Our Lives Are the Rivers Read online

  Every chance I got, I tried to convince my brother to reconsider his allegiance. “The time has come,” I would repeat tirelessly, “to rebel against Spain and side with justice and freedom.” At first, José María looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Little by little, I noticed a change in him.

  I COULD NOT COUNT on James’s money to fatten the coffers of the patriots, so I began to sell my jewels, gold candleholders and other gold objects, as well as china and silverware we never used—he would never notice they were gone. I knew that if James found out about my involvement with the rebels he would repudiate me as his wife. He depended on the goodwill of the government for the prosperity of his business, and nothing mattered more to him than his business. James was a man without ideals, while for me death had become preferable to a life without them. Only money mattered to James—money and his Church of England.

  I became extremely cautious where James was concerned to make sure he did not suspect anything about my secret activities. Once or twice a week after supper, I would announce that I had plans to visit a sick friend or to attend a tertulia for women organizing charity events. “Make sure your servants accompany you and that you’re driven in the coach,” he would say before he returned to his study to work on his accounts. As long as I promised to take the necessary precautions for my safety, James held no objection to my nocturnal outings.

  I attended meetings at the homes of the conspirators, where Rosita was often present with the latest news gathered at the viceroy’s court. At these meetings I felt an authenticity in my life, as if I finally mattered. I had found a cause to which I could give myself. At that moment in South American history, it was the only cause worth fighting for.

  9

  Jonotás

  I took a bullet for Manuela Sáenz—that’s how much I loved that woman. Neither the Liberator, not James Thorne—and certainly not Natán—would have done as much. How could I not love Manuela? She was the only white woman I knew who despised slavery. I knew she would never sell me. As long as she protected me, no white man would rape me, and no master would brand my face with a hot iron, like so many pitifully deformed slave women I saw throughout the Andes.

  As Manuela’s involvement with the revolutionaries grew, so did mine. She recruited Natán and me as her accomplices. Natán was unhappy about it. “If she wants to get beheaded, that’s her problem,” she said one night from her cot in our bedroom. “But why involve us? That’s not how I want to end up. Don’t you see the danger we’re in, Jonotás?”

  “I don’t care what happens to me,” I replied, “so long as General Bolívar frees the slaves when he defeats the Spanish.”

  “Free the slaves?” Natán sneered. “It will take more than one Simón Bolívar to get white people to abandon their prejudices about Negroes.”

  Natán kept her resentment toward Manuela well hidden. But she became a conspirator, too. Manuela started to write proclamations. She took advantage of the Englishman’s business journeys to go out with us at night. We plastered Lima’s walls with broadsides inciting Peruvians to revolt against the Spanish authorities. My favorite broadsides included salacious gossip from the viceroy’s court, like the affair the vicereine was having with the Archbishop of Lima. All this intimate information came from Rosita.

  We started to dress as men when we went out at night, not out of perversion, as many have accused us, but because in men’s clothes we moved more freely than when we wore dresses. Under the cover of darkness, we armed ourselves with sabers and guns.

  I knew that if Manuela was caught, she would be imprisoned, then exiled, out of courtesy to her brother’s service to the crown, and also Thorne’s wealth. Natán and I, on the other hand, surely faced hanging or the firing squad. Natán wanted no part of it, as I said. But she had no choice. Saying no to your mistress was unthinkable. As for me, I believed in the cause. I knew we Negroes would be liberated much sooner if the Spaniards were defeated. And I wanted to see the Spaniards crushed and pay for what they had done to my family.

  When Manuela sent me to do errands for her, I would join the people gathered in front of the broadsides. Most of the poor people could not read, so they would gather around and wait for someone who could read the broadsides to them. I read them out loud every chance I got, pretending I was reading them for the first time. With a lookout posted to make sure there were no soldiers in the vicinity, I read to them. The people would mutter angrily in response and then quickly disperse. Often, by morning, the broadsides were scraped off the walls or whitewashed over. Still, when I passed in front of one, I felt proud, knowing that I had had something to do with it by helping Manuela and Natán to fasten that broadside to the wall. It made me feel like I, too, was working for independence.

  We usually left the house around two in the morning, one at a time, in different directions. We decided on a meeting place beforehand. That way if one of us was caught coming or going, the other two would not be accused of treason. We carried the broadsides, the pots of glue, and the glue brushes in potato sacks slung on our backs. We wore Indian hats, to give the appearance of the peasant men who came to Lima from the sierra before daylight to sell produce. We stayed in our neighborhood, never venturing beyond the side streets leading to the Plaza de Armas. We kept away from the square itself because even at that hour it was heavily guarded. The walls of the great houses were our targets, as well as the doors of the convents and churches and public buildings.

  One night we were pasting up a broadside on Calle del Carmen, just one street away from our house, when we heard footsteps approaching. Manuela turned to me and whispered, “Jonotás, it’s the watchman.” If the man got close enough and saw what we were doing, he’d blow his whistle to alert the soldiers in the Plaza de Armas. I had to do something. “Run,” I said to Manuela and Natán. “I’ll deal with him.”

  Before Manuela or Natán could stop me, I dashed toward the watchman who was carrying a lantern. He hesitated, seeing what must have looked like a dangerous Indian running toward him. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” he yelled. As the man cocked his pistol, I lunged at him, aiming my saber at his heart. As he fell back, his pistol discharged. My shoulder felt like it was burning. I had killed him. But the gunshot had alerted people who lived on the street, as well as the soldiers in the plaza. Manuela and Natán rushed to my side. I fell into Manuela’s arms, too weak to stand. Natán tore off her shirt and bunched it under mine where the blood was seeping through. Then she lifted me on her back. I had no idea she was so strong. She carried me all the way to our house, which luckily was quite close. We got inside just before we heard the sound of soldiers on horses and people throwing open their shutters and calling into the night.

  “In your condition, you can’t go to the servants’ quarters. I don’t trust them,” Manuela said. “Natán, help me take her to my rooms.”

  In the back of Manuela’s bedroom was a small room where she kept her trunks. There they improvised a cot for me, undressed me, washed and cleaned my wound. I was still bleeding.

  “She’s going to bleed to death,” Natán said.

  “Don’t talk about death,” Manuela said. “Rosita will know a doctor. But we cannot send a message to her at this hour. Not to the palace. We need someone to come sooner. We cannot wait till morning.”

  Manuela did not know any doctor sympathetic to the revolution. So there was nothing to do but wait until she could send word to Rosita. I didn’t want to die, though I began to think there was a strong possibility I would. I knew I had a chance to live, if I remained calm.

  Sometime later, a servant knocked on Manuela’s bedroom door to tell her that José María was downstairs. When I heard this, I thought that I had been found out. He had come for me, and I would be dead within days. Was it possible I had traveled so far from my palenque just to die in this way? While I lay there bleeding, and waiting to be arrested, I felt as lost and scared as on the day the white people arrived in San Basilio and destroyed it. How much would Manuela be willing
to fight to save me?

  I was feverish, in pain, yet fully conscious. I had never seen Manuela so agitated and nervous. “Tell José María to come to my room,” she told the servant.

  As soon as the door was closed, Natán said, “What are you doing, Manuela? He’ll take Jonotás away. Manuela, please!”

  “No, Natán,” Manuela said. “José María is our only hope. Trust me—he doesn’t want to see me ruined.”

  Manuela brought José María directly into the small alcove where I was hidden. I didn’t know what to expect from him. He had always been respectful toward us, but he didn’t love us as Manuela did. And I had never heard him express his sympathy for the emancipation of the slaves. “José María,” she said, “Jonotás was shot and you have to help me.”

  He took a look at me and his face reddened with anger. “Do you know why I am here, Manuela?”

  She shook her head no. “Our agents suspect the person who murdered the night watchman lives in this area, since he disappeared so quickly. The soldiers are conducting a house-to-house search. Tell me the truth, did Jonotás kill this man?” Before Manuela could speak, he exploded. “Manuela, you cannot shelter a slave who’s a murderer and an enemy of the crown! You have to turn her in, or you’ll be accused of treason.”

  “José María, please, listen to me,” Manuela said, grabbing his hand in desperation. “I am responsible. I got Jonotás involved in this. If they take her, they must take me as well. I’ll say I killed the man. I cannot live with myself if anything happens to Jonotás. You know me—you know I mean every word I’m saying.”

  I could hardly breathe from fear.

  José María pulled his hand away from hers and started pacing the room. “I could strangle you, Manuela. Your recklessness is appalling.” There was a long pause. I heard my heartbeats marking the time. “Still, you’re my sister. Against everything I believe in, I’ll give orders not to search the house.”

  “I never doubted you’d do anything else, Joche. We love each other too much,” Manuela said, taking his hand and kissing it. Then she added, “There’s something else you must do for me.”

  “What is it?” he asked, unable to look at her.

  “I want you to go to the palace and ask to see Rosita Campusano. She’ll know a doctor to send here. I fear that Jonotás’s wound will become infected and she’ll die, so there’s no time to waste.”

  “You’re insane,” José María grumbled. “You’re asking me, an officer of His Majesty’s Army, to become a conspirator? If I’m found out I’ll be shot.”

  “You won’t be shot, my brother. As I have told you, General San Martín will be here soon and Lima will be liberated. I promise you that he will learn how you helped the patriots when they needed protection.”

  The argument continued, back and forth, and during it I must have passed out. But Manuela prevailed, and a few hours later a doctor arrived. He removed the bullet, cleansed the wound, dressed it, and left some opium for the pain.

  Perhaps you now understand why I would have died for Manuela. Who besides her in Gran Colombia would have done what she did to save the life of a slave? If I had ever doubted Manuela loved me, that day sealed my loyalty to her. I would never leave her, no matter what. Only death would have the power to separate us.

  10

  Rosita sent word that General San Martín’s troops, las montoneras, famous and feared for their fierceness in battle, were approaching Lima from the south. Riots broke out daily. Public buildings were defaced, looting and burning of stores was widespread. In daylight Spanish troops were shot at by snipers on roofs of houses. In response, the government declared martial law. Rich Spaniards became afraid to be seen in their opulent coaches, venturing out disguised as laborers.

  As soon as I heard the long-awaited news that San Martín’s troops had launched an assault on the walls of the city, I rode to the barracks of the Numancia Regiment. Without waiting to be announced, I burst into José María’s office. Other military officers were present. “Gentlemen,” I said, “please leave us alone. I have to talk to my brother about urgent family matters.”

  After they left, I locked the door and turned to José María. I said, “Have you heard the news about San Martín?” He nodded. “What do you plan to do?” José María turned away and began shuffling papers on his desk.

  “Joche, I implore you. If you are a patriot, you have only one choice—to join the rebels. Aren’t you tired of being treated as a second-rate citizen just because you are a criollo, while those Spanish leeches are entitled to money, the best occupations, to everything, just because they were born in Spain? Aren’t you tired of deferring to the Spaniards and addressing them as our betters? Aren’t you tired of their corrupt viceroys and their bloodthirsty generals, and their ungodly bishops? Aren’t you tired of never being able to make our own decisions about what’s good for our motherland? I will tell you—I am tired of it,” I said, “and I am a woman. I can imagine how humiliating it must be for men to have to lick their boots, whether they’re right or not.”

  “Manuela, have you forgotten that our father is a Spaniard?”

  “Our father is back in Spain, Joche. He returned home. But South America—all of it—is our home. This is where you and I were born. It’s our duty to rid our nations of their oppressors.”

  “I swore allegiance to our king.”

  “Their king, Joche. Not ours. How can a person of conscience swear allegiance to that degenerate? I’d rather swear allegiance to the devil!” I sensed Joche’s opposition was weakening. I pressed on. “We have no kings in South America. We’re fighting to establish republics, to end a world in which monarchies rule, no matter how depraved they may be. My brother, you are dearer to me than anyone in the world. This is your moment to prove yourself as a man, to enter history, to help achieve something great for the ages.”

  By the time I left headquarters, he had changed his mind. Later that day José María and his regiment deserted the Spanish army and attacked the viceroy’s troops that guarded the palace. Panic spread among the Royalist forces when they saw their own men turning against them. The viceroy and his court fled the city and headed for the sierra. His disarrayed army followed him.

  General José de San Martín entered Lima without any Spanish opposition. His first act was to declare Peru’s capital a free territory. All limeños, with the exception of the reactionary aristocracy, welcomed him as the liberator of Lima. The old order had been dethroned and something new and exciting was about to begin. People danced in the streets, showing a spirit of brotherhood: perfect strangers embraced and cried in unison, “Long live General San Martín and his heroes. Death to the Royalists! Viva free Peru!”

  WHILE THE SPANISH monarchy fell in Peru, James Thorne was in Chile on business. He returned to Lima not only to discover my role in the revolution but also to learn I had been awarded the Order of Knight of the Sun for my efforts to gain independence for my adopted country. The same man who had forbidden me to associate with the cause of independence was now beaming with pride over my role in it. I had become an asset under San Martín’s government, and with his wife a heroine of Peruvian independence, his business would continue to prosper.

  The day I was knighted, Thorne rode with me in an open carriage to the palace, where I would receive my medal. Limeños lined the streets to cheer their heroes as they passed. Humble people ran to my carriage to hand me bouquets of violets and crowns of laurel.

  The ceremony took place in the grand salon of the former viceregal palace. All the important people in Lima, even those who mere weeks before had been open enemies of the patriots, were in attendance. When my name was announced, and my modest contribution to the fight for independence and justice described and praised by San Martín, I looked around the room to engrave that moment on my mind. Rosita was there, of course, on the dais with San Martín. My gratitude toward her was immense—if fate had not brought us together again, I might not have achieved this destiny. José María was al
so present, and it made me happy to see how proud he seemed of me. Though perhaps prouder of me than anyone else, Jonotás and Natán were not allowed in the grand salon. I would have loved to see their faces at the moment when I received the black sash with the gold medal pinned to it. Jonotás and Natán had risked their lives to help me. It was unfair that only the descendants of Spaniards were being recognized as heroes.

  For entirely different reasons, I would have wanted to see my father, my stepmother and my half sisters, as well as Aunt Ignacia, my uncle, and grandmother in the salon. Despite their dire predictions for me, I had become a woman to be reckoned with.

  The last two years had only increased my appetite for working to liberate my people. I would continue to work for the cause until all of South America was free. And the first step in that direction was to free myself of James Thorne.

  book TWO

  An Adulterous Woman

  11

  QUITO

  1822

  Bolívar made love like he made war—obsessively, with an intensity and energy that at times made me fear I was on the verge of dying from his passion. On my first night with the general, it was almost dawn when we succumbed to exhaustion. We lay for hours, bodies entwined, both of us silent, just breathing.

  I woke up around noon, lightheaded, my blood pumping fast in my veins, my heartbeats so loud I could hear them. I was alone in the bed. Where was he? I splashed some water on my face and dressed. As I was preparing to leave, one of the general’s aides tapped on the door. He informed me the Liberator had gone off to take care of some business. He had left instructions that I was to be driven home in his official carriage. On the way to my father’s house, the air that came in through the window of the carriage invigorated me—as if I were hiking high in the Andes.