DUTY FIRST.
As far as we in Peru were concerned, the winter of 1821-22 passed
without disturbance; but Colonel Miller busied himself in drilling the
new regiment of Peruvians which had been placed under his command. As
he had made me his aid-de-camp, we were much together, and he paid
frequent visits to our house, where he was always gladly welcomed.
Owing to my father's office, I saw a great deal at this time of the
protector, who treated me with extreme kindness. Although such a great
soldier, he had no love for war, and planned to bring about the real
independence of the country without fighting.
"I do not wish the Peruvians to kill each other," he repeatedly
declared. "I wish them to live at peace with each other; and whenever
they are ready to do that I will step aside, so that they may choose
whatever kind of government they please."
My father, who admired him greatly, several times pointed out the
dangers that loomed ahead.
"You are reckoning without Bolivar," said he. "He has already driven
the Spaniards from Venezuela and Colombia, and is steadily pushing them
into Peru. He will follow them and mix himself up with our affairs.
He is mad with ambition, and you will find there is not room enough for
both of you in one country."
"In that case I will go away," answered San Martin, with a sad smile.
"I am here, not for my own good, but for that of Peru."
"After bearing the heat and burden of the day, you will give up your
just reward? It is monstrous!"
"I seek no reward, Crawford; I seek only the happiness of Peru. In
order to gain that I shall willingly sacrifice myself."
"We will not permit it, general!"
"You must, because it is your duty. Having made South America
independent of Spain, it would be sheer wickedness to turn and rend
each other. Let Bolivar have the glory. I shall have a quiet
conscience. But it seems to me that we are giving substance to
shadows. Bolivar will join hands with me. We shall establish a strong
government in Peru; then having done our duty, each will retire."
My father shook his head, saying, "You are mistaken; General Bolivar's
ambition is to make all South America into one country, with himself at
the head. Nothing less than that will content him."
"Then he will fail," answered San Martin. "Let us hope he will not
drag the country to ruin with him."
About this time, March 1822, news reached us that our forces at Ica had
met with a terrible defeat. By a swift and daring march, the Spanish
general, Canterac, had thrown his army against them with startling
suddenness. They tried to retreat, but, being attacked in the night,
were cut to pieces, and an enormous quantity of stores passed into the
hands of the Royalists. The news cast a gloom over the city, and many
weak-kneed Patriots lost their heads entirely. Unless we could obtain
help from General Bolivar, they cried, our cause was undone. My father
did not believe this; he distrusted Bolivar, and made no scruple of
saying so.
"Still we must find out just what he means to do," remarked San Martin
one evening.
"His intentions are evident," replied my father, rather bitterly. "He
means to make himself master of the country, and to push you aside."
"I think you misjudge him; but in any case I place the happiness of
Peru before personal ambition.--By the way," he added, turning to me,
"have you ever seen this remarkable man?"
"No, general."
"Would you like to do so? Ah, I see you would. Well, you shall. I am
going to meet him at Guayaquil; you shall go with me, unless your
father objects."
"I have no objection, general. It will do him good, by opening his
eyes!"
"Very well; let him be ready to-morrow morning. I will let Colonel
Miller know of the arrangement."
"Jack," exclaimed my father when San Martin had gone, "this is a great
honour for you. I don't expect the protector will take any one else,
except Guido, who goes with him everywhere. I almost envy you, my boy,
for San Martin and Bolivar are certainly the two most wonderful men in
South America."
"Will there be any danger?" asked my mother.
"I think not; the visit is a friendly one."
The next day, having put on my gaudiest uniform, blue with red facings,
white edging, and abundance of gold lace, I went over to Callao,
meeting the general and his "aid" just as they were embarking on the
schooner _Macedonia_. As usual, the general looked grave and rather
stern. He was very silent too, and as the schooner slipped from her
moorings he disappeared within his cabin. Guido, who shared a cabin
with me, was far less reserved than his chief.
"This is a fool's errand," said he brusquely. "The protector is just
playing into Bolivar's hands."
"He knows what he is doing, I think."
"That makes me the more angry. But for him the Spaniards would still
be in possession of Peru; and now, rather than make a bother, he'll let
the other fellow take the prize."
"What would you have him do?"
"Do?" cried he excitedly; "why, stand his ground. I would say, 'I have
done all the hard work, I have made Peru free, and I am going to be
master of the country. Let Bolivar or any one else come here at his
peril!'"
"Then there would be a three-cornered fight, and the Spaniards would
have the best of it!"
"That wouldn't be San Martin's fault. Do you think Bolivar cares how
the country suffers as long as he comes out on top? Not he!"
"If that is so, San Martin is certainly playing the better part."
"The better part? a fig for the better part! He can beat Bolivar and
the Spanish put together if he chooses. He is far and away the finest
general in South America."
"And one of the best men, if he acts as you say he will."
But Guido was much too angry to take that view. When I added that
without Bolivar's help we could hardly reduce the Spaniards to
submission, he laughed scornfully and turned away.
On the evening of July 25, 1822, the _Macedonia_ dropped anchor in the
harbour of Guayaquil, and immediately afterwards two of Bolivar's
officers came on board with a friendly greeting from their chief.
"Caramba!" muttered Guido beneath his breath, "it makes me mad! It's
like the old custom of garlanding a victim before offering him up as a
sacrifice!"
That night we slept on the schooner, disembarking the next day. The
route was lined by Bolivar's soldiers, who saluted stiffly, and by
thousands of people cheering wildly for their renowned visitor.
"There it is, you see," whispered Guido; "the people want San Martin.
If they had their way, Guayaquil would be a part of Peru, with him as
president."
"But they haven't," said I, "and Bolivar has; which makes all the
difference."
"Look!" exclaimed he contemptuously, as the carriage stopped; "isn't it
like a circus show?"
In front of a house stood a group of officers dressed in the most
magnificent and gorgeous uniforms. As San Martin stepped from the
carriage, one of them, moving a pace forward, embraced him.
"That's Bolivar!" whispered Guido, and I gazed at the great captain
with intense interest.
Perhaps I was prejudiced against him, but he did not come up to my
expectations. He was short, thin, and narrow-chested, his skin was
sallow, his high but narrow forehead was deeply lined. His hair was
black and curly; he had thick lips and beautiful white teeth, which he
was fond of showing. His eyes were large and black but deeply sunken;
now bright and sparkling, again dull and glassy. His features, to me
at least, were harsh and unpleasing; but he was evidently a man of
great energy, to whom action was as the breath of life.
Arm in arm the two leaders entered the house, Guido and I following
with Bolivar's staff. The saloon presented a striking scene, being
filled with officers in brilliant uniforms and by beautifully-dressed
ladies. A young girl, stepping forward, greeted San Martin, and placed
a laurel wreath of gold upon his head.
"What rubbish!" muttered Guido testily. "Does she think he is as great
a mummer as Bolivar?"
"Hush!" I whispered, not wishing his outspoken comments to be heard.
"See, he is taking it off."
We could not hear what he said, but he spoke pleasantly, and beckoning
to Guido, placed the wreath in his hand.
"Take great care of this," said he; "I value it highly for the sake of
the giver."
"Bolivar would have worn a dozen, one on top of the other," growled
Guido.
Presently the two chiefs proceeded to an inner room, where they
remained alone for nearly two hours, while we chatted with the Bolivian
officers, several of whom were Englishmen.
At length the door opened, the leaders came out, and San Martin
accompanied Bolivar to the street, where they parted with a show of
cordial friendship. Directly afterwards the assembly dispersed, and we
were left in peace. The next day they had a much longer interview, and
at its close I read in San Martin's face that he had resolved to
sacrifice himself for the good of Peru.
"Guido," said he quietly, "let the baggage be taken aboard. They are
giving a grand dinner in my honour this evening; as soon as I can get
away, we sail for Callao."
The banquet, which was held in the house set apart for Bolivar, was on
the most magnificent scale. The room was bright with showy uniforms;
every one appeared to be covered with stars and crosses and
decorations. I almost regretted that my silver key was not dangling
outside my tunic.
San Martin sat in the chair of honour at the right of our host. Of all
the good things set before him he ate and drank little, his thoughts
being evidently far removed from the banqueting-room.
This was the first time I had been at a public dinner, and but for
anxiety on our leader's account, I should have enjoyed it immensely.
Presently, when the servants had removed the dishes, Bolivar filled his
glass with wine, and stood up. Instantly the buzz of conversation
ceased; the officers gazed intently at their chief, who was about to
propose a toast. I listened too, wondering if my ears were playing me
false. As to Guido, I thought that, in his scornful contempt, he would
have kicked the table over.
"Gentlemen," said our host, "to the two greatest men of South
America--General San Martin and myself!"
There was a round of cheering, while Guido and I hardly dared look at
each other, and not at all at our chief.
Soon afterward we adjourned to the ballroom, but did not stay long, San
Martin saying, "Let us go; I cannot stand this riot!"
Quietly bidding Bolivar farewell, we followed one of the high
officials, who let us out through a private door, and escorted us to
the quay. There we boarded the schooner, which in less than an hour
was under way. The protector went straight to his cabin without
speaking. He was bitterly disappointed at the result of the interview,
but all that passed his lips on the subject was, "Bolivar is not the
man we took him to be." These words were said as we paced the deck
together next morning, and they were spoken more to himself than to us.
"It has happened as I predicted," remarked Guido that afternoon, "and
the rest will follow. As soon as he has put things in order, he will
leave Peru to make room for Bolivar. And he will not let people know
the reason; he will even make Bolivar's path smoother."
"You would plant it thick with thorns, I suppose?"
"I would plant it with naked swords!"
"Ah, Guido," I cried, "that is not San Martin's teaching!"
"No," said he surlily; "it's a lesson of my own composing."
The voyage passed uneventfully, and on the twentieth of August the
_Macedonia_ once more sailed into the Bay of Callao.
During our absence a riot had taken place in Lima; but the people
received San Martin enthusiastically, coming down in thousands to the
port, and escorting him to his country house in triumph.
I said little of what had taken place to any one except my father, and
he was able to judge of things by other signs. The protector, who told
him Bolivar had agreed to help Peru with troops, worked feverishly day
and night, until the opening of the first Peruvian Congress. Then
removing his sash of authority, he resigned his office, and formally
handed over the care of the country to the new Parliament. That same
evening my father and I called at his house, where we found Guido, ever
faithful, waiting in the anteroom.
"Where is the general?" asked my father.
"Here, Crawford!" answered San Martin, opening the door of an inner
room. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, general, but I fear there soon will be. Do you know it is
whispered in the town that you are about to leave Peru?"
"The rumour is correct, my friend, as I have just been telling Guido.
No, it is useless to talk; my mind is made up. I can do the country no
more good."
For a long time both Guido and my father tried to prevail upon him to
stay, but in vain.
"The world will regard you as a deserter!" urged Guido.
"What matters it as long as I know the truth? I care not for the
applause of the world, my friends, nor fear its frowns. I leave my
work unfinished, it is true, but others will finish it and reap the
glory. Besides, Peru will be the better for my absence."
"No, no!" exclaimed my father earnestly. "The people love you and
trust you. They will uphold your authority."
San Martin held out his hand, saying,--
"You are a true friend, Crawford, but you are a true patriot and a
shrewd man as well. Now listen to me. Without help it will take two
years at least to subdue the Spaniards. That will mean two years of
misery. Do you follow me?"
"Perfectly."
"With help the war can be brought to an end in six months. The
Chilians can do no more, and we can look only to Bolivar. Now, do you
imagine that he and I can run in double harness?"
My father shook his head sorrowfully.
"Of course not. Bolivar is a great man, a remarkable man; but he is
ambitious, and will brook no rival. Now, suppose I remain. It will be
difficult to avoid strife, and the country will be plunged back into
its old condition of slavery. Do you think that San Martin will give a
day of delight to the common enemy? No, my friend; if only Peru
retains its independence, I care nothing for self. Let men call me
what they please. The path of duty lies plain before me; I am going to
walk in it. Let Bolivar have the glory; it is but a breath. I shall
not say this publicly; neither will you. I am broken in health; let
that do for the present. In years to come, perhaps, the world will
recognize my good faith; if not, never mind!"
Even after that my father endeavoured to dissuade him from going, but
his efforts were useless.
"Let me wish you good-bye, Crawford," said he. "I need hardly counsel
you to accept the help which Bolivar offers. The man may not please
you, but--country first!--Good-bye, my boy; if you make half as good a
man as your father, you will not do amiss."
We grasped his hand for the last time, and leaving Guido with him, went
into the road, mounted our horses, and rode slowly homeward.
Next day it became known that San Martin had left Peru for ever, and
instantly men's tongues were loosed in a babel of talk. Some few
judged him rightly; but for the most part his splendid services were
forgotten, and with sickening haste people turned their gaze toward
Bolivar, the new sun.
"There is a lesson for you, Jack, worth heeding," remarked my father.
"If only these people knew the truth!"
"They wouldn't understand it!" said I hotly. "The idea of a man making
such a sacrifice is beyond them. You know I have sometimes thought the
general made a big mistake in the conduct of the war, but he atoned for
everything last night. He looked simply splendid when he talked about
giving up everything for duty."
"Ah!" exclaimed my father thoughtfully, "with all his battles to look
back upon, he never won a greater victory than he did last evening. It
must almost have broken his heart, Jack, but he did not whimper."
Few spoke in this strain, and I was disappointed that even José took
sides with the majority. Sentiment, beyond his love for us, did not
appeal to him; he looked only on the practical side of things.
"I shouldn't have thought San Martin would have thrown up the sponge,"
said he. "I gave him credit for more pluck than that. They do say in
the town that he was keen on making himself king or emperor."
"A pack of rubbish!" I cried.
"Well," said José, "I would have seen the thing through, anyhow. It
won't be pleasant for your father, either, when Bolivar gets the
whip-hand. San Martin's friends will be in Bolivar's black books.
I'll guarantee Montilla has written to him already."
"You aren't in a very good temper this morning, José," said I, with a
laugh.
"No; because I am looking a long way ahead, and see things. Is your
father going to keep in office?"
"I expect so. He may be able to do the country a little good."
"And himself a lot of harm! Shall you resign your commission?"
"How can I? the Spaniards are still in the field."
"And will take a lot of beating yet! 'Twould have answered better if
the Peruvians had done the job by themselves."
I might have mentioned that if they found it so difficult with the aid
of others, they could hardly have done it alone; but dear old José was
too angry for argument, so I let the subject drop.
Among the officers opinion was divided, but no one had much to say on
the matter. It almost seemed as if they feared to express their real
opinion in case of future trouble. Colonel Miller, however, spoke his
mind freely, and so did the other Englishmen with him.
"I am sorry San Martin has gone," said he; "but my duty is plain. I am
an officer in the army of Peru, and must obey orders from the
government. If they give the chief command to Bolivar, why, I shall
fight under him, just as I have done under San Martin. That's one good
thing about soldiering--you always know where you are."
"Humph!" said José, on hearing the remark, "I'm not so sure that the
colonel's right. In my opinion there's more than one soldier just at
present wondering if he hadn't better join the other party again.
Another affair like the one at Ica would send them flying to Canterac
in scores. The great thing with some of them is to be on the winning
side."
As soon as San Martin had left Peru, Bolivar sent a message, offering
the aid of his troops; but the government declined all assistance. A
new spirit seemed to enter into the nation: the people declared the
country would fight its own battles, and preparations to meet the
Spaniards were eagerly pushed on.
What came of them we shall shortly see.