Bolufer Peruga, “Mujeres y hombres en los espacios del Reformismo Ilustrado. Debates y estrategias,” Revista HMiC: Història Moderna i Contemporània  (): –; “‘Neither Male, Nor Female’: Rational Equality in the Spanish Enlightenment,” in Women, Gender and

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   





Enlightenment, ed. Sarah Knott and Barbara Taylor (London: Palgrave, ), –; and “Del salón a la asamblea: Sociabilidad, espacio público y ámbito privado (siglos XVII–XVIII),” Saitabi  (): –. See also Elizabeth Franklin Lewis, “Women As Public Intellectuals during the Hispanic Enlightenment: The Case of Josefa Amara y Borbón’s Ensayo histórico-apologético de la literature española,” in The Routledge Companion to the Hispanic Enlightenment, ed. Elizabeth Franklin Lewis, Mónica Bolufer, and Catherine M. Jaffe (London and New York: Routledge / Taylor and Francis Group, ), –. Authors with female pseudonyms could have been women or men, but women were listed among subscribers to these journals and thus engaged these ideas. See Margarita Zegarra, “La construcción de la madre y de la familia sentimental. Una visión del tema a través del Mercurio Peruano,” Histórica , no.  (): –; Claudia Rosas Lauro, “Madre sólo hay una: Ilustración, maternidad y medicina en el Perú del siglo XVIII,” Anuario de Estudios Americanos , no.  (): –; Bianca Premo, “‘Misunderstood Love’: Children and Wet Nurses, Creoles and Kings in Lima’s Enlightenment,” Colonial Latin American Review , no.  (): –; Mariselle Meléndez, “Inconstancia en la mujer. Espacio y cuerpo femenino en el Mercurio Peruano, –,” Revista Iberoamericana , nos. – (): –; Meléndez, “Women in the Print Culture of New Spain,” in Ignacio Sánchez-Prado, Anna M. Nogar, and José Ramón Ruisánchez Serra (eds.), A History of Mexican Literature (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –; and Meléndez, “Women’s Voices in Eighteenth-Century Spanish American Newspapers,” in Mónica Díaz and Rocío Quispe-Agnoli (eds.), Women’s Negotiations and Textual Agency in Latin America, – (New York: Routledge, ), –. Magally Alegre Henderson, “Degenerate Heirs of the Empire: Climatic Determinism and Effeminacy in the Mercurio Peruano,” Historia Crítica  (): –; and “Androginopolis: Dissident Masculinities and the Creation of Republican Peru (Lima, –),” Ph.D. dissertation, Stony Brook University, . Silvia Marina Arrom, The Women of Mexico City, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ), quote on . Bianca Premo, The Enlightenment on Trial: Ordinary Litigants and Colonialism in the Spanish Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, ). Steve J. Stern, The Secret History of Gender: Women, Men, and Power in Late Colonial Mexico (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ). Notably, Charles F. Walker consistently attributes leadership to both Bastidas and Túpac Amaru in The Tupac Amaru Rebellion (Cambridge and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, ), quote on . See also Leon G. Campbell, “Women and the Great Rebellion in Peru, –,” The Americas , no.  (): –; Silvia Arze, Magdalena Cajías, and Ximena Medinaceli, Mujeres en rebelión. La presencia femenina en las rebeliones de Charcas del siglo XVIII (La Paz: Ministerio de Desarrollo Humano, ); and Mariselle Meléndez, Deviant and Useful Citizens: The Cultural Production of the Female Body in Eighteenth-Century Peru (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, ), –. Matt D. Childs, The  Aponte Rebellion in Cuba and the Struggle against Atlantic Slavery (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, ), especially –; and Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –. The  junta preceded the Spanish constitution of ; more research might reveal whether there were other circumstances in the colonial period in which vecinas could politically represent their households. Chad Thomas Black, The Limits of Gender Domination: Women, the Law, and Political Crisis in Quito, – (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ), – and –; on meanings of vecino, see also Martha Lux, Mujeres patriotas y realistas entre dos





Sarah C. Chambers

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    











órdenes. Discursos, estrategias y tácticas en la guerra, la política y el comercio (Nueva Granada, –) (Bogotá: Universidad de los Andes, ), . Sarah C. Chambers and Lisa Norling, “Choosing to Be a Subject: Loyalist Women in the Revolutionary Atlantic World,” Journal of Women’s History , no.  (): –. See also Inés Quintero, La criolla principal. María Antonia Bolívar, hermana del Libertador (Caracas: Fundación Bigott, ). Paulo Rezzutti, D. Leopoldina: A história não contada. A mulher que arquitetou a Independência do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Casa da Palavra/LeYa Editora, ). Sarah C. Chambers, Families in War and Peace: Chile from Colony to Nation (Durham and London: Duke University Press, ) –, quote on . Genaro García, Leona Vicario: Heroína Insurgente (Mexico City: Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Historia y Etnología, ). Pamela S. Murray, For Glory and Bolívar: The Remarkable Life of Manuela Sáenz, – (Austin: University of Texas Press. ). Evelyn Cherpak, “The Participation of Women in the Independence Movement in Gran Colombia, –,” in Latin American Women: Historical Perspectives, –; María José Garrido Asperó, “Entre hombres te veas. Las mujeres de Pénjamo y la revolución de independencia,” in Disidencia y disidentes en la historia de México, ed. Felipe Castro and Marcela Terrazas (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autómona de México, ), –; Sarah C. Chambers, “Letters and Salons: Women Reading and Writing the Nation,” in Beyond Imagined Communities: Reading and Writing the Nation in Nineteenth-Century Latin America, ed. Sara Castro-Klarén and John Charles Chasteen (Baltimore and London: The John Hopkins University Press, ), –; and Lux, Mujeres patriotas y realistas entre dos órdenes. Camilla Townsend, “‘Half My Body Free, the Other Half Enslaved’: The Politics of the Slaves of Guayaquil at the End of the Colonial Era,” Colonial Latin American Review,  no.  (): –. On less successful cases, see Peter Blanchard, Under the Flags of Freedom: Slave Soldiers and the Wars of Independence in Spanish South America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ), especially –. For the royalist case, see Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution, –. Corrido insurgente anónimo cuyos versos son un llamado a la guerra dirigido a las mujeres americanas con la finalidad de derrotar tropas de Félix María Calleja, Archivo General de la Nación (Mexico, ), Operaciones de Guerra, vol. , exp. , f. . Murray, For Glory and Bolívar; and Alejandra Ciriza, “La formación de la conciencia social y política de las mujeres en el siglo XIX latinoamericano. Mujeres, política y revolución: Juana Azurduy y Manuela Sáenz,” in El pensamiento social y político iberoamericano del siglo XIX, ed. Arturo Andrés Roig (Madrid: Editorial Trotta and Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, ), –. Azurduy reportedly was accompanied by a personal guard of twenty-five women; Catherine Davies, Claire Brewster, and Hilary Owen, South American Independence: Gender, Politics, Text (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, ), . It is not clear at what point commanding officers realized Quitéria’s birthname, but the emperor awarded her the commendation as a woman; Ignez Sabino, Mulheres ilustres do Brazil () (Florianópolis: Editora das Mulheres, ). Marjan Schwegman, “Amazons for Garibaldi: Women Wariors and the Making of the Hero of Two Worlds,” Modern Italy , no.  (): – (quote on ); and Paulo Markun, Anita Garibaldi. Uma heroína brasileira (São Paulo: Editora Senac, ). For the general activities of women, see Elma Sant’Ana, A Mulher na Guerra dos Farrapos (Curitiba: Instituto Memória, ); and Davies, Brewster, and Owen, South American Independence, –.

Beyond Heroes and Heroines  Heather Hennes, “Corrientes culturales en la leyenda de Juana Azurduy de Padilla,” Cuadernos Americanos: Nueva Época , no.  (): –.  Chambers, Families in War and Peace, . See also Sarah C. Chambers, “¿Actoras políticas o ayudantes abnegadas? Repensando las actitudes hacia las mujeres durante las guerras de independencia hispanoamericanas,” in L’Atlantique révolutionnaire. Une perspective ibéro-américaine, ed. Clément Thibaud, Gabriel Entin, Alejandro Gómez, and Federica Morelli (Paris: Éditions Les Perséides, ), –.  Garrido Asperó, “Entre hombres te veas,” ; Karen Racine, “Message by massacre: Venezuela’s War to the Death, –,” Journal of Genocide Research , no.  (): –; Erika Pani, “‘Ciudadana y muy ciudadana’?: Women and the State in Independent Mexico,” Gender & History , no.  (): –; Barry Matthew Robinson, “La reclusión de mujeres rebeldes. El recogimiento en la guerra de independencia mexicana, –,” Fronteras de la Historia [Colombia] , no.  (): –; and Alejandra Guadalupe Hidalgo Rodríguez, “Los discursos sobre la participación de las mujeres en la guerra de independencia. Casos del occidente de México,” in Mujeres y emancipación de la América Latina y el Caribe en los siglos XIX y XX, ed. Irina Bajini, Luisa Campuzano, and Emilia Perassi (Milan: Ledipublishing, ), –.  Rebecca Earle, “Rape and the Anxious Republic: Revolutionary Colombia, –,” in Hidden Histories of Gender and the State in Latin America, ed. Elizabeth Dore and Maxine Molyneux (Durham and London: Duke University Press, ), –. See also Ana Belén García López, “La participación de las mujeres en la independencia hispanoamericana a través de los medios de comunicación,” Historia y Comunicación Social  (): –; and Reuben Zahler, “¿Y para las damas, qué?: Liberalism, Nationalism, and Gender in the Hispanic World,” in The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of , ed. Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, ), –.  Catherine Davies, “Colonial Dependence and Sexual Difference: Reading for Gender in the Writings of Simón Bolívar,” Feminist Review  (): –.  Matthew Brown, “Soldier Heroes and the Colombian Wars of Independence,” Hispanic Research Journal , no.  (): –.  Sarah C. Chambers, “Masculine Virtues and Feminine Passions: Gender and Race in the Republicanism of Simón Bolívar,” Hispanic Research Journal , no.  (): –.  Arrom, The Women of Mexico City; and Donna Guy, Women Build the Welfare State (Durham: Duke University Press, ).  James Sanders, “‘A Mob of Women’ Confront Post-Colonial Republican Politics: How Class, Race, and Partisan Ideology Affected Gendered Political Space in Nineteenth-Century Southwestern Colombia,” Journal of Women’s History , no.  (): –, quote on ; see also Lavrin, “Spanish American Women, –”; and Pamela Murray, “Mujeres, género y política en la joven república colombiana. Una mirada desde la correspondencia personal del General Tomás Cipriano de Mosquera, –,” Historia Crítica [Bogotá]  (): –.  Sarah C. Chambers, “Republican Friendship: Manuela Sáenz Writes Women into the Nation, –,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. See also Jeffrey M. Shumway, A Woman, A Man, A Nation: Mariquita Sánchez, Juan Manuel de Rosas, and the Beginnings of Argentina (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ).  Sarah C. Chambers and John Charles Chasteen (eds. and trans.), Latin American Independence: An Anthology of Sources (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, ), –.  Chambers, Families in War and Peace.





Sarah C. Chambers  Arlene Díaz, Female Citizens, Patriarchs, and the Law in Venezuela, – (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ); Lux, Mujeres patriotas y realistas entre dos órdenes; Ana Serrano Galvis, “Conciencia política de las mujeres durante la independencia de Nueva Granada. El caso de antafé entre  y ,” Secuencia  (): –; Elizabeth Dore, “One Step Forward, Two Steps Back: Gender and the State in the Long Nineteenth Century,” in Hidden Histories of Gender and the State in Latin America, Dore and Molyneux (eds.), –; Christine Hünefeldt, Liberalism in the Bedroom: Quarreling Spouses in Nineteenth-Century Lima (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, ); and Nara B. Milanich, The Children of Fate: Childhood, Class, and the State in Chile, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ).  Clara Sarmento, “Writing and Living on the Stage of History: Women and Intercultural Transits between Portugal and Brazil in the Early Nineteenth Century,” Hispanic Research Journal , no.  (): –.  Chambers and Chasteen, Latin American Independence, –.  Davies, Brewster, and Owen, South American Independence, –, quote on . See also Eileen Hunt Botting and Charlotte Hammond Matthews, “Overthrowing the Floresta-Wollstonecraft Myth for Latin American Feminism,” Gender & History , no.  (): –.  See the introduction to Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, Sab and Autobiography, trans. and ed. Nina M. Scott (Austin: University of Texas Press, ). For another famous Cuban writer of the period, see Adriana Méndez Rodenas, Gender, and Nationalism in Colonial Cuba: The Travels of Santa Cruz y Montalvo, Condesa de Merlin (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, ).  On women in nineteenth-century Cuba, see Teresa Prados-Torreira, Mambisas: Rebel Women in Nineteenth-Century Cuba (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, ); K. Lynn Stoner, “Militant Heroines and the Consecration of the Patriarchal State: The Glorification of Loyalty, Combat, and National Suicide in the Making of Cuban National Identity,” Cuban Studies  (): –; Jorge Luis Camacho, “Los límites de la transgresión. La virilización de la mujer y la feminización del poeta en José Martí,” Revista Iberoamericana , nos. – (): –; and Manuel Hernández González, “Emilia Casanova, heroína de la independencia de Cuba,” Dossiers Feministes, no.  (): –. For a study of a woman who hosted liberal salons in Puerto Rico, see Raquel Rosario Rivera, María de las Mercedes Barbudo. Primera mujer independentista de Puerto Rico, – (San Juan, ).  Ada Ferrer, “Rustic Men, Civilized Nation: Race, Culture, and Contention on the Eve of Cuban Independence,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –.  For more on artistic renditions of heroes and heroines in Colombia, see Yobenj Aucardo Chicangana Bayona, La independencia en el arte y el arte en la independencia (Bogotá: Ministerio de Educación Nacional, ), –.  Sarah C. Chambers, “‘Drying Their Tears’: Women’s Petitions, National Reconciliation, and Commemoration in Post-Independence Chile,” in Gender, War and Politics: The Wars of Revolution and Liberation – Transatlantic Comparisons, –, ed. Karen Hagemann, Gisela Mettele, and Jane Rendall (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave MacMillan, ), –; see also Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, “‘Hallándome viuda sin recursos, sin apoyo y en la más deplorable situación.’ El montepío mlitar y la creación del Estado en el Perú (–),” Caravelle: Cahiers du Monde Hispanique et Luso-brésilien  (), https://journals.openedition.org/caravelle/.  Peter Guardino, “Gender, Soldiering, and Citizenship in the Mexican-American War of –,” American Historical Review , no.  (): –; and Patrick McNamara, “Saving Private Ramírez: The Patriarchal Voice of Republican Motherhood in Mexico,” Gender & History, , no.  (): –. For comparative perspectives on gender and war, see Hagemann, Mettele, and Rendall (eds.), Gender, War, and Politics.

Beyond Heroes and Heroines  Aline Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia, – (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); and for selected primary sources on Padilla, Chambers, and Chasteen, Latin American Independence, –. On Brazil, see Peter M. Beattie, The Tribute of Blood: Army, Honor, Race, and Nation in Brazil, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ).  Matthew Brown, “Adventurers, Foreign Women and Masculinity in the Colombian Wars of Independence,” Feminist Review  (): –, and Alegre Henderson, “Androginopolis.”  Sarah C. Chambers, From Subjects to Citizens: Honor, Gender, and Politics in Arequipa, Peru, – (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, ), quote on p. .  Víctor Macías-González, “Masculine Friendships, Sentiment, and Homoerotics in NineteenthCentury Mexico: The Correspondence of José María Calderón y Tapia, s–s,” Journal of the History of Sexuality , no.  (): –. For examples of intense male friendships in late colonial and independence-era Colombia, see Guiomar Dueñas-Vargas, Of Love and Other Passions: Elites, Politics, and Family in Bogotá, Colombia, – (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ).  Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia; and Marixa Lasso, Myths of Harmony: Race and Republicanism during the Age of Revolution, Colombia, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ).  On relationships of indigenous people to the state, see Rossana Barragán, “The ‘Spirit’ of Bolivian Laws: Citizenship, Patriarchy, and Infamy,” in Honor, Status, and Law in Modern Latin America, ed. Sueann Caulfield, Sarah C. Chambers, and Lara Putnam (Durham: Duke University Press, ), –; and Laura M. Shelton, For Tranquility and Order: Family and Community on Mexico’s Northern Frontier, – (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, ). For Ecuador, Erin O’Connor argues that over the nineteenth and into the twentieth century, “the processes of nation making increased Indian men’s ability to negotiate with the state, while Indian women’s capacities were not similarly extended”; Erin O’Connor, Gender, Indian, Nation: The Contradictions of Making Ecuador, – (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, ), xiv.  David T. Garrett, “‘In Spite of Her Sex’: The Cacica and the Politics of the Pueblo in the Late Colonial Andes,” The Americas , no.  (): . For a parallel in Central America, see Catherine Komisaruk, “Sinking Fortunes: Two Female Caciques and an Ex-gobernadora in the Kingdom of Guatemala, –,” in Cacicas, ed. Ochoa and Guengerich, –.  Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule: Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, ), –; Greg Grandin, The Blood of Guatemala: A History of Race and Nation (Durham and London: Duke University Press, ), –; Peter Guardino, “Community Service, Liberal Law, and Local Custom in Indigenous Villages: Oaxaca, –,” in Honor, Status, and Law in Modern Latin America, ed. Caulfield, Chambers, and Putnam, –; and Florencia Mallon, Peasant and Nation: The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, ), –. Further research might reveal whether or not indigenous women continued to hold important posts in religious confraternities after independence as they had in the colonial period; S. Elizabeth Penry, The People Are King: The Making of an Indigenous Andean Politics (New York: Oxford University Press, ).  Camilla Cowling, Conceiving Freedom: Women of Color, Gender, and the Abolition of Slavery in Havana and Rio de Janeiro (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); and Castriela Esther Hernández Reyes, “Aproximaciones al sistema de sexo/género en la Nueva Granada en los siglos XVIII y XIX,” in Demando mi libertad. Mujeres negras y sus estrategias de resistencia en la Nueva Granada, Venezuela y Cuba, ed. Aurora Vergara Figueroa and Carmen Luz Cosme Puntiel (Cali, Colombia: Editorial Universidad Icesi, ), –, https://repository.icesi.edu.co/ biblioteca_digital/bitstream////vergara_demando_milibertad_.pdf.

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Sarah C. Chambers  Women held authority within Palmares in Brazil and many Caribbean maroon communities, but Yuko Miki finds them in more subordinated positions in a Brazilian quilombo in the s. Mary Karasch, “Zumbi of Palmares: Challenging the Portuguese Colonial Order,” in The Human Tradition in Colonial Latin America, nd ed., ed. Kenneth J. Andrien (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, ) , –; Alvin O. Thompson, “Gender and Marronage in the Caribbean,” The Journal of Caribbean History , no.  (): –; and Yuko Miki, “Fleeing into Slavery: The Insurgent Geographies of Brazilian Quilombolas (Maroons), –,” The Americas , no.  (): –.

ÁLVARO C B  G P



Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

By the early nineteenth century, expressions of dissent and even acts of sedition in Ibero-America were no longer shocking to peninsular observers. Spanish America was convulsed by localized rebellions in the late s and s, most notably the Túpac Amaru in Peru and Comuneros in New Granada. These uprisings were seen in Europe with a mixture of intolerance and caution. At one extreme, military forces were sent to Peru to clamp down on the insurgents, a show of force to discourage future insurrection. Yet, almost simultaneously, and during Spain’s participation in the global war that resulted in the independence of thirteen of Britain’s mainland North American colonies in , King Charles III was advised to divide the transatlantic monarchy into independent kingdoms ruled by his children. Nothing of comparable scale transpired in Brazil, but conspiracies against the established order had occurred. The best known of these, which was nipped in the bud, took place in the province of Minas Gerais in the late s. This Inconfidência Mineira was animated by republican ideas. More alarming to authorities was the  Tailors’ Revolt in Bahia. There, mulato soldiers and artisans plotted based on the principles of the Haitian and French Revolutions. They called for independence, the declaration of a republic based on electoral democracy, the abolition of slavery, and full equality between blacks and whites. But neither the Minas conspiracy nor the Tailors’ revolt produced widespread upheaval or sparked discussions about a wholesale imperial reconfiguration. In Spanish America, too, the echoes of France and Haiti prompted bouts of abortive uprisings, official panics, and some proposals, but most were fitful, local, unpopular, or swiftly suppressed. What transpired in  and thereafter was not only of a different scope and scale, but was qualitatively distinct from what had taken place in final decades of the eighteenth century. The occupation of the Iberian Peninsula by the French army precipitated the transfer of the Portuguese monarchy to Rio de Janeiro and the

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abdication of the Spanish monarch, who was replaced by Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte. This chapter surveys Iberian views and reactions to the incipient movements in Ibero-America, some of which ultimately took a separatist direction, and analyses familiar events by addressing Spanish and Portuguese views and actions through comparative and, at times, entangled perspectives. Broadly speaking, historians have highlighted the differences between the independence of Brazil vis-à-vis the Spanish Americas and the later distinct political trajectories of the Empire of Brazil and its neighboring republics. These differences, while remarkable, are not the only way to compare the processes the Spanish and Portuguese Atlantic worlds underwent during the first third of the nineteenth century. A major scholarly innovation of the past thirty years has been the recognition that the independences of Spanish and Portuguese America cannot be fully decoupled from what transpired across the Atlantic in Europe. Similarly, there is a difficulty in distinguishing exclusively “Iberian” views of these processes, for peninsular developments during and after the Napoleonic occupation were set in Atlantic and imperial contexts. This has meant a move away from understanding the wars of independence of the s as ones of liberation and more, at least in their earliest phases, as civil wars in transatlantic empires. The independence of states that roughly coincide with the current political map of Latin America was therefore highly contingent, one among several possible outcomes. For analytical purposes, this chapter distinguishes four periods in the Iberian responses to the independence processes between c.  and the late s. The chapter identifies the main characteristics of these moments while exploring inflection points and watershed episodes. The first moment was marked by the French invasion of the Iberian Peninsula and the abandonment of the rulers of Portugal and Spain of their respective territories. A second moment emerged with a shift in Iberian views regarding the Americas upon Napoleon’s defeat in –. The third moment addressed in the chapter is that of the liberal revolutions that shook southern Europe from  until , which enabled major shifts in the prospects for separation from Spain and Portugal in the Americas. Finally, this chapter addresses the fourth moment, the aftermath of de facto or formally recognized independence of the myriad republics in Spanish America and the Empire of Brazil after  in Portugal and in Spain. Navigating Uncharted Waters, –

In November , a convoy of over thirty ships departed Lisbon with the Portuguese royal family and most of their court on board, bound for the western hemisphere and escorted by the British royal navy. Their arrival in Rio de Janeiro,

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

capital of the Viceroyalty of Brazil, in March of the following year, marked an unprecedented event: the only time that the ruling monarch of a European empire, Queen Maria I and her son and Prince Regent João, settled their court in the colonies. The departure of the Portuguese royal family was prompted less by volition and more by the force of events. Spain, Portugal’s neighbors in Iberia and the Americas, had facilitated the incursion of French troops beyond the Pyrenees. The treaty of Fontainebleau of  signed between Spanish Bourbon king, Carlos IV and Napoleon promised a partition of Portugal upon the invasion favorable to the Spaniards’ interests. Events did not go as planned and, while the French occupied Portugal they also set their sights on Spain. The French armies occupied Spain marching from north to south and reaching Madrid by March . Napoleon then extracted abdications from King Carlos IV and his heir Fernando VII in favor of Joseph Bonaparte, the French emperor’s brother, making him King José I of Spain. This divergence of events between what happened in Spain and Portugal since November  and into mid  put the two empires, and their American colonies, on different trajectories. In Brazil, the legitimacy of the Portuguese monarchy was not shaken by the French takeover of the metropole. The opposite occurred in the Spanish Americas. Accordingly, Spanish Americans of various social and racial backgrounds became concerned and disoriented by the news of the French occupation of the Iberian Peninsula and the fate of the Spanish Bourbons. The different responses given by the Americanos to the abdication of their sovereign were transmitted to Europe where they elicited strikingly divergent reactions. These reactions should be contrasted with the Portuguese concerns about the Americas. Lusitanian commentators worried less about the potential loss of Brazil and more about what would transpire should the court’s transfer be made permanent. This anxiety was expressed as early as , echoing eighteenth-century policymakers who had argued in favor of a shifting of the empire’s center of power across the Atlantic. Consequently, Prince Regent Dom João in Rio de Janeiro continually received correspondence that lamented his apparent abandonment of Portugal to foreign powers while his peninsular subjects loyally awaited the court’s return. Portugal’s successive occupations by enemies (France) and allies (Great Britain), had deleterious effects on the state and society. The country’s population declined by more than three hundred thousand between  and  and its economic infrastructure was severely damaged. Its intellectual infrastructure damaged by occupation, as many of Portugal’s finest thinkers were forced into exile. Lisbon merchants petitioned the crown, begging Dom João to devise measures to rehabilitate national shipping and to free Portugal from the British military yoke. Portuguese governors bombarded the court in Rio de Janeiro with dire prognostications, unsubtle warnings, and scarcely concealed admonishments. If the navy and

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merchant marine declined further, José António de Meneses de Sousa Coutinho, a member of the Regency set up to govern the realm during the royal family’s absence in Rio de Janeiro (–), Portugal would drop to the rank of a “small duchy in Germany or Italy.” And if its population dwindled and its agriculture stagnated further, he warned, Portugal would be reduced to “insignificance, without the means to sustain its independence.” If uncertainty in Portugal revolved around whether the royal family would ever return to Europe, the situation in Spain saw conflicting accounts about the state of the Americas and its inhabitants’ loyalty to the metropole. Unlike Portuguese ultramarine subjects who bore witness to the monarchy’s relocation to Rio de Janeiro, contradictory accounts reached the Spanish Americas regarding Fernando VII’s fate and the state of the war against France. Upon receiving the initial news of the  crisis in Spain, Spanish Americans emulated the rise of assemblies for selfgovernment and anti-French resistance (juntas) that emerged in Europe. During  and , different governmental bodies emerged in Spain in opposition to Bonaparte’s regime. The Supreme Junta of Seville (), later the Central Junta (–), and the Council of Regency (–), all struggled, in no small part because of the diversity of conditions, to form a coherent view of events underway in the Americas. Contradictory views emerged in Spain regarding whether granting greater autonomy to the Indies could have positive effects on both sides of the Atlantic. In Spain, some intellectuals and politicians, like Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, had floated the possibility of taking a similar approach to the Portuguese and reconstituting a form of Spanish central authority across the Atlantic, but this never materialized. The notion of greater self-government in the American territories had been discussed and could have been enacted in the context of the  crisis. This path was not taken. Instead, the Central Junta and the Regency claimed to rule in lieu of Fernando VII over the entirety of the empire. These placeholder institutions in Spain appealed to peoples in the Americas to recognize them as the legitimate authorities. Analogous pleas were also sent to crown appointees – viceroys, judges, tax collectors, military commanders. By and large these appointees saw themselves as bound to the authorities that opposed Napoleon. In turn, much of the crisis in the Hispanic world revolved around the question of whether peoples in the Americas acknowledged the authority of the institutions ruling on Fernando’s behalf. After , Spanish Americans in places like Buenos Aires, Caracas, Santa Fe Bogotá, and Mexico did not formally renounce loyalty to Fernando VII but, simultaneously, withheld recognition to the Regency and the Spanish appointees who abided by its orders.

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

From the Iberian perspective, this posed as much a symbolic as a material conundrum. Any voluntary dismembering of the empire became untenable given Spain’s dependence on American treasure. European Spaniards exhorted their American counterparts to become actively invested in the fight against Napoleon through material means. The refusal to recognize the Regency came at a time when the advance of the French forces in – forced their opponents to take refuge in the port city of Cádiz and its environs in southern Andalusia. Others waged guerrilla wars against the French in the peninsular interior. Simply put, the opposition to the Bonaparte dynasty in Spain lacked the capacity to wage war without the assistance of British troops to supplement the guerrillas and without funds sent from the Americas. During the years of Fernando VII’s absence, resistance to dismantling the overseas’ empire offered unity in an otherwise increasingly fragmented scenario in Spanish politics. Such reticence was linked to the peninsula’s economic dependence on Spanish America. In addition, authorities in Iberia thought separatist movements were the machinations of a handful of “alucinados” (delusional) individuals in the colonies. The idea of revolution as the work of small groups, sometimes aided by foreign adversaries, was a familiar trope in Spanish elite circles.13 Realistic or not, the notion that insurrections were a minority preference was a clear unifying principle in Spain. The diversity of scenarios on the ground in Spanish America conspired against general assessments. It was difficult to arrive at a single explanation for the vastly diverse events unfolding since . These included the large-scale insurrection in the Mexican countryside, the coups of urban merchants in Buenos Aires, and the fears of uprisings in Spanish Caribbean slave societies. The view of the overthrow of Spanish appointees as the work of minorities was also underpinned by the misunderstandings or “malas inteligencias” that emerged from long-distance communications and fast-paced events. Furthermore, the notion that a small cadre of rebels had seduced the masses enabled other interpretations, including the reassuring self-deception that what was unfolding was akin to a familial dispute. Such a framework for envisioning the crisis supported different, sometimes contradictory, approaches. One was the idea that a large-scale political reconfiguration of the Spanish empire could solve the family quarrel through political means. This pathway was advocated by institutions that incorporated Spanish American representation in Spain in this period. This was especially true of the Cortes, an empire-wide constitutional convention and representative assembly that began sessions in September . The cornerstone of this approach was to offer the Spanish Americans a non-colonial status in the imperial institutional design.

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Spaniards were pushed in this direction by internal and external forces. The French had convoked an assembly with participation of overseas’ delegates that crafted a constitutional statute, the  Bayonne estatuto. This text rejected the idea that the Americas and the Philippines were colonies. The estatuto forced Napoleon’s Spanish enemies into making similar pronouncements, including the incorporation of Spanish American delegates in the Cortes. The delegates who represented American territories in the Cortes pushed the assembly toward anticolonial concessions deemed favorable to a peaceful settlement. Through their participation in the Cortes that met in Cádiz since , the perspective of delegates born in the Americas (criollos), or with a long-time residence there (afincados), was brought into the Iberian views of the crisis. Measures taken by the Cortes such as the decree abolishing the personal tribute paid by indigenous subjects, and the decree declaring the “liberty of industry” in the Americas were believed to respond to the demands of vast swaths of the population in the Indies. Similarly, the  Constitution sanctioned by the Cortes defined the “Spanish nation” as made up of the “Spaniards of both hemispheres.” Through these concrete steps, the Cortes presented itself as doing more than the rebels’ “tricks and empty promises (promesas aéreas).” Some voices in Cádiz’s boisterous public sphere criticized events in the Americas along the lines of long-held views of American incapacity for self-government. One newspaper chastised the hypocrisy of a commitment to a natural-rights-based political order in the emergent polities of the Americas. It noted that the Españoles Americanos who favored independence would soon “resort to artificial means to deprive their black brothers, or other colored castas, from an equal share of political power.” Such critique was all the more the more remarkable since it was reproduced in the immediate aftermath of debates in the Cortes on slavery and abolition. The vernacular of enslavement and captivity was amply mobilized in Spain during this period to refer to their fight against the French. Spanish publicists in exile sought to present the cause for the abolition of slavery in the Spanish territories as analogous to the peninsular struggle for liberty from the French occupation. Accounts of loyalty to Spain on the part of peoples of color, free and enslaved, were certainly discussed in the Cortes. These coexisted with anxieties about uprisings on the part of enslaved peoples in the Americas and with preoccupations about the economic consequences that the abolition of slavery would bring to the empire. Historians situate this economic concern as critical given the influence of the Cuban planter class and its allies in the Cortes. Pronouncements by anti-abolitionist deputies, and pressure exerted from outside the Cortes by Habanero interests tied to the slave economy, foreclosed the route for any pronouncement on the abolition slavery in the  constitution or for the Cortes to issue a decree to that end.

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

The issue of the status of the status of “the Spaniards . . . who are, or considered to be, originally from Africa” as debated in Cádiz was central to Spanish imperial concerns. European members in the Cortes shared an anxiety with their Portuguese neighbors regarding the Americanos’ potential supremacy in the new imperial order. A majority in the – session of the assembly, the European delegates in the Cortes resisted an electoral apportionment that would reflect the reality of imperial asymmetry. If the Cortes allocated seats on the basis of population, the Americas would have more seats than Europe in future assemblies. This difficulty was circumvented by tying the distribution of seats to the number of citizens instead of inhabitants, while simultaneously excluding “the Spaniards . . . who are, or considered to be, originally from Africa” from birthright citizenship. In Spain, as in Portugal, by , the economic and demographic center of the empire was located across the Atlantic. Yet in denying population-based electoral apportionment and voting down other concessions to the Americanos, Spaniards confirmed that they would not travel down the same path as the Portuguese and concede that the American part of the empire had become the center of political gravity. –: The Return of One King, the Persistent “Abandonment” of Another

Each in their own way, Spain’s Fernando VII and Portugal’s Prince Regent João were at the core of their European subjects’ views of the imperial crises. Portuguese subjects had to be constantly reassured that the transfer of the monarchy to Brazil was temporary. That claim, however, failed to appease many in Portugal, who feared that the transfer of the court would be made permanent. After all, they acknowledged, the definitive relocation of the monarch would reflect Brazil’s superior wealth, population, and dynamism. Making Rio de Janeiro the permanent seat of the Portuguese empire would also be a repudiation of tradition and history, inverting the metropole–colony relationship. It would deprive Portugal of all of the institutions, appointments, and prestige belonging to the capital of a global empire, reducing it to a petty province. Tradition and history, which buttressed monarchy and justified its existence in an age when old truths were being rejected and long-standing assumptions overturned, could not be easily discarded. A decision to make Rio the permanent capital, therefore, could not be taken lightly. An oldworld monarchy, with all its trappings and pomp, remained on American soil surrounded by neighboring Spanish America veering toward republicanism. All the while, revolutionary intrigue against this arrangement simmered in the diminutive, and much diminished, European fragment of this Atlantic empire, itself surrounded by restored monarchies in the wake of the Napoleonic wars.

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette

Similar to the longing for the return of Dom João and the court to Lisbon, Spaniards, at least publicly, yearned for the restoration of Fernando VII. After setbacks suffered by Napoleon’s armies in Spain and Portugal, and crucial defeats in central Europe, the liberation of the Spanish king from his gilded captivity in Valency was yet another move in the larger chessboard of European diplomacy. Fernando’s political convictions were largely unknown to most of the protagonists of Spanish politics. Yet even before the king set foot on Spanish territory, it was clear that the  Constitution would not constrain his ambitions. Riding a wave of popular support and supported by a conservative faction of politicians, Fernando disbanded the Cortes and repealed the constitution. Fernando’s most recent biographers note that the king aspired to an unadulterated brand of absolutism that was not only unprecedented but also stood in contrast to the checks on monarchical authority his predecessors had accepted. In spite of poignant calls for the return of the royal family to rescue Portugal from its plight, Dom João showed few signs of budging from his Tropical Versailles. In fact, counselled by his advisors, he acted to further ensconce the court in Brazil and delay the royal family’s return to Portugal. He raised Brazil to the status of a kingdom, thus creating a “United Kingdom” (Reino Unido, in Portuguese) of Brazil and Portugal. What this meant in practice was vague. The details would have to be filled in at a later date. But the significance of this action was unambiguous. Brazil was no longer a colony, and Portugal was no longer the sole center of the empire. Henceforth, the two would be equal partners. To a degree, this action gratified Brazilians, some of whom had become fearful of the relocation of the seat of the monarchy to Europe: What would become of their new positions, prestige, and authority? Would they revert back to being mere colonists? The declaration of the Reino Unido was therefore a comforting reassurance. It flattered and justified the self-perception of Brazilian elites, undercutting a major cause of potential dissent and making the prospect of remaining within the Portuguese empire, under monarchical government, much more agreeable. In Portugal, the Reino Unido was met, predictably, with resentment. Abandoned by their royal family in –, the Portuguese had waged (even if under British tutelage) war against the French occupiers, expelling them from Portuguese soil and repulsing a series of successive invasions. This military valor had been exerted in the name of the Braganza dynasty and the loyalty to the royal family. It had been reaffirmed by various oaths, proclamations, and celebrations. There was little criticism of the Braganzas for having fled the Iberian Peninsula and hastily installed a quasi-regency, called the Governors of the Kingdom, to administer dayto-day affairs in their absence. But the failure of the Braganzas to return to Europe in a timely fashion excited great antipathy, as did their creation of parallel political

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

and judicial institutions in Rio de Janeiro. All of their doings in Brazil increasingly appeared to amount to more than a temporary, ad hoc arrangement. The worst fears of Portugal’s elite, eagerly awaiting the return of the peninsula’s preeminence, were confirmed. Already in , the prince-regent had thrown open the ports and markets of Brazil to merchants of all nations. These free trade decrees had deprived Portuguese merchants of their long-held, lucrative monopoly over Brazilian commerce. It stripped Lisbon and Porto of their cherished position as entrepôts for the reexport of Brazilian commodities to the markets of northern Europe. When the Reino Unido was declared, then, the indignities suffered by Portugal were shown in a harsh, unflattering light. Would the Portuguese consent henceforth to becoming a colony of their former colony or, without hyperbole, a peripheral (if historically important) component of a transatlantic empire? At least at first, the novelty, ingenuity, and great possibility of the new political arrangement was lost on Portuguese observers, who perceived only the insult contained in it and the dashed hopes it represented. Their indignant reception prevented them from grasping the potential benefits of an imperial federation for themselves. Instead of understanding the alternatives as either membership in an imperial federation or becoming a minor state, shorn of its empire, on the periphery of Europe, surrounded by rapacious rivals, they believed that they could be restored to their former preeminence. After all that had been lost, after innumerable sacrifices and collective suffering, the Reino Unido could only be interpreted as cruel, and inadequate, recompense. And such widespread sentiments fed their delusion of recaptured grandeur. The Spanish approach was similar to the persuasions held by Portugal’s elites in its concern for asserting European supremacy. The repeal of the  Constitution constituted a strong rebuttal of declarations of American equality. Despite the break brought by the constitution’s repeal, there was continuity in the military front. In addition to the political measures of the previous six years, authorities in Spain had entrusted military commanders to put down the increasingly pro-independence movements. Encouraging information coming from viceroyalties that had been “pacified” through military operations like Peru and New Spain, and the idea of pockets of unwavering loyalism in places like Popayán, Santa Marta, or Montevideo encouraged troop dispatches, and later plans for reconquest of territories lost to the emerging polities. Loyalists in the Americas used a similar language as the one uttered in Europe, simultaneously chastising the hypocrisy of the new authorities, and the deleterious consequences of the “anarchy” that ensued after . Spanish American opinions indicting the novel governments made it to Spain. There, these voices from the Americas reinforced the Iberian persuasion that most Americanos longed for military interventions to restore “order.” Accordingly, in October , Madrid’s Council of the Indies gave its approval to proceed with

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette

military expeditions to “pacify” parts of the Americas controlled by rebels. The question moved, then, to whether the expedition would sail for Venezuela and New Granada, or Río de la Plata. The territories of present-day Colombia and Venezuela were eventually selected as the destination for a ,-strong force commanded by Pablo Morillo that made landfall in coastal Venezuela in  (see Map .). From Madrid’s perspective, the crisis in America was not simply a matter between the Spaniards of both hemispheres, but rather an issue of international importance. During and after the Napoleonic wars, Spain’s image in Europe was that of a second-tier power. Britain had engaged in vast military operations to support Spain against the French invaders. Spaniards suspected, with some reason, British meddling in their internal affairs. These included tacit support for rebel governments in the Americas, the perennial issue of whether to open up American ports to trade with foreigners, and the abolition of slavery. After Napoleon’s defeat, Spanish diplomats were marginalized at the Congress of Vienna. Tellingly, Madrid failed to persuade Britain and Russia to commit to non-intervention in the Americas at the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle. Spain, suffice to say, was not given a seat at the negotiating table. As Spain’s power waned in the emergent Concert of Europe, Morillo’s expedition sought to restore Spain’s diminished international reputation. Portugal was also marginalized. In –, Portugal was no longer at war, but it remained occupied, for all intents and purposes, by an allied army. After expending much blood and treasure in the Peninsular War against Napoleon, a large British force remained in Portugal after the cessation of hostilities. Dom João’s decision to remain in Rio de Janeiro suited, to some degree, British interests. From Dom João’s perspective there were obvious advantages to the occupiers’ presence: A foreign army would suppress dissent, squash mutinies and conspiracies, and, more generally, maintain order during the royal family’s absence. There were disadvantages, too, of course, not least the simmering resentment of the Portuguese people, the substantial cost incurred in victualing the troops, and the perception that the British, not the Braganzas, were in charge. The Braganzas feared dissent in Portugal for good reason. The memory of the afrancesados who had taken Napoleon’s side, was fresh. Even before the fateful year of , crown administrators had installed an effective, tenacious police system to root out dissidents, Freemasons, and other threatening types, throwing them in jail, hounding them into exile, and harassing them (and their associates) thereafter. The events of – in Portugal revealed that many seemingly docile subjects secretly harbored illicit political ideas and aspirations. Unsurprisingly, the army was a hotbed of radicalism and dissent. Freemasonry had spread through its ranks in the latter decades of the eighteenth century, laying the groundwork for the

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

N W A

T

Havana CA

Veracruz

L

RI BB EA N

E S

A

N

T

I C

Puerto Rico

O C E A N

SEA Puerto Cabello La Guaira Maracaibo Puerto Santo Santa Marta

Portobelo

Lima

P A C

I F

I

12253

C O

C

118

E

A N

0 0

500

1000 mi

500 1000 km

Montevideo

Number of Troops Allocated Total* Destination 118 La Guaira 214 Maracaibo 224 Puerto Rico 522 Santa Marta Puerto Cabello 1450 4522 Montevideo 4960 Portobelo 6019 Havana 6122 Lima 9685 Veracruz Puerto Santo 12253

*Source: Memoria sobre las operaciones de la Comisión de Reemplazos de América, Madrid, s/e,1832,27-46, Biblioteca Central del Ministerio de Hacienda (Spain), MEHAG 31445-31446.

Map . Forces dispatched by the Spanish Comisión de Reemplazos to the Americas, –. Map created by Yoly Velandria

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette

soldiers’ attraction to, and cooperation with, the invading French armies. Some Portuguese commanders and rank-and-file troops had been absorbed into the French armies. A legion from Portugal fought for the French empire as far afield as Russia. With the coming of the general peace in , returning soldiers were reintegrated into the Portuguese army. Many still carried scarcely concealed republican doctrines in their hearts. The dual affront to national pride caused by the court’s seemingly permanent relocation to Brazil and the British command of the Portuguese army was too much for many soldiers. In , a fledgling conspiracy, organized by a secret society called the “Supremo Conselho Regenerador” was detected, investigated, and suppressed. A popular general, and presumably a Freemason, Gomes Freire, served as the willing or unwitting ringleader of this eponymous “conspiracy.” Gomes Freire had served as one of the commanders of the Portuguese legion that fought in Napoleon’s armies, and probably played a passive, secondary role in the abortive rebellion. Those who invoked his name plotted to arrest the leader of the British occupying forces, William Carr Beresford, expel other foreigners, and orchestrate the acclamation of Gomes Freire at the head of a provisional government. The conspirators plotted to convoke a representative assembly, a Cortes, with a view toward declaring a constitutional monarchy. The hapless Gomes Freire and his purported collaborators were executed. In the aftermath, official efforts to suppress dissent and maintain order went into hyperdrive. It was clear, however, that the status quo could not long survive. Countless advisers and collaborators, including Beresford, wrote tirelessly to Dom João, urging some sort of bold action to address the underlying causes of discontent, a program to rescue peninsular Portugal from the poverty and misery afflicting it. The replies to their urgent pleas were distinctly unsatisfactory. If disinterest and intentional neglect are ruled out as explanations for Dom João’s unresponsiveness, it could be argued that there were good reasons for the Braganzas to cling to the status quo. A revolution in Portugal seemed unlikely, however disgruntled the general public may have been with the British army’s onerous and ubiquitous presence. Anti-monarchical sentiment on both sides of the Portuguese Atlantic seemed unlikely to amount to much. The world had changed again, and it seemed for a moment that time had been turned back. If dissent had been snuffed out within the borders of the Portuguese monarchy, it spouted forth from the pens of many journalists pushed into exile by the regime in previous decades. Many of these Luso-Brazilian exiles sought refuge in Britain and, after , in France, where they enjoyed freedom from repressive censorship. Many of them founded and published newspapers, pamphlets, and journals. These commented on the situation in the Portuguese Atlantic Monarchy, often critically. The

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

writings of the exiles were often smuggled into Portugal and Brazil, where they enjoyed a wide circulation, introducing new ideas and generating great debate. As can be imagined, many of these publications lambasted the Reino Unido and maligned the Braganzas’ neglect of Portugal. But perhaps the most trenchant criticism contained in these émigré publications concerned the political system governing the Portuguese monarchy. The absence of a written constitution and the lack of any sort of elected, representative capable of creating laws or checking monarchical power soon became the main cause for complaint against the regime. –: The  Iberian Liberal Revolutions and Their Impact on the Imperial Crises

As previously noted, one influential line of thought underpinning Spanish policy towards the Americas was the idea that the revolutions in the Americas were the works of a “few demagogues.” With this type of argument in mind, and sometimes supported by pleas of loyalists, Madrid continued plans to take back parts of the America through military means. By , Spanish authorities had finished preparations to send a large expeditionary force across the Atlantic and retake the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. This was a risky operation, not the least because Portuguese armies occupied the eastern bank of the Río de la Plata estuary, the area regarded as more amenable to a Spanish incursion. As this “Great Expedition” prepared to set sail across the Atlantic in  its leader, General Rafael Riego, staged a coup (pronunciamiento) and demanded Fernando to restore the  Constitution. The period inaugurated by Riego’s coup, if successful in restoring constitutional rule, doomed the expeditionary force’s prospects, launched Spain into a new political crisis, and failed to bring a settlement that would preserve the empire in the Americas. In the – period, marked by the restoration of the constitution and the Cortes, Madrid hesitated with how to deal with the American question. Some expressed hope that the restoration of the  Constitution would quell dissent, stop the war, and even bring some dissidents back into the Spanish fold. Some Americanos in Madrid voiced the idea that after a few years of “absolute independence” their brethren across the Atlantic would realize the “difficulties” of enacting new polities from scratch and bid for reunification with Spain. Others presented far-reaching proposals that vested most power to new governments in the Americas while maintaining a framework of “union” with Spain. Simultaneously, the Cortes considered numerous projects to recognize what was, by then, the factual reality of independence of vast parts of the empire on the American continent. This would spare Spain of the continued straining of relations with the Americanos and, equally

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette

important, of the whopping costs of large-scale expeditions. Such propositions even came from members of the establishment who saw in the acceptance of “the independence of our ultramarine brethren” the only way for “bonds to subsist between the inhabitants of both hemispheres.” None of the proposals, that some denominate as “utopian,” considered by the Cortes in this period came to fruition. This seeming paralysis coalesced with high-profile defections from the Spanish cause in the Americas, and the successes of pro-independence military campaigns. By January , the mainland territories in north, central, and south America had been largely lost. In this same period, the Portuguese grappled with a different type of problem: persuading Dom João to finally return to the neglected European motherland. The  Riego pronunciamiento and its success reverberated in the Mediterranean and southern Europe, with similar events transpiring in Naples and Portugal. In Portugal, a liberal movement began in the northern city of Porto but quickly spread south to Lisbon and other provinces. The revolutionaries, who would be known as vintistas, advanced two sets of goals. On the one hand, they wanted the extension of liberal institutions across the empire, a view that steamrolled any colonial legal or status-related peculiarity to create a single legal and political framework. On the other, the vintistas advanced a program of political and economic regeneration of Portugal proper, and the European metropole’s place at the center of an intercontinental polity. In pursuit of both ends, a representative assembly, the Cortes, that included deputies from Brazilian provinces began sessions in Lisbon in January . The vintistas loathed “the idea of [Portugal] becoming a colony of a colony,” a reference to Brazil’s de facto supremacy in the Portuguese Atlantic since . According to such a view, the return of King João VI was a precondition for national regeneration and, in consequence, the Cortes ordered the monarch’s return to his homeland. Besides the British army of occupation, the court’s continued residence in Rio de Janeiro, even after João’s return, was blamed for this litany of evils. The “perfidious” Carioca Court, intellectual and politician João Baptista Almeida Garrett moaned, had “oppressed, bled, and robbed” Portugal. Fearful of the prospect that Brazil would march down the same path of declaring independence from Europe as its Spanish American neighbors had, the Portuguese dispatched troops to Rio de Janeiro. Such fears might have been blown out of proportion and gave credence to a faction within Rio, made up of landowners, public officials and other beneficiaries of the transfer of the court, who wanted to preserve the status quo. These elite groups in Brazil conceived of the arrival of Portuguese army regiments as an attempt at recolonization. After the return of king João to Portugal in

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

mid  without his heir apparent, Prince Pedro, who remained in Brazil to appease the anti-metropolitan sentiment amongst Brazilian elites, the Cortes wanted to secure that the complete line of succession was in Portugal. Thus, in September , the Cortes issued a decree ordering Dom Pedro to also return to Europe. For the Lisbon Cortes, Pedro’s refusal to comply with its demands amounted to a declaration of war. In January , Pedro in his famous “Fico” declaration, refused to comply with the Cortes’s demand that he returned to Europe. By September, Pedro uttered a more formal pronouncement in favor of Brazilian independence on the banks of the Ipiranga River, in the current state of São Paulo. His swift actions were prompted not only by disdain for the insolent demands of the Portuguese liberals, but to preempt a revolution from below. By opting for monarchy, retaining the same European dynasty on the throne, calling the new polity an “empire,” and clinging on to the enslavement of Afro-descended peoples as a socioeconomic foundation for the new state, Dom Pedro and his supporters guaranteed that Brazil’s future would diverge sharply from that of its republican neighbors. From Lisbon, the Cortes continued threatening with retaliation against Pedro himself. The assembly removed him from the Portuguese line of succession and pondered military action. As Rio de Janeiro’s intransigence hardened, a different vision gained adherents among the vintistas, that of “retaining certain provinces in the North [of Brazil], from which we enjoy a profitable commerce with the others.” Ultimately, the designs of the Cortes would be cut short by the restoration of Dom João as an absolute monarch in Spring . But even before the Cortes was toppled and its deputies either imprisoned or exiled, the naval force it had sent to the north of Brazil, the richest and most populous region deemed amenable to reunification, lost a decisive battle off Salvador (Bahia) on May , , and Portuguese garrisons evacuated the city early July. Defeated, the last Portuguese troops left Brazil for Portugal, via Montevideo, in March . After : Reckoning with New Realities

Small contingents of uncompromising troops remained loyal to Spain in the ports of San Juan de Ulua in Mexico and Callao in Peru into . These shows of unrelenting allegiance, plus some other reports that reached Madrid and spoke of pockets of Spanish loyalists nourished an aging Fernando VII’s hopes of military reconquest. In August , Madrid sanctioned plans to retaliate against the Mexican Republic for interfering in Spain’s Atlantic commerce and a decree expelling Spaniards issued the previous year. Cuba, still under Spanish rule, served as the launchpad for an expedition bound for the Mexican Caribbean coast. Consistent

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette

with the long-held tenet in Spain that independence and republicanism were only favored by a minority, Spanish commanders were falsely persuaded of possible success upon landing. The people, they told themselves, and a supposedly friendly clergy would side with the invaders and facilitate a swift reconquest. The plan failed, yet Spanish émigrés from Mexico, often merchants deprived from property and gains, continued soliciting Madrid’s military involvement. On the other end, returnees to Spain from the Americas sought to persuade authorities of the impossibility to take back the continent through military means. Some of the brightest minds in Spain had been persecuted, banned, and forced into exile by Fernando’s neo-absolutist government after . Many of these intellectuals, disillusioned with the approach taken by Spain, turned their backs on the empire and romanticized the Spanish American independence movements. This was especially true of Spanish American republicanism. In the mid s, Spanish exiles watched the rise of independent states in former Spanish America with approval, believing (in vain, as it turned out) that material assistance from one of the fledgling republican regimes might be forthcoming to topple tyranny in Spain. One newspaper editorialist went so far as to assert, in , that if Spanish America’s independence consolidated “European despotism would disappear forever and Spain would become again the great nation it was before the conquest of America.” This final comment seemed to reflect the views of Jeremy Bentham and his Spanish translators about the overseas’ empire as a factor for Spanish declension – particularly in political terms. Other voices of the late s and ‘s suggested the impossibility to keep the Americas within the Spanish fold even if the best political arrangement were to be secured. After Fernando VII’s death in  and the civil wars that plagued Spain thereafter, the dreams of reconquering the lost empire faded. The continued Spanish presence in Cuba and Puerto Rico propelled some to argue in favor of “reconciliation” plans. One writer, for instance, argued that Spain could consolidate its Caribbean colonies by exchanging the recognition of “independence” for Mexico for the “cession” of some mainland coastal entrepots. Though such specific proposals never materialized, the acceptance that the independence of Spanish America was irreversible translated into the official position on the recognition of the new republics. In late , a decree of the Spanish legislature authorized the government to negotiate treatises with the “new States” on the basis of the “recognition of their independence.” If Spain took several decades, and some attempts at reconquest, to utter the possibility of recognition, the Portuguese were much swifter. Brazilian independence was in part a dynastic affair, with father (João) and son (Pedro) ruling on both sides of the Portuguese Atlantic. This both facilitated recognition and brought distinct

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula

complications. One of the aspects eased by the family ties was Brazil’s pledge to pay a two-million pounds indemnity to Portugal in exchange for recognition. A thornier issue was the place that prince Dom Pedro, now Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro would have in Portuguese affairs – including whether he would be in the line of succession – which remained unsettled in the  treaty. Dom João had begged his son to care for the welfare of Portugal. Though somewhat veiled, the implication was clear: Brazil’s independence should not be regarded as permanent. Dom Pedro should interfere unhesitatingly in the peninsula’s affairs. Due to inaction, therefore, Dom Pedro’s status as heir to the Portuguese throne was uncontested until after his father passed, though such claims were made difficult by the  Brazilian Constitution’s stipulation that the two states were never to unite again under a single crown. Dom João’s death in , without having settled the issue of succession, brought Brazil back into the foreground of Portuguese politics. While from a Portuguese legal perspective Dom Pedro could claim his father’s throne, there was the non-juridical, but perhaps more important, fact that he had been the figurehead, if not the chief architect, of the dismemberment of the Portuguese empire just three years earlier. This fact made him anathema to peninsular liberals – the former vintistas, as well as ultras – partisans of his brother Dom Miguel. Eventually, Pedro tried to bypass the discontents of Portuguese elites by offering his European motherland a liberal constitution and proposing a compromise. This arrangement included the appointment of Pedro’s young daughter Maria as queen under a regency, while also being betrothed to the other claimant to the throne, her uncle Miguel. Upon Dona Maria’s landing in Europe in  it became apparent that Miguel rejected his brother’s plans and claimed the crown for himself while rejecting Pedro’s constitution. In a twist of roles, partisans of the Regency installed on Maria’s behalf and of the liberal regime of the  Constitution looked for Brazilian recognition as the legitimate government in Portugal. This would enable the Regency to receive the indemnity that Brazil owed in exchange for the  recognition of its independence. It was only after a series of decisions that eroded his standing in Brazil and pushed him to abdicate his crown that Pedro returned to Europe. Maria’s cause ultimately triumphed in . Conclusion: The Iberian Empires and the Lingering Colonial Question in the Nineteenth Century

Like other European empires that confronted great crises of confidence after sizeable territorial losses, Spain and Portugal were forced to grapple with the status of their

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remaining overseas’ possessions and the impact of imperial dismemberment on their status in Europe. The recognition of Brazil’s independence and Portugal’s succession crisis turned into civil war forced distinct challenges on Portuguese elites. Already in the eighteenth century, policymakers believed that Portugal’s very existence as an independent state would be imperiled without colonies. With few exports, the country imported most of its grain, including some from Southern Brazil, and ran a trade deficit, to say nothing of its small population. Without colonial products to reexport and markets to open to larger powers, Portugal had little leverage in negotiations. With Brazil’s independence, many feared that it was a matter of time before Spain swallowed up its smaller neighbor. In the late s and s, then, Portuguese political minds urged lavishing attention on the remaining neglected colonies, chiefly Mozambique and Angola, with some hoping to convert them into colonies of (free) white settlement, producing tropical commodities formerly obtained in Brazil. In addition to these better-known projects to revitalize the empire in Africa and Asia, a less-explored line of thought was the one positing that the best destiny for Portugal was one with no colonies at all. Some observers (and participants in politics after ) were enamored neither of reunification with Brazil nor the creation of a new empire in Africa. Intellectual and politician Almeida Garrett argued that Portugal must find a new niche in the international system. Before , Portugal served as a “counterweight” in Western Europe, indispensable for the maintenance of an equilibrium among France, Britain and Spain. Such a position had guaranteed Portugal’s national independence and prevented its absorption into Spain or its prolonged subjugation as a British satellite. The pre- equilibrium had been obliterated as Brazil’s independence cut off a large market from Portugal formerly used as a leverage vis-à-vis the great powers. In the past, the Luso-British barter by which commercial access to Brazil had been reciprocated with British protection from Spanish territorial ambitions had proven effective. In the new state of affairs, shorn of Brazil, Almeida Garrett argued, Portugal’s sovereignty was at risk and its internal stability would remain jeopardized until it occupied a new, stable position in a revamped international order. While some in Spain reflected on the loss of the empire in the mainland Americas, the full reckoning with the reality of the lost empire was somewhat postponed. Even military commanders whose reputations were tarnished by their defeats in the Americas in the s, the so-called Ayacuchos, found a degree of rehabilitation in the turbulent Spanish politics of the s and s. With Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines remaining within the imperial fold, adjustments were made to the imperial frameworks in light of what happened in the s and s. Nonetheless, the very resiliency of the insular empire, the

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recurrent political crises in Spain, and the views that posited the severance of continental Spanish America as an inevitability or even a favorable development, all postponed a moment of mass reckoning with the imperial loss. In contrast to the relatively few reflections on the independence of Peru and New Spain, the loss of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines in  prompted an outpouring of intellectual production on Spain, the Spaniards, and Hispanidad writ large.

Notes  Among others, representative books examining these topics include: John Leddy Phelan, People and the King: The Comunero Revolution in Colombia,  (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, ); Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, Rebellions and Revolts in Eighteenth Century Peru (Cologne: Böhlau, ); John Fisher, Allan J. Kuethe, and Anthony McFarlane (eds.), Reform and Insurrection (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, ); Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Charles Walker, The Túpac Amaru Rebellion (Cambridge and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, ).  Kenneth Maxwell, Conflicts and Conspiracies Brazil and Portugal: – (New York: Routledge, ).  Kenneth Maxwell, Naked Tropics: Essays on Empire and Other Rogues (New York: Routledge, ), –.  David Armitage, “Three Concepts of Atlantic History,” in The British Atlantic World, –, ed. David Armitage and Michael J. Braddick (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, ), –.  Jeremy Adelman, “An Age of Imperial Revolutions,” The American Historical Review , no.  (): –. For a discussion on the historiography of Spanish American independences, see Gabriel Paquette, “The Dissolution of the Spanish Atlantic Monarchy,” The Historical Journal , no.  (): –.  Principal Souza to Dom João, January , , quoted in Ángelo Pereira, D. João VI: Príncipe e Rei, vol.  (Lisbon: Empresa Nacional de Publicidade, ), –.  On these various juntas see, Manuel Chust Calero (ed.), . La eclosión juntera en el mundo hispánico (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ).  Jovellanos to Saavedra, Isla de León, February , , cited by: Rafael Herrera Guillén, “Jovellanos y América. El temor a un mundo escindido,” Araucaria. Revista Iberoamericana de Filosofía, Política y Humanidades , no.  (): .  The most notorious of these plans is the one attributed to the Count of Aranda, purportedly composed in . This text reproduced in Manuel Lucena Giraldo (ed.), Premoniciones de la independencia de Iberoamérica. Las reflexiones de Jose de Ábalos y el Conde de Aranda sobre la situación de la América Española a finales del siglo XVIII (Premonições da independência da IberoAmérica. As reflexões de José de Ábalos e do Conde da Aranda sobre a situação da América espanhola em fins do século XVIII ) (Madrid: Fundación Mapfre Tavera and Doce Calles, )  This financial dependency has been amply documented by: Michael Costeloe, Response to Revolution: Imperial Spain and the Spanish American Revolutions, – (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Carlos Marichal, Bankruptcy of Empire: Mexican Silver and the Wars between Spain, Britain and France, – (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Carlos Malamud, “Sin marina, sin tesoro y casi sin soldados.” La financiación de la reconquista de América – (Santiago de Chile: Centro de Estudios Bicentenario, ); and Cristina Ana Mazzeo, Gremios mercantiles en las guerras de la independencia. Perú y México en la

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transición de la Colonia a la República, – (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, ). Traditionally, Spanish historians have identified two main camps grosso modo: the liberals (supporters of national sovereignty, constitutional monarchy, freer political debate, and reduced ecclesiastical influence) and the conservatives (opponents of the principle of national sovereignty, some were absolutists other accepted forms of constitutional arrangement, and more likely to not see with suspicion an interventionist church). The number of works on Spanish, and Hispanic, liberalism(s) has exploded in the last three decades. Some representative works include: Roberto Breña, El primer liberalismo español y los procesos de emancipación de América, –. Una revisión historiográfica del liberalismo hispánico (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, ); Javier Fernández Sebastián, La aurora de la libertad. Los primeros liberalismos en el mundo iberoamericano (Madrid: Marcial Pons, ); Brian Hamnett, La política española en una época revolucionaria, – (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ); Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea (eds.), The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of  (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, ); Javier Fernández Sebastián, “‘Friends of Freedom’ First Liberalisms in Spain and Beyond,” in In Search of European Liberalisms: Concepts, Languages, Ideologies, ed. Michael Freeden, Javier Fernández Sebastián, and Jörn Leonhard, – (New York: Berghahn Books, ); and Brian R. Hamnett, The End of Iberian Rule on the American Continent, – (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Conservative and royalist options are far less understood in both peninsular and American context. Explorations on this political alternative include: Julio Sánchez Gómez and Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero (eds.), Visiones y revisiones de la independencia americana. Realismo / pensamiento conservador (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, ); and Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution. Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). El Conciso, Cádiz, January , . Similar arguments were made, for instance, around actual or feared rebellions in the late eighteenth century. Jaime Delgado, La independencia de América en la prensa española (Madrid: Seminario de problemas hispanoamericanos, ), ; Costeloe, Response to Revolution, . On the impact of the Haitian Revolution on retrenching slavery and colonialism in the Spanish Antilles, especially Cuba: Ada Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror: Cuba and Haiti in the Age of Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). El Conciso, Cádiz, January , . On information flows between the Americas and Spain, see Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution, Information, Insurgency, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ). On the metaphor of the family, see Javier Fernández Sebastián, Historia conceptual en el Atlántico ibérico. Lenguajes, tiempos, revoluciones (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –. Josep M. Fradera, The Imperial Nation: Citizens and Subjects in the British, French, Spanish, and American Empires (Princeton and London: Princeton University Press, ), . Marie-Laure Rieu-Millan, Los diputados americanos en las cortes de Cádiz. Igualdad o independencia (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, ). Constitución de La Monarquía Española, , Art. . “[Q]ue ha arrastrado tras sí con engaños, con promesas aéreas, y con el aliciente del robo á una inmensa porción de sus compatricios, pelea encarnizadamente con España, por lograr la independencia.” El Conciso, Cádiz, August , .

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula  Ignacio Fernández Sarasola, “La opinión pública. De la ilustración a las Cortes de Cádiz,” Ayer , no.  (): –.  “Periódicos Ingleses,” El Revisor Político, February , .  Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, “Wilberforce Spanished: Joseph Blanco White and Spanish Antislavery, –,” in Slavery and Antislavery in Spain’s Atlantic Empire, ed. Josep M. Fradera and Christopher Schmidt-Nowara (New York: Berghahn Books, ).  Colección de los discursos que pronunciaron los señores diputados de América contra el Artículo  del proyecto de constitución ilustrados con algunas notas interesantes por los españoles pardos de esta capital (Lima: Imprenta de los Huérfanos, ), –.  Josep M. Fradera, “Reescribir las reglas del juego colonial. Discurso, representación y lobbying,” in Voces americanas en las Cortes de Cádiz: –, ed. Georges Lomné and Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Peru, ), –.  Constitución de La Monarquía Española, , Art. .  Emilio La Parra López, “Ferdinand VII,” in The History of Modern Spain: Chronologies, Themes, Individuals, ed. Adrian Shubert and José Álvarez Junco (London: Bloomsbury, ), .  The phrase belongs to Brazilian historian and diplomat Manoel de Oliveira Lima in his  Dom João VI and gained visibility in Anglophone academia through an eponymous book since : Manoel de Oliveira Lima, D. João VI no Brasil (Río de Janeiro: Topbooks, ); Kirsten Schultz, Tropical Versailles: Empire, Monarchy, and the Portuguese Royal Court in Rio de Janeiro, –. New World in the Atlantic World (New York: Routledge, ).  Timothy E. Anna, The Fall of the Royal Government in Peru (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, ); Anna, “Institutional and Political Impediments to Spain’s Settlement of the American Rebellions,” The Americas , no.  (): –; Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, and Georges Lomné (eds.), Abascal y la contra-independencia de América del Sur (Lima: IFEA – PUCP, ); and Christon I. Archer, The Wars of Independence in Spanish America (London: Rowman and Littlefield, ).  Fernández Sebastián, Historia conceptual en el Atlántico ibérico, .  “[L]os muchos buenos que ahora gimen baxo el yugo de los rebeldes, contribuirán a la pacificación; y tal vez logrará V.A. el consuelo de saber que una simple intimación ha bastado para reestablecer el órden.” La comisión de reemplazos representa a la regencia del reyno el estado de insurrección en que se hallan algunas provincias de ultramar (Cádiz: Imprenta de la Junta de la Provincia, ), –.  Anthony McFarlane, War and Independence in Spanish America (New York: Routledge, ), –; Daniel Gutiérrez Ardila, La restauración en la Nueva Granada (–) (Bogotá: Universidad Externado, ).  Jesús Sanjurjo, “Comerciar Con La Sangre de Nuestros Hermanos: Early Abolitionist Discourses in Spain’s Empire,” Bulletin of Latin American Research , no.  (): –; Karen Racine, “‘This England and This Now’ British Cultural and Intellectual Influence in the Spanish American Independence Era,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –.  Costeloe, Response to Revolution, –; Mark Jarrett, The Congress of Vienna and Its Legacy: War and Great Power Diplomacy After Napoleon. London: I. B. Tauris, ), ; and McFarlane, War and Independence in Spanish America, .  Gabriel Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of Atlantic Revolutions. The Luso-Brazilian World, c. – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –.  Three emigrado publications – O Investigador Portuguez (–), O Portuguez (–), and O Campeão Portuguez (–) – flourished in London, joining other established organs of dissent, most prominently the Correio Brasiliense, and a smattering of ephemeral journals and newspapers. The pages of these Portuguese-language periodicals were populated with reform

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proposals, piercing barbs, revelations of government scandals or misconduct, as well as synopses of foreign books deemed pertinent to Portugal’s situation. This was reproduced in a piece of commentary published in Madrid on the Río de la Plata revolutions in . See Anonymous [Un Americano del Sur], Examen y juicio crítico del folleto titulado. Manifiesto que hace a las naciones el congreso general de las provincias unidas del Río de la Plata, sobre el tratamiento y crueldades de los españoles, y motivado la declaración de su independencia (Madrid: Imprenta Real, ). Alberto Gil Novales successfully argued some decades ago against the idea that the Americas were completely ignored during the Trienio. Instead, he showed a Madrid bustling with newspapers and pamphlets that engaged with American questions, some even favoring Spanish American independence. Alberto Gil Novales, “La independencia de América en la conciencia española, –,” Revista de Indias  (): –. Pedro Rújula and Manuel Chust Calero, El Trienio Liberal en la monarquía hispánica. Revolución e independencia (–) (Madrid: Catarata ediciones, ), . Secret proposal of Francisco Magariños, Madrid, April , , Archivo General de Indias, Buenos Aires, . Rújula and Chust Calero, El Trienio Liberal en la monarquía hispánica, , . One of the plans presented and considered by the Cortes was published alongside the deliberations. See, Anonymous, Examen del plan presentado a las Cortes para el reconocimiento de la independencia de la América española (Bourdeaux: Imprenta de Don Pedro Beaume, ). The  planned Great Expedition was estimated to cost  million reales. Malamud, Sin marina, sin tesoro, . These words were uttered by Gabriel Císcar, former regent during Fernando VII’s absence, to the Cortes. Reproduced by Emilio La Parra López, Fernando VII: un rey deseado y detestado (Barcelona: Tusquets, ), . Rújula and Chust Calero, El Trienio Liberal en la monarquía hispánica, . Ascensión Martínez Riaza has noted a remarkable neglect of Peru in the official policies of the Trienio. See Ascención Martínez Riaza, “‘Para reintegrar la Nación.’ El Perú en la política negociadora del Trienio Liberal con los disidentes americanos, –.” Revista de Indias , no.  (): –; Ascensión Martínez Riaza, La independencia inconcebible: España y la “pérdida” del Perú (–) (Lima: PUCP, ). John Davis, “The Spanish Constitution of  and the Mediterranean Revolutions (–),” Bulletin for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies , no.  (): Article ; Maurizio Isabella, Risorgimento in Exile: Italian Émigrés and the Liberal International in the Post-Napoleonic Era (New York: Oxford University Press, ); Richard Stites, The Four Horsemen: Riding to Liberty in PostNapoleonic Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ); Maurizio Isabella, “Citizens or Faithful? Religion and the Liberal Revolutions of the s in Southern Europe,” Modern Intellectual History , no.  (): –; and Juan Luís Simal, “Letters from Spain: The  Revolution and the Liberal International,” in Mediterranean Diasporas: Politics and Ideas in the Long th Century, ed. Maurizio Isabella and Konstantina Zanou, – (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, ). On the presence of Brazilian deputies in the Portuguese Cortes: George C. A. Boehrer, “The Flight of the Brazilian Deputies from the Cortes Gerais of Lisbon, ,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; and Márcia Regina Berbel, A nação como artefato. Deputados do Brasil nas Cortes portuguesas, – (São Paulo: Editora Hucitec, ). José Trazimundo Mascarenhas Barreto and Ernesto de Campos de Andrada, Memórias do Marquês de Fronteira e d’Alorna. Ditadas por êle proprio em  (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, ), .

Views of the Latin American Independences from the Iberian Peninsula  Almeida Garrett, “O Dia  de Agosto,” in Liberalismo, socialismo, republicanismo: antologia de pensamento político portugúês, ed. Joel Serrão (Lisbon: Livros Horizonte, ), –.  Andréa Slemian, Vida política em tempo de crise. Rio de Janeiro, – (São Paulo: Aderaldo and Rothschild Editores, ).  Alan K. Manchester, “The Paradoxical Pedro, First Emperor of Brazil,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; and Roderick J. Barman, Brazil the Forging of a Nation, – (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, ).  Carvalho, A construção da ordem; and Viotti da Costa, The Brazilian Empire, –.  Intervention in the Cortes by Soares Franco, September , , in Portugal e Brasil. Debates parlamentares,  vols., ed. Zília Osório de Castro (Lisbon: Assembleia da República, ), .  Leslie Bethell, “The Independence of Brazil,” in The Cambridge History of Latin America, ed. Leslie Bethell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –.  La Parra López, Fernando VII, –. Fernando received pleas from places such as Montevideo in the mid s calling for the king to send an armed expedition there: Archivo General de Indias, Estado, , n. .  La Parra López, Fernando VII, –.  Anonymous, Representación dirigida al Rey de España por un español que acaba de regresar de Méjico sobre el reconocimiento de la independencia de América (Bourdeaux: Imprenta de Lawalle joven, ).  Simal, “Letters from Spain”; and David Muñoz Sempere, “Cultural Identity and Political Dissidence: The Periodicals of Spanish Liberal Exile in London (–),” in The Foreign Political Press in Nineteenth-Century London: Politics from a Distance, ed. Constance Bantman and Ana Cláudia Suriani da Silva (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, ), –.  See, for example, the letter from “Nicolas de Minuissir” to Ignacio Lopez Pinto, December , , in Colección Torrijos, Hispanic Society of America, New York.  Ocios de Españoles Emigrados [London], no.  (October ). On the links between liberals on both sides of the Spanish Atlantic see Mónica Ricketts, “Together or Separate in the Fight against Oppression? Liberals in Peru and Spain in the s,” European History Quarterly , no.  (July ): –.  Jonathan Harris, “An English Utilitarian Looks at Spanish-American Independence: Jeremy Bentham’s Rid Yourselves of Ultramaria,” The Americas , no.  (): –.  José María Queipo de Llano (Conde de Toreno), Historia Del Levantamiento Guerra y Revolución de España, vol.  (Madrid: Tomás Jordán, ), .  Jorje Flinter, Consideraciones sobre la España y sus colonias, y ventajas que resultarían de su mutua reconciliación (Madrid: Imprenta de Bueno, ), , –; and Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, “Continental Origins of Insular Proslavery: George Dawson Flinter in Curaçao, Venezuela, Britain, and Puerto Rico, s–s,” Almanack, no.  (December ): –.  Antonio Salas, Memoria sobre la utilidad que resultará a la nación y en especial a cádiz el reconocimiento de la independencia de América y del libre comercio del Asia (Cádiz: Imprenta de D. Jose A. Niel, ); and José Rivera Indarte, El voto de América o sea breve examen de esta cuestión ¿Convendrá o no a las nuevas repúblicas de América apresurar el reconocimiento de su independencia enviando embajadores a la corte de Madrid? (Madrid: Imprenta Real, ).  Juan Carlos Pereira Castañares, “España e Iberoamérica. Un siglo de relaciones (–),” Mélanges de La Casa de Velázquez , no.  (): ; Juan Carlos Pereira Castañares and Angel Cervantes Conejo, Las relaciones diplomáticas entre España y América (Madrid: Editorial Mapfre, ); and Carlos Malamud (ed.), Ruptura y reconciliación. España y el reconocimiento de las independencias latinoamericanas (Madrid: Taurus, ).

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Álvaro Caso Bello and Gabriel Paquette  Amado Luiz Cervo, José Calvet de Magalhães, and Dário Moreira de Castro Alves, Depois das caravelas. As relações entre Portugal e Brasil, – (Brasilia: Editora Universidade de Brasília, ), .  On the perceptions of the resiliency of mutual ties between both sides of the Portuguese Atlantic: O Correio Interceptado (), Carta , –.  On Miguelismo, see Fernando Campos, O pensamento contra-revolucionário em Portugal (século XIX) (Lisbon: J. Fernandes Júnior, ); Barreiros Malheiro da Silva, Miguelismo. Ideologia e mito (Coimbra: Minerva, ); and António Pedro Mesquita, O pensamento político português no século XIX. Uma síntese histórico-crítica (Lisbon: Imprensa nacional-Casa da moeda, ).  Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of Atlantic Revolutions, .  For a full exploration of this theme, see Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of Atlantic Revolutions, –.  João Baptista da Silva Leitão de Almeida Garrett, Portugal na balança da Europa. Do que tem sido e do que ora lhe convém ser na nova ordem de coisas do mundo civilizado [] (Lisbon: Livros Horizontes, ). These views and others, like those of Alexandre Herculano, are fully explored in Gabriel Paquette, “Romantic Liberalism in Spain and Portugal, –,” The Historical Journal , no.  (June ): –.  Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, “From Europe to the Andes and Back: Becoming ‘Los Ayacuchos,’” European History Quarterly , no.  (): –.  Josep Maria Fradera, “Vista de quiebra imperial y reorganización política en las Antillas españolas: –,” Revista Del Centro de Investigaciones Históricas , no.  (): –; and Fradera, The Imperial Nation.  A sense of the inevitability of Spanish American independence transpires in: Queipo de Llano (Conde de Toreno), Historia del levantamiento guerra y revolución de España. Among those who evaluated the independence of Spanish America as a relatively positive development, particularly in economic terms: Salas, Memoria sobre la utilidad que resultará el reconocimiento de la independencia de América.  Juan Pan-Montojo (ed.), Más se perdió en Cuba. España,  y la crisis de fin de siglo (Madrid: Alianza, ); and Richard L. Kagan, The Spanish Craze: America’s Fascination with the Hispanic World, – (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, ), .

M E  R F



Shades of Unfreedom Labor Regimes in Latin America in the Nineteenth Century

Introduction

During the last three decades, the study of the independence processes in Latin America was dynamized and transformed in radical ways. This came about through the intersection of new perspectives on social, legal, and political history with the history of empires and nations in the Atlantic world during the age of revolutions. There was also a fundamental shift in the paradigm of the revolutionary era itself with the incorporation of Haiti and the issue of slavery into the core questions about the nature of revolutionary change. At the same time, in the field of slavery studies, the deep rethinking of the geographies of slavery in the nineteenth century has made Cuba and Brazil central to the history of global capitalism and abolition. Yet there remains a paucity of studies that integrate both slavery and other unfree labor regimes into the wider narrative of post-independence Latin America. This chapter will revisit Latin America’s independence processes by focusing on the multiple forms of coerced labor regimes that emerged throughout the continent after the breakdown of colonialism. There are no doubt classic works that focus on the economics of independence, yet for the most part they remain tied to macroeconomic paradigms and do not explore the multiple ways that labor shifted in independent Latin America. In these ways, our work also establishes a dialogue with the conclusions offered in recent decades by the prolific historiography that focuses on political issues as well as the strength and depth of the revolutionary changes emerging from the region. The wave of revolutionary violence and liberal reforms that underpinned independence in Latin America yielded key changes in the nature of indigenous peoples’ status and paved the way for the abolition of slavery in the independent republics. Indigenous people in some contexts benefitted from the new republics’ measures to make them citizens and yet in other spaces – among them Brazil and Chile – were

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rather violently dispossessed as a result of the same project. The abolition of slavery, in particular, was central to the ideological and political nature of these republics. Yet, much like in the broader Atlantic world, a countervailing force must also be reckoned with. For one, slavery remained key to the economies of Brazil and Cuba. Additionally, Latin America’s workforce was characterized by multiple forms of unfree labor beyond slavery that derived from the region’s connections not only to Africa but also to Asia. In seeking to shed new light on how independence impacted labor regimes, this chapter engages with scholarship that argues for the employment of a transregional lens in the study of global labor regimes during the nineteenth century. Latin America lends itself to this approach due to the long record of internal and external forced migrations that shaped the region’s workforce. Since the onset of colonization, both in Spanish and Portuguese territories, production of goods depended on a variety of labor regimes, including slavery and other forms of forced labor, which mobilized a mostly non-European workforce to satisfy the need to produce agricultural commodities for internal and external markets. In the seventeenth century, trading networks connected Central Africa, Brazil, and the Río de la Plata through Pacific and Caribbean currents to provide labor to the mining regions of the Andes. A focus on the relationship between independence and labor regimes redresses an imbalance in the historiography of Latin America, which has been characterized by groundbreaking studies of slavery. In the past twenty years, the study of slavery has illuminated multiple aspects of enslaved peoples’ ability to shape Latin American social, cultural, and legal fabrics. Scholars’ focus on slavery has also yielded multiple insights into the relationship between slavery and global capitalism in the nineteenth century. This scholarship has shed light on the impact of technology on agricultural production in an increasingly globalized world. By investigating the global dimensions of capitalism, scholars have traced the interconnected nature of production and circulation of crops in multiple settings around the world. Yet the central role of slavery and its abolition in the historiography, and the focus on slavery’s transformations, has come at the expense of furthering comprehension of new forms of labor exploitation in the wake of independence. Our chapter corrects this imbalance by taking a closer look at forms of unfree labor that did not necessarily fit into the definition of legal slavery. Latin America is a crucial site for exploring the transformation of labor regimes in the nineteenth century, when legal discourses aimed at erasing categories of social difference across the region continued to reproduce inequality based on multiple iterations of unfree labor. Our perspective shows that despite the intrinsic political differences arising after the decade of  between the Spanish Caribbean, Brazil, and the Spanish

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American republics of the mainland, they were all part of and shaped by the same economic forces in the nineteenth century. While sharing with Cuba the economic dependence on slavery, Brazil broke away from Portugal embracing an imperialmonarchical form that made it unique vis-à-vis the emerging Spanish American republics in the first decades of the nineteenth century. Though the Spanish Caribbean was not independent at the time, viewing the region on the same plane along with the mainland helps to illustrate the connections and differences with the other Spanish American territories that were in the process of decolonization. For example, as we will see, Cuba and Peru both relied on Chinese indentured labor to expand their plantation economies. Rather than continuing to reproduce the separation of these areas through the lens of political history (monarchical/imperial/republican) or as a factor of the existence of plantations and African slavery on a massive scale, we show how important it is to write a history of Latin America that explores commonalities and simultaneous innovations across regions and political regimes with attention to labor. Liberalism’s Implications for Social Change and Labor

To be able to investigate the transformations of labor regimes that accompanied the independence processes, it is useful to consider the political discourse of liberalism that impacted emergent Latin American independent states in the early nineteenth century. From the point of view of the new republican regimes, constitutional experiments inaugurated institutional transitions that prioritized breaking away from the colonial regimes. These structural shifts were found at various levels, from the embrace of free trade to the rejection of indigenous people as a distinct social category, and the attack on the economy of slavery. Moreover, the concept of emancipation was central, in all these aspects, to the liberal goal of transforming the economies and societies, especially in Spanish America where republicanism became tied to anti-slavery. Yet the liberal order also gave birth to new forms of labor relations predicated on the extraction of labor from vulnerable populations, local or immigrant. The case of Brazil, in fact, is one in which liberalism and slavery coexisted seamlessly. Already by the late eighteenth century, there had emerged within the Spanish monarchy and among regional elites in Spanish America the view that the differential status of indigenous people, and the social and legal conditions that set them apart, should be reformed. These ideas defined what became the liberal experiments of the early nineteenth century both within the imperial constitutional project and in the local governments that consolidated as part of the insurgencies and the republics that these created. Liberal ideas aimed at social reform, therefore,

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preceded independence and took hold within the context of Bourbon reformism as well as the Cádiz debates, as was the case with the abolition of the mita in Peru. A fundamental institution at the heart of labor extraction from colonial subjects in Andean South America, the mita had been since the sixteenth century articulated to the changes both in the Spanish state and the local labor systems. At the juncture of the monarchical crisis, open critiques of mita labor in the Potosí mines reflected challenges to unfree labor stemming from official circles in the metropole. As Rossana Barragán writes, “the intellectual generation of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century . . . saw the Indians as victims of oppression.” Aside from this trope of Indian emancipation being central to the “Indian question” or “Indian problem” that would characterize Latin American state building from the nineteenth century onward, the social results of legal experiments with liberalism unfolded differently in places where indigenous people were demographically significant than in places where they were not. Bolivia, Guatemala, or Mexico – where native populations had demographic weight – are revealing examples of how, while independence stood upon the notion of making Indians citizens, it was an erratic process that hinged upon the challenges of creating institutions that would essentially redefine indigenous peoples’ fiscal relationship to the state, to the national economies, and to the land. Restructuring the political institutions to turn Indians into citizens meant dismantling the two republics model that had maintained Indians bound to special privileges. The significance of the structural fiscal and economic change in the liberal state’s relationship to Indians is clear in how Juan José Castelli, the envoy from Buenos Aires in the  campaign to Upper Peru, “proclaimed the end of tribute payments and denounced the ‘slavery’ he imagined Indians suffered, asserting that the Buenos Aires junta saw the Indians as ‘brothers.’” Ten years later, in Colombia, the dissolution of the resguardos was a fundamental part of this liberal vision and a priority for governments. The abolition of tribute was also tied to the fiscal reform that these innovations implied, a goal that consistently evaded the republican projects; like in Simón Bolívar’s case who attempted to put the change into practice in Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia between  and , everywhere with uneven results. A fundamental part of the liberal republican visions had to do with the project of making indigenous people more productive as laborers and to make the land markets more dynamic. Both goals were cut across by the notion that village subsistence economies diminished productivity and were threats to the goal of incentivizing growth. One question that emerges at the center of this aspect historically is whether the indigenous peasant communities were, or not, transformed in this juncture and how. In the case of Bolivia, for instance, it is clear that

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instead of undoing the tribute regime and the system of communal land ownership, the republican state actually incorporated it into its own structure in the decades between  and . In the process, though there were undoubtedly changes to the forms of landholding, the productive roles and mechanisms of indigenous peasant communities – as well as social differentiation within them – the Indian did not disappear and instead shaped both the political and economic processes across Latin American national states with significant native populations. As work on Mexican regions has explored, indigenous people had a fundamental place in the making of independence and, in some respects, they impacted the social and economic transformations in ways that benefitted them. For example, in Guerrero, defense of community lands was one of the issues that popular political forces established as a central agenda of the national government from independence up to the s. In the Bajío, according to John Tutino, “insurgency brought about social revolution beginning in , forcing radical reorientations of rural production, regional marketing, and agrarian social relations (even gender relations) during the first half-century of national life.” This was a consequence of the process of negotiation that took place in the contestation for sovereignty and power between the Spanish representatives and the Cádiz Constitution, on one hand, and the alternative models for village representation and autonomy in the version of the insurgents, on the other. In some areas, indigenous people gained greater control over their livelihoods and “claimed increased political autonomy and relative economic prosperity,” argues Erick Langer. As Sarah Chambers shows, “in contrast to Mexico and Haiti, where popular rebellions destroyed export economies to establish familial subsistence production, external and internal trade and commercial family production continued to converge in the Andean highland.” A similar process took place in the context of silver mining that was essential to the economies of Peru and Mexico. Tying to the discussion on mita labor that became central to the creole paternalist discourse of Indian emancipation, the dynamics on the ground were more nuanced as indigenous people were involved in the labor of ore extraction and in processing and trading it already from the late colonial period. In this sense, the production of silver resumed and mining was embedded in the popular economy after independence, based on which “native peoples often claimed new independence in local rule, production, and trade.” In Brazil, where studies about labor relations have recently begun to move beyond the focus on African slavery, Yuko Miki has expanded the frame to look at the situation of Indians and shown that, with independence, new forms of unfree labor were developed to “exclude black and indigenous people from citizenship.” Throughout the nineteenth century, Indian labor was seen as a mechanism to

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civilize indigenous people and especially a resource when facing the threat of labor shortages that could follow abolition. It was also imbued with the prospect of national inclusion. Yet it was a process toward inclusion in which, in Miki’s words, “the coerced assimilation and territorial loss . . . served as preconditions for Indians’ citizenship.” The attack on Indian lands and economic networks was also clear in the case of Chile, where the state embarked on a war against populations in the Araucanía frontier and their “trade in salt, horses, and other commodities,” which were trumping “state control over the territory,” as studied by Pilar Herr. These processes were tied to the expansion of agriculture and the rise of new exports also seen in other parts of Latin America, especially after the s, when states were consolidated and indigenous autonomy, wherever it had persisted, ended. Abolition, Unfree Labor, and Migrations

During the late eighteenth century and before the Napoleonic invasion of the Iberian Peninsula in , economic debates in the Iberian empires focused on strategies for the expansion of African slavery as a tool of development. In Spanish America, investment in the slave trade was not as salient in places like Mexico and New Granada. However, the same was not true elsewhere. The economies of Venezuela, Peru, and Río de la Plata all hinged upon labor-intensive regimes that called for the expansion of unfree labor, ranging from slavery to new forms of forced labor. Debates about economic reform also envisioned integrating indigenous people further as laborers alongside the enslaved Africans and their descendants. Across the Atlantic world, the radical outcome of the Haitian Revolution – the creation of an independent nation by slave rebels – significantly shaped attitudes toward African slavery. While Cuba and Brazil turned to even more intense plantation regimes, the Spanish American mainland was part of a shift away from slavery that began with the critique to and halting of the slave trade. Important elements in this process were the views against the trade that sought to prevent the dangers represented by slave insurrections of the scale and consequences seen in Haiti, but also the core perception of a deep tension between the ideas of republicanism and the maintenance of exploitative labor regimes like slavery. The result was early legislation that outlawed the slave trade in places like Caracas, Chile, Mexico, Medellin, Buenos Aires, and Cartagena. What these early measures and steps suggest is that, in continental Spanish America, from the outset the republican goals were tied to a critique of slavery, even if in the early years the general view was still far from abolishing the institution entirely. An important turning point was the decision in Cádiz to support colonial slavery as part of the liberal imperial reform, which prompted Spanish American

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insurgent governments to distance themselves from Spain. Most significantly, the abolition of slavery took shape together with the view of changing the status of indigenous people and it was likewise an erratic process that only in a few cases turned into a reality. In most of the antislavery republics final abolition took decades to arrive, up to the s. The exceptions are Central America and Chile, where emancipation became the law rather than the gradual approach by most governments like in Peru, Colombia, and Argentina, where the process stood upon drawnout laws of Free Womb and the creation of extensive legislation for the regulation of the labor (and lives) of the freed people. Meanwhile, countervailing dynamics at play reveal that abolition did not actually translate into the end of unfree labor regimes in Latin America. Across the new republics there was a sustained struggle between the advocates of abolition and those who, wanting to protect their property, found ways to delay total emancipation. That abolition was not a linear process across Spanish America was especially clear in the experience of the free-born children of enslaved mothers who were called either manumisos or libertos. These children of the free womb had to work for their mothers’ owners until a certain age, sometimes up to eighteen or twenty-five years, as compensation for the costs of their upbringing. Everywhere they were unable to exercise their freedom, and were instead subjected to the control of their mothers’ owners, or of state agencies who mobilized their labor for public works. They were also, as in the case of Colombia, traded at the provincial level and eventually also sold to Peru when an alliance between the Peruvian and New Granadan conservative elites resulted in the legalization of the slave trade between the two countries. These examples point to the contentious political process ignited by the abolition of slavery, in which state formation was shaped by – and itself produced – laws tying laboring populations to the dominant classes who sought to benefit from diverse economic projects in commerce, mining, and agriculture. After independence, a crucial element in this process was the state’s paternalist stance in relation to the popular classes as well as the fact that the legal framework of abolition offered elites the tools to extract labor from vulnerable populations. Aside from the freed people themselves who remained in relations of “patronato,” also relevant were cases of indigenous child servants who circulated through households in noncommercial ways, like in Chile or Lima where they were called “chinitos” or “cholitos,” respectively. In Nara Milanich’s words, “in the shadow of abolition, tutelary servitude not only persisted, it thrived.” What distinguishes this from more classical forms of unfree labor was its juridical invisibility. Tutelary servitude and the ubiquity of child servants across Latin America, even in places not generally identified with slavery, “challenges slave-centered conceptions of bondage in the Americas.” While it is hard to quantify the economic impact of these forms

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Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira

of labor, they undeniably had meaningful social repercussions, especially as they were legal corollaries of abolition. Another significant form of unfree labor was debt bondage, a practice also based on coercion, particularly in relation to Chinese indentured labor in Cuba and Peru, as will be further studied here. The regimes of debt have been long debated as a feature of Latin American history, and a relevant discussion relates to how they existed within the category of wage labor. Alan Knight has pointed out cases in which debt was an “incentive,” making debt bondage different from slavery. In another sense, “peon’s debts were items in a labour contract of a customary kind over which both parties haggled to secure advantage.” Yet it is crucial to consider the chronology of this regime because over time the expansion of plantations, as in the case of Guatemala in the second half of the nineteenth century, impacted the indigenous peoples’ access to citizenship with the entrenchment of “plantation sovereignty.” These examples demonstrate that far from being synonymous with freedom, the era of abolition was marked by the emergence of new forms of coerced labor. What they have in common is the explicit experimentation of elites with new forms of unfree labor beyond slavery. They illustrate that the history of the nineteenth century written in terms of the Age of Emancipation (political and economic) cannot account for the dominant forces at play in Latin America, nor can it fully account for the global forces that reshaped the landscape of labor across the continent. A case in point is Cuba’s experiments with new forms of unfree labor even prior to the end of slavery. To be sure, the Spanish island’s history is inextricably tied to African slavery, which gained ground as sugar production in French SaintDomingue collapsed due to the slave revolution. As Ada Ferrer points out, Cuban planters played a key role in this development. In Ferrer’s words, “the voices raised in support of expanding and opening the slave trade were also, importantly, those of powerful, local-born men.” This situation bears some resemblance to Brazil, where slavery and the slave trade were also deeply embedded in politics. Yet, unlike Brazil, Cuba’s transformation into a slave society came about just as the slave trade and slavery came under increasing scrutiny in the Atlantic. This development unfolded against the backdrop of rapid agricultural growth in the Spanish colony. It is clear that Cuba’s agricultural landscape was more diverse than sugar producing farms, which have usually been associated with the island’s export crop economy. As William C. Van Norman points out, “the coffee complex emerged alongside the expansion of the number of sugar plantations, with both types of enterprises experiencing explosive growth.” However, there is no question about the place of sugar production in Cuba’s economy, due in large measure to

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technological breakthroughs that thoroughly transformed the island’s economy. In the words of British diplomats then stationed in Havana, “such extraordinary increase, doubling within five years, may no doubt partly be accounted for by the formation of railroads, and the adoption of steam-engines and other improved machinery.” By the s, the commitment to sugar production had transformed Cuba into a global powerhouse. As Jonathan Curry-Machado observes, “whereas in  the average output of a single mill was just  tons, this had grown to  tons by  and to  tons by .” By then, with production consistently doubling, Cuba was responsible for roughly forty percent of the global production of sugar. This agricultural performance stemmed in part from the island’s deep connections with the United States, which was not only the largest consumer of sugar produced in Cuba but also a key provider of capital and technology. While several US investors established commercial houses in Cuban cities, the percentage of Cuba’s total exports sent to the United States rose from  percent in  to  percent in ,  percent in , and  percent in . This agricultural boom could not have been possible without the African slave trade, which grew exponentially despite anti-slave trade legislation in  and . The Cuban slave trade was controlled by a group of merchants who retained cohesive identity as Spanish individuals and had direct access to the colonial establishment. Slave dealers’ proximity to the colonial state rendered anti-slave trade legislation as the colonial administration turned a blind eye on the introduction of captives into the island. Instead of curbing imports of captives, illegality increased the profitability of the contraband, due to the fact that prices of captives skyrocketed. Equally important, the fact that Cuban plantation owners themselves were sometimes slave dealers guaranteed the continuation of the trade in human beings through illegality. Yet it is worth emphasizing that Cuba’s unfree labor market was defined not only by African slavery but also by other forms of unfree labor. By the early s, although African slavery was a key component of the island’s workforce, then estimated at about , unfree workers, the number of non-slave workers stood at about , Chinese workers and about , of recaptive Africans – enslaved people who had been released from slave vessels apprehended by British or Spanish authorities. There were also about , Yucatan indigenous workers on the island. While highlighting the importance of non-slavery forced labor in the labor market, this workforce’s makeup calls for a reassessment of the Spanish island’s place in global networks of labor migration that stretched from Mexico to Africa to China (see Map .). Cuba’s population of Yucatan indigenous workers resulted from the so-called war of the castas that pitted Maya indigenous people against Europeans and their

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https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108679336.011 Published online by Cambridge University Press

SPAIN PORTUGAL CHINA Guangdong Region

CHINA Guangdong Region

A CUBA

AFRICA Yucatan

Sierra Leone Ambriz Luanda Benguela

Lima PACIFIC OCEAN

Callao PERU

Ri Rio de Jan Janeiro

INDIAN OCEAN St.Helena

ATLANTIC OCEAN

Cape of Good Hope N

Cape Horne

W

E S

Map . Migrations to Latin America from China, Africa, and Iberia. Map created by Yoly Velandria

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descendants in Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula over white encroachment on indigenous people’s land to develop plantation agriculture. From  to the end of the war in , about two thousand captives of war were forcefully taken to Cuba. Since the sixteenth century, thousands of native people had already been forcefully taken to the island from many regions of Spanish America, mainly Mexico. While the white elite who dominated the Yucatan government received payments for each Yucatan rebel expelled from Mexico, deportees were placed at the lowest rungs in Cuban colonial society, facing labor conditions not dissimilar from those that enslaved people experienced. By far, the largest external flow of forced laborers to Cuba came from China, and the origin of this migration must be set against the wider backdrop of forced migrations that connected the Americas to Asia in the nineteenth century. The first Asian forced workers were actually brought by the British to Trinidad right around the time of the Haitian revolution. Yet the migration only became systematic as a response to labor demands in Jamaica after the end of slavery in . To facilitate the flow of Asian workers into the British Caribbean, the British colonial state provided funding and developed a complex logistical framework, drawing criticism that the new migration was antithetical to the country’s role as an anti-slave trade crusader. Each British sugar colony established emigration agencies to recruit laborers in Asia – particularly in India – and the system was at times predicated on previous patterns of migration from China and India. In the case of Cuba, the Chinese forced migration began in , faltered for a few years due to official hesitancy and British initial opposition, and then gained momentum as sugar production on the island ballooned in the s. Cuba received roughly half of the Chinese forced migrants – mostly from China’s Guangdong region – shipped to Latin America between  and ; the other half being shipped to Peru through the Pacific. This added up to about twenty percent of the total number of Chinese migrants taken from several regions of the globe at the time. This overseas migration built upon China’s internal patterns of migration, yet it gained traction due to factors ranging from the Opium wars to the Taiping rebellion to the famine of . In both Peru and Cuba, the Chinese migration reflected labor demands on the ground as the extraction of natural resources gained momentum under growing demand in Europe and the United States. In Peru, Chinese workers came into an environment where slavery had been legally abolished in . By then, the migration had already been underway as a response to the declining number of enslaved people in Peru’s population due to the abolition of the slave trade to the country. Much like in Cuba, the Chinese migration was fully supported by the government, which subsidized it. Migrants brought into Peru toiled on the country’s

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sugar and cotton farms as well as on the extraction of guano. By the s, Chinese people comprised about ten percent of Lima’s population. In Cuba, the Chinese migration reflected not only labor demands but also anxiety about the size of the island’s African population, which deepened as the island was shaken by slave revolts in the s. The notion that African slaves and Asian forced laborers acclimated better to work in the tropics also played into official support for the Chinese migration. The Chinese migration also intersected with racial debates in Cuba, with Chinese workers first being categorized as white settlers. British observers pointed out that Cuban elites had “come to the conclusion that the importation of slaves and the continuance of slavery will in the end be productive of consequences which they had not foreseen.” This fear laid at the core of projects to move the island away from its dependence on African labor, seeking to capitalize on the fact that the Spanish island was the destination of one third of estimated annual inflow of , European migrants to Latin America. For some, white European migration was a viable alternative to the African slave trade, with the assumption that free labor by white Europeans was a way to advance Cuba’s agriculture. Brazil was another focal point of attempts to use white migration from Europe to break away from the African slave trade. Between  and , the flow of European migrants into Rio de Janeiro stood at about ,. Although the vast majority hailed from Portugal, some came from Germany and Switzerland. By , non-Portuguese individuals comprised about twenty percent of Rio’s white foreign population. Of the eight thousand workers who arrived in  and , “all belonging to the working classes; a great portion were laborers but still a considerable number of artificers.” Like in Cuba, this migration was to some degree sponsored by the government, and highly skilled workers did participate in the construction of railroads in the country. However, as most European migrants settled in urban centers, particularly Rio de Janeiro, critics questioned whether immigration could become an alternative to slavery. As discussed in Pernambuco’s press, “European colonists who have come to Brazil have been unable to accustom themselves to the arduous service required for the planting of cane.” In Cuba, the Chinese migration was far from consensual, with at least some investors suggesting that the island would be better off establishing an “immigration system” to bring “free” African workers to Cuba. Rejected by the Spanish government, the proposal mirrored a new “free immigration scheme” then being carried out by the French in the Congo River, which brought about , people to French colonies in the Americas. The state-backed French migration scheme was sufficiently successful to inspire similar projects in Brazil, where an immigration bill was submitted to Pernambuco’s provincial legislative assembly to bring “Africans

Shades of Unfreedom

as colonists” into Brazil. According to the project, Africans would work for ten years without pay, which drew immediate criticism from the British. Unlike Cuba, projects to promote Chinese migration to Brazil failed to yield significant results. By the s, inspired by British early removal of migrant workers in Asia, Brazilian officials considered importing two million Asians into the country as a way of developing agriculture. In fact, about three hundred Chinese specialists and workers were taken to Brazil to develop tea-based farms. With the end of the transatlantic slave trade, about four hundred Chinese were brought into Brazil, in what was heralded as the potential onset of a large-scale migration from China. Yet US opposition to the use of American vessels to transport Asian workers prevented the plan from gaining momentum. Later, the Brazilian government dispatched a diplomatic mission to China to explore the establishment of a forced migration of Chinese workers to the country. However, in part due to anti-Asian racism in Brazil, as well as opposition from the British Anti-slavery Society, no major Chinese forced migration ever developed. Brazil’s ability to cope with the end of the African slave trade in part derived from the fact that the country could draw on its large, enslaved population in northern provinces such as Bahia and Pernambuco to meet the demand for labor in coffee producing regions in the southeast of the country. A voluminous internal slave trade sets Brazil apart from other regions in Latin America. In the ten years after the law that banned imports of captives in , about , enslaved people were taken from northern provinces to Rio de Janeiro. This internal forced migration added to the flow of , people – many of whom were laborers under contracts that subjected them to harsh working conditions – that entered Brazil from Portugal at the time, mitigating the effects of the end of the transatlantic slave trade. In Cuba, Chinese migration created a labor landscape that finds no match in Latin America. According to Evelyn Hu-Dehart, the Spanish island was the only place in the world where Chinese indenture work coexisted with African slavery. By the mid s, that migration had become part of an enterprise that stretched globally from Latin America to China. To obtain cheap labor for its Caribbean colony, the Spanish government built a network of consulates in several Chinese ports. Although the Spaniards first worked through British firms in London, the Chinese migration later generated friction with the British government, which grew critical of the scheme due to conditions faced by migrants during the voyage and “the lax enforcement of protections for the Chinese” in Cuba. According to HuDeHart, British criticism derived from the goal of “suppressing competition” instead of humanitarian concerns. Spanish authorities in Cuba eventually established recruiting agencies in Macau, a Portuguese enclave in Asia, obtaining support from the local government and employing Portuguese intermediaries.

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Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira

A major incentive to Chinese migration was the price difference between a newly arrived African captive – , dollars – and the price of an eight-year contract under which Chinese workers labored –  dollars in the early s. While Asian workers were employed in a variety of sectors of the Cuban economy, they mostly toiled in the rapidly growing agricultural sector. Facing appalling living conditions, they seldom received due payment and were “bought, sold, rented, and stole[n].” Opium was extensively used as a tool of social control both on vessels carrying migrants to Cuba and on plantations on the island. Unlike enslaved Africans, with whom they often worked alongside but developed a relationship ranging from open hostility to infrequent mixing, Chinese workers were denied rights such as manumission and faced widespread abuse and violence. To escape the oppression of labor conditions, they resorted to suicide at a frequency that gave the Spanish island the highest suicide rate in the world. After , Chinese migrants had to leave the island two months after the end of their eight-year contract or sign a new contract. It was virtually impossible to return to China. Yet the forced migration was deemed sufficiently successful to prompt policymakers in the US south to consider replicating it. While the growth of Chinese migration stemmed from Cuba’s insatiable appetite for labor during the apogee of its agricultural prosperity, it also gained legitimacy due to wider considerations about how best to curb imports of African captives into the island. By the mid s, the British had overcome initial misgivings about the migration to support it as an alternative to the transatlantic slave trade. In the first ten years since the arrival of the first wave of migrant workers, according to British consul Crawford, about , individuals were landed on the Spanish island, “all of whom have found immediate employment so that those engaged in bringing them from China have found it a very lucrative business.” Many, perhaps the majority of the Chinese, had been kidnapped in their home country, leading to insurrections on trips to Cuba “owing to the discontent of those Chinese who have discovered, too late, that they have been unfairly dealt with.” Yet the British fully endorsed the migration. The fact that Cuba’s demand for labor was the driving force behind the African slave trade factored prominently into British consideration, which went as far as suggesting changes to the Chinese migration so a workforce comprised of descendants of Chinese workers could emerge in Cuba through natural growth. An impediment, however, was the low number of women taken to Cuba, which stood at only seven out of the , migrants between  and , despite legislation passed in  that mandated that women must comprise one fifth of individuals taken to Cuba. While remarking that Chinese workers were “cheaper to hire” and “would likely remain in Cuba after the end of their eight-year contract,” British

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diplomats in Havana called for the end of restrictions over the recruitment of Chinese women so the migration could eventually cease to exist as Cuba would become home for its own population of locally-born Chinese. However, these plans were doomed by the gender structure of the migration, which was heavily skewed toward men. Between May and June , nine vessels – all from Macau, the main shipping center of migrants – landed about , workers on the island. The cost of recruitment and transport of each migrant was estimated at  dollars, “but this varies according to the mortality or sickness which occurs on the voyage.” Due to a strong demand for labor, each eight-year contract was sold for  dollars.” More importantly, women made up only  of , individuals brought into Cuba, which dimmed British enthusiasm about the migration. As explained by British diplomats in Havana, “the importation of Chinese coolies continues, and tends in some degree to supply the demand for laborers, but restricted, as it is, to me without their wives or families, it cannot be considered as a permanent or successful immigration.” British pessimism notwithstanding, Cuba wound up absorbing another , workers before the Chinese forced migration was shut down following a Chineseled fact-checking mission to Cuba in , which unveiled widespread abuses against Chinese workers. An attempt to revive the forced migration was later undertaken, to no avail. By then, the migration had already impacted Cuba’s economic and social fabrics. Between  and , the proportion of slaves in the larger population dropped from  percent (,) to  percent (,), in part due to the presence of Chinese workers who labored under conditions akin to slavery despite being legally free. Without the flow of migrant workers, the African slave trade to Cuba would likely have been higher, and the existence of a reservoir of forced Chinese laborers served as a cushion when imports of African captives ended in . Chinese migrants worked on plantations well after the end of slavery in Cuba. What both Brazil and Cuba had in common was the extensive exploitation of the labor of liberated Africans, known in Cuba as emancipados, as africanos livres in Brazil, and referred to here as recaptives. Reflecting the intensification of military and diplomatic actions against the slave trade from the s onwards, the emergence of recaptive populations across the Atlantic resulted from judicial procedures against slave vessels apprehended and adjudicated by mixed commissions in places like Havana, Rio de Janeiro, or Sierra Leone, or admiralty tribunals in Santa Helena and Sierra Leone. The total number of recaptives stood at about , Africans. While placed under the guardianship of private citizens or the state under a mechanism called apprenticeship, recaptive Africans found themselves entrapped in a status barely distinguishable from enslaved people.

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The growth of recaptive populations illustrates not only the role of Britain to ban the transatlantic slave trade but also their pioneering role in the invention of new forms of forced labor across the Atlantic. Sierra Leone, the site for several mixed commissions, is a case in point. About one third of Africans released from slave vessels were settled in that British colony in West Africa, which also became a key shipping point of recaptives as forced migrants to British colonies in the Americas. St. Helena, an island under British control located right in the middle of the South Atlantic, played a similar role. There, a British admiralty adjudicated the cases of hundreds of vessels apprehended off the coast of Angola and Congo. Like in Sierra Leone, thousands of recaptives were then shipped to the British Caribbean. What the examples of Sierra Leone and St. Helena highlight is the use of the legal structures of abolition to satisfy the demand for labor in the Americas as the transatlantic slave trade and slavery drew to an end. To that end, a sophisticated imperial framework was put in place. Highlighting the connection between the rising demand for labor in post-slavery British Caribbean and the brand-new forced migration, a governor of Jamaica appointed an “agent of immigration” to St. Helena. To set the transoceanic removal of libertos apart from the transatlantic trade in human beings, the British sought to highlight good treatment and health conditions onboard. In their words, “this first experiment of a voyage of Africans across the Atlantic under the charge of government has been made without the occurrence of a single casualty in any of the three ships that have made the passage.” Once in the British Caribbean, however, recaptives were effectively held under labor conditions almost indistinguishable from slavery. The British example inspired government officials in countries where the demand for labor was equally high, such as Cuba and Brazil. In Cuba, where approximately twenty six thousand enslaved Africans were liberated by Havana’s mixed commission set up in , Spanish officials initially cast a suspicious eye on recaptives due to the fear that their presence could destabilize the institution of slavery. Later, however, recaptives were widely employed on Cuba’s farms and cities, toiling alongside enslaved Africans and indentured workers from China. Similar dynamics were found in Brazil, where British commissioners warned that the government had “no sufficient control over the inhabitants to enable it to prevent the apprenticed blacks from being again fraudulently sold as slaves, and thenceforth more cruelly treated than if placed in a lawful and acknowledged state of slavery.” After decades of pressure from Britain and the impact of the US Civil War, local circumstances in both Cuba and Brazil gave antislavery momentum in the late s and early s. The “simultaneous apotheosis and vulnerability of Latin American slavery is the defining feature of its last century of existence,” in

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Christopher Schmidt-Nowara’s words, and the late abolitions in Cuba and Brazil were themselves tied to political transformation. In Cuba, the war for independence became – like it had in the Spanish American mainland decades earlier – linked to the struggle against slavery. Legal steps that followed during these tumultuous decades also resembled the gradualist scheme of the Spanish American republics, including the mechanisms that sought to control the lives of children who were born free. And yet the Moret Law did represent a blow to planters’ interests, who continued to hold on to their property. In the decades of the independence war enslaved people pushed legal mechanisms until, finally, in  slavery was outlawed in the island. Similar processes unfolded in Brazil, where the maintenance of the slave trade and slavery were crucial elements to the independence process as well as state formation in the decades that followed the breakup with Portugal in . Antislave trade policies were undermined by an elite bent on exploiting the labor of the enslaved and recaptive Africans to develop Brazil’s commercial agriculture as well as a slavery-based economy involving multiple sectors of society. A protracted process of ending slavery only gained momentum as popular mobilization, with the crucial participation of the enslaved, turned the tide against an institution that had fundamentally shaped Brazil’s social, cultural, and economic fabrics. Conclusion

Latin America was a core site where nation-state formation adapted liberalism to meet demands for labor against the backdrop of intensifying global connections. This process tied the continent to emerging networks of forced migration across the globe – linking it not only to Africa but also to Asia and in some cases to Europe – requiring new forms of social control, logistics, and administration that universalized knowledge and practices for managing and exploiting populations as well as deepening systemic inequalities and violence. These transregional processes unfolded through local level dynamics of labor exploitation. A case in point was the impact of decolonization on the lives of Native Americans. It suggests that a timeline is necessary to understand how there was an initial period when indigenous people benefited from the transformations brought about by the war, until, in Tutino’s words, “export economies tied to industrial capitalism solidified national regimes after mid-century. Thereafter, native peoples faced rising threats to political rights and land dispossession took a toll on their economic independence.” In addition to losing their land, indigenous peasants became victims of debt peonage schemes, and, when migrating to the cities, they and their children could also be targets of nonlegal forms of bondage in servitude.

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Similarly, much like in other parts of the Atlantic world, the end of the slave trade and slavery in Latin America did not end the manifold ways people of indigenous and African descent were still exposed to exclusion and exploitation. Such was the case of the “liberated Africans” who were taken to Brazil and Cuba in conditions of bondage. Under the category of “colonos,” states and private enterprises were able to maintain schemes for the trade and employment of people who were nominally free but lived under conditions of bondage. It bears highlighting the case of the Yucatecan Indians who were shipped from Mexico to Cuba because it represents a clear example in which indigenous people were themselves victims of enslavement and traffic; but also because it exposes the degree to which republican states that had abolished slavery were at the same time, like in Peru with Asian forced migration, involved in trading humans and finding legal means to promote economies dependent on unfree labor after slavery was outlawed. The processes described here challenge received wisdom that focuses solely on politics to understand the revolutionary nature of independence in Latin America. While the region has been recently positioned as an epicenter of republican experiments and innovation, especially with regards to the supposed racial harmony that nation formation implied, the narratives stressing this aspect tend to ignore the major investment of Latin American elites in sustaining and even expanding unfree labor practices. This is one of the fundamental tensions in the so-called Age of Abolition, when across the Atlantic world politics acquired liberal tones, and universalizing discourses of civil rights and citizenship became the norm, the practices of labor exploitation transformed and expanded often by becoming juridically invisible under the same lens. Despite the states’ liberal discourse of citizenship and inclusion, laboring classes – indigenous people as much as freed Afro-descendants or the migrants who arrived in cycles from Asia – were targeted with emerging legislation that defined their conditions as marginal to state protection, objects of control mechanisms, making them vulnerable to further exploitation as laborers. A transregional approach to labor regimes reveals new dimensions to mechanisms of inequality and oppression that have long gripped the continent, while also connecting it to trends reshaping labor regimes on a global scale. This chapter takes a more complex view of Latin American history by looking at Cuba and Brazil alongside the emergent republics of Spanish America, rather than separating them as is generally done both in studies of independence and of slavery and abolition. The crucial parallels between experiments in coolie labor in Cuba and Peru suggest that the networks that traded bonded people, as well as economic networks that stood on the product of their labor, were linking these regions together in ways that transcended their political and institutional frames.

Shades of Unfreedom

In a similar way, it is clear that British intermediaries, who were on one level agents of abolition, at the same time had a common presence in the expansion of networks that experimented with and instituted new forms of unfree labor such as indenture and coolie labor. By bringing together the findings of diverse thematic and regional historiographies, we highlight the advantage of a transregional framework to explore how shifts in labor regimes were tied to growing demand in Europe and the United States for natural resources and their extraction by the laboring classes composed of people of African descent, Indians, and migrants from Asia. This strategy moves past mainstream historical narratives by revealing with clarity the fundamental connections of Latin America to the world through these migrations specific to the nineteenth century. It shows the extent to which the histories of nation-states, with their emphasis on the creation of civil rights and political institutions, have overlooked the strategic and equally fundamental parallel thrust toward development schemes based on unfree labor. Notes  The authors thank João José Reis and Cristina Soriano for their comments to drafts of the chapter.  This Companion is a testament of the deep transformation of the field of studies of Latin American independence, especially through scholarship produced in Latin America, Spain, and France. For other bibliography in English, see Jeremy Adelman, Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ); Hilda Sábato, Republics of the New World: The Revolutionary Political Experiment in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ); Lyman Johnson, Workshop of Revolution: Plebeian Buenos Aires and the Atlantic World, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ); Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); Hendrik Kraay, Race, State, and Armed Forces in Independence-Era Brazil, s–s (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); Hendrik Kraay, Bahia’s Independence: Popular Politics and Patriotic Festival in Salvador, Brazil, – (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, ); and Kirsten Schultz, Tropical Versailles: Empire, Monarchy, and the Portuguese Royal Court in Rio de Janeiro, – (New York: Routledge, ). On the age of revolutions and slavery, see Robin Blackburn, “Haiti, Slavery, and the Age of Democratic Revolution,” William and Mary Quarterly , no.  (): –; Robin Blackburn, The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery, – (New York: Verso, ); David Geggus, “The French and Haitian Revolutions and Resistance to Slavery in the Americas: An Overview,” Revue Francaise d’Histoire d’Outre-mer  (): –; Cristina Soriano, Tides of Revolution: Information, Insurgencies, and the Crisis of Colonial Rule in Venezuela (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ); and Ada Ferrer, “Haiti, Free Soil, and Antislavery in the Revolutionary Atlantic,” American Historical Review , no.  (): –.  For example, see Victor Bulmer-Thomas, Economic History of Latin America since Independence (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); and Leandro Prados de la Escosura, “The Economic Consequences of Independence in Latin America,” in The Cambridge Economic History

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of Latin America, vol. , ed. Victor Bulmer-Thomas et al. (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –. Some of these changes were consequences of devastation brought about by wars or stemmed from legislative shifts tied to the creation of independent states. Within the recent historiography focused on political changes a book that stands out because of its marked interest in hemispheric and global economic processes is John Tutino (ed.), New Countries: Capitalism, Revolutions, and Nations in the Americas, – (Durham: Duke University Press, ). The chapters in the book study how the emergence of nations in the Americas was linked to economic processes that reorganized internal production and networks of trade in relation to wider shifts in the world economy. Sabine Damir-Geilsdorf et al., Bonded Labour: Global and Comparative Perspectives (th–st Centuries) (Bielefeld: Transcript, ); and Christian De Vito and Anne Gerritsen (eds.), MicroSpatial Histories of Global Labour (London: Palgrave Macmillan, ). John Monteiro, “Labor Systems,” in The Cambridge Economic History of Latin America, vol. , ed. Victor Bulmer-Thomas et al. (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Alex Borucki, David Eltis, and David Wheat (eds.), From the Galleons to the Highlands: Slave Trade Routes in the Spanish Americas (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ); Roquinaldo Ferreira and Pablo Miguel Sierra Silva, “Portugal, Spain, and the Transatlantic Slave Trade,” in The Iberian World (–), ed. Fernando Bouza, Pedro Cardim, and Antonio Feros (Routledge: London, ), –; and Kara Danielle Schultz, “‘The Kingdom of Angola Is Not Very Far from Here’: The Río de la Plata, Brazil, and Angola, –” (Ph.D. dissertation, Vanderbilt University, ). See, for example, Jane Landers and Barry Robinson (eds.), Slaves, Subjects and Subversives: Blacks in Colonial Latin America (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ); Bianca Premo, The Enlightenment on Trial: Ordinary Litigants and Colonialism in the Spanish Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, ); and Michelle A. McKinley, Fractional Freedoms: Slavery, Intimacy, and Legal Mobilization in Colonial Lima, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Dale Tomich, Through the Prism of Slavery: Labor, Capital, and World Economy (New York: Rowman and Littlefield, ); Dale Tomich, “Commodity Frontiers, Spatial Economy, and Technological Innovation in the Caribbean Sugar Industry, –,” in The Caribbean and the Atlantic World Economy: Circuits of Trade, Money and Knowledge, –, ed. A. B. Leonard and David Pretel (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, ), –; Dale Tomich, “Commodity Frontiers, Conjuncture and Crisis: The Remaking of the Caribbean Sugar Industry, –,” in The Second Slavery, ed. Javier Laviña and Michael Zeuske (Berlin: Lit Verlag, ), –; and Daniel Rood, The Reinvention of Atlantic Slavery: Technology, Labor, Race, and Capitalism in the Greater Caribbean (New York: Oxford University Press, ). In breaking with the binary of slavery and free wage labor and emphasizing non-linear transitions, we contribute to the project of acknowledging “the combined role of multiple coercive labor relations in shaping the modern world.” See Christian De Vito, Juliane Schiel, and Matthias van Rossum, “From Bondage to Precariousness? New Perspectives on Labor and Social History” Journal of Social History , no.  (): , . The ambivalence of indigenous labor, between freedom and unfreedom, was characteristic since the sixteenth century. It also became a prominent feature of forms of labor that grew out of (or in parallel with) the abolition process throughout the nineteenth century, among freed and freed-born people of African descent but also laborers from Asia who were held in bondage or indenture. In this way we bring to the fore connections and parallels between regions of the so-called second slavery (Brazil and Cuba) that have been studied separately from other places like Peru, Uruguay, Mexico, or Colombia. See Marcela Echeverri, “Slavery in Mainland Spanish America in the Age of

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the Second Slavery,” in Atlantic Transformations: Empire, Politics, and Slavery during the Nineteenth Century, ed. Dale Tomich (Albany: Fernand Braudel Series, State University of New York Press, ), –. Sidney Chalhoub, “The Politics of Silence: Race and Citizenship in Nineteenth-Century Brazil,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –; and Márcia Regina Berbel, Rafael de Bivar Marquese, and Tâmis Parron, Slavery and Politics: Brazil and Cuba, – (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ). Marcela Echeverri, “‘Sovereignty Has Lost its Rights’: Liberal Experiments and Indigenous Citizenship in New Granada, –,” in Justice in a New World: Negotiating Legal Intelligibility in British, Iberian, and Indigenous America, ed. Brian Owensby and Richard Ross (New York: New York University Press, ), –. Rossana Barragán, “Dynamics of Continuity and Change: Shifts in Labour Relations in the Potosí Mines (–),” International Review of Social History  (): –. Barragán, “Dynamics of Continuity and Change,” ; and Josep Fradera and Christopher SchmidtNowara (eds.), Slavery and Antislavery in Spain’s Atlantic Empire (New York: Berghahn, ). See Karen Caplan, Indigenous Citizens: Local Liberalism in Early National Oaxaca and Yucatán (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, ); Greg Grandin, The Blood of Guatemala: A History of Race and Nation (Durham: Duke University Press, ); and Brooke Larson, Cochabamba, –: Colonialism and Agrarian Transformation in Bolivia (Durham: Duke University Press, ). The República de Indios and República de Españoles separated the Spanish monarchy’s subjects in two distinct categories. Indigenous people had their own government within the República de Indios and special duties such as paying tribute. This also implied rights, self-government was one and communal landholding another. Erick Langer, “Indigenous Independence in Spanish South America,” in New Countries: Capitalism, Revolutions, and Nations in the Americas, –, ed. John Tutino (Durham: Duke University Press, ), ; and Fabio Wasserman, Juan José Castelli. De súbdito de la corona a líder revolucionario (Buenos Aires: Editorial Edhasa, ). Resguardos were the collective lands of the indigenous communities. Lina del Castillo, “Surveying the Lands of Indígenas: Contentious Nineteenth-Century Efforts to Abolish Indigenous Resguardos near Bogotá, Colombia,” Journal of Latin American Studies  (): –. Brooke Larson, Trials of Nation-Making: Liberalism, Race, and Ethnicity in the Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Erick Langer, “El liberalismo y la abolición de la comunidad indígena en el siglo XIX,” Historia y Cultura  (): –. After it was abolished, tribute was reinstituted as a “personal contribution.” Langer, “Indigenous Independence in Spanish South America,” . Peter Guardino, Peasants, Politics, and the Formation of Mexico’s National State: Guerrero, – (Stanford: Stanford University Press, ); John Tutino, “The Revolution in Mexican Independence: Insurgency and the Renegotiation of Property, Production, and Patriarchy in the Bajío, –,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): . Michael Ducey, “Indigenous Communities, Political Transformations, and Mexico’s War of Independence in the Gulf Coast Region,” in Beyond Alterity: Destabilizing the Indigenous Other in Mexico, ed. Paula López Caballero and Adriana Acevedo-Rodrigo (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, ). Langer, “Indigenous Independence in Spanish South America.” Sarah Chambers, “From One Patria, Two Nations in the Andean Heartland,” in New Countries: Capitalism, Revolutions, and Nations in the Americas, –, ed. John Tutino (Durham: Duke University Press, ), , ; Alfredo Avila and John Tutino, “Becoming Mexico: The

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Conflictive Search for a North American Nation,” in New Countries: Capitalism, Revolutions, and Nations in the Americas, –, ed. John Tutino (Durham: Duke University Press, ). John Tutino, “Revolutions, Nations, and a New Industrial World,” in New Countries: Capitalism, Revolutions, and Nations in the Americas, –, ed. John Tutino (Durham: Duke University Press, ), . Yuko Miki, Frontiers of Citizenship: A Black and Indigenous History of Postcolonial Brazil (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), . See also Oscar De la Torre, The People of the River: Nature and Identity in Black Amazonia, – (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ); Rafael Chambouleyron and Karl Heinz Arenz, “Amazonian Atlantic: Cacao, Colonial Expansion and Indigenous Labour in the Portuguese Amazon Region (Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries),” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –; Adalberto Paz, “Free and Unfree Labor in the Nineteenth-Century Brazilian Amazon,” International Review of Social History,  (): –. Pilar Herr, “The Nation-State According to Whom? Mapuches and the Chilean State in the Early Nineteenth Century,” Journal of Early American History , no.  (): . In Tutino’s words, “National consolidations under export economies ended indigenous independence.” Tutino, “Revolutions, Nations, and a New Industrial World,” . Josep Fradera and Christopher Schmidt-Nowara (eds.), Slavery and Antislavery in Spain’s Atlantic Empire. The Spanish crown liberalized the slave trade in the colonies in . See Jorge Felipe González, “Foundation and Growth of the Cuban-Based Transatlantic Slave Trade, –” (Ph.D. dissertation, MSU, ), . Josep Fradera, “Moments in a Postponed Abolition,” in Slavery and Antislavery in Spain’s Atlantic Empire, ed. Josep Fradera and Christopher Schmidt-Nowara (New York: Berghahn, ), –; Alex Borucki, “The ‘African Colonists’ of Montevideo: New Light on the Illegal Slave Trade to Rio de Janeiro and the Río de la Plata (–),” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –; Juan Carlos Garavaglia, “The Economic Role of Slavery in a Non-Slave Society: The River Plate, –,” in Slavery and Antislavery in Spain’s Atlantic Empire, ed. Josep Fradera and Christopher Schmidt-Nowara (New York: Berghahn, ), –; Alex Borucki, “Trans-imperial History in the Making of the Slave-Trade to Venezuela, –,” Itinerario , no.  (): –; Peter Blanchard, Slavery and Abolition in Early Republican Peru (Wilmington: S. R. Books, ); and Marcela Echeverri, “Esclavitud y tráfico de esclavos en el Pacífico suramericano durante la era de la abolición,” Historia Mexicana , no.  (): –. Magdalena Candioti, “Regulando el fin de la esclavitud. Diálogos, innovaciones y disputas jurídicas en las nuevas repúblicas sudamericanas, –,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte Lateinamerikas  (): –; Jesús Sanjurjo, In the Blood of Our Brothers: Abolitionism and the End of the Slave Trade in Spain’s Atlantic Empire, – (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, ); and Ada Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror: Cuba and Haiti in the Age of Revolution (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). James Ferguson King, “The Latin-American Republics and the Suppression of the Slave Trade,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): . On the Spanish debates over slavery, see Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, Empire and Atislavery: Spain, Cuba and Puerto Rico, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); Emily Berquist, “Early Antislavery Sentiment in the Spanish Atlantic World, –,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –; Jesús Sanjurjo, “‘Comerciar con la sangre de nuestros hermanos’: Early Abolitionist Discourse in Spain’s Empire,” Bulletin of Latin American Research , no.  (): –; and Fradera, “Moments in a Postponed Abolition.” A synthetic account in George Reid Andrews, Afro-Latin America, – (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –. See also Marcela Echeverri, “Antislavery and Abolition in the

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Spanish American Mainland,” in The Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Latin American History (New York: Oxford University Press, in press). Carlos Aguirre, Agentes de su propia libertad (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, ); Sarah Washbrook, “Independence for Those without Freedom: Slavery and Manumission in Mérida, Venezuela, –,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –; Roger Pita Pico, La manumisión de esclavos en el proceso de independencia de Colombia. Realidades, promesas y desilusiones (Bogotá: Editorial Kimpres, ); John Lombardi, The Decline and Abolition of Negro Slavery in Venezuela, – (Westport: Greenwood Publishing Corporation, ); Alex Borucki, Karla Chagas, and Natalia Stalla, Esclavitud y trabajo. Un estudio sobre los afrodescendientes en la frontera uruguaya (–) (Montevideo: Pulmón Ediciones, ); and Magdalena Candioti, Una historia de la emancipacion negra. Esclativud y abolición en la Argentina (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, ). See Yesenia Barragan, Freedom’s Captives: Slavery and Gradual Emancipation on the Colombian Black Pacific (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), –. Yesenia Barragan, “Commerce in Children: Slavery, Gradual Emancipation, and the Free Womb Trade in Colombia,” The Americas , no.  (): –; and Echeverri, “Esclavitud y tráfico de esclavos en el Pacífico suramericano.” According to Claudia Leal, in contrast to plantation societies across Latin America, where the limits of emancipation for black peasants were defined by their access to land, the Colombian Pacific coast stands out as a region where black people attained a higher degree of freedom and autonomy in their economic opportunities to extract gold and rubber. This case crucially shows that the extractive economy and the racialized landscape of the post-emancipation context were the fundamental elements that determined how freedom was experienced and understood. Claudia Leal, Landscapes of Freedom: Building a Postemancipation Society in the Rainforests of Western Colombia (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, ), . Alex Borucki, “Después de la abolición . . . La reglamentación laboral de los morenos y pardos en el Estado Oriental, –,” in Estudios sobre la cultura afro-rioplatense, ed. Arturo Betancur, Alex Borucki, and Ana Frega (Montevideo: Udelar, ), –. Nara Milanich, “Degrees of Bondage: Children’s Tutelary Servitude in Modern Latin America,” in Child Slaves in the Modern World, ed. Gwyn Campbell, Suzanne Miers, and Joseph Miller (Athens: Ohio University Press, ), , , . On “patronato” see Florencia Thut, “El trabajo después de la abolición,” in Historia de la población africana y afrodescendiente en Uruguay, ed. Ana Frega, et al. (Montevideo: Udelar, ), . Alan Knight, “Debt Bondage in Latin America,” in Slavery and Other Forms of Unfree Labour, ed. Leonie Archer (London: Routledge, ), . This is also Monteiro’s assessment in “Labor Systems,” . Julie Gibbings, “The Shadow of Slavery: Historical Time, Labor, and Citizenship in NineteenthCentury Alta Verapaz, Guatemala,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; Julie Gibbings, Our Time Is Now: Race and Modernity in Postcolonial Guatemala (New York: Cambridge University Press, ); and Justin Wolfe, “Those That Live by the Work of Their Hands: Labour, Ethnicity, and Nation-State Formation in Nicaragua, –,” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –. Ferrer, Freedom’s Mirror, . See also Dale Tomich, “The Wealth of Empire: Francisco Arango y Parreño, Political Economy, and the Second Slavery in Cuba,” Comparative Studies in Society and History , no.  (): –. For the composition of Cuba’s commercial elites, see Rosario Márquez Macias, “Comercio e inmigración. Los Comerciantes españoles en La Habana, –,” in El sistema atlántico español (siglos XVII–XIX), ed. Carlos Martinez Shaw and José María Oliva Melgar (Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, ), –. For distinctions between





Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira

  

  



   



Spanish slave dealers and Cuban creole elites, see Maria del Carmen Barcia, Elites y grupos de presiόn. Cuba, – (Havana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales, ), –. For Cuban elites’ political clout, see José Gregorio Cayuela Fernández, “Relación colonial y elite Hispano-Cubana en la España del XIX,” Studia Historica  (): –. See also Dominique Goncalvès, Le planteur et le roi. l’Aristocratie havanaise et la couronne d’Espagne, – (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, ). Laird W. Bergad, The Comparative Histories of Slavery in Brazil, Cuba, and the United States (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). William C. Van Norman, Shade Grown Slavery: The Lives of Slaves on Coffee Plantations in Cuba (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, ), . British commissioners to Palmerston on January , , Parliamentary Papers, , . See also Oscar Zanetti Lecuona and Alejandro Garcia, Sugar and Railroads: A Cuban History, – (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ). Jonathan Curry-Machado, Cuban Sugar Industry: Transnational Networks and Engineering Migrants in Mid-Nineteenth Century Cuba (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, ), . Rebecca Scott, Slave Emancipation in Cuba: The Transition to Free Labor, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ), . Dale T. Graden, Disease, Resistance, and Lies: The Demise of the Transatlantic Slave Trade to Brazil and Cuba (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University, ), . See also Martín Rodrigo y Alharilla, “From Periphery to Centre: Transatlantic Capital Flows,” in The Caribbean and the Atlantic World Economy: Circuits of Trade, Money and Knowledge, –, ed. A. B. Leonard and David Pretel (New York: Palgrave, ), . For earlier contexts of Cuba’s ties to the United States, see Stephan Chambers, “No Country but their Counting-Houses: The U.S.-Cuba-Baltic Circuit, –,” in Slavery’s Capitalism: A New History of American Economic Development ed. Sven Beckert and Seth Rockman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, ), –. For further background, see Stephen Chambers, No God but Gain: The Untold Story of Cuban Slavery, the Monroe Doctrine, and the Making of the United States (London: Verso, ), –. María del Carmen Barco Zequeira, “Las élites de Cuba en un siglo histórico (–),” in La administración de Cuba en los siglos XVIII y XIX, ed. Javier Alvarado Planas (Madrid: Boletín Oficial del Estado, ), –. Norman, Shade Grown Slavery, . Michael Zeuske, “Rethinking the Case of the Schooner Amistad: Contraband and Complicity after /,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): . Wolfgang Gabbert, Violence and the Caste War of Yucatán (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Javier Rodríguez Piña, Guerra de Castas. La venta de indios mayas a Cuba, – (Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, ); Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero, “Indios mayas en Cuba. Algunas reflexiones sobre su comercio,” Baluarte  (): –; Ana Sabau, “The Paths of Unfreedom: Indentured Labor from Yucatán to Cuba,” Revista de Estudios Hispánicos , no.  (): –; and Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero, “De Tihosuco a La Habana. La venta de indios yucatecos a Cuba durante la Guerra de Castas,” Studia Historica História Antigua  (): –. Jason Yaremko, “Indigenous Diaspora, Bondage, and Freedom in Colonial Cuba,” in Borderlands in the Iberian World: Environments, Histories, Culture, ed. Dana Levin Rojo and Cynthia Radding (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –; Jason Yaremko, Indigenous Passages to Cuba, – (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, ), –; Antonio Santamaría García and Sigfrido Vázquez, “Indios foráneos en Cuba a principios del siglo XIX. Historia de un suceso en el contexto de la movilidad poblacional y la geoestrategia del imperio español,” Colonial Latin American Historical Review , no.  (): –. For the relationship between native people and

Shades of Unfreedom







 









enslaved Africans in Cuba, see Hernán Delgado, “‘Aprehenderlos y matarlos.’ El Real Consulado de La Habana versus indios nómadas novohispanos y esclavos negros y mestizos apalencados,” Cuadernos de História  (): –. Javier Rodríguez Piña, Guerra de Castas. La venta de indios mayas a Cuba, – (Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, ); Izaskun Álvarez Cuartero, “Indios mayas en Cuba. Algunas reflexiones sobre su comercio,” Baluarte  (): –; and Ana Sabau, “The Paths of Unfreedom: Indentured Labor from Yucatán to Cuba,” Revista de Estudios Hispánicos , no.  (): –. See also Wolfgang Gabbert, Violence and the Caste War of Yucatán (New York: Cambridge University Press, ). James Epstein, Scandal of Colonial Rule: Power and Subversion in the British Atlantic during the Age of Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –; Lisa Lowe, The Intimacies of Four Continents (Durham: Duke University Press, ), . For the recruitment of Chinese workers to Trinidad in the broader context of Chinese migrations to the Atlantic (St. Helena) and Indian Oceans, see Richard Allen, “Slaves, Convicts, Abolitionism and the Global Origins of the Post-Emancipation Indentured Labor System,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): . Hugh Tinker, A New System of Slavery: The Export of Indian Labour Overseas, – (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ); and Walton Look Lai, Indentured Labor, Caribbean Sugar (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, ). Jonathan Connolly, “Indenture as Compensation: State Financing for Indentured Labor Migration in the Era of Emancipation,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –. Thomas Metcalf, Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena, – (Berkeley: University of California Press, ), –. For the recruitment in India, see Sunil Amrith, Crossing the Bay of Bengal: The Furies of Nature and the Fortunes of Migrants (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, ), –. For China, see Ng Chin-Keong, “The Amoy Riots of : Coolie Emigration and Sino-British Relations,” in Boundaries and Beyond: China’s Maritime Southeast in Late Imperial Times (Singapore: National University of Singapore, ), –. See also Richard Allen, Slaves, Freedmen, and Indentured Laborers in Colonial Mauritius (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), , . Juan Jiménez Pastrana, Los chinos en la historia de Cuba, – (Havana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales, ); Evelyn Hu-DeHart, “Chinese Coolie Labor in Cuba in the Nineteenth Century: Free Labor of Neoslavery,” Contributions in Black Studies  (): –; Eduardo Marrero Cruz, Julián de Zulueta y Amondo. Promotor del capitalismo en Cuba (Havana: Ediciones Unión, ). Benjamin Narvaez, “Chinese Coolies in Cuba and Peru: Race, Labor, and Immigration, –” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Texas at Austin, ), –. For distinctions between the two migrations, see Antonio Zapata, “Los Chinos de Cuba y del Perú,” Investigaciones Sociales , no.  (): –. For a historiographical treatment, see Miguel Situ, “Acerca de la producción historiográfica sobre la migración china en el Perú,” Summa Humanitatis, , no.  (): –. See also Yanet Jiménez Rojas, “Aproximaciones al estudio de la inmigración china en Cuba. Contextos, tendencias y espacios baldíos,” Revista de la Red Intercátedras de Historia de América Latina Contemporánea  (): –. Walton Look Lai, “Asian Diasporas and Tropical Migration in the Age of Empire: A Comparative Overview,” in The Chinese in Latin America and the Caribbean, ed. Walton Look Lai and Tan Chee-Beng (Leiden: Brill, ), –. Evelyn Hu-Dehart, “Chinese Labor Migrants to the Americas in the Nineteenth Century,” in The Chinese and the Iron Road: Building the Transcontinental Railroad, ed. Gordon Chang and Shelley Fishkin, with Hilton Obenzinger and Roland Hsu (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, ); and Rosemarijn Hoefte, “Indenture in the Long Nineteenth Century,” in The Cambridge World History of Slavery, ed. David Eltis, Stanley Engerman, Seymour Drescher, and D. Richardson (New York:





Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira

 

 

 









Cambridge University Press, ), –. See also Adam McKeown, “The Social Life of Chinese Labor,” in Chinese Circulations: Capital, Commodities, and Networks in Southeast Asia, ed. Eric Tagliacozzo and Wen-Chin Chang (Durham: Duke University Press, ), –. Gonzalo Alonso Paroy Villafuerte, “Aspectos Generales de la inmigración y la demografía china en el Perú (–),” Historia .  (): –. For slave revolts in Cuba, see Robert Paquette, Sugar Is Made with Blood: The Conspiracy of La Escalera and the Conflict between Empires over Slavery in Cuba (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, ), –; Manuel Barcia, Seeds of Insurrection: Domination and Slave Resistance on Cuban Plantations (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, ); Michele Reid-Vazquez, The Year of the Lash: Free People of Colo in Cuba and the Nineteenth-Century Atlantic World (Athens: University of Georgia Press, ); and Aisha Finch, Rethinking Slave Rebellion in Cuba: La Escalera and the Insurgencies of – (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ). Consuelo Naranjo Orovio and Imilcy Balboa Navarro, “Colonos asiáticos para una economía en expansion. Cuba, –,” Revista Mexicana del Caribe  (): –. Oriol Regué-Sendrós, “Chinese Migration to Cuba: Racial Legislation and Colonial Rule in the Mid-Nineteenth Century Spanish Empire,” Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies , no.  (): –. Crawford to Palmerston on November , , in British and Foreign State Papers, –, vol. XLI (London: William Ridgway, ), . Consuelo Naranjo Orovio, “La otra Cuba, colonización blanca y diversificación agrícola,” Contrastes: Revista de Historia Moderna  (–): –; Karim Ghorbal, “La política llamada del “‘Buen Tratamiento.’ Reformismo criollo y reacción esclavista en Cuba (–),” Nuevo Mundo/ Mundos Nuevos (): ; and Karim Ghorbal, “Aristocracia azucarera versus industria popular. Esclavitud, ‘colonización blanca’ y especificidades regionales en Cuba,” in Virreinatos II, ed. Lillian von der Walde M. and Mariel Reinoso (Mexico City: Grupo Editorial Destiempos, ), –. See also Karim Ghorbal, Réformisme et esclavage à Cuba (–) (Paris: Publibook, ). British commissioners to Palmerston on January , , Parliamentary Papers, , . See Consuelo Naranjo Orovio and Mercedes González, “Trabajo libre y diversificación agrícola en Cuba. Una alternativa a la plantación (–),” Anuario de Estudios Americanos , no.  (): –. Christie to Russell on August , , Parliamentary Papers, , . See Marina Galvanese, “Imigrantes açorianos na transição da escravatura para o trabalho livre no Brasil (décadas de  e ),” Revista de História  (): –. For further background, see José Juan Pérez Meléndez, “The Business of Peopling: Colonization and Politics in Imperial Brazil, –” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, ). Consul Hersketh to Palmerston on March , , British and Foreign State Papers, . See also Luiz Felipe de Alencastro, “Proletários e escravos. Imigrantes portugueses e cativos africanos no Rio de Janeiro, –,” Novos Estudos  (): –; Marina Simões Galvanese, “Criação e fracasso de um projeto sá da bandeira e a tentativa de regulamentar a emigração portuguesa para o Brasil (–),” Varia História  (): –. Maria Lúcia Lamounier, “Entre a escravidão e o trabalho livre. Escravos e imigrantes nas obras de construção das ferrovias no Brasil no século XIX,” Revista Economia (): –; Télio Cravo, Pedro Conterno Rodrigues, and Marcelo Magalhães Godoy, “Imigração internacional e contratos de trabalho no Império do Brasil. Colonos europeus na construção de estradas na década de ,” Almanack , no.  (): –. For an overview, see Henrique Espada Lima, “Enslaved and Free Workers and the Growth of the Working Class in Brazil,” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Latin American History, .

Shades of Unfreedom  Extract from the Diario de Pernambuco on April , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, .  José Suárez Argudín, Manoel Basílio da Cunha Reis, and Luciano Fernández Perdones, Proyecto de Inmigración Africana (Havana: Imprenta La Habanera, ). See also Imilcy Balboa Navarro, Los brazos necesarios. Immigración, colonización y trabajo libre en Cuba, – (Valencia: Fundación Instituto de Historia Social, ), .  Céline Flory, De l’esclavage à la liberté forcée. Histoire des travailleurs Africains engagés dans la Caraïbe française au XIXe siècle (Paris: Karthala, ).  Consul Cowper to Clarendon on April , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, .  Marcelo Mac Cord, “Mão de obra chinesa em terras brasileiras nos tempos joaninos Experiências, estranhamentos, contratos, expectativas e lutas,” Afro-Ásia  (): –. Others migrated into the country to work as traders and built meaningful communities. Marco Aurélio dos Santos, “Chineses no vale do paraíba cafeeiro. Projetos, perspectivas, transições e fracassos – século XIX,” Almanack  (): –.  Robert Conrad, “The Planter Class and the Debate over Chinese Immigration to Brazil, –,” The International Migration Review , no.  (): .  Henrique Ré, “Os esforços dos abolicionistas britânicos contra a imigração de Chineses para o Brasil no final do século XIX,” Varia Historia , no.  (): –.  Ana Flávia Cernic Ramos, “Das batalhas literárias e sociais surge o método. Escravidão, trabalho livre e imigração nas crônicas de machado de assis (–),” Machado Assis Linha , no.  (): –; and Ré, “Os esforços dos abolicionistas britânicos contra a imigração de Chineses para o Brasil no final do século XIX,” –. See also Victor Luna Peres, “Os “Chins” nas sociedades tropicais de plantação. Estado das propostas de importação de trabalhadores chineses sob contrato e suas experiências de trabalho e vida no Brasil (–)” (MA Thesis, UFPE, ).  Richard Graham, “Another Middle Passage? The Internal Slave Trade in Brazil,” in The Chattel Principle: Internal Slave Trade in the Americas, ed. Walter Johnson (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), –; Robert Slenes, “The Brazilian Internal Slave Trade, –: Regional Economies, Slave Experience and the Politics of a Peculiar Market,” in The Chattel Principle: Internal Slave Trades in the Americas, ed. Walter Johnson (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), –.  Consul Westwood to Mr. Christie on March , , Correspondence with the British Commissioners at Sierra Leone, Havana, the Cape of Good Hope, and Loanda from April  to December ,  (London: Harrison and Sons, ), .  Evelyn Hu-DeHart, “Chinese Contract Labor in the Wake of the Abolition of Slavery in the Americas: A New Form of Slavery or Transition to Free Labor in the Case of Cuba?” Amerasia Journal , no.  (): . As discussed here, Chinese forced labor co-existed with African slavery in Brazil as well, despite the fact that the number of Chinese workers taken to Brazil significantly lower than the number of Chinese workers brought into Cuba.  Mònica Ginés-Blasi, “Exploiting Chinese Labour Emigration in Treaty Ports: The Role of Spanish Consulates in the ‘Coolie Trade,’” International Review of Social History , no.  (): –.  Elliot Young, “Chinese Coolies, Universal Rights and the Limits of Liberalism in an Age of Empire,” Past and Present  (): . For an argument that connects the Chinese forced migration to Cuba to European colonialism in China, see Albert García Balañà, “‘El comercio español en África’ en la Barcelona de , entre el Caribe y el Mar de China, entre Londres y Paris,” Illes i imperis /  (): –.  Hu-DeHart, “La Trata Amarilla,” .





Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira  Michael Zeuske, “Coolies-Asiáticos and Chinos: Global Dimensions of Second Slavery,” in Bonded Labour: Global and Comparative Perspectives, ed. Sabine Damir-Geilsdorf, Ulrike Linder, Gesine Müller, Oliver Tappe, and Michael Zeuske (Bielefeld: Transcript-Verlag, ), –. See also Luz Mercedes Hincapie, “Pacific Transactions: Nicolás Tanco Armero and the Chinese Coolie Trade to Cuba,” Journal of Iberian and Latin American Research , no.  (): –.  Correspondence with the British Commissioners at Sierra Leone, Havana, Cape of Good Hope, and Loanda, and Reports from British Vice-Admiralty, and from British Naval Officers relating to the Slave Trade from January  to December ,  (London: Harrison and Sons, ), .  Imilcy Balboa, “Las recontratas de Coolies. A medio camino entre la esclavitud y la libertad formal (Cuba, década de ),” Revista de Estudios Históricos  (): –; and Lisa Yun, The Coolie Speaks: Chinese Indentured Laborers and African Slaves of Cuba (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, ).  Evelyn Hu-Dehart, “Opium and Social Control: Coolies on the Plantations of Peru and Cuba,” Journal of Chinese Overseas , no.  (): –.  Joseph Dorsey, “Identity, Rebellion, and Social Justice among Chinese Contract Workers in Nineteenth Century Cuba,” Latin American Perspectives , no.  (): –; and Benjamín Narváez, “Subaltern Unity? Chinese and Afro-Cubans in Nineteenth-Century Cuba,” Journal of Social History , no.  (): –.  Kathleen López, Chinese Cubans: A Transnational History (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ), ; Lisa Yun and Ricardo René Laremont, “Chinese Coolies and African Slaves in Cuba, –,” Journal of Asian American Studies , no.  (): –; and Elliot Young, Alien Nation: Chinese Migration in the Americas from the Coolie Era through World War II (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, ), , , , , .  Benjamin Narváez, “Abolition, Chinese Indentured Labor, and the State: Cuba, Peru, and the United States during the Mid Nineteenth Century,” The Americas , no.  (): –. See also Zack McCullough, “Not as Slaves . . . But as Freemen: Coolies, Free Labor, and Reconstruction in the Age of Emancipation” (MA Thesis, Middle Tennessee State University, ); and Zach Sell, “Asian Indentured Labor in the Age of African American Emancipation,” International Labor and Working-Class History  (): –.  Crawford to Clarendon on July , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, p. . See Eric Guerassimoff, “Travail colonial, Coolies et diplomatie. Réclamations chinoises autour du contrat d’engagement à Cuba au XIXe siècle,” in Le Travail Colonial, ed. Eric Guerassimoff and Issiaka Mandé (Paris: Riveneuve Éditions, ), –.  Evelyn Hu-DeHart, “La Trata Amarilla: The ‘Yellow Trade’ and the Middle Passage, –,” in Many Middle Passages: Forced Migration and the Making of the Modern World, ed. Emma Christopher, Cassandra Pybus, and Markus Rediker (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, ), .  Mònica Ginés-Blasi, “The International Trafficking of Chinese Children and Its Conflicting Legalities in Mid-Nineteenth Century Treaty–Port China,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): .  Crawford to Clarendon on July , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, .  Bunch to Russell on July , , Parliamentary Papers, Correspondence with the British Commissioners (Sierra Leone, Havana, the Cape of Good Hope, Loanda, and New York) and Reports from British Naval Officers relating to the Slave Trade from January  to December ,  (London: Harrison and Sons, ), .  Crawford to Stanley on May , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, .

Shades of Unfreedom  Her majesty’s acting commissary judge to Lord Stanley on September , , Accounts and Papers, Slave Trade, December , –August , , –, vol. , p. ; Crawford to Stanley on May , , Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons –, .  Rudolph Ng, “The Chinese Commission to Cuba (): Reexamining International Relations in the Nineteenth Century from a Transcultural Perspective,” The Journal of Transcultural Studies, , no.  (): –; and Steffen Rimner, “Chinese Abolitionism: The Chinese Educational Mission in Connecticut, Cuba, and Peru,” Journal of Global History , no.  (): –.  José Luis Luzón, “Chineros, diplomáticos y hacendados en La Habana colonial. Don Francisco Abellá y Raldiris y su proyecto de inmigración Libre a Cuba (),” Boletín Americanista – (): –.  Rebecca Scott, Slave Emancipation in Cuba: The Transition to Free Labor, – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ), .  López, Chinese Cubans, .  Richard Anderson, “Liberated Africans,” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of African History ().  Helen MacQuarrie and Andrew Pearson “Prize Possessions: Transported Material Culture of the Post-Abolition Enslaved – New Evidence from St Helena,” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –; and Andrew Pearson, Distant Freedom: St Helena and the Abolition of the Slave Trade, – (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, ).  Monica Schuler, “Alas, Alas, Kongo”: Social History of Indentured African Immigration into Jamaica, – (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, ), –; and Rosanne Adderley, New Negroes from Africa: Slave Trade Abolition and Free Settlement in the Nineteenth Century Caribbean (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, ).  Lieutenant Governor of Trinidad to the Secretary of State on March , , Parliamentary Papers, . See also Jennifer Nelson, “Slavery, Race, and Conspiracy: The HMS Romney in Nineteenth-Century Cuba,” Atlantic Studies , no.  (): –.  Inés Roldán de Montaud, “En los borrosos confines de la libertad. El caso de los negros emancipados en Cuba,” Revista de Indias, , no.  (): . See also Inés Roldán de Montaud, Origen, Evoluciόn y Supresiόn del Grupo de Negros “Emancipados” en Cuba (–) (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, ); and Evelyn Jennings, “The Path to Sweet Success: Free and Unfree Labor in the Building of Roads and Rails in Havana, Cuba, –,” International Review of Social History  (): .  Mr. Fox to Viscount Palmerston on October , , in Correspondence with the British Commissioners at Sierra Leone, Havana, Rio de Janeiro, and Surinam relating to the Slave Trade (London: William Clowes and Sons, ), . See also Beatriz Mamigonian, Africanos livres. A abolição do tráfico de escravos no Brasil (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, ).  Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, Slavery, Freedom, and Abolition in Latin America and the Atlantic World (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, ), , .  João José Reis, Flávio dos Santos Gomes, and Marcos J. M. de Carvalho, The Story of Rufino: Slavery, Freedom, and Islam in the Black Atlantic (New York: Oxford University Press, ).  Celso Castilho, Slave Emancipation and Transformations in Brazilian Political Citizenship (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ); Isadora Moura Mota, “Other Geographies of Struggle: Afro-Brazilians and the American Civil War,” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –; and Jeffrey Needell, The Sacred Cause: The Abolitionist Movement, Afro-Brazilian Mobilization, and Imperial Politics in Rio de Janeiro (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, ).  Tutino, “Revolutions, Nations, and a New Industrial World,” .  Also in Montevideo. See Borucki, “The ‘African Colonists’ of Montevideo.”





Marcela Echeverri and Roquinaldo Ferreira  The absence of this theme is notorious in Sábato, Republics of the New World. The racial analysis in Marixa Lasso, Myths of Harmony Race and Republicanism during the Age of Revolution, Colombia – (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ) remained tied to national history and did not account for labor regimes. A volume that seeks to balance the political perspective with attention to economics is Tutino, New Nations.  Connolly, “Indenture as Compensation.”

J M. P



Early Liberalism Emancipation and Its Limits

This chapter discusses the origins of liberalism in the Iberian world and the role it played in its emancipation processes both in Europe and America. When the crisis first hit the Spanish and Portuguese empires in , both were practically intact. The dominions of both Iberian monarchies occupied approximately thirty million square kilometers and extended over Europe, Africa, and Asia. It is quite difficult to calculate how many people lived under the imperial rule of Spain and Portugal at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Due to the ethnic complexity and, above all, the casuistry of the relationships between the monarchies and different peoples, in the Spanish and Portuguese empires there was not a single generalized condition of subject that would apply to all. The Iberian empires, like other European empires before them, went through a structural crisis from  onwards. As we will see, they adopted different strategies to face the imperial crisis, but in both empires – again, as in other Atlantic monarchies – it was followed by constitutional solutions. It was not, however, until the s that the constitutional monarchies and the new republican regimes attained some stability. By , most continental dominions of Spain and Portugal in the Americas had become independent nations. Spain retained only Cuba and Puerto Rico in the Caribbean and the Philippines in the China Sea until . Portugal managed to keep most of its African and Asian dominions, some of them until the end of the twentieth century. This chapter focuses on the moment of the initial dissolution of the mighty Iberian monarchies, which started with the emancipation of a considerable portion of both empires in America. This moment coincides with the rise of liberalism and constitutionalism in the region. As we shall discuss here in more detail, “liberal” and “liberalism” are controversial terms when applied to the Iberian world. “Liberal” was for the first time used politically in Spain in  during the constitutional reaction to the crisis. However, some of the most remarkable aspects of the early liberal and

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constitutional ideas would be later challenged and contested by a more mature liberalism. The “liberal” model represented by the Spanish constitution of , which was very influential both in Europe and America until the ’s, was later practically dismissed by the liberal themselves. One of the reasons for the disregard of early Iberian liberalism has to do with its peculiarities. On the basis that it was essentially very similar to other Western experiences, we are going to highlight in this chapter some of its more interesting specificities. With the purpose of making clear the critical approach that mature liberalism adopted toward the earlier one, I shall first look into how it was assessed by leading mid-century political figures. Most of them pointed out how the early revolutionaries underestimated the political and social consequences of a constitutional change based on a misguided relationship between emancipation and freedom. One of the main purposes of this chapter consists in reassessing the concept of emancipation and what it represented for early liberalism in order to understand its initial phase and its limits in a Catholic culture. I will also pay some attention to alternative ideas of emancipation promoted by subaltern sectors of those societies. Emancipation and Freedom: Mid Century Reassessments of Early Liberalism

Andrés Borrego was a Spanish conservative liberal with a very distinctive ideological career. Like other moderate liberals, he was forced into exile for his direct support of the liberals of the Triennium (–). His conservative philosophy was shaped by his Parisian exile and his participation in the July Revolution of , as well as his reading of the works by François Guizot and Benjamin Constant. Although after his return to Spain he became a deputy (member of Parliament), the press was his natural environment and he used it as a platform to spread an ideology focused on the ideas of constitutional monarchy and the necessary pact among liberal families. Borrego believed that progressive liberals failed to take into account the historical legacy of a complex society and that moderates did not know how to combine it with freedom. In the mid-nineteenth century, Borrego used the expression “historical Spanish liberalism” to refer to the convergence between modern freedom (which he experienced firsthand as a newspaper editor) and a society consisting of entailed estates, the clergy, guilds or brotherhoods, “as they all have their place in true freedom.” During those same years, Mariano Miguel de Reynoso, who had been Minister of Public Works in the ultra-moderate cabinet of Juan Bravo Murillo (–), would reach a similar conclusion to Borrego’s about the inability of Spanish

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

liberalism to build a society according to its own principles. Reynoso was convinced that Spaniards did not have a “nationality” problem, but he believed that they lacked, as a society, the ability to establish their common interests and consequently to accept a single administration of said interests. Twenty years earlier, right after the end of his time in office as a member of the first cabinet of Mexican president Anastasio Bustamante, Lucas Alamán wrote a major political allegation that, as many critics have highlighted, contains important insights regarding the division of powers. In this text, Alamán argued that if the first Mexican republic showed early signs of exhaustion, this was mainly due to having adopted the form from the North American constitution, but the contents from the French constitution of , bastardized by the Constitution of Cádiz of . For Reynoso in the s, as for Alamán in the s, the relevant point of comparison in order to understand the shortcomings they pointed out was the United States of America. While the former Spanish minister detected, with envy, that a recently created nation had managed to produce a unified society and had consequently established a uniform and legitimate administration, the former Mexican minister wished to explain the difference that existed between the United States and the states that emerged from the crisis of the Spanish monarchy. According to Alamán, the divergence should be traced back to the origins of the revolution and he paid special attention to its history in order to develop a complete narrative of the process which took place from  to . The detailed study of that historical process confirmed the suspicion he had announced in a text in : The main obstacle for the coherent establishment of a liberal republic was to be located in the Cádiz-Mexican constitutional experiment: following the error committed by the Spanish legislators who created the Constitution of Cádiz, absolute power was transferred from individuals to corporations, it seems that the most foresighted measures should have been taken so that the composition of these corporations would be such that they would provide the greatest assurances for success and so that the method of exercising this terrible power might guard against the abuse that could be made of it.

And this is exactly what was not done, which led not only to political but also to social instability (see Fig. .). In his analysis of Mexican liberalism, Charles Hale could not help but notice the surprising conclusion Mariano Otero had reached to explain the unquestionable Mexican defeat in the – war against their envied northern neighbor. The sociological analysis with which Otero began his study could hardly be more depressing, “We have concluded the sad description of the state in which all classes

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Fig. . “To the just and fair Constitution. Honor and Glory of the most vigorous and generous

Nation. The first constitutional City Council of Tlaxcala dedicates these lines that were engraved by sovereign order to immortalize the memory of this being the place where it was first promulgated and sworn upon, and that its principal square, due to such joyous occurrence, will be called from here on forth of the Constitution.” Author: Licenciado de José Daza y Artazo. Memorial plaque for the Spanish Constitution of , placed in Tlaxcala, Mexico, in . Photo by José María Portillo.

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

of society in the republic are to be found, and indeed, it is a very distressing job, above all for a Mexican, to create a depiction of his country without being able to present anything flattering.” It was, then, in the society rather than in the state, where Otero detected the essential deficit that resulted from the independence and revolutionary process. In a very similar way to the Spaniard Reynoso, Otero forcefully concluded, highlighting his assertion with uppercase letters, that “in Mexico, there is not and there could never be a so-called national spirit because there is no NATION.” If a nation can be compared to a “big family” characterized by the social unity of its members, “in Mexico, this unity is not possible and a quick glimpse at the different classes which comprise this unfortunate society should suffice to convince oneself of this truth.” Like other Mexican conservatives, Otero argued that, in social terms, independence and revolution had only led to the annihilation of the only point of support of the complex traditional order, namely the monarchy and its American extensions. Liberals such as Lorenzo Zavala or José María Luis Mora did not feel any nostalgia for the colonial past; however, in view of the evolution of the Cádiz-Mexican constitutional experiment, they could not help but focus their critical gaze more on society than on the constitution. Since , Mora did not hesitate to point out the “esprit de corps” as the most evident handicap for the establishment of liberalism in Mexico. In his comment to José Victorino Lastarria, Andrés Bello summarized this thought well by establishing a difference between independence and freedom and acknowledging that one does not necessarily lead to the other. Emancipation, Bello argued, was something that could be derived from the same Iberian legacy; however, freedom was an exogenous element and it was crucial to know how to integrate with independence. The most significant example to support his conclusion in this regard was Simón Bolívar, his former disciple, and his appetite for dictatorial power, “Americans were much better prepared for political emancipation than for the freedom of the domestic hearth . . .. The external principle [freedom] produced progress; the native element [emancipation] dictatorships.” Lastarria would not necessarily disagree with this observation. A progressive liberal, he admitted this distinction without moral conflicts, but he also understood that a regime as strictly conservative as the one in Chile in  could not provide the solution to this tension: We know that order, that is, the fertile tranquility that is based on respect for the law and on individual security and freedom, is the most effective and powerful means of achieving the progress of nations; however, we are also deeply convinced that neither in Europe or in America has it ever been possible to attain such prized good by means of this absolutist policy, which, following a

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French fashion and by a bitter irony, is called conservative although it preserves nothing but falsehood in the government of the State and corruption in society.

As can be seen also in the Portuguese debate about the constitutional change of , the issue that divided different visions of liberalism had to do not so much with the idea of the nation as a sovereign subject but as a single society. Evidently, this was also related to the State as the new entity governing such society as a whole. Whether this government should tend to create a new unified society or govern what historically existed as a composite society was one of the key issues of the debate. Either way, practically no one doubted that in order for this newly established mechanism between the State and society to work, it was first necessary to have one single society instead of a collection of different societies. And, according to the mid century Hispanic liberals, this problem was a legacy from the first constitutional experience that assumed the concept of a composite nation. Society was not conceived just as an aggregation of people in a territory with the capacity to govern and defend themselves, which is how the nation had been defined. It also entailed what Reynoso, for example, missed in mid nineteenthcentury Spain, namely that, in spite of the nation’s complexity, it should be possible to formulate the collective interest of society as a whole. The creation, on the one hand, of appropriate representative institutions in order to define the common interest and, on the other hand, a properly functioning administration to carry this out, along with the protection of civil liberties and of property, constituted the minimum basis on which the liberal State should be built. All this could be read in Benjamin Constant’s Course, and the European and American liberals of the Iberian Atlantic region had practically memorized it. The problem that many of them detected, on both the political left and right of liberalism, had much more to do with the origins of the complex emancipation process, which had led to the emergence of the new American republics and the formation of constitutional monarchies in Brazil, Portugal, and Spain. From a historiographical perspective, this fact is significant for two reasons. First, because it would explain up to a certain point why the historical accounts of liberalism in the Western Hemisphere have tended to ignore the Iberian space, on the assumption that it found it difficult to adapt to this type of modernity. Hegel’s spirit, as it were, has long continued to shape the agenda of historians of liberalism based on the conviction that the constitution and the State, as emblems of modernity, had not only a different history but also a different meaning in the Iberian Atlantic, this “other West.”

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

In the Lessons on the Philosophy of History, Hegel admitted that America only interested him circumstantially, not as a specific object of investigation. However, he incidentally made an observation which does not disagree much with the one the Ibero-American, Spanish, and Portuguese liberals often expressed. The German philosopher argued that while the political culture in the United States made it possible to understand the constitution as the only mechanism capable of protecting any one individual from the rest; in the Catholic world, the constitution was understood only as a type of instrumentum regni. The first concept was the basis to create an effective State, but the second made it necessarily precarious and elusive, at the mercy of those who took control of the mechanism. What many liberals observed in the Iberian world in the mid nineteenth century was that the constitution had brought with it the idea of the nation, but not the genesis of a society that could be the object of State government. This finding is also relevant due to a historical paradox: Although it was used earlier in other circumstances, such as the opposition to Gustav Adolphus IV of Sweden, it was in the Ibero-American world where the term “liberal” was used for the first time with a political meaning similar to the one that has been used to this day and that has ensured its consistency. Thanks to the truly remarkable historiographical work in recent decades, we can now gauge the importance of the revolutionary experience in the Ibero-American Atlantic for the history of liberalism in the Western Hemisphere. Pierre Rosanvallon argued long ago that equality was the basis on which the new liberal society was founded and that it should not be understood as an attribute of the individual but precisely as a social characteristic. The specific feature of the modern individual, Rosanvallon adds, is autonomy; the specific feature of modern society is equality. This is exactly where the experience of the first liberalism in the Ibero-American space can highlight its idiosyncrasy and prove its relevance for a comprehensive history of liberalism in the Western world. Those who proudly identified themselves politically as “liberals” professed that they differentiated themselves from the “servile” by seeking the removal of obstacles, “which prevented them from walking on the path from virtue toward happiness.” Accordingly, freedom had to be understood not only as a natural attribute of man but also as a civil attribute of the citizen and a political attribute of the nation. The constitution was the crucible where all these aspects would be blended to offer protection against despotism and tyranny. Hence it is interesting to explore how the majority of political actors reached this conclusion in the scenario of an unprecedented crisis in the Iberian monarchies. On the other hand, we should clarify what those Catholic proto-liberals understood by freedom, sovereignty, and constitution.

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The Enlightened Origins of Constitutionalism

On Christmas Day in , Antonio Nariño, a young New Granadian landowner and merchant and an insatiable reader since his childhood, completed a translation of a handwritten copy of the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen of , which he published in his own printing press. He had found out about the text through one of the first histories of the French revolution, a comprehensive and detailed narrative of the events in France in . During the trial he had to face for this translation, Nariño presented the French declaration as little more than a benevolent and common set of ideas about natural rights. However, the original text from which the declaration he translated had been drawn was anything but benevolent toward the traditional monarchic systems. The first volume opens with an image of several revolutionary militiamen carrying a banner that reads “liberty or death” and the first phrase is significantly taken from the theatre play Tancrède by Voltaire: “Injustice in the end produces independence.” The message is completed by a reference to the relationship that Spain had established with the peoples of the Americas at the time of conquest as an example of tyranny. The time comes – the passage concludes – in which the dispossessed American shall demand from the European the restitution of his property and of his freedom: “Here is, from its origin, the history of the revolution.” There is no record that either Nariño or his judges ever held this first volume of the history of the French Revolution in their hands, but the message was clearly conveyed at the end of the copy of the Declaración they all handled. It celebrated the proclamation of the “equality of all men, freedom of the people, freedom of thought, freedom of the press, the inviolable right to property and the inalienable sovereignty of nations.” Nariño was right, however, when he argued in his defense that similar ideas were already quite common in the monarchy’s literary circles. Indeed, in the Iberian Peninsula authors such as Manuel de Aguirre or León de Arroyal, among others, wrote and published impassioned texts in those years with ideas very similar to those contained in the Declaration that Nariño had translated in Bogotá. In his defense during the trial, Nariño expressly mentioned several authors, newspapers, and documents where similar ideas to those contained in the French declaration could be read. One of the most cited was Valentín de Foronda, a Basque scholar, member of the “Real Sociedad Bascongada de Amigos del País” (“Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country”) and Spanish consul in Philadelphia since . Foronda’s speech on “the freedom to write” had been quite successful in Spanish America, but Nariño was interested, above all, in drawing attention to his letters on political economy. The first of them, from , bears the title “Sobre que los derechos de propiedad, libertad y seguridad deben ser la basa de

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

las leyes” (“That the rights of property, freedom, and security must be the base for laws”). Foronda considered this to be the equivalent of Newton’s laws in physics. Foronda’s conclusions stemmed from his readings of modern European literature produced in the second half of the eighteenth century under the label of political economy and assiduously devoured by him and other intellectuals. Similar conclusions could have been reached from moral philosophy or the history of legislation, as can be observed in other European intellectual circles. The revolutionary moment that started in Philadelphia and then extended in Paris introduced new materials, which were very closely followed in different locations of the Spanish geography. José Ignacio Moreno, the rector of the University of Caracas between  and , owned translations of the original documentation from the Philadelphia Congress, where all the argumentation in favor of the right to emancipation of the English colonies was deployed, and in Madrid translations of North American constitutional texts had been circulating since a very early time. Foronda and other Spanish intellectuals – both European and American – paid special attention to the link between these constitutional novelties from North America and France and the imperial dimension of the Spanish monarchy. Portuguese and Brazilian thinkers of the late eighteenth century were also engaged in similar activities. As in Spain, they perceived that it was necessary to provide a stable legal and political framework to the monarchic order. It was precisely in the context of the discussion about the need and scope of a Novo Código (New Code), promoted by María I in , that some Portuguese intellectuals saw the need to systematically reorganize the laws of the monarchy and its internal structure. Both the Portuguese and the Spanish monarchy experienced the emergence of a new kind of political literature that sought to combine commercial modernity with the political exclusivity of the prince. Pascoal José de Melo, the most prominent jurist at the University of Coimbra and who had been commissioned by María I to develop the new code, understood that this was possible if, jointly with the unquestionable link between monarchy and sovereignty, a rational system was applied to the legal system. Like Melo, Clemente de Peñalosa was a member of several literary societies and devoted years to write a treatise on the monarchy in which he wanted to test the possibility of combining traditional monarchy and modern society. Other intellectuals of that time, such as Antonio Ribeiro dos Santos, proposed a more restrictive reading of the regulatory power of the monarchy by arguing the existence of certain “national rights,” by which they meant the rights of the main corporations that made up the kingdom. The Ibero-American intellectual debate was also well aware of the imperial dimension, which was undoubtedly also part of the origins of constitutionalism in the Western world. The Brazilian José da Silva Lisboa is a good example of how the

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principles of the new political economy could be adopted to rationalize the empire without this necessarily implying the acceptance of the constitutional and political ramifications of these principles. Since the end of the Seven Years’ War (–), there were also several intellectual proposals and ministerial projects to rationalize the Spanish monarchy and make it more functional as an empire, which did not rule out its dismemberment. It was in these debates that the idea of a “Spanish nation” became extensively used, referring more to a literary rather than a political subject. Several formulas began to be timidly proposed to provide a political voice to the nation, such as the creation of a National Council as formulated by Victorián de Villava, the fiscal (prosecutor) of the Audiencia (courts) of Charcas in Upper Peru. However, the most common usage of the concept of the nation was limited to a space that the peninsular intellectuals understood as exclusively European and metropolitan, while the Americans claimed their contribution to the literary glories of the nation. It was also the imperial dimension that led, on the eve of the crisis of the monarchy, to the most powerful reflection about what would be immediately adopted as the “liberal” principles of society and government. They came to the fore when the conditions of slaves were debated in the European empires and especially in the Iberian monarchies. “Liberal” principles were clearly being presented as a counterpoint to slavery, “Individual freedom, the right to enjoy their work, to self-determination . . . to politically exist, this right being the origin and source of all the others and without which man is nothing.” Emancipation: The First Liberalism and Constitutionalism

The dissertation by Isidoro de Antillón on slavery was written in  but was not printed until . At that time, the situation of the monarchy had changed drastically. Charles IV and Ferdinand VII had ceded their dynastic rights to Napoleon Bonaparte in , who established a new dynasty through his brother Joseph. It was precisely Joseph I who provided the first constitution for Spain, a text proposed by the emperor himself and debated by an assembly of notables. Those who did not recognize the legitimacy of these dynastic and constitutional changes had assembled into a Supreme Central and Governmental Junta of the Kingdom (Junta Central), a federation of provincial governments, charged with convening the courts as a body of “national representation.” At the time when the convening of the Cortes was being debated, Antillón published the speech that he had read in the Santa Bárbara Academy nine years earlier. He referred to that previous occasion as the day “when he had had the honor to advocate for the freedom of black people and the inalienable rights of man” and

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

expressed his amazement that “in Spain [only] nine years later, the sovereignty of the people had been recognized and proclaimed, [it being] the fertile origin of all rights of man in society.” Both Iberian monarchies experienced the consequences of the Atlantic imperial crisis which decades earlier had shaken up the British and French monarchies. As in those cases, these crisis situations led to constitutionalism for the first time in the Iberian world. The Portuguese monarchy in an unprecedented gesture transferred their metropolitan headquarters to America, which enabled a more efficient management of the crisis by focusing on that part of its monarchy and entrusting Portugal to British control. This movement prevented Portugal from having to face the constitutional consequences which would have required that the royal family remain in Lisbon. The Spanish monarchy undoubtedly suffered the most complex crisis as the dynastic crisis converged with an equally huge and complex constitutional crisis in . At the time when Isidoro de Antillón published his dissertation on the freedom of black people, the general captaincy of Venezuela declared its independence, a constitutional monarchy was proclaimed in Bogotá and the viceroy was deposed, and a government junta took over in Buenos Aires. In the majority of these and other ripple effects of the Spanish Atlantic crisis, there was an attempt to somehow restore the Spanish monarchy, a motion that was only expressly rejected in Caracas. Regardless of whether they were opting for independence or wished to remain in a reformed monarchy, a new political language focused on the idea of emancipation began to be used, the first language of Hispanic liberalism. More precisely, the discourse of this first liberalism was based on the transfer of the idea of emancipation from civil law to political language. As is well-known, this was not a specific or exclusive trait of the constitutionalism created in IberoAmerican spaces, but rather a common feature of the Atlantic revolutionary experience. European legal culture shared the common underlying assumption that one of the primary differences between individuals was determined by their family position. William Blackstone, the most acclaimed English jurist of the second half of the eighteenth century, wrote a general treatise on “the rights of individuals” in which he differentiated the public and private spheres and established within the latter the difference between master and slave, husband and wife, father and son. Chapter  of Blackstone’s first book summarizes the essentials of the legal doctrine regarding minors as a condition of dependence and incapacity. One of the characteristic debates of political and moral philosophy of modernity revolved around the extent to which this relationship of dependence was transferrable beyond the family to explain the relationship between the prince and his subjects. A hugely influential author in the Iberian world, the Milanese Cesare Beccaria, devoted a chapter of his

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treatise on criminal law to establish the substantial difference between the government of the family and that of the republic. Like John Locke, Beccaria proposed that a society of “men” and not of “families” would assume that emancipation was a necessary element which did not depend on the absolute authority of the father but on a natural fact and natural rights. This argument is highly relevant to better understand the origin of liberal thought in the Iberian world. The concept of emancipation that existed in the culture in which the leading minds at the time of the imperial and monarchic crisis were educated stemmed from the European ius commune. For instance, when establishing distinctions between persons, Ramón Lázaro Dou i Bassols, a professor of the Catalan university of Cervera, defined the person of the father, much like Blackstone did, in the following terms, “the paterfamilias is the person who in addition to being free is not subject to or dependent on parental authority.” José María Álvarez, professor at the University of San Carlos in Guatemala, complemented the distinction of persons in the following way, “We shall determine, then, that such persons not subject to authority and who by law are called sui juris are those who are free from the domination and authority of the patria potestas and they are called paterfamilias (padres de familia) regardless of their age.” Pascoal José de Melo, the great jurist from Coimbra, taught in his treatise on Portuguese civil law that, as was the case for the whole order that had been under Roman law, family relations “only depend on the existence or absence of subjection to the power of another person.” This widely prevalent doctrine in both monarchies established the condition of being free and independent as the basic requirements of emancipated people. Emmerich de Vattel, the great Swiss jurist and author of the most influential eighteenth-century treatise on Droit de Gens, was who most efficiently communicated the idea of applying this same principle to the right of nations, “Nations are free and independent since men are naturally free and independent.” The first time this principle of the law of nations was transferred to constitutional rights was, as is well-known, the declaration of independence of the British colonies in Philadelphia and their claim to be considered by other nations as “free and independent States.” Freedom and independence, the requirements for a person to be considered emancipated according to civil law, had migrated to ius gentium and from there to constitutional law. This was also how it was received in the Iberian world. Practically all the constitutions produced in the context of the crisis of the Spanish monarchy expressed this principle in their initial articles: “The Spanish nation is free and independent”; “that they may form themselves into so many free and independent Governments, similar to those of which this Union [of New Granada] is now so

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

happily composed”; “the Chilean Nation is free and independent from the Spanish Monarchy.” Those who for the first time called themselves liberals codified in these two attributes – freedom and independence – the traits of those who had become exonerated from the perpetual submission to the patria potestas of the king. Contesting the king’s sovereignty and linking it to the nation involved establishing the principle of a collective emancipation of the body of the nation, which could take place in both a republican or a monarchical form, as established in the first article of the Brazilian constitution of : “O Império do Brazil é a associação Politica de todos os Cidadãos Brazileiros. Elles formam uma Nação livre, e independente, que não admitte com qualquer outra laço algum de união, ou federação, que se opponha á sua Independencia.” (“The empire of Brazil and the Political Association of all Brazilian Citizens. They constitute a free and independent Nation that does not accept any other bond of union, or federation, that opposes its independence.”) This is the origin of the belief that nations, since they are free and independent, have their own inalienable and unalterable rights. The most important of these rights was the right to sovereignty, and as a consequence of it, the right to establish their own constitution. In the political culture developed in the Iberian Atlantic, however, this theory of emancipation as the foundation of the new liberal and constitutional thought also clearly showed, since its origins, its limits. The Limits of Emancipation and of Constituting Power

A variety of experiences and proposals can be observed in the first wave of constitutionalism as part of the emancipatory process of the new nations. Exercising their freedom and independence, numerous constitutive acts were drawn, a gesture which already implied something revolutionary, since it involved discarding the notion that the authority to govern, legislate, and judge emanated from the monarch. Both the monarch and the president, in the case of the republican constitutions, only retained one of these powers, the executive power, related to what was called the “general administration.” As a general rule, this power was in turn restricted by means of institutions such as the State Council or the Government Council, with which they necessarily had to confer. In return, legislative power was usually shared by the head of government with the parliamentary institution. Additionally, early liberalism made of representative government and, consequently, of parliamentary institutions one of its distinctive features. For both unicameral and bicameral systems, the idea of early liberals was to generate forms of representation which would politically mobilize society. With this, they wanted

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to introduce a concept of law which broke away from the idea of traditional monarchy as was very clearly expressed in the Portuguese constitution of , “Lei é a vontade dos cidadãos declarada pela unanimidade ou pluralidade dos votos de seus representantes juntos em Cortes, precedendo discussão pública” (art. ). (“Law is the will of the citizens declared by the unanimity or plurality of the votes of their representatives in the Cortes, preceded by public deliberation.”) It was quite common among the first liberals of the Iberian world to believe that to represent the “will of the citizens” a broad section of those societies should be included. In many cases, it was even sufficient to be an emancipated and national male to achieve the condition of citizen, understanding that the nation was equivalent to the communitas comprised by the heads of families independently of the corporation to which they belonged. In this way, merchants, the clergy, farmers, indigenous peoples, craftsmen, noblemen, military officers, and other types of persons were now also defined as citizens since they participated in defining the will of the nation. To a certain degree, this first liberalism, instead of dismantling the complex corporate supports of Iberian societies, sought to establish a common denominator, citizenship, which would enable political communication between the State and society. This tendency to generalize citizenship had been openly criticized and specifically targeted by liberalism since the s, identifying in it a remnant of the Old Regime rather than a liberal idea of society and of political leadership within it. A central aspect of this reproach had to do with the fact that the sociology of the first liberalism enabled the reproduction of the various traditional social distinctions at the same time that it granted a citizen status (that is, political relevance) to a large part of the people who up to that point had enjoyed this right of representation only inside their respective corporation, such as indigenous peoples in Indian towns, merchants, members of the hermandades, and others. For s and s liberalism, this was a potentially explosive error since it questioned the social primacy of property, which liberals linked to political intelligence and deemed a requirement to govern. Measures promoted since that time in order to limit citizenship, such as the mandatory ability to read and write or the possession of some wealth, attempted to rectify this precocious “republicanism” of early liberalism, widely disseminated in the Iberian Atlantic world. A second critique of later liberals to the first constitutionalism focused on the idea of government. Once the first stage of revolutionary emancipation was completed, liberalism tended to correct the emphasis placed on representative institutions as instruments of government. Perhaps the Chilean case illustrates best this evolution of liberal thought. In a precocious way, the  constitution implemented a complete correction of the conception that had linked representation and

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

freedom. On the one hand, at the local, provincial and regional levels, Chilean liberalism did not want to see anything other than the administrative action of the State, working as a chain which linked the president of the republic to the intendants (government officials), governors, deputy delegates, and inspectors. On the other hand, national representation became more complex and less present, with the creation of a Senate that had a highly restrictive power of representation and a chamber of deputies with very limited functions (basically, approving the budget, authorizing debt, and declaring war). It is not that these aspirations of s and s liberalism – which already pointed more toward the definition of the State than to the rights of an emancipated nation – were fulfilled in a generalized manner in the Iberian Atlantic space. It was rather the opposite. However, it is interesting to consider this mature liberal critique of early liberalism to better understand the latter. One of the debates that most concerned liberalism since the s had to do with an aspect that could be found in all the early constitutions produced after the  crisis. With hardly any debate, as if it belonged naturally to the common identity, it was constitutionally acknowledged that the Catholic church was the only religion admissible in these spaces. This is certainly a principle of political intolerance that clashes with the fundamentals of liberal thought, as pointed out at the time by José María Blanco White. This Sevillian Catholic clergyman, plagued by religious doubts since his ordination, emigrated to England in  and subsequently converted to Anglicanism. In diverse publications addressed to Spaniards from both continents he insisted that if “they do not manage to convince people that the Christian religion does not oblige to be intolerant . . . the civil freedom of those countries will continue in perpetual infancy” or, in other words, emancipation would not be complete. Shortly before, Pierre Daunou had explained that the Western world had basically tested three ways of handling the relation between religion and the constitution. The first was the North American model with the complete separation of both spheres and the prohibition to legislate in matters of religion; the second was followed in France by combining freedom of worship with preferential constitutional attention on the religion of the majority (Catholic); and the third was generally the one followed in the Hispanic world, which consisted in establishing a religion of the nation and banning all others. For the first Hispanic liberals, this intolerant solution seemed to be the more adequate for their respective social communities, since as the Chilean Juan Egaña argued, they were societies “with a national God.” As Julián Viejo has shown, the first Hispanic liberalism did not improvise solutions for the religious question but instead followed a line of thought opened

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in the last decades of the eighteenth century, when they explored the possibilities of modernity in a monarchy which was, in the words of Joaquín Lorenzo Villanueva, “Catholic by constitution.” Hence a clear limit was established for the constituent power since it did not even question the capacity of the Catholic religion and its church to regulate the moral order and its social and political consequences. There are various spaces in which Catholic anthropology impregnated politics and the social practices which the first liberalism indisputably assumed: the relevance of the parish as the first political and electoral space, the control of the census and the “marital status” of people, the regulation of marriage or education. This convergence zone between the political body of the nation and the mystical body of the church, the exact delimitation of which took decades for Iberian Catholic liberalism to achieve, is one of the reasons for the, rather general, delay in drafting civil codes. Almost all the constitutional projects of the first liberalism included the principle that there should only be one code of laws “for all types of persons.” However, de facto, liberalism meant coexisting with different jurisdictions or privative rights (fueros) during several decades. The most notorious cases were those of church authorities and military officials, but there was a similar tendency to preserve particular rights in other areas – such as in the Basque provinces and Navarra in Spain – or to reconstruct specific legal aspects where the idea of a generalized citizenship tended to limit them – as was the case of several indigenous Mexican communities. To put an end to the fueros was considered by the most progressive liberals on both sides of the Atlantic the necessary step to establish a single society of national citizens governed by the same law. Varieties of Early Liberalism

This chapter has already drawn attention to the use of the terms “liberal” and “liberalism” in the context of the imperial crisis of the Iberian monarchies. While the words were indeed politicized precisely in this context, historiographic precaution is required not to identify too quickly the ideology shown at that time by reformists, revolutionaries, or insurgents with liberalism as a political doctrine. We have just seen how a good portion of the ideology of these first “liberals” had more to do with a kind of “Catholic republicanism” than with the liberal doctrine, which was, in fact, strongly critical of those experiences. As we have seen, for those first “republicans,” “liberals,” or “revolutionaries” the idea of emancipation was a major point of reference. In the process of transferring this concept from ius civile to constitutional law, the whole anthropological content of the idea of emancipation was also transferred to liberal and constitutional theories. To use a fortunate expression by Carole Pateman, we could say that early

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

liberalism assumed that constitutionalism consisted in a political contract restricted to the emancipated, that is, those who were already considered free and independent, and no others. The “emancipated contract,” however, was challenged and contradicted by the non-emancipated in a variety of ways. It is interesting for the history of early liberalism in the Iberian world to observe how unexpected social sectors also produced their own “theory of emancipation.” In the Iberian societies in the early nineteenth century, as well as in others in the Western world, there were extensive sectors of the population who had not been beckoned or were not expected to join in and become part of the political arena that was inaugurated with the  and  crisis. Some, such as indigenous peoples, were already halfway involved, since all political speeches and constitutional projects included them as nationals and even as citizens, although, at the same time, it was understood that this citizenship had its natural space in their own towns but not (or very occasionally) at the provincial or national level. The condition of other social actors, such as people of color, involved a more complicated casuistry. The Cádiz constitution put all of them in a sort of quarantine, stating that in principle all peoples of African descent were excluded from citizenship and that they could eventually gain it individually on merit. Most Spanish American constitutions, however, openly granted citizenship to people of color, provided they were not slaves. Since the first condition to enjoy citizenship was freedom and independence, women, and other domestic dependents, such as slaves or servants, were not only automatically excluded from citizenship but also acquired the nationality of the head of the family. In the dominant anthropology, free women could never be considered independent and slaves, both the male and female, were not free. The fact that this condition did not qualify them for emancipation did not imply that they did not seek and deploy mechanisms to be present in the public debate. Indeed, indigenous peoples, people of color, slaves, and women did not remain passive during the processes of change that followed the imperial crisis in the early nineteenth century. There were women in the front lines, and above all, in the rearguard, as well as in communication tasks. Some names, such as Policarpa Salaverrieta in Colombia, Mariana Pineda in Spain. or Javiera Carrera in Chile, have become emblematic, but in fact, as several historical studies have shown, female participation in the first liberalism was quite significant (see Fig. .). We know increasingly more about how they participated in the public debate through the press, diverse editorial works, and the exercise of the right of petition. Something similar can be said about people of color. Free peoples of African descent angrily protested against the constitutional article of  that excluded them from citizenship, and they managed to force the issue locally in numerous

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Fig. . Liberty as an Indian Woman, Year of  unknown author (La India de la Libertad, ) Oil painting. Collection at the Museo de la Independencia, Casa del Florero, Bogotá, Colombia. Courtesy of the Museo de la Independencia, Casa del Florero. Photo by Jairo Gómez.

cases in order to participate in elections. Slaves also did this in several known cases, by developing their own language of emancipation and their own strategies taking advantage of the antagonism among the governing classes. In all these manifestations in the political sphere and public debate, the language that was assiduously deployed was the one used by the architects of the first

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits

constitutionalism. Especially useful was the language that integrated such constitutional values as freedom or citizenship and their political effects. When deployed by those who were not expected, in principle, to participate in the public debate, the diverse uses of political language reveal different ways of interpreting the political stereotypes of the time, such as the equivalence between royalism and absolutism or insurgency and liberalism or republicanism.

Notes  Andrés Borrego, De la organización de los partidos en España considerada como medio de adelantar la educación constitucional de la nación y de realizar las condiciones del gobierno representativo (Madrid: Santa Coloma, ), –.  Mariano Miguel de Reynoso, Política administrativa del gabinete de Bravo Murillo (Madrid: Tejado, ), –.  José Antonio Aguilar Rivera, “Tres momentos liberales en México (–),” in Liberalismo y poder: Latinoamérica en el siglo XIX, ed. Iván Jakšić and Eduardo Posada Carbó (Santiago: Fondo de Cultura Económica, ), –.  Lucas Alamán, “Impartial Examination of the Administration of General Vice President Don Anastasio Bustamante,” in Liberty in Mexico: Writings on Liberalism from the Early Republican Period to the Second Half of the Twentieth Century, ed. Jose Antonio Aguilar Rivera (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, ), –.  Charles Hale, Mexican Liberalism in the Age of Mora, – (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), –.  Mariano Otero, Consideraciones sobre la situación política y social de la República Mexicana en el año  (Mexico City: Valdés, ), .  Ibid, .  Ibid, –.  Hale, Mexican Liberalism, chap. .  Andrés Bello, “Commentary on ‘Investigations on the Social Influence of the Spanish Conquest and Colonial regime in Chile’ by José Victorino Lastarria,” in Selected Writings of Andrés Bello, ed. Iván Jakšić, trans. Frances M. López Morillas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), .  José Victorino Lastarria, La constitución política de Chile comentada (Valparaíso: Comercio, ), xxi.  Antonio Manuel Hespanha, Guiando a mão invisível: Direitos, Estado e lei no liberalismo monárquico português (Coimbra: Almedina, ), –.  A good example of this is Gareth Stedman Jones and Gregory Claeys, The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Political Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ).  G. W. F. Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of History, trans. John Sibree (London: G. Bell and Sons, Ltd., ), –.  Javier Fernández Sebastián, “El liberalismo en España (–): La construcción de un concepto y la forja de una identidad política,” in La aurora de la libertad. Los primeros liberalismos en el mundo iberoamericano, ed. Javier Fernández Sebastián (Madrid: Marcial Pons, ), –.  Pierre Rosanvallon, The Society of Equals, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ), –.

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José M. Portillo  This is now beginning to be perceived in the general historiography on liberalism: Helena Rosenblatt, The Lost History of Liberalism. From Ancient Rome to the Twenty-First Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), –.  Rosanvallon, The Society of Equals.  Bartolomé José Gallardo, Diccionario crítico burlesco del que se titula diccionario razonado manual para la inteligencia de ciertos escritores que por equivocación han nacido en España (Madrid: Repullés, ), see the entries for “liberales” and “libertad.”  Histoire de la Révolution de  et de l’établissement d’une constitution en France. Précédé de l’exposé rapide des administrations successives qui ont déterminé cette Révolution mémorable. Par deux amis de la Liberté,  vols. (Paris: Clavelin, ). The copy of the declaration appears in vol. , –.  Histoire de la Révolution, vol. , i–iii.  Histoire de la Révolution, vol. , .  Manuel de Aguirre, Cartas y Discursos del Militar ingenuo al Correo los Ciegos de Madrid (San Sebastián: Patronato José María Cuadrado, ); León de Arroyal, Cartas político-económicas al Conde de Lerena, ed. José Caso González (Oviedo: Instituto Feijoo, ). For a study of the scope of this illustrated literature, see Julián Viejo, Amor propio y sociedad comercial en el siglo XVIII hispano (Bilbao: Universidad del País Vasco, ).  For an extensive summary, see Jaime Urueña, Nariño, Torres y la revolución francesa (Bogotá: Aurora, ), –.  Valentín de Foronda, Cartas sobre los asuntos más exquisitos de la economía–política y sobre las leyes criminales (Madrid: González, ), –. Later on, when he published these letters during the Liberal Triennium, he would also add equality as one of these rights [Vitoria: Departamento de Economía y Hacienda del Gobierno Vasco,  (facsimile edition of the  Pamplona edition)], .  Dan Edelstein, On the Spirit of Rights (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ).  Merle E. Simmons, La revolución norteamericana en la independencia de Hispanoamérica (Madrid: MAPFRE, ).  It is no coincidence that the other topic Peñalosa was concerned with was military honor, which, as is well known, was the quintessential principle of monarchical government, according to Montesquieu. See María José Bono, “La defensa del absolutismo en Clemente de Peñalosa,” Revista de Historia Moderna / (): –.  Gabriel Paquette, “José da Silva Lisboa and the Vicissitudes of Enlightened Reform in Brazil, –,” in Enlightened Reform in Southern Europe and Its Atlantic Colonies, c. –, ed. Gabriel Paquette, – (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, ).  Josep María Delgado, Dinámicas imperiales, –. España, América y Europa en el cambio institucional del sistema colonial español (Barcelona: Bella Terra, ); and Josep María Fradera, La nación imperial. Derechos, representación y ciudadanía en los imperios de Gran Bretaña, Francia, España y Estados Unidos, – (Barcelona: Edhasa, ).  Isidoro de Antillón, Disertación sobre el origen de la esclavitud de los negros, motivos que la han perpetuado, ventajas que se le atribuyen y medios que podrían adoptarse para hacer prosperar sin ella nuestras colonias () (Valencia: Domingo y Mompié, ), .  Ibid, –.  William Blackstone, Commentaries of the Laws of England in Four Books () (Philadelphia: Lippincott, ), vol. , .  Cesare Beccaria, “On the Spirit of the Family,” in On Crimes and Punishments, trans. Graeme R. Newman and Pietro Marongiu, th ed. (New York: Routledge, ).

Early Liberalism: Emancipation and Its Limits  Ramón Lázaro de Dou y Bassols, Derecho público general de España con noticia del particular de Cataluña y de las principales reglas de gobierno de cualquier Estado (Madrid: Benito García, ), vol. , .  José María Álvarez, Instituciones del derecho Real de Castilla y de Indias (Mexico City: Rivera, ), –.  Quoted in Antonio Ribeiro, Curso de direito civil portuguez ou comentario as Instituiçoes do Sr. Paschoal José de Mello Freire sobre o mesmo direito (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, ), .  Emmerich de Vattel, Le droit des gens, ou Principes de la loi naturelle, appliqués à la conduite et aux affaires des Nations et des Souverains,  vols. (London, ), –. English translation: Emer de Vattel, The law of nations; or, Principles of the law of nature: applied to the conduct and affairs of nations and sovereigns, by M. de Vattel. A work tending to display the true interest of powers (London: Printed for J. Newbery, J. Richardson, S. Crowder, T. Caslon, T. Longman, B. Law, J. Fuller, J. Coote, and G. Kearsly, ).  José María Blanco White, “Examen de la constitución de Chile,” Variedades o Mensajero de Londres VI (January ), .  Pierre Daunou, Essai sur les garanties individuelles (Paris: Belin, ) .  José María Blanco White, Memoria política sobre si conviene en Chile la libertad de cultos, reimpresa en Lima y Bogotá con una breve apología del art.  y  de la constitución política del Perú de ; y con notas y adiciones en que se esclarecen algunos puntos de la Memoria y Apología y en que se responde a los argumentos del Señor Don José María Blanco a favor de la tolerancia y libertad de cultos en sus consejos a los hispano-americanos y a los discursos de otros tolerantistas (Caracas: Imprenta de G. F. Devisme, ), –.  Joaquín Lorenzo Villanueva, Catecismo del Estado (Madrid: Imprenta Real, ), . Villanueva was one of the most relevant intellectuals of the Spanish enlightenment and early liberalism. See also, Viejo, Amor propio y sociedad comercial, –.  Javier Fernández Sebsatián, “Friends of Freedom: First Liberalism in Spain and Beyond,” in In Search of European Liberalisms. Concepts, Language, Ideologies, ed. Michael Freeden, Javier Fernández Sebastián, and Jörn Leonhard (New York: Berghan, ).  Carole Pateman, The Sexual Contract (Cambridge: Polity Press, ).  Juan Francisco Fuentes and Pilar Garí, Amazonas de la libertad. Mujeres liberales contra Fernando VII (Madrid: Marcial Pons, ) identify almost , women who actively participated during the first liberalism. See also Diego Palacios Cerezales, “‘Assinem assinem, que a alma não tem sexo!’ Petição coletiva e cidadania feminina no Portugal constitucional (–),” Análise Social , no.  ().  Marcela Echeverri, Indian and Slave Royalists in the Age of Revolution: Reform, Revolution, and Royalism in the Northern Andes, – (New York: Cambridge University Press, ).

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Bibliography Villanueva, Joaquín Lorenzo. Catecismo del Estado. Madrid: Imprenta Real, . Viotti da Costa, Emília. The Brazilian Empire: Myths and Histories. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, . Viquiera Albán, Juan Pedro. Propriety and Permissiveness in Bourbon Mexico. Willington: SR Books, . Von Grafenstein, Johanna. “Revolucionarios americanos en el circuncaribe –.” In L’Atlantique révolutionnaire. Une perspective ibéro-américaine, edited by Clément Thibaud et al., –. Rennes: Les Perséides Éditions, . Von Grafenstein, Johanna. “Hacer negocios en tiempos de Guerra. Comercio, corso y contrabando en el Golfo de México y Mar Caribe durante la segunda década del siglo XIX.” In Entre lo legal, lo ilícito y lo clandestino: Prácticas comerciales y navegación en el Gran Caribe, siglos XVII al XIX, edited by Johanna von Grafenstein, Rafal Reichert, and Julio César Rodríguez Treviño, –. Mexico City: Instituto Mora, . Waddell, D. A. G. Gran Bretaña y la independencia de Venezuela y Colombia. Caracas: Ministerio de Educaciόn, . Walker, Charles F. The Tupac Amaru Rebellion. Cambridge and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, . Warren, Adam. Medicine and Politics in Colonial Peru: Population Growth and the Bourbon Reforms. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, . Warren, Harris G. “The Origin of General Mina’s Invasion.” Southwestern Historical Review , no.  (): –. Washbrook, Sarah. “Independence for Those Without Freedom: Slavery and Manumission in Mérida, Venezuela, –.” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –. Wasserman, Fabio. Juan José Castelli. De súbdito de la corona a líder revolucionario. Buenos Aires: Edhasa, . Webster, Charles. Gran Bretaña y la independencia de la América Latina –. Documentos escogidos de los archivos del Foreign Office. Buenos Aires: Kraft, . Whitaker, Arthur. The United States and the Independence of Latin America,–. New York: Russell and Russell, . Wolfe, Justin. “Those That Live by the Work of their Hands: Labour, Ethnicity, and Nation-State Formation in Nicaragua, –.” Journal of Latin American Studies , no.  (): –. Woodham, John E. “The Influence of Hipólito Unanue on Peruvian Medical Science, –: A Reappraisal.” Hispanic American Historical Review , no.  (): –. Woodward, Margaret L. “The Spanish Army and the Loss of America, –.” The Hispanic American Historical Review,  no.  (): –. Wulf, Andrea. The Invention of Nature: Alexander Von Humboldt’s New World. New York: Vintage Books, . Yaremko, Jason. Indigenous Passages to Cuba, –. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, . Yaremko, Jason. “Indigenous Diaspora, Bondage, and Freedom in Colonial Cuba.” In Dana Levin Rojo and Cynthia Radding, eds., Borderlands in the Iberian World: Environments, Histories, Culture, –. Oxford: Oxford University Press, . Young, Elliot. Alien Nation: Chinese Migration in the Americas from the Coolie Era through World War II. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, . Young, Elliot. “Chinese Coolies, Universal Rights and the Limits of Liberalism in an Age of Empire.” Past and Present  (): –. Yun, Lisa and Ricardo René Laremont, “Chinese Coolies and African Slaves in Cuba, –.” Journal of Asian American Studies , no.  (): –. Yun, Lisa. The Coolie Speaks: Chinese Indentured Laborers and African Slaves of Cuba. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, . Zahler, Reuben. “¿Y para las damas, qué?: Liberalism, Nationalism, and Gender in the Hispanic World.” In The Rise of Constitutional Government in the Iberian Atlantic World: The Impact of the Cádiz Constitution of , edited by Scott Eastman and Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, –. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, .

Bibliography Zanetti Lecuona, Oscar and Alejandro Garcia, Sugar and Railroads: A Cuban History, –. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, . Zapata, Antonio. “Los Chinos de Cuba y del Perú.” Investigaciones Sociales , no.  (): –. Zegarra, Margarita. “La construcción de la madre y de la familia sentimental. Una visión del tema a través del Mercurio Peruano.” Histórica , no.  (): –. Zeuske, Michael. “Rethinking the Case of the Schooner Amistad.” Slavery & Abolition , no.  (): –. Zeuske, Michael. “Coolies-Asiáticos and Chinos: Global Dimensions of Second Slavery.” In Bonded Labour: Global and Comparative Perspectives, edited by Sabine Damir-Geilsdorf, Ulrike Linder, Gesine Müller, Oliver Tappe, and Michael Zeuske, –. Bielefeld: Transcript-Verlag, .



Index

Ábalos, José de,  abdication, , ,  Abiff, Hiram,  abolition and unfree labor,  Absolutism, , , , , ,  absolutism and constitutionalism,  Academia Real Militar (Rio de Janeiro), ,  Achille, Augustin,  Acuna, Vicente,  Adelman, Jeremy, ,  africanos livres,  Age of Atlantic Revolutions, –, –, –, –, –, , – agriculture,  and Brazilian industry,  as Luso-Brazilian pátria,  and slavery,  Agulhon, Maurice,  Alamán, Lucas, ,  on Mexican constitution,  Alcalá, José María,  Álvarez de Toledo, José,  Álvarez y Gabriel Pantaleón de Ercazti, Francisco,  Álvarez, José María,  Álvaro da Silva Freire, Francisco,  Alvear, Argentine,  Alvear, Carlos María de,  Alzate, José António, ,  American Confederation. See Hispanic American Confederation American goods, demand for,  Amunátegui, Miguel Luis,  Andean region Andean conspiracies and uprisings (–), –, –, ,  Andean insurrection (–), , –, , , , , –

Andean uprisings (–), –,  mining economy,  Anderson, Benedict,  Anderson, James, – Andradae Silva, José Bonifácio de, , ,  Anglo-Spanish War (–),  Anita Garibaldi,  Annino, Antonio, ,  Anson, George,  anticolonial revolts,  Atlantic world, eighteenth century, –, –, –, – racial and class alliances, – repudiation of the Spanish king, –, –, , See also revolts and uprisings Antillón, Isidoro de,  anti-Masonry,  anti-slavery, –, –, ,  anti-slavery and republicanism, ,  Apartado, Marqués del,  Apostolate of the Noble Order of the Knights of the Holy Cross,  Aranda, Conde de, ,  Araujo Guimarães, Manoel Ferreira de,  Arco do Cego editorial project,  Areópago de Itambé (Pernambuco),  Argentina, ,  Arizpe, Miguel Ramos,  Arrom, Silvia, ,  Arruda da Câmara, Miguel,  Artigas, José Gervásio, ,  Atlantic geopolitics in the nineteenth century,  Atlantic revolutions, –, – as civil wars,  constitutionalism and,  gender norms,  popular sovereignty and,  Spain at war with Britain, –

Index Augustus Frederick, Prince, Duke of Sussex,  autonomism and independence,  “autonomist” press,  ayuntamiento revolution (), ,  Azurduy, Juana,  Bahia conspiracy (), , , –,  Banda Oriental, , ,  fear of military despotism,  Portuguese military intervention,  rebellion against Cisplatine project,  under Portuguese control, , – Barbacena, Visconde de, ,  Barbosa, Januário,  Barros Arana, Diego,  Barrow, John,  Basave, Luis,  Basile, Marcello,  Bassi, Ernesto,  chapter by,  discussion of, ,  Bastidas, Micaela, – Batista da Costa Azevedo, José,  Battle of Ayacucho,  Bayonne. See Spanish Court Bayonne estatuto (),  Beccaria, Cesare,  Belgrano, Manuel,  Bello, Álvaro Caso,  chapter by,  Bello, Andrés, , ,  Bentham, Jeremy,  Beresford, William Carr,  “bi-hemispheric nation”,  Black naturalists,  Blackstone, William,  blind Andrés,  Bloch, Marc,  Bogotá,  Bolívar, María Antonia,  Bolívar, Simón, , , , , ,  in Haiti,  in Jamaica,  relationship with Mina,  Bolivia,  Borbón, Carlota Joaquina de (Infanta), – Borrego, Andrés,  Botana, Natalio,  Bourbon reforms, –, , – Braganza family, ,  Braganza, João de. See Pedro (Prince Regent, Emperor), See João VI Brazil,  “Africans as colonists” scheme,  assimilation and forced labor,  Bahia conspiracy (), , , –, 

Chinese laborers,  Constitution of ,  constitutional monarchy,  constitutional representation,  development of industry,  disenfranchisement of enslaved people,  economic dependence on slavery,  economic relations with Great Britain,  elevation to kingdom, ,  enslaved labor, ,  as equal partner with Portugual,  equal to Portugal,  European migrants,  expansion of press,  external military challenges,  Farroupilha Revolution (), ,  fear of enslaved people, – foreign influences of nature and culture,  free black and emancipated slaves in revolution,  freedom of press law,  Freemasonry,  funding of Navy,  impact of Spanish crisis on,  indemnity to Portugal for recognition,  independence (), ,  and indigenous labor,  intellectual life during court presence,  internal slave trade,  manufacturing,  medical practices,  military uprisings within,  Minas Gerais conspiracy (), , , –, , ,  mineral wealth,  mining, ,  ongoing economic ties to Portugual,  Pernambuco,  Portuguese court in,  recaptive labor,  regional communication,  relationship to indigenous people,  Royal Museum,  royalist stronghold,  science and,  science and monarchy,  scientific reforms,  trade with Spanish America,  war with United Provinces of Río de la Plata,  Brazil, Empire of, ,  involvement in other independence movements,  Brazilian exceptionalism, challenges to, ,  Brendecke, Arndt,  Briceño, Antonio Nicolás,  Britain in Latin America,  broad suffrage and restricted suffrage,  Buenos Aires, 





Index Buenos Aires revolution (),  Bustamante, Carlos María de,  Caballero y Góngora, Antonio,  cabildos de nación,  Cádiz,  Cádiz charter,  Cádiz constitution. See Constitution of Cádiz Cádiz, Cortes of. See Cortes of Cádiz Calatayud, Alejo,  Caldas, Francisco José de, , ,  Calleja, José María,  Câmara, Miguel Arruda da,  Campbell, Donald (Adm.),  Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge chapter by,  discussion of, , , ,  Canning, George,  Cano Moctezuma, Dionisio,  Captaincy General of Cuba,  Caracas independence (July , ),  Caracas junta, ,  loyal to Ferdinand VII,  rejection of Council of Regency,  Cardeña, Ramón,  Cariaco (),  Carlos III (–),  Carlos IV, , ,  Carlota Joaquina, Infanta, , , See also Borbón, Carlota Joaquina de (Infanta) Carrera, Javiera, ,  Carrera, José Miguel, , , ,  Carrera, Juan José,  Carrera, Luis,  Cartagena, independent republic of,  Cartagena junta, – Carvalho e Melo, Sebastião José de (Marquês de Pombal). See Pombal, Marquis of Castelli, Juan José, ,  Castlereagh, Viscount,  Catecismo público para la instrucción de los neófitos,  Catholic church constitutionally empowered,  intolerance and illiberalism,  Celestino Mutis, José,  censuses, unreliable,  Centinela contra fracmasones,  Central America,  Central Junta (Spain, ), , See also Junta Central Royal Order of  January , ,  centralism and federalism,  Chambers, Sarah C.,  chapter by,  discussion of, 

Charlemagne, Philémon,  Charter of Bayonne,  Chilavert, Vicente,  Childs, Matt,  Chile,  assimilation and forced labor,  constitution and liberalism in conflict,  Logia Lautaro,  militarization of politics,  provisional governance,  royalist repression of juntas,  Chinese laborers alternative to transatlantic slave trade,  in Cuba,  gender imbalance in,  in Peru, ,  Chirino, José Leonardo, – Chust, Manuel,  citizenship and citizen rights African-descended people,  enslaved people,  free peoples of African descent and,  indigenous peoples,  indigenous peoples and,  people of African descent,  protests by enslaved people,  protests by free people of African descent,  vecinidad and, ,  women excluded, , ,  citizen-soldiers and “armed opinion”, , ,  patriots, ,  professionalization,  public arenas of debate,  ciudadano and gender exclusion,  Colegio Mayor del Rosario (Bogotá),  collection in the Luso-Brazilian world, , , , – Colombia, , ,  integration,  Liberators,  militarized government,  relationship to indigenous people,  resguardos,  split into three countries,  Colonia do Sacramento (–),  colonial crises of eighteenth century, –, – colonial response to revolts, – colonialism gender inequality and,  in historiography of independence, – intersectionality and gender,  Comunero uprising (), , , , –, , ,  Conceição Velloso, José Mariano da,  Conceição Veloso, Mariano da,  confederation, 

Index Confederation of the United Provinces of Venezuela,  Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle,  Congress of Vienna,  Constitution of  (Spain),  abolition of,  restoration of,  Constitution of Cádiz, , ,  citizenship rights in, ,  constitutional ayuntamientos,  dissolution of,  impact on Braganza court,  impact on Portugal,  representation,  role of corporations,  The Constitution of the Free-Masons (Anderson),  constitutional processes,  constitutionalism,  radical and gradual approaches,  Convenção Preliminar de Paz,  Coro rebellion (), , –, , –,  Coronation Edict,  Correio Braziliense,  Correio de Brazil,  Cortes (Lisbon) on Pedro I,  restoration of,  Cortes of Cádiz, ,  challenges to legitimacy,  freedom of press law,  representation and,  representation, political, ,  support for colonial slavery,  Costa e Silva, José Maria da,  Council of Regency, ,  Venezuelan support for,  Council of Regency (–),  Council of the Indies,  Course (Constant),  Court of Braganza,  Coustos, John,  Inquisition trial as Freemason,  creole role in revolts, eighteenth century, , , –, ,  crisis of the monarchies (–), , See also Iberian crises Cruzada Libertadora,  Cuba, ,  abolition of slavery (),  advances in agricultural technology,  Chinese laborers, – crossroads for Masonic travelers,  economic dependence on slavery, ,  elite control of public opinion,  enslaved labor, ,  experiments in unfree labor,  Freemasonry, , 

Masonic plot,  recaptive labor,  role in independence movements,  slave economy,  slavery and agriculture,  valorization of motherhood,  women in independence movements,  Yucatan peoples as coerced labor,  Curiel, Carole Leal,  Curry-Machado, Jonathan,  da Costa, Hipólito José, ,  Inquisition trial,  masonic affiliations,  da Cunha, Manoel Basílio,  Daunou, Pierre,  de Deus, João,  de Elío, Javier,  de Flores, Carlos,  De Forest, David Curtis, ,  de Foronda, Valentín,  de Vattel, Emmerich,  Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen, . See also Declaration of the Rights of Man Declaration of the Rights of Man, . See also Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen democratization of knowledge,  Di Meglio, Gabriel,  Dias, Maria Odila,  Díaz de Espada, Juan José (Bishop),  Díaz, Manuel,  Dou i Bassols, Ramón Lázaro,  Dupuy, Alexis,  Echeverri, Marcela chapter by,  discussion of, –, ,  economic growth challenges of village economies,  economic shifts,  and independence movements,  Ecuador, ,  botanical markets,  Ejército Pacificador (Pacifier Army),  el común,  El Diario de México,  El Esquife Constitucional,  El Hurón,  El Mercurio Peruano,  El momento gaditano,  elections and representation,  participation,  Elementos de Geometria (),  emancipados,  “emancipated contract,”  emancipation inherent in nationhood, 





Index emancipation (cont.) ius commune,  of the Latin American colonies, – and liberalism,  limits of,  as a political term, – Encina, Francisco Antonio,  enlightened scientific patriots,  Enlightenment and gender, – Ensaio sobre os melhoramentos de Portugal e do Brasil (Soares Franco, ),  enslaved labor, , , , –, ,  Brazil, – Cuba, ,  emancipation, Coro,  political awareness and politicization,  political support for,  recruitment to military service,  Venezuela,  Escolta Anatômica, Cirúrgica e Médica (Rio de Janeiro),  España, José María,  Espejo, Eugenio,  factionalism,  Espinosa, Ramón,  Exame de Artilheiros (Alpoim, ),  exploitation and marginalization of populations,  factionalism in scientific authority,  Fagoaga, José María,  Fajardo, Manual Palacio,  Fazendeiro do Brazil (Conceição Velloso),  fear of slave revolts,  Brazil,  Cuba, , ,  Spain and,  Venezuela, – Ferdinand VII,  restoration to throne, ,  Spanish desire for restoration of,  Fernández de Lizardi, José Joaquin, ,  Fernando de Abascal y Sousa,  Fernando VII, ,  Ferreira, Roquinaldo chapter by,  discussion of, –,  Ferrer, Ada, ,  Fiallo, Evaristo,  Filliâtre, Jean-Baptiste,  First Junta (Buenos Aires),  Flores, Manuel Antonio,  Fonseca, Antonio da Silveira Pinto da,  foreign involvement in independence movements,  Fowler, Will,  Fradkin, Raúl,  Frasquet, Ivana, , 

Free Womb laws, failures of,  women appeal to,  freedom of the press, , , ,  Cuba,  Freemason,  Freemasonry s in Europe,  belief system, ,  Brazil, – charges of heresy,  Cuba, ,  Cuban pamphlets supporting loyalism,  Cuban radicalism and,  defined,  evidentiary history,  France, s,  Great Architect of the Universe,  Haiti,  as mutual aid organization,  internal lore,  Jalapa,  Latin American and Caribbean, ,  Luso-Hispanic lodges,  Mérida,  Mexico, ,  modern historiography,  Philadelphia,  in Portugal,  as republican activist organization,  role in transitioning between regimes,  Scottish Rite in Mexico,  in Spain, s,  spread with refugees from Haitian Revolution,  symbols of, ,  vector for spread of revolutionary ideas,  vector for successful enterprise,  York Rite in Mexico,  Freemasons, –,  among British Naval officers,  from Cádiz through Spanish America,  Catholic disapprobation of,  Cuba, – factionalism in Spanish America, ,  free Blacks,  in government,  historians of,  involved in independence movement, – perceived as heroes by Latin American historians,  persecution in Portugal,  persecution in Spain,  suffusion through Latin American independence movements,  Freemasons, by name Abiff, Hiram,  Aguirre, Juan Pedro,  Alpuche e Infante, José María, 

Index Álvarez de Toledo, José,  Álvarez, Julián,  Álvaro da Silva Freire, Francisco,  Alvear, Argentine,  Anchoris, Ramón Eduardo de,  Anderson, James,  Andradae Silva, José Bonifácio de,  Apartado, Marqués del,  Arruda da Câmara, Miguel,  Augustus Frederick, Prince, Duke of Sussex,  Bello, Andrés,  Bravo, Nicolas,  Carrera, José Miguel,  Chilavert, Vicente,  Conde de Aranda, ,  Coustos, John,  da Costa, Hipólito José,  Eusebio Agüero, José,  French, Alejandro,  Gómez Pedraza, Valentin,  Guedes da Silva, Vicente,  Guerrero, Vicente,  Hieronymus (St. Jerome),  Infante, Joaquín, ,  Lezica, Pedro,  López Méndez, Luis,  Luis de Oliden, Manuel,  Mérida, Rafael,  Miranda, Francisco de, – O’Higgins,  Olavide, Pablo de,  Ortiz de Ocampo, José Nicolás,  Pinto, Manuel,  Poinsett, Joel R.,  Pueyrredón,  Rondeau, José,  Sáenz, Antonio,  San Martín, José de, – Servando Teresa de Mier, Juan,  Tornel, J. M.,  Valdés, Antonio J.,  Victoria, Guadalupe (President, Mexico),  Villaurrutia, Wenceslao,  Yrigoyen, Matías,  Zañartu, Miguel, – Zapiola, Carlos,  Zapiola, José Matías,  Freire de Andrade, Gomes, ,  French Revolution, , , –, , , , ,  Influence in Latin America and the Caribbean, , –,  French, Alejandro,  Inquisition trial as Freemason,  French-inspired “conspiracies,”  Fundamental Law (December ),  Fundamental Law of , 

Gallagher and Lamb, printers,  Gálvez, José de, , , ,  Garcez Pinto de Madureira, Maria Bárbara,  Garibaldi, Giuseppe,  Garrett, Almeida,  Gazeta de Bogotá,  Gazeta de Buenos Ayres,  Gazeta do Rio de Janeiro,  gender, ,  gender norms colonial era,  in colonial governance,  contemporary discussions of,  fatherhood,  fluidity within,  of honor,  and intersectional identities, – intersectionality,  men of color,  men, indigenous,  motherhood, –, , –,  Republican era, , ,  under republicanism,  General and Sovereign Constituent Assembly (),  global migration, , , ,  global trade, , , ,  importance of neutral trade partners,  Glock, Joseph de,  Goldman, Noemí,  Gómez de Avellaneda, Gertrudis,  Gonzales, Juan José,  González, Juan Ignacio,  gracia, – Grajales, Mariana,  Gran Colombia,  Gran Reunión Americana,  Grand Oriente,  Great Britain commercial involvement in independence movements,  mediation regarding Uruguay,  military involvement in Europe,  neutrality, , , – post-Napoleonic relationship with Portugal and Brazil,  recognition of Colombia and Mexico,  role in circum-Caribbean trade, , ,  role in independence movements, ,  role in unfree labor experiments in Cuba and other colonies,  South American trade dominance,  Great Lodge of London (),  Gual, Manuel,  Gual, Pedro,  Guanajuato, , ,  Guayaquil,  Guedes da Silva, Vicente,  Guerra, François-Xavier, 





Index Guerrero,  Guerrero, Vicente (General),  Gustav Adolphus IV (Sweden),  Gutiérrez Ardila, Daniel,  Haiti British affiliations,  direct involvement in independence movements,  Freemasonry,  non-aggression against Spain,  role in independence movements,  support of Bolívar, ,  Haiti in Latin America,  Haitian Revolution, , , –, ,  effects in Latin America, , – impact on global economics, – refugees and revolutionary ideas,  and Spanish American attitudes toward enslaved labor,  Hale, Charles,  Halsey, Thomas Lloyd,  Hamnett, Brian,  Hébrard, Veronique,  Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich on consitutionalism,  Lessons on the Philosophy of History,  heroines of Latin America, –, ,  Hidalgo de Cisneros, Baltazar,  Hidalgo insurrection,  Hidalgo, Miguel, ,  Hieronymus (St. Jerome),  Hiram Abiff,  Hispanic American Confederation,  historiography, , , See also historia patria historia patria,  of Brazil,  and forgetting,  and framing,  gender and the French Revolution,  revisionism, –,  of science. See science, historiography of, See science, historiography of of Spanish America,  from tradition to modernity,  historiography of women in Latin American independence, , –, ,  content analysis,  Huaqui, battle at (June, ),  Huarochirí, ,  Hu-Dehart, Evelyn,  Humboldt, Alexander von,  Hyslop brothers,  Iberian crises, –,  Iberian monarchies. See also Spanish monarchs, See also Portuguese monarchy

effect of Napoleonic Wars on. See Spanish monarchs imperial crisis and constitutionalism,  Iberian perspective on displacement of Portuguese monarchy, , ,  era of European revolutions (–), ,  era of formal independence in Latin America (post-), ,  era of French invasion (–),  European supremacy,  on the independence movements,  Napoleonic defeat (–), ,  on unsettled governance in Spanish America,  Idade de Ouro do Brasil,  Ignacio, Cavero,  imperial crisis, –, –, See also crisis of the monarchies (–) increased controls in the Americas,  responses to,  Impressão Régia, ,  Inconfidência Mineira revolt (–),  independence movements and foreign powers,  independence revolutions. See anticolonial revolts Indian question,  indigenous people Yucatan peoples as coerced labor,  indigenous peoples and citizenship, , ,  independence and economic freedoms of,  labor used as “civilizing” force,  as laborers, – as nationals and citizens,  Infante, Joaquín, ,  informal diplomacy,  information dissemination, , See also printing press, See also newspapers and populist press Brazilian royal press,  demand during monarchical crisis,  fiction,  movement texts,  Portuguese royal press,  presses and political persuasion,  print media and the spread of scientific knowledge,  private debate,  public sphere, , –,  rumor,  song,  Spain,  Venezuela,  Inka rulership,  revolutionary reinstatement of, , –,  Inquisition, –, ,  integrated imperial / Atlantic lens,  international acceptance

Index

Katari, Tomás,  Knaster, Meri,  Knight, Alan,  knowledge production, role of,  Kury, Lorelai, 

Lacroix, Pierre,  Langer, Erick,  Lastarria, José Victorino,  Latin America on the global stage,  Latin American independence movements anticolonial dimensions,  challenges of temporality, –, – external threats, – historiographic revisionism, –,  origins of, , –, – Latin American women gender norms during revolution,  as heroines, – historiography, ,  romanticism and, – as wives and mothers,  Laureano [Infante], – Lautaro Lodge,  Masonic or Jacobin?,  San Martín, José de,  as shaper of government,  Lavalleja, Juan Antonio,  Lavrin, Asunción,  Ledo, Joaquim Gonçalves,  legal reform,  Lemus, Francisco,  Leopoldina (Princess),  liberal revolutions (),  liberalism,  early liberalism, , – and emancipation,  historiography of,  implications for social change, – Luso-Brazilian empire. See also Portuguese empire in Banda Oriental, , – Luso-Brazilian pátria agriculture as,  print culture and,  Luz Uraga y Gutiérrez, María de la,  Luz, Ramón de la, 

L’Ami des hommes (Mirabeau, ), – La Condamine,  La Gazeta de Buenos Aires,  La Gazeta de Caracas,  La Gazeta de Madrid,  La Gazeta de México,  La Guaira conspiracy (), , –, –, , ,  La Plata,  La Serna (General, Peru),  labor, , – labor migration Chinese laborers,  European laborers,  forced migration, ,  labor regimes, , , –

Madrid, José Fernández de, ,  Manifesto da Nação Portugueza aos Soberanos e Povos da Europa (),  manumission,  mapping representation, , ,  Maracaibo (),  María I,  maricones,  Marquis of Pombal (–),  masculinity political and family interests, – shifting gender norms, –, , ,  Masonic Grand Lodge (s),  Masonic Lodges,  American Lodge No  (London), 

commercial consuls,  consular relations,  international trade,  intersectional identities, , – Iriarte, Tomás de,  Iturbide, Agustín, , , –,  attention to public opinion,  oath of allegiance to the Three Guarantees,  pronunciamiento by, – Iturrigaray, José de,  Jacob, Margaret,  Jamaica, refusal of aid to Bolívar,  Jefferson, Thomas,  Jesus Ribeiro da Silva, Ana María de,  João VI, , ,  in Brazil,  difficulties in succession following death of,  return to Portugal, ,  Joseph I,  Joseph I (Spain),  Junta Central, –, , See also Central Junta (Spain, ) in the press,  juntas, –, See also individual juntas Buenos Aires, ,  Caracas (),  as Habsburg local oligarchies,  Junta Central / Central Junta, –,  New Granada,  post-,  Río de La Plata,  across Spanish America,  Supreme Junta of Seville (),  Venezuela, 





Index Masonic Lodges (cont.) The Aurora No  (Mérida),  Baracoa,  Benevolence No, ,  Brazil,  Caballeros Racionales (Cádiz),  Cap-Haytien lodge,  Chile,  Constance No ,  Delights of Havana No ,  exclusion of traitors,  Fidelity of Havana No ,  Gran Reunión Americana,  Grand Lodge of the Island in Cuba,  Grand Orient (Cuban affiliation),  Grand Oriente, , ,  Great Lodge of London (),  Lautaro Lodge,  Lisbon,  Logia de los Caballeros Racionales,  Los Soles y Rayos de Bolívar (The Suns and Rays of Bolívar),  Masonic Grand Lodge (s),  Meeting of Virtue No  (Campeche),  naming practices,  Niterói,  Olinda Seminary,  Portuguese (s),  Rectitude No. ,  Reunited Friends No.  (Veracruz),  Reward for Virtues No. ,  Rio de Janeiro,  Río de la Plata,  Santiago de Cuba,  Spanish American lodges,  Spanish lodges in Cádiz,  St John’s Lodge ,  The Temple of the Divine Shepherdess No ,  True Philanthropy No ,  Union of Regulations No ,  vector for diffusion of news, –,  masonic organizations African-Americans and,  exclusionary practices,  hierarchies and,  Parisian women and,  May Revolution of ,  Melchor de Jovellanos, Gaspar,  Melo, Pascoal José de, ,  Memoria sobre a Canella do Rio de Janeiro (),  Memórias económicas da Academia das Sciencias de Lisboa,  memory erasure of colonial history,  newspapers and populist press as, , ,  science and, 

Mérida, Rafael,  Mexican Empire,  Mexican independence (August ),  Mexican liberalism,  Mexico,  agricultural shift,  community lands,  critiques of Mexican liberalism,  independence (September ), ,  mining district revolts (–), , –,  perceived failure of social unity, ,  political awareness and politicization, – revolts, northern Mexico (–), , , –,  route to independence,  royalists, San Juan de Ulua,  shortcomings of Mexican constitution,  Michoacán, ,  Mier, Servando Teresa de,  migrations, forced mining,  and workforce,  Miki, Yuko,  Milanich, Nara,  militarization of politics, ,  military governments,  military processes,  entangled with public opinion,  military, distrust of,  Mina, Francisco Xavier, ,  Minas Gerais,  Minas Gerais conspiracy (), , , –, –,  revolutionary influences,  mining,  and coerced labor, – and indigenous labor,  Miranda, Francisco de, , , – mita labor, ,  Mitre, Bartolomé,  mixed government,  monarchy,  “Long live the king and death to bad government” slogan, – monarchy and republic,  Mongey, Vanessa, ,  Monroe, James,  Montano, José María,  Monteagudo, Bernardo, ,  Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat,  Montevideo,  independence from European rule under Brazilian aegis,  and Portuguese military intervention,  Spanish loyalism,  war against Buenos Aires,  Montevideo and Banda Oriental annexation (–), 

Index Montúfar, Lorenzo,  Mora, José María Luis, ,  Morelos, José María, ,  Moreno Gutiérrez, Rodrigo,  Moreno, José Ignacio,  Moreno, Mariano,  Morillo, Pablo, ,  Morphy, Tomás,  movimientos de pueblo,  Murray, David,  museum of Mexican history,  Napoleonic constitutional models,  Napoleonic Moment,  Napoleonic wars (–), ,  displacement of Portuguese monarchy, ,  impact on Great Britain’s foreign relations,  impacts in South America,  invasion of Spain,  Nariño, Antonio,  nation conceptually,  equalvalent to communitas,  historiography of,  inherently emancipated, ,  nationalization of representation,  questions of citizenship,  national projects,  Chile,  Empire of Brazil,  Gran Colombia,  Mexico,  United Provinces of Central America,  United Provinces of Río de la Plata,  Nazario Peimbert, Juan,  neutral trade,  New Amazons: Society of Enlightened Women,  New Granada, , –, –,  Comunero uprising (), , –, –, ,  foreign involvement in independence,  juntas,  militarization of politics,  post-emancipation slave trade with Peru,  republican constitution,  route to independence,  search for international assistance,  Spanish Expeditionary Force and,  territorial fracture,  New Spain, Viceroyalty of,  newspapers and populist press, , , ,  “Afrancesado,”  Brazil, , , ,  Correio de Brazil,  El Diario de México,  El Hurón,  El Mercurio Peruano, 

factionalism,  Gazeta de Bogotá,  Gazeta de Buenos Ayres,  Gazeta do Rio de Janeiro,  growth in light of shrinking scientific influence,  Idade de Ouro do Brasil,  La Gazeta de Caracas,  La Gazeta de México,  libel litigations, – local,  local newspaper,  media of citizenship, ,  New Granada,  in New Spain,  for the non-elite,  Noticias Públicas de Cartagena de Indias,  O Patriota,  patriotic,  Primicias de Quito,  reporting on Iturbide’s Oath,  role in political awareness, –,  role in revolution,  Spanish exiles and,  as shapers of memory, , ,  and the spread of science in Spanish America,  Newtonian physics,  Noticias Públicas de Cartagena de Indias,  Novales, Alberto Gil,  O Patriota,  Olavide, Pablo de,  Olinda Seminary,  origins,  Ortiz, Bautista,  Oruro conspiracy (), ,  Ossa, Juan Luis,  Otero, Mariano,  Padilla, José (Admiral),  Paita,  Palmer, R. R.,  Palti, Elías,  Panama Congress,  Paquette, Gabriel chapter by,  discussion of, ,  para-Masonic fraternal associations,  pasquinades, ,  Pateman, Carole, ,  Patria, José Amor de la,  Patriotic Society (Havana),  Pedro (Prince Regent, Emperor), , , , See also Braganza, João de independence of the Empire of Brazil (),  masonic connections,  pronouncement of Brazilian independence, 





Index Peña, Antonia,  Peñalosa, Clemente de,  Peñaranda, José,  Peninsular War (–),  periodization,  Peru, , , See also Peru, Viceroyalty of Andean conspiracies and uprisings (–), –, –, ,  Andean insurrection (–), , –, , , ,  economic dependence on slavery,  independence (July ),  militarism with constitutional order,  mita labor,  Oruro conspiracy (), ,  post-emancipation slave trade with New Granada,  royalist repression of juntas,  royalists, Callao,  war with Chile and Río de Plata,  Peru, Viceroyalty of, , ,  Pétion, Alexandre,  support of revolutionaries,  philosopher-travelers,  Picornell, Juan Bautista, ,  Pimenta, João Paulo, ,  “Plan de Iguala,”  plebian and indigenous revolts, –, , , ,  Poinsett, Joel,  political awareness and politicization, –,  political catechism, – political economy and Bourbon reforms, ,  rationalizing freedom,  rationalizing monarchy,  political representation, restructuring of,  political societies,  Pombal, Marquis of, , ,  Pombaline reforms, ,  popular sovereignty,  populist press. See newspapers and populist press Portillo Valdés, José, ,  Portillo, José M. chapter by,  discussion of, ,  Porto Bello,  Porto revolt (Portugal), ,  ports, military attacks on,  Portugal African and Asain colonies,  British force at,  colonial science,  constitutional kingship and,  constitutional revolution,  court relocated to Brazil. See Braganza family dependence upon Brazil,  exiled journalists, 

Freemasonry,  global reach,  internal dissent and resentment,  marginalization of,  militarized attempts to retain Brazil,  Novo Código (New Code),  occupation of,  persecution of Freemasons,  Portugal, Fernando José de, – Portuguese court in Brazil, , , , , , , – Portuguese empire direct involvement in independence movements,  direct military intervention,  slave trade at center,  Portuguese juntas,  Regency Council and,  Portuguese monarchy, , , , See also Braganza family, See also Braganza family, See also Borbón, Carlota Joaquina de (Infanta) Americanization of,  Brazilian scientific bureaucracy,  displacement of, – expansionism from Brazil, ,  intervention in revolutionary processes,  Portuguese loyalty to,  Potosí,  Prado, Fabrício,  chapter by,  discussion of,  Premo, Bianca,  Primicias de Quito,  print culture, Brazil,  printing press Brazil, ,  Montevideo use to counter revolutionary propaganda,  portable, , ,  use in war, ,  Venezuela,  private merchants, alliances with all sides,  privateers,  as international intervention,  legitimizing force,  as a naval force,  process of independence (–),  Pronunciamiento of Aznapuquio,  public opinion, , , , –,  historiography,  impact on Iturbide,  and militarization, ,  public sphere, , , –, , –, ,  as belligerent,  Cádiz,  knowledge dissemination, ,  post-, 

Index printing press and,  public opinion and,  public writer, role of,  publishing houses,  quinine, – Quintana Roo, Andrés, ,  Quitéria, Maria,  Rabinovich, Alejandro chapter by,  discussion of, ,  race, , See also enslaved labor Racine, Karen, , – chapter by,  “Radical Enlightenment,”  Raguet, Condy,  Ramírez, Manuel,  Raynal, Abbé,  Rayón, Ignacio,  Real Convictorio de San Carlos (Lima),  Real del Monte,  Real, José María de,  Rebellion of the Barrios (Quito, ), , –,  Regency Council,  Régulateur da maçon,  Reino Unido,  Relacion histórica de un viage a la América meridional,  religion,  religion and constitution Catholic church,  French model (preferential treatment),  Hispanic world (national religion),  North American model (separation),  representation, political, ,  Charter of Bayonne,  mapping of, ,  New Spain,  Peru,  social and ethnic categorization, ,  urban and rural constituencies,  representative system and direct exercise of sovereignty,  República Oriental del Uruguay. See Uruguay republican constitutionalism,  republican government,  resguardos,  Restoration, ,  Revenga, José Rafael,  Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro,  revolts and uprisings, ,  Aponte (),  Cochabamba (), ,  from European perspective,  Farroupilha (-), ,  Huarochirí (), , 

Lima (), , ,  Minas Gerais conspiracy, , , –, , , ,  New Granada (),  Northern Mexico (–), –, –,  Oruro (), ,  Pernambuco (),  Peru between s and , –, –, ,  Porto revolt (Portugal),  Riego Revolt (Spain, ),  rural–urban relationships,  Tailors’ conspiracy, , , ,  Viceroyalty of Peru,  women and,  revolts, northern Mexico (–),  revolution New Granada,  Venezuela,  revolutionary victories,  Revolutionary War (North America),  influence in Latin America, –,  Reynoso, Mariano Miguel de, – Ribeiro dos Santos, Antonio,  Ribeiro, Márcia Moisés,  Riego Revolt (Spain, ),  Riego, Rafael del mutiny against Spain,  Pronunciamiento, ,  Rio de Janeiro,  as port city,  Río de la Plata,  agricultural shift,  Banda Oriental, – economic dependence on slavery,  independence (May ),  junta,  Logia Lautaro,  Masonic Lodges,  provisional governance,  resistance to,  split into four countries,  transimperial trade hub,  Río de la Plata, Viceroyalty of,  rioplatense army militarization of politics,  political “Representative,” duties of,  Riva Agüero, José de la,  Rocafuerte, Vicente,  Rodríguez, Enrique,  Rodríguez, Mariana,  rogue revolutionaries,  Rosanvallon, Pierre,  Rowley, Admiral,  Royal Botanical Garden (Rio de Janeiro),  Royal Library (),  Royal Museum (Rio de Janeiro),  royalist strongholds, 





Index royalist women,  rural community insurgencies,  Saavedra, Francisco de,  Sabato, Hilda, ,  Sáenz, Manuela, –,  Safier, Neil, , ,  chapter by,  discussion of,  Saint-Domingue, slave revolt. See Haitian Revolution Salvarrieta, Policarpa,  Samuel Philips Co,  San Blas Conspiracy (),  San Luis Potosí,  San Martín, José de, , –, ,  and Freemasonry, – flight from Peru,  Liberating Expedition,  Sánchez, Mariquita,  Sanders, James,  Santiago del Solar Guajardo, Felipe,  Santos Atahualpa, Juan, , ,  Sartorius, David,  Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher,  science,  and the independence movements,  intertwined with slavery,  natural resources and the economy,  and political reforms in Brazil,  science in Portuguese America, ,  exclusion of African and African-descended voices,  inclusion of colonial scientific approaches,  and industry,  science in Spanish America, – commonwealth political economy and,  creations of schools and scientific institutions,  scientific expeditions,  and the spread of the printed word,  top-down knowledge,  science, colonial ambitious scale of,  role in sustaining the metropole,  science, historiography of, , ,  colonial science,  connotations of independence and republicanism,  as engineered memory,  science, Spanish,  bottom-up knowledge,  information collection,  under the Bourbons, , See also science in Spanish America under the Habsburgs,  scientific innovation and national well-being,  scientific institutions in Bourbon Spanish America, 

and local political identities,  scientific practitioners Alzate, José Antonio,  Bonifácio de Andradae Silva, José,  Caldas, Francisco José de,  Unánue, Hipólito,  Scott, Joan,  Scottish Rite,  secret societies. See also Masonic Lodges, See also Freemasons, See also Freemasonry Los Guadalupes,  Supremo Conselho Regenerador,  separate spheres,  Servando Teresa de Mier, Juan, ,  Seven Years’ War (–), –, ,  Sierra Leone as recaptive shipping point,  Silos,  Silva Freire, Francisco Álvaro da,  Silva Lisboa, José da, ,  Silva Xavier, Joaquim José da. See Tiradentes Silva, Vicente Guedes da,  Simon, Jacques,  slave trade, ,  abolition of,  Brazil ratified ending (),  contraband slave trade in Cuba,  debated in Cortes,  Don Pedro I ended (),  emancipation and eradication,  slavery Brazil,  and coexistence with liberalism, ,  economic importance of, –,  and state formation in Brazil and Cuba,  slavery, abolition of,  Free Womb laws, ,  ideological centrality, , ,  and paternalism,  struggles in realizing,  Slemian, Andréa,  Soares Franco, Francisco,  social knowledge as science,  social unity and national complexities,  Sociedad de Amantes del País,  Sociedade Auxiliadora da Indústria Nacional,  Socorro,  Soles y Rayos movement,  Soriano, Cristina chapter by,  discussion of, ,  Sousa Coutinho, Rodrigo de, , , ,  southern Andean region. See Peru, Viceroyalty of, See Peru sovereignty horizontal, ,  vertical, , 

Index Spain attempts to limit British intervention in the Americas,  cast as superstitious and backward,  dependence on American economic resources,  dilemmas about slavery and race,  dismissal of insurrections,  effects of war with France,  exiled intellectuals,  first constitution,  hopes to retake Mexico,  military mobilization in the Americas,  nationalization,  persecution of Freemasons,  plans to retake American areas,  print media,  recognition of independent American states,  retention of Cuba, Puerto Rico and Phillipines,  science as nationalism,  views on autonomy in the Indies,  Spain’s first liberalism,  Spanish America British involvement in, – disorientation by French,  distinct from Luso-America,  Enlightenment heroes,  factionalism in industry,  rebellions and revolts,  segmentation into smaller provinces,  trade with Brazil,  Spanish and Portuguese revolutions (),  Spanish Caribbean. See Cuba Spanish constitutional process (–),  Spanish court,  in Bayonne,  “composite monarchy,”  Spanish desire for restoration of,  Spanish exiles,  Spanish Expeditionary Force,  Spanish juntas,  Central Junta (),  Spanish monarchs,  abdications by, , ,  relocation to Bayonne,  Spanish obscurantism and print culture,  Spanish resistance,  sphere of public opinion,  St. Helena,  Stirling, Vice Admiral,  subaltern agency, , –, –, – suffrage distinct from eligible to be elected,  “freemen” and,  sugar production,  Supreme Junta of Seville (), 

Supremo Conselho Regenerador,  symbolic feminine,  Taboada y Lemos, Gil de (Vicreoy of Peru),  Tailors’ Revolt (), –, , , , , . See Tailors’ Conspiracy () Tailors’ Conspiracy (), , , ,  Talleyrand, Charles-Maurice de,  Tancrède (Voltaire),  taxation,  Telésforo de Orea,  Ternavasio, Marcela chapter by,  discussion of, – Thibaud, Clément,  Thomson, Sinclair chapter by,  discussion of, – Three Guarantees,  Tierra Firme,  Tiradentes,  example of royal justice,  Tito Condemayta, Tomasa,  Torres Torrija, Joaquín,  Torrubia, Joseph,  Toussaint, Toussaint,  transregional framework, – Treaties of Córdoba,  Treaty of Cordoba,  treaty of Fontainebleau (),  tribute, ,  Túpac Amaru, , –, –,  partnership with wife,  Tupaj Katari,  Unánue, Hipólito, ,  unfree and coerced labor,  Brazil,  child labor,  contraband slave trade in Cuba,  debt bondage,  economic incentives for Chinese labor, – indentured Chinese workers in Cuba, , –,  indentured Chinese workers in Peru,  liberated Africans in Brazil and Cuba, ,  Mayan captives relocated to Cuba,  new forms in Era of Abolition,  slavery, –,  slavery histography and,  tutelary servitude,  variety of in Cuba,  United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves,  United Provinces of Central America, 





Index United Provinces of Río de la Plata,  Buenos Aires junta,  Constitution of ,  foreign involvement in independence,  and Portuguese military intervention,  seige on Montevideo,  war against Peru,  war with Brazil,  weapons supply from the United States,  United States commercial involvement in independence movements,  economic benefit to,  neutrality, ,  neutrality and trade,  recognition of Colombia, Mexico, and the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata,  relationship with United Provinces of Río de la Plata,  role in circum-Caribbean trade,  role in independence movements,  weapon sales to South America,  United States in Latin America, – sale of weapons,  trade and supplies,  universal military obligation,  Iberian history,  and official press,  university curricula,  Uruguay independence (),  independence (October ),  Van Norman, William C.,  Vandelli, Domenico,  Varela, Félix (Fr.),  Vázquez Semadeni, María Eugenia,  vecino and gender equity,  Vélez de Córdoba, Juan, ,  Venezuela, –, ,  agricultural shift,  Cariaco (),  Coro rebellion (), , –, , ,  economic dependence on slavery,  fear of enslaved people, – inclusive representation,  La Guaira conspiracy (), , –, –, ,  Maracaibo (),  militarization of politics,  movement away from enslaved labor,  republican constitution,  revolutionary impulse (–),  search for international assistance,  Spanish Expeditionary Force and,  Venezuela, Captaincy of, 

Venezuelan independence (July ),  Venezuelan Junta,  Veracruz,  Vernon, Edward, Adm.,  Vicario, Leona, , ,  Viceroyalty of New Spain,  royalist stronghold,  Viceroyalty of Peru ,  Andean insurrection (–), , –, , , ,  conspiracies and uprisings (–), –, , , ,  revolts and uprisings,  royalist stronghold,  Vicuña Mackenna, Benjamín,  Vidaurre, Manuel Lorenzo,  Viejo, Julián,  Villanueva, Joaquín Lorenzo,  Villaurrutia, Wenceslao,  vintistas. See Porto revolt (Portugal) Viscardo y Guzmán, Juan Pablo, ,  Vives, Francisco Dionisio,  von Martius, Carl Friedrich Philipp,  War of Jenkins Ear (–),  war of pamphlets,  war of the castas,  Wenceslao Barquero, Juan,  Werner, Abraham Gottlob,  women, , See also gender norms aristocrats,  in battle,  in Cuba’s independence movements,  disenfranchisement,  domestic and maternal role restrictions,  legal rights, ,  military fear of,  in the political arena,  roles in colonial rebellions,  social status as salient characteristic,  women, African descent in Aponte rebellion,  and gender norms, , , ,  women, Iberian descent, , ,  women, indigenous, –,  Zañartu, Miguel,  Zapiola, Carlos,  Zapiola, José Matías, – Zavala, Lorenzo,  Zea, Francisco Antonio, ,  Zerecero, Anastasio,  Zipaquirá, , , 