Rumors of Change
Repercussions of Caribbean Turmoil and Social Conflicts in Venezuela (1790-1810)
by
María Cristina Soriano
A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment
of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
Department of History
New York University
September, 2011
_____________________________________
Sinclair Thomson, Dissertation Advisor
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DEDICATION
For Julio
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In a project ranging over six years and innumerable sites of research and
discussions, more debts have been incurred that I can possibly hope to acknowledge. I
have benefitted from the support of many institutions and individuals. This project has
been made possible thanks to the support of the Centro de Estudios Hispánicos e
Iberoamericanos that allowed me to travel to Seville to pursue part of the archival
research. I am also grateful for receiving the support of the Warren Dean Fellowship
of the History Department at New York University, and a fellowship from the John
Carter Brown Library at Brown University. I am especially grateful with the Frank
Guggenheim Foundation Dissertation Award, which supported me during the lasts
years of writing.
My Committee members have been inspiring models of scholarship and
teaching, and I am grateful for their patient and thoughtful mentorship. My advisor
Sinclair Thomson has been supportive and challenging in his guidance, he has been a
thoughtful coach, providing me encouragement and assistance throughout my whole
career. Ramón Aizpurúa was the first teacher I actually met at a History department,
he has seen this project evolve from my undergraduate interests in the history of
reading in Caracas and has given me incredible support as it has transformed. I wish to
be able to replicate his generosity and honest research. Ada Ferrer and Sybille Fischer
have been wonderful sources of inspiration; they have helped me, directly and
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indirectly, to hone my ideas into stronger arguments. Greg Grandin has been an
amazing teacher and an incredible example of an engaged Latin Americanist
researcher.
I very much appreciate the professionalism, knowledge, and assistance of
librarians and archivists in the following repositories: the Archivo General de Indias in
Seville and the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, the Archivo General de la Nación,
Archivo Arquideocesano, and the Biblioteca Nacional in Caracas. In the John Carter
Brown Library in Providence, I had the pleasure to meet the historian and curator of
the Latin American collection, Ken Ward who was and continues to be particularly
generous and supportive.
I have also contracted numerous debts at New York University. I had the
fortune of sharing graduate courses with a wonderful group of people, including
Michelle Chase, Marcela Echeverri, Michelle Thompson, Aisha Finch, Edwina Aishe-
Nikoi, Tanya Huelett, Natasha Lightfood, and Ramón Suarez. All of them made my
“New York phase” a wonderful experience at a personal and academic level.
While at the Universidad Central de Venezuela, I found support,
comprehension and generosity in my colleagues at the Department of Archeology and
Historical Anthropology, Professors Emanuele Amodio, Kay Tarble, Luis Molina and
Rodrigo Navarrete. During the last five years I have had the great opportunity of
sharing my findings, interpretations, and thoughts with a wonderful group of students
that have been tremendously generous and have allowed me to enjoy the experience of
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teaching. I am especially thankful to Rommy Durán, Germán Díaz, Dejaneth Ruza and
Steven Schwartz. Dejaneth and Steven participated as research assistants in two
different moments of this project, their support came in when I needed it the most, and
I am grateful for the opportunity of having such great young researchers working with
me. The entire dissertation was written in Caracas, and although I enjoyed been close
to the archives, I did struggle with my English grammar and writing style, I highly
appreciate the generous and detailed editing of Professor Dick Parker.
My friends have often saved me from the isolation and loneliness typical of
dissertation writers. I especially thank Krisna Ruette, Yoly Velandria, Marcia López,
Gabriela Sucre and Claudia Cordido for their emotional support, patience and
enduring friendship. My parents-in-law, Irving and Inés Peña, have been amazing
grandparents and have offered their help whenever I needed it. My sisters and
brothers: Luis and Rebeca, Carolina and Luis Alfredo, Coco and Valentina, always
brought joy to my existence in the last six years, I cherish their company and fraternal
love. I owe a profound gratitude to my parents, Amilcar and Myriam Soriano, for their
support, thoughtful guidance and help taking care of my children whenever I needed
it. I also thank them for not asking too often when I was going to finish this project,
they knew I would.
Julio already knows the place he holds in my heart, but I want to publicly
thank him for the many choices he has made that have allowed us to be a two-career
family. He has been the most supportive partner I could have ever wished for, and I
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am grateful for every day we share together. My kids, Vicente and Lucia were born at
the beginning of this project, and have grown with it. They have taught me to cope
with motherhood and research, and today I found both experiences nourishing and
compatible, I profoundly thank them for teaching me this great lesson. With them I
have become a bedtime storyteller; today I am convinced that these are the stories I
want to tell: the stories of the men and the women of my country, Venezuela, that have
lived, dreamed, and struggled with the hope that someday their stories would be told.
This is my contribution.
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ABSTRACT
My dissertation explores the effects of Caribbean rumors of revolution in the
political culture and social setting of Venezuela’s slave-based society during the late
colonial period. I explore how Venezuelan masters, free-blacks, and slaves received,
transformed, and circulated representations of the turbulent Caribbean in the Province
of Venezuela and analyze the multiple ways through which this knowledge – in the
form of rumors, gossip, verbal enunciations, illustrations, and pamphlets –
transformed social relations among diverse social groups, and prompted violent
responses, rebellions, and political instability.
My dissertation examines the sources of information, webs of communication,
and media that contributed to the development of collective movements against the
political elite and the colonial government, such as the black rebellion of Coro in 1795
and the Conspiracy of La Guaira in 1797. I argue that new practices and media
created more open and contested spaces for dominant groups and subalterns to express
their political ideas, social values and to negotiate. I have found that in the
confrontational social setting of the late eighteenth century, the turbulent Caribbean
was a discursive fulcrum that allowed coloreds to challenge elites, using white fear to
advance their demands. It also gave the elites cause for exercising tighter control over
subalterns, and made them reconsider their relations with them, undermining their
confidence in their slaves. The colonial authorities, in particular, became more aware
of the need of keeping blacks of the region contented while controlling the potential
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emergence of new subversive movements, and restricting their participation in the
political sphere.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS iv
ABSTRACT viii
LIST OF FIGURES xiv
LIST OF TABLES xv
CHAPTER I 1
1. An “Unthinkable Event” became possible:
The Haitian Revolution, was it really silenced? 1
2. The Impact of the Haitian Revolution and Social Mobilizations:
Historiographic Trends 12
3. A Fragile Harmony: Social Frictions in Colonial
Venezuela (1770-1810) 26
4. Methodological Approach and Historical Sources 45
CHAPTER II
The Revolutions on Paper: Transmission of Political Knowledge
and the Interfaces Between the Oral and the Written Communication
in Colonial Venezuela 54
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1. Transmission of Political Knowledge: From the History of Books
to the History of Reading 54
2. Books, Readers and Reading Practices in Colonial Venezuela 63
3. Prohibited Readings, the State and the Inquisition 83
4. Social Control of Plebian Reading 86
5. The Written Expansion of a “Revolutionary Disease:”
Texts from France and Saint-Domingue in Venezuela, 1789-1810 92
6. Forbidden Texts and Readers of Color 116
CHAPTER III
Voices and Rumors in Tierra Firme: Visitors, Fugitives and Prisoners
of the French Caribbean in Venezuela (1789-1799)
124
1. Caribbean Communication Networks during the Age of Revolution 124
2. Controlling “Suspicious” French Visitors 132
3. The Presence of Fugitive Slaves and Maritime Maroons 144
4. The Impact of French Caribbean Militiamen and Colored Prisoners
in the Coast of Caracas (1793-1796) 158
CHAPTER IV
The Menace: Representations of Saint-Domingue in the Black Rebellion
of Coro, 1795 180
1. The Historiography of the Rebellion of Coro 181
2. La Serranía de Coro in 1795 193
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3. Narratives of an Event: The Rebellion 208
4. Saint-Domingue as a Language of Contention 235
CHAPTER V
Texts, Readings and Social Networks in the Conspiracy of La Guaira, 1797 243
1.The “Revolutionary Port of La Guaira:” Social Groups, Reading Circles,
and the Emergence of a Conspiracy 253
2. Books and Manuscripts in the Conspiracy of La Guaira, 1797-1799 276
2.1. “Prohibited Books” in the Libraries of the Conspirators 278
2.2. The Texts Produced by the Conspirators of La Guaira, 1797 290
CHAPTER VI
The Intensification of the Haitian Revolution and its Impact
in Venezuelan Colonial Society 303
1. “We can not trust black slaves anymore”
Contestation and Negotiation between White Elites and Black Subalterns 303
2. Toussaint Invades Santo Domingo: The Presence of
Spanish Dominican Families in Venezuela and their “Stories of Chaos” 323
Epilogue
The Political Use of The Haitian Revolution in Colonial Venezuela 348
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BIBLIOGRAPHY 354
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LIST OF FIGURES
Fig. 1 Map of the Venezuela and the Caribbean
6
Fig. 2 Map of General Captaincy of Venezuela (1777 – 1810)
30
Fig. 3. Map of the Province of Caracas or Venezuela (1777 – 1810)
41
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LIST OF TABLES
Table 1. Number of Dominicans in Maracaibo, January 1801 – March 1801
336
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1
CHAPTER I
1. An “unthinkable event” became possible:
The Haitian Revolution, was it really silenced?
In December 1789, the members of the Real Audiencia of Caracas met in
order to discuss the advantages and disadvantages that the Código Negrero of 1789
would bring to the Province of Venezuela.1 In the opinion of some of the members of
the Audiencia, the slaves of the Province were well attended and the treatment of them
could hardly be improved. In fact, they believed that the recent slave uprisings had
more to do with the generous attitude of local masters than with any harsh treatment.
They thought that slaves rebelled because they wanted freedom and not because of
unfair or improper treatments from their masters. 2 The white elite of Caracas,
represented by the Audiencia, concluded that improving the treatment and education 1 The Código Negrero was a Royal Decree that sought to regulate and control the treatment of slaves by their Spanish American masters. See Real Cédula sobre “Educación, trato y ocupaciones de los esclavos en todos los dominios e Islas de Filipinas” (Mayo, 1789), Archivo General de Indias (AGI-Sevilla), Indiferente General, 802. For an understanding of the repercussions of the Edict in Colonial Spanish America see José Torre Revello, “Origen y aplicación del código negrero en América Española (1788-1794),” Boletín del Instituto de Investigaciones históricas XI, Vol. XV, no. 53 (1932): 42-50. For a comprehension of its effects in colonial Venezuela see Ildefonso Leal, “La aristocracia criolla y el código negrero de 1789,” Revista de Historia 26, no. 1 (1961): 61-81. 2 During the decade of 1780 some uprisings and “cumbes” of free-blacks and slaves took place in diverse regions of the Province of Venezuela, especially in the coastal region where many haciendas were established; these uprisings preoccupied elites and officials who discussed all the possible circumstances and reasons that motivated blacks to rebel. See Lucas G. Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1981) and Lucas G. Castillo Lara, Curiepe, orígenes históricos (Caracas: Biblioteca de Autores y Temas Mirandinos, 1981). This latter work is based on a chapter in the first book.
2
of the slaves would give them greater hope for freedom, and that finally the abolition
of slavery would mean the end of the elites social order and economic privileges. In an
interesting document, the members of the Cabildo (City Council) stated that if they
applied the Black Code:
The economy would perish, slaves would definitely lose all respect and consideration for their masters, and it would not be surprising if a general uprising occurred, because this [the code] would awake in them a sort of independence and libertinage that would lead to a general uprising in the Province, with the killing of all the whites, and with the slaves becoming masters of the country.3
Apparently, the spread of rumors about the consequences of the application of
the Black Code provoked the different reactions among diverse social groups: the
white elites feared “the loss of the province and of their lives,” while the slaves
wanted their definitive freedom.4 Many white landowners and masters sought out
members of the Audiencia to discuss the negative consequences of applying the Black
Code. The Audiencia, then, decided to apply the Royal Decree “but without any hurry,
and making use of measures capable of slowly cooling down the ardent spirits.”5
However, rumors about the Royal Decree and the Audiencia resolutions spread
in the city of Caracas. Free blacks and slaves not only heard about the benefits – 3 “La economía perecería, los esclavos definitivamente perderían todo respeto por sus amos. Y Nada extraño tendría que ocurriera un levantamiento general, pues se despertaría en ellos una especie de libertinaje e independencia que no tardará mucho se alcen en la Provincia, acaben con todos los blancos, y se hagan señores del País,” in Leal, “La aristocracia criolla,” 68. 4 “Representación de la Real Audiencia al Rey sobre Real Cédula de trato de esclavos de 1789, Diciembre, 1789” AGI-Sevilla, Caracas, 167, no. 44. 5 “El Tribunal se propuso llevar adelante la execución decretada de la Real Cédula, pero sin apresuramiento, y por unos medios capaces de resfriar lentamente el ardor,” Ibid.
3
fictitious or not – of the code, they also knew that the elites were emphatically
rejecting it. In June 1790, three pamphlets were found in the central plaza of Caracas
and another close to the Church of San Francisco, all of them reproducing the same
message with a childish and clumsy calligraphy:
The Real Cedula that has come from His Majesty in favor of us, the slaves, will be published more by obligation than by the willingness of the whites and the Real Audiencia.6
In the pamphlet, there was an illustration showing a black man with a machete
in his right hand, and a small white man in his left hand. Members of the Audiencia
debated the possible authorship of these written messages, wondering if they were
written by blacks or by “idle and evil people insisting in provoking a black uprising,
introducing mistrust, where it should not exist.” This pre-Haitian Revolution image,
created or not by black authors, reflects in my opinion the unstable and tense relations
that existed in the Province between masters and slaves - and more generally between
whites, free blacks and mixed-race pardos - during the last decades of the eighteenth
century.
It is interesting to note that these pamphlets circulated a year before the first
uprisings in Saint-Domingue. Evidently, the idea of a slave uprising with
6 The complete original text says: “Que desgracias, Que de llantos, que de muertes, la culpa yo bien la se hellace declaraba. Se ace saber al publico como hestamos citados para que la Real Cedula que a venido de S.M. a favor de nosotros los esclavos ce publique mas a fuerza que con voluntad de los blancos y de la Real Audiencia cin senalar dia ni hora a pesar de todos los blancos y blancas de esta ciudad de Caracas,” (9 de mayo de 1790). See AGI, Caracas, 167.
4
revolutionary consequences7 in Spanish America was not as unthinkable as Michel
Trouillot has presented it: in the Province of Venezuela, white masters indeed
imagined a scenario in which slaves could rebel, exterminate all whites, and become
“masters of the country,” while slaves could have distributed written messages and
illustrations implying violent threats to their white masters. The events of Saint-
Domingue in 1791 would later reinforce these violent images in the minds of whites,
blacks, and pardos, radicalizing their tensions and social interactions.8
During the last decade of the eighteenth century, there were various slave, free-
black rebellions and other mixed-race conspiracies in the Province of Venezuela that
revealed the vulnerability and unstable character of the colonial regime, together with
7 Such as the assassination of all whites and blacks assuming the rule of the Province. 8 In his book Silencing the Past, Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1997), historian Michel Trouillot argues that in spite of eighteenth century philosophical debates and the rise of abolitionism, the Haitian Revolution was unthinkable in the West because it challenged slavery and racism in unexpected ways. Sybille Fischer, on the contrary, argues that in Europe a slave revolution was not as unthinkable as Trouillot has argued; in her opinion, utopian novels, such as L’an 2440 (Louis-Sebastien Mercier, 1771) show that the idea of a slave revolution “was perfectly available but expressed itself,…, largely in utopias, fears, and fantasies.” See Sybille Fischer, Modernity Disavowed, Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolution (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 291-292. Following Fischer, I suggest that this characterization of an “unthinkable event” becomes even more implausible in colonial America, where slavery was a tangible reality and masters and slaves every-day lives and representations were shaped by the slavery system itself. There are documents, as the one I mention here, that show how white masters feared a possible slave revolution. However, from a subaltern perspective, we must inquire if a slave revolution was also “thinkable” for the slaves themselves. Most of them could not write at all, and could not leave any records, but this does not mean that they could not have imagined a revolution. As Sybille Fischer comments: “If we truly believe that Haiti was ‘unthinkable,’ we implicitly (and paradoxically) accept that the history of the West can continue to be written without Haiti and revolutionary slaves.” See Sybille Fischer, “Unthinkable History? Some Reflections on the Haitian Revolution, Historiography, and Modernity on the Periphery,” in A Companion to African American Studies, vol. 2, eds. Lewis Gordon and Jane Gordon (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2006), 360-379, 365.
5
the slavery system and its racial order.9 The colonial society of the Province of
Venezuela was structured upon a hybrid slave/free labor force, and racial struggles
complicated its internal relations, promoting a tense social and political environment.10
At the end of the eighteenth century, international circumstances also jeopardized the
stability of the Province of Venezuela and fueled social violence.
9 The black rebellion of Coro (1795), the plot of Gual and España in La Guaira (1797), and the conspiracy of Miranda (1806) are the best known and documented movements against local governments in the Province of Venezuela. Traditional historiography has frequently denominated them as “pre-independentist” movements, but recently many historians have argued that this retrospective denomination oversimplifies their nature and characteristics. 10 Peter M. McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia (Caracas: Edit. Monteávila, 1993); Ramón Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro en 1795: una revisión necesaria,” Boletín de la Academia Nacional de la Historia (Caracas), no. 283 (1983): 705-23; Federico Brito Figueroa, El problema tierra y esclavos en la historia de Venezuela (Aragua: Asamblea Legislativa del Edo. Aragua, 1973); Miquel Izard, El miedo a la revolución: la lucha por la libertad en Venezuela (1777-1830) (Madrid: Tecnos, 1979).
6
Figure 1.
The colonization of the Lesser Antilles by non-Iberian European nations
during the second half of the seventeenth century allowed the establishment of diverse
commercial, social, and information networks that connected different ports and cities
7
in the circum-Caribbean region.11 As Julius Scott has showed, when the first
revolutionary events erupted in France in 1789, European liberal ideas and
information about the conflicts generated in the Caribbean islands circulated
throughout these networks between different slave societies of the region.12 The events
of the French Revolution and its Republican principles were obviously not well
received by the Spanish Crown, which developed multiple mechanisms in order to
prevent and control the entry of revolutionary books, pamphlets, and news, as well as
limiting the access of visitors from France and its colonies to the vast Spanish
American territories. In addition, the events of Saint-Domingue in 1791 increased the
fear among Spanish authorities and local elites of a “slave revolution” and gave the
opportunity to thousands of slaves and free blacks to imagine different possibilities.
Slaves may have seen in Saint-Domingue a model to follow, but pardos, free-blacks,
and slaves could also have used these violent events as a powerful reference to
reinforce their demands and threaten Spaniards and local whites in order to produce
revolutionary transformations, or at least significant reforms.
In Venezuela, the flow of information about the first events of the Saint-
Domingue rebellion was frequent and varied. However, during the first two or three
years, the information tended to be vague and repetitive. There were no detailed
11 Robert L. Paquette and Stanley L. Engerman, eds., The Lesser Antilles in the Age of European Expansion (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1996). 12 Julius Scott III, “The Common Wind: Currents of Afro-American Communication in the Era of the Haitian Revolution” (PhD diss., Duke University, 1986).
8
descriptions of the events, just brief comments that highlighted the violent character of
the Guarico uprisings. As Ada Ferrer argues in relation to the news from of Saint-
Domingue in the island of Cuba, these references suggest that there was a particular
type of language for referring to Haiti: it was synthetic and brief, reproduced and
repeated over and over again regardless of what may have been going on locally, and
regardless of what was going on in Haiti.13 From the beginning, Haiti was
decontextualized, used and re-used as a reference for slaves’ upheavals, black
insurrection, material destruction, rape and extreme violence. This decontextualization
of Haiti has been often assumed as an act of silencing, since this was the strategy that
the colonial powers and local elites used to evade the presence and influences of the
revolution.14 However, for other groups, such as the pardos militia members and free-
blacks, Haiti represented an opportunity to discuss political agendas and opportunities.
Therefore, we should ask: how exactly was Haiti silenced? What did the Haitian
Revolution in fact mean in Spanish America for different social groups? These are
questions that remain partially unanswered and need to be addressed by Caribbean,
Latin American, and Atlantic historians.
13 See Ada Ferrer, “Cuba en la sombra de Haití: noticias, sociedad y esclavitud,” in Ma. Dolores González-Ripoll and others (eds.), El rumor de Haití en Cuba: temor, raza y rebeldía, 1789-1844, (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2004), 179-231. 14 In his book, Michel Trouillot implies that the many and ubiquitous discourses that mentioned and used Haiti also generated silences about it. He proposes that history is as much a matter of “silences” as it is a matter of “mentions,” that the operations of imbalanced power relations become written into the very source materials from which historical narratives are produced. See Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 95-107.
9
Ada Ferrer and Sybille Fischer have taken great interest in dissecting this
purported “silence,” and have invited us to consider whether these silences were not
quite complete. They have also shown that Haiti spoke through many voices that, in
the end, transformed it into a political and historical denial.15 This dissertation delves
into the heart of this debate and seeks to analyze what discourses and representations
about Haiti circulated in colonial Venezuela, and to illustrate how these led to social
and political violence in the local context.
In its broadest sense, this study explores the repercussions and effects of
Caribbean rumors of rebellion and revolution in the social setting of Venezuela’s
slave-based societies during the final years of the colonial period. I propose to look
into how Venezuelan white masters, pardos, free-blacks, and slaves received,
transformed and circulated representations of the “turbulent” Caribbean in their local
context, producing interpretations suited for their own realities. I argue that the
external - but nearby - revolutionary circumstances affected the local world of the
Province of Venezuela, functioning as a mirror that reflected the significance of its
own internal social problems. In my view, the Haitian Revolution and its multiple
images and representations reinforced social and racial tensions in the province,
15 See Ada Ferrer, “Noticias de Haití en Cuba,” Revista de Indias LXIII, no. 229 (2003): 675-94; “Temor, poder y esclavitud en Cuba en la época de la Revolución Haitiana,” in José Piqueras (ed.) Las antillas en la Era de las Luces y la Revolución, (Madrid: Siglo XXI, 2005), 67-83; and “Cuba en la sombra de Haití: noticias, sociedad y esclavitud.” Sybille Fischer, for her part, goes beyond the confines of disciplinary fragmentation and offers a lucid interpretation for understanding “the different forms denial can take before there can be any silence.” See Fischer, Modernity Disavowed, Introduction, and “Unthinkable History? Some Reflections on the Haitian Revolution, Historiography, and Modernity,” 365-66.
10
changing the way whites saw their slaves, how slaves perceived their masters, and the
relations between them.
From 1791 to 1799, the anxiety of local authorities increased as news about the
insurrection in Saint-Domingue arrived through various channels. Regardless of the
different mechanisms of state control, the flight of slaves from the Antilles to
Venezuela was common and led to the ongoing formation of relatively isolated and
rebellious free black communities in the coastal region.16
Written information coming from Saint-Domingue and other islands of the
Caribbean was another problem that mortified local officials and elites. “Menacing
and pestilent” written materials were circulating throughout the province, promoting
discomfort, and threatening the political elites who prohibited them.17 The question is:
how would mostly non-literate slaves and free coloreds get to know these writings? To
answer this question, in this study, I argue that the boundaries established between the
written and oral worlds in this kind of “semi-literate” society were not clearly defined
or delimited.18 I have found that in the Province of Venezuela, the oral reading of brief
16 This is evident in the black rebellion of Coro and different movements of free blacks, slaves, and maroons in Barlovento, and in the Valleys of Curiepe, Capaya, and Caucagua. See Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento, and Curiepe, orígenes históricos. 17 Archivo General de la Nación (AGN-Caracas), Gobernación y Capitanía General, Tomo LIX, folio 224; and Tomo LIX, folio 270. See William J. Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela, 1780-1796,” Boletín histórico 14, (mayo, 1967): 177-205, and Elías Pino Iturrieta, La mentalidad venezolana de la emancipación (1810-1812) (Caracas: Instituto de Estudios Hispanoamericanos, Facultad de Humanidades, UCV, 1971), Chapter 1. 18 An interesting approach to slaves’ relation to written culture can be found in José Ramón Jouve Martín, Esclavos de la ciudad letrada. Esclavitud, escritura y colonialismo en Lima (1650-1700) (Lima: IEP, 2005), Chapter 4.
11
written materials such as pamphlets and newspapers was a common practice, which
provided a way for non-literate people to access the written world. 19 By combining
approaches from the history of reading and the history of the systems of modes of
communication, this dissertation illustrates the ways in which social groups which
were in conflict, nevertheless communicated with each other, and constructed a
common frame of reference about Caribbean turmoil at the end of the eighteenth
century within which they added their own concerns, interpretations, and visions of
the colonial world.
Representations of Haitian violence circulated orally and in writing, and
created an environment of mistrust and hostility between the elites and the subaltern
groups. The colonial state and white elites used Haiti to justify control, persecution
and repression, while free blacks and slaves used Haiti to promote insurrections as a
response to perceived social injustice. Ironically, the knowledge that elites and
subalterns produced about Haiti was, in my opinion, a common political-cultural
frame that was shared by these groups: elites feared the violence of Haiti, while slaves
and colored people recognized white fear and used the representations of Haiti to
express their anger and make demands, not only for freedom and equality, but also for
19 There were literate artisans (barbers, small surgeons, silversmiths) who read newspapers and pamphlets to others in public places (plazas and barber-shops); they also offered their “literacy” services to the non-literate people by writing and/or reading personal letters in exchange of money or other services from the “listener.” See my undergraduate thesis, Cristina Soriano, “Libros y lectores en Caracas durante el siglo XVIII” (Undergraduate diss., Universidad Central de Venezuela, Caracas, 1999).
12
the modification of living conditions. The processes of negotiation, transaction,
imposition, and contestation in which these social groups engaged in their struggle for
power, economic benefits, and social privileges should also lead us to look for more
common spaces of communication.20 In spite of the existence of a “common
knowledge,” information about Haiti evoked contradictory interpretations from elites
and subalterns, while both groups tended to perceive each others’ actions and
perceptions in terms of a process of radicalization and polarization.
2. The Impact of Haitian Revolution and Social Mobilizations: Historiographic
Trends
My dissertation is nourished by, and interacts with, the voluminous body of
literature that has been produced on resistance and rebellion in Latin America and the
Caribbean. Since the 1960s, the academic world has seen a growing production of
works on all aspects of subaltern groups lives and their relations with dominant
groups. The subject of “resistance” in particular has received significant attention 20 From a cultural approach, historians Roger Chartier and Robert Darnton, among others, have suggested that the modes of communication and diverse media that people have used to transmit knowledge and share information in each society should also be the focus of historical analysis. They argue that knowledge transcends social limits and flows among diverse social groups. Chartier’s approach to the circulation of “knowledge” among diverse social groups is compatible with Gramscian approaches to hegemony, as a form of relationship between the dominant and dominated groups in which processes of contestation and negotiation coexist. William Roseberry follows this path when defining hegemony “not as [a] finished and monolithic ideological formation but as a problematic, contested, political process of domination and struggle.” See William Roseberry, “Hegemony and the Language of Contention,” in Everyday Forms of State Formation: Revolution and Negotiations of Rule in Modern Mexico, eds. Joseph, G. and D. Nugent (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994), 358.
13
during the last forty years, and has made great strides since the pioneering work of
C.L.R. James in the 1930s. Within the large body of literature that discusses resistance
and rebellion in colonial Latin America, one of the most fruitful areas of analysis
emerges from an understanding of the extent to which local political dynamics, and
larger international trends affected the oppositional movements of free blacks and
slaves as well as indigenous and mestizo peasants. William Roseberry, Steve Stern,
and Florencia Mallon have been among the most vocal discussants on this question,
emphasizing the importance of “local fields of power” for understanding resistance in
Latin America.21
In recent decades, Latin American scholars have paid close attention to local
power fields, concentrating on traditional, and long-contested issues of oppression
between elites and subalterns. Recently, historians studying slave conspiracies and
rebellions in the Caribbean argue that one must indeed consider the ways in which
slaves responded to newly-opened rifts in the ranks of ruling classes, while arguing
that the origins of conspiracies and plots were often “overwhelmingly, if not
exclusively, internal.”22 In most cases, these Caribbeanist historians have begun
21 See William Roseberry, Anthropologies and Histories: Essays in Culture, History and Political Economy (New Brunswick: Rutgers University, 1989); Steve Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness in the Andean Peasant World, 18th to 20th Centuries (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987) and Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest: Huamanga to 1640 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993); Florencia Mallon, Peasant and Nation: The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). 22 David Barry Gaspar, Bondmen and Rebels: A Case Study of Master-Slave Relations in Antigua, with Implications for Colonial British America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985).
14
locating the origins of black conspiracy and rebellion in the violent master-slave
relationships of these colonial societies, and the battle between the slaveholders’
desire for social control, and the slaves’ attempts to resist that control.23
In a similar manner, historians studying Spanish colonization and indigenous
and peasant participation in resistance movements direct our attention toward local
indigenous communities, and the internal dynamics of cultural autonomy and political
integrity that were being played out amongst various actors. Their narrative is clearly
aware of wider events and intersections with Creole struggles, but often these
historians argue that it was this set of more localized concerns, including inherited and
ancestral conflicts, communal and territorial rights, rather than the larger anti-Spanish,
state-building projects of Creole elites, or abstract notions of human rights and
individual citizenship, that preoccupied mestizo and Indian peasantries in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.24
By focusing explicitly on the long-term perspective, I believe that such
analyses allow us to understand the ways in which particular cultural and political
23 See, for example, Gaspar, Bondmen and Rebels: A Case Study of Master-Slave Relations in Antigua; Carolyn Fick, The Making of Haiti, The Saint Domingue Revolution from Below (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1990); Emilia Viotti Da Costa, Crowns of Glory, Tears of Blood. The Demarara Slave Rebellion of 1823 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994); and Ada Ferrer, Insurgent Cuba: Race, Nation and Revolution, 1868-1898 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999). 24 See, for example, Eric Van Young, The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence, 1810-1821 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001); Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting the Colonial Authority, Challenges to Spanish Rule in Eighteenth-Century Southern Andes (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003); Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule. Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002).
15
clashes determined the nature of resistance in different localities. Eugene Genovese, in
a similar vein, has argued for the importance of understanding how slaves exploited
and made use of political opportunities and rifts in the larger white power structures.25
A number of scholars of Latin America and/or the Caribbean have devoted
significant attention to external factors in rebellions -- in particular, the Enlightenment
discourses and political changes of the eighteenth-century, and the liberal-bourgeois
revolutions of the Atlantic World.26 The recent work of David Geggus has shown the
undoubted influence that the Haitian Revolution had on slaves throughout the
Americas. Geggus places a great deal of emphasis on the French Revolution, and the
manner in which its ideological influence impacted slave resistance in the French
Caribbean. His work is clearly important for illuminating, on the one hand, the manner
in which wider political currents shaped subaltern resistance in Latin America and the
25 Eugene Genovese, From Rebellion to Revolution, Afro-American Slave Revolts in the Making of the Modern World (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1992). 26 In her discussion of eighteenth century Andean rebellions, Scarlett O’Phelan, demonstrates how the fiscal reforms of the Spanish Bourbon monarchy galvanized a wide-range of Andean actors, bringing them together in common cause against the Spanish, and sparking the notorious rebellion of Túpac Amaru. Yet she also argues that Indian peasants continued to resent the ongoing, and oppressive systems of labor and tribute that had been instituted two centuries earlier. O’Phelan aptly acknowledges the way in which moments of unrest and rebellion overlap, yet she pays scant attention to some of the more deeply-rooted cultural and messianic aspects of the rebellion that we see in the work of Steve Stern, Sergio Serulnikov, and Sinclair Thomson. See Scarlett O’Phelan, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales: Perú y Bolivia 1700-1783 (Cusco: Centro de Estudios Rurales Andinos "Bartolomé de Las Casas", 1988); Steve Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest, Humanaga to 1640, (Madison, University of Wisconsin Press, 1993); Sergio Serulnikov, Subverting the Colonial Authority; Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule. In Crowns of Glory, Tears of Blood, Viotta da Costa argues for a more “polyphonic” analysis of the 1823 slaves rebellion in Demerara, attributing the causes to the new demands on slaves’ time and labor prompted by the colony’s recent incorporation into the British empire, a new language of “universal rights” being circulated by Age of Revolution rhetoric, along with slaves’ traditional conception of their own rights, and the influence of Christian missionaries.
16
Caribbean, and, on the other, the way in which Black/African slaves took advantage of
these openings. And yet, as we have seen above, these texts only succeed in painting
part of the picture. This is particularly so if we acknowledge, as many authors have,
that cultural components and social dynamics form an integral part of the way that
African, Indians, Afro-Creoles, and mestizos rebelled. Authors such as Carolyn Fick
demonstrate how blacks and mulattos in Saint Domingue made use of liberal
humanistic discourses emanating from French republican projects in order to argue for
their own political rights and eventually create their own nation. She also demonstrates
how slaves were consciously aware, and actively exploitative of political machinations
between the imperial powers. But Fick also makes a bold attempt to recover the
consciousness of slave insurgents by centering on African cultural elements, in
particular, the religion of Vodun. I would argue that it is extremely difficult, if not
impossible, to isolate abstract cultural or ideological factors from the more concrete
economic and material factors of indigenous peasant resistance, and of slave rebellions
as well.
Venezuelan historical studies of the rebellions and conspiracies of the late
colonial period perceive social movements such as cumbes (maroon communities),
black insurrections, and indigenous mobilizations on the basis of two contrasting
perspectives. On one hand, there are the traditional historical studies that (often
reproducing colonial discourses) perceive rebellions and conspiracies as sporadic
movements responding merely to ideological forces coming from abroad; these studies
17
tend to exaggerate the impact of the Enlightenment Age and the French Revolution in
the province and to underestimate subalterns’ capacities to think and act politically.27
On the other hand, there are a number of relatively recent works that provide an
analytical approach to colonial socio-economic dynamics and perceive these
movements more as products of local systems of exploitation than as consequences of
ideological contamination.28 Although many of these studies provide interesting
information and opinions about the participation of Indians, free-blacks, and slaves in
the conformation of the colonial political scenario, they pay scant attention to a
number of non-political factors, such as the circulation of political and ethno-racial
discourses, friendship, and kinship dynamics, that could lead subaltern individuals into
insurgency.29 Here, I argue that ideological factors played just as an important role as
material grievances.
My dissertation seeks to examine the sources of information, networks of
communication, and media that contributed to the development of collective 27 See Pedro Manuel Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro (Caracas: Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia, 1949); Eleazar Córdova Bello, La independencia de Haití y su influencia en Hispanoamérica (Caracas: Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia, 1967); Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,” 177-205; Pino Iturrieta, La mentalidad venezolana de la emancipación. 28 See Javier Laviña, “Revolución francesa y control social,” Tierra Firme VII, no. 27 (Julio-Sept., 1989): 272-85; and “Indios y negros sublevados de Coro,” in Poder local, poder global en América Latina, eds. Dalla Corte and others (Barcelona: Universidad de Barcelona, 2008), 97-112; Izard, El miedo a la revolución. 29 See Antonio Arellano Moreno, Orígenes de la economía venezolana (México: Ediciones Edime, 1947); Brito Figueroa, El problema tierra y esclavos, and Las insurrecciones de los esclavos negros en la sociedad colonial venezolana (Caracas: Edit. Cantaclaro, 1961); Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento; Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro”; Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados.”
18
movements against the political elite and the colonial government. Rebellions and
conspiracies represent an important focus of my project.30 I am particularly interested
in uncovering the network of communication and sources of information that fed them
and that created an environment of political dispute, which has not been yet fully
explored. This project analyzes the multiple ways in which the information from and
about Saint-Domingue – including rumors and gossip, songs and discourses, images,
drawings, documents and pamphlets – influenced and transformed social relations
among white elites, pardos, free blacks, and slaves, promoting violent discourses,
rebellions, and political instability, but also opening common spaces for
communication and negotiation.
In his book Silencing the Past, Michel Rolph Trouillot contends that silences
have permeated methodological approaches to the study Haitian events. He argues that
the historiography of the Haitian Revolution is itself marred by two unfortunate
postures. First, Haitian historical literature remains too respectful of the revolutionary
leaders who led the black masses to freedom, recreating a revolutionary past as a
means of legitimizing the political present. Secondly, a sophisticated and empirically
rich body of historical work produced outside of Haiti presents a discursive framework
that is excessively “western,” misunderstanding certain political and social aspects of
30 I follow approaches that argue that rebellions represent particularly revealing contexts in which social conflicts, political language, and dynamics of power - that are frequently concealed in every-day social interactions -, rise to the fore. They also generate practices that bear comparison with everyday forms of resistance and contestation. See, for example, Ranajit Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999); Viotti Da Costa, Crowns of Glory, Tears of Blood; and Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule.
19
the Haitian cultural context. “The solution,” says Trouillot, “may be for the two
historiographical traditions – that of Haiti and that of the foreign specialists – to merge
or to generate a new perspective that encompasses the best of each.”31
The increasing attention that scholars are paying to the effects of the Haitian
Revolution in the circum-Caribbean region and the Spanish colonies has been
particularly stimulating.32 In general, studies of uprisings in the circum-Caribbean
region argue that while subalterns regarded rebellion as an arduous collective
enterprise, colonial authorities and elites described it and dealt with it as a contagious
disease that would spread destroying slave innocence and loyalty.33 However, there is
substantial disagreement among historians about the role of the Haitian Revolution in
the history of slave rebellions in the circum-Caribbean region. While Genovese and
31 Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 105. 32 See Córdova Bello, La independencia de Haití y su influencia en Hispanoamérica; Scott, “The Common Wind”; David Barry Gaspar and David Patrick Geggus, eds., A Turbulent Time: The French Revolution and the Greater Caribbean, 1789-1815 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997); David Patrick Geggus, ed., The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2001); David Patrick Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002); Ma. Dolores González-Ripoll and others, eds., El rumor de Haití en Cuba: temor, raza y rebeldía, 1789-1844 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2004); Fischer, Modernity Disavowed; José A. Piqueras, Las Antillas en la Era de las Luces y la Revolución (Madrid: Siglo XXI, 2005); Doris L. Garraway, ed., Tree of Liberty, Cultural Legacies of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008); Nick Nesbitt, Universal Emancipation. The Haitian Revolution and the Radical Enlightenment (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008); David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering, eds., The World of the Haitian Revolution (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009). 33 Scott, “The Common Wind”, and Geggus, ed., The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic. In “The Common Wind…,” Scott argues for the important role played by communication networks in the Caribbean diffusion and imagining of Haiti and its revolution. Throughout his work, Scott presents ample evidence of the presence of Haiti in the British, Spanish, and French colonial discourse during the nineteenth century.
20
Davis, among others, insist on the great influence that the revolution in Saint-
Domingue had in the Atlantic World, because it “propelled a revolution in black
consciousness throughout the New World”34 and “hastened or delayed the multiple
emancipations of the following century,”35 others historians such as Drescher and
Geggus believe that the influence has been exaggerated and that, depending on the
geographical and temporal scope of one’s analysis, the impact of the Haitian
revolution varied.
Geggus is concerned to identify and document evidence, finding “direct
influences of the Haitian Revolution” in particular cases; Drescher suggests moving
from “symbolic discourse to reality,” showing that despite the eruption of diverse
rebellions in the circum-Caribbean region, “within the Americas as a whole, the slave
population continued to increase steadily another half-century.”36
A closer look at the word “influence” could help us find another way to
analyze the presence of Saint-Domingue and its Revolution in the Atlantic world.
Sybille Fischer claims that
a very narrow notion of influence may unwittingly prevent us from recognizing the ideological and symbolic impact of the Haitian Revolution and thus make it impossible to recognize the cultural
34 Genovese, From Rebellion to Revolution, 96. 35 David Brion Davis, “Impact of the French and the Haitian Revolutions,” in The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic, 5. 36 Seymour Drescher, “The Limits of Example,” in The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic, 11.
21
formation … in which knowledge of Haiti was taken for granted and which we know existed.37 Even if it could be imprecise to talk about the “direct influence” of the Haitian
Revolution everywhere, there should be a way to categorize all the images,
representations, rumors, and violent discourses (fictitious or not) that emanated from
Saint-Domingue and that repeatedly circulated in the Atlantic world. In her work,
Fischer proposes using notions capable of capturing the psychological, affective, and
ideological operations that have produced silences and gaps in the historical and
cultural records. As she says: “Imaginary scenarios became the real battlegrounds.”38
Ada Ferrer suggests that we talk about “repercussions” rather than influence,
since Saint-Domingue represented a complex landscape of heterogeneous effects that
did not respond to particular events or detailed causes. Going beyond the problem of
how “silence and fear of Haiti” explains concrete historical actions and events, Ada
Ferrer insists on analyzing news and information about Haiti that entered the island of
Cuba and created particular interpretations of the events. She believes that Haiti was
used by slaves, masters, and government agents in different ways and with varied
37 Fischer, Modernity Disavowed, 292. 38 Ibid, 2. Fischer adopts an interdisciplinary approach, thinking of a political and cultural landscape beyond the confines of disciplinary fragmentation and national categories of history and literature. With a similar intention, Elzbieta Skolodowska studies the impact of the Haitian Revolution in the social and political imaginary of Cuba. Her study focuses on Cuban literature of nineteenth and twentieth centuries, trying to comprehend the complex web of meanings through which the Haitian revolution was re-created in the Cuban context. See Elzbieta Skolodowska, Espectro y espejismo. Haití en el imaginario cubano (Madrid: Veuvert, 2009).
22
purposes. In the end, Ferrer shows the consolidation of binary and apocalyptic images
that would become the prevailing symbols of Haiti and its revolution in Cuba.39
My work also offers revisions of Venezuelan historiographic debates dating
back to the mid-twentieth century about whether or not the information regarding
Haiti had a real impact on masters and slaves during the last decades of the eighteenth
century. Did Haiti promote black revolts and rebellions or were such ideas merely
fabricated by the Spanish government and local elites? Traditional Venezuelan
historiography shows evidence of a direct influence of the Haitian Revolution in the
Province of Venezuela. Historian Eleazar Cordova Bello studied the impact that the
Haitian Revolution had on different Spanish American colonies, such as Cuba,
Jamaica, Puerto Rico, and Venezuela. The author presents Haiti as a focal point of
French revolutionary ideas and as source of diffusion of these ideas to the Spanish
American colonies.40 He provides us with multiple and detailed historical accounts
that allow us to register the mentions of the Haiti Revolution in the Province of
Venezuela and how different social groups perceived these revolutionary events. In his
opinion, the Haitian Revolution introduced new problems and features to colonial
social realities.41 However, Cordova Bello’s study adheres to a traditional view that
39 Ferrer, “Noticias de Haití en Cuba,” “Temor, poder y esclavitud en Cuba en la época de la Revolución…,” and “Cuba en la sombra de Haití: noticias, sociedad y esclavitud.” 40 Córdova Bello, La independencia de Haití y su influencia en Hispanoamérica. 41 Córdova Bello highlights the presence of the “fear of Haiti” for governors and elites of the different colonies and shows how the Spanish Crown and elites designed different strategies to control the entry of revolutionary ideas from Haiti. He also gives examples of how the Haitian Revolution was used as a
23
understands historical realities as consequences produced by pure and clear-cut causes,
and that perceives discourses as mirrors of reality rather than as strategies and
instruments of social legitimization and power. This traditional historiography asserts
that the various insurrections and conspiracies taking place in Venezuela during the
last decade of the eighteenth century aimed not only at abolishing commercial taxes,
freeing slaves and bringing social equality to the Province, but also at creating a
“republic” and/or at applying “French” liberal principles. Consequently, this narrative
argues that the Haitian Revolution directly influenced black rebellions and pardo
conspiracies in the province.
Recent works have focused more on understanding social frictions and local
dynamics of exploitation, suggesting that some of these rebellions and conspiracies
have been misunderstood, and that the historical narrative about them has been
strongly contaminated by the official colonial discourse. Historians Ramón Aizpurua,
Javier Laviña, Mikel Izard, Angel Sanz and Alejandro Gómez42 invite us to re-imagine
model by the Creole insurrects in order to justify the need for freedom and independence of the colonies. See Córdova Bello, La independencia de Haití y su influencia en Hispanoamérica. 42 Ángel Sanz Tapia, Los militares emigrados y los prisioneros franceses en Venezuela durante la guerra contra la revolución: un aspecto fundamental de la época de la pre-emancipación (Caracas: Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia, 1977); Izard, El miedo a la revolución; Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” and “La conspiración por dentro: un análisis de las declaraciones de la conspiración de La Guaira de 1797,” in Gual y España. La independencia frustrada, eds., Juan Carlos Rey, Rogelio Pérez Perdomo, Ramón Aizpurua and Adriana Hernández (Caracas: Fundación Polar, 2007); Laviña, “Revolución francesa y control social” and “Indios y negros sublevados de Coro”; Alejandro Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, revolución y contrarevolución en las Antillas Francesas en la experiencia de algunos oficiales emigrados a tierra firme 1790-1795 (México: Siglo XXI, 2004), “La Ley de los franceses: una reinterpretación de las insurrecciones de inspiración jacobina en la costa de Caracas,” Akademos VII, no. 1 (2006), and “El síndrome de Saint-Domingue.
24
the diverse and complex political and social landscapes from which these social
movements emerged, and to re-examine the discourses produced and reproduced
during and after the social movements. Some of these historians contend that rebels in
these movements aimed more at solving socio-economic problems – exoneration from
taxes, and alcabalas, for example – than at imposing a new political-ideological
regime. Others suggest that the Haitian Revolution was not explicitly and directly
evoked by rebel discourse but rather by the perturbed and apprehensive discourse of
the elites, later reproduced by historians.
To contribute to this debate, my work analyzes the different discourses and
representations that connect the formation, development, and understanding of these
political movements with Saint-Domingue. However I also look into situations and
circumstances that show the presence and significance of Saint Domingue in the daily
life of the inhabitants of the ports and cities of the Province. Everyday conversations
and discussions transformed the turbulent Caribbean into a common reference for
racial and social conflict, vengeance and violence, creating an open space for
contestation, negotiation, and social challenges. My hypothesis is that the Haitian
Revolution became a shared knowledge, an everyday reference that became stronger
during rebellions; this knowledge was used by rebels such as slaves and free-blacks to
threaten elites and negotiate their economic (exoneration from commercial taxes, for
Percepciones y sensibilidades de la Revolución Haitiana en el Gran Caribe (1791-1814),” Caravelle, no. 86 (2006).
25
example) and social demands (freedom), and by the elites to justify harsh repression.
In this sense, I argue that Haiti was not necessarily a product of elites’ imagination,
but a common language used by both rulers and subalterns; a meaningful framework
more significant and powerful than has been acknowledged by Venezuelan social
historiography.
Through my work, I argue that the perceived violence of Saint-Domingue and
the turbulent Caribbean blurred the particular character of local conflicts in Venezuela,
merging them into the overall confrontation between masters and slaves in the colonial
Caribbean. In this sense, I argue that Haiti functioned as a mirror that local subaltern
actors used to reinforce their demands, and that elites employed to justify repression or
to negotiate concessions. Haiti was invoked by people of color in different
circumstances: sometimes it was used to threaten the elites and ask specifics demands
such as the exoneration of commercial taxes, the elimination of alcabalas, or the
replacement of a local authority, but it was also used by some colored leaders as a way
of presenting other possibilities to their fellow subalterns: to show them that there
were people of color in other places that have gotten rid from the tyranny of their
masters and have achieved freedom. On their part, white elites used Haiti as a
reference to undermine people of color and justify new measures of control, they were
convinced of the importace of keeping people of color controlled in order to avoid a
second Saint-Domingue, therefore they employed several strategies to avoid
subversive movements. These strategies varied significantly: from prohibiting the use
26
of firearms to people of color to controlling the intensity of the punishments imparted
by the white masters. In this sense, the elites’ strategies were two-pronged: on the one
hand, they sought to tightening control and the submission of the slaves and free
blacks, while at the same time improving living conditions which did not necessarily
endanger the due subordination and order. In the ocassions that elites confronted
social conflict and uprisings, they used Haiti as a powerful reference to harshly repress
and punish the instigators.
By studying both political representations and practices in a slave-based
society, this study will shed light on how subaltern actors in colonial Venezuela
responded not only to local circumstances of exploitation but also to representations of
planter domination and slave resistance circulating in the region. In fact, I will show
that the messages that circulated in times of Caribbean turbulence had the
simultaneous functions of imparting “information,” provoking fear among white elites,
and stirring mobilization on part of the people of color.
3. A Fragile Harmony: Social Frictions in Colonial Venezuela (1770-1810)
Europeans first encountered Venezuelan territory in 1498, during the third
voyage of Columbus to the “Reinos de Indias.” In 1499, a year later, Spanish explorers
and conquerors Alfonso de Ojeda and Americo Vespucci sighted the mainland near
the mouth of the Orinoco River, and after arriving at Trinidad, discovered the eastern
27
coast of what is now known as Venezuela. During the first years of expedition and
conquest, intensive extraction of pearls in the Islands of Cubagua and Margarita, and
an incessant search for gold in the northwestern regions of Venezuela, were the main
goals of Europeans who enslaved Indians to undertake the dangerous tasks associated
with this plunder. In 1528, Charles V granted the Wesler Company vast territories in
the western region with the purpose of searching for gold mines. During the entire
sixteenth century, Europeans founded scattered cities and established unstable
settlements across this region, especially in the northern area where a long coast open
to the Caribbean Sea permitted frequent communication and exchange of products
with the islands, especially with La Española.43 During this initial period of
colonization, the economic activities of the region shifted from the extraction of pearls
and gold, to the cultivation of tobacco, cacao and wheat, the raising of cattle, and the
production of leather and cloth for export to the Caribbean. However, by the
eighteenth century, the colonial economy – based on an important exportation of
indigo and tobacco, but mostly of cacao – and the number of inhabitants of the
province of Venezuela experienced an important growth and consolidation.
By the end of eighteenth century, Venezuela was a stable – but not necessarily
a peaceful – province of small importance in the Spanish Empire. The colony formed a
province within the Viceroyalty of Nueva Granada (modern Panama and Colombia)
and Quito (modern Ecuador). Despite being under the Viceroyalty of Nueva Granada,
43 Miguel Izard, Tierra firme, historia de Venezuela y Colombia (Madrid: Alianza, 1986).
28
Venezuela enjoyed virtual autonomy and had become accustomed to little
administrative control from Nueva Granada. The creation, in 1777, of the General
Captaincy of Venezuela, which incorporated six provinces (Maracaibo, Cumaná,
Margarita, Trinidad, Guayana and, later, Barinas) to the jurisdiction of the Province of
Caracas (also known as Province of Venezuela)44 confirmed the need to centralize the
region administratively and politically, and acknowledged the economic and
commercial primacy of the nuclear region of Caracas.45
Some historians believe that it was the significant economic growth of the
Province of Venezuela that put the region at the center of the imperial interests, and
that this economic interest stemmed largely from the growing popularity of cacao in
Europe during the middle of the eighteenth century. The region, known from the
seventeenth century as an ideal place for cultivating cacao, drew the attention of the
Monarchy when it received reports describing contraband activities between
44 During most of the colonial period, the Province of Venezuela, often called Province of Caracas, was established as a “Gobernación,” with the Governor as the most important representant of the Spanish Monarchy in the region. In 1777, when the General Captaincy was established, the Governor of the Province of Caracas also became the Captain General of Venezuela. This change created confusion about the political jurisdictions of the Captaincy of Venezuela, and the territory of the Province of Venezuela. The traveler Jean François Dauxion-Lavaysse commented on this: “Almost all European geographers confound the General Government of Caracas or Venezuela, with the province, of which the town of Saint Leon de Caracas is the capital. This town was residence of the President, Captain general, Intendant, and Audiencia (a supreme administrative and judicial court), on which depended the respective governors of the provinces of Cumana and New Andalusian, Maracaybo, Varinas, Guiana, and the Island of Trinidad.” Then, he adds: “Venezuela is the national name adopted at present by the confederated provinces, and Caracas is their metropolis: the province of Venezuela has taken the name of Province of Caracas. This province is bounded on the west by the sea, on the north-west by that of Maracaybo, on the north by that of Cumana, and to the east and south-east by that of Varinas.” See Jean François Dauxion Lavaysse, A Statistical, Comercial and Political Description of Venezuela, Trinidad, Margarita y Tobago (London: G. and W.B. Whittaker, 1820), 55. 45 Mckinley, Caracas antes de la independencia.
29
Venezuelan merchants and the Dutch. For this reason the Crown authorized in 1728
the consolidation of the Compañia Guipuzcoana de Caracas, a Basque commercial
company that undertook the important task of commercializing local goods, while also
managing the importation of manufactured goods, cloth and textiles, iron, agricultural
tools, alcohol, and foodstuff from the Peninsula to the province, and curbing
contraband activities.46
46 In fact, the company’s emergence in Venezuela was closely related to the Dutch presence in Curaçao and their important illegal trade of cacao and other products with the province, although the commercial relations between the province and the Dutch were illegal, it has a profound impact that allowed stable and regular economic relations between the two regions only partially interrupted by the activities of the Caracas Company. Wim Klooster defines this relation as a symbiosis. Wim Klooster, Illicit Riches: Dutch Trade in the Caribbean, 1648-1795. (Leiden: KITLV Press, 1998). See also José María Aizpurua, Relaciones de trabajo en la sociedad colonial venezolana. (Caracas: Colección Bicentenario, Centro Nacional de la Historia, 2009); Roland Dennis Hussey, The Caracas Company, 1728-1784. A Study in the History of Spanish Monopolistic Trade (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1934); Eugenio Piñero, “The Cacao Economy of the Eighteenth-Century Province of Caracas and the Spanish Cacao Market,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 68, no. 1 (1988): 75-100.
30
Figure 2.
During the eighteenth century, the economy of the Province was divided
between two main productive activities: the raising of cattle, horses and mules, and the
production of leather in the western plains and shores of the country, and the
plantation of the export crops of tobacco, cacao, indigo, sugar and coffee in different
geographical areas, especially on the littoral coast. In the 1780’s, the production of
cacao in the coastal area and the southern slopes of the cordillera represented a
31
significant 70 percent of total legal exports and probably more of the illegal trade.47
The primacy of cacao cultivation in the province of Venezuela implied the frequent
introduction in the region of African slaves, whose labor force was fundamental for
the production of this crop. By the end of the century, the labor population in the
Province was dominated by pardos and free blacks in the plains - for whom the
frontier offered the possibility of escaping from slavery - and domestic labor, hired
workers and slaves in the coastal areas. Therefore, late colonial Venezuela was a
diversified and commercialized slave society dominated by a hybrid and
heterogeneous labor system.48
Most historians of colonial Venezuela agree in asserting that the slave system
in this region did not follow the ideal “plantation model” mainly described in
nineteenth-century accounts about the Caribbean slave system.49 McKinley, in
particular, comments that unlike other regions of the Caribbean, the exportation of
slaves to the Province of Venezuela decreased during the last decades of the 47 Federico Brito Figueroa, Historia económica y social de Venezuela, 2th ed. (Caracas: Ediciones de la Biblioteca Central- Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1976), Arellano Moreno, Orígenes de la economía venezolana (Caracas, 1982), and Eduardo Arcila Farías, “Comercio de cacao en el siglo XVII,” Revista Nacional de Cultura, no. 43, Caracas, 1944. 48 José María Aizpurua notes that one of the most fundamental characteristics of the labor system in colonial Venezuela was its heterogeinity: “The enslaved labor force, the free worker, the peasant tenant, the small independent producer and the indigenous cultivator” overlapped and were involved in a complex network of production relations. But this aspect was not necessarily exceptional or anormal. Rather it was the essence of the colonial economic organization. Aizpurua, Relaciones de trabajo en la sociedad colonial venezolana, 181-2. 49 John Lombardi, People and Places in Colonial Venezuela (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976); McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia. This “plantation system model” was more characteristic of the ninteenth-century Caribbean plantations, rather than the eighteenth century. Ramón Aizpúrua, personal communication, December 2010.
32
eighteenth century, precisely and contradictorily when the economic situation was
improving. The reasons for this decrease are not fully explored, but the author
comments that the hacendados (owners of landed estates or plantantions) seemed
comfortable employing free jornaleros (day-laborers) and having some slaves working
on their lands; in his opinion, the large majority of the haciendas were too small to
require a great number of slaves.50 Relying on this hybrid nature of labor, many
historians have commented that master/slave relations in the Province of Venezuela
seemed less harsh and violent than in other regions of the Caribbean. Venezuelan
landowners seemed more willing to liberate their slaves as a reward for their
services.51 They also gave their slaves better living conditions: allowing them to
50 McKinley affirms: “In any case, the hacendados, were much less interested in the importation of slaves than it seems, and the scarcity of them, if it existed, was more apparent than real. If the agricultural infrastructure of Caracas had needed more slaves and would have responded to the stimulus for absorbing them, it is doubtless that, despite the war with Great Britain, a great importation of slaves would have occurred.” McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia, 38. 51 Traveler, Dauxion Lavaysse commented: “The slaves in Venezuela, and the other Spanish possessions, enjoy a privilege unknown in the French and English colonies: it is that of obliging their masters to liberate them, on their paying the sum of 300 dollars. The slave treated with injustice or cruelty by his master, has a right to carry his complaint to the judge, who may order that he be sold to some other master of known humanity.” See A Statistical, Commercial and Political Description of Venezuela, Trinidad, 178. Slaves in Spanish America had the right – often called “coartación” or “manumisión” - to buy freedom by paying his/her price to the master through a system of periodical deposits. This situation created a significant population of free blacks in Spanish America. For a detailed account, see Felipe Salvador Gilij, Ensayo de historia americana, estado presente de la tierra firme (Bogotá: Edit. Sucre, 1955 [1784]). For a historical discussion on this topic, see Manuel Lucena Salmoral, “El derecho de coartación del esclavo en la América española,” Revista de Indias LIX, no. 216 (1999): 357-74 and José María Aizpurua, Relaciones de trabajo en la sociedad colonial venezolana. Interestingly, manumission could have been used as a useful tactic or subterfuge to maintain slavery during the colonial and republican periods, see John Lombardi, Decadencia y abolición de la esclavitud en Venezuela (1820-1854) (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 2004).
33
posses, rent or use smalls plots of land to grow crops, but contradictorily, did not
assume the obligations of providing them with housing, food, and clothing.52
The hybrid nature of labor and the relatively reduced importance that slaves
had within the overall labor force did not mean that Spanish and creole elites were
more prone to the general abolition of slavery. On the contrary, the elites of Caracas
rejected the abdition of slavery because they felt that freeing their slaves implied the
loss of an important labor force on which their economic privileges rested, and also
because it implied a disruption on the traditional notions of order, subordination, and
social harmony. In fact, the clear rejection of the código negrero of 1789 by the
Caracas elites allows us to perceive this significant dependence that the elites had on
their slaves.53 Likewise, the response of some slaves to this rejection of the code gives
52 About this, French visitor De Pons noted: “The Spanish negroes receive from their master only a supply of prayers, since they are very scantily provided with food and clothes; and the law is silent on this project. The consequence of which is, that except from a few proprietors, whose hearts are not altogether steeled against the feelings of humanity, they receive no other provisions than what they cultivate on spots of ground allotted to them for that purpose, whether the harvest be productive or not, and they are suffered to go about literally covered with rags.” See, F.J. de Pons, Travels in Parts of South America, During the years 1801, 1802, 1803 & 1804: Containing a Description of the Captain-Generalship of Caracas, with an Account of the Laws, Commerce, and Natural Productions of that Country; as Also a View of the Customs and Manners of the Spaniards and Native Indians (London, Richard Phillips, 1806). Laws in Spanish America allowed slaves to exchange water, wood, land, and their own crops. In Venezuela this situation developed in a “hacienda” pattern in which masters often did not supervise the process of production and established sharecropping arrangements with their slaves, some of whom eventually earned enough to buy their freedom. See Miguel Acosta Saignes, Vida de los esclavos negros en Venezuela (Caracas: Vadell Hermanos, 1984); José María Aizpurua, Relaciones de trabajo en la sociedad colonial venezolana; and Robin Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery. From the Baroque to the Modern 1492-1800 (London: Verso, 1998), 497. 53 See Real Cédula sobre “Educación, trato y ocupaciones de los esclavos en todos los dominios e Islas de Filipinas” (Mayo, 1789), AGI-Sevilla, Indiferente General, 802. Also see Leal, “La aristocracia criolla.”
34
us reason to believe that master-slave relations in the Province were not as “smooth,
gentle, and harmonic” as some historians have presented them.54
By the end of the eighteenth century, approximately 800,000 inhabitants
occupied the provinces of the Capitanía General de Venezuela. In the Province of
Caracas there were almost 490,000 inhabitants. The nature of social divisions during
the colonial period have sparked complex and significant debates regarding the
preeminence of racial, juridical, or class divisions. While traditional historians
believed that colonial social stratification relied on “caste” categories based on racial
or physical distinctions, other historians demonstrate that social divisions were
founded on social estates, defined by feudal criteria of occupation, honor, and juridical
status. Marxist authors have also argued that, by the end of eighteenth century,
differentiated access to the colonial means of production created different forms of
exploitation and accumulation, similar to those of class societies. 55
54 Traditional Marxist historiography studied late eighteenth-century Venezuela focusing primarily on political conflicts (in the forms of rebellions, plots and conspiracies) that revealed frictions among imperial reforms and local controls or tensions due to internal social divisions and rivalries. By way of contrast, a more recent historiography describes this period as the “golden years” of colonial Venezuela, a period in which the province expanded economically and reached an unprecedented political maturity that reflected a harmonious and stable society. Michael McKinley, for example, suggests that a new perspective should focus not merely on the conflicts, but on conflict-resolution and negotiation that took place during this period. In his opinion, the conflicts expressed in rebellions and conspiracies were not reactions to contradictory interests between the empire and the colony, nor were they responses to the unequal access to power by different social groups. They were rather processes of adaptation to the new political and economic transformations triggered by Bourbon reforms. By analyzing economic and political dynamics, McKinley argues that the Province of Caracas was stable and relatively quiescent during the last decades of the eighteenth century. In an introductory paragraph, this author comments: “The economic growth was accompanied by political stability and social peace…” See McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia, 12. 55 There is abundant literature regarding this issue. See, for example, Carlos Irazábal, Venezuela esclava y feudal (Caracas: Pensamiento vivo editores, 1964); Brito Figueroa, Historia económica y social de
35
Nevertheless, more contemporary approaches have argued that in order to
understand the complexity of the colonial social stratification system it is necessary to
combine traditional feudal notions of social condition and juridical status with the
racial system of classification and incipient class divisions. These works suggest that
the structure of Venezuelan colonial society, like others in Spanish America, resulted
from continued, simultaneous, and overlapping relations between racial, estate and
class criteria.56
One of the most important criteria of classification in colonial Venezuelan
society was, precisely, racial distinction. Historians recognize three basic groups:
whites57, blacks (free, slaves, and maroons) and Indians. A large and heterogeneous
group - product of the continued relations among the three basic groups -
Venezuela; J. Salcedo Bastardo, Historia fundamental de Venezuela (Caracas: Fundación Gran Mariscal de Ayacucho, 1977); McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia, Chapter, 1; Graciela Soriano, Venezuela 1810-1830: aspectos desatendidos de dos décadas (Caracas: Lagoven, 1988); Luis Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela, 1774-1809, estudios de casos (Caracas: Fundación Polar, 1996); Alejandro Gómez, “The Pardo Question. Political Struggles on Free Coloreds’ Right to Citizenship during the Revolution of Caracas, 1797-1813,” Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos, Materiales de seminaries (2008): http://nuevomundo.revues.org/index34503.html., and “«¿Ciudadanos de color?»”, Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos, BAC - Biblioteca de Autores del Centro (2007): http://nuevomundo.revues.org/index9973.html. 56 Some historians of Spanish America basing themselves strictly on categories used in colonial times to characterize the divisions of society, argue that these were “caste societies” (sociedades de castas). Nevertheless others reject this denomination because Spanish American colonial societies (like Venezuela) did not follow the classical caste system in anthropological terms used in South Asian ethnography. In colonial Venezuela, for example, social strata were not hermetic. Instead each division was permeable, to the extent that people’s status could vary according to honor, wealth, education, and prestige. See Soriano, Venezuela 1810-1830: aspectos desatendidos; and Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela. 57 The category of whites includes: Spaniards, creoles, and poor whites such as the “blancos de orilla” - white spaniards from the Canary Islands who, because of their origin, artisanal activities and education, occupied lower strata than the Spaniards, and local creole whites -.
36
progressively increased during the colonial period; this group was denominated pardos
and was integrated by all the mixed-races, such as morenos, mulatos, and zambos.58
However, there is considerable disagreement among historians about the definition of
this social group, a discrepancy that reflects colonial contradictions. In this regard,
historian Fréderique Langue has explained that in the Province of Caracas the word
“pardo” was used for “non-whites,” in conceptual and practical terms.59 But, historians
Alejandro Gómez and Luis Pellicer believe that this conception reproduces the
perspectives of whites who tended to lump together the free blacks with all the mixed
races. In their opinion, pardos had a different perception of themselves: they believed
that belonging to their group improved the condition of the mixed-raced. According to
them, only those who had some degree of European blood (such as the mulatos,
tercerones, cuarterones, etc.) could have been considered pardos, as distinguished
58 Mulattos and morenos were the products of the mix between whites and blacks, while zambos were the product of the mix between Indians and blacks. The latter were despised as a “bad race” because theu supposedly concentrated the worst aspects of Indians and blacks, and lacked the white component. The French agent Dauxion Lavaysse commentted in 1807 “In this metropolis, the word zambo is synonymous with worthless, idler, liar, impious, thief, villain, assassin, and etc. Of ten crimes that may be committed in the province, eight are said to be done by the zambos.” He then continued: “These individuals are born of clandestine and adulterous unions, of natives who have contracted only vices of civilization and of African slaves: what can be expected of the children born of such parents, whose minds are totally neglected, and in a climate that invites sloth and indolence?” Jean François Dauxion Lavaysse, A Statistical, Commercial and Political Description of Venezuela, Trinidad, 72-3. Another observer, the British agent George Dawson Flinter, observed in 1816: “Sambos, a name which, to the people of this country – Venezuela –, comprehends every vice that is degrading to human nature; indeed, they are stigmatized for the commission of the blackest crimes.” See George Dawson Flinter, A History of the Revolution of Caracas: Comprising an Impartial Narrative of the Atrocities Committed by the Contending Parties, Illustrating the Real State of the Contest, both in a Commercial and Political Point of View. Together with a Description of the Llaneros, Or People of the Plains of South America (London: T.& J. Allman, 1819). 59 Frédérique Langue, “La pardocratie ou l’itineraire d’une ‘classe dangereuse’ dans le Vénezuela des XVIIIe et XIXe siècles,” Caravelle, no.67 (1997).
37
from other groups such as free-blacks and zambos. Also, if a pardo married a black –
merging the lineage back again with African-descendants – their offspring could lose
their status as pardos.60
The boundary between the terms pardo and mulato is also unclear. Sometimes
they were used as synonyms. Other times, pardo represented a broader category that
includes mulatos, but pardo was also used to refer to an “educated mixed-race.” 61 In
this latter case, the limits between pardos and mulatos were not determined in racial or
lineage terms, but more so in terms of calidad (quality).62
According to Manuel Lucena Salmoral, at the beginning of the nineteenth
century in the Province of Caracas, free-coloreds (including pardos) represented more
than the 44 percent of the population. There were almost 190,000 morenos or negros
60 Alejandro Gómez, “La revolución de Caracas desde abajo,” Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos, Debates (2008): http://nuevomundo.revues.org/index32982.html. 61 This contradiction becomes clear in the case of Juan Bautista Olivares, a pardo inhabitant of Caracas who was accused in 1796 of influencing others of “his class” by reading seditious papers to mulattos. While the authorities described Juan Bautista as belonging to the same “class” as the mulattos, they also refer to him as a pardo because he was educated enough to read and write. See “Declaración y Expediente de Juan Bautista Olivares,” AGI-Sevilla, Caracas, 346. 62 In Spanish America, calidad was a valorizing category, used to denote ethnic status and identity. Some historians of colonial Latin America have characterized calidad as a racial status defined by legal color; but others argue that calidad was an extensive category reflecting one’s reputation as a whole, which took into consideration: color, occupation, education, and wealth, as well as purity of blood, honor, integrity, and even place of origin. In regions inhabitated by Spanish, creoles, Indians, and Blacks, calidad was configured not so much by the somatic signs of color but more by the cultural indices and icons of a “civilized” status versus a “barbaric”condition and style of life. See Ramón Gutiérrez, “Sex and Family: Social Change in Colonial New Mexico, 1690-1846” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin, 1980); Robert McCaa, “Calidad, Clase and Marriage in Colonial Mexico: The Case of Parral, 1788-1790,” Hispanic American Historical Review 64, no. 3 (1984): 477-501; Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela; and Ana Alonso, Thread of Blood: Colonialism, Revolution and Gender in Mexico’s Northern Frontier (Tucson: University of Arizona, 1995).
38
libres (ex-slaves and descendants), zambos (products of the mix between blacks or
pardos with Indians), and pardos, while this last group represented 37.83 percent of
the population. There were almost 99,000 whites (Spanish, creole and poor whites),
representing 25.62 percent of the total of the population; 60,000 slaves (15.65
percent); and 47,000 indios tributarios (12.24 percent).63 In comparison with other
Caribbean and Spanish American societies, the proportion of free coloreds in the
Province was particularly high. This demographic aspect allows us to understand the
menace this group represented for whites who feared the aspirations of pardos to
equality. 64
These societies were also structured by criteria of social estates. In feudal
Europe, the civil social body was imagined as a composition of different estates or
members, each having particular functions and purposes which served to maintain
social order. Social estates in Spanish America corresponded to the principal orders of
the European societies of the Old Regime: nobility, clergy, peasantry and militias. The
complex juxtaposition of one’s origin, occupation or profession, and juridical status
(privilege) determined colonial Venezuelan’s social estates. In this sense, the people
63 Manuel Lucena Salmoral, “La sociedad de la provincia de Caracas a comienzos del siglo XIX,” Anuario de Estudios Americanos, Vol. XXXVII (1980): 8-11. 64 French voyager, François De Pons, noted this particularity of the Caracas human landscape. In 1794, he wrote: “In proportion to other social classes, probably there is not in the West Indies a city with as many as emancipated or descendants of emancipated” See François De Pons, Viaje a la parte oriental de tierra firme en la América meridional, Vols.2. (Caracas: Banco Central de Venezuela, 1960 [1806]), 233.
39
who shared same social condition (marked by education, racial type, origin, and
economic situation) were organized within every rank of these social estates.
Dignity, honor, purity of blood, and the intersection of juridical status with
racial categories defined, according to historian Graciela Soriano, three main social
groups in the province.65 In first place, there was the status of the “Leading people”
(Personas Principales), a social group made up of whites that represented the highest
strata of society. They were usually local nobles, hacendados (plantation or landed
estate owners), and possessed diverse privileges due to their lineage and dignity. High
ranking officials and authorities of the Crown (like the Captain General, the Governors
and Magistrates of the Audiencia) also belonged to this privileged group. Not in the
same position as nobles and hacendados, but important enough to be considered within
this group, we find some white merchants (comerciantes) dedicated to major
international commercial activities, possessing significant capital and able to afford
commodities and lifestyles similar to those of nobles and landowners. This group
made up of Spaniards and white creoles (whites of Spanish descent born in America)
were usually referred to as “mantuanos.”66
65 See Luciana De Stefano, La sociedad estamental de la baja Edad Media española a la luz de la literatura de la época (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, s/f); Soriano, Venezuela 1810-1830: aspectos desatendidos; and Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela. 66 This word, meaning “one with a shawl,” was a reference to identify only those social groups who were allowed to wear “head shawls” in the Church and during religious festivities. People of color or of lower conditions were not allowed to wear them.
40
In a lower stratum, we find the “people of standing” (personas de condición), a
social group integrated by white Spaniards, white creoles, and a limited number of
pardos. This category included those who, although not having substantial capital or
economic influence, had sufficient education or level of isntruction to be part of the
“University or Seminary professors” or “lettered body”. They usually assumed
bureaucratic posts, and some were doctors, lawyers, justice officials, university or
seminar professors, notaries, secretaries, and public accountants.
In the bottom stratum, a heterogeneous group, in terms of races, made up the
group of “people of lower standing” (“personas de baja condición”). This group was
formed by poor whites, blancos de orilla, pardos, Indians, and free blacks who
dedicated themselves to artisanal activities (carpenters, tailors, shoemakers,
silversmiths), or people who performed services (such as small surgerons, muleteers,
masons, and barbers). Small merchants, such as shopkeepers and hardware traders,
also belonged to this group.67 Mixed-race peasants and free blacks working on
plantations and haciendas were also considered people of lower condition in the rural
areas.
67 The visitor Robert Semple commented about “pulperías:” “Pulpería is the name given in this country to establishments which are at the same time shops, farms, and inns. These [small shops] are generally kept by natives of Biscay or Catalonia who begin their career in this country with the selling of liquors, cloths, and iron, or whatever they could collect, at the same time. In the town it is easy to trace the prosperity of the owners in the gradual change with takes place in these inventories. The proportion of manufactured goods increases in degrees, until a length they form the whole, and the master becomes a respectable merchant.” See Robert Semple, Sketch of the Present State of Caracas; Including a Journey from Caracas through La Victoria, and Valencia to Puerto Cabello (London: Robert Baldwin, 1812), 67.
41
Figure 3.
Evidently, below this category we find the black slaves. Of the 60,000 slaves
who lived in the Province of Caracas, almost the 70 percent was concentrated in a
relatively small area in the coastal region, often called “Costa de Caracas,” where the
majority of plantations and haciendas were located. In the main cities and ports like
Caracas, La Guaira, and Puerto Cabello, we also find slaves who did not perform
agricultural tasks; instead they worked as domestic slaves, sailors, or artisans.
42
Although estate categories were abstract constructions of social distinctions,
these classifications represent interesting forms of objectification and of
subjectification of central importance to the rhetoric of the colonial administration,
and were constantly used for legal legitimization of occupational and social
segregation.68
During the eighteenth century, the relationship between and within these social
groups was subject to stress by changing political, social, and economical conditions.
Peninsular Spaniards occupied political positions that were not open to white creoles.
However, the considerable improvement of the economy, evidenced in the increased
participation of the province in international commercial networks and the
stabilization of the local market, allowed different social groups, such as the white
creoles and some members of a pardo elite (often called pardos beneméritos), to
improve their economic situation and have access to particular institutions, such as the
Real Consulado (a colonial Instituion created to protect and promote the productive
and commercial activities in the General Captaincy). These groups, which had
traditionally been confined to the margins of the political scenario, often challenged 68 See Peter B. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Garden City, NY: Anchor Press, 1967); and Michel Foucault, Between Structuralism and Hermeneutics (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1983). For an interesting discussion on how colonial documents reproduce and legitimize social categories see Nicholas Dirks, “Annals of the Archive: Ethnographic Notes on the Sources of History,” and Ann Laura Stoler, “Developing Historical Negatives: Race and the (Modernist) Visions of a Colonial State,” both in From the Margins: Historical Anthropology and Its Futures, ed. Brian Keith Axel (Durham, Duke University Press, 2002). In her latest book Along the Archival Grain. Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), Stoler discusses how colonial administrators “were prolific producers of social categories” as she deals with these categories and their enumeration, focusing on the ways that documentation gathered these representations.
43
colonial institutions such as the Real Audiencia, disobeyed Royal Orders that went
against their economic interests, and even confronted the General Captaincy.69
On the other hand, there was a clear tension between whites and pardos. White
Spaniards and creoles had educational privileges and occupied important functions in
the clergy and military academies regarded as not suitable for pardos, despised by the
Spaniards and the local whites as the worst of all social groups. Their African blood
and the estate of bondage of their ancestors, the brown color of their skin, and their
supposedly bastardized origin constituted negative social features that justified a
stereotyped perception, affecting pardos in everyday life through various forms of
social, spatial, and legal segregation.70
However, by the end of the eighteenth century, pardos – especially the lighter-
skinned and wealthy elite – found strategies to pressure whites, using legal instruments
to gain access to positions from which they had traditionally been excluded. One of
these instruments was a Royal Edict (Real Cédula de Gracias al Sacar) which, in
69 Soriano, Venezuela 1810-1830: aspectos desatendidos, 56-57. 70 In general, pardos were regarded as illegitimate sons and daughters, with no traceable origins. A document written by members of the Cabildo stated: “Pardos, mulattos, and zambos have also the defect of illegitimacy, because it is rather bizarre to find a pardo, mulatto, or zambo with legitimate parents.” See “Informe que el Ayuntamiento de Caracas hace al Rey de España referente a la Real Cédula de 10 de febrero de 1795. Caracas, 28 de noviembre de 1796,” in Santos Rodulfo Cortés, El régimen de las gracias al sacar en Venezuela durante el período Hispánico, Vols. 2 (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1978), Vol. 2, 93-94. In colonial Venezuela, as in other provinces of Spanish America and the Caribbean, pardos were not allowed to enter the clergy, did not have access to education in public schools or universities, could not occupy any post in public office, and were not allowed to marry whites or carry certain arms. Laws forbade pardas to wear certain clothes and accessories such as pearls, silk, and gold. In Caracas, pardos could not walk along certain streets and sidewalks, and were restrained from sitting in certain sections inside the church or in the government houses. See Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela.
44
theory, allowed the wealthiest pardos to acquire an expensive “dispensation of
quality” (dispensa de calidad) that granted them white status.71 White creoles
ferociously opposed the introduction of this royal edict, because it went against the
policy of control of social mobility imposed by the Crown with the establishment of
the Real Audiencia in Caracas in 1786. Also, the multiple documents emanated during
this conflict show that the royal edict also challenged Spaniards’ and white creoles’
perceptions of order and honor as fundamental values of the colonial social structure.
In a document presented by the local Cabildo (city hall) to the King of Spain at the
end of 1796, white creoles expressed that the honor of whites could not be extended to
the pardos, because honor and tradition were values that allowed societies to develop
in the “proper order and subordination.” Members of the cabildo pleaded for
guarding the honor of their ancestors and the thoughts of their elders, saving them from the outrage of having to mix with pardos favored by a Royal Decree that promises elevation for them, that announces equality, disorder, and corruption72 Venezuela’s eighteenth century society was a society founded on social
privileges, differences, and internal struggles that jeopardized its apparent stability.
During the last decade of the eighteenth century, international circumstances also
71 For a comprehensive study and a documentary compilation of this Royal Decree, see Rodulfo Cortés, El régimen de las gracias al sacar. 72 “Conserve con el honor de sus ascendientes y con los pensamientos de sus mayores ahorrándoles el ultraje que les resulta de la mezcla con los Pardos con las gracias que ofrece la Real Cédula de la elevación que les promete, de la igualdad que les anuncia, y del desorden y corrupción…” See “Informe que el Ayuntamiento de Caracas hace al Rey de España referente a la Real Cédula de 10 de febrero de 1795. Caracas, 28 de noviembre de 1796,” in Rodulfo Cortés, El régimen de las gracias al sacar, Vol. 2, 93-94.
45
jeopardized the stability of the Spanish colonies and its social orders. The events of the
French Revolution and especially Caribbean turmoil increased fears and social
frictions. In my work, I argue that, although this period is characterized by a political
and economic reorganization of the province in accordance with the Bourbon reforms,
society was divided among different social and racial groups that were in permanent
rivalry and segregation from each other. These groups used multiple webs of
knowledge transmission to pursue diverse political agendas, creating conspiracies
against the local government, and questioning some aspects of the political, economic,
and social orders. The different plots and rebellions that took place during the last
decade of the eighteenth century force us to question the “harmonious” picture that
some historians have depicted of this period, and motivate us to adopt a more nuanced
perspective that understands social struggles as open fields for negotiations and
contestation.
4. Methodological Approach and Historical Sources
This dissertation deals with a vast number of sources that are not restricted to
the analysis and interpretation of the violent “events” or social movements per se, but
that serve to illustrate the transmission of political knowledge and social categories
during a longer period. A history of social movements and cultural practices, in this
sense, draws on neglected sources that shed light on the everyday forms of
46
communication through which social subjects offered representations of themselves
and of the others: the emergence of new reading practices, the proliferation of tertulias
and public debates, the spread of anonymous hand-written documents in the city and
in rural regions, the spread of revolutionary songs, books and pamphlets. All such
practices were involved, in one way or another, in the emergence of subaltern
rebellious movements and the colonial state responses, and understanding their
dynamics helps us comprehend the formation and dynamics of the social events
themselves.
When I began this research I was cautioned that I would probably not find
much material on the circulation of information about the revolutionary Caribbean in
Venezuela. However my research has yielded documentation that contains ample
references to the circulation of French and Caribbean – mostly Haitian – news and
revolutionary ideas among the Venezuelan population. Among the sources from which
valuable data has been obtained during my research are: Haciendas’ inventories and
accounts, planters’ correspondence, correspondence between colonial officers and the
home government, official correspondence between Caribbean colonial officers and
Venezuelan authorities, royal decree, correspondence of immigrants coming from
Saint-Domingue and Santo Domingo to Venezuelan ports and cities, extracts of wills,
ship inventories, post-mortem inventories, legal actions and proceedings between
masters and slaves, and travelers’ accounts and chronicles.
47
My research on the movement of the black rebellion of Coro in 1795, the Gual
and España conspiracy of la Guaira in 1797, and other lesser revolts in the coastal
towns of Venezuela, were drawn from court records housed in the Archivo General de
la Nación in Caracas and the Archivo General de Indias in Seville. The Archivo
General de la Nación in Caracas, specifically the sections Gobernación y Capitanía
General, Intendencia y Ejército, Registro de Aragua, Reales Provisiones, Reales
Ordenes, Reales Cédulas, and Diversos, contain large numbers of records related to
these rebellious events and also valuable information about the different measures and
controls that local authorities adopted in order to control the introduction and
spreading of revolutionary materials. The Archivo Arquideocesano de Caracas,
another important Caracas resource, has several valuable records generated by the
Holy Inquisition in Caracas, which contain interesting data regarding the prohibition
and control of books, pamphlets, and other written materials in the city. A critical
reading of these sources enabled me to situate readings and webs of information
within a larger context involving state-church control and revolutionary forces, and to
consider how political dislocation and unexpected alliances opened up possibilities for
resistance and rebellion during these years.
This dissertation does not concentrate on one historical event in particular. It
rather studies cultural practices and representations that emerged in diverse contexts of
the Venezuelan province during the “Age of Revolution.” In Chapter Two, I study
different written materials concerning the political and social circumstances of the
48
“revolutionized Atlantic” - Spain, France, and the Caribbean - that circulated and were
being read, shared, and discussed in the ports and urban centers of the Province of
Venezuela during the end of the eighteenth century. I also seek to analyze the ways in
which diverse social groups came into contact with these written materials and
developed strategies to spread the ideas contained in them. The origin, nature,
motivations, characteristics, and intentions of these written materials differed.
However, colonial institutions, such as the Church, the Holy Inquisition and the
General Captaincy, established regulations controlling the circulation of printed
materials that contained precepts against the Catholic Church, Christian morality, the
monarchical state, and the social order. In this chapter, I will analyze what kind of
materials were transmitted through multiple media and practices (hand-written copies,
public readings, and recitations), and were transformed into meanings that framed the
political and social debates taking place during this period. Most of these texts raised
questions about the monarchical regime, the social order, and the abolition of slavery
that attracted the attention of local elites and subalterns.
Chapter Three studies the impact that the mobilization of people from the
“Revolutionary Atlantic” had in the Province of Venezuela during the first years of the
French Revolution and the Saint-Domingue rebellions. Despite all the mechanisms
that the government established and executed in order to control the entry of
foreigners in the ports and urban centers of the province, between 1791 and 1796,
French and Caribbean people entered the province and brought news and information
49
about the “Revolutions.” This wave of rumors seriously preoccupied the officials who
found it hard to control the oral transmission of information. During the years of 1793
and 1794, for example, the Governor of Spanish Santo Domingo sent more than 1,000
French prisoners and slaves from Santo Domingo, Martinique, and Guadeloupe to the
port of La Guaira. At the outset, local authorities thought that this would be a
temporary situation and that those slaves could be easily sold among the local
hacendados, or could be sent to other cities and ports of Spanish America. However,
these two solutions did not come as easily and quickly as they expected and problems
began to arise as the “voices of the prisoners” permeated the walls of the prison and
circulated in the streets of La Guaira and Caracas. In this chapter, I seek to analyze
some of the stories of the revolution and the wave of rumors that erupted from this
situation, in order to understand the several versions of the Haitian Revolution that
circulated in the province and that contributed to white paranoia and repressive
behavior, as well as to black rebelliousness and hope.
In Chapter Four, I explore one social movement in particular: the black rebellion
of Coro of 1795. Here, I offer a description of the social and labor landscape of the
region, and the everyday rhythms of plantation culture, paying particular attention to
the manner in which state control, work regimes, and social relations became critical
to the evolution and dissemination of insurgent ideas and designs. In this way, free and
enslaved blacks created crevices in the mantle of control, and some used these
opportunities to plan the rebellion in the region. To address the underlying problem of
50
confroting the external and internal influences that promoted rebellion, this chapter
analyzes the different sources of information that linked the events of Saint-Domingue
with the rebellion of Coro and opened a space for contestation and rebellion. My
hypothesis is that Saint-Domingue became a shared knowledge that was used by the
Coro rebels to threaten elites and negotiate their economic and social demands, and
was used by the elites to justify repression and control. This chapter pays special
attention to the ambiguous and manipulative official narratives that emerged to justify
judicial irregularities, but also confronts them with other narratives constructed from
the subaltern perspective, which allow us to question the motivations and agendas of
the black rebels of Coro.
In 1797, a subversive republican movement emerged in the city of La Guaira
under the leadership of Manuel Gual and Jose María España. The movement, which
started forming in 1794, stood for “liberty and equality” and the “Rights of Man” and
established a plan of action contemplating the downfall of Spanish control and the
introduction of a Republican government. Its main goals were to introduce freedom of
trade, the abolition of slavery and Indian tributes, and the elimination of taxes, while
pleading for harmony between whites, Indians, and blacks. Gual and España obtained
remarkable support from a group of pardos and whites, small merchants, royal
officials, soldiers, and artisans of La Guaira and Caracas with whom they shared a rich
network of information related to ideas of revolution, equality, and republican
principles. The historiography that has studied the conspiracy of Gual y España asserts
51
that the conspirators produced a considerable number of texts intended to instruct their
followers. Among those documents are proclamations of insurrection, poems, stories,
songs, the “Declaration of the Rights of Man,” along with other interesting
revolutionary documents from France and Spain that represent fundamental sources
for understanding the political knowledge supporting this conspiracy. In Chapter Five,
I analyze the different ways in which these actors produced a common language and
information webs for political opposition. I am interested in understanding the
communicational strategies they adopted in order to recruit people of different races
and social status, as well as the circulation of the political ideas coming from the
“Revolutionary Caribbean” that supported this socially unique movement.
Most historians contend that rich white creoles and landowners did not support
the conspiracy of La Guaira because it was considered too Jacobin and revolutionary,
and they disliked the involvement of pardos and free blacks in the movement.
Therefore, the elites remained loyal to Spanish rule, seeing it as the most effective
guarantee of order and hierarchy. However, this loyalty of the Venezuelan white
aristocracy would be eroded during the first decade of nineteenth century when the
crisis of the Spanish monarchy led them to make a bid for independence.
The Province of Venezuela felt the impact of the slave insurrection of Saint
Domingue almost as soon as it began; however from 1798 to 1804, this impact became
stronger as boatloads of Saint-Domingue’s and Spanish Santo Domingo’s refugees
were disembarking on Venezuelan shores. Thanks to the controversial circumstances
52
surrounding their flight, Spanish and French Saint-Dominguans attracted great
attention from the authorities and the locals who carefully listened to the “stories of
chaos and terror” they repeatedly told. The last chapter examines the character and
nature of these representations of the Haitian Revolution in order to understand also
the Venezuelan responses to these characterizations of violence. Saint-Dominguan
exiles not only raised feelings of terror and fear in white elites, but also raised
questions about slavery, freedom and equality among free blacks and slaves, and about
the relationship between masters and their slaves. The stories, rumors, and debates that
these exiles brought with them created more open and contested political spaces for
dominant groups and subalterns to express their political ideas and social values, and
to negotiate the terms slaves’ labor conditions. 73
Through this work, I have found that within the emerging spaces for political
debate during the last years of the eighteenth century, the representations of the
Haitian Revolution were crucial to the ways free blacks and slaves gave shape to their
social agendas and movements, as well as to the ways the colonial state and the white
elites justified vigilance and persecution of the colored population. In the
confrontational social setting of the late eighteenth century, Haiti was a discursive
fulcrum that allowed coloreds to challenge elites, using white fear to advance their 73 See, for example, Víctor Uribe-Uran’s “The Birth of Public Sphere in Latin America during the Age of Revolution,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 42, no. 2 (April, 2002): 425-457. For an interesting discussion on the independence movement and Public Sphere in Venezuela, see Rodolfo Ramírez- Ovalles, La opinión sea consagrada. Articulación e instauración del aparato de opinion pública republicana 1810-1821 (Caracas: Fundación Bancaribe y Academia Nacional de la Historia, 2009).
53
demands. It also gave fearful elites cause for maintaining colored population
contented, and for exercising tighter control over them, especially restricting their
access to the public political sphere in subsequent years as the independence
movement gained ground in Venezuela. 74
74 Studies focusing on the emergence of independence movements in Latin American contend that during the crisis of the Spanish monarchy in 1808, the demand for information regarding the monarchical crisis had an impact on the emergence of public spaces for political debate in different cities of Latin America. Francois-Xavier Guerra, for example, explores the emergence of an early form of public opinion in Latin American countries during the years of 1808-1814, at a time which saw the promulgation of the free-press and the proliferation of newspapers and gazettes in the Hispanic world. See François Xavier Guerra, Modernidad e independencias: ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas (Madrid: Fundación Studium y Ediciones Encuentro, 2009), Chapter 8. Christopher Conway’s study of the Gaceta de Caracas also pays particular attention to the diffusion of political ideas through written channels and the proliferation of public spaces for reading and intellectual gatherings in Caracas and La Guaira at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Christopher Conway, “Letras combatientes: relectura de la Gaceta de Caracas, 1808-1822,” Revista Iberoamericana, 214 (2006): 77-92. However, other authors, such as Víctor Uribe-Uran, provide comparative evidence that at least an incipient public sphere emerged within colonial Spanish America's civil societies in the late colonial period. His perspective, although not entirely revisionist is an argument that challenges the view that intellectual debate and critique took place in a mostly private spaces at that time. See Uribe-Uran, “The Birth of Public Sphere in Latin America during the Age of Revolution.”
54
CHAPTER II
The Revolutions on Paper:
Transmission of Political Knowledge and the Interfaces Between the
Oral and the Written Communication in Colonial Venezuela
1. Transmission of Political Knowledge: From the History of Books to the History of
Reading.
One June night in 1794, a British Captain, William Gisborne went to the house
of the Governor and Captain General of the Province of Venezuela, Don Pedro
Carbonell, and told him that after he arrived with a “load of 100 African blacks” in the
Port of La Guaira - the most important port of colonial Venezuela - an official and
guardian of the port visited his ship, and asked him if he was carrying newspapers or
written materials. Captain Gisborne provided him with one english gazette and the
guardian confiscated it. The captain’s translator requested the official to return the
gazette but he refused and left. After hearing Gisborne’s account, the governor became
concerned about the destiny of the gazette, and ordered the commander of La Guaira
to find out who took the gazette, “and to collect it immediately along with all the
55
copies that could have been made of it.”75 Days later, the commander found out that
the official who made the visit and seized the gazette was Don Juan Joseph Mendiri, a
resident of La Guaira, Royal Interim accountant and guard of the port, who returned
the gazette and stated that no copies were made of it. At this point, although there
seemed to be a certain mistrust between the high-level government and their
subalterns the need to maintain the “tranquility and calmness” of the region prevented
Carbonell from proceeding with further inquiries. Three years later, in July 1797, a
republican conspiracy led by the white creoles Manuel Gual and José María España
was uncovered in the city of La Guaira. The Official Guard, Juan Joseph Mendiri, was
among the people who collaborated in this conspiracy that stood for “liberty and
equality” and the “Rights of Man,” and that established a plan of action that
contemplated the establishment of a republican government.76
What is extremely interesting to note here is that it was Mendiri, the main
guard of the port and the person responsible for the task of controlling the entry of
revolutionary papers and gazettes, who finally was accused of participating in the
creation of an “archive” of gazettes, pamphlets, manuscripts, and books about
republicanism and abolitionism that intellectually fed a conspiracy in which hundreds
of people from different races, education, professions, and economic statuses
75 “Expediente formado con las disposiciones referents a evitar la introduccion en esta Provincia de papeles procedentes de la Francia, que contengan ‘señales’ de especie alucivas a la libertad,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 290-293. 76 Juan José Mendiri, 42 years old, was the Guardamayor of the Port and royal accountant. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
56
participated. How did these texts circulate among this diverse population? How were
they received? These are some of the questions I will try to address in this chapter.
Based on my studies on the history of reading and modes of communication, political
knowledge, and popular groups, this chapter aims at understanding the semi-literate
world of colonial Venezuela, as well as the social dynamics involved in processes of
knowledge transmission that could have allowed the social expansion of such
knowledge and the emergence of insurgency movements.
Historians of ideas, on the one hand, and historians of political movements, on
the other, have often assumed a straightforward causal relation between the circulation
of certain “ideas” in particular periods of time and the emergence of social
movements. Latin American historiography provides different examples of this. In
order to understand, for example, the ideological origins and inspirational sources for
the independence movements emerged, historians have frequently relied on data
provided by the social history of printed materials (and especially of the books) and
intellectual history, establishing unquestioned connections between the expansion of
Enlightened French political ideas and Spanish reformism and the emergence of
political agendas against colonial governments and the Spanish monarchy.77 Generally
77 See Richard Herr, España y la revolución del s. XVIII (Madrid: Aguilar, 1964); José Torres Revello, El libro, la imprenta y el periodismo en América durante la dominación española (Buenos Aires: Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, 1940); Guerra, “Revolución francesa y revoluciones hispánicas: una relación compleja” and “La difusión de la modernidad: alfabetización, imprenta y revolución,” in Modernidad e independencias. In Venezuela there has been abundant historical work that studies the influence of revolutionary books and readings in the independence movement (1810-1824). See Manuel Pérez Vila, La biblioteca del Libertador (Caracas, 1960), “Bibliotecas coloniales en Venezuela,” Revista de Historia 3, no. 12 (1962): 15-25, Los libros en la colonia y en la independencia (Caracas:
57
speaking, these historians assume clear threads between the content and circulation of
certain printed materials among the political elite, and the content of political
agendas.78 However, many of these works do not consider or question the ways and
the practices through which the knowledge contained in these books and printed
materials circulated among different social groups and created an environment of
political debate in which not only elites but subaltern groups engaged with and
produced contested discourses. These debates have not always found their way into
historical records and historiographical narratives.
Arguing that historians cannot reconstruct the cultural and intellectual history
of social groups and communities by considering exclusively “material objects,”
Roger Chartier contends that it is necessary to create a history that can capture the
“gesture” that transforms the texts into knowledge and ideas.79 Certainly, it is
important to know how many or what kind of books were sold in bookstores or which
books were found in private libraries or ship inventories, since this information allows Oficina Central de Información, 1970); also Pedro Grases, La biblioteca de Francisco de Miranda (Caracas: Chromotip, 1966), Historia de la imprenta en Venezuela hasta el fin de la primera república, 1812 (Caracas: Ediciones de la Presidencia de la República, 1967), and Libros y libertad (Caracas: Ediciones de la Presidencia de la República, 1974); and Idelfonso Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII (Discurso de incorporación a la Academia Nacional de la Historia) (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1971). 78 It is quite common to read in Simón Bolivar’s and Francisco de Miranda’s biographies, for example, that these leaders were avid readers of Rousseau, Montesquieu, Ferguson, Voltaire and other enlightened thinkers, and that these reading tastes defined their political agendas and actions in favor of Latin American independence. See Pérez Vila, La biblioteca del Libertador, and La formación intelectual del Libertador (Caracas: Ediciones del Presidencia de la República, 1979); and Grases, La biblioteca de Francisco de Miranda. 79 Roger Chartier, The Cultural Uses of Print in Early Modern France (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987).
58
us to have a general idea of intellectual tastes and interests. However, cultural
historians, such as Roger Chartier, Robert Darnton and Guglielmo Cavallo, believe
that these studies do not provide a satisfactory understanding of the impact of printed
materials in a given historical period. For them it is necessary to understand how those
materials were read. It is crucial to analyze the cultural practices through which those
texts were digested and integrated into everyday life and into the frame of social
movements and rebellions. Therefore they propose a “history of reading.”80
The act of reading a written text should not be perceived as a simple
submission to a textual machinery. On the contrary, reading should be seen as an act
of interpretation: a practice out of which meanings and perceptions emerge. It is also a
learned cultural practice with uses certain instruments and objects, which takes place
in specific places and times, and which generates motivations, representations, and
images among readers and listeners. Therefore, historians of reading recommend
adopting a perspective that allows us to capture the gestures and social practices that
transform knowledge into ideas and then, sometimes into collective and political
actions. Following this approach, I understand reading as an “appropriation” of the
80 There is abundant bibliography about the “History of Reading” and its historiographic repercussions. See, for example, Chartier, The Cultural Uses of Print; Cultural History: Between Practices and Representations (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1988), The Order of Books: Readers, Authors and Libraries in Europe Between the Fourteenth and Eighteenth Centuries, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), and Roger Chartier and Guglielmo Cavallo, A History of Reading in the West (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999). See also Robert Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France (New York: W.W. Norton, 1995), and “An Early Information Society: News and the Media in Eighteenth-Century Paris,” The American Historical Review 105, no. 1 (2000): 1-35.
59
text, “both because it actualizes the texts’ semantic potential and because it creates a
mediation for knowledge of the self through comprehension of the text.”81
From 1791 to 1800, written revolutionary information from different cities of
Europe and America, but especially from Saint-Domingue and Spanish Santo
Domingo, filtered into Venezuela, mortifying local officials and elites, and prompting
the curiosity of the population. In this chapter, I aim to provide a general idea of the
diverse written revolutionary and abolitionist materials that circulated and were read,
shared, and discussed in the ports and urban centers of Venezuela during the last years
of the eighteenth century. 82 But more importantly, I also seek to analyze the ways
through which diverse social groups came into contact with these written materials
and developed strategies and media, such as hand-written copies, public readings, and
composing of songs and dialogues to spread the information. These practices have
allowed me to perceive a widening and social expansion for the transmission of
political knowledge, as more social groups became interested in accessing and
81 See Roger Chartier, ed., The Culture of Print: Power and the Uses of Print in Early Modern Europe, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 157. 82 Recently, there has been an emerging interest in exploring literacy, revolution, and the public sphere in Latin America in eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. See, for example, Sara Castro-Klarén and John Charles Chasteen, eds., Beyond Imagined Communities, Reading and Writing the Nation in Nineteenth-Century Latin America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003); Guerra, “La difusión de la modernidad: alfabetización, imprenta y revolución,” in Modernidad e independencias, and “Forms of Communication, Political Spaces, and Cultural Identities in the Creation of Spanish American Nations,” in Beyond Imagined Communities, 3-32; Claudia Rosas Lauro, “La imagen de la Revolución Francesa en el virreinato peruano a fines del siglo XVIII” (Undergraduate diss., Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima, 1997); Víctor Peralta Ruiz, “Prensa y redes de comunicación en el virreinato del Perú, 1790-1821,” Tiempos de América 12, (2005): 1-20; Ferrer, “Noticias de Haití en Cuba,” and Ramírez- Ovalles, La opinión sea consagrada.
60
responding to new information about the revolutionary movements and the political
debates implicit in these movements. Here, I argue that during times of revolutionary
struggle, more sectors of the Venezuelan society engaged in the political sphere in
different ways: from the acquisition of more books about politics and the
configuration of discussion groups to discuss these, to the development of strategies to
stir mobilization and conspire against the government, challenging the colonial state
and its structures of power.
Eighteenth-century Caracas, as I will show here, was a “semi-literate” society
where different social groups had differentiated and unequal access to the written
word. Literate people normally belonged to upper social groups, while the vast
majority of the non-literate population belonged to subaltern groups and transmitted
their knowledge in an oral culture, influenced though by writing and texts.83 In the
colonial province of Caracas, the boundaries established between the written and oral
worlds were not always clearly defined or limited. For instance: the oral reading of
brief written materials such as pamphlets and newspapers in private or public settings
was a common although not necessarily extensive practice used to spread
83 For a rich discussion on the ways that non-literate people position themselves vis-a-vis the lettered bureaucracy, colonization, state formation, and state power, see James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed, An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009); Donald F. McKenzie, “Orality, Literacy and Print in Early New Zealand,” in Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 77-130; Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, Chapter 6; and Jack Goody, The Logic of Writing, the Organization of Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).
61
information.84 Considering these practices, we could assert that non-literate people
found different ways within oral channels to access the written world and its texts, to
make them circulate orally among their family members, neighbors, and friends.85
During turbulent revolutionary times, social actors found more ways to spread
political knowledge among the non-literate, as a way of promoting their participation
on discussion groups and political awareness. In this sense, my work seeks to
challenge the idea that only the colonial elites followed the revolutionary political
debate, and that subaltern groups such a pardos, free-blacks and slaves also developed
their own visions about revolutionary values such as liberty and equality.
The history of reading and of modes of knowledge transmission is a history of
cultural practices. I follow approaches that do not assume strict and linear
correspondences between cultural cleavages and social hierarchies.86 In this line of
thought, I prefer to analyze how cultural practices, such as reading, produce a fluid
diffusion of ideas and shared practices that cross social boundaries. Throughout this
84 There were literate artisans who read newspapers and gazettes to others in public places (barbershops, streets, squares and shops). See Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas. For an assesment of the diffusion of political ideas through written channels and the proliferation of public spaces for reading and intellectual gatherings in Caracas and La Guaira at the beginning of the nineteenth century, see Christopher Conway’s study of the Gaceta de Caracas, “Letras combatientes.”
85 At times, the dichotomy “literate/non-literate” seems problematic for understanding semi-literate societies, where individuals could have had reading skills, but could not write at all, or viceversa. They could be excellent copyists, without knowing how to read a sentence of their manuscripts. See for example, Rosamond McKitterick, The Uses of Literacy in Early Medieval Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 86 See Chartier, ed., The Culture of Print; Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth Century Miller (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980); and Van Young, The Other Rebellion.
62
chapter, I will not privilege one social group in particular; on the contrary, I will try to
understand how different texts and sources of information generated particular
significance and connections between diverse social groups that have often been
considered distant and even opposed to each other. However, my analysis will try to
avoid simplifications about common “worlds of meaning” shared by different social
groups. The common spaces of interaction and communication should help us
understand the processes of negotiation, transaction, imposition, and contestation in
which different social groups engaged in their struggles for social and economic
power, as well as over the meaning of politics.
Studying how texts were read and spread will give us the opportunity to
explore what images and representations of the “revolutionized Atlantic” were being
developed and used in the Province of Venezuela. In this chapter, I aim to analyze
which texts related to France and its turbulent colonies were circulating in diverse
ports and cities of the Province of Venezuela, trying also to discover how those texts
entered the province, who circulated them, and who read, consumed, and talked about
them.
It is particularly interesting to study also how the colonial institutions, such as
the Real Audiencia, the local government, the Church and the Inquisition, tried to
control the circulation and spread of these texts. The origin, nature, motivations,
characteristics, and intentions of these written materials differed, however colonial
institutions established clear regulations regarding the circulation of printed materials
63
that contained chanllenges to the Catholic Church, Christian morality, the Monarchical
State, and the social order.87
During the eighteenth century the colonial state and the Catholic Church tried
to control the existence and circulation of excessively “enlightened” texts that could
easily confuse subaltern actors, who were usually perceived by elites as “simple
minded.” By the end of the century, however, these institutions became even more
concerned about the spread of the “revolutionary disease” through written channels
and activated new mechanisms of control and vigilance. Understanding the nature and
direction of these concerns, as well as the dynamics of control, allow us to
comprehend elites’ representations of French and Caribbean revolutionary movements
and the proliferation of feelings of fear and terror among those who sought at all cost
to avoid suffering the fate as Saint-Domingue.
2. Books, Readers, and Reading Practices in Colonial Venezuela.
During the month of February 1800, members of the Real Consulado of the
Province of Venezuela addressed a letter to the King of Spain in which they sought for
permission to have a printing press in the city of Caracas. In this letter, they argued
87 Indexes containing lists of prohibited books and papers were read aloud at Sunday Masses and were fixed on the doors of the Church. Agents of the Inquisition visited private houses in order to collect prohibited books and/or to censor chapters and extracts of some of them. During Sunday sermons, priests reprimanded readers of seditious papers and alerted them about divine punishments they could suffer for reading prohibited materials. These sermons showed the Church’s interest in controlling readers’ consciences precisely when institutional control over the heterogeneous and flexible information networks was increasingly inefficient. See Cristina Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas.
64
that the establishment of such a press was fundamental for the development of
agriculture, commerce, and the arts in the province:
With it, the experienced farmers will communicate with other fellow countrymen all the knowledge they have obtained in their fields in order to improve crops; artists will do the same for the benefit of their class, and other citizens will feel encouraged to share the product of their chores.88
This petition not only confirms the well-known difficulty that most inhabitants
of the province faced in trying to acquire printed materials and books from the
peninsula. It also shows the interest that members of the Consulado had in
disseminating a local knowledge that, in accordance with the spirit of the
Enlightenment and Spanish reformism, could produce positive educational, economic,
and commercial transformations in the Province. 89 The importance they afforded to
local knowledge may also be understood as a realization of the differences between
the peninsular and the “American” worlds, and of the need for Spanish Americans to
88 “Con ella comunicarán los experimentados labradores quanto conocimiento hayan adquirido sobre los respectivos ramos de su aplicación, á los demas sus compatriotas a fin de mejorar el cultivo; los artistas ejecutaran lo propio á beneficio de los de su clase; y los demas ciudadanos se animarán á dar a luz el fruto de sus tareas,” in “Carta del Real Consulado al Rey de España, Febrero 1800,” AGI, Caracas, 914. 89 Most books arriving in the cities of the Province of Venezuela came from the Spanish Peninsula. Spanish books were very expensive for Venezuelan readers who had to wait several months to read them. See Idelfonso Leal, Libros y bibliotecas en Venezuela colonial (1633-1767) (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1978); and Cristina Soriano, “El correr de los libros en la cotidianidad caraqueña. Mercado y redes de circulación de libros en Caracas durante el siglo XVIII,” in Mezclado y sospechoso: movilidad e identidades, España y América (siglos XVI-XVIII), ed. Gregoire Salinero (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2005), 229-49.
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be not only receptors, but also producers of knowledge concerning their own
realities.90
The permission for a printing press was denied without further explanation,
and the city of Caracas, capital of the Province of Venezuela, was one of the last cities
in Spanish America to receive royal permission to possess the technology.91 It was not
until the first decade of the nineteenth century and in the midst of the crisis of the
Spanish monarchy with Napoleon’s invasion, that the city finally obtained permission
to have one, in order to print texts supporting the rights of Fernando VII and to
legitimate the Juntas.92 Nevertheless, the lack of printing-presses during this
90 For an interesting discussion of the problem of similarities and differences between the American and the peninsular worlds, see John Elliot, “Mundos parecidos, mundos distintos,” in Mezclado y sospechoso, XI-XXVIII. Regarding the exchange of knowledge between Spaniards and the indigenous, Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra presents an interesting approach regarding the mutual process of transmission of knowledge. He proposes a critical reassessment to understand the complex dynamics of indigenous and Spanish interactions in the New World. This critical assessment looks for the ways that Europeans of the sixteenth century incorporated or adapted indigenous knowledge to their histories and compilations, and Cañizares argues that sixteenth century Spanish historians in the New World exhibit willingness to listen to the voices of non-European ‘subalterns,’ recognizing their proficiency in producing knowledge. See Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, How to Write the History of the New World, Histories, Epistemologies and Identities in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001). 91 In New Spain, for example, the printing press arrived as early as 1539; in the Viceroyalty of Peru it arrived in 1581. By the end of the eighteenth century the cities of La Habana, Bogotá, Quito, Buenos Aires, and Santiago, all had printing presses. The reasons why it came late to Venezuela are a subject of an interesting historical debate. Some argue that by the time the Province of Venezuela acquired administrative, political, and commercial interest on the peninsula, the menace of the circulation of revolutionary ideas in the Atlantic world increased and eroded the motivations for establishing printing presses in port cities and urban centers where could become dangerous machines for disseminating their revolutionary propaganda. See Pedro Grases, La imprenta en Venezuela (Caracas: Seix Barral, 1981) and Libros y libertad. 92 Agustín Millares Carlo, Introducción a la historia del libro y de las bibliotecas (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1986); José Luis Martínez, El libro en Hispanoamérica. Origen y desarrollo (Madrid: Fundación Germán Díaz Sánchez Ruipérez, 1987); Cristina Soriano, “Buscar libros en una
66
intelectually dynamic period did not necessarily affect public access to and interest in
books. On the contrary, it was the reason why an original and heterogeneous market
for books and networks for the circulation of printed and hand-copied materials
developed in different cities and ports of the Province of Venezuela. During the
French Revolution and the Haitian Revolution, these networks for the circulation of
written materials served to spread information about anti-monarchical propaganda,
political violence, ethno-racial confrontations, and liberal values such as equality and
liberty.
Little has been done on the study of literacy in the Province of Venezuela
during the eighteenth century. Nevertheless there are a few studies that provide some
information about private libraries and lists of books arriving on ships. They can be
used to shed light on reading tastes and practices in the province toward the end of the
eighteenth century, when the first written materials on political and social upheavals in
France and the Caribbean started to circulate in the Atlantic World. 93
We need to bear in mind that the studies of private libraries and ships’
inventories in the main cities do not allow us to draw definitive conclusions about
literacy levels in any given community. If, for example, we take into consideration the
number of wills that contained library inventories, we could infer that by the end of
ciudad sin imprentas. La circulación de los libros en la Caracas de finales del siglo XVIII,” Litterae. Cuadernos de Cultura Escrita (forthcoming, 2011); and Ramírez- Ovalles, La opinión sea consagrada. 93 Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII, and Libros y bibliotecas en Venezuela; Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas and “El correr de los libros en la cotidianidad caraqueña.”
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eighteenth century almost 13 percent of the population of the city of Caracas
possessed books in their homes and knew how to read them.94 We should be aware,
however, of some methodological difficulties. First, not everyone who possessed
books in their homes had the possibility of counting on a post-mortem inventory.
Second, not everyone had books or written materials expensive enough or important
enough to be included in a will. Third, not everyone having a library necessarily knew
how to read those books. Therefore, in order to have a clear idea of literacy levels, the
information contained in post-mortem inventories should be complemented with other
sources such as marriage registers’ signatures and censuses.95 However, if we consider
some broad characteristics of private libraries and their owners, we may form a
general idea of the social composition of readers and their literary tastes.
The literate world of the Province of Venezuela, as in other urban centers of
America, was a complicated one. The societies in the main urban centers of the
94 In a previous work, I show that of 727 testaments (registered in the city of Caracas from 1770 to 1810), only 92 (12.5percent) contained library inventories. See Cristina Soriano, “Bibliotecas, lectores y saber en Caracas durante el siglo XVIII,” in Idalia García and Pedro Rueda (eds.) El libro en circulación en la América colonial: producción, circuitos de distribución y conformación de bibliotecas en los siglos XVI-XVIII, (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, forthcoming, 2011). 95 For interesting discussions regarding methodological problems with analyzing literacy and non-literacy in past societies, as well as the concept of ‘literacy’ itself, see classic works such as Roger Schofield, “The Measurement of Literacy in Pre-Industrial England,” in Literacy in Traditional Societies, ed. Jack Goody (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968); Carlo Cipolla, Literacy and Development in the West (London: Penguin Books, 1970); David Cressy, Literacy and the Social Rrder. Reading and Writing in Tudor and Stuart England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981); and François Furet and Jacques Ozouf, Reading and Writing: Literacy in France from Calvin to Jules Ferry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), Sara T. Nalle, "Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile," Past and Present, no. 125 (1989): 65-96. For a critical review of the impact of literacy on popular culture over time see David Vincent, Literacy and Popular Culture, England 1750-1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
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Province of Venezuela, such as Caracas, La Guaira, Valencia, and Puerto Cabello,
were mostly “semi-literate” communities where social groups had differential access
to the written word. Based on my research with testaments, post-mortem library
inventories, and ship importation lists, I have found that traditionally, the clergy,
followed by members of the local nobility, government authorities, and landowners
were the social groups best trained to read and that possessed the largest libraries. In
the city of Caracas, for example, the clergy possessed almost 20 percent of the private
libraries registered in post-mortem inventories, while the white nobility and planters
together possessed another 25 percent. Together, both groups possessed almost the 70
percent of all books’ titles registered in those private libraries. Other social groups,
such as the “men of letter” – such as lawyers, seminar and university teachers -, and
government functionaries - official secretaries, tax agents, and even scribes -
possessed 10 percent of the libraries registered in Caracas’ inventories. People
dedicated to commercial activities such as merchants, petty traders, and shopkeepers
had 14 percent of the registered libraries.96 I have found that some “poor whites” left
small libraries and I have not found any record of libraries possessed by pardos, free
blacks or slaves, however it is important to note that very few inventories belonged to
pardos and none to free coloreds and slaves. The question, in this case, is whether this
meant that pardos, free blacks and slaves did not read or did not have access to books
and written materials. As I will show later in this chapter, this was not the case.
96 See Soriano,“Bibliotecas, lectores y saber en Caracas.”
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The European Enlightenment and Spanish reformism were deeply felt in the
cities and main ports of Spanish America where new scientific knowledge and
intellectual interests spread, and where the colonial state promoted the need for
increasing literacy among the population and highlighting the importance of
expanding “useful sciences” in order to improve the economic and commercial
potential of the region. The Province of Venezuela was no exception: from 1760 until
1810, several containers with a great numbers of books arrived every month in the port
of La Guaira, where the Compañia Guizpuzcoana received, commercialized, and
distributed numerous editions among avid readers, shopkeepers, and owners of
pulperías. By the end of the eighteenth century, a great variety of books on diverse
topics circulated in the cities of Caracas and La Guaira. Compared to previous
decades, I have found that the last four decades of the eighteenth century witnessed a
substantial increase in the number of books brought from Spain to the Province of
Venezuela. Consequently the number of private libraries in the cities of the province –
especially Caracas - increased, and the diversity of the titles contained in these private
libraries was also significantly greater.97
I have also found that the books that came from Spain to the Province of
Venezuela during the last decades of the colonial period were quite diverse. In the
main cities of Venezuela, reading practices expanded beyond the limits of religious 97 Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII, and Libros y bibliotecas en Venezuela; Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas, “El correr de los libros en la cotidianidad caraqueña,” and “Bibliotecas, lectores y saber en Caracas.” See also Pérez Vila, “Bibliotecas coloniales en Venezuela,” and Vicente Amézaga, “Los libros de la Caracas colonial,” El Farol 30, no. 28 (1969): 10-13.
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education institutions. Readers experienced the openness that the modern book offered
as an instrument to acquire knowledge, to mediate between the empirical reality and
the “reason of men.”98 Of course, not all readers and library owners became “modern
readers.” Venezuelan readers continued to buy classic texts, such as Virgil, Cicero,
Titus Livy, and Seneca, and maintained their taste for religious texts such as the Bible,
breviaries, catechisms, mass books, the “lives of Saints,” and theological literature.
History, law and medicine continued to be popular among readers who bought
illustrated and expensive editions on these subjects. But also during this period, new
kinds of books appeared and revealed interesting transformations of literary tastes and
of the uses of reading.
By the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century I find
that the importation of religious books decreased drastically, while there was a
significant and growing presence of books about politics, government, administration,
commerce, education, agriculture, mathematics, military engineering, history, manuals
for artisans, as well as newspapers and gazettes.99 This new configuration of Caracas’
private libraries went hand in hand with the reformist and Enlightened discourse that
98 On the shift of reading tastes and practices during the Modern period see Chartier, The Order of Books, and Chartier and Cavallo, A History of Reading in the West. 99 My previous study on private libraries shows that the presence of religious books decreased from 53 percent in 1770-1780 to 26 percent in 1800-1810, while other subjects such as military engineering, agriculture, mathematics, politics, and administration doubled their numbers during the last decade of the eighteenth century. This data shows a transformation in the literary tastes of Caracas readers, who seemed to experience a process of re-categorizing books as instruments of knowledge, and as useful media to debate the particular circumstances of the colonial world, the government, and economic development. See Soriano, “Bibliotecas, lectores y saber en Caracas.”
71
sought to promote progress and development in the Spanish American region in terms
of better knowledge and exploration of the region and its natural resources, labor
diversification, increase of the slave trade, wiser administration, and the improvement
of commercial activities.
Several editions of books written by European and Spanish reformist authors
such as Pedro Rodríguez de Campomanes, Melchor de Jovellanos, Nicolás de
Moratín, Fray Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, Jerónimo Uztáriz, Bernardo Ward, and Juan
Sempere y Guarinos, among others, arrived in the Province of Venezuela during the
last decades of the eighteenth century.100 All of these authors brought new “light” and
ideas to the Spanish monarchical system, its administrative and legal structure, its
agricultural and commercial development, and educational and social progress.101
These Enlightened Spanish intellectuals sought to produce changes in the public social
sphere; in general, they promoted the well-being of society through labor and
agricultural development, and many of their writings valued the expansion of slavery
as mean to increase production. They emphasized the reduction of poverty and
100 See book lists in “Registros de Navíos,” AGI- Sevilla, Contratación 1693 (years 1770-1773), 1694 (years 1774-1776), 1695 (years 1777-1778); and AGI-Sevilla, Indiferente General 2173, 2177, and 2178. 101 On the character and impact of Spanish Reformism in Spanish territories see Carlos Martínez Shaw, “El despotismo ilustrado en España y en las Indias,” in El imperio sublevado: monarquía y naciones en España e Hispanoamérica, eds. Víctor Mínguez and Manuel Chust (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2004); Pere Molas Ribalta, “Política, economía y derecho,” in Historia literaria de España en el siglo XVIII, ed. Francisco Aguilar Piñal (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 32; Francisco Aguilar Piñal, “La Ilustración española, entre el reformismo y el liberalismo,” in La literatura española de la Ilustración: homenaje a Carlos III (Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 1989), 39-51; and J. M. Caso González, De Ilustración e ilustrados (Oviedo: Instituto Feijoo de Estudios del siglo XVIII, 1988).
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indigence, the need for exporting products from each Province, the development of
local industries and factories to compete with the products of other nations, and the
significance of public education to eradicate illiteracy and “ignorance.”102 As Aguilar
Piñal asserts: “Every thoughtful step of these enlightened thinkers would be preceded
by words such as ‘public benefit’ and ‘usefulness,’ magic words that would change the
face of the country.”103
During the eighteenth century, Spain and its provinces also witnessed the
emergence of a new kind of periodical press that sought to create a more direct and
efficient relation between “useful knowledge” and readers and listeners. An early
Spanish newspaper editor, Julián de Velasco commented on the benefits of such
periodical press:
The daily events that are happening in the particular matters pertaining to the Arts, the Sciences and healthy literature: Are they contained in Masterpieces already written? The discoveries of Herchel, so important
102 See Pedro Rodríguez de Campomanes, Discurso sobre el fomento de la industria (Madrid: Antonio Sancha, 1774), and Discurso sobre la educación popular de los artesanos y su fomento (Madrid: Antonio Sancha, 1775); Melchor de Jovellanos, Memorias de la real sociedad económica de Madrid (Madrid: Antonio Sancha, 1795); Fray Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, Theatro crítico universal, o discursos varios, en todo género de materias, para desengaño de errores communes, dedicado al General de la congregación de San Benito de España (Madrid: Lorenzo Francisco Mujados, 1726-1739), and Cartas eruditas, y curiosas, en que por la mayor parte, se continua el designio del theatro critico universal, impugnado, o reduciendo a dudosas, varias opinions communes (Madrid: Hdos. Francisco Hierro, 1742); Gerónimo de Uztáriz, Theorica y practica del comercio y la marina en diferentes discursos y calificados exemplares (Madrid: Antonio Sanz, 1757); Bernardo Ward, Proyecto económico en que se proponen varias providencias dirigidas a promover los intereses de España (Madrid: Joaquín Ibarra, 1779); Juan Sempere y Guarinos, Historia del luxo y de las leyes suntuarias de España (Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1788), and Ensayo de una biblioteca española de los mejores escritores del reynado de Carlos III (Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1785). All of these titles are frequently found in both, Caracas’ post-mortem inventories and ship inventories from 1760-1810. See Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas, Post-morten inventories and Bibliographic catalogue. 103 Aguilar Piñal, “La Ilustración española.”
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to Astronomy, or the discoveries of vaccination, so useful to humanity, etc: By which media were these to be rapidly spread if not by the newspapers of all Europe?104
Newspapers, gazettes, and magazines offered multiple benefits for the
expansion of knowledge and the spreading of information because they were
inexpensive media accessible to diverse social groups, they were rapidly and regularly
produced - favoring the spreading of news about current events -, and the subjects
contained in them had a brief presentation that facilitated a fast and concise reading.
The Abate Langlet commented in 1763: “Few [people] have time to devote themselves
to reading entire books… On the contrary, the small paper is easy to read, and
contains, in its narrow limits, the same matters that are extensively written in the vast
boundaries of a masterpiece.”105
In general terms, Carlos III of Spain favored the spread of newspapers that
could expand the critical thought that his “Enlightened depostism” promoted. But at
the same time, he encouraged the Counsel of Castile to develop strict vigilance over
the content and discourse of periodical printed in Spain and its provinces. The critical
104 “Los sucesos diarios que van ocurriendo en todos los ramos peculiares de las Artes, de las Ciencias, y de la sana literatura, Se encuentran acaso en las Obras Magistrales ya escritas? Los descubrimientos de Herchel, tan importantes a la Astronomía, los de vacunación, tan útiles a la humanidad, etc. Por qué medio pudieron propagarse con la rapidez que se debía, más que por el de los diarios existents en toda Europa?,” in Julián de Velasco, Efemérides de la Ilustración de España (Madrid: Imprenta de Manuel Caballero, no.1, 1/1/1804), 2. 105 Abate Langlet, El hablador juicioso y crítico imparcial. Cartas y discursos eruditos sobre todo género de materias útiles y curiosas (Madrid: Imprenta de Francisco Javier García, 1763), XII.
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narrative of newspapers and gazettes could easily include information and ideas that
went against monarchical and religious precepts.106
Moreover, newspapers favored the development of a flexible and extensive
ambit for communication between Europe and America, where news about any matter
could circulate from one country to another, and from one province to another.
Travelers coming to Spanish American cities and ports frequently brought European
gazettes and papers in their baggage. These papers contained diverse matters:
European court gossip, military and diplomatic reports, political and moral essays,
articles on fashion or scientific findings, and poetry.107 In Spanish America, European
and North American newspapers and gazettes circulated through the same networks as
local newspapers did. Spanish American newspapers printed in Mexico City, Bogotá,
and Lima, for example, frequently devoted most of their space to news copied
verbatim from Madrid newspapers, as this seemed to be a way of overcoming the
cultural and geographic frontiers that separated an outlying population from the
106 Many periodicals and gazettes of Madrid, for example, copied extracts and ideas from French writings that expressed critiques against the monarchy and the nobility, and often passed unnoticed to the government. Therefore, Charles III asked his ministers to watch closely the kind of materials that were printed in the periodical press. See Marcelin Defourneax, Inquisición y censura de libros en la España del siglo XVIII (Madrid: Taurus, 1973); and Fermín De los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América, legislación y censura (siglos XV- XVIII) (Madrid: Arcos, 2000), Vol.1. 107 For a comprehensive list of Spanish newspapers and periodicals of the eighteenth century, see Francisco Aguilar Piñal, La prensa española en el siglo XVIII. Diarios, revistas y pronósticos (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1978). For an interesting view on the cultural impact of the press during the Spanish Enlightenment see Inmaculada Urzainqui, “Un nuevo instrumento cultural: la prensa periódica,” in La república de las letras en la España del siglo XVIII, Joaquín Álvarez Barrientos, François López and Inmaculada Urzainqui (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1995).
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metropolitan center. But as the eighteenth century unfolded, local publishers in
Spanish America tried to make their editions actual analogues of European journals by
adapting their formats and style to the local communities.108
The Province of Venezuela did not possess printing machines to elaborate
newspapers or gazettes until 1808, when a printing press was established in the city of
Caracas with the task of producing texts supporting the Rights of Fernando VII and
legitimizing the Juntas. Prior to this date, all the newspapers, magazines and gazettes
circulating in the Province of Caracas came from other provinces or nations. A close
look at Caracas’ inventories of private libraries and travelers’ baggage allows us to
pinpoint the periodical literature that was circulating among readers and listeners of
the province. Periodicals such as El Semanario Erudito (Madrid), El Semanario
Económico (Madrid), El Mercurio Histórico (Madrid), La Gaceta de Madrid
(Madrid), La Gaceta de México (México city), and El Censor (Madrid), among others,
were frequently found in local private libraries and personal belongings of travelers
coming to the mainland. In addition, foreign newspapers like the London Gazette
(London), the London Journal (London), the Pennsylvannia Gazette (Philadelphia),
and various French periodicals were also found during government searches made of
the homes and baggage of suspicious readers in the city and ports of the Province.109
108 See Torres Revello, El libro, la imprenta y el periodismo en América. 109 See “Informe de la Real Audiencia sobre lectura de libros y papeles sediciosos relacionados con la sublevacion de la Guaira, 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 432, 434 and 436; and see Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,” and Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII.
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I perceive the development of a more stable and structured market for books in
the Province of Venezuela by the end of the eighteenth century: increasing numbers of
new editions were offered in local shops, and more people imported books for their
libraries.110 However, we also see the proliferation of social spaces where politics,
books, authors, and readings were discussed.
Foreign visitors noted the nature of these gatherings in the main ports and
cities of Venezuela. The German explorer Alexander Von Humboldt, who traveled to
Venezuela in 1799, visited many cities such as Cumaná, La Guaira and Caracas and
rural regions of the Province. In Caracas, he stayed for two months and was welcomed
by the Governor and Capitan General Don Manuel Guevara Vasconcelos. While in
Caracas, Humboldt attended gatherings and dinners where he developed a sense of the
topics and themes most attractive to the people of Caracas. The white families of
Caracas, he noted, were well educated and had knowledge of the Italian and French
masterpieces of literature, and were musically cultivated. He felt, however, that
politics was a favorite topic of discussion. At the same time, he commented:
It seems to me that there is a strong tendency towards a profound study of the Sciences in Mexico and Santa Fe, more taste for literature and
110 Ships’ inventory lists show the frequency and quantity of books that were imported to the Province of Venezuela during the second half of the eighteenth century. In the years 1773-1778, the importation Company “La Vda. Irisarri e hijos” normally sent more than thirty cajones (big boxes) of books once or twice a year. The Compañía Guizpuzcoana also sent an important number of boxes of books every four or five months. See AGI, Contratación, 1694 (1774-1776) and Contratación, 1695 (1777-1778). In comparison with previous decades, the quantity of imported books for public sale significantly increased during the last three decades of the eighteenth century. These ship inventories of titles are still waiting for a detailed analysis that could give us a quantitative approach to the study of the market for books in Venezuela at the end of the eighteenth century.
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what the imagination could entertain in Quito and Lima, more light focused on political relations among the nations, and a more extensive perspective about the state of the colonies and the Metropolis, in La Havana and Caracas.111
He believed that the commercial and information web that connected the
Antilles with Europe created what he called a “politically enlightened” environment
for Cuban and Venezuelan societies. Speaking of men from Caracas, he mentioned
that “a change of ideas” had produced two kinds of men: one kind tied to old uses and
customs, and another open to new ideas “but so contaminated by foreign influences,
that they often lose the appropriated track for achieving happiness and social order.”
Humboldt was surprised to learn about the lack of a printing press in the city,
recognizing that this situation was probably not the responsibility of the inhabitants of
the province, who appreciated the importance of reading, but the result of a distrustful
governmental policy.112
Another European visitor, Don François-Joseph de Pons, a French agent who
traveled from 1801 to 1804 to various cities of the Province of Venezuela, also noticed
a change in the formation and education of the white youth who were
aware of the insufficiency of their education, endeavor to supply what is lacking, and peruse with avidity the works of foreign authors. Several of them attempt with the aid of dictionaries, to translate and speak French and English languages, particularly the former. They do not think, like their fathers, that geography is a superfluous science, or that history is a
111 Alexander Von Humboldt, Viaje a las regiones equinocciales del Nuevo Mundo, in Alejandro de Humboldt por tierras de Venezuela (Caracas: Fundación de Promoción Cultural de Venezuela, 1987), 136. 112 Ibid, 140.
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useless study. Commerce has begun to be less despised than formerly, although the mania in favour of rank and distinction continues as great as ever, it is natural to suppose, that it must yield in its turn to the progress of reason.113
People of diverse social groups gathered at inns, taverns, pulperías,
barbershops, and the street market to discuss European politics, books, and writings.
These discussions were often denounced by concerned inhabitants of the city to
governmental institutions – to members of the Real Audiencia or the Real Intendencia,
for example114 – or to priests and members of the Church and the Inquisition. In fact,
between the years 1787 and 1810, the Inquisition continued promoting a traditional
way of gathering information about the existence of prohibited books and the
circulation of seditious papers: denunciations.
During this period, inhabitants of the city of Caracas were encouraged to
communicate to the secretary of this institution if they had seen forbidden books in
113 De Pons, Travels in Parts of South America, 32-3. 114 Reports from the Real Audiencia and the Real Intendencia to the Governor of Venezuela, or to the King of Spain, show evidence, brought by concerned inhabitants of the city of Caracas and La Guaira who had participated in or heard public discussions, that people were reading prohibited texts and were commenting on them “in public,” and in front of people of “lower condition.” In October 1795, the Intendente issued a report expressing his concern for the spreading of French ideas in public settings, where pardos could be easily contaminated. See “Representación que remite al exmo. Señor Don Diego de Gadorqui, el intendente de Caracas Don Antonio Lopez Quintana sobre medidas necesarias para que no se propague las doctrinas francesas,” AGI, Caracas, 514. Likewise, the Real Audiencia wrote a large report in 1793, where it referred to diverse situations in which “seditious ideas” of liberty and equality were being discussed in public settings. See “Reporte de la Real Audiencia sobre peligros que representa para las Provincias de tierra firme, la presencia de prisioneros franceses de Santo Domingo en los Puertos de la Guaira y Cavello,” AGI, Estado, 58. Later, in 1797, when the Conspiracy of Gual y España was uncovered, multiple testimonies of witnesses and participants show that people in La Guaira, perhaps more than in Caracas, talked publicly and freely about the French Revolution and the movements in Saint-Domingue, conspirators discussed their readings and ideas in tertulias (meetings at barbershops or in private houses) and even produced texts to educate people on revolutionary ideals. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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particular houses, or if they had heard others talking of prohibited books and
“seditious ideas.” Don Gabriel Joseff de Lindo, a member of the Inquisition, kept a
notebook in which he wrote down all the denunciations made by the people of
Caracas. These notes are interesting because they provide a window into the public
discussion and interpretation of books. One note says: “In 1797, Don Francisco
Carreño heard from a child named Marcos Torres that ‘he believed that Hell existed’
but that ‘another child told him that it did not exist because he read it in a book.”
Another note says: “Josef Bernardo Aristiguieta told me that he has permission to read
prohibited books, and that for this reason he had many of these in French.” In a second
part of this notebook, another accuser, Don Miguel Castro, wrote in 1806: “I know
that don Francisco Guerra, doctor, has the History of America by Robertson, because
he has made reference to several paragraphs that I found in it.” And, later, Castro
added: “Don Marciano Echeverría told me that he could read prohibited books about
State matters, because he is an enlightened subject who does not suffer the danger of
perdition.”115
Elites assumed that they were entitled to read because their educational
background and social condition provided them with the “right understanding” (buen
entendimiento) to comprehend the meanings and interpretations expressed in all kind
of written texts. Priests, for example, believed that they could read prohibited books
115 “Cuadernillo de denuncias del Santo Oficio, 1806,” AAC (Archivo Arquidiocesano de Caracas), Santo Oficio, Carpeta II.
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and papers perfectly because they were instructed to differentiate the “truth” from
“falsity,” and moreover because they were the social group responsible for controlling,
censuring, and forbidding books and papers. Some academic and professional elites
also believed that they could read prohibited books, and justified their readings by
saying that they were “enlightened” enough to comprehend the “falseness” of some
books and “scattered writings” (papeles sueltos).116
The lack of local printing presses encouraged readers to borrow and lend
books. This web of circulation of printed materials allows us to imagine a scenario in
which books and readings were frequent topics of conversation and debate among the
readers. Several documents offer interesting evidence of this common practice of
loaning books. In post-mortem inventories, we frequently find spouses, heirs, and
heiresses demanding friends, neighbors, and other family members the return of their
deceased family member’s volumes.117
At the end of the eighteenth century and beginning of the nineteenth century,
officers of the Holy Office frequently visited the homes of neighbors suspected of
possessing forbidden books in order to confiscate them. During the month of April
1806, these officers visited the houses of more than twenty people in Caracas
116 On Inquisition edicts and special licenses to read forbidden books in Spanish America, see Pedro Guibovich, Censura, libros e inquisición en el Perú colonial, 1570-1754 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2003); and Martin Austin Nesvig, Ideology and Inquisition: The World of the Censors in Early Mexico (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). I thank Ken Ward, the Latin American curator of the John Carter Brown Library, for providing me with these references. 117 See post-mortem inventories in Leal, Libros y bibliotecas en Venezuela; and Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas.
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enquiring about certain forbidden books. In response, neighbors fabricated the same
kind of excuses over and over: ‘I used to have the text but I loaned it and I cannot
remember to whom,’ or alternatively, ‘I read the book but gave it back to the owner or
someone else.’ Benito Prada, an agent of the Holy Office, asked Captain Juan Vicente
Bolívar if he had Rousseau’s La Julia. Bolívar answered: “I used to have it, but I
returned it to the foreigner who had lent it to me.” Later, he asked Don Domingo Díaz
if he had the book History of the Revolution and Díaz answered that “he remembered
reading the first volume, but that he had lent the book to Don Francisco González de
Linares.” When the officer asked Don Gabriel Ponte if he had La Jaira by Voltaire,
Don Gabriel answered: “That book is normally ‘running’ freely and, today, I don’t
know where it is. I gave it to someone, but I don’t know who.”118
The lack of printing presses and the existence of this informal web for lending
and borrowing resulted in practices of hand-copying and translating books. In Caracas
and La Guaira, some readers became copyists and translators of particular parts of the
texts containing extracts and ideas they wanted to preserve once they returned the
book to its owner or passed it on to another reader.119 Seminar and university
118 “Cuadernillo de denuncias al Secretario del Santo Oficio,” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpeta II. 119 An interesting topic that still needs the attention of colonial Latin American historians is that of the practices of copying and translating books, as well as the circulation of manuscripts. Surely many Latin American colonial urban centers that lacked printing presses witnessed the emergence of webs of production and circulation of manuscripts, as these allowed readers to keep original ideas on paper and not count on their memory. However, these practices ended up transforming the texts themselves, changing its typography and material support, mutilating and fragmenting them, converting them into new texts and the copyists - and translators - into authors themselves. Aponte’s Libro de pinturas represents an example of the construction of this intertextuality of copied phrases and illustrations, and narrative creation in the fabrication of hand-written texts. See Stephan Palmié, Wizards and Scientists.
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professors offered their books to students, who copied part of them and studied with
their hand-written notes. Caracas’ private libraries contained not only printed but also
manuscript books. The library of Governor Pedro Carbonell contained a “manuscript
on painted paper about the use of Arms and other military tactics.” The library of
priest and professor José Ignacio Moreno, Rector of the University of Caracas,
included a hand-copied version of the “Treaty of Philadelphia” (the Constitution of the
United States), among others hand-written copies.120
Members of the Inquisition were especially concerned about this practice of
copying and translating texts, as it could serve to reproduce and spread the content of
forbidden texts. Numerous denunciations to the secretary of this institution claimed
that certain individuals possessed hand-written copies of prohibited books. A note in
the Inquisition Denunciations Notebook says: “Don Rafael Lugo has mentioned ‘the
Raynal’ several times, in past days he showed me a hand-copied paragraph translated
by him. This same paragraph, Don Rafael Mexias told me, was given by D.F.
Montillas to Don Diego Urbaneja and others.”121
Explorations in Afro-Cuban Modernity and Tradition (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002), Chapter I. Historian Fernando Bouza offers a comprehensive study of the circulation of manuscripts in seventeenth century Spain in his book Corre manuscrito: una historia cultural del siglo de oro (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2001). 120 Soriano, “El correr de los libros en la cotidianidad caraqueña,” Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII, and Grases, Historia de la imprenta en Venezuela. 121 “Cuadernillo de denuncias al Secretario del Santo Oficio,” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpeta II.
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3. Prohibited Readings, the State and the Inquisition.
During the entire eighteenth century, but especially in the last decades, both
the Spanish Crown and the Inquisition prohibited the entry to Spanish territories of
several French titles that challenged the moral order, Christian principles, or the
monarchical state. Periodically, the Inquisition printed edicts of prohibition and
censorship of Spanish and foreign books that expressed doubts about or criticized the
prevailing instituions, principles of authority, or the moral order. Historically, Holy
Office prohibitions went hand in hand with royal restrictions and censorship.
Nevertheless in the year 1772, King Carlos III issued a real cédula in which he
declared that the Inquisitor General could not publish an edict of prohibition of books
without his royal permission; with this decision the Inquisition seemed to lose
authority over civil matters, as the members of the Inquisition were depicted as
incapable of correctly examining and censoring books, or contradicting Crown
dispositions.122
In 1778, Spanish priest and writer José Francisco Isla was concerned because
“Voltaire, Rousseau, and other leaders of modern impiety had invaded the most distant
122 “Real Cédula declarando que el Inquisidor General no publique Edicto alguno, Bula o Breve Apostolico sin que primero obtenga su Real Permiso (18 de enero de 1772),” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpeta I. This decree is particularly interesting, since in it the King clearly separates the “spiritual” responsabilities and jurisdiction of the Inquisition, from civil matters corresponding to his “Royal Will and Authority.” In this sense, Carlos III seemed to be willing to put some limits on an Institution that was depicted in other European nations as “barbarous” and obsolete. See M. Diderot and D’Alembert, Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des Sciences, des Arts et de Métiers (Paris: Chez du Le Breton, 1751-1772).
84
corners of Spain.” Other contemporary priests and authorities also protested the avid
interest of Spanish readers for acquiring and reading French books that could alter the
ideas of social order and subordination.123 In these circumstances, in 1784, a royal
decree proclaimed that no foreign book, in any language and regarding any subject,
could be sold without previous examination and authorization of the Royal Council of
Spain, an entity that provided licenses for the importation and selling of foreign
books.124 By 1789, when revolutionary ideas began to circulate in the Atlantic world,
previous institutional tensions eased, and Spanish Council members and Inquisition
agents shared the responsibility of reading, examining, censoring, prohibiting, and
controlling written texts regarding not only “theological, scholastic and moral”
themes, but books of any kind that could include ideas against “subordination,
vassalage, obedience to our Monarch, and to the Curate of Christ.”125 After 1790, both
institutions tried to control the entry of revolutionary books and papers that “in
addition to being written with a pure style of naturalism, anti-Christian and dark evil,
are evidence of a new race of philosophers, who, in the name of liberty, work against
123 See Defourneax, Inquisición y censura de libros; and De Los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América. 124 “Real Cédula de S.M. y Señores del Consejo, por la cual se manda observar la ley veinte y tres, titulo primero de la Recopilación en quanto a que no se vendan libros que vengan de fuera del Reyno en qualquier idioma, y de qualquier material que sean, sin que primero se presente un exemplar en el consejo y se conceda licencia para su introducción o venta, con lo demás que se expresa (1 de Julio de 1784),” in De Los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América, Vol. 1, 11. 125 María José Del Río Barredo, “Censura inquisitorial y teatro de 1707 a 1819,” Hispania Sacra, XXXVII (1986): 78.
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it, destroying the political and social order, and the hierarchy of the Christian
Religion.”126
Officials of the Holy Office visited private homes in Caracas and other cities,
with the purpose of collecting specifically French prohibited books in order to take
them to the Inquisition See. Approximately twenty-six “Edicts of Prohibition of
Books” were read aloud after the Sunday Mass and pinned on the external walls of the
Churches of Caracas between 1762 and 1807, and twenty-one of these edicts were
printed and published after 1789.127 Evidently, the French Revolution had generated
institutional concerns for controlling books, readings, and public recitations of texts,
and the Church and the government jointly participated in these activities of vigilance.
Several prohibited titles are registered in private libraries’ inventories and
records of the Inquisition between 1789 and 1810, showing the ease with which
prohibited books entered into the periphery of the colonial world.128 Readers in the
cities of Caracas, Cumaná, La Guaira and Puerto Cabello owned prohibited French
126 Defourneax, Inquisición y censura de libros, 128-29. 127 “Edictos de Prohibición de Libros,” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpetas I and II. 128 French books and papers were secretly introduced into Spain by different ways: papers were rolled up and put inside the boxes of items such as hats, clocks and musical instruments. Also, books and papers were introduced in heavy boxes that were dropped out of the ship while the visitor of the Inquisition checked the boxes containing books and were later retrieved. See Defourneax, Inquisición y censura de libros, 129-30. Nevertheless, in Spanish America, where agents’ controls were less intense and careful, it was not necessary to employ such methods; frequently boxes of French Books entered into the Ports of La Guaira and Puerto Cabello unnoticed. In addition, smuggling webs could have been also a way of introducing foreign forbidden books and gazettes that found their way to urban centers. See Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas, Scott, The Common Wind, and Pino Iturrieta, La mentalidad venezolana de la emancipación.
86
texts such as the Social Contract of Rousseau, and his novels Abelard and Eloise and
La Julia, Voltaire’s Philosophical dictionary and novel La Jaira, Delille’s poetic
works, D’Alembert’s writings on philosophy, literature, and history, and Theory of the
Social Law by Duaray de Brie. Several accusations to the Inquisition by anonymous
informants stated that suspicious readers in La Guaira and Caracas had the forbidden
texts of the Abbé Condillac, the Abbé Raynal, William Robertson, Montegnon y Paret,
Thomas Paine, the Marquis of Condorcet, Montesquieu, and Gaetano Filangeri,
among others. 129
4. Social Control of Plebian Reading.
Most of these books were found in the libraries of white priests, rich
hacendados, military officials and merchants. The majority of these elite readers
frequently regarded reading as a practice appropriate only for a restricted social group.
They considered that “prohibited” books and, in general, written materials should not
129 M. Alembert, Mélanges de littérature, d’histoire, et de philosophie (Amsterdan: Zacharie Chatelain & Fils, 1767), Abbé de Condillac, Cours d’étude pour l’instruction du Prince de Parme (Geneve: Deifart, 1789), Marquis de Condorcet, Esquisse d’un tableau des progress de l’esprit humain (Madrid, 1794); J. P. Dauray de Brie, Théorie of des Lois Sociales (Paris: Demonville, 1804), J. Delille, L’Eneide (Paris: Chez Guiguet et Michaud, 1804), and La Pitié, poeme (Paris: Guiguet et Michaud, 1803), G. Filangeri, La Scienza de la Legislazione (Genova: Ivone Gracian, n/d); P. Montegnon y Paret, Eusebio, parte primera sacada de las memorias que dejó el mismo (Madrid: Antonio Sancha, 1786), J. J. Rousseau, Du Contrat Social; ou principes du droit politique (Amsterdan: Marc Michel Rey, 1762); M. F. Voltaire, Dictionnaire philosophique portatif (Amsterdan: Varberg, 1766); Abbé T. Raynal, Historia política de los establecimientos ultramarinos de las naciones europeas (Madrid: Antonio de Sancha, 1784). See Post-Mortem library inventories (1790-1800) in Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas; also Leal, La cultura venezolana en el siglo XVIII; and Emanuele Amodio, La casa de Sucre, sociedad y cultura en Cumaná al final de la época colonial (Caracas: Centro Nacional de la Historia, 2010).
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be read or handled by inferior groups, such as pardos, free blacks, slaves, and Indians.
In fact, reading and writing were seen as practices that required certain social
condition. The content of a book or paper could change the perceptions and ideas that
people had about the political regime, the economic circumstances, or the social order.
However, I say “the majority of the elite” because there were elites – some white
merchants, and Spanish and creole officials, among others - who, infused with the
republican values of liberty and equality, decided to spread revolutionary readings
among the colored population, and even formed discussion gruops for planning of
revolutionary movements.130
The majority of the white elite believed that subaltern reading of “seditious”
papers and books was a very dangerous practice because “erroneous ideas” could
encourage pardos, the demographically largest group, free blacks, and slaves to
question their social condition and to challenge the institutional order, the authority of
the local government, and even the soverignty of the Crown. These fears of
ideological contagion among groups of color reached a peak as the Haitian Revolution
unfolded, creating a rich web of information and ideas regarding racial confrontation,
abolition of slavery, freedom, and equality.131
130 As an example is the conspiracy of Gual and España in La Guaira and Caracas, uncovered in 1797. See Juan Carlos Rey, Rogelio Pérez Perdomo, Adriana Hernández and Ramón Aizpurua Aguirre, eds., Gual y España, la independencia frustrada (Caracas: Colección Bicentenario de la Independencia, Fundación Polar, 2007). 131 The topic of “fear” of the French Revolution in Spanish America has received considerable attention from historians. See, for example, Izard, El miedo a la revolución; Ma. del Carmen Borrego Plá, América Latina ante la Revolución Francesa (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México,
88
But, could pardos, free blacks, and slaves really read? How did they come into
contact with written materials? We should bear in mind that, traditionally, these
colored subaltern groups were not allowed to attend colonial public schools, religious
seminaries, or universities, and were generally seen by the elites as people who did not
need to be literate in order to actively participate in colonial society, where their labor
was “reduced” to manual, agricultural, and artisanal activities.132 However, by the end
of the eighteenth century this traditional view of society and education underwent a
transformation as Enlightenment and Spanish reformist ideas promoted literacy and
useful education among all and a battle to eradicate perceived ignorance, vices and
idleness in the population at large.
Following these Enlightenment currents, some concerned teachers in Caracas
suggested the need for improving public schools – traditionally attended by whites –
and creating “Schools for pardos” (Escuela de pardos) in the cities of the province.
Their accounts provide us with information regarding the education of the social group
of pardos. According to these teachers, wealthy pardo families could afford hiring
private teachers who would visit the students at their homes. But the vast majority of
the literate or “semi-literate” pardo population learned to read and write at the shops of
1993); Claudia Rosas Lauro, “El miedo a la Revolución. Rumores y temores desatados por la Revolución Francesa en el Perú, 1790-1800,” El miedo en el Perú siglo XVI al XX, ed. Claudia Rosas Lauro (ed.) (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2005), 139-83; Ada Ferrer, “Temor, poder y esclavitud en Cuba en la época de la Revolución,” Wim Klooster, Revolution in the Atlantic World: A Comparative History (New York: New York University Press, 2009). 132 Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la provincia de Venezuela; and Rafael Fernández Heres, La educación venezolana bajo el signo de la Ilustración 1770-1870 (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1995).
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barbers and shoemakers, and thanks to artisans, carpenters, and musicians who
informally offered their educational services. In 1786, the teacher, Don José María de
Bañuelos alerted the cabildo about the pitiful state of primary education in the city of
Caracas. He asserted “It is a shame to discover the scarce number of primary schools
that exists in a populated city like Caracas. Many schools are reduced to barbershops,
beauty salons, shoes stores, and other places of mechanical occupations, where it is
impossible to pay attention to this primordial matter.”133 According to him, some
pardos learned to read thanks to old artisans who teach just the basic notions of
grammar and the cartilla134.
This same situation was described by the teacher Don Simón Rodríguez, who
in 1794 wrote a long account entlitled The State of the Primary Education in
Caracas.135 Rodríguez emphasized the need for expanding literacy socially by
incorporating artisans and peasants into the institutional teaching of reading, writing,
and arithmetic. Regarding the pardos, he writes: 133 Quoted by Ildefonso Leal, Documentos para la historia de la educación en Venezuela (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1968), LII. 134 According to the Diccionario de Reales Autoridades, the cartilla is “a printed notebook with the letters of the alphabet and with the basic notions for learning to read.” Diccionario de Autoridades (1726-1742) (Madrid: Gredos, 1976). The cartilla was an essential tool for teaching how to read, and it was very popular in Spain during the sixteenth through the eighteenth century. They were inexpensive and massively imported to the Spanish American territories. Caracas’ pulperías and small shops offered a large quantity of them. See José Torres Revello, "Las cartillas para enseñar a leer a los niños en América española," Theasurus XV, no. 1 (1960): 214-234; and Pedro Rueda Ramírez, "Las cartillas para aprender a leer: la circulación de un texto escolar en Latinoamérica," http://dialnet.unirioja.es/servlet/articulo?codigo=3406934. 135 Simón Rodríguez, “Reflexiones sobre los defectos que vician la escuela de primeras letras de Caracas y medio de lograr su reforma por un nuevo establecimiento, 19 de mayo de 1794,” in Simón Rodríguez, Escritos, Pedro Grases (ed.) (Caracas: Imprenta Nacional, 1954), 5-27.
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The mechanical arts are linked, in this city and elsewhere in the Province, with pardos and morenos (free blacks). They do not have anyone to teach them, they cannot attend the School of whites, and poverty limits them from their childhood, so that they learn through practice, but without technique; lacking this, they proceed in everything by improvisation, some become teachers of others without ever having been students, excepting those who with an extraordinary vigor have achieved their instruction thanks to painful efforts136
Since they also belonged to society, Rodríguez believed that pardos needed
education as much as whites. Therefore he proposed the creation of a School for
pardos, where they could all find an appropriate place to learn and grow. In the
opinion of Rodríguez, beauty salons and barbershops were not Schools, and barbers
and artisans did not have educational methods, nor did they have the proper teaching
skills or authority to educate: “these improvised teachers do not even know who their
students are and how they have progressed.”137 Rodríguez believed that in these false
schools children learned “to read and to comb their hair, to write and to shave.”138
Rodríguez’s account gives us clear and detailed picture of the state of popular
education in the city of Caracas, its vices and the multiple problems that the local
government needed to attend to, but it also provides us with valuable information
about the education of pardos and the social spaces for their education. In the first
place, there seemed to be informal spaces for learning in the cities that were attended
136 Ibid, 6. 137 Ibid 8. 138 Ibid,10-11.
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mostly by pardo children, so it is clear that the prohibition on attending public schools
did not mean that pardos could not learn to read and write. Many of them, as
Rodríguez says, did so; but in improper settings and in “inadmissible” ways.139
On the other hand, Rodríguez also provides an image of barbershops and
beauty salons as places for socialization, teaching, exchanging knowledge, and
debating ideas. For example, there were barbers and artisans in the city who offered
services of reading and writing letters in exchange for money or other services. So,
non-literate neighbors visited these “literate artisans” to listen to their private letters or
to understand certain papers or pamphlets that fell into their hands. More sophisticated
artisans, offered translation services from English to Spanish, or from French to
Spanish.140 In Caracas and La Guaira, Barbershops and beauty parlours were also
places where people of different social groups (professionals, merchants, militiamen,
students, artisans) used to meet to play table games, to chat with friends, read papers
aloud, share ideas, and even to conspire against the government. In this sense, these 139 One of the aspects that Rodríguez underlines is that children who attended these improvised schools learn to read “in dialogue,” so they do not “learn to read in all the discourses, and they read only to answer questions.” See Rodríguez, “Reflexiones sobre los defectos que vician la escuela de primeras letras,” 11. This is particularly interesting because this was the form in which religious knowledge was imparted to children through catechisms, a written discourse that followed the pattern of a oral conversation: someone ignorant – usually a child, a women, an Indian or a Black – asks questions and someone with more experience – father, teacher, usually a white male – responds. Religious catechisms were popular in colonial Latin America. Political catechisms were used later to educate subaltern groups during Independence period and during formation of the Latin American republican nations. See Nydia Ruiz, Gobernantes y gobernados: los catecismos políticos en España e Hispanoamérica (siglos XVIII-XIX) (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1997). 140 See Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas. Regarding artisans who read papers and translated them to others, see the case of André Renoir, a hairdresser, who had a beauty shop in La Guaira but also visited other barbershops where he was asked to help with the translation of some paragraphs from French books. Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 255-56.
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places functioned as public meeting areas, where diverse literary practices took place
and where a sort of public sphere for political debate emerged; there, papers and
gazettes about the French and the Haitian Revolutions became a pretext to express
inconformity with the colonial system.141
5. The Written Expansion of a “Revolutionary Disease”:
Texts from France and Saint-Domingue in the Province of Venezuela.
During the entire eighteenth century, the Church and the Inquisition were
institutions formally entrusted with the task of controlling and confiscating prohibited
books and seditious papers that were circulating in ports and urban centers of the
Province of Venezuela. However, after the events of the American and the French
Revolutions, the Spanish Crown and local governments became greatly concerned
about the expansion of revolutionary ideas on the mainland and undertook, together
with the Church and the Inquisition, the censure, prohibition and confiscation of
“dangerous” reading materials.142
141 See the diverse testimonies of suspects and pardoned in the Conspiracy of Gual y España (1797) in which they described their meetings and gathering in these locations. Quoted by Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 244-56. Following Víctor Uribe-Urán, these spaces made it possible for individuals to gather, read, criticize their readings, express their ideas, and “mold public opinion.” Uribe-Urán, “The Birth of Public Sphere in Latin America during the Age of Revolution,” 437. 142 Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,” and Soriano, Libros y lectores en Caracas.
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The King of Spain Carlos IV was particularly concerned about the possible
influences and effects that the French Revolution and its propaganda could have in his
American territories. In fact, in September 1789, he was informed that some people
from the National Assembly of Paris were interested in introducing a seditious
manifesto in America that could “shake the power of the Spanish dominion among its
inhabitants.”143 Immediately, the Spanish Minister - the Count of Floridablanca -
issued a royal order to the governors of the Spanish Provinces in America in which he
ordered them to control, with the help of Church ministers, the introduction and
diffusion of any writings that contained revolutionary and anti-religious ideas that
could “promote Independence and anti-religion.”144 From 1789 to 1790, the Spanish
monarch issued a great number of royal decree restricting the entry of French books
and papers, prohibiting those whose content was considered dangerous to religion,
proper subordination, and the social order. Official authorities were ordered to
supervise closely the circulation and diffusion of what they identified as
“revolutionary ideas.”
Between September and October 1789, two royal orders were issued
prohibiting “the entry of any illustration, printed or handwritten papers, boxes, fans or
any other object alluding to the French Revolution.” In the case of finding any of these
143 “Real Orden del 24 de septiembre de 1789,” AGN, Reales Ordenes, X, 140. 144 Ibid.
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items, they were to be sent to the Secretary of State.”145 Likewise, in 1790, the Council
of Castille prohibited the introduction of several French newspapers, revolutionary
catechisms, and books containing information and opinions related to the French
Revolution.146
Official reports from all the provinces of Spain – including the American
territories – denounced that French books and papers were circulating in the hands of
curious and avid readers. For this reason, the monarch issued a royal decree on
September 10, 1791 in which he stated: “The introduction of any letters or seditious
papers contrary to the principles of public fidelity and tranquility is prohibited.”
People who committed this crime were accused of the offense of disloyalty, and local
authorities (Justicias) were responsible for controlling the circulation of these
materials, and sending copies to the Counsel.147
Institutional controls and prohibitions did not only affect the circulation of
texts from France to Spanish territories. They also condemned Spanish printed 145 Note 15, Novísima Recopilación, Book VIII, Title XVIII. Law XIII. 146 French newspapers like Correo de París and El Publicista Francés were not allowed to enter the Spanish territories because they contained “falsity and aim to disturb the fidelity and tranquility that must exist in Spain,” Orden del Consejo prohibiendo la introducción y curso del ‘Correo de París o Publicista Francés’, no. 54, 5 de enero de 1790, quoted in De Los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América, 627. The Counsel of Castile also prohibited French catechisms like “Catecismos Francés para la Gente del Campo,” French letters like “The Manfiesto Reservado para el Rey Don Carlos IV, que Dios guarde y sus sublimes ministros,” and several books such as “La France Libre” y “Des Droits et Devoirs de L’homme.” For the most complete history of censorship and prohibition of printed materials in Spain (s. XV-XVIII) see De Los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América. 147 “Real Cédula de S.M y Señores del Consejo, en que se prohíbe la introducción y curso en estos Reynos de qualesquiera cartas o papeles sediciosos y contrarios a la fidelidad, y a la tranquilidad pública, y se manda a las Justicias procedan en este asunto sin disimulo y con la actividad y vigilancia que requiere; en la conformidad que se expresa” (Madrid: Imprenta de Vda. De Marín, 1791).
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materials that included French texts and extracts, or Spanish texts that offered news,
reports, opinions or descriptions of France’s political situation.148 In June 1793, for
example, the Counsel prohibited the insertion of any news favorable or contrary to
aspects related to France in any book or paper printed in Spain. The Council prevented
any Spanish periodical from including news or information about France.149 In this
way, France and its Revolution were drastically silenced in Spanish written culture.
However, this restriction was not strictly respected, as numerous newspapers printed
in Spanish territories carried information about the French and the Haitian
Revolutions. Claudia Rosas Lauro shows that newspapers printed in Lima in 1793
offered ample information about the French Revolution; these editions were promoted
by the same Virrey Gil de Taboada who said that it was important to “offer an official
version of the Revolutionary events.” Nevertheless, as Lauro comments, while these
editions aimed to a provide negative view of the events, they at the same time offered
precise and detailed information about the Revolution, its main events and
protagonists.150
148 Frequently, eighteenth-century Spanish newspapers included texts and extracts taken from prohibited French and English books, that went unnoticed, thanks to their anonymity and other disguises. Often prohibited texts of Rousseau and Montesquieu were extracted, translated, and transformed into short essays in Spanish magazines and gazettes. See Philip Deacon, “La libertad de expresión en España en el período precedente a la Revolución Francesa,” Estudios de Historia Social I-II, no. 36-37 (1986). 149 De Los Reyes Gómez, El libro en España y América, 632. 150 Rosas Lauro, “El miedo a la Revolución. Rumores y temores desatados por la Revolución Francesa en el Perú,” 144.
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The same developed with the Gaceta de Madrid, which offered interesting and
revealing information about the rebellious movements in Saint-Domingue. Ada Ferrer
asserts that this gazette, printed twice a week in Madrid, reproduced news published in
other European and North American newspapers, and offered detailed information
about Saint-Domingue rebels, campaigns against plantations and masters. Later, it
offered news about the abolition of slavery by the French National Assembly in 1794,
and about revolutionary leaders such as Tousaint Louverture and Rigaud. By 1804, the
Captain General of the Island of Cuba, the Marquis of Someruelos, expressed his
concern about the public circulation and spread of the Gaceta in different corners of
the island,“everyone buys them, and they circulated widely amongst the blacks”151
One of the first authorities of a province in the Captaincy of Venezuela to
denounce an irregularity regarding news and information related to France was the
Governor of the Island of Trinidad, Don José María Chacón. In January 1790,
Governor Chacón condemned to exile the French writer and printer of the Gaceta de
Trinidad, Don Juan Bautista Vilaux, because he had “copied and printed diverse
articles of public foreign papers related to the current Revolution in France, in which
there were many subversive phrases, contrary to the good order of our
151 Ferrer, “Noticias de Haití en Cuba,” 687-689. See also Alejandro Gómez, “Le Syndrome de Saint-Domingue. Perceptions et représentations de la Révolution haïtienne dans le Monde Atlantique, 1790-1886” (PhD diss., Ecoles de Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, 2010), 130-2.
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Constitution.”152 Apparently, the printer – hidden on the periphery of the island153 –
did not forsee the consequences of his actions; nevertheless, the Governor was aware
of the “terrible” effects of these papers and decided to put an end abruptly to the
danger. In his report he added: “It was my intention to prevent the evil or to elminate it
at its origins, without alarming the public and avoiding its curiosity to find out the
reasons of my decision… Different opinions would make people talk about themes
that are better left in silence.”154 This phrase summarizes the general attitude that local
authorities assumed when faced with the problem of the circulation of revolutionary
information throughout the entire period: an attitude of secrecy and silence.
In December 1790, the Captain General of Venezuela, Don Juan Guillelmi,
sent a report to Madrid in which he indicated that “in the four previous months several
gazettes, dailies, and supplements from or about France, providing news about current
events of Paris, have entered the Province of Venezuela.” In the opinion of Guillelmi,
152 “Sobre destierro del redactor de la Gaceta o papel publico de ocurrencias semanales de la Ysla de Trinidad,” AGI, Caracas, 153, no. 10, and “Noticias sobre Introducción de papeles extranjeros,” AGI, Caracas, 115. 153 The Province of Trinidad had been recently added to the Captaincy of Venezuela, and unlike Caracas and many other important cities of the captaincy that lacked printing presses, Trinidad had a small printing press where brief papers about news and current events were printed. The reduced significance of Trinidad during the eighteenth century allowed the entry and functioning of a printing press, contrary to the case of Caracas where permission was emphatically denied. This situation confirms the argument that by the time the Province of Venezuela acquired administrative, political, and commercial interest for the peninsula, the menace of circulation of revolutionary ideas in the Atlantic world increased and eroded the motivations for establishing printing presses in urban centers where they could become instruments for disseminating revolutionary propaganda. 154 “Sobre destierro del redactor de la Gaceta o papel publico de ocurrencias semanales de la Ysla de Trinidad,” AGI, Caracas, 153, no. 10.
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the “evil designs” of these papers represented a danger to the proper order and
harmony of the captaincy.155
Right after the first news about the rebellious events of Saint Domingue
arrived, the vigilance over the introduction of written materials and people increased.
Local authorities devised strategies for controlling ports, performing censuses of the
people who were arriving and their belongings, spying on foreign visitors and
neighbors, asking them about the purposes of their presence in the province, and even
demanding that ministers of the Church provide them with information about the
population’s books and their reading habits, in order to to confiscate prohibited books,
gazettes and papers.156
The execution of Louis XVI and the beginning of the war between Spain and
France in 1793 intensified control strategies. In August 1793, members of the Council
of Indies issued a royal order to the governor of Caracas in which they mentioned that,
“due to the current circumstances of war with France, dangerous books, papers, and
news could pass to our territories, jeopardizing the pureness of our Religion, public
tranquility, and subordination”157
155 “Expediente de la Intendencia relativo a asuntos de Francia,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 290-295. 156 “Carta del Gobernador de Caracas al Comandante Interior de La Guaira,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 256. 157 “Sobre la introducción de libros y papeles franceses en estas provincias,” AGN, Reales Ordenes, XII, 85-86.
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In August 1794, a pardo militiaman named Joseph Luis Aleado found a
seditious document entitled “Extract of the Manifest that the National Convention
made for all the Nations.” This text contained a list of conclusions and arguments
made by the National Convention of Paris, an institution that was central to fomenting
the French Revolution. Apparently the document was distributed by Juan Xavier
Arrambide, a merchant of the port of La Guaira, who translated the paper from French
to Spanish with the help of Tomás Cardozo, a pharmacist (boticario) who also worked
in La Guaira.158 The Governor and Capitan General Carbonell did not punish the
readers and translators of the paper because he was not sure about the proper penalty
for this kind of actions, and secondly, because he believed it was important to act
prudently, and not to call the attention of the neighbors to this issue, to “maintain the
tranquility of the province.” He ordered his officials to redouble their vigilance, which
included having port agents increase their control over the documents and people that
entered Tierra Firme because it was essential to discover those who were introducing
this kind of materials.159
The official orders to control the entry of papers and written materials
(especially by foreigners) in the ports of the captaincy were obeyed. However at times
158 “Expediente creado con motivo de haberse descubierto la introduccion de un papel de la Asamblea de Paris, Extracto del Manifiesto que la Convencion Nacional hace de todas las Naciones,” AGI, Estado, 65, no. 20. It is also mentioned in Héctor García Chuecos, Estudios de historia colonial venezolana, Vols. 2 (Caracas: Tipografía americana, 1938); and Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela.” 159 Ibid.
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the authorities came to mistrust the same agents who were supposed to assume the
vigilance. This was the case of Juan Joseph Mendiri, mentioned at the beginning of the
chapter; although he was trusted with the task of controlling texts, he became a
distributor of them. Like Mendiri, Juan Xavier Arrambide participated in the
conspiracy of Gual and España, a movement that stood for “liberty and equality” and
the “Rights of Man,” and that even established a plan of action to establish a
republican government.160
In these circumstances, the wave of rumors about the circulation of prohibited
texts in the ports and cities of the Province of Venezuela continued to flow. In May
1796, the Real Audiencia met in order to discuss the introduction and rumored
circulation among the inhabitants of the province of a “dangerous” document entitled:
“Instruction that shall serve as a rule for the French interim agent, stationed at the
Spanish side of the Island of Santo Domingo,” written by a Mr. Roume in France.
According to the members of the Audiencia, the paper contained several expressions
“capable of causing harmful impressions on the simple people, especially on the slaves
who, only in this province, represented more than one hundred thousand.”161 The
Governor of Trinidad, Joseph María Chacón, answered that he would observe
160 Juan Xavier de Arrambide, born in Villa del Puerto Real (Cádiz, Spain) was a 35-years-old merchant in the Port of La Guaira, while Juan José Mendiri, 42 years old, was the guardamayor of the port and royal accountant. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” 161 “Sobre introducción y circulación de Papel ‘Instrucción que debe servir de regla al Agente Interino Francés destinado á la Parte Española de Santo Domingo,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 8, and AGI, Caracas, 169, no. 86.
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vigilantly the entry of this text, but that he was concerned that these materials could
come to Trinidad directly from Spanish Santo Domingo.162
The “Instruction addressed to the French agent in the Spanish part of Santo
Domingo,” contained recommendations and suggestions concerning the occupation of
Santo Domingo by France. It was a republican decree that promoted love and respect
for the Republic, and one that clearly rejected the monarchical system. At the outset,
the author contends: “It is important, above all, to make all new citizens love the
Republic, and to try to preserve all that precious population which belongs to the
Island.”163 Two enemies were identified in this document: English invaders and
royalist Spaniards. The author represented the Spanish as an essentially anti-
revolutionary nation, which ignored the qualities and advantages of the republic and
lived without its glory. Therefore, part of his work encouraged the French agent to win
the Spaniards over to his side; he recognized that they are leaving Santo Domingo and
that this emigration affected the economic development and progress of the island, so
he was emphatic in expressing the need to unite not only both sides of the island, but
both populations and “nations.” He writes: “The difficulty then is… to prove to the
entire world through an intimate union with the Spanish Chiefs how easy it is to
162 “Carta del Gobernador de Trinidad al Gobernador de Caracas, comunicándole que pondrá en ejercicio su orden de recoger y remitir papeles que se introduzcan por la via de Santo Domingo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 258. 163 “Instrucción que debe servir de regla al agente interino Francés, destinado a la parte Española de la Ysla de Santo Domingo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 237-239.
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establish a perfect harmony between both nations, taking advantage of the existing
difference between the political principles (of both nations).”164
Briefly the author narrated the history of Santo Domingo and highlighted its
importance as a Spanish city that counted on a Real Audiencia and Archbishopric. The
document went on to describe the different actions that the Spanish would adopt in
order to fulfill the Treaty of Basle and predicts how the Spanish monarch would
remove both institutions and transfer the administration of the Island to the French.
The author foresaw that the transfer of authority could provoke the massive emigration
of the Spanish population and, in consequence, he encouraged the agent to prevent this
emigration and execute possible actions to “persuade and convince all these citizens of
the falsity of ideas that may have been impressed upon them about the French
Revolution, and to calm down from their spirits any suspicions they may have about
the free exercise of their religion.”165
According to the author, the agent must provide the Spanish inhabitants with
information about the French Republic and in doing so he must dissipate the false
ideas that people have about the Republic, such as those that might suggest a
contradiction between Christianity and the Republic. He contended that Spaniards
164 “La dificultad es pues,…, probar al mundo entero por medio de una unión íntima con los Jefes españoles quan facil es, establecer una perfecta armonía entre ambas naciones, aprovechándose de la diferencia que existe entre los principios políticos,” Ibid., 237-239. 165 “persuadir para desimpresionar a aquellos ciudadanos de las falsas ideas que hayan podido imprimirseles de la revolución Francesa, y disipar en su espíritu cuantos recelos se les haya inspirado del libre ejercicio de su religión,” Ibid.
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have mistakenly confused revolution with “anti-religion,” instead he argued that the
revolution only supported the creation of the perfect system: the Republic, which is
not necessarily anti-Christian, but that recognizes the independence of the political
system from religious institutions. Therefore, the emergence of the Republic was not a
movement against Christianity itself, but rather fostered a perfect harmony between
the Church and the republican government.
Interestingly, the author contended that the agent must defend his ideas with
the constitution in his hand, using the abolition of slavery as an analogy. Regarding
this, he writes:
If the constitutional act annihilates the horrible right of slavery of a man over another man equally endowed with a rational soul, it is clear that this article can not be seen as an infraction of the colonial property rights, except by people filled with preoccupation or inspired by a vile interest. And this objection should have even less weight among Spaniards, who in addition to having fewer slaves than other European nations, have always treated them with a humanity capable of turning them into friends. The new humane and generous settlers should then expect that once free their slaves will not abuse their freedom, but on the contrary will always be devoted to them and will not ever abandon from them as in the case with legitimate children.166
In this paragraph, while contending that the Republican Constitution rejects the
“horrible” system of slavery, the author strongly criticizes the law and practices in the
166 “Si el acto constitucional aniquila el dro. Horrible de esclavitud de un hombre sobre otro hombre dotado igualmente de un alma racional, es claro que este articulo no puede mirarse como una infraccion del dro. de propiedad colonial, sino por gentes llenas de preocupación o cargadas de un vil interes. Y esta objeción debe tener aun menos fuerza entre los espanoles, los quales sobre tener menos esclavos que las demas naciones europeas, los han tratado siempre con una humanidad capaz de grangearlos por amigos. Deben pues, los nuevos colonos humanos y generosos esperar que sus esclavos libres ya, no abusaran de su libertad, sino que seran al contrario siempre adictos, y que no se separaran jamas de sus lados como hijos reconocidos,” Ibid.
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Spanish colonies. According to him, only people “with a vile interest” consider the
enslavement of a rational being as a “colonial property right.”
The idea of liberty that the author developed here is intriguing, representing the
French conservative abolition. He contends that once freedom is granted, the ex-slaves
would not “abuse their liberty.” Therefore liberty was what guarantees the passivity
and tranquility of the former slaves, and their permanence as a quiescent social group
which would not pursue a fight for political power. Granting slaves their liberty meant
keeping them content and passive. The author, in this way, expressed a paternalistic
and conservative view of abolition as being a “sacrifice” the French Republic had to
make in order to preserve power and control over the island. More interestingly, his
perspective shows that he does not see abolition as an approximation to equality
between blacks and whites; on the contrary, he thinks that blacks will remain passive
and will still depend on their masters, as a son depends on his father.
Members of the Audiencia of Caracas were particularly concerned about the
anti-slavery character of the document, and its effects on “common people.” They
believed that although the paper was intentionally addressed to the French agent in
Santo Domingo, it could definitely have harmful consequences in “all the Americas.”
In the end they expressed: “Anywhere it was read, it would be understood in the same
way.”167
167 Ibid.
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On July 24th, the Captain General sent an order to the authorities in other
provinces asking them to be vigilant and to confiscate this “hazardous” document. The
governors of Trinidad, and Barinas, and the Lieutenant of Coro168 answered that they
would be on the lookout for this document and would send the copies to him. In these
responses too, the governors also said explicitly that they would act with “wisdom and
care, not letting anyone know about the inquiries.” Various versions of the document
were found in the city of Caracas, the city of Coro and in the distant village of
Obispos, located in the Province of Barinas.169 Although, the governors collected
some copies of the document using “the greatest discretion,” they were never able to
find out who had introduced and circulated them.
The wave of rumors claiming that the Province of Venezuela was full of
“seditious papers” coming from the Antilles, but in particular, from Spanish Santo
Domingo, required a stronger response on the part of the government. On August 5,
1796, the Real Audiencia met in order to adopt definitive resolutions concerning the
introduction of several “menacing and dangerous” printed materials proceeding from
France and, specifically, Santo Domingo. They suggested that the governor and the
168 “Contestación del Gobernador de Barinas sobre circulación de papel ‘Instrucción que debe servir de regla,’” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 19; “Contestación del Gobernador de Trinidad sobre circulación de papel ‘Instrucción que debe servir de regla,’” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 258; “Contestación del Gobernador de Coro sobre circulación de papel ‘Instrucción que debe servir de regla,’” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 45. 169 “El Gobernador de Barinas, Don Fernando Mijares, remite al Capitán General dos copias que encontró del papel prohibido: ‘Instrucción que debe seguir de regla,’” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 296.
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Interim Commander adopt a plan to inquire about the nature and character of these
materials. They also instructed the Captain General to alert other local authorities of
the region about the matter. In this way they could have a larger group of officials
searching for papers and written materials proceeding from the revolutionized Atlantic
– France, Saint Domingue, Santo Domingo.170
Six days later, on August 11, the members of the Real Audiencia met again.
This time they had in their hands three new texts, all of them proceeding from Spanish
Santo Domingo. The first anonymous document was brought by Don Gerónimo
Winderoxhul. It was an untitled paper of two or three pages that began with this
phrase: “After receiving the news, I am delighted,” and ended: “Forget the injury that
your Old Government has made, and join us for the benefit of France, European and
American Spain.” The other two papers were brought by the President of the
Audiencia. One began: “Enciclical Letter of the Bishops of France to their brothers,
and other Bishops” and ended: “The signatures of Five Bishops follow”, and the third
document started off: “Paris October Nineteen, year of the Lord one thousand and
seven hundred and ninety five, and fourth of the Republic” and ended: “Gregorio,
Bishop of the Loir and member of the National Convention of France.” 171
170 “Para que recojan todos los papeles abiertos que vinieren de Santo Domingo ó de otra parte, y puedan conceptuarse nocivos á la tranquilidad publica y subordinación de vida á su Majestad y a sus Ministros,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 219-223. 171 The first one started “Después de las muchas noticias recividas yo me lisonjeo” and ended: “Olvidad pues el agravio que os ha hecho vuestro antiguo Gobierno, y asociaos á nosotros para el bien de la Francia, y de la Espana Europea y Americana,” the second one started: “Carta Enciclica de muchos y otros Obispos de Francia a sus hermanos los demas Obispos y a las sedes vacantes,” and ended:
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According to the members of the Audiencia, the purpose of the anonymous
author of the first paper - “After receiving the news, I am delighted” – was to “produce
a general hatred of Spain and the Spaniards on the part of the inhabitants of the
Spanish part of Santo Domingo.”172 The other two papers were considered incoherent
and innocuous, but as they were considered “bad, ambiguous, and confusing,” the
Audiencia decided to prohibit their circulation and reading, and commanded the
officials to control their circulation in the cities and towns of the region. Consequently,
on August 21 and 31 respectively, the Captain General sent two decrees, one to the
governors of the provinces and the other one to the Bishop and Church ministers, in
which he ordered them to locate those papers, collect them, and send him all the
copies. Again, the Captain General was particularly explicit when he asked them to do
so under the utmost secrecy, “with the most possible wisdom and care.”173 In this
communication, he also recommended to revising and collecting any document
coming from Spanish Santo Domingo for inspection and consideration. At this point,
Santo Domingo was considered an infectious location from which the contagion of
ideas could emerge and be spread to the rest of the Spanish territories. “Siguen las firmas de cinco Obispos” and the third one: “Paris, 19 de Octubre del año del Señor de mil setecientos noventa y cinco, o cuarto de la República” and ended: Gregorio Obispo de la Diócesis de Laya y miembro de la convencion de Francia.” See AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 219-223. 172 “Acuerdo de la Real Audiencia sobre los papeles provenientes de Santo Domingo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 219-223. 173 “Del Capitán General de Venzuela a los Comandantes y Goberadores de su jurisdicción, sobre introducción de papeles provenientes de Santo Domingo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 224, and Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 270.
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At the end of August 1796, the Captain General sent a letter to the Spanish
Minister Don Manuel Godoy, with copies of the four papers mentioned above. In his
letter, the Governor of Caracas and Captain General of Venezuela contended that
several copies of these four papers had been introduced by French people into the
province, and that he was vigilant, trying to prevent their diffusion and the evil designs
that would come with them, adding that the content of those papers represented an
“evil that we must fear.”174
The texts “Instruction addressed to the French agent in the Spanish part of
Santo Domingo,” and “After receiving the news, I am delighted,” were both written
after the Treaty of Basel of June 1795. In theory, one of the articles of the Treaty of
Basel ceded the Spanish part of Santo Domingo to France, but prohibited France from
publicly intervening in other Spanish colonies. France would not act on this cession,
the occupation that took place in 1801 was led by Toussaint Louverture.175 The central
theme of this document was again the occupation of Spanish Santo Domingo by the
French, as well as the problems and consequences that this circumstance might
provoke. The exact date of the papers is unknown but they appear to be written
sometime between 1795 and 1796. We know for sure however that the “Instruction”
174 “males que son de temer,” in “Gobernador de Caracas al Príncipe de la Paz,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 235-236; also AGI, Estado, 65, no. 54. 175 Laurent Dubois, Avengers of the New World, The Story of the Haitian Revolution (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004).
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circulated before the “After receiving the news I am delighted,” because the former
was quoted by the latter.
The paper entitled “After receiving the news, I am delighted” is an anonymous
letter that, again, praises the republican system. The author establishes comparisons
between the French republic and the monarchical Spanish regime, and argues that “the
new political and economic order of the republic would make all the families of Santo
Domingo happier than ever.”176 Additionally, the author strongly contends that the
French Revolution should not be confused with other “partial events that have several
times moved the history of the World.” In his opinion the French Revolution was
unique. He compared it with an imposing tree that spreads its fruits throughout the
world, and argued that the events of Saint-Domingue are, indeed, an indication of this
fruitful expansion.
In this document, the author also shows respect and admiration for the Treaty
of Basel,177 which, according to him, contained rights that benefited all the inhabitants
of Santo Domingo: it allowed them to leave the island with all their possessions; it
also protected possessions left behind allowing them to be acquired through
inheritance; and it also allowed them to recover to and to keep French citizenship. On
the other hand, the author condemns the Spanish monarchy that, in his opinion, has 176 “Despues de las noticias recividas, yo me lisonjeo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 240-244. 177 He dedicated some paragraphs to explaining the political context in which the Treaty had taken place, depicting the Spanish as deceitful and dangerous. See “Despues de las noticias recividas, yo me lisonjeo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 240-244.
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forgotten and betrayed the people of Santo Domingo by giving the island up to the
French. He says:
But the Spanish Minister awakening from his terror and panic, forgot about all the blood that you so many times shed in the Valleys, Plains and Mountains of Haiti, after the more than three hundred years that he fought for the glory and usefulness of the Monarchy; whether it was against the ancient Indians, legitimate owners of the Island, or against the English sent by […] or finally against the fearless Filibusters. He no longer remembered your Expenses, your Tiredness, and your work and intrepid courage for in the discovery and the conquest of the Islands and the American continent.178
Therefore, while asserting that the Treaty of Basle would provide favorable
conditions for the entire island and its inhabitants, he depicted the Spanish monarchy
and its officials as being deceitful and unfair to its people. In this sense, the author
tries to convince the inhabitants to forget about Spain and integrate themselves into the
“glorious” French Republic, because “France will be dedicated to provide you with all
the good you deserve, and to console you for all the ingratitude and insult you have
received.”179
He particularly encouraged the people of Santo Domingo to stay on the island,
to be part of the republic and, more importantly, to accept abolition. With certain
178 “Pero el Ministerio Espanol al volber de su terror, y panico, olvidó toda la sangre que vosotros haveis derramado tantas veces en los Valles, en las Sabanas, y en las Montanas de Hayti, despues de mas de trescientos anos que convatio por la gloria y utilidad de la Monarquia; ya fuese contra los antiguos Yndios, duenos legitimos de la Ysla, ya contra los Yngleses mandados por Drak Pen, y Venables [¿] o ya haya sido finalmente contra los fieros Filibustieres. No se acordó ya mas de vros. Gastos, de vras. Fatigas, y de vros. trabajos, de vro. intrepido valor por el descubrimiento y conquistas de las Yslas, y continente de la America,” Ibid.
179 “va a dedicarse enteramente a haceros todo el bien de que sois merecedores, y conzolaros de la ingratitude y insulto que se os ha hecho,” Ibid.
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slyness, he asks: “Are you going to regret the new rights of blacks, while you are
prisoners of a more humiliating and hateful tyranny?”180 According to him, both
slavery and monarchy were arbitrary and despotic systems. The Spanish monarchy
was, in his opinion, a system that treats its vassals in a terrible manner. Not even a
master treats his slaves as the Spanish monarchy had treated its vassals: “You live
with your slaves. You manage them. You feed, You dress, and take care of them, and
you have never treated them with as much neglect and barbarism as the Spanish
government has treated you!”181
In the end, he says that he does not want to promote hatred towards the
Spanish; rather he prefers to encourage unity between the two nations. But this
assertion seems cynical and ambiguous since the author has attempted to proclaim the
republic while strongly criticizing the monarchy. He said that he desires the unity of
the two nations “for the benefit of France, and the European and American Spaniards”
These texts were prohibited in the Province of Venezuela because, in
proclaiming fidelity to the Republic, they generated strong doubts about the Spanish
monarchical regime and the social order that it had established, including slavery.
Local authorities saw that the purposes of the French revolutionaries were more
ambitious than simply proclaiming a Republic. For the Spanish authorities the word
“Republic” meant political chaos, disorder, and “anti-religion.” But the idea of 180 Ibid. 181 “Vosotros vivis juntos con ellos (los esclavos), los manejais, los alimentais, los vestis, los cuidais; y vosotros no los haveis tratado jamas a ellos con tanta inconsequencia, ni barbarie, como os ha tratado a vosotros el Gobierno espano,” Ibid.
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providing absolute freedom for slaves and equality among whites and people of color
implied the collapse of one of the pillars and of their economy and of the stability of
their social order.
An important question to address here is: How were these papers introduced
into the province? In my opinion, several circumstances allowed the entrance of these
written materials into the urban centers and ports. In the first place, there were
foreigners who brought books, gazettes and papers and shared them with locals in
private meetings and discussion groups. The Inquisition denunciation notebook gives
us evidence of this situation: when people were asked about how they found a certain
prohibited book or document, they would frequently answer that a foreign visitor
offered it to them. Don Domingo Díaz said that it was true that he used to have some
volumes of the History of the Revolution in his house, but that he had returned them to
the captain of an American ship who was offering them for sale. Doña Manuela
Ybarra confessed that she had the Letters of Abelard and Eloise, and that this was a
gift she received from her nephew, a priest from Chile, who was visiting her. In the
same way, Captain Don Juan Vicente Bolívar responded: “I had La Julia, but it was
not mine. A foreigner lent it to me and I have returned it.”182 Of course, it was easier
for these curious readers to blame an outsider instead of accusing a family member,
neighbor, friend, or even themselves for the circulation of forbidden materials. But the
excuse was credible as the government was truly concerned with the idea that
182 “Cuadernillo de denuncias al Secretario del Santo Oficio,” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpeta II.
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foreigners visiting the mainland were responsible for the “written expansion of the
revolutionary disease.”
In 1793, for example, Captain General, Don Pedro Carbonell criticized
Governor of Cumaná Don Vicente Emparan for allowing a French visitor, Antonio
Arteman, to visit Cumaná from the island of Trinidad. The governor believed that
Arteman was “infused with perverse ideas, with hateful maxims he intends to spread.”
He also believed that on his trips, Arteman could have been introducing seditious
papers.183 On the next chapter I will look at the presence and influence of foreigners
and visitors in the province.
The Province of Venezuela had a coast wide open to the Caribbean sea, and
agents found it extremely difficult to guard the frontiers, not only from smugglers, but
also from political fugitives, maritime maroons, and subversive characters who wanted
to introduce prohibited books and papers to the mainland. Many of the gazettes,
newspapers, and pamphlets that entered in the mainland came from the nearby islands,
including the Island of Trinidad, which after 1797 was occupied by British forces and
definitely given to the English Crown in the year 1802.184 This situation required more
vigilant guard over Venezuela’s eastern coast.
183 “El Gobernador a Vicente Emparan,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLIX, 213; also quoted in Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,” 184. 184 Josefina Pérez Aparicio, Perdida de la isla de Trinidad (Sevilla: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos, 1966).
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Some months after the English occupation of Trinidad, governor of Cumaná
Vicente Emparan expressed his concerns to the Captain General about intensive
smuggling activities with English ships that was taking place on the eastern coast of
the Province of Venezuela. He had heard that “Spaniards from Trinidad” were
exchanging cattle and livestock, and tobacco for European goods. Emparan even
mistrusted his “subalterns who never mentioned a word about this irregularity.” He
related his frustrations about the impossibility of controlling contraband and illegal
commercial activities in his jurisdiction, because “for every door I close, three or four
are opened, and this is impossible for a single – or almost single – man.”185 Later, in
this same letter, Emparan comments that the great number of printed materials with
new doctrines and ideas that were circulating in Cumaná and the nearby areas
proceeded from Trinidad and were also introduced by smugglers. He also provides
information about a man suspected of spreading “seditious papers” in Cumaná; his
name was Don Antonio Valecilla, a soldier from the battalion of Trinidad. Valecilla
was supposedly living in Cumaná, but after receiving the Governor of Cumaná in his
house and imagining he was under suspicion, escaped back to Trinidad.186
Illegal commercial activities between the island and the Province of Cumaná,
and the introduction of seditious papers from Trinidad continued throughout the first
decade of the nineteenth century. In 1807, for example, a traveler who was visiting the 185 “Informe de Don Vicente Emparan al Gobernador Carbonell acerca del estado de la Provincia de Cumaná y también sobre la isla de Trinidad,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXVII, 109. 186 Ibid.
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city of Cumaná provided clear evidence of the introduction of texts from the Island of
Trinidad. The visitor wrote:
Having, one day entered the store of a grocer, in that town [Cumaná], I found him occupied in making paper bags and wrappers from the Declarations of the Rights of Man, copies of the Social Contract, and the bulls true or false of Pope Pius VI, which excommunicated the French nation. I inquired how those papers had come to his shop; the following was his answer: ‘I made a voyage to Trinidad after the peace of Amiens: the Mr. gave me a bale containing five hundred copies of these writings, and as many by a Peruvian Jesuit, who has long resided in London, by which he instigated us to renounce our allegiance to our sovereign, and promised the assistance of England. Such bales are given to all traders who frequent the ports of Trinidad. As for me, I took mine to the governor, after having reserved some copies for making bags, &c’.187 Frequently, foreign merchants and local traders brought boxes of prohibited
books, pamphlets, and scattered papers (papeles sueltos) and introduced them secretly
into the ports and cities, where they always found curious and avid readers. In a
“revolutionized” Caribbean, the Province of Venezuela, with its vast coast, seemed an
easy target for introducing the “republican spirit” or for persuading its inhabitants to
reject the Spanish monarchy and ally with other nations. We have seen that even Port
authorities were not completely loyal to the Spanish government, and used their
position in public office to collect papers, make copies, and spread them in order to
support a republican movement. So subversive papers entered the Province of
Venezuela in various ways and with the support of both foreigners and locals
interested in imparting information and, at the same time, provoking mobilization.
187 Dauxion Lavaysse, A Statistical, Commercial and Political Description of Venezuela, Trinidad, 30.
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6. Forbidden Texts and Readers of Color.
Spanish political elites and white creoles felt threatened by the circulation of
these papers because they could promote political actions among lower social groups
such as pardos, free blacks, and slaves, who together represented more than the 60
percent of the population. We have found some evidence that these groups in fact did
have access to prohibited papers and gazettes. We showed earlier that Josef Luis
Aleado, a veteran of the pardo militia, found the paper “Extract of the Manifest that
the National Convention made for all the Nations,” and gave it to the Captain General.
Months later he also found another paper that “seemed to be a translation of some
paragraph proceeding from a Gazette,” whose content was considered “prejudicial and
seditious, especially because it could create confusion among the simple people.”188
Aleado demonstrated his loyalty to the Crown and the local government, but the
names of the people who gave him the documents - or among whom he found them -
were never revealed. We don’t know who they were, but taking into consideration
Aleado’s social condition and calidad, it seems plausible to believe that he obtained
the texts from someone from his own social group.
It is difficult to determine the effect of seditious texts about the French
Revolution and Caribbean movements among the population of color. However, if we
188 “Informe que da cuenta de lo ocurrido con aquella Audiencia sobre darle el voto consultivo en un expediente grave relativo á la Introducción de un papel sedicioso de la Asamblea de Paris que se aprehendio,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 5.
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take into consideration the fact that there were – as mentioned above – diverse
strategies and social spaces to orally spread and discuss written information coming to
the mainland, the identification of the possible “readers” could provide an idea of how
far these “written diseases” were distributed. Based on his studies of knowledge
transmission and popular rebellion in colonial India, Ranajit Guha says that:
Writing was socially privileged. The production of verbal messages in graphic form for purposes of insurgency was feasible only when individuals of elite origin were induced by circumstance or conscience or a combination of both to make common cause with the peasantry, or when a few among the latter had managed, against all odds, to acquire the rudiments of literacy and put these at the service of an uprising.189
In colonial Venezuela I have found both kinds of readers and writers. In the
first place, in Venezuela there were white Spaniards and Creoles – planters,
merchants, officials and militiamen, and others – participating in the conspiracy of La
Guaira in 1797, who actively collaborated in the circulation of Republican ideas and
values among the population of color. They represent Guha’s first kind of readers:
“dissident elite readers.” We know that characters like Juan Joseph Mendiri (the port
official) collaborated with the collection of written materials, and Juan Xavier
Arrambide (a white creole merchant) copied and translated documents that circulated
among various social groups of La Guaira. But there was also one of the leaders of this
conspiracy, Juan Picornell, a Mallorquian who was sent to the prison of La Guaira for
participating in the conspiracy of San Blas, who produced texts to help others
189 Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, 247.
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understand the republican movement principles and ideals.190 The fundamental aim of
various of his texts was to gain support of the population of color, therefore these were
written in a discourse appropriate to be read out aloud to the people of color and easy
to memorize. We will come back to this theme in an upcoming chapter dedicated to
the Conspiracy of La Guaira in 1797 and its communication networks.
As an example of the second type of reader, “the lettered plebians”, we should
mention the case of Juan Bautista Olivares, a pardo who was accused of reading
prohibited texts to “others of his class.” In 1795, two documents (the “Extract of the
Manifest that the National Convention made for all the Nations” and “Sermon from
the Constitutional Bishop of Paris, Mr. Embert”) were found in the hands of a group
of pardos in Caracas. Apparently a pardo musician, named Juan Bautista Olivares, had
read these papers to mulattos of the city. Olivares was also accused of writing letters
containing “arrogant and seditious phrases.” Both accusations suggested that Olivares
was willing to, according the Captain General, “spread the seed of equality among
mulattos.” These serious accusations against Olivares complicated an already
confrontational situation that Olivares had maintained with authorities of the Church
since 1791.191 The Captain General finally decided to put Olivares in prison and sent
190 Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” Casto Fulgencio López, Juan Bautista Picornell y la conspiración de Gual y España (Madrid: Ediciones Nueva Cádiz, 1955). 191 In 1791, Olivares had introduced a petition to the diocesan authorities to enter in ecclesiastical order, but the church official attorney ignored his petition. Later, in 1794 the general-attorney of the diocese opposed Olivares’ petition alleging that the pardo was a descendent of “blacks and mulattos” and that someone with impure blood could not enter in “positions exclusive to people who are clean of all bad race.” See “Documento relativo a la petición que hace Juan Bautista Olivares ante el Provisor y Vicario
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him to Cádiz under the accusation of being a “subversive and arrogant pardo, capable
of encouraging the same people of his own class to shake off the yoke of obedience
and vassalage.”192
In August 1795, the Council of The Indies, in Cádiz, opened an inquest to
determine the culpability of Olivares. The judge and the oidor asked him if he wrote a
letter to a mulatto, named Lauro, in which he stated that “the powerful of this world
triumph over the humble” and concluded that: “they will be fortunate while the dark
times last.” In his testimony, Olivares answered that he did write the letter to Lauro, in
which he complained about a priest who had not paid him for his work as a musician.
He claimed that he did write the cited phrases, but his intentions were not evil, saying
that he took the phrases from Father Nieremberg’s book Diferencias entre lo
Temporal y lo Eterno, and by “dark times” he meant: “the time of mortal life, not
anything else.”193
General para que le conceda licencia para vestir los hábitos clericales, Caracas, febrero 1795,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIV, 127. 192 “Del Gobernador al Duque de Alcudia, 16 de febrero de 1795,” Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIV, 126-127; also AGI, Caracas, 346. 193 “Declaración de Juan Bautista Olivares, acusado de promover la intraquilidad pública, haciendo circular ideas sediciosas de libertad e igualdad, trasladado a Cádiz, donde se le siguió declaración indagatoria,” AGI, Caracas, 346. Nieremberg’s book was one of the most popular religious books in Colonial Venezuela, almost 45% of the private libraries had it.Olivares quoted a well-known and acceptable reference to prove that his statements were not anti-religious, nor anti-monarchical. See Juan Eusebio Nieremeberg, Diferencias entre lo temporal y lo eterno, crisol de desengaños en la memoria de la eternidad, postrimerías humanas y misterios divinos (Madrid: Manuel Martin, 1762). On the other hand, Olivares was making clear that his notion of light and darkness was, by no means, related with the Enlightenment perception of Light as the Republican system, and Darkness as the Monarchical system of the Ancient Regime. His idea of Light/Darkness was profoundly catholic, meaning light as the immortal life with God, and Darkness as the mortal time of humanity on Earth.
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Then he was asked whether he had read and explained to another mulatto
named Victor Arteaga a sermon attributed to the Archbishop of Paris. He answered:
Although he [Olivares] knows a mulatto carpenter named Victor Arteaga, he had never read in front of him that sermon, or any other writings. What did occur was that, on one occasion, a friend of his called Pedro de Silva or Arrecheguera had brought to his house another mulatto who is known only by the name Acuña, with the purpose of reading a manuscript sermon that was said to be by the Archbishop of Paris, and that in fact it had been read by Acuña himself, and he immediately took it [the sermon] with him and he had not seen it again, because although he asked him to lend it to him to copy it, he learned afterwards from a Priest of the San José de Chacao Parish, called José Antonio García Mohedano, that the said sermon was forbidden, but he could not recall whether he said by the Inquisition or by the Government, but that for that reason he did not continue to request it.194
Olivares tried to evade the responsibility of having read “seditious” papers to
others, but the truth is that his account allows us to imagine a complex scenario in
which he and other pardos and mulattos (now Pedro Silva and Acuña) met to read,
copy, and circulate papers. He was also asked if he knew that the text of the
Archbishop of Paris was infused with maxims of freedom and equality, and he
answered: “Although it is true that I wanted to copy it, it was only to feed my
curiosity; I have always detested these maxims.”195 In a third attempt to understand
Olivares’ literary interests, he was asked if he had read, copied, and circulated other
documents on the French Revolution or containing revolutionary ideas. He answered
194 “Declaración de Juan Bautista Olivares, acusado de promover la intraquilidad pública, haciendo circular ideas sediciosas de libertad e igualdad, trasladado a Cádiz, donde se le siguió declaración indagatoria,” AGI, Caracas, 346. 195 Ibid.
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that he had not read any other papers regarding this issue, except for “La Gazeta de
Madrid and the testament of the King of France.”196
Olivares needed to prove that the main reason the Captain General of
Venezuela and the Audiencia decided to send him to Cádiz was not because he was a
“subversive pardo,” but because he was anxious to join to the clerical order and his
petition created discomfort among the colonial Church authorities. During his stay in
the prison in Cádiz, Olivares wrote a revealing letter in which he clearly explained this
situation and showed himself a fervent Catholic and loyal vassal of the King.197 The
letter provided the Council with a clear description of the “misfortunes” and
discrimination that pardos experienced in the province, where they were not allowed
to be educated, to attend seminary or to be ordained as priests. Finally, the King and
the Council realized that the judicial case against Olivares was not as serious as the
authorities in Caracas had argued, and in December 1795, Olivares was set free. He
even got permission to go back to Caracas on the condition of observing prudent
behavior.198 Madrid’s decision enraged the Governor of Caracas who complained that
196 “Declaración de Juan Bautista Olivares.” As we mentioned earlier in this chapter, la Gaceta de Madrid contained information regarding the movements of Saint Domingue, and this may have be the reason why Olivares mentioned that these and the testament of the King of France were sources where he read news on the revolutions. As Ferrer asserts “[this information] may have not caused reactions in Madrid, but in places like La Habana could have moved the readers,” in “Noticias de Haití en Cuba,” 197. 197 “Manuscrito de Juan Bautista Olivares, escrito en la cárcel de Cádiz,” AGI, Caracas, 346. 198 This decision could show the Crown tendency to take advantage of the discriminatory situations that the majority of pardos and mixed-races experienced in Colonial Spanish America. Precisely in the year of 1795, Madrid offered a way out of the “stain of slavery” to individuals of mixed African ancestry by extending the sale of gracias al sacar (legitimation of status change) to pardos and quinterones. This
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if Olivares came back, it would cheer people up in a “province covered by pestilent
poison, whose contagion would easily contaminate people of color.” He stated: “They
always try to equal themselves to whites by any imaginable means.”199 In 1796,
Olivares was back in Caracas and continuing to work as a musician, directing a
religious chorus.
The presence and circulation of papers containing revolutionary ideas among
the white population created concern in the colonial institutions that tried to exercise
social control. The circulation and reading of these materials among the population of
color were considered extremely dangerous and quite unacceptable. This is why the
Governor did not hesitate to send Juan Bautista Olivares to Cádiz accusing him of
being a “subversive subject,” while ignoring Mendiri and Arrambide, both whites
creoles who were involved in suspicious cases of possession and translation of
forbidden texts. The case of Olivares also allows us to perceive the fear of white elites;
a group that felt that the racial paradigm and the social order upon which colonial
society was founded were threateaned with destruction.
decision, among others, was “the by-product of an attempt by royal accounting officers to improve revenue collection by putting together a price list of gracias al sacar based on recent practice.” Aline Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia, 1770-1835 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2004), 92. Regarding the theme of honorability, race and status in Colonial Spanish America, see Ann Twinam, Public Lives, Private Secrets: Gender, Honor, Sexuality and Illegitimacy in Colonial Spanish America (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999). 199 “El Gobernador al Príncipe de la Paz, Agosto, 1796,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 234.
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The circulation of seditious papers and books continued in the Province of
Venezuela throughout the entire first decade of the nineteenth century. In 1809, the
Inquisition of Caracas issued another “Edict of Prohibition of Papers and Books,”
perhaps the last one during colonial times. This edict warned of several texts that
proclaimed “insurrection, subversion, and insubordination to the Legitimate Powers.”
At the end, the edict concluded:
In all times, experience has taught us the injuries that the reading of certain books and papers written with evilness causes to the Religion, to the State and to the tranquility of the conscience…For our misfortune, we see in current times, how many persons have been seduced by the freshness of this bad seed, [we see] that many persons are enchanted with the novelties of these days, produced by insurrections, by false decrees and manifests, and they are not capable of recognizing the consequences of this danger200
Revolutionary ideas in writing did circulated among the people of the Province
of Venezuela, and individuals in each locality and cultural context channeled written
words and ideas through particular circuits and networks. People in Caracas and La
Guaira found the spaces to produce and reproduce knowledge, creating also oral media
(songs, dialogues, poetry) to disseminate, share and adapt political knowledge to the
local context. The subject of the next chapters is the characterization and the nature of
these processes of transformation and adaptation of political knowledge to the local
process, a process in which social notions on race and status, and an overall
resentment of the local political system, played a fundamental role.
200 “Edicto del Santo Oficio de Caracas, 1809,” AAC, Santo Oficio, Carpeta II.
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CHAPTER III
Voices and Rumors in Tierra Firme
Visitors, Fugitives and Prisoners from the French Caribbean in Venezuela
(1789-1799)
1. Caribbean Communication Networks during the Age of Revolution
After the start of the French Revolution, King Charles IV and his ministers
were particularly concerned about the possible influences and effects that it and its
propaganda could have in his American territories. In September 1789, he was
informed that some members of the National Assembly of Paris had strong interests in
introducing seditious manifestos in Spanish America that “could shake the power of
Spanish dominion amongst its inhabitants.” Immediately after receiving this warning,
the Spanish Minister, Count of Floridablanca, issued a Royal Order to the Governors
of the Spanish Provinces in America, in which he established control over the
introduction and diffusion of any paper that could “promote Independence and anti-
religion.” In this same communication, the Minister clearly recognized that written
materials were not the only source of information that could contaminate the Spanish
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territories “with evil principles,” since French visitors could spread “seditious ideas”
very efficiently by word of mouth.201
In May 1790, the Crown issued a Royal Decree to the Captain General of
Venezuela and Governor of Caracas in which it repeated the order to control the
diffusion of “dangerous papers” coming from France; but it also added that there was
“an urgent need to control the entry into the Province of black fugitives coming from
the foreign colonies.” This Decree indicated that “slaves or black fugitives, as well as
persons of other colors coming from the French Islands, could influence our vassals
with ideas that are prejudicial for their due subordination.”202
In December 1790, the Captain General of Venezuela wrote a letter to the
Spanish Minister in which he underlined the direct connection that existed between the
French Revolution and the movements and unstable situation of the French Colonies,
especially Guadeloupe. Aware of the importance of being vigilant of the papers and
ideas that were circulating in his Province, the Captain General expressed his fears
about the danger that the proximity of the French Islands posed to the Province of
Venezuela, the gateway to the Spanish American mainland.203 Similarly, he was
201 “Real Orden del Conde de Floridablanca, 24 de septiembre de 1789,” AGN, Reales Ordenes, X, 140. 202 Ibid., 198-199. 203 “Orden del Presidente de la Real Audiencia de Caracas,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLIII, 96-97. Colonial authorities were always concerned about the entry of revolutionary ideas and Venezuela’s geographical location and characteristics. The Province was often depicted as an “open country” (país abierto), with an extensive and accessible coast, vulnerable and extremely difficult to protect. On many occasions when the neighboring Islands, like Trinidad, and Margarita asked for military reinforcements from the mainland, the same kind of excuses were made, one letter from the Governor said: “How are we going to send reinforcements if we do not have enough soldiers to guard
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concerned about the possibility that a great numbers of black fugitives from the
turbulent Islands might well enter the Province, and suggested that local slaves should
be “entertained” and news relating to the situation in the French Colonies should not
be divulged. In a sense, the attention that local authorities originally paid to the French
Revolution and its propaganda was quickly supplanted by the preoccupation provoked
about the proximity and “terrible example” of the French colonies. The threats of the
French revolution spread to the nearby islands, and were transformed, in the local
social context, into a more serious menace, because the upheavals of the French
Caribbean incorporated both the free colored population and the slaves.
Immediately after the first news arrived about the events of Saint-Domingue,
the concerns about possible revolutionary contagion in the Spanish territories
increased. A Royal Decree of November 1791 instructed the Viceroys, Captain
Generals and Governors of Spanish America to maintain a neutral position with
respect to the circumstances of the struggle between “blacks and whites in the
insurrection of Guarico.” However, it added, that if groups of malhechores and pirates
were to attack white communities on the high sea, the Spanish authorities were
directed to act in accordance with the “rules of Humanity,” providing aid to the white
refugees, “but being careful to prevent the contagion of the insurrection in the Spanish
our own coasts from pirate attacks or possible invasions?” See “Carta de Vicente Emparan al Capitán General Carbonell, 1793,” AGI, Caracas, 94, no. 221.
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possessions.”204 Therefore, any contact between Spanish soldiers and French people
had to be avoided at all costs, and the vigilance to limit the introduction of fugitive
blacks from the French colonies and, more generally, of “suspicious” foreign visitors
was now of utmost importance.
To prevent the circulation and proliferation of “dangerous” ideas that were
originated in France and radicalized in the slave-holding Caribbean, the authorities in
Venezuela introduced measures to control the ports, to organize censuses of the
inhabitants in the ports and nearby cities, to spy on foreign visitors and neighbors and
to investigate the reasons for their presence in the Province. The implementation of
these measures to control the inhabitants by the local government revealed that they
feared that news and rumors circulating by way of mouth represented a tangible threat
to the social, economic and political stability of the Province. The authorities believed
that rumors introduced by uninvited Caribbean visitors could bring chaos and disorder
to the Province.
In semi-literate societies where there were no printing presses, rumors played
an important role in the diffusion of knowledge.205 In Venezuela, rumors spread in
public settings, such as public squares, pulperías, shops, and outside the Church
buildings. Although it is extremely difficult to determine where and when the rumors 204 “Real Orden e Instruccion del Rey a los Jefes de las Provincias en America, para prevenirles sobre el peligro de las Insurreciones acontecidas en las Provincias, noviembre de 1791,” AGN, Reales Ordenes, XI, 70. 205 Ranajit Guha, for example, comments: “Rumour is both universal and necessary carrier of insurgency in any pre-industrial, pre-literate society.” See Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, 251.
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of revolution emerged and vanished, or to identify those that put them in circulation,
there are certain questions we can usefully pose: What kind of ‘revolutionary’ rumors
were circulating among the inhabitants of the Province of Venezuela? Who were privy
to those rumors? And how did they come to refer, not only to external, but also to
local circumstances? 206
In his work on regional communication networks, rumors, and the divulgation
of revolutionary events in the Caribbean, historian Julius Scott sustains that,
traditionally, studies of commerce and trade, which were an important dimension of
the historiography of eighteenth-century America, overlooked one of the most
significant items that were exchanged: information.207 Hence, Scott’s study is
important for understanding the importance the role that Caribbean communication
networks played in spreading the images of revolutionary Saint-Domingue. Scott’s
work was already aligned with an incipient Atlantic historiography that sought to
expand its analysis beyond political territorial limits and traditional chronological
divisions. These historians, on one hand, sought to reintegrate the past of all the
Americas, reincorporating it within a larger western and global context; and on the
other, they also questioned the usefulness of conventional chronological divisions
between the colonial and national periods. Along these lines, an increasing number of 206 See Jean Noel Kapferer, Rumeurs: Le plus vieux médie du Monde (Paris: Seuil, 1987), quoted in Scarlett O’Phelan, “La construcción del miedo a la plebe en el siglo XVIII a través de las rebeliones sociales,” in El miedo en el Perú, siglo XVI al XX, ed. Claudia Rosas Lauro (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2005). 207 Scott, The Common Wind, 175.
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works became interested in exploring issues related to commercial activities and
migratory movements.208
More recent works have been dedicated to the study of the web of Atlantic
interconnectedness within the Americas and, also, between the different imperial
systems. In this direction, special attention has been paid to the study of port cities
located in Anglo and Latin America, and in the Caribbean, with the purpose of
examining similarities and differences and relating them to the particular
characteristics of the respective cultural contexts.209 As Knight and Liss comment, port
towns and cities were the most important nodes of European expansion in the
Americas during the processes of conquest and colonial settlement and, later, as the
patterns of European colonization became more solid, “ports and port-cities gained
significance as the Atlantic world developed a complex trading system with its various
geographic sectors built around maritime commerce.”210
208 See, for example, the early work of Jacob Price, “Economic Function and the Growth of American Port Towns in the Eighteenth Century,” Perspectives in American History 8, (1974): 123-86; and J.G.A Pocock, “Virtue and Commerce in the Eighteenth Century,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 3, (1972): 119-34. For Latin America, see Tulio Halperín Donghi, Politics, Economics and Society in Argentina in the Revolutionary Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975). 209 See Peggy Liss, Atlantic Empires: The Network of the Trade and Revolution, 1713-1826 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983), and Franklin W. Knight and Peggy Liss, Atlantic Port Cities. Economy, Culture and Society in the Atlantic World, 1650-1850 (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1991). And more recent works, such as Alejandro De La Fuente, Havana and the Atlantic in the Sixteenth Century (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008); Linda M. Rupert, “Marronage, Manumission and Maritime Trade in the Early Modern Caribbean,” Slavery & Abolition 30, no. 3 (2009); Klooster, Revolution in the Atlantic World; and Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia. 210 Knight and Liss, Atlantic Port Cities, 2.
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Historians of the revolutionary Atlantic have recognized the importance of
studying the complex web of commercial, social, and political relations that were built
up within Port towns and cities during the age of the Revolution. The different revolts
and social movements occurring in the Caribbean islands provoked important
mobilizations of people of diverse social status, races and political tendencies across
the American ports and cities that certainly altered the social dynamics, the political
perceptions and even the economic circumstances of each location.211 In this chapter, I
will center my analysis on oral transmission and rumors that circulated about the
turbulent French Caribbean in cities and port-towns of the Province of Venezuela.
Consequently, I will attribute considerable importance to the agents of these processes
of knowledge transmission: the people.
Here, I will study the repercussions that the mobilization of people from the
revolutionary Atlantic had in the Province of Venezuela during the first years of the
French Revolution, the Guadeloupe confrontations, and the Saint-Domingue
revolutions. Despite all the measures that the government established and
implemented in order to control the entrance of foreigners into the ports and urban
centers of the Province, between 1791 and 1799, many individuals from France and
the Caribbean islands entered the Province and carried news and information about the
211 There is abundant and recent historiography regarding this topic. See Gaspar and Geggus, eds., A Turbulent Time; Geggus, ed., The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic; Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies; González-Ripoll and others, eds., El rumor de Haití en Cuba; Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, and Le Syndrome de Saint-Domingue; Piqueras, Las Antillas en la Era de las Luces; Garraway, ed., Tree of Liberty; Nesbitt, Universal Emancipation; Geggus and Fiering, eds., The World of the Haitian Revolution; Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia; Klooster, Revolutions in the Atlantic World.
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political events of France and its colonies. These visitors brought stories of the
revolutions with them, and created a wave of rumors that contributed to the production
and reproduction of several versions of the Haitian Revolution, and to the circulation
of ideas about slave insurrection, violence, colonialism, equality, and freedom.
The “suspicious” people that entered the port-towns and cities of Venezuela
were diverse: French visitors accused of sporadically talking out loud about the French
Revolution in public places, sailors of all colors and maritime maroons coming from
different latitudes who brought information about political instability and black
upheavals, slaves from foreign islands brought by refugee families who sang
revolutionary songs, French royalists and colored militiamen, aligned with different
political agendas, who also had their own perceptions of the Caribbean situation and
of relations between the metropolis and its colonies, and who even participated as
agents for inducing social mobilization or, on the contrary, as supporters of the local
Government offering their services for the counterrevolutionary cause. All of them
participated in the creation of an imprecise and diffuse image of the Haitian
Revolution with different versions and emotional reactions overlapping, and with the
local inhabitants projecting their own fears and hopes. This chapter aims precisely to
analyze this complex network of information and its multiple readings. 212
212 For an interesting and complete appraisal of the emotional effects of the Haitian Revolution on the Atlantic World, see Gómez, Le Syndrome de Saint Domingue.
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The wave of rumors that all these actors brought caused enormous anxiety to
many authorities who found it very hard to control oral transmission of information,
being aware that this information affected the perceptions that different subjects had
about the Monarchy, vassalage, racial hierarchy, and the slavery system. In this
chapter, I seek to analyze and understand some of the versions of the Saint-Domingue
Revolution that circulated in the Province in the forms of rumors, and that
progressively contributed to white paranoia and repression as well as to pardos
involvement in conspiracies, and to black “rebelliousness and haughtiness.” As will be
seen, Venezuela in the 1790s furnishes interesting examples of both the contagion of
revolution and the counterrevolutionary responses.
2. Controlling “Suspicious” French Visitors
Viceroys, Captain Generals and Governors of the Spanish territories in
America received specific royal orders to impede, at all costs, the entry of French
Revolutionary ideas into their jurisdictions, because these ideas challenged the
monarchy, the Church and the most essential concepts of a harmonic and obedient
society. The need for establishing a “sanitary cordon” not only in the Spanish
Peninsula, but also in all the Spanish territories required the implementation of
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numerous strategies to avoid contagion.213 In many written pieces in Spanish and
American newspapers, the French Revolution was depicted as a “terrifying”
movement, which consisted of wave of “murders, fires, parricide, regicide, and
destruction of all the basic principles upon which the political, religious and social
order rested.”214 The most fearful and frightful aspects of the French Revolution were
the regicide, the attacks on religion and the Catholic Church, and the Terror. Spanish
authorities perceived the Regicide as an extremely violent and barbarous act that
questioned the basis of the Monarchy as a Divine Right; in consequence, the
assassination of Louis XVI was conceived as a sacrilege committed in the most
atrocious manner. Both political authorities and elites experienced fear in the face of a
series of events that were accompanied by adjectives such as “horror,” “terror,” and
“threat.”215
In Spanish America, these fears became strong reasons for persecuting those
individuals who were perceived as possible agents of perturbation and opposition to
the monarchical system, the Catholic Church, and the social order; and as a result, the
colonial authorities developed strategies to control the entry of foreigners who could 213 Gonzalo Añes Álvarez de Castrillón, “España y la Revolución Francesa,” in Revolución, contrarrevolución e independencia: la Revolución Francesa, España y América (Madrid: Turner, 1989), 17-39. 214 Rosas Lauro, “El miedo a la revolución. Rumores y temores desatados por la Revolución Francesa en el Perú,” 149. 215 See George Lefevbre, The Great Fear of 1789, Rural Panic in Revolutionary France (New York: Schocken Books, 1989); Arno J. Mayer, The Furies: Violence and Terror in the French and Russian Revolutions (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000); and Paul Newman, A History of Terror (Great Britain: Sutton Publishing Limited, 2000).
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become sources of contagion.216 In Venezuela, some restrictions on the presence of
foreign visitors were already in place before the French Revolution. The geographical
situation of the province encouraged not only the development of smuggling networks
but also the entry of fugitives and “possible invaders” who always provoked
preoccupation among the authorities who jealously suspected of every Dutch, English
or French ship navigating close to the Venezuelan coast. However, after July 1789, the
authorities were concerned about both the entry of foreigners and the presence of
foreigners already established in the Province who could be receptive to French
revolutionary propaganda and contribute as well to its diffusion. In 1792, for example,
the Captain General, Juan Guillelmi, issued an Order to the Lieutenants of the
jurisdiction of Coro, Paraguaná, San Luis, Casigua and Río El Tocuyo, to investigate
the foreigners living in these regions, and to inquire “who they are, the lifestyle and
customs of each of them, their occupation or profession, and the reasons for their
presence in the Province.” Likewise, he recommended finding out if these foreigners
216 Along with diverse traditional analogies that western political culture established between the State and Corporal images, there was this conceptualization of the State as a human body, rebellions as diseases, and information networks as sources of contagion. See Ernest Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, A Study on Medieval Political Theology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957). In his work on Colonial India, Ranajit Guha shows that Colonial elites used metaphors that conceptualized the state as a body, and rebellions as diseases that attack the political body. Rebels’ ideas were spread all over, contaminating the rest of the common people. Elites saw symptoms of the disease in their peasant’s words and actions, and their fear caused them to manufacture events and actions, and led them to apply different methods of repression as a way of preventing and/or protecting themselves from rebel actions. See Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency. In Spanish America, the French Revolution was perceived as a contagious disease, see John Rydjord, “The French Revolution in Mexico,” Hispanic American Historical Review 9, no.1 (1929): 60-98; Rosas Lauro, “El miedo a la revolución. Rumores y temores desatados por la Revolución Francesa en el Perú,” Izard, El miedo a la revolución; and Elena Plaza, “El miedo a la Ilustración en la provincia de Caracas, 1790-1810,” Politeia, no. 14 (1990): 311-48.
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had expressed suspicious statements on paper or in conversations. He also added that
if any of these foreigners were unable to demonstrate that they had a royal
authorization for living in the Spanish territories, they had to be sent to Caracas “along
with all their papers and books.”217
Immediately, the rumors and news about “suspicious foreigners” began to
circulate throughout the Province. In the town of Siquesique – an Indian town located
approximately 110 miles west of Caracas - a Frenchman named Jerome was
persecuted for expressing opinions in public against the sacred dogma; and in the town
of El Tocuyo a French doctor, named Pedro Deo, was also under suspicion for “saying
or writing something against the State and in accordance with the spirit of
Independence that is found in France.”218
The assassination of Louis XVI, in January 1793, and the war outset of France
and Spain months later, prompted a more rigid and determined position on the part of
the Crown and the Church regarding the diffusion of French propaganda. Colonial
authorities were asked to detect any minimal sign of French influence in the Spanish
American territories. In 1793, a French Doctor, named Víctor Droin was accused of
declaring in the main square of the town of Guanare - a small town located
217 “Orden a los Tenientes Justicias Mayores de Coro,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVII, 68. 218 Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,” Laviña, “Revolución Francesa y control social,” and Pino Iturrieta, La mentalidad venezolana en la emancipación, 36, and “Orden del Teniente Justicia Mayor de El Tocuyo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVII, 50.
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approximately 85 miles southwest of Caracas - that the “French people did well in
killing the King of France.” Droin was also incriminated by the priest Don Pedro
Hurtado for “being opposed to the Spanish King in the War against France, and for
revealing and expressing in public attitudes contrary to the Monarchy and, sometimes,
even against Religion.”219 This accusation of expressing phrases against both the
monarchy and the catholic religion corresponded with the common characterization of
revolutionaries as anti-monarchical, anarchists and atheists. The stories of French
rebels who chased priests and nuns, and destroyed sacred ornaments and symbols of
the Church circulated throughout the Atlantic world. In the eyes of Spanish Crown, the
French revolution was sacrilegious and impious, and all the individuals that supported
it, in any way, were depicted as cruel, anarchist and atheist.220 The Crown and the
Church, in fact, developed a counterrevolutionary discourse deeply rooted in
principles that encouraged sowing the seeds of religious faith in the entire society.221
When Droin was questioned about these accusations, he answered that he did
not speak the Spanish language very well, and that locals probably misunderstood
him. Although he was married to a white creole woman in Coro and had two
daughters with her, he did not have authorization to live in the Province, so he was
219 “Expediente del caso del Doctor Francés Victor Droin,” AGI, Caracas, 15, no. 8 and no. 13. 220 See Lefevbre, The Great Fear of 1789, and Mayer, The Furies. 221 See Rosas Lauro, “El miedo a la revolución. Rumores y temores desatados por la Revolución Francesa en el Perú,” Tomás Straka, La voz de los vencidos. Ideas del partido realista de Caracas, 1810-1821 (Caracas: Universidad Católica Andrés Bello, 2007), and Plaza, “El miedo a la Ilustración en la provincia de Caracas.”
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expelled from Guanare. Droin solicited a pardon and brought five witnesses, all
French, who stated that he was a good person with moral principles and an honorable
occupation, but once the Audiencia realized that he was working as a doctor without
the appropriate authorization, he was definitively expelled from the region.222
The Council of Indies followed the case of Victor Droin and, in 1795, decided
to expel him from all the Spanish territories. They believed that his “dangerous
statements,” were clearly infected by the revolutionary disease, and that Droin was a
“harmful example to all who could hear him.” However, the Council was also
concerned by another aspect revealed in Droin’s case, it noted: “It should not be
overlooked that it seems that in the Province of Venezuela, and particularly in its
ports, foreigners are allowed, especially the French, because Droin found enough
witnesses from his nation to support him.”223 Therefore, the Council warned the local
Authorities that: “It is prohibited by Law for all foreigners to enter the Indies and to
settle in them unless authorized to do so by letter of Royal nature and license.” Further
it instructed: “All the Viceroys, Audiences, and Governors, shall procure to clean the
land of them [the foreigners].” 224
222 “Expediente del caso del Doctor Francés Victor Droin,” AGI, Caracas, 15, no. 8 and no. 13. 223 Ibid. Among the French witnesses was a French doctor, Dr. Pedro Canibens, who married Josefa Joaquina España, sister of the conspirator of La Guaira, Don José María España. In 1797, Canibens worked as a doctor in the Hospital of La Guaira and was accused of participating in the republican conspiracy of Gual and España. See López, Juan Bautista Picornell, and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” I thank Prof. Aizpurua for alerting me about this information. Ramón Aizpurua, e-mail message to author, February 28, 2011. 224 “Por Ley está prohibido pasar a las Indias, y permanecer en ellas qualesquiera extranjeros que no estén habilitados con carta de naturaleza y Licencia Real,” Ibid.
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The case of Droin, among others from the rest of Spanish America, produced
some distress in Spain and in March 1796, the King issued a Royal Decree in which he
ordered the use of all the necessary vigilance to enforce the laws regarding the entry of
foreigners, especially those from France, who could maintain “seductive or dangerous
conversations with my loyal vassals.” However, the King also recognized that his
vassals were not altogether free from revolutionary contamination, so he also ordered
that: “any person who in words or actions expresses attachment to the hateful maxims
of a misunderstood liberty, or tries to persuade another person, shall have a process
opened.”225
In 1794, Francisco Combret, a Frenchman who worked as a tobacconist in the
city of Maracay, was accused of expressing subversive ideas. Combret was arrested
“along with all his books and papers,” and sent to Cádiz in 1795. Accompanying
Combret in the same ship was the merchant Santiago Albi, original of San Sebastián,
Spain, who was accused of celebrating the fall of San Sebastian at the hands of the
French with fireworks. Albi was described by the authorities as “an insolent, vain and
atheistic young man, capable of inspiring and moving others with the project that the
National Assembly of Paris has spread.”226 These suspects “infused with revolutionary
225 “Real Cédula sobre presencia de extranjeros en la Provincia, especialmente de franceses que pudiesen alterar el orden y la tranquilidad pública,” AGI, Caracas, 169, no. 85. 226 “El Gobernador a Juan N. Pedroza, noviembre de 1794,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIII, 30; also quoted in Callahan, “La propaganda, la sedición y la Revolución Francesa en la capitanía general de Venezuela,”183.
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ideas” were often referred to as persons who challenged the colonial authorities and
the Church, pillar institutions of social order and the harmony. The
counterrevolutionary actions adopted by the colonial Authorities and supported by the
elites constituted an expression of their fears and the need to secure the political and
social order.
Many of the French visitors who came to Venezuela, proceeded from those
islands of the Caribbean that had sheltered hundreds of French families escaping from
the “horrors of Saint-Domingue,” and the “disorders in Martinique and Guadeloupe.”
Afraid of losing their slaves and their lives, some of these families fled to the Island of
Trinidad that offered good prospects for recently arrivals.227 According to Rosario
Sevilla, the waves of immigrants that established themselves in Trinidad contributed
to the much needed demographic growth in the Island during the last years of the
eighteenth century.228 The Governor of the island, Don Jose María Chacón,
commented: “a great number of French royalists have escaped from the persecution of
the republicans. Among them, there are many prominent individuals from the most
227 French families received diverse benefits: the Governor assigned them land for agricultural development, while the Frenchmen provided their slaves’ labor. Also the Real Hacienda offered monetary aid for each of the refugees, including old people and children. See “Sobre Ayuda monetaria a emigrados franceses en Trinidad,” AGI, Caracas, 153, no. 60. 228 In 1788 there were 9,816 inhabitants in the Island of Trinidad; 3,807 were free and 6,009 slaves; by the year of 1797, when the British invaded the island, there were a total of 17,700 inhabitants, many of them had come from Saint-Domingue. See Rosario Sevilla Soler, “Las repercusiones de la Revolución Francesa en el Caribe español. Los casos de Santo Domingo y Trinidad,” Cuadernos Americanos Nueva Época 5, no. 17 (1989): 117-33.
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respectable families; most of them bring blacks and many instruments for agricultural
labor, but there are others that need aid in order to survive”229
During the first years of political struggle in Guadeloupe and Martinique, and
of the Saint-Domingue rebellions, more free people than slaves from these islands
arrived to Trinidad, but during subsequent years this tendency reverted, and by 1795,
slaves represented 58% of the population. The Governor, José María Chacón, was
particularly aware of the ideological consequences of this important presence of
families and slaves, and in several communications he alerted the Captain General
about the danger of contagion, the frequent visits that some of these people made to
the mainland, and the possibility that Trinidad could be invaded by a foreign power.230
By the beginning of the 1800s and when the island was already ruled by the British,
French families controlled the slave labor force – whom they had introduced in
previous years – and gained the economic control of the Island.231
229 “Carta del Gobernador de Trinidad al Capitán General, julio de 1793,” AGI, Caracas, 153, no. 37. 230 The Governor of Trinidad, in particular, maintained a frequent correspondence with the Captain General of Caracas. He provided him with information about the arrival of French families from Sto. Domingue, about the presence of foreign ships, the situation of Martinique and Cuba, and, of course about the development of Saint-Domingue’s events. See diverse communications from Governor of Trinidad, José María Chacón to the Captain General of Venezuela, in AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLIII, 48; XLVII, 14; XLVIII, 218, 297, 307, and 348; XLVII, 14. Also AGI, Caracas, 115. 231 See Sevilla Soler, “Las repercusiones de la Revolución Francesa en el Caribe español,” and Jesse A. Noel, Trinidad, provincia de Venezuela. Historia de la administración española de Trinidad (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1972); and Linda Newson, “Inmigrantes extranjeros en América española: el experimento colonizador de la isla de Trinidad,” Revista de Historia de América, no. 87 (1979): 79-103.
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The Governor of the Province of Cumaná, in the eastern region of Venezuela
and separated from Trinidad only 15 miles of sea, Vicente Emparan, was wary of
potential undesirable visits of French free people or slaves to his region. Effectively in
1795, missionaries of the region told Emparan that a suspicious visitor was “spreading
seditious maxims in the Indian towns (Pueblos de Indios), which ceased to pay
tributes,” and that in some regions “Indians even abandoned the towns to go to the
mountains, with serious consequences.”232 Emparan suggested that the Captain
General reduce tributes, because “no other time is less appropriate than the present to
raise the taxes, or introduce any novelty that could be burdensome.”233 Immediately,
the Captain General sent an order in which he eliminated the last official orders
increasing tributes, and reduced Indians’ tributes to “as what they were before.” He
also decided that Indians could pay tributes in “species,” as they used to do.234
A witness who met the “dangerous” visitor, told Emparan that he had heard
him say that:
Someday these lands are going to be ruled by other people, and the poor people will finally be able to breathe, and they will receive help to progress, they will see more haciendas and sugar mills, and commercial
232 “Oficio reservado del Gobernador de Cumaná sobre haberse introducido persona sospechosa en los pueblos de Indios,” AGI, Caracas, 514, no. 8, 1. 233 “Reservada del Gobernador de Cumaná al Capitán General sobre persona sospechosa y de sus peligrosas máximas que se han introducido en el pueblo de San Bernardino y otros lugares de la Provincia,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIV, 205. 234 “Real Orden a los Gobernadores de La Guaira, Puerto Cabello, Coro y Cumaná, con copia a la Real Hacienda,” AGI, Caracas, 514. no. 8, 2.
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activities free of rights and taxes. Soon everybody will be rich and powerful.235
He ended his speech concluding: “the Spanish King has tyrannized this land.”
The foreigner did not have any luggage, his only possessions were a hammock to sleep
and some papers he frequently read and wrote. He said to some people that he had a
partner he was supposed to meet on the coast of Caracas. Another witness, Fray
Vicente Blasco, commented that he had met the visitor, and after letting him expose
his “dangerous ideas,” Fray Blasco accused him of being French, the man contested
that he was Spanish but had been raised in France; had lived in Mexico and then
moved to Trinidad, where he currently lived. He traveled occasionally to the Province
of Venezuela to sell mules and other products. He also claimed to be up to date on all
the news about the situation of the French Antilles. When Father Blasco told him that
he was not a good vassal of the King, because a good vassal obeys his father, the
visitor, whose name was not revealed, replied: “It is true, but sometimes they want to
pull the cord so tight, that it snaps.”236 Fray Blasco ordered him not to talk about these
issues with the common people (el pueblo), but he later heard that the visitor was
writing and sharing his ideas in public in the nearby towns.
235 “Reservada del Gobernador de Cumaná al Capitán General sobre persona sospechosa y de las peligrosas máximas que se han introducido en el pueblo de San Bernardino y otros lugares de la Provincia,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIV, 206. 236 “Representación de Fray Vicente Blasco al Gobernador de Cumaná,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIV, 207.
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The Real Audiencia met in order to determine the seriousness of the case of the
mysterious uninvited and unwanted visitor who, according to the letter of the
Governor of Cumaná and some others letters written by the missionaries in Barcelona,
traveled all over the eastern region of the Province of Venezuela, spreading dangerous
ideas that impressed people, especially the Indians and blacks, “always inclined to
follow the perverse example of the wayward French.” They sent the order to
immediately capture this person, “along with all his papers.”237 The capture and exile
of this visitor was considered extremely important, since this kind of individual took
advantage of the “simplicity of the Indians, who are easily persuaded, and currently
may produce serious bad consequences for the public order, and the happiness of the
vassals.”238 It was believed that this person proceeded from the Island of Trinidad and
traveled across the region until arriving in Caracas. Apparently, he was never located.
The colonial State firmly believed that subaltern disobedience actions and
rebellions were always inspired by external factors, and normally depicted Indians and
blacks as “simple minded,” incapable of thinking politically for themselves or of
rebelling in response to an unfair system.239 The situation of an individual inciting
237 “Orden de la Real Audiencia sobre apresar a sospechoso que incita a los Indios a la desobediencia,” AGI, Caracas, 514, no. 9. 238 “Reservada no. 21 al Intendente de los Reales Exercitos de Caracas,” AGI, Caracas, 514. 239 Ranajit Guha observes the same situation in Colonial India, showing how authorities insinuated that peasants have lost their innocence thanks to the irruption of outsiders. He states: “While the peasants regard rebellion as a form of collective enterprise, their enemies describe it and deal with it as a contagion…” Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, 220. Scholars of Latin American history like Steve Stern, Charles Walker, Eric Van Young and Sinclair Thomson, among many others, have successfully theorized about the political consciousness of Indians, peasants and working people,
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others to rebel was considered scandalous, but if these others were numerous subaltern
subjects who, infused with “foreign ideas,” refuse to obey and to be loyal to the King,
the situation was considered even more serious. 240 Two fears intersected here: fear of
contagion of revolution and fear of subaltern disobedience and rebellion. The latter
was based on recent Spanish American and Caribbean experiences of subaltern
insurrection, such as the Tupac Amaru (1780-1782) and the Comunero rebellions
(1780-1781) in the Andean region, and the recent slaves upheavals in Saint-Domingue
and other regions of the Caribbean.241
3. The Presence of Fugitive Slaves and Maritime Maroons
In his work “The Common Wind: Currents of Afro-American Communication
in the Era of the Haitian Revolution,” Julius Scott shows that the events in Saint
Domingue and other islands of the Caribbean provided exciting news for slaves and
free coloreds from Virginia to Venezuela, increasing their interest in regional affairs
capturing their political agendas and strategies. See Stern, Resistance, Rebellion, and Consciousness; Walker, Smoldering Ashes; Van Young, The Other Rebellion; Thomson, We Alone Will Rule. 240 According to religious principles, a scandal was a situation in which “one person, through words or actions, persuades others to sin,” along with impiety and blasphemy. This “sin” was considered a terrible action often committed by “false” revolutionary philosophers and any other person spreading revolutionary ideas among the “incautious” population. See Elena Plaza, “Vicisitudes de un escaparate de cedro con libros prohibidos,” Politeia 13, (1989): 331-60. 241 See Scarlett O’Phelan, La gran rebelión en los Andes. De Túpac Amaru a Túpac Catari (Cuzco: Centro de Estudios Rurales Andinos ‘Bartolomé de las Casas,’ 1995); and John Fisher, Allan Kuethe and Anthony MacFarlane, eds., Reform and Insurrection in Bourbon New Granada and Perú (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1990).
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and stimulating them to organize conspiracies on their own. In his opinion, a regional
network of communication – which he called “the common wind” – bound together
the societies of Afro America. Slaves and free people of color moved from place to
place, and helped to communicate the rumors of liberation and equality brewing in
many different places during the last decade of the eighteenth century.
Given the menace that this communication network represented, the first
actions that the Spanish and local authorities undertook were designed to seal
themselves off from the impact of the Caribbean turmoil. In November 1791, right
after the news of slaves uprisings in the North of Saint Domingue began to spread, the
Spanish King restricted the slave trade and the entry of French ships into the local
ports, in order to control the dissemination of revolutionary rumors. In February 1792,
for example, the Captain General of Venezuela wrote confidential letters to the
Governors of the Provinces Cumana, Guayana, Maracaibo, Trinidad, and Margarita
and to the Commanders of the ports of La Guaira and Puerto Cabello reminding them
to prohibit the entry of any French ship that comes “even with the intention of selling
slaves.”242
Evidently, the restrictions on the slave trade would affect the agricultural
development and economic growth of the Spanish Provinces, and white Spanish and
creoles planters in different Provinces were well aware of the negative economic
242 “Circular reservada del Capitán General de Venezuela a los Gobernadores sobre introducción de embarcaciones francesas,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, VI, 29.
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consequences of these restrictions.243 Therefore, in June 1792, the King issued a Royal
Decree in which he explained that the restrictions on the slave trade had been
examined by the Ministers of the Spanish State Council, and they had decided to
eliminate them, and permit the “controlled” entry of French ships in that came to
Spanish Ports with the exclusive purpose of selling “bozales,” that is, Africans newly
enslaved who could not put in jeopardy the Spanish territories with the spreading of
“French ideas.”244 Different Governors and Commanders of Venezuela followed these
Orders strictly. In April 1792, for example, the Commander of Puerto Cabello
requested a French merchant, Mr. Leglese, who originally went to the port with the
purpose of selling slaves but who had stayed for more than two months, to leave the
Province together with all the slaves he could not sell.245 In October 1792, the
Commander of the militia in Cumaná, Don Antonio de Sucre, communicated that he
243 See, for example, the cases of Cuba and Trinidad, where white planters were not completely convinced of the convience of interrupting the slave trade, proposing other ways of controlling the black population. See Consuelo Naranjo, “La amenaza haitiana, un miedo interesado: poder y fomento de la población blanca en Cuba,” and Ada Ferrer, “Cuba en la sombra de Haití,” both in González-Ripoll and others, eds., El rumor de Haití en Cuba; and Sevilla Soler, “Las repercusiones de la Revolución Francesa en el Caribe español.” 244 Traditionally, “bozales” often made the bulk of rebel forces in slave insurrection, but the Colonial authorities at this point are not necessarily controlling “the force”, but “the ideas” that stir mobilization. They tried to control the entry of slaves coming front the French Antilles, and for this reason they preferred the importation of slaves directly from Africa. 245 “Sobre temporada extendida de comerciante francés de negros,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVII, 53.
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was not allowing the entrance of French ships with loads of “creole slaves” into his
ports and that he had rejected some of them.246
However, still in November 1792, the King issued another “Real Orden” in
which he expressed his concern for the limited number of slaves that had been sold in
his territories during the recent months. He commented that: “In almost three months
only three thousand three hundred and seven slaves have been introduced, this reduced
number doubtless account for the bad situation of agriculture.”247 So, he ordered
planters and “hacendados” to meet and think of more efficient ways to promote the
slave trade in the province. While it is unclear if Caracas’ slave population increased
after the Saint-Domingue rebellions, we do know for certain that the King of Spain
and local officials were willing to promote the slave trade from Africa, avoiding, in
theory, the trading of slaves proceeding from the French islands.248
During the entire eighteenth century, the fleeing of slaves from the Antilles to
Venezuela was a common and a frequent occurrence. Thanks to “Reales Cedulas” that
protected them, slaves coming from different foreign islands in the Caribbean
achieved their freedom and settled in the province.249 Nevertheless, in May 1790 the
246 “Comunicación del Comandante Sucre al Capitán General de Venezuela sobre llegada de navíos franceses” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVIII, 68. 247 AGN, Reales Ordenes, XI, 306. 248 Both historians Mckinley and Lombardi assert that the slave trade seemed to decrease during these years, but comment that there is no clear documented evidence of this situation. See Lombardi, People and Places, and McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia. 249 Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento, and Ramón Aizpurua, “Coro y Curazao en el siglo XVIII,” Tierra Firme, no. 14 (1986): 229-40; Ramón Aizpurua “En busca de la
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Captain General of Venezuela, Juan Guillelmi, received a Royal Order from Spain
forbidding the entry of foreign slaves to the Province250. In July 1790, the Captain
General issued an order to the other Governors, which stated:
It has been observed that creole slaves or slaves educated in foreign colonies are harmful for these Provinces, where there is no opportunity for providing occupation for the fugitives, reason why the King has decided to suspend the application of the Royal Decree that conferred them freedom, in consequence no purchased black or fugitive slave from foreign colonies will be allowed to enter the Province.251
Although, the Governor and Captain General issued this order restricting the
application of previous “Reales Cedulas” that declared freedom for fugitive slaves, the
clandestine introduction of fugitive blacks coming from the Islands was inevitable and
continued in the subsequent years. 252 According to Ramón Aizpurua, during the
eighteenth century in the Province of Venezuela there were three different regions
through which the entry of foreign slaves was possible: in the south, where slaves
libertad: los esclavos fugados de Curazao a Coro en el siglo XVIII,” in II Encuentro para la promoción y difusión del patrimonio de los Países Andinos (Bogotá: Fundación Bigott, 2002), 69-102. See also “Real Cédula de Su Majestad sobre declarar por libres a los negros que viniesen de los ingleses u holandeses a los reinos de España buscando el agua del bautismo. Buen Retiro, 24 de septiembre de 1750,” AGN, Caracas, Reales Cédulas, X, 332. 250 “Real Orden reservada del 21 de mayo de 1790,” AGI, Caracas, 115. 251 “Real Orden sobre Introducción de negros extranjeros, julio 1790,” AGI, Caracas, 115. This order interrupted a previous Royal Decree of 1750 that granted freedom to slaves coming from foreign Colonies, who agreed to convert into Christianity. See “Real Cédula de Su Majestad sobre declarar por libres a los negros que viniesen de los ingleses u holandeses a los reinos de España buscando el agua del bautismo. Buen Retiro, 24 de septiembre de 1750,” AGN, Caracas, Reales Cédulas, X, 332. 252 The Governor contends: “Por ahora cese el uso de la libertad de los esclavos que se refugían en nuestras colonias,… y que se suspenda entre tanto el cumplimiento de las Cédulas declaratorias de la libertad, que conforme al Derecho de Gentes se han expedido en diferentes ocasiones a casos particulares a favor de los esclavos que se han refugiado en nuestro Dominio de América,” quoted in Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento, 600; also see AGI, Caracas, 115.
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from the Dutch Essequibo entered the Spanish province of Guayana; in the western
region where slaves from English and French colonies, like Grenada and Trinidad,
entered the region of Cumaná; and in the eastern area of the Province where a
migratory movement of slaves from Curaçao to the Coast of Caracas, and particularly
to the area of Coro, was intense and permanent.253
The suspension of the Royal Decree that granted freedom to foreign slaves in
the Spanish territories gave hope to some planters of the nearby islands who visited to
Caracas to demand their slaves back. In 1791, for example, a white master from
Curaçao, Pedro Bernardo Wanstanckemberg, visited Caracas claiming that seven
slaves had escaped from his plantation in Curaçao and were living freely in the region
of Coro. He demanded their immediate return by the official authorities. Interestingly,
Wanstanckemberg also demanded the retroactive application of the order, asking the
Governor to return “all the slaves that had escaped from his and other people’s land in
Curaçao from the year 1751.” Governor Guillelmi responded that, although he was
able to order the return of the seven slaves, it was truly impossible to return the rest of
them because “it would be very difficult to reduce to slavery again the great number of
free blacks who live in the towns of the Jurisdiction of Coro.”254 This would awake in
them a desire for rebellion that the authorities feared. The colonial authorities
253 Ramón Aizpurua, “Esclavitud, navegación y fugas de esclavos en el Curazao del siglo XVIII” (paper presented at XI Encuentro- Debate América Latina Ayer y Hoy, Barcelona, Noviembre de 2007); see also Aizpurua, “En busca de la libertad.” 254 “El Gobernador de Caracas informa sobre la situación con esclavos luangos viviendo en la Provincia de Coro,” AGI, Estado 58, 2-1.
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collaborated with the returning of these seven slaves, and became more vigilant on the
introduction of slaves coming from Curaçao to the Coast of Caracas.
They not only feared that slaves from Curaçao could spread information about
the revolutionary events of the French islands, they were also concerned because
among those slaves there could be some coming directly from Saint-Domingue. In a
communication of the Captain General to the Governors of the Province, he comments
that it is known that some families of Saint-Domingue have escaped to the island of
Curaçao, and that they had brought their own slaves who spread news about the black
insurrection among the population.255
In these circumstances, local authorities in Venezuela began to supervise and
put some restrictions on the entry of maritime maroons from Curaçao. In January
1796, for example, eight slaves escaped from Curaçao to the coast of Coro, but this
time local officials captured them. The Governor of the island wrote to the Captain
General asking him for support for the returning of these slaves to their owner, Don
Casper Luis van Uijtrecht, who would pay for their relocation. Finally, the Governor
of Curaçao added that in the case that Venezuelan slaves escaped to his Island, he
would collaborate with the Venezuelan planters.256
255 “Borrador a los Gobernadores sobre las circunstancias de las Islas Francesas y la llegada de familias a la Isla de Curazao, 20 de diciembre de 1791,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVI, 308 and 311. 256 “Comunicación del Gobernador de Curazao suplicando apoyo y asistencia para retornar a Curazao unos negros esclavos de Casper Luis Van Nytrech,” AGN, LVIII, 43.
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Several other communications issued by white planters from 1794 to 1797
reveal the presence of former slaves from the Antilles living in black communities of
Coro and Barlovento.257 Unfortunately, it has been difficult to find documentation and
evidence regarding the kind of stories and rumors that these fugitives slaves from the
Antilles brought; but we certainly know that in the eyes of the political and social
elites, the presence of slaves from Saint-Domingue, Santo Domingo, Martinique,
Grenada, Trinidad, and Curaçao and the circulation of their stories could have
provoked some of the most feared black rebellions of the region.258
An interesting case reveals the kind of information and knowledge that these
foreign slaves brought with them. During the evening of July 25th 1797, a mulatto boy
who was walking over a bridge in the Port of La Guaira was suddenly taken prisoner
by the local authorities. They demanded that the little boy – held as a slave by a white
creole from Curaçao, Francisco Diego Hernández - repeat the French songs he had
been singing on the bridge. He sang various songs in French to the authorities.
According to the document “all the songs contained the same chorus: Long live
Republic, Long Live Liberty, Long live Equality.”259 The little boy, named Josef,
257 Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento. 258 Like the black rebellion of Coro and different movements free black people, slaves and maroons in Barlovento, and the Valleys of Curiepe, Capaya and Caucagua. See Castillo Lara, Apuntes para la historia colonial de Barlovento. See also the next chapter of this dissertation “Menacing Discourses: Representations of Saint-Domingue in the Black Rebellion of Coro, 1795.” 259 “Sobre extrañar de estas Provinicias a los negros extranjeros que no sean de Guinea, y providencia observada contra de Don Francisco Diego Hernández por su inobservancia,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXI, 1-4.
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commented that he had learned the songs and that his master frequently sent him to
other houses in the port to sing them to friends and family members, and that he even
visited the Mail Administrator of the Port who also heard him sing. Little Josef also
added that two other slaves of Hernández, Marcos and Domingo - who like himself
were natives of Curaçao -, also knew many songs and used also to sing them to others.
The authorities decided to transcribe some lyrics of the songs, and although it
was not easy to establish the precise content of all the verses and chorus, it seems clear
that the boy was singing French revolutionary songs.260 These songs contained verses
like: “The Republican ‘sans-culotte’ is a friend of Liberty,” “Long live the French
Republic, French liberty and Equality.” “Let’s go, French citizen and form your
troops, march with our cannon,” and “Come and die for your homeland France.”261
The authorities agreed that the little mulatto did not sing “with evil intentions,” but
they considered that the act of “singing this kind of verses in the streets” was
extremely dangerous and could have terrible effects on the population. They decided
to keep the little boy with them until they were able to find his master and proceed
with further inquiries.
260 We have to bear in mind that this is a transcription of a song sang in French by a small boy to Spanish-speaking authorities. There are illegible verses, probably because the kid boy not pronounced them correctly, or because the authorities were not sure about the correct spelling. In the text there are also incomplete verses and words. 261 “Sobre extrañar de estas Provinicias a los negros extranjeros que no sean de Guinea, y providencia observada contra de Don Francisco Diego Hernández...” The literal transcription of some of the verses: “Sansculote republicain amie de la Liberté/ Vive la République Français, la liberté et Egalité Française,” “Aller sitoyen français formé vos bataillon/ A vos cannon marché (…) marché,” “Comba mourir pour sa Patri France.”
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The Captain General of Venezuela, Don Pedro Carbonell, became particularly
concerned about the spreading of French revolutionary songs in the Province and
ordered the immediate exile of the three slaves. He also commanded that Don
Francisco Hernández, who normally made trips between Curaçao and La Guaira, pay a
fine of one thousand pesos for, in the first place, disobeying the laws and bringing
foreign slaves to the Spanish Port and, in the second place, for ordering the slaves to
sing “dangerous” songs on the streets of the Port and even in private houses. The
Captain General ordered the officials of La Guaira to visit the houses were Josef said
he sang, and demanded Hernández to pay a fifty pesos fine for every house where the
songs were heard.262
The Captain General also considered it important to remind the people of
Caracas and La Guaira that “reading and circulating texts containing ideas offensive to
Religion and to the Government” was strictly forbidden. He ordered local authorities
to fix “Posters in every public space visited by people” with the order that everyone
possessing books and printed materials containing Revolutionary ideas must give them
up to the local authorities; refusal to do so would result in a 50 pesos fine for every
prohibited book discovered in their possession. Finally, Carbonell encouraged
Governors, Commanders and officials to maintain a vigilance over the kind of songs
or verses that went against “the good manners, and proper respect for the Legitimate
262 “Acuerdo del Gobernador de Caracas sobre esclavos de Curazao en el Puerto de La Guaira, 27 de julio de 1797,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXI, 6.
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Authorities (the clergy, the fathers of family, the masters, the Magistrates and the
King).” The punishment and fines to be applied will depended on the quality (calidad)
of the transgressors.263
Three days later, little Josef along with his mother María, and the two other
slaves, Marcos and Domingo, were put on board on a ship going to Curaçao. The
Captain of the ship received orders to return the slaves to their master who while
presumably on the Island, would have to pay a significant fine on his return to La
Guaira. This episode shows the kind of media and messages that slaves and colored
people divulged, but surprisingly also shows that there could have been some masters
that used slaves as vehicles to spread “revolutionary” ideas among the population, and
in the case of Josef it was, indeed, an innocent vehicle.
The existence of maritime maroons from Trinidad in the Province of
Venezuela, specifically the region of Cumaná, also generated preoccupation among
local authorities. As we mentioned before, several families from Saint-Domingue fled
to the island of Trinidad where they settled with their slaves. The Governor in Cumaná
was particularly concerned that those maroons might share rumors and stories with
locals. Since 1798, several letters of the Governor of Trinidad – now under the rule of
the British – had requested support from the Captain General in capturing and
263 Ibid.
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returning fugitive slaves belonging to Trinitarian planters.264 Like the Governor of
Curaçao, the recently appointed Governor of Trinidad, Lieutenant Picton, requested
reciprocity in the matter of the returning of maritime maroons. He said: “I expect you
to be reasonable on this matter, on the contrary you will force me, against my will, to
take reprisals that could have disastrous consequences for which your excellence will
be exclusively responsible.”265
In February 1800, the Captain General responded that he and the Governor of
Cumaná were well disposed to collaborate with the returning of the slaves. But in
relation to Picton’s offer and with cynical humor, the Captain General asked for a
complete list of all the slaves that had been returned from Trinidad to the mainland
under the supervision of Picton. Then, he added: “I would appreciate if you could
oblige your subjects to respect the people and the properties of the mainland.”266
The Captain General had heard that French and British bandits assaulted the
ships of locals and then found refuge in Trinidad. It is evident that on top of the
problem of maritime maroonage between Venezuela and Trinidad, there were other
264 “Original y copia traducida de Carta del Gobernador Pictton para el Gobernador y Capitán General de Venezuela sobre varios negros esclavos que se han fugado a la tierra firme, diciembre de 1799,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXXII, 124. 265 Ibid. 266 “Reservada al Gobernador de Trinidad sobre retorno de esclavos prófugos de Trinidad, y de los que de Venezuela pudiesen haber escapado a Trinidad,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXXIII, 284.
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problems related to economic and commercial power, and political control of the
region, such as smuggling, which generated problems for local authorities.
There were also exceptional cases in which slaves from Cumaná moved to
more distant regions: in February 1800, two local hacendados in Cumaná, Don
Antonio Sotillo and Doña Rosa Alcalá, demanded that the Governor of Curaçao to
help them locate and return eighteen slaves who, persuaded by two Dutch men, had
escaped in a British boat to the Island of Curaçao.267 These cases allow us to
appreciate that local slaves also traveled to the islands of the Caribbean where they
could have heard rumors of revolution, black insurrection and freedom; once back in
Venezuela, these slaves also became oral sources of transmission of political
knowledge among the people of color.
At the end of the eighteenth century, some families of Spanish Santo Domingo
also migrated to different ports located in the Capitanía General de Venezuela.
Following the laws of hospitality for inhabitants of Spanish territories, local
authorities received them and made arrangements to settle them in the Province or
relocate them in other regions. However the authorities were especially concerned
about the introduction of their slaves into the Province. In 1796, for example, the
Capitan General sent a confidential letter to the Commander of La Guaira ordering
him to control the entry of slaves coming with families proceeding from Spanish
Santo Domingo. Literally, he argued that:
267 “Para el Gobernador de Curaçao sobre 18 negros fugados de Cumaná por seducción de dos holandeses, febrero 1800,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXXIII, 106.
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Amongst the slaves that arrive or are sent by the immigrants from Santo Domingo there may be some who are French or raised and educated in the French colonies. [Therefore] your Lordship shall, with the utmost care and discretion, proceed to investigate and examine, and in the case that you find any of the mentioned types you will detained them and inform me immediately268 Three days later, the Commander of La Guaira responded that he had not yet
identified any French slave among the people from Santo Domingo. Additionally, he
mentioned that he had visited Juan de Andueza, a town shopkeeper, and asked him if
he had been in Santo Domingo or had slaves proceeding from there. Andueza
answered that he had never been in Santo Domingo and that his two slaves had been
bought in the Province, one in Caracas and the other one in La Guaira. The
Commander also request Andueza to give him any news regarding the presence of
foreign slaves in his shop or in the town.269 The bodeguero (shopkeeper) seemed like
the right person to ask about the presence of foreign slaves, since his job allowed him
to have daily contact with foreigners coming to and leaving the Port. Why was the
Captain General of Venezuela so concerned about the introduction of these slaves in
the Province? Apparently, the presence of hundreds of officials, prisoners and slaves
from Saint-Domingue in the port of La Guaira some years earlier had created an
extremely difficult situation that the Captain General wanted to avoid by all possible
means.
268 “Carta del Gobernador de Caracas al Comandante Interior de La Guaira,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 256. 269 “Reservada entre el Comandante Interior de La Guaira y el Gobernador de Caracas,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 268.
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4. The Impact of French Caribbean Militiamen and Colored Prisoners in the Coast
of Caracas (1793-1796)
Between1793 and 1795, more that 1,000 French militiamen, prisoners and
slaves from Santo Domingo, Martinique and Guadeloupe arrived and stayed in
different port-towns of the Province of Venezuela. All of them brought stories and
rumors of republicanism, black insurrection, the abolition of slavery and equality that
rapidly spread among the local population. People in Venezuela responded differently
to the news and information. Some responding to a profound “francophobia,” rejected
them and firmly opposed the influences and rumors coming from the turbulent
Caribbean. They also felt threatened by the possibility that this information could
incite people of the lower orders to rebel and follow the model of the French. Others,
on the contrary, opened spaces for discussion and debate regarding the recently arrived
ideas, news, and written materials, and adapting them the local context, and even
planning political actions aiming to produce transformations. The rumors that arrived
were diverse and ambiguous, and the reactions they produced among their receivers
and reproducers were likewise different and contrasting. As a classic psychological
work suggests, rumors “sometimes provide a broader interpretation of various
puzzling features of the environment, and so play a prominent part in the intellectual
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drive to render the surrounding world intelligible.”270 Rumors represent a complex
web of information and representations about certain events; some contents and ideas
of this web could become more significant and relevant than others. It is precisely the
reflection of people’s perceptions, fears and desires in this web what makes some
rumors more powerful than others. While some rumors can pass unnoticed, others
could alter the prevailing order, stir mobilization and even become a clamor.271
In January 1793, a squadron of four ships with an important number of
Frenchmen proceeding from Martinique arrived to Port of Spain in Trinidad. The
Commander of the squadron, M. Riviere presented himself to José María Chacón,
Governor of Trinidad, and asked to be received with his men in the Spanish territories.
He also offered his services to the Spanish King to combat the French revolutionaries
who he said represented a great menace in the Caribbean.272 According to historians
Angel Sanz and Alejandro Gómez, a total of 145 militiamen - 52 officials, 34 sub-
officials, and 59 marines - arrived in Trinidad. While Riviere waited for a response
270 Gordon W. Allport and Leo Postman, The Psychology of Rumor (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 1947), 38, quoted in Wim Klooster, “Le décret d’emancipation imaginaire. Monarchisme et esclavage en Amérique du Nord et dans la Caraibe au temps des Révolutions,” Annales Historiques de la Révolution Française (forthcoming, 2011). 271 O’Phelan, “La construcción del miedo.” 272 In fact, Riviere was originally part of a royalist squadron that had been sent from France to Martinique in 1790, but when the Colonial Assembly repudiated their loyalty to the Metropole and it was impossible to control the many upheavals and confrontations that developed in the French islands of Sotavento, royalists, like M. Riviere, lost all support from the colonists of Martinique. As the situation become critical, he and his men believed that a better way to oppose the revolutionaries and be loyal to the Bourbon family was moving to Spanish territories and offering their services to the Spanish King. See Ángel Sanz Tapia, “Refugiados de la Revolución Francesa en Venezuela (1793-1795),” Revista de Indias XLVII, no. 181 (1987): 833-67; and Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento.
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from the Spanish King regarding his petition, he traveled again to Guadeloupe and
Martinique with the intention of investigating the political situation in the French
islands and to persuade its inhabitants to support Spanish rule.273 In May 1793, he
received news from the Governor of Trinidad that, with war declared between Spain
and France, the King had offered his Royal protection to his squadron and militiamen,
requesting that he proceeded to the mainland, specifically port of Puerto Cabello in
Venezuela.274 M. Riviere returned to Trinidad with two thousand five hundred more
colonists who had left Martinique; “among them, there were soldiers from the garrison
regiment of Martinique and neighboring islands, and also a group of marine officials
who had been at the service of the royal family.”275
In August 1793, Riviere and another French royalist, Joaquin Fressinaux, who
was named Commander of immigrant officials, arrived at Puerto Cabello, where they
contacted Don Gabriel Aristizabal, Admiral of the Spanish Squadron. Aristizabal
notified them that the French marine officials would be incorporated into his
Squadron. The rest of the infantry – 122 officials - were to remain in Puerto Cabello at
273 “Correspondencia entre el Gobernador de Trinidad y el Capitán General de Venezuela, sobre lo ocurrido con los buques del Mando de M. Rivere, acompaña copia traducida de carta de Rivere,” AGI, Caracas, 153, no. 37. 274 “Capitán General de Venezuela acusa recibo de la Real Orden que aprueba la Buena acogida que dió el Gobernador de Trinidad al Brigadier de Francia M. de Riviere, julio de 1793,” AGI, Caracas, 94, no. 174. 275 Sanz Tapia, “Refugiados de la Revolución Francesa,” 839. See also “Comunicación de Don Vicente Emparan al Capitán General Carbonell en la cual da parte de los realistas que se han refugiado en Trinidad, 1793,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLVI, 308.
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the disposition of the Governor and Captain General of Venezuela.276 After some
months living in Puerto Cabello, Fressinaux complained to the Captain General about
the inactivity of his militiamen and the difficult living conditions they were
experiencing in the port. Apparently, the town of Puerto Cabello did not offer
favorable climatic conditions, it was too hot and humid, and the military barracks were
“unhealthy, because there were surrounded by marshlands and swamps,” the number
of ill men increased and they even complained about the high prices they had to pay
for drinking water. The inactivity of these officials was another aspect that concerned
Fressinaux who even suggested they return to France.277
The Captain General suggested that Fressinaux and his men come to Caracas
where he could decide about their responsibilities and provide them with better living
conditions. The majority of them moved to La Guaira and, then, to Caracas.278 But
there was another problem that made the stay of these militiamen in the Province
unbearable: the discourtesy of the inhabitants of the Province. Apparently, people in
the towns and ports of the Province did not accept the presence of these French
royalists and snubbed them. Fressinaux, for example, commented that he was treated
in a contemptuous way in La Guaira where “the word French is a pretext for refusing
276 “Carta del Gobernador de Pedro Carbonell a M. Riviere, julio 1793,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XLV, 307 and 348. 277 “Representación de Joaquín de Fressineaux, teniente coronel del regimiento del mariscal de Turena al Gobernador, septiembre de 1793,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, X, 45. Also quoted in Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, 116 and 119. 278 Sanz Tapia, “Refugiados de la Revolución Francesa,” 841.
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us entry to a place to eat and drink.” Disappointed, he commented: “I have done
nothing to deserve this kind of misfortune in a friendly country; I see myself forced to
seek from Your Lordship, the protection the King of Spain has granted us, and to
plead you to order this intolerable humiliation to cease.”279
The truth is that during these years the counterrevolutionary discourse
promoted by the State and the Church had created a strong negative image of the
French in some social groups of the Province of Venezuela, where “French” was
synonym to “republican,” “anti-monarchical,” “atheistic,” and “evil.” In addition to
confronting social rejection for being “foreigners,” French royalist militiamen also had
to face unfavorable characterizations of their origin and to the difficult circumstances
they endured in France and the Caribbean islands; in some places they were not even
allowed to enter the Church. In a letter addressed to the King, the Captain General of
Venezuela had to explain the reasons for this general rejection on the part of local
neighbors; he stated that although he could not corroborate the accusations of disorder,
excesses and anti-religiosity that had been directed at these Frenchmen, “some lack of
modesty and freedom and moral laxity, and [also] little respect for our religious
ceremonies have been observed.”280
279 “Oficio de Joaquín de Fressineaux para el Capitán General, octubre 1793,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, X, 114, quoted in Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, 122. 280 “Oficio del Capitán General para el Exmo. Sr. Conde del Campo de Alange, diciembre 1793,”AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, X, 328-330, quoted in Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, 123. In his work, Gómez remarks that one official committed suicide in Puerto Cabello, and this event had a great impact on the neighbors of the town and reinforced their perceptions of the French as irreligious people.
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Likewise, it was believed that the presence of the French royalists created a
tense and prejudicial situation because some of them were ambiguous and often
maintained open political and religious discussions that evidenced disagreement and
therefore propagated seditious ideas amongst the population. In December 1793, an
extraordinary meeting was held by the Captain General of Venezuela, the
Quartermaster General, different members of the Audiencia, and the Church to discuss
the presence and influence of the royalist militiamen of Martinique in Venezuela,
among other things. There were rumors that these officials evidenced an irregular
conduct regarding politics and religion, and that their example could be scandalous,
provoking dangerous consequences for the tranquility and security of the Province.
The report asserted: “Of the 122 militia men, only 8 are Catholics. In addition, there is
no confirmation of their preferred political system or regarding their attitudes towards
the current Revolution in France, and there are indications that some of them are anti-
royalists.”281 Finally, the members of the Junta agreed on the importance of sending
these officials to Europe.
However, there were remarkable disagreements between the Junta and Admiral
Aristizabal, who believed that these men could be useful in Santo Domingo to fight
against the revolutionary French. After several meetings, the Junta decided to send the
officials to Santo Domingo, but there were also some difficulties regarding their
281 “Reservada de la Junta de Guerra convocada por el Gobernador para tratar los recelos que a la tranquilidad de aquellas Provincias ocasionan los oficiales emigrados de la Ysla de Martinica, diciembre 1793,” AGI, Caracas, 505, no. 13.
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transportation: some believed that Aristazabal’s Spanish Squadron should be
responsible, but the Admiral suggested using commercial ships. In the meantime,
Carbonell believed that the presence of these officials in Caracas was harmful and
ordered them to move back to La Guaira and, then, to Puerto Cabello while they
waited for their definitive exit from the Province.282 They waited some more months;
and after facing many additional difficulties, they departed in different ships during
the summer 1795, and the last official finally left the Province of Venezuela in
November 1795.
During their stay in Venezuela, these royalists officials seemed to have had
better relations with high ranking officials, such as the Governor of Trinidad and the
Captain General, than with the population at large. In general, people showed mistrust
of these officials, whose intentions and political positions were never clear. The
Captain General asserted:
Since these 119 officers and immigrant French sergeants arrived to the city, I noted by regularly observing them, and also by information that I received from different trustworthy persons, their lack of moderation and modesty with respect to religious, moral and political matters, and after I proceeded to reprimand them verbally with little result, I seriously reprimanded Mr. Fressinaux, but even this was not enough, the evil continued and grew, the scandal increased, and I noticed that the immigrants had differences amongst themselves, and offered declarations capable of gravely questioning the true system, as well as the reasons for their immigration283
282 Sanz Tapia, “Refugiados de la Revolución Francesa,” 845. 283 “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 3.
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The truth is that this was a heterogeneous group made up of Colonial
regiments (Guadeloupe and Martinique) and other regiments proceeding from the
French Metropolis (Forez, Aunis, Bassigny and Turena). They maintained contrasting
positions that did not go unnoticed by Venezuelans. In fact, in different informes,
members of the Junta stated that they were not sure that these officials should go to
Santo Domingo because some of them did not show clear royalist inclinations.284
However, there was another element that did not favor the perception of these
militiamen. As I will show next, by the time of their stay in the Province, more that
seven hundred prisoners and slaves from Santo Domingo had been located in the Port
of La Guaira and were causing strong reactions among the white population who
feared the ideological contagion of the colored population.
In August 1793, the Governor of Santo Domingo, Don Joaquín García, sent
five hundred and thirty eight French prisoners to the port of La Guaira in Venezuela.
They were located in the dungeons of the Port and, according to the terms of their
capitulation, the officials received four reales daily, while sergeants and soldiers
received one real and a half for their expenses. The presence of this important number
of Frenchmen from Saint-Domingue was considered disruptive and extremely
dangerous for the harmony and tranquility of the Province. Thus on November 2nd
1793, an extraordinary Junta was held by the Captain General of Venezuela, the
284 Even the Captain General, when suggesting the final destination of Santo Domingo to Fressinaux, added that “if some of your militiamen want to go back to Trinidad or to another island, I could consider their case and give them a passport,” quoted in Gómez, Fidelidad bajo el viento, 130.
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Quartermaster General, some members of the Audiencia, and members of the Church
to discuss the problem posed by the presence of these men and the potential solutions.
Members of the Junta shared the same perception that white elites and different
authorities of the Ports had of the French prisoners and slaves coming from Saint-
Domingue as “people infused with pernicious maxims and doctrines, who desperately
seek to extend their ideas among local slaves, free blacks, and mulattos.”285 Members
of the Junta stated that neighbors from La Guaira and Caracas were preoccupied
because, since the arrival of these prisoners to the Port, local slaves and free coloreds
were misbehaving and being disobedient and had an unacceptable arrogance towards
their masters and employers.286
The informe, produced in this first meeting of the Junta, compiles a number of
interesting complaints about the attitude of free blacks and slaves. For example, a
person who was in a bakery of La Guaira saw and heard two slave bakers “were
conversing while kneading the bread, and – confident that no one was hearing – saying
that within a year they would be as free as those in Guarico.”287 Another witness
denounced that he heard one slave saying to another that “this was the right moment to
285 “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 3. 286 Ibid. 287 “Que dos negros esclavos en la Guayra ocupados de amasar pan, se animaban al trabajo, diciendose en confianza de no ser oydos: que dentro de un ano serian tan libres como los del Guarico,” in “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4.
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shake the slave system and the authority of the Spanish, in the same way the blacks of
Guarico had shaken the authority of the French.”288 These denouncements were clear
evidence that Saint-Domingue rebellions were being taken as examples by the slaves
and coloreds of La Guaira, but more importantly that the elites perceived the menace
that these discourses represented. Saint-Domingue had become a very present reality
evoked not only by foreigners, but also by local slaves who used it as a reference for
freedom and equality.
Likewise, there were others denouncements in the informe that did not
necessarily refer directly to the Revolution as an event, but showed how the
ideological and political tenets of the Revolution were applicable to the local context.
A Spanish official, for example, commented that he heard a black French official
saying to a slave that “no man should be the slave of another.”289 In the same way, a
lady in La Guaira complained that, after offering a domestic job to a free mulatta, the
mulatta commented airily that “there was no inequality between the two of them
except for their color, as for the rest they were equals.”290
288 “Esta es buena ocacion para sacudir la esclavitud y yugo de los españoles, como han sacudido el de los Franceses los Negros del Guarico,” in “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4. 289 “Que un esclavo no debia serlo ni hombre alguno de otro,” Ibid. 290 “Respondió descaradamente que no habia entre las dos desigualdad que la del color pues en lo demas eran iguales,” Ibid.
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In the Informe, all three, groups of prisoners, the slaves, and the French
officials, were described as “irreligious” and out of order in their moral and political
behavior. The officials were accused of not respecting religious ceremonies, turning
their back to the sacred ornaments, and using their time in the Church to look at the
ladies up and down, causing distractions and generally being a bad example. Many of
them were accused of being anti-religious and not attending Church in Sundays. For
their part, the prisoners from Saint-Domingue in La Guaira “break all the limits of
good behavior, they blaspheme against the most sacred, insulting our government and
lauding the fact that they are free men.”291
This informe also contends that the ideas regarding the liberty of slaves and
equality among all the population are spreading irremediably and surpassing the
“frontiers” of the port of La Guaira, where the majority of the French prisoners
remained. The informe comments:
In the Valleys of Aragua, and particularly in the city of Valencia, many slaves and people of color have been contaminated with dark expressions related with the imagined equality and liberty that these prisioners wanted to preach.292 Finally, the informe comments that during the last three years, specifically
from 1790 to 1793, there had been increasing evidence of disobedience and arrogance 291 “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4. 292 In the informe, the authorities mentioned that even women in la Guaira freely talk about freedom and equality. The city of Valencia was located 60 miles away from Caracas and La Guaira, and only ten miles from Puerto Cabello. It was surrounded by haciendas in the Valleys of Aragua. “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4.
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on the part of the black slaves of the Province. This recent misbehavior of the colored
was perceived as evidence that the news regarding the events of the French colonies
had a real impact on blacks and the mixed races: the presence of this crowd of people
from Saint-Domingue has brought “to life their [slaves’ and free blacks’] desires for
equality and freedom.”293 Therefore, they had to implement urgent strategies to control
the influence of these prisoners, and more important, to expel them from the Province.
The members of the Junta asserted that the fort of La Guaira, where the
prisoners and some officials were being held, did not fulfill the conditions necessary to
prevent the spreading of the “dangerous voices” of the prisoners that had been heard
beyond the walls of the dungeons. They believed that it was too difficult to send them
to Europe, so they decided to send them to La Havana, whose Governor could receive
them and try to sell them to the local hacendados or use them for public service.
Finally, the informe suggests that:
These prisoners and many others may remain in the Castle of La Cabana or in other [forts] that defend the city and the island of La Havana, for the time that Your Majesty desires, comfortable enough and with absolutely no communication with the population; from there, not even if they yell will their pernicious way of thinking be heard, nor will they be able to escape, nor will their influence be feared as it is in this province and mainland. If we delay this decision for too long, it will increase the chances of their escaping and hiding and favor the circulation and influence of their perverse determinations.294
293 Ibid. 294 Ibid. According to the informe, La Havana offered two important advantages that La Guaira and Caracas did not posses: in first place, there was this idea that the Province of Venezuela was a vast mainland where the prisoners could easily escape, and hide from the authorities, spreading the ideas of liberty and equality everywhere, while the island of Cuba seemed to have a more “controllable” geography. On the other hand, seemed that Cuban hacendados were more open and interested in buying these slaves at advantageous prices, than Venezuelan hacendados. In any case, it would be
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While the authorities discussed what to do with the 538 prisoners that had
arrived in August, another load of prisoners and slaves from Saint-Domingue was
received in the Coast of Caracas on November 3, 1793. This time there were 431 men
– 188 French prisoners of war, 220 slaves for sale, and 14 regular black prisoners -.295
The French prisoners were supposed to join their countrymen in the dungeons, while
the slaves were to be offered for sale to the landowners and planters of the Province.
In the meantime, local Authorities believed that the situation was getting out of their
control and that they needed to take a rapid decision to expel these unwanted and
“dangerous” people from the Province because their presence was significant. There
were a total of 969 people from Saint-Domingue located in the Port town of La
Guaira, this number represented more than 10 percent of the total population of the
town of La Guaira that, by that time, amounted close to 7500 inhabitants.
In the beginning, local authorities thought that this would be a temporary
situation and that the slaves, for example, could be rapidly sold for a good price
among the local hacendados, or could be sent to other cities and ports of Spanish
America. However, neither of these two solutions came as easily, nor as soon as they
had expected, and problems began to arise. The first problem they confronted was
extremely interesting to fully explore the reasons why these slaves and prisoners were more easily accepted in some regions of Spanish America than in others. See “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4. 295 Idem.
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that, whatever the price, local planters did not want to buy slaves educated in the
French Antilles, or, even worse, blacks who had seen and experienced the “atrocities
that blacks committed against whites in the rebellions of French Sto. Domingue.”
These slaves were brought to La Guaira with the condition that they could be sold to
the local hacendados and that the money from their sale will would go directly to the
Real Hacienda of the Province. Nevertheless the hacendados rejected the offer: “there
is no possibility that these slaves would be bought by the hacendados and neighbors of
this country, because no one will bring the stimulus of insubordination, lack of
religion, and the corruption of good habits into his home.”296
As we mentioned before, slaves were seen as agents of contamination of
revolution and insubordination in a Province that was, supposedly, known for its “a
tranquility and sincere obedience.”297 At the end of November 1793, the Real
Audiencia met again in an extraordinary session to discuss the situation regarding the
slaves and prisoners that had been recently introduced into the Province. The informe
contends that the slaves and prisoners were uneducated and disobedient, challenging
local authorities and aiming at disturbing the order of the town. In addition, the
informe contends that the fortifications and dungeons in La Guaira were too small to
contain all these people, and that it had been impossible for Spanish officials to control
296 Ibid. 297 Ibid.
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“the bad example and the dangerous doctrines of these desperate and uncontrolled
men.”298
After several months trying to control the interactions and influence of these
prisoners and slaves from Saint-Domingue in the port of La Guaira, the colonial
authorities managed to expel the greater part of them by the end of 1795. Several
communications with other Governors of the Spanish islands, and between the local
authorities, allows us to perceive their desperation to get them out of the Province. In
first place, the Captain General and the Quartermaster General tried to find the most
convenient ways of sending them elsewhere. They sent several communications to the
Governor of Santo Domingo, the Governor of Cuba and the Governor of Puerto Rico.
It was fairly clear that the more than seven hundred prisoners of war would be sent to
La Habana, where there was more space to hold them in the dungeons and
fortifications and where there was less danger of a contamination of the rest of the
Spanish territories.
The fate of the two hundred and twenty slaves from Santo Domingo was less
clear. At the beginning, the Venezuelan authorities believed that they could send the
slaves to Puerto Rico, since they had heard that St. Dominguans slaves would be
easily sold there, but the Quartermaster of this Island replied that this was not possible
298 “Informe de la Junta extraordinaria convocada por el Gobernador de la Provincia para tratar problema de los prisioneros de Santo Domingo, 30 de noviembre de 1793,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 4; see also “Reservada del Intendente del Ejército Don Esteban Fernández de León, donde da cuenta de haber concurrido la Junta Extraordinaria convocada por el Gobierno para tratar sobre los recelos que a la tranquilidad pública de aquellas provincias ocasionan los oficiales franceses,” AGI, Caracas, 505.
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because these slaves would be sold at very low prices and they would cause damage to
the public order. As a consequence, the island could not receive any more.299 In
December 1794, the King of Spain issued the Order in which he states that “as it is not
possible to send the slaves to Puerto Rico, nor to other foreign islands, your Lordship
should send them to the Island of Cuba where if they are not bought by private
individuals, they could be employed in Public Service.”300
Getting rid of the “unwanted immigrants” proved to be a very difficult task,
and the authorities of the Province also had to find the ways to prevent upheavals and
social movements that could have been inspired by the presence of these prisoners and
slaves from Saint-Domingue. In January 1795, for example, Don Antonio López
Quintana, the interim Quartermaster of Caracas, sent a letter to Spain in which he
mentions some measures taken to contain possible uprisings. He argued that after a
year and a half of “contamination,” they had become aware that “dangerous doctrines”
had influenced the colored population, “especially the pardo, whose uncontainable
need to emulate the whites, and the characteristic haughtiness continue to increase
apace.”301 For this reason, the colonial authorities in Caracas had decided to confine to
299 “Reserveda del Intendente de la Isla de Puerto Rico al Intendente de Reales Ejércitos de Caracas, mayo de 1794” and “Real Orden sobre traslado de esclavos franceses, diciembre de 1794,” AGI, Caracas, 506, no. 1; and 514, no. 1 and no.2. 300 “Real Orden sobre traslado de esclavos franceses, diciembre de 1794,” AGI, Caracas, 596, no.1. 301 “Representación del Intendente de Caracas, Don Antonio López de Quintana al Exmo. Señor Don Diego de Gardorqui, sobre medidas necesarias para que no se propaguen las doctrinas francesas por parte de los prisioneros y esclavos franceses que se hallan en La Guaira, febrero de 1795,” AGI, Caracas, 472 and 514.
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the barracks two and a half of the companies of whites in order to prepare and alert
them about possible uprisings, and guarantee the security of the Province. They also
decided to establish “neighborhood mayors” (Alcaldes de barrio) whose responsibility
was to control any news or circulation of rumors among the population as well as to
do rounds to watch out for any suspicious meetings and movements. He believed that
the close supervision of the Magistrates should be enough to control the spread of any
“perverse plan.” However, he alerted: “We cannot count on a true security until all
these prisoners and immigrants get out of the Province.”302
During the years 1794 and 1795, different ships carrying large numbers of
French slaves and prisoners departed from the port of La Guaira in direction to Puerto
Cabello, and with La Havana as their final destination. In April 1795, 220 imprisoned
slaves and four “free French men” left the Port of La Guaira for Batabanó (Cuba). Of
those 220 slaves, 160 were men and 60 were women and children.303 Among them,
four white French officials were sent to La Havana and later shipped to Europe. Every
time one of these ships left, the Spanish officials experienced a feeling of relief for
various reasons. In the first place, they recognized the economic burden that these
prisoners represented to the government budget that had to provide them with
maintenance expenses; in the second place, they thought that with them, the 302 “Representación del Intendente de Caracas, Don Antonio López de Quintana al Exmo. Señor Don Diego de Gardorqui, sobre medidas necesarias para que no se propaguen las doctrinas francesas por parte de los prisioneros y esclavos franceses que se hallan en La Guaira, febrero de 1795,” AGI, Caracas, 472 and 514. 303 “Lista de los esclavos franceses prisioneros que se embarcan para Puerto Cabello con destino final Cuba,” AGI, Caracas, 506, no. 16.
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“dangerous ideas of liberty and equality” were being expelled from the territory.
However, those prisoners and slaves had left “the seed of disobedience and
haughtiness” among the local pardos, free blacks and slaves who did not only know
about Saint-Domingue and its brave colored rebels, but who also understood that they
could stir mobilization.
The ideas that someday they would be free and equal to the whites remained in
the minds of the slaves and free blacks of the Province for various years. On July
1797, for example, a black slave named Luis and a white man named Don Josef
Bustamante who lived in La Guaira had a violent fight. The white man strongly
accused the black man for saying that “whites and blacks were all equal.”304
Apparently, the black slave, Luis, and another worker, went to the Don Josef
Bustamante’s warehouse in order to weigh some cacao. Don Josef did not want to
attend them at that moment because he was busy. Apparently, the slave replied that
they must do it, to which Don Josef replied that a slave could not rule in his house, and
that they were not “equals,” furious the slave took his steelyard balance, and left
saying out loud: “My master, we are all whites.”
The majority of those who witnessed the fight, commented that those were the
exact words Luis used: “My master, we are all whites,” but Luis himself stated that
what he said was: “We are all white because no one black enters the Court of God.” In
his confession, the slave tried to ascribe a religious connotation to his phrase, stating
304 AGI, Caracas, 430.
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that he believed that in order to enter into the court of God, all men must be white or
“equals.” However, all the witnesses believed Luis was shared the “revolutionary”
maxims of freedom and equality that were circulating among population of color of La
Guaira, and Luis was finally condemned to two years of shackles and hard labor at the
public service.305 Apparently, the echo of the Saint-Domingue rebels’ voices was not
only resounding in elites’ and official’s heads, but also among free blacks and slaves
who, like the boy Josef, sang revolutionary songs and uttered phrases of equality and
social justice, like Luis.
The authorities not only had to confront and control the presence of the
numerous slaves and prisoners coming from Saint-Domingue to the Province, there
were other kinds of “colored visitors” who represented a real menace to order and to
the subordination of the colored population. In 1797, the Governor of Caracas
encouraged his officials to look for and arrest some “educated” French blacks and
mulattos who were living in the city of Caracas. He had heard that a person referred as
“the black Ballegard,” and described as “a protagonist of the first movements of the
colony of Guarico and later in Martinique,” and another mulatto from the militias in
Trinidad, named Constant, together with two other subalterns, met local free mulattos
and “infused them with maxims opposed to our system of Government,” spreading
305 “Expediente a Luis Alejandro Espinosa por mostrar públicamente expresiones subversivas relativas a la igualdad,” AGI, Caracas, 430. Adriana Hernández also studies this case in “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España. Una mirada desde el expediente judicial,” in Gual y España, la independencia frustrada, eds. Juan Carlos Rey, Rogelio Pérez Perdomo, Ramón Aizpurua and Adriana Hernández (Caracas: Fundación Polar, 2007), 345-428.
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their “dangerous” ideas among the simple people (gentes sencillas) who could be
easily convinced to follow them. 306 The Governor ordered their arrest and expulsion
from the Province.
For the elites and the colonial authorities, there was nothing more dangerous
than an “educated” mulatto or black spreading ideas among the population; in their
opinion, these individuals spread the seed of disobedience and rebellion amongst the
blacks and mulattos, who were avid to get to know about these ideas and to promote
their freedom and equality. Slaves and free colored were always ready to listen to
these “dangerous” people, with whom they shared both their color and their status, and
who represented a model to follow and a reference for the possibility of changing their
destiny.
All these cases show, as Ramón Aizpurua suggests, the emergence in different
towns of the Province of Venezuela of socially diverse spaces where revolutionary
ideas from the Atlantic were welcome and adapted into the local context.307 Especially
in port towns, such as La Guaira, Puerto Cabello and Cumaná, and in nearby
communities it is possible to perceive a “revolutionary environment.” In the case of La
Guaira, the presence of almost one thousand immigrants from Saint-Domingue could
306 “Se dice ser uno de ellos el Negro Bellegard actor en los primeros moviemientos de la colonia Guarico, y despues en la Martinica, otro el mulato llamado Constant que sirvio en las milicias de Trinidad,”“todos ellos verosimilmente imbuidos de opiniones y maximas opuestas á nuestro sistema de gobierno, y por tanto peligrosos en la seduccion que podran adelantar de ora en ora sobre las gentes sencillas, senaladamente sonre los esclavos, y los negros, y mulatos libres,” in “Reservada del Presidente y Gobernador cumpliendo orden de vigilar introduccion de papeles y libros, y extranjeros que pudiesen esparcir ideas sediciosas. junio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 434. 307 Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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not pass unnoticed and had, in fact, an evident repercussions in every-day
conversations, songs and fights.
The Colonial authorities and the white elites introduced different measures in
order to limit the expansion of the “revolutionary disease” and the “example of Saint-
Domingue,” but the cases presented in this chapter, also allow us to perceive that
slaves and free colored were indeed following the events of Saint-Domingue: they not
only knew about what was happening on the island, about the struggles and the
bravery of the blacks and mulattos of Saint-Domingue; more importantly, coloreds of
the Province of Venezuela knew about the significance of equality and freedom, and
increasingly began to use these terms in their local contexts. The knowledge that elites
and subalterns shared about the Revolutionary event of the islands was, in my opinion,
a circumstance that connected these groups: the elites feared the discourses and social
violence of Saint-Domingue, and slaves and colored people recognized white fear and
used the representations of Saint-Domingue to manipulate white fear, express their
anger and make their demands. The common spaces of communication they shared
should lead us to look at the processes of negotiation, transaction, imposition and
contestation in which these social groups engaged in their struggle for power. The
need for implanting night patrols, neighborhood mayors and prophylactic white
militias clearly indicates how the fragile bonds of trust between different social groups
were easily broken by the revolutionary rumors and threaten.
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The turmoil of the Caribbean islands and the struggle of the people of color
functioned as a mirror in which slaves and free blacks could see themselves fighting
and demanding freedom and equality. Evocations and representations of the
“revolutionized Caribbean” recreated a certain feeling of identification of local slaves
and free people of color with the slaves and free blacks of the Islands. Despite the
regional and “cultural” differences that separated them, they shared a common
situation of oppression in a hierarchical racial order, and a common need to overcome
and fight against the slavery system and the unequal social order. In the next chapters,
I will examine how these representations of the Caribbean movements had
repercussions in two of the most important insurrectional and subversive movements
in Venezuela at the end of the eighteenth century.
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CHAPTER IV
The Menace:
Representations of Saint-Domingue in the Black Rebellion of Coro, 1795
During the last decades of the eighteenth century, different black and slave
rebellions revealed the vulnerability and unstable character of the economic system
and of the social order established in colonial Venezuela. Like other South American
societies under the dominion of the Spanish monarchy, Venezuelan society was built
upon a heterogenous economic system in which the hybrid nature of the labor force
(which involved slaves, but also free blacks and Indians) complicated its functioning
and its social relations, and encouraged conflicts and upheavals.308
In the year 1795, hundreds of slaves and free blacks, together with some
Indians rebelled in the Serranía of Coro, an area in the northeastern region of
Venezuela mainly devoted to the production of sugar. Traditional Venezuelan
historiography understands the insurrection of Coro as a “black” (free and enslaved)
308 McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia; Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” Brito Figueroa, El problema tierra y esclavos. Many free blacks and indians worked as employed personel in the haciendas (jornaleros), others rented plots of land to the hacendados were they produced crops such as cotton, indigo, and tobacco. These small-scale producers are known as arrendatarios. So in colonial Venezuela there was heteroguenous work relations, a hybrid system of slavery, free workers and arrendatarios. For a complete and concise study of this relations se José María Aizpúrua, Relaciones de trabajo en la sociedad colonial venezolana. (Caracas: Centro Nacional de la Historia, 2009)
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rebellion that sought to transform the social and political situation. The rebellion not
only aimed to abolish commercial and transport taxes (alcabala) and to reduce Indian
taxes (tributo), but it also sought the freedom of the slaves and the creation of a
“Republic” while applying what rebels themselves denominated the “Law of the
French.”309 In order to attain their goals, colored people - slaves and free - who
participated in the rebellion revealed their hatred for white people by sacking and
burning their houses, beating and killing white males, setting fields on fire, assaulting
travelers, and congregated on the outskirts of the city of Coro with the purpose of
directly expressing their demands and political intentions to the local government.
1. The Historiography of the Rebellion of Coro
Since the 1940s, when the first academic work on the rebellion of Coro was
published,310 this rebellion has mesmerized and intrigued scholars of Venezuelan
slavery, anti-colonial insurgency, and Afro-Venezuelan culture. It is a rebellion that
has come down through Venezuelan popular memory steeped in bloodshed,
persecution, and uncertainty, making it one of the most studied episodes of slave
resistance in contemporary Venezuela. However, the reasons this rebellion was largely
ignored for more than a century - between 1810 and 1940 - are still no less intriguing.
309 “Ley de los Franceses.” 310 Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros.
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This is probably due to the fact that the late-nineteenth-century political elite – firmly
entrenched in its colonial discourse – inherited an unconfessed fear of racial war and
social confrontation. It is possible that the same ideological and political forces that
silenced and camouflaged the Haitian revolution in the western hemisphere, depicting
it as “not a commendable model of emancipation,”311 also silenced the rebellion of
Coro, later described and transformed by twentieth-century patriotic and nationalist
discourses into “one of the first movements for the independence of Venezuela.”312
Since its “rediscovery” in the mid-twentieth century, the rebellion of Coro has
been an expressive symbol for diverse political and social movements in Venezuela. It
served as a kind of canvas on which different social groups depicted their demands
and illustrate their frustrations and political ideals. Many of the contemporary
inhabitants of the sierra de Coro, for example, indicate that they first learned about the
rebellion of Coro in the 1950s when political scientist and high school teacher Dr.
311 Fischer, Modernity Disavowed, 4. See Trouillot, Silencing the Past. For a critical view of Trouillot’s powerful argument about the silence around the Haitian Revolution see Ada Ferrer, “Talk about Haiti. The archive and the Atlantic’s Haitian Revolution,” in Tree of Liberty, 21-3; and Fischer, Modernity Disavowed, 1-38. 312 Contemporary elementary and high school history texts in Venezuela describe the rebellion of Coro, along with the Gual and España conspiracy of 1799 and Francisco de Miranda’s conspiracy in 1806, as a Venezuelan pre-independentist movement. This overarching category ignores the rebellion’s meanings and particularities, as well as the motivations and demands of its participants. For a rich discussion on how slave rebellions before and after the Haitian are concealed by totalizing colonialist and post-colonialist discourses, see Palmié, Wizards and Scientists, 79-158. Focusing on studies on Aponte’s rebellion, Palmié follows subaltern studies group critiques to the tendency of both colonialist and post-colonialist historiographies “to elude the question of subaltern consciousness by assimilating its presumed content to a totalizing discursive opposition defined by historical narratives that merely reverse each other’s terms (so that the dastardly deeds of one genre merely mutate into glorious feats, and vice versa),” Ibid, 85.
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Mario Briceño Perozo visited the communities of the sierra in order to collect oral
narratives and identify the places where the events of the rebellion took place. Briceño
also found support for building the first commemorative plaza to José Leonardo
Chirino in Curimagua in 1954. Since then, the representations of the rebellion have
focused on the figure of this leader, on his strength, his persecution, and his brutal
execution.313
Yet, since the 1970s, ex-members of demobilized guerrilla fronts and other local
intellectuals of the sierra drew cultural and historical associations between their actions
and the rebellion of Coro. More than eight cultural organizations of afro-descendants
have emerged in the northern sierra of Coro since then. In particular, the Asociación
Cultural José Leonardo Chirino and the Asociación Rescate de Tradiciones José
Leonardo Chirino, both located in the Valley of Curimagua, have engaged in the
production of historical texts, songs, plays, performances, festivals, and historical
sketches related to the rebellion of Coro. The main historical project of these
organizations is to revive and disseminate the memory of the “zambo” José Leonardo
Chirino, leader of the rebellion. More interestingly, these organizations challenge
traditional and positivist historians who have depicted the movement as merely a local
313 This personification contrasts with representations of colonial authorities, and with studies of positivist, Marxian, and revisionist historians, who have depicted the movement as a collective movement of slaves, free blacks, and Indians. See Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros; Acosta Saignes, Vida de los esclavos negros; Brito Figueroa, Las insurrecciones de los esclavos negros en la sociedad colonial; Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” Pedro Gil Rivas, Luis Dovale and Luzmila Bello, La insurrección de los negros de la sierra coriana; 10 de mayo de 1795 (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1996); and Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados,” 7-112.
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political revolt prompted by imported ideologies from the French and Haitian
Revolutions. Instead, they argue that the rebellion was a movement seeking social justice
and reacting against the colonial system, with its high taxation and the abuses of Spanish
tax collectors (alcabaleros). To support their argument, members of these organizations
gathered evidence from different sources such as colonial documents, official
historiographies, poems, songs, and myths.314
Numerous historiographical works that reconstruct and analyze the
insurrection of Coro, suggest that, in their discourses, the rebels directly evoked the
influence of the Haitian Revolution and asserted the necessity of organizing a similar
314 Representations of the rebellion of Coro in contemporary Venezuela is the central topic that anthropologist Krisna Ruette develops, exploring how rage and abuse and other pervasive emotional tropes such as pain, persecution, fear and betrayal emerge in José Leonardo’s contemporary historical representations. According to Ruette “The dramatic death of José Leonardo and his dismembered body infuses most of the oral and written contemporary representations of the rebellion. The image of the public display of his dismembered body is key for articulating emotional memories of rage and pain. Moreover José Leonardo’s body is also spacialized in the historical landscape of the sierra.” Moreover, she refers to a historical organization that has emerged in Coro, that reconstructed and developed a historical route which shows the specific places where José Leonardo was captured and betrayed, where the main battles took place, where the rebels blood was poured, and where José Leonardo’s hands were exhibited. One of the members of these organizations told Ruette during the days before the national presidential referendum in 2004 that “When José Leonardo was killed, they took his head off, they fried it and placed it in the Guaira [sic], his hands were later placed to the west as an example. When you hear these things, you say we have to die fighting (hay que morir peleando), if we are going to surrender and they are going to kill us anyway…they shall kill us while fighting…” Another leader emphasized “ … we, the falconians have an ancestral and moral burden of fighting. The jirajaras resisted for more than 90 years, as well as the Caule (Indians) of Cabure and José Leonardo. He explained that this is why today the serranos keep fighting and supporting the process [of the Bolivarian revolution]” These voices show how José Leonardo’s representations have been become in the construction of political frames of mobilization and in local narratives of indigenous and black processes of resistance today. See Krisna Ruette and Cristina Soriano, “Memories and Historical Representations of the Black Insurrection of Coro, Venezuela” (paper presented at the annual meeting for the American Anthropological Association, Washington, D.C., November 30 – December 4, 2005).
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one in the local context.315 Traditional Venezuelan historians such as Arcaya and Brito
Figueroa considered that the circulation of “French” revolutionary ideas in the
Province, as well as the visits made by some of the rebellion’s leaders to Saint-
Domingue, were among the principal motivations for the insurrection.316 Arcaya, for
example, contends that “rumors about the upheaval of the blacks of Haiti were
circulating, and José Leonardo, who had met [colored people from Saint-Domingue]
years before and knew that they were no better than he was, convinced himself that he
could lead a revolution.”317 While describing the first events of the rebellion, Brito
Figueroa says: “The rebels proclaimed the ‘Law of the French,’ the Republic, the
freedom of slaves and the exoneration from taxes”. He further contends: “Jose
Leonardo remained in the ‘sierra’ applying the ‘Law of the French’ – or better said,
the law of Toussaint Louverture’s and Dessalines’ black Jacobins – and recruiting
soldiers for his troops.”318
315 British and North American authors would include Lynch, The Spanish American Revolutions; Genovese, From Rebellion to Revolution; and Herman L. Bennett, “Slave Insurgents and the Political Impact of Free Blacks in a Revolutionary Age: The Revolt of 1795 in Coro” (paper presented at the Interdisciplinary Seminar of Atlantic Studies, University of Pennsylvania, March 24, 2009). 316 See Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros; Brito Figueroa, Las insurrecciones de los esclavos negros en la sociedad colonial, and El problema tierra y esclavos; Lynch, The Spanish American Revolutions. These authors contend that both, José Leonardo Chirino and José de la Caridad González (whose participation in the rebellion is still unclear) traveled to Saint-Domingue and through other colonies of the Antilles. 317 Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros, 36. 318 Brito Figueroa, Las insurrecciones de los esclavos negros en la sociedad colonial, 69-71. In this sentence, Brito Figueroa evidences the influence of C.L.R. James’s The Black Jacobins, Toussaint L'Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution (New York: Vintage Books, 1989) in his work. Brito Figueroa historiography follows a traditional Marxist approach, and even if some of
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More recent historical works suggest that the rebellion of Coro has been
misinterpreted and that its main goal has been concealed by the official discourse,
positivist perspectives and politically interested views. Historian Ramón Aizpurua
proves that rebel demands aimed more at solving socio economic challenges – through
exoneration from taxes, for example - rather than imposing a new political ideological
regime, such as a Republic or the “Law of the French.” 319 Through his analysis,
Aizpurua suggests that the French or the Haitian revolutionary models were not
explicitly and directly evoked by the rebel discourse, but rather by a perturbed and
apprehensive elite.
Historians Aizpurua, Gil, Bello and Dovale, Laviña, along with some of the
current cultural afro-descendant organizations in Coro bring significant quieries into
the debate regarding the motivations of the rebellion of the free-colored and slaves of
Coro. In their critique they recognize the elites’ discursive influence on historical
accounts that describe the rebellion as a movement mainly motivated by outside
influences, reacting to a hemispheric ideological force, rather than to circumstances
created by the local colonial and slave systems.320 Yet they also reject simplistic and
his claims and perspectives need to be revised in light of more recent research, his works remain an important reference for any historian of colonial Venezuela. 319 Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro.” 320 Traditional and official histories reproduce elite perceptions of subaltern rebellions as movements that needed to be motivated from the outside, with the leaders and members of these movements as people incapable of having sufficient political consciousness or agency, or wisdom, or instruments to organize themselves. See Guha’s Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency. Here, Guha criticizes Indian radical and colonial historians who overlook the specificity of rebel consciousness when viewing
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exaggerated patriotic discourses that enthusiastically depict the rebellion as a proto-
republican movement imbued with liberal values. These revisionist historians, with
their different agendas and motivations, force us to look at the unexplored dimensions
of the rebellion, such as subaltern consciousness and actions embedded in the colonial
dynamics of power. 321
Historic events such as rebellions are generally mediated by discourses that
represent and give them new and different – sometimes contradictory- meanings. The
rebellion of Coro was represented through a multilayered and fragmented set of ideas
and images expressed by different social and political groups. In this chapter, I attempt
to disentangle this intricate set of social representations in order to uncovering the
possible motivations that led slaves and free colored people to rebel and to express
their anger violently against the local system. Despite the methodological limitations
of attempting to study the thoughts and desires of historical actors who could not leave
all rebels as replicating one another in their commitment to the cause, or by acting “spontaneously.” Scholars of Latin American history have long challenged notions of prepolitical conciousness among peasant, slaves and working classes. Numerous historians of slave insurgencies in Latin America and the Caribbean have dealt with the notion of subaltern political consciousness, including C.L.R. James, Carolyn Fick, and Emilia Viotta da Costa. See James, The Black Jacobins; Fick, The Making of Haiti; and Viotti da Costa, Crowns of Glory, Tears of Blood. Characterizing a rebellion as a response solely to local junctures would imply the recognition of that the colonial system itself had problems. It had always seemed more appropriate for the authorities and elites to depict social movements as an illogical reaction from “ignorant” and genuine people. See, for example, Matt D. Childs, “‘A Black French General Arrived to Conquer The Island’, Images of the Haitian Revolution in Cuba’s 1812 Aponte Rebellion,” in The impact of The Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic, 135-56. 321 Ramón Aizpurua, Gil, Dovale and Bello, and Laviña conduct academic historical research, Coro’s cultural organizations and societies aims to enrich and support the collective memories of the people of la Serranía, but, as we mentioned before in note 9, they pursue their own political and ideological agendas.
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their own records, it is still possible to reconstruct some of the motivations that slaves
and colored free people expressed through actions and declamations that were rapidly
silenced by repression or by omission. I read the rebellion of Coro as a privileged
window through which power dynamics and social structures -represented in terms of
categories of race, honor, and class – can better be understood.322
I argue that the socio- economic demands made by the black rebels were
rapidly transformed into a radical political proposition by the fearful elites. Rebels in
Coro did not seek to restore an African order nor to establish a Black republic, their
demands responded to economic and administrative pressures, and were accompanied
by other social demands, like the abolition of slavery, but the language they used
allowed the elites to exaggerate the blacks’ violent actions - seeking to connect them
with the rebels of Saint-Domingue –, and to justify repression. In the voices of the
rebels Saint-Domingue seemed more a menace than a reality, and Saint-Domingue
was a “language” they chose to use in order to be heard.
In this chapter, I also analyze the possible threads that connected Saint-
Domingue social movements with the slave insurrection of Coro in Venezuela. It is
well known that the frequency of slave revolts and conspiracies in the Americas
reached a peak in the 1790s, the most significant ones occurring during the twenty
322 I share Palmié’s frustration when trying to “reconstruct a history that never was and whose creator was killed in the act of its enunciation.” See Palmié, Wizards and Scientists, 93.
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years that followed Saint-Domingue uprising in 1791.323 Most historians of slavery in
the Americas would agree with David Brion Davis’ conviction that the Haitian
Revolution “marked a turning point in the history of New World slavery.”324
Nevertheless, most of them differ on the nature and character of the connections
established between the Saint-Domingue movements and slave rebellions elsewhere,
as well as on the implications and uses of the Haitian events in every city, town, or
community of the American hemisphere. While Eugene Genovese argues that the
Haitian revolution produced a decisive change in the motivations and political
determinations of slave revolts, from being “restorationist” movements based on
traditional African forms of social organization and cultural practices to rebellions
inspired by modern discourses and the values of equality and freedom. David Geggus
suggests that abolitionism, not the Republican ideologies of the French and Caribbean
revolutions, most frequently became the impulse of these rebellions, and that the
fundamental role of the Haitian Revolution has been exaggerated.325
Nevertheless following once again Fischer and Ferrer’s suggestions that we
should used a more nuanced notion of “influence,” throughout this chapter I will
323 Curaçao’s slave rebellion in 1795, Maracaibo and Cartagena’s conspiracies in 1799, Deslondes’ slave rebellion in Louisana in 1811, Aponte’s conspiracy in Cuba in 1812, Barbados slave revolt in 1816, Denmark Vesey slave conspiracy in Charleston in 1822; to mention some of the most studied. See Geggus, ed., The Impact of The Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World. 324 See Davis, “Impact of the French and Haitian Revolutions,” 3-9. 325 Genovese, From Rebellion to Revolution; David Patrick Geggus, “The French and Haitian Revolutions and Resistance to Slavery in the Americas: An Overview,” Revue Française d’Histoire d’Outre-Mer 76, (1989): 107-24, and Haitian Revolutionary Studies.
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address the repercussions that Saint-Domingue rebellions, as a common “knowledge”
and discourse, had among the slaves, free blacks, and masters of the Serranía of Coro.
326 I have found that for black rebels, Saint- Domingue was an instrument for
menacing, while for elites it was a fearful reference to what they wanted to prevent at
all costs. In this sense, Saint- Domingue functioned as a language of contention. I
understand “language of contention” as William Roseberry defined it:
a common material and meaningful framework..., in part, discursive: a common language or way of talking about social relationships that sets out the central terms around which and in terms of which contestation and struggle can occur.327 I have found that in Venezuela, the Saint-Domingue rebellion had varied
repercussions. For the official authorities and elites of Caracas, the proximity of the
revolutionary events prompted the planning of new mechanisms of control in order to
prevent the diffusion of “seditious” ideas among the Province’s free blacks and slaves.
Governors of different regions tried to impede the diffusion of the information coming
from the French Caribbean that could jeopardize the harmony of their communities,
controlling the introduction of knowledge through: texts and people, written and oral
channels, respectively. The Saint-Domingue rebellion was also an example that
produced fear among elites who started to question their relationship with their slaves
and free black workers. As Cordova Bello contends, after all the Haitian revolution not
326 Fischer, Modernity Disavowed; and Ferrer, “Talk about Haiti,” and “Cuba en la sombra de Haití: noticias, sociedad y esclavitud.” 327 See Roseberry “Hegemony and the Language of Contention,” 361.
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only signified emancipation and republicanism, but it also implied absolute freedom
for slaves, equality between whites and colored people, and the possibility that the
latter could assume political roles.328
At the same time, Saint-Domingue became an inspiration for free blacks and
slaves of the region, and a powerful discursive reference that they used to express their
anger against the regime. Looking at the rebellion of Coro allows us to understand
these representations and uses of Saint-Domingue by the elites and by subaltern
groups. In a sense, the Haitian Revolution became “knowledge” that circulated
through the Atlantic world, being used by different social groups for different
purposes, especially to represent an understanding of “others” and themselves.329
The most important compilation of documents to emerge from the rebellion of
Coro, attracting the attention of earlier and contemporary historians, is the record
produced by the Royal Court of Caracas from 1795 to 1797. The record, entitled
Expediente la Real Audiencia de Caracas and from now on denominated
“Expediente,”330 is composed of several reports issued by colonial authorities and
328 Córdova Bello, La independencia de Haití y su influencia en Hispanoamérica. 329 For an interesting and comprehensive approach to the dissemination of rumors and information about the Haitian Revolution in colonial America see Scott, The Common Wind. 330 “Testimonio del Expediente formado sobre la sublevación de los negros sambos, mulatos esclavos y libres de la jurisdicción de Coro,” AGI, Caracas, 426. The expediente was published as Documentos de la insurrección de José Leonardo Chirinos (Caracas: Ediciones “Fundación Historia y Comunicación”, 1994).
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officials of the Province of Coro to the Captain General of Venezuela,331 letters from
inhabitants of Coro to Justicia Mayor of Coro and the Captain General in Caracas,
reports from the Captain General of Venezuela to the Spanish Monarch and his
Ministers, and also letters written by the Justicia Mayor to his subalterns. The record
also contains population censuses, and geographical descriptions of Coro.
Unfortunately, when the members of the Audience decided to initiate the trials, a large
number of the rebels had already been convicted and executed by the Coro authorities
and therefore we have very few testimonies from suspected rebels.332 There is more
interesting testimony from free blacks and slaves, men and women, who, although
they did not participate directly in the rebellion, witnessed the events and articulated
the motivations, plans and concerns of their rebellious husbands, parents, compadres,
co-workers and friends.
In light of a categorization developed by Aizpurua, it is possible to recognize
three distinctive kinds of sources in the documentation on the Coro insurrection. The
first is testimony of people who actively participated, witnessed, or suffered the effects
of the rebellion, these people include blacks slaves, free colored, pardos and Indians,
rebels and non-rebels, landowners and their wives, sisters, brothers, sons, and
daughters; and the officials who directly confronted the insurrection. The second kind
331 In 1777, the General Captaincy of Venezuela was created, and the Province of Coro belonged to the Province of Caracas, over which the Captaincy exercised its authority. 332 This is clear evidence of how rebels’ voices were abruptly and indiscriminately silenced by the royal authorities of Coro.
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of evidence was produced by people from Coro and its surroundings who “heard” and
reproduced information and rumors about the rebellion, but were not directly involved
in it, such as colonial officials, priests, and vecinos of the nearby regions. And lastly,
the third kind of sources contain testimonies and documents issued by the Official
Authorities – Real Audiencia, Governors, and Captain General- to the Spanish King
and authorities with the purpose of giving detailed information about the
insurrectionary events.333 This chapter will show how apparently overlapping and,
even, contradictory stories and testimonies become clearer and more coherent as the
motivations and role of the “producers of stories” and actors are analyzed and
understood. I have found that the use of Saint-Domingue as a language of contention
changes depending on who is using it and the purpose of the reference.
2. La Serranía de Coro in 1795
The black insurrection of Coro took place in a geographic region known as the
Serranía de Coro, a hilly area located to the south of the city of Coro.334 In 1770, the
area was described by a foreign traveler as a mountainous region with plenty of rivers
and unique for its “pleasant and healthy” climate: “These soils are apt for cultivating 333 Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 713-14. 334 The city of Coro is located in a region currently known as the “Estado Falcón,” a state located in the northeast of Venezuela. In the eighteenth century the whole region was called “Provincia de Coro,” with the city of Coro as its capital. It fell under the jurisdiction of the Government of Caracas, and later, in 1777, of the General Captaincy of Venezuela.
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appetizing and tasty fruits. The soil is good for everything, except for cocoa. There are
some “haciendas de trapiches” (small sugar plantations) in the region, including: San
Joaquín, San Diego, Santa Lucía, El Carmen, Macanillas and Curigmagua.”335 Other
areas of the province, such as the surroundings of the city of Coro and the northern
haciendas, were known for a relatively reduced production of diverse agricultural
crops (rice, yucca, corn, coffee, plantains and variety of roots), cattle breeding
(especially goats), and the commercialization of leather. At the beginning of the
colonization in sixteenth century, the lands of Coro were used for raising cattle. By the
end of the seventeenth century, agricultural crops were introduced and by the
eighteenth century, the Serranía de Coro was considered the most productive
agricultural area of the Province of Coro for its production of sugar cane for the
manufacture of Panelas and sugar derivates. Therefore, there seemed to be a clear
geographical and agricultural distinction between the Serranía de Coro and the rest of
the Coro regions.
During the entire eighteenth century, the Province of Coro also became an
important center for the raising of herds of cattle, goats, and mules, and for the
production of milk, cheese, and leather, which were distributed to other regions of the
province, including Caracas and its coastal area. Coro was a fundamental area for the
335 Ángel de Altolaguirre y Duvale, Relaciones geográficas de Venezuela, 1767-1768 (Caracas: Presidencia de la República, 1954), 191, quoted in Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 711. Ángel de Altolaguirre compiled a description made by Pedro Felipe de Llamas in 1768 when he was Teniente de Justicia Mayor de Coro. Ramón Aizpurua, e-mail message to author, October, 2009.
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economic exchange of local products between the hinterland and the coast. It
possessed a number of tracks and paths that allowed good transportation and
distribution of diverse products, such as corn, cotton, sugar cane, salt, cattle, and
leather products, to the western inland regions of Venezuela. It is also known that the
province of Coro played a significant role in the smuggling networks between the
mainland and the Caribbean islands, especially with Curaçao. According to Lovera
Reyes, the advantageous location of the “Serranía de Coro” allowed the circulation of
Caribbean products to the mainland and viceversa. Cattle and mules from the distant
plains of Guanare and San Carlos found paths to the Caribbean islands, such as Saint-
Domingue, Jamaica, Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire, where they were sold by Dutch
pirates to supply the sugar plantations.336 However, Aizpurua thinks that the Serranía
was not the most appropriate route, instead he believes that the transit through the
Sierra must have been too expensive, and that other paths on the foothills of the Sierra
must have been used to transport products from the coast to the mainland cities and
viceversa.337
In 1795, Don Manuel Carrera issued a report to the Governor of Caracas
informing him about the insurrectionary events of Coro. In the introduction to his
report, he stated that the Valley of Curimagua - located in the Serranía - was a fertile
336 Elina Lovena Reyes, “Coro y su espacio geohistórico en la época colonial,” Tierra Firme, no. 14 (1986): 221-27. 337 Ramón Aizpurua, e-mail message to author, October, 2009.
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and rich valley with desirable crops, and inhabited by some landowners, their slaves,
free colored workers (creoles and luangos) and some indigenous communities.338
Indeed, during the eighteenth century, the region was composed of approximately
twenty-three small towns. According to Arcaya, of all the haciendas of Coro, only two
were of outstanding importance: the Hacienda de la Caridad and the Hacienda de la
Concepción de los Güeques. The rest were small and medium size haciendas where
sugar derivatives were produced.339
In the “Expediente,” there is also a detailed account of the population of the
Coro region in 1795-1796. This census only takes into consideration the population
living in the twenty-three small towns that presumably composed the region; however,
there were some isolated “haciendas” and conucos (small plots of land where people
cultivated for domestic consumption) not necessarily attached to those small towns. In
any event, the census allows us to have a general idea about the social composition of
the region. In the jurisdiction of Coro, there was a population of approximately 26,309
individuals; almost 43 percent of these were free-colored people, while approximately
13 percent were enslaved. This means that 56 percent of the population was colored
and African-descendant.340
338 “Informe detallado de Don Manuel Carrera al Capitán General de Caracas, 26 de septiembre de 1796,” in Documentos de la insurrección,160 339 Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros, 20. 340 Free blacks included mulattos and zambos who worked as artisans in the urban areas or as peasants in the local haciendas.
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From the time of the colonization of the region of Coro, there also existed
encomiendas of indigenous groups, such as the Jirajaras and the Ajaguas. Originally,
these encomiendas belonged to important Spanish families who commanded tribute
and labor from the indigenous groups, however by the eighteenth century most of
these encomiendas had disappeared, the Indian population worked as free jornaleros
and lived in Indian communities (Pueblos de Indios). The census shows that
approximately 29 percent of the population was “Indian” (27 percent exentos and 2
percent tributarios).341
Finally, almost 14 percent of the population was white. Among these whites,
there were poor families (blancos de orilla) that ran small businesses and stores or
worked as artisans. About twelve rich white families (representing less than 1 % of the
total population) monopolized the economy of the region of Coro, also controlling the
Cabildo and the most important public offices of the city. These families possessed
lands in the Serranía, and thanks to the advantageous economic development of this
region during the eighteenth century, they enriched themselves in a notorious fashion,
expanding their haciendas and their enterprises. However, these families also
competed among themselves in order to control the economy and the commerce of the
region. Historians of Coro recognize two family groups who entered into conflict
during the eighteenth century: the Zárraga-Zabala families, on one side, and the
Tellerías, Chirinos, and Arcayas, on the other. The first of these arrived in Coro as
341 “Testimonio del expediente formado sobre la sublevación de los negros, sambos, mulatos esclavos y libres de la jurisdicción de Coro, 1796,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 158-59.
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agents of the well known Compañía Guizpucoana of Caracas, and their control over
the commercial operations of Coro allowed them to achieve a privileged position in
the city, assuming responsibilities even in the public administration of Coro. However,
important families of Coro, such as the Tellería, Chirino, and Arcaya opposed the
monopolistic nature of the company and frequently engaged in conflicts to oppose the
interests of the Zárraga-Zabalas. One of the most recognized notorious conflicts to
emerge between the Zárragas and other white families, was related with the
occupation and use of uncultivated lands in the Serranía of Coro by Luango
communities.342 The Zárraga claimed the lands of Macuquita, yet the Luangos,
represented by their leader José Caridad González and supported by the families
Tellería and Chirino, obtained a Royal Decree that declared the land to be realengo
(land that belonged to the King, who could decide the use of it and the people who
could live in there) and allowed them to continue cultivating and living on it.343
The social scenario mentioned above allows us to imagine the hybrid nature of
labor in the region. The haciendas of the Sierra were originally cultivated by Indians
and black slaves, but as the eighteenth century developed, an increasing number of
free blacks participated in the field labor. By the year of the insurrection, free coloreds 342 Luango was the name given to ex-slaves coming from Curaçao, who settled down in communities in the region of Coro. 343 José Caridad Gonzalez, an African black who lived first in Curaçao and later fled to Coro, spoke different languages and helped other Curaçao slaves to move to Coro. He become the militia leader of the luango community which lived in Macuquita when, after traveling to Spain, he returned with a Royal Decree that authorized luangos to continue using the lands. See Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros, 22; and Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados,” 108.
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doubled the number of slaves.344 This situation poses interesting questions regarding
social relations between slaves and free colored people: who were those free blacks?
Why were they free? Where did they come from? Were they manumitted, ex-slaves
from non-Spanish colonies, or local maroons? 345 How were they related to other
minorities and subaltern groups? These are questions that are only partially answered,
and could shed new light on our comprehension of the social groups involved in the
rebellion of Coro and their motivations.
Recent research by Ramon Aizpurua has focused on the study of the economic
and social relations between the Province of Caracas and the Caribbean, particularly
Curaçao, during the eighteenth century. In his book Curazao y la Costa de Caracas
and in numerous articles, Aizpurua provides interesting and convincing evidence of
the economic and social significance that Coro had for the island of Curaçao, and
viceversa. In his opinion, during the entire eighteenth century, Coro played a
fundamental commercial role in the economic development of the island. The
proximity of Curaçao, the relative tolerance of the local authorities towards illicit
commercial activities between the two regions, as well as the increasing interest that
344 On this, Laviña comments: “The composition and social structure of Coro notably differed with that of the rest of Venezuela. There was a big mass of free blacks that contrasted with the higher proportion of slaves in other areas of the General Captaincy (of Venezuela); this phenomenon was, in part, due to the economic marginality of Coro regarding official circuits, and the closeness to Curaçao, whose maroons became part of the free blacks who worked, along the slaves, in the Haciendas,” in Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados,” 99. 345 Slaves had the right – often called “coartación” or “manumisión” - to buy his/her freedom by paying his/her price to the master through a system of periodical deposits. For a historic discussion on this topic see Lucena Salmoral, “El derecho de coartación del esclavo.”
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Curazoleños showed in acquiring Venezuelan crops and products such as tobacco, salt,
leather, and cattle were, among others, the reasons Coro and Curaçao maintained
strong economic bonds during that century. 346
However, Aizpurua shows that the economic aspect was not the only one to
bring the realities of Coro and Curaçao together. Maritime marronage was also a
social practice that contributed to recreating social and cultural realities in both
regions.347 Aizpurua has focused particularly on the presence and influence of the
black population from Curaçao in the region of Coro. He contends that, during the
eighteenth century, slaves from Curazao fled to the region of Coro, where they settled,
automatically obtaining their desired freedom.348 With some frequency, these slaves of
built or stole small boats in which they crossed the sea that separated them from the
mainland, facing storms, heavy sea and piracy. Once in Coro, these ex-slaves were
free to settle down, earn a living as free workers, and also work small plots of land for
346 Ramón Aizpurua, Curazao y la costa de Caracas. Introducción al estudio del contrabando en la provincia de Caracas en tiempos de la compañia guizpuzcoana (1730-1780) (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1993); “Coro y Curazao en el siglo XVIII,” “En busca de la libertad,” 69-102; “El comercio curazoleño-holandés, 1700-1756,” Anuario de Estudios Bolivarianos X, no. 11 (2004): 11-88; “Santa María de la Chapa y Macuquita: en torno a la aparición de un pueblo de esclavos fugados de Curazao en la sierra de Coro en el siglo XVIII,” in Boletín de la Academia Nacional de la Historia, no. 345 (2004): 109-28; and “Esclavitud, navegación y fugas.” 347 The term is developed by N.A.T Hall in his article “Maritime Maroons: Grand Marronage from the Danish West Indies,” in Caribbean Slave Society and Economy, eds. Hillary Beckles and Verene Sheperd (New York: The New Press, 1993), 387-400. 348 A Royal Decree of 1750 gave freedom to slaves coming from Foreing Colonies (Dutch, French and British islands). See “Real Cédula de Su Majestad sobre declarar por libres a los negros que viniesen de los ingleses u holandeses a los reinos de España buscando el agua del bautismo. Buen Retiro, 24 de septiembre de 1750,” AGN, Reales Cédulas, X, 332.
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their own benefit and consumption. Coro’s local authorities did not show any
particular interest in controlling the flight of slaves from Curaçao, since it helped in
solving the labor shortage that the region experienced during those years. After
arriving in Coro, these fugitive slaves, commonly called luangos, minas or curazaos
obtained their freedom and formed a significant chain of small communities of
luangos in the region. Aizpurua contends:
It is known that those fugitives, commonly known in the colony of Venezuela as luangos, minas or curazaos, because of their African or Caribbean origin, practically obtained their freedom when they arrived in Spanish territory; protected by the lack of interest of colonial authorities in benefitting their Dutch neighbors or helped by their blood-brothers who had preceded them (from the island or from Africa). Frequently, grouped and under the leadership of a charismatic character, they settled in their own communities, …, where they struggled against local blacks for the control of their newly-born towns.349
As we mentioned in the previous chapter, according to Aizpurua, between
1749 and 1775, approximately 581 slaves fled from Curaçao to Coro, an average of
approximately 22 per year.350 Almost 86 percent of those maroons were men, and 14
percent were women. The author also notes that a significant percentage of the men,
(32 percent) were skilled artisans, such as shoemakers, cooks, glassmakers, carpenters,
barbers and surgeons, bakers, bricklayers, and ironworkers. Approximately 26 percent
were sailors and fishermen, and the rest were field workers (24 percent), domestic
slaves (9 percent), or dedicated to other various activities such as music, arts, and
349 Aizpurua, “Coro y Curazao en el siglo XVIII,” 232. 350 Aizpurua notes that there are exceptional years, like the years 1769 and 1770 when an impressive number of 125 slaves flew from Curaçao to Coro. See Aizpurua, “En busca de la libertad.”
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crafts (9 percent). In the case of women, there was an elevated number of domestic
slaves (71 percent) dedicated to cooking, cleaning, and sewing clothes (“lavanderas,”
“costureras”), while field workers represented only 9 percent and those dedicated to
marketing another 9 percent.
These numbers allow Aizpurua to assert that a significant percentage of the
slaves proceeding from Curaçao were skilled workers who doubtless found the means
to develop their respective trades in the region of Coro. In the opinion of Aizpurua,
they must have settled in the city of Coro or in nearby areas, while domestics and field
slaves settled in the more rural areas – in or close to the Serranía of Coro –. Taking
into consideration the great number of slaves who fled from Curaçao to Coro during
the eighteenth century, Aizpurua contends that this migratory wave must have had a
great influence on the social dynamics, the labor system, and cultural relations in the
region.
Currently there are no comprehensive historical studies that analyze the social
and cultural influences of the Luango communities in Coro.351 Nevertheless, in the
light of information provided by Aizpurua, there are some assumptions that we may
develop: in the first place, the flight of Luangos to Coro increased the population of
free colored workers in the region; skilled workers must have settled near the city but 351 Aizpurua comments: “It is not the same to assert that some escaped slaves from Curazao arrived in Coro in the eighteenth century, as to assert that there was a permanent, abundant and diverse migratory flow. The impact of this migratory movement is still to be studied in full proportion, in its peculiar aspects such as songs, dances, music, costumes, culinary practices, and speech; and in deeper aspects such as the religious and mythic worlds where the origin and roots of Coro’s population relies,” in Aizpurua, “En busca de la libertad.”
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fieldworkers probably settled in the Serranía. Therefore there would have been a
portion of free workers who created Luango communities in the northern region of
Coro, in towns like Macuquita and Santa María de la Chapa. In this sense, the
agricultural development of the region of Coro, like the rest of the Province, was
based upon a hybrid labor force (slaves and free workers). Secondly, the high
proportion of males who fled from Curaçao to Coro during the eighteenth century
allows us to assume that Luango men probably established family ties with local free
colored or slave women. Consequently, free colored people (local and luangos) and
slaves shared common social environments, such as their work in the fields, and
established family ties.
According to Pedro Arcaya, slaves and the free colored of the Serranía shared
some similarities in their work, but at the same time there were significant differences
that affected their relation, the subjugation of slaves being the most important one.
Usually, slaves worked for certain hours in their masters’ plantations, finishing their
work early in order to spend some afternoons and weekends working the small plots of
land (conucos) that their master had given them in order to avoid maintenance
expenses.352 In this way, slaves preserved some economic “independence” from their
masters.353 Free field workers did, basically, the same kind of tasks as slaves, but
352 See Acosta Saignes, Vida de los esclavos negros; and Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery, 497. 353 “Since the master really produced just a small plot of land, above which he believed he had entire dominion, he allowed his slaves to develop their crops in small conucos. There was the land of the Lord surrounded by smaller ones, belonging to the ‘serfs.’ So it was considered normal that slaves only
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received payment for their hours or days of work. This situation must have created a
significant contrast between free colored people and slaves. Slaves perceived the free
colored population as “privileged” people who, unlike them, received money for their
labor and, other than their labor obligations, did not have any kind of relationship with
their masters. On the other hand, free coloreds who had family ties with slaves would
have perceived them as unfortunate. The leader of the rebellion of Coro, José
Leonardo Chirino, a local free zambo, was married to an enslaved woman, María
Dolores, who belonged to the hacendado José Tellería. Their children were
condemned to live in the same condition as their mother, since the colonial judicial
system declared that children of enslaved wombs were to be slaves, and this could
have been an significant personal reason that motivated José Leonardo to rebel.354
While it seems clear that some bonds existed among free coloreds and slaves,
there is enough evidence to believe that Luangos formed separate and isolated
communities apart from those inhabited by local free blacks. Javier Laviña shows this
when he mentions that colored free workers normally cultivated the haciendas of
Corianos, while Luangos worked on the royal lands of Macuquita. The inhabitants of
worked the time necessary to finish the job that was assigned to them.” Arcaya, La insurrección de los negros, 17. 354 Generally in the Province of Venezuela, masters did not support, and frequently impeded, marriages between free blacks and slaves, because they believed it had negative effects on the “natural submission” of slaves and also because they believed that the need to get money to support the family frequently drove slaves to steal. Legally, masters had the right to control their slaves’ marriages, but despite this, slaves and free blacks found the ways to live together and have families. See Acosta Saignes, Vida de los esclavos negros, Chapter XI.
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La Serranía – especially white hacendados – perceived the use of royal land by
Luangos as an “irregular” situation with which they were not comfortable. 355 In
addition, Laviña comes up with the interesting testimony of the wives of some
Luangos suspected of collaborating in the rebellion, who declared that they were not
aware that their husbands had any kind of relation with local free blacks.356
Discrepancies among creole free blacks and luangos were, in part, promoted by
hacendados and official authorities who preferred to divide the colored population
than to have them making joint demands and attempting to shake the colonial
system.357 However, the increasing presence of Luangos in the region and the fact that
they even received favors and privileges from the Crown to cultivate and live on royal
lands created some sort of example for local free blacks and slaves who believed they
could also forward claims to the Crown.
355 Manuel Carrera, a hacendado who collaborated in hunting black rebels, commented in a written communcation that “it was rather bizarre and negligent, that blacks from Curaçao were allowed to formed in the mountains a confusing incorporación (company), with a Captain”. See “Informe detallado de Don Manuel Carrera al Capitán General de Caracas, 2 de junio de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 45. 356 Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados,” 99. 357 This is demonstrated by the creation of diverse black “cofradias” in various cities of the Province of Venezuela, or by the formation of separated “militias:” such as the pardos company and the luango company in Coro. In Coro, conflicts among hacendados, local free blacks and luangos occurred long before 1795. In 1770, for instance, a luango uprising revealed a struggle for land and access to water among these groups, with the consequent elimination of the company of Luangos and their relocation from Santa María de la Chapa to Macuquita. See “Autos sobre disensiones y bullicios de los Negros Esclavos fugitivos de la Isla de Curazao a la Jurisdicción de Coro, 1770,” AGN, Diversos, XL. Also analyzed by Aizpurua in “Santa María de la Chapa y Macuquita.”
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Like slaves, most free blacks of the Serranía possessed, used, or rented plots of
land on which they cultivated different kind of crops that they sold in urban centers or
in the nearby areas. White landowners, free colored people and slaves were required to
pay taxes (derechos de alcabala) on the transportation of agricultural commodities on
the roads and in the customs houses of the region and at the main entrances to the
towns. During the last decade of the eighteenth century, a new tax collector, Don
Manuel Iturbe, was assigned to Coro. Prompted by the Bourbon reform spirit and
arguing that the system of tax revenues was disorganized and poorly administered,
Iturbe decided to establish a rigorous control over the Indian tribute and to locate new
alcabalas in the region of the Serranía. This decision provoked great displeasure
among the hacendados, the free colored population, and the slaves of the region who
were economically affected by the measure.358
In the alcabala system, Iturbe’s tax agents evaluated the crops to be sold and
charged an anticipated tax that, in many cases, was even greater than the price at
which the products were sold. “Alcabaleros” were perceived by small merchants and
produce sellers as corrupt and arbitrary agents who took advantage of their position to
extract money and enrich themselves. This situation must have produced anxiety in
358 Aizpurua argues: “It seems evident that the increase of what was collected had its origin simply in the increase of the population who payed the alcabala tax, people who perhaps previously did not have to go through that transaction. Since the people who went down to sell agriculture products from the Serranía de Coro, and who commonly passed through Cajuarao (the southern entry to Coro), were mainly small producers, Indians who paid or did not pay taxes, and free blacks and slaves, it is obvious that the discontent did not come only from three or four people (probably the important inhabitants of the region), as Iturbe mistakenly thought, but from more people, as represented in the numbers who joined the upheaval.” See Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 712.
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slaves and free colored communities that would see each other as potential allies in
confronting government pressures and their masters’ exploitation. The local
indigenous population, especially those paying tributes, also shared some of their
concerns and actions.359
It was in this setting that a powerful wave of rumors began to circulate, inciting
rebellious tendencies in the Serranía. According to the planter Manuel Carrera, some
months before the rebellion, a black healer (curandero), named Cocofío, who
circulated freely in the haciendas of the Valley, spread the news that the King had
declared freedom for all the slaves in the Province, but local authorities and masters
were hiding the papers – and the truth – from the population, in order to preserve their
benefits and privileged positions. According to Carrera, the rumor circulated from one
slave to another, and the same story was told again and again, causing them
erroneously to believe that they had been made free.360
359 Several studies about slave rebellions in the Americas and the Caribbean have shown that, depending on the circumstances, slaves created alliances with different groups – free blacks, maroons, Indians and even missionaries -, and those alliances were based on common concerns and prerogatives. In her study of the Haitian Revolution, Carolyn Fick shows that slaves on the plantations saw maroons as fellow slaves lucky enough to have gotten away; and the maroons saw their plantation counterparts as potential allies on whom they depended. See Fick, The Making of Haiti, Chapter 5. Viotti da Costa also shows how in certain circumstances nonconformist evangelical missionaries supported Demerara slaves in their demands and even gave them spaces for debate and for the planning of a rebellion in 1823. See Viotti da Costa, Crowns of Glory, Tears of Blood, Chapter 4. 360 On several occasions, the rumor that the King had declared freedom for the slaves spread among diverse black communities throughout Spanish America. See Klooster, “Le décret d’emancipation imaginaire.” In the Province of Venezuela, this rumor was linked to different sources such as the “Código Negrero” of May 1789 and the “Real Cédula de Gracias al Sacar.” In his report, Manuel Carrera contends that this false idea spread in Coro thanks to a Royal Decree given to the luango Captain José Caridad González, which stated that the royal lands of Macuquita were to be occupied and used by luango communities. The recognition of this privilege confused local slaves who believed that
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While Carrera pays special attention to this rumor as a clear cause of the
uprising, he probably did not hear about other word of mouth expressions that
reflected opinions about blacks’ perceptions of whites, and of the conflicting worlds in
which they lived. After the rebellion of Coro, many officials, planters, and even blacks
recalled some verses and songs that were pronounced in public gatherings before the
rebellion and that included expressions of vengeance and suppressed hatred that could
have reflected the planning of the rebellion, or that at least sought to intimidate whites.
In the next section, we will see how these expressions were channeled into economic
demands, tactical maneuvers, and intentions of negotiating with the local government.
3. Narratives of an Event: The Rebellion
According to most official testimonies, early in the afternoon of May 11, 1795,
neighbors of the city of Coro heard and passed on terrible news: slaves and free
colored people of the Serranía of Coro had risen against their masters; wounding and
killing them with fire arms and machetes, they had sacked and burned their houses and
fields, killed livestock and were aiming to reach the city to continue with their
“murderous actions.” The demands seemed clear: they wanted the freedom of the
slaves and exemption from commercial taxes.
the same decree had given freedom to them. See “Informe detallado de Don Manuel Carrera al Capitán General de Caracas,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 45.
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That same afternoon, Lieutenant Don Mariano Ramírez Valderrain, Coro’s
highest official, wrote an urgent report to Don Pedro Carbonell, the Governor of the
General Captaincy of Venezuela. In the letter, he said that he had been informed four
hours earlier that a black and mulatto rebellion had taken place in the Serranía of
Coro. “The rebels - he continued - have killed white hacendados and have sacked and
burned their houses.” He also mentioned that “black slaves were clamoring for their
freedom, accompanied by some free blacks and mulattos,” and finally concluded that
their purpose was “to damage all the plantations and to go to the city of Coro in order
to demand their freedom and tax exemptions.”361
Complaining about the lack of military force to protect the city, Ramírez
Valderrain asked for arms and troops to be sent urgently to help him defeat the rebel
attack and defend Coro. Additionally, he commented that he had ordered “vecinos”
(white and pardo neighbors) to arm themselves and be prepared to confront the
uprising. Moreover, Ramírez explained that some groups of Indians had responded
positively to his demands and were also prepared to defend the city from the colored
rebels.
On May 15, four days after the uprising, Ramírez Valderrain wrote a second
report to Carbonell in which he announced that the rebellion was under control. In this
letter, the lieutenant narrated his encounter with the rebels. He indicated that on the
night of May 11, he sent some officials to approach one of the customs houses to
361 “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 11 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 33-4.
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verify if the rebels were nearby. The officials effectively confirmed that the rebels had
been there and had killed three soldiers who guarded the gate. Knowing this, Ramírez
Valderrain went during the middle of the night to a road that divided the city from the
plains and gathered troops formed by “neighbors, forasteros, whites, mulattoes, and
some Indians who came from the town of Carrizal,”362 and waited for the rebels to
appear. They waited until seven o’clock in the morning of May 12, and as they were
about to retire, “three hundred fifty men, even more, appeared in the plain, [and he]
quickly turned back, marching quietly with the campaign canon and approaching them
at a prudent distance. [The rebels] waved their flag and sent an envoi stating that
freedom should be granted for the slaves, as well as exemption from the alcabala and
others taxes for free men, and that they would do nothing, with the city given to
them.”363 Local officials answered with a cannon shot, and the Indians of Guaybacoa
shot innumerable arrows that provoked panic among the rebels who started to run in
different directions. The battle ended in a bloodbath; 25 blacks were killed on the
“battleground,” while 24 others were wounded and then beheaded that same afternoon,
and still others were sent to prison and interrogated by the authorities.
362 Unlike Indians from the Sierra, Indians from Carrizal did not pay tribute; they were “exemptos”. Ramón Aizpurua, e-mail message to author, October, 2009. 363 “se presentaron al llano trescientos cincuenta hombres, algo mas, retrocedí con presteza marchando con los cañones de campaña, y acercandome a la proporcionada distancia, me bastieron su bandera y hicieron una embajada expresiva de decir se les concediese la libertad a los esclavos y la excepción de derechos de alcabala demas impuestos a los libres, y que nada se ofreceria, entregandoles así la ciudad,” in “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 15 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 34-5.
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The lieutenant explained that, due to lack of time, testimony from the rebels
was taken only orally (“a la sola voz”). He comments that imprisoned rebels confessed
that the rebellion had two chiefs: a luango named José Caridad González and a free
black named José Leonardo Chirino. They also mentioned that they were told that “a
Real Cédula ordering the freedom for all slaves had come from Spain and had been
concealed by the local officials in order to maintain slavery.”364 This information was
used by the luango, José Caridad, to convince them to rise up and rebel. He also added
that “José Caridad had stated that if free blacks supported the slaves in rebellion, they
would later rule a ‘Republic.’”365
Ramírez commented that, apparently, José Leonardo was to lead the rebellion
in the countryside, while José Caridad was supposed to organize the fight inside the
city but, at this point, there was no uprising in the city. That same night, José Caridad
González and twenty one luangos appeared at the armory of the city of Coro,
contradictorily he asked for weapons to support Ramírez’ actions against the rebellion,
but Ramírez who suspected that José Caridad was one of the leaders of the rebellion,
turned down his request and captured him and the other luango suspects. The
lieutenant contended that after José Caridad was declared a suspect in the rebellion
and sent to prison, he supposedly tried to escape from jail during the night and was
364 Ibid. 365 “que si los libres ayudaban a los esclavos en su sublevación ellos sería los que mandasen luego en Republica,” Ibid.
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killed with two other luangos. Ramírez Valderrain never showed any written or signed
testimony by José Caridad or any other luango or slave.366 At the end of his report,
Ramírez concluded:
This same day, the fifteenth, I beheaded nine of the prisoners, confirmed as criminals, with no trial other than an oral one, because this is what was called for because last night the women of the luangos tried to bribe the jailer and because there is a great deal to be done. I acted based on the known truth without any form of written trial.367
Responding this report, Don Pedro Carbonell, Captain General of Venezuela,
sent a letter to Ramírez Valderrain, congratulating him and his troops for their actions
and for the “favourable” results of the encounter. However he encouraged him to
follow the ordinary judicial process and to send him copies of the testimonies of the
accused, the number of dead and sentenced blacks, as well as of those who were still
in prison, in order to “clarify the events.”368 It is clear that Ramírez Valderrain did not
366 If it were true that José de la Caridad was a ringleader of the rebellion, it seems rather strange that he would put himself in risk of being captured by the authorities. His capture and that of the rest of luangos accompanying him, were the only arrests that happened in the city of Coro. 367 “En este mismo día quince he degollado nueve de los aprehendidos confirmados reos en la delinquencia, sin otro proceso que el de la voz, porque asi ha convenido, pues la noche del dia de ayer me habian coechado la mujer de los negros Luangos al Carcelero, y siendo mucho lo que hay que obrar executo a la verdad savida son forma de juicio escrito,” in “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 15 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 35. 368 Carbonell wrote “I consider important for this case that Your Mercy send a report on the dead and sentenced, and information about the declarations that in voce were taken from some with other news and facts that Your Mercy may consider necessary for clarity’s sake in the case,” in “Oficio del Capitán General Don Pedro Carbonell, 26 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 37. Carbonell knew that Ramírez was not fulfilling the requirements of the law which, by a Royal Decree of 1774, established that authorities should “allow those sentenced to give evidence and have legitimate self defense, consulting final sentences with the criminal chamber of the respective districts or with the Council, …, On the contrary Your Majesty will feel unserved and will proceed against those who become transgressors of his sovereign intentions,” in “Disposición general de las Leyes y demas reales
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take a written record of testimonies nor of the acts of sentencing and execution.
Instead, he provided more detailed reports and asked other white witnesses to send
their testimonies to the governor. Those testimonies always evoked the exceptional
circumstances of the encounter: the size of the rebel force, the small number of whites
(Spanish and criollos), the “atrocities” that the colored had committed, and the urgent
need to restore order, discipline, and justice.
In a third report, the lieutenant confirmed that he had controlled the rebellion
and also that there was no longer any need for more troops since he had more than six
hundred men, divided between the city and the mountains, arresting suspects, and
patrolling the region. The following days, Ramírez sent more reports regarding on the
capture of suspects and the executions of those sentenced. Still, he never provided the
governor with any written documentation or proofs. He simply added that he was sure
that the blacks he had captured were the most “furious and atrocious,” concluding that
the haciendas were in a pitiful state, the houses all burned and sacked, the animals
killed, and “that those men did not even respect the sacred ornaments of the religious
chapels.”369
Twelve days after the uprising, Ramírez Valderrain sentenced fifty more
people (free blacks, slaves, and Indians) to physical punishment, exile from the
resoluciones sobre los artículos diecisiete y diecinueve de la Real Pragmática de diez y siete de Abril de 1774,” AGI, Estado 58, no. 22. 369 In “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 17 y 18 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 57-8.
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Province of Coro or death.370 Claiming that the local prison was overcrowded and that
there were not enough people to protect it and control the flight of prisoners – which
represented a great danger for the region –, Ramírez Valderrain justified the irregular
and illegal nature of his decision. Presumably, by sentencing the “accused” and even
the suspects to exile or death, the lieutenant was preventing the flight of prisoners and
the possibility that seditious ideas could spread all over the region.
Ramirez Valderrain specifically sentenced twenty-two free black militiamen to
death because they allegedly participated in a rebellion in which they burnt and sacked
houses, beat, injured and killed white men. He also contended that the people who
participated in the rebellion had intentions of taking up arms in order to “take the city
and execute their plans to kill all the whites, eliminate tax payments, take control of
the entire city, and follow the ‘Law of the French.’”371 It is not clear what exactly
Ramírez Valderraín meant by the “Law of the French,” however, it seems that he
believed that burning and sacking houses, as well as killing white people was closely
linked to the application of the “Law of the French.”
There is a clear shift in Ramírez’s perception of the rebel’s motivations. In his
firsts reports, the lieutenant contended that the main demands of the black rebellion
were the freedom of slaves and exemption from taxes, but after interrogating the 370 The sentence depended upon their race and/or condition, and also upon their characterization as an accused or suspect. 371 “Venían los sublevados a coger la Ciudad, y poner en execucion sus designios de matar a todos los blancos, quitar la contribución de Reales derechos, apoderarse del todo de la ciudad, y seguir de resto la Ley de los Franceses,” in “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 23 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 30.
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suspects on the afternoon of May 12, when he reported on May 15, about the oral
trials he only mentioned the exemption from taxes, and emphasized the rebels’ desires
to follow the “Law of the French” and form a “Republic.” In other words, once
Carbonell asked him to follow the proper legal procedures, Ramírez emphatically
alleged that the final goals of the rebellion were to create a Republic and follow the
French Laws without providing any proof. When he initially described his encounter
with the rebels he did not mentioned that they proposed to apply the “Law of the
French” or to establish of a “Republic,” but subsequently these appeared to be the
most important motivations of the rebellion. Why would Ramirez change his account
of the motivations? Several reasons might be entertained here.
We may well believe that Ramírez Valderrain decided to dramatize the events
by replacing the original rebel demands for “freedom and taxes exemption” with that
of “applying the Law of the French.” In a way, the killing of whites and the sacking
and burning of masters’ houses and fields evoked the stories of the events of Saint-
Domingue that circulated in the Atlantic world. Therefore, if the rebels’ first actions in
Coro and Saint-Domingue were similar, surely, he implied their final designs were
too. For the elites, the shadow of revolutionary republicanism had invaded Coro, and
the consequences of the rebellion [often referred by them as a “revolutionary
movement”] also assumed revolutionary proportions. On the other hand, we must
remember that Ramírez Valderrain did not respect the proper judicial processes. He
desperately took justice into his own hands, feeling the need to restore order rapidly.
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Once he achieved this, and after receiving the order from Carbonell to comply with the
law, he may have sought the means to justify his legally unjustifiable measures by
dramatizing and exaggerating rebel actions and demands.
Yet, there is another new element, involving the participants and leaders of the
rebellion, introduced by Ramírez in his subsequent reports. In the first report, he
asserted that slaves, supported by some free colored, made up the group of rebels; but
in his second report he implicates José Caridad González, the chief of the Luango
militia, as one of the ringleaders of the rebellion. José Caridad González was the
Captain of a Luango militia who was engaged in a conflict over land with the Zárraga-
Zabala family in Macuquita. Since his arrival, with a royal decree in hand that allowed
Luangos to live on and use the land, José Caridad had become an uncomfortable figure
for some white families with important properties in the Serranía. Implicating him in
the rebellion could have been an astute political move to get rid of the Luangos in the
area or at least to restore some order regarding social and racial privileges and power
in relation to the Luango communities.
Venezuelan historians are still debating whether José Caridad was indeed head
of the rebellion. Aizpurua shows that the presence of Luangos in the rebellion was
particularly reduced taking into account the large number of them who lived in
Macuquita.372 He comments: “Primary sources confirm that 200 luango men lived in
372 According to Manuel Carrera’s brief, only one luango, Nicolás Flores, was officially recognized to have actively participated in the rebellion. In Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro.”
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Macuquita – in the Valley where the uprising occurred – If José Caridad González and
José Leonardo Chirinos were allied, why would José Leonardo rebel without the direct
collaboration and participation of these Luango militiamen?”373 Most of the Luango
who were executed without testimony, were captured in the city along with González,
and their participation in the rebellion is doubtful. There is in fact no conclusive
evidence about the participation of José Caridad in the rebellion of Coro. His
implication in the case could have been based on accusations by free blacks and slaves
who knew about the conflict between some white families and José Caridad, and they
could have decided to place the blame on an “outsider,” or based on the accusation by
white families who influenced Ramírez to suspect and implicate him.374 In any case,
after José Caridad’s execution, official troops were sent to Macuquita in order to
destroy a supposed maroon community that had allegedly contributed to the rebellion.
This maroon community was never found.
The official colonial record defined the rebellion as an event highly influenced
by external forces: the influence of the Saint-Domingue slave movements expressed in
the rebels’ motivations, on the one hand, and the leadership of foreign free blacks like
José Caridad and the participation of the Luango militiamen, on the other. All these
characterizations indicate a military campaign that emphasized ideological and
373 In Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro.” 374 See Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 712; and Laviña, “Indios y negros sublevados.”
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political forces proceeding from the exterior, and that gave far less attention to local
political demands such as freedom for the slaves, or economic prerogatives such as the
the abolition of estanco (tobacco monopoly) and the alcabala (commercial taxes).375
But the actions and testimonies of Ramirez also allow us to perceive an erratic
procedure fueled by fear, one that stymied criticism and judgment of his leadership,
and that constantly used fear of contagion to justify repressive decisions.
One month after the events of the rebellion, Don Pedro Carbonell sent a report
to the war Minister of Spain. In this Informe, Carbonell narrated the events of Coro,
also praising the decisions and actions taken by Ramírez Valderraín in controlling the
situation. The governor exposed the main intentions of his Informe, which were “to
narrate the insurrection of the black slaves and free people of Coro, who intended to
create a republic and receive exoneration from royal tributes.”376 Clearly, he gives
special attention to the creation of a republic in order to construct a more radical and
extreme account; in others words, to present the rebellion as a “revolutionary” and
seditious event; then he presents the exoneration from taxes as a secondary demand.
375 A similar case occurred in Cuba with the Aponte Rebellion. See, for example, Childs, “‘A Black French General Arrived to Conquer The Island.’” There he states: “The response by Cuban elites to the Aponte Rebellion echoed their explanations of the success of the Haitian Revolution. Because of their refusal to consider criticism of the slave system they commanded, planters proved unable to examine rebel’s motivations for revolt. Just as they explain the Haitian Revolution as the extension of French revolutionary politics to the Caribbean, they insisted that the Aponte Rebellion resulted from the external influence of the Haitian Revolution,” Ibid, 142. Guha observes the same situation in colonial India. Multiple accounts show how authorities insinuated that peasants had lost their innocence thanks to the influence of outsiders. Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, 220. 376 “Informe del Gobernador y Capitán General de la Provincia de Venezuela, del 12 de junio de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 71-3.
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However, the demand for the exoneration from the royal tributes itself could also have
been read as a rejection of vassaldom in relation to the Spanish Monarch. In this sense,
the rebels would have belied their loyalty to the King, and this rejection amounted to
sedition. Presenting these two demands as the fundamental purposes of the Coro
rebellion, Carbonell also seemed to justify the irregularity of Ramírez Valderrain’s
procedures.
In a sense, the rebel demands expressed by Carbonell seem contradictory. How
would black people claim for both the formation of a republic and the exoneration of
taxes? It seems obvious that the control of the city and the creation of a republic would
implicitly reduce or eliminate those taxes.377 Several possibilities allow us to
understand this ambiguity: first, one or the other of the two contradictory groups of
demands were being invented or imagined by the official discourse; second, both
demands were being made by rebels at different times; or third, the two sets of
demands were being made by different groups of rebels.
The Governor then began with the description of the rebellion. He affirmed
that, from the beginning, slaves and free blacks from the Serranía planned to kill the
masters and ruin the haciendas in order to take control of the city later, claiming
freedom and exoneration of commercial taxes. For Carbonell, these represented the 377 Aizpurua highlights this contradiction. He contends: “The truth is that, looking it objectively, there is a evident contradiction between direct demands (freedom for slaves, taxes exemption) and that of creating a Black Republic,” in Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 715. Nevertheless, it seems important to note that a Black Republic is not explicitly mentioned in the documents, there are references to the creation of a “Republic,” as being part of rebels demands, but not as a Republic exclusively governed by blacks.
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original purposes of the rebellion. Curiously, at this initial level, he does not mention
the creation of the republic as an original demand of the rebels. In the next two
paragraphs, the Governor recounted the actions of his officials in order to control the
uprising: the sending of troops from Caracas and Puerto Cabello to Coro, and the
actions and decisions “brilliantly” taken by Ramírez Valderrain. Particularly
interesting is his narration of the events when the lieutenant confronted “more than
350 militiamen.” At this point, the rebels, in the Governor’s opinion, were demanding
freedom for slaves, exoneration of alcabala taxes and “other benefits for the free
people,” seeking to control the city in order to establish a republic. Taking into
consideration the Governor’s Informe, we may well assume that at the moment of the
confrontation with the official troops, the rebels were already clamoring for the
formation of a republic.
The Governor’s description of events was, obviously but not exclusively,
based on previous Informes of Ramírez Valderrain or other officials. Thus, we should
ask: Did Ramírez Valderrain mention the creation of a republic as a fundamental
demand of the rebellion? The lieutenant did allude to the “Law of the French” as a
pattern or model that the rebels wanted to follow or apply, but he did not explicitly
mention the republic as a main goal of the rebellion. When he mentioned it, he put it
as a possible menace but not as a substantial demand made by rebels. In fact, in
previous reports that Ramírez Valderrain sent to the Governor, there are no allusions
to the formation of a republic as a demand being made at the moment of confrontation.
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Therefore, we ask: How and why did Carbonell add “the formation of a republic” as a
one of the purposes of the uprising?
The comparison between a previous report of Ramírez narrating the moment of
the confrontation and one paragraph of the “Informe” in which Carbonell details the
battle reveals interesting discursive transformations. The two paragraphs share
noticeable similarities but intriguing adaptations. On May, 15 of 1795, lieutenant
Ramírez Valderrain had written to the Governor Carbonell:
“three hundred fifty men, even more, appeared in the plain, [and he] quickly turned back, marching quietly with the campaign cannon and approaching them at a prudent distance, [the rebels] waved their flag and sent an envoi stating that freedom should be granted for the slaves, as well as exemption from the alcabala and others taxes for free men, and that they would do nothing with the city given to them.378
On June 12 of 1795, the Governor Carbonell wrote to the War Minister of Spain:
“More than three hundred fifty men appeared on the plain, and waving their flag, they sent an envoi requesting that freedom for slaves, and the exemption from alcabala and other taxes for free men. The city offered to them, in order to establish the republic that rudely and criminally they imagined in their minds, and procured with the ferocity of their hands stained with the blood of their masters and other whites destroyed by the rage of the disgrace”379
378 “Oficio de Ramírez Valderrain, 23 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 33-4. 379 “se le presentaron en número de más 350 y batiendo la bandera le hicieron embajada, en que pedía libertad de esclavos y exención de alcabalas y demás contribuciones para los libres, entregándoles la ciudad con el fin de establecer la república que torpe y delincuentemente envolvieron en su idea y procuraban con la atrocidad de sus manos, manchadas con las sangre de sus amos y otros blancos destrozados ya la feroz de su ignominia,” in “Informe de Pedro Carbonell en que alaba al Teniente Justicia Mayor con motivo de la rebelión de los negros esclavos de Coro. 12 de junio de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 72.
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Here we can perceive the Governor’s transformation of Ramirez Valderrain’s
account, by adding the “creation of the republic” as one of the rebellion’s demands at
the moment of the confrontation. In his account of the events, Carbonell exaggerated
and added a dramatic touch to the story by describing the rebel hands stained with
blood and by appending adverbs such as “rudely” and “criminally.” He also pleaded in
favor of Ramírez’ decisions and actions: “if he had not acted in this manner,
immediately punishing such criminal and disgusting offenses, his tolerance would
have had dreadful and ruinous consequences.”380
Did black slaves and free people demand the formation of a republic? It is not
known. However, we certainly do know that they asked for their freedom and for
exemption from commercial taxes. Official narratives transformed the events, but also
the discourses produced during the rebellion. The documents issued by official
authorities frequently allude to the “Law of the French” and to the “Republic” as the
main claims of the rebels. Therefore we certainly know that “revolutionary” ideas and
movements from France and Saint-Domingue had clear repercussions in the official
narratives of the black rebellion of Coro. But what about the rebels? What did other
witnesses have to say about the possible reasons of the rebellion?
In witnesses’ testimonies we find that the “formation of a republic” frequently
appears in second place, after exemption of commercial taxes and freedom. On May
380 “si no hubiese obrado con la resolución anunciada castigando inmediatamente unos delitos tan criminales y detextables, su tolerancia huviera sido de unas consecuencias temibles y ruinosas,” in Ibid., 73.
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15, Don Hilario Bustos, Magistrate of Indians, wrote to the Governor of Caracas
informing that while he was held captive by the rebels, he heard that they were
“proclaming freedom for slaves, the extermination of whites males, the servitude of
white women, exemption from royal rights, universal pillage, insolence, outrage, and
invasion of the city of Coro.”381 In the light of the corregidor’s communication, it
seems that the “original” demands of the rebels were, again, freedom for the slaves
and taxes exemption for the free colored. Clearly, the rebels could not proclaim
“pillage and insolence.” On the contrary these words allow us to appreciate the
Corregidor’s interpretations. However, in the middle of this group of demands – the
concrete (freedom and tax exemption) and the imagined (“pillage and insolence,”) –
we find “the destruction of white males and the servitude of white women” as an
important purpose of the rebellion or, at least, as a plan of action. Another neighbor,
Don Andrés Manuel de Goribar who collaborated in the capture, interrogation and
execution of rebels, wrote that the goal of the rebels was simply to “take the city and
kill all the whites.”382
On May 31, another witness, Don Juan Hilario de Armas y Castro, wrote a
brief description of the events of Coro. He affirmed that the night of May 11, blacks,
mulattoes, and zambos, slaves and free people and a few Indians assaulted diverse 381 “Proclamando la libertad de esclavos, el exterminio de los blancos, la servidumbre de las blancas, la extinción de los derechos Reales, el pillaje universal, la insolencia, el atrocimiento y la invasion de la Ciudad de Coro,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 41. 382 “Informe de Don Andrés Manuel de Goribar del 22 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 39
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haciendas, killing white males, taking their wives and children, and sacking and
burning their houses. According to him, during the morning of May 12 “four hundred
and twenty five militamen came ‘en son de Batalla’ to the city entrance. They sent an
emissary to the city, to say that they would not do anything if we removed the
‘alcabalas’ and gave freedom to the slaves; we answered with a cannon shot.”383 In the
light of this testimony, it seems that at some point the rebels decided to negotiate with
the officials; apparently they offered not to do anything in exchange for the fulfillment
of their demands. In other words, the rebels threatened the city – surely continuing
their actions against whites – in the event that they did not receive what they desired.
In addition, Don Juan Hilario de Armas commented that the rebels’ purpose was to
obtain freedom for the slaves and tax exemption, and to “kill all whites and colored
people, in order to be left with their women, and apply the ‘Law of the French.’”384
Once again, freedom and taxes exemptions represented the first goals of the rebellion;
nevertheless Don Hilario de Armas notes that rebels’ actions were framed in terms of
following the “Law of the French.” It is not clear what the “Law of the French’”
383 “Presentados en son de Batalla a la entrada de la Ciudad, a tiempo que por parte de ella se le esperava mandaron un emisario a decir que no se ofrecia novedad siempre que se quitasen las alcabalas, y se diese livertad a los esclavos; la respuesta fue dispararles una piesa de canon,” in “Informe de Juan Hilario de Armas al Gobernador de Caracas. Carora, 31 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 42-3 384 “Los designios fuera de la libertad a los esclavos y exemcion de derechos eran matar todos lo blancos y gente de color, para quedarse ellos con las mujeres blancas, y seguir la Ley de los Franceses,” in “Informe de Juan Hilario de Armas al Gobernador de Caracas. Carora, 31 de mayo de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 43. Apparently, there were some pardos who opposed to rebel’s actions and demands and who fought along the whites against the rebel troops.
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meant, it appears as general and undefined program. Since their plans were supposedly
to kill all the white males, those laws were to be imposed by colored people while
white women would have to adapt to them. For the elites witnesses, the shadow of
Saint-Domingue seemed to cover all possible explanations concerning the rebellion.
On June 2, Don Manuel Carrera, a local hacendados, elaborated a long and
detailed report regarding the events of the Rebellion of Coro. Carrera commented that
while comitting “their atrocities,” each rebel proclaimed different ideas and goals.
Nevertheless all of them coincided in demanding “absolute freedom for slaves, tax
exemption, the elimination of the tobacco monopoly and suppression of the alcabalas,
the death of all whites regardless of age or name, and taking their white wives in order
to marry them.”385 What Carrera reported allows us to ask whether there were some
rebels interested in exterminating the white men and taking the city, and whether
others were using this discourse as a threat to obtain what they really desired: freedom
and tax exemptions. The death of all whites and the possession of their wives in order
to marry them, appears again as a powerful and violent discourse that expressed a
program that whites – having heard the stories of Saint-Domingue – feared
considerably.
These assertions by witnesses that repeatedly represent slave rebels as people
who wanted to rape white women and “take them for themselves” during the rebellion
were not new or original, even in the Saint-Domingue rebellions of August 1791. As 385 “Informe de Don Manuel Carrera,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 51.
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Winthrop Jordan shows, these representations of rebels as potential rapists of white
women had circulated since the seventeenth century from Barbados to New York, and
from South Carolina to Jamaica. Jordan asserts that in most of the cases there is a lack
of evidence that such rapes actually occurred within the frame of the rebellious
movements. As Jordan comments: “Even when slaves were able to seize temporary
local control, as during several revolts in Jamaica and at Stono in South Carolina in
1739, there were no such actual instances during the myriad excitements over slave
plots in the entire history of the Anglo American colonies and nation.”386 Such
emotionally driven accusations were a traditionally established discourse – frequently
unspecific and repetitive – that accompanied whites’ characterization of slave, and
also Indian, rebellions throughout the Atlantic World.387 However during the events of
the Haitian Revolution, these discourses of sexual violence took on important
dimensions and became a recognizable violent feature of the black Revolution.388
386 Winthrop D. Jordan, Tumult and Silence at Second Creek. An Inquiry into a Civil War Slave Conspiracy (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1996), 150. 387 This discourse was often used by British and Spanish colonists to characterized the “cruelty” and/or lustful nature of Indians, free blacks, and “uncivilized” others. Ana Alonso, for example, shows how in Northern Mexican warfare, both the colonists and the Apache captured and enslaved women and children. “The capture of ‘barbaric’ women by ‘civilized’ men was represented as the redemption of these beings from a life of savagery. By contrast, the taking of ‘civilized’ women by the ‘barbarians’ was viewed as an insult to the honor of the colonist.” See Alonso, Thread of Blood, 96. The case of black women in the Americas was a little different. White women had the advantage over women of color in every aspect of sexual coercion; for women of color, protective patriarchs were absent figures or, at worst, able to use their status to sexually oppress with impunity. See Sharon Block, Rape and Sexual Power in Early America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2006), and Peggy Sanday, A Woman Scorned. Acquaintance Rape on Trial (New York: Doubleday, 1996). 388 The Haitian Revolution was generally described in violent terms. Accounts about slave cruelties and barbarities filled the pages of travelers’ diaries and witnesses’ writings. The same stories of an impaled
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The motivation of sexual rivalry was constantly evoked in the account of
Saint-Domingue that circulated throughout the Caribbean. Numerous eyewitness
testimonies about the Saint-Domingue rebellions recounted stories of white women
who were raped by the blacks, and also stories of black rebels who stated that they
wanted to murder only white males and that they did not want to kill white women but
to get them pregnant.389 This violent characterization of the Saint-Domingue rebellions
traveled throughout the Atlantic World, increasing the fear of white planters –
especially fathers and husbands – and of the authorities. 390 It seems possible that,
during the rebellion, Coro rebels used these discourses as effective threats which, they
thought, could have helped them to achieve their real objectives.
white child, the massive rapes of white women and the opened wombs of pregnant women were repeated over and over, creating a particularly cruel and bloody characterization of rebellious blacks. Laurent Dubois invites us to explore the politics of violence in the Haitian Revolution by looking also at the politics of representation and on how black leaders themselves sought to channel and contain revolutionary violence. See Laurent Dubois, “Avenging America: The Politics of Violence in the Haitian Revolution,” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, 111-24; and also Nesbitt, Universal Emancipation. 389 See Jeremy Popkin, Facing Racial Revolution, Eyewitness Accounts of the Haitian Insurrection (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), Chapter 3 and Chapter 5. Popkin analyses an interesting account of an anonymous author who survived the insurrection, and he wrote: “I showed them [two blacks guards] how astonished I was at everything they told me, but I didn’t make any response to it. I simply asked them why they were sparing the priests, the surgeons, and the women. They replied that they were keeping the priests so that religious services could be held, the surgeons to heal their maladies, and the women to take for their own and get pregnant,” 53. 390 Within the Iberian logic of honor, the attacks on the sexual purity of women (mothers, sisters, wives and daughters) were insults that put courage, virility, and virtue into question and had to be avenged if honor was to be restored. Therefore, women were a medium through which men could be dishonored, the chastity of women was what ensured the integrity of the patriarchal domain, the honor of the family as well as ethnic purity. See Alonso, Thread of Blood; Pellicer, La vivencia del honor en la Provincia de Venezuela.
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Francisco Jacot, a captain appointed by Carbonell to control the military
situation in Coro, reported that Father Pedro Pérez, a priest in the region, commented
that weeks before the uprising blacks attended dances or “zambas” in which they
danced “a thousand obscenities” and sang “dishonest verses.” He remembered one in
particular that said: “A black with placa is worthier than a white’s head: flame up,
flame down, bring out the machaca, cut off his head, the zamuros eat, drink the
aguardiente.”391 Captain Jacot could not believe what he had heard, and had replied
that those were “seditious songs.” The Priest answered that black people sang them
publicly some days before the upheaval.392
Another neighbor in the region, Nicolás Coronado, told Captain Jacot about
similar verses that blacks sang at dances. Some verses were in a “language that he
could not understand,”393 but others were divulged in Spanish, one in particular caught
Jacot’s attention:
Flame down, flame up, death to the white, life to the black: and Josef Leonardo with his gang, gathers the blacks at La Macanilla, and with his
391 “Mas vale negro con placa, que caveza de blanco: candela arriba, candela abajo, saca la machaca, corta la cabeza, come los zamuros, beva la aguardienta,” in “Tercera pieza de Audiencia sobre Sublevación de los Negros Esclavos y libres de aquella ciudad. Contiene las declaraciones de su Teniente, Don Josef de Zavala, Don Francisco Jacot y algunos más,” quoted in Castillo Lara, Curiepe, orígenes históricos, 41. According to Josefina Jordán, “Placa” was the name they used for certain coins from the Netherlands, and “Machaca” is an instrument to cut or smash, meaning “cutting the white’s head.” See Joséfina Jordán “Acercamiento a la rebelión encabezada por José Leonardo Chirinos en 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 16-29. 392 Castillo Lara, Curiepe, orígenes históricos. 393 Ibid.
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volero made of ‘royal palm’, death to the white, black for the seed: white dig, black remain for the seed, the ones who live will see.394
In the report, Jacot explained that free blacks were used to dancing during
religious festivities,395 and that they normally had permission from the Magistrates
who sent officials with the purpose of maintaining order. However, one official
concluded that he was particularly concerned with the phrase “black for the seed,” and
that it was precisely after the uprising took place that he heard and understood “that
with this expression the blacks wanted to say that they would try to extend their
offspring through white women.”396
These rumors and songs not only revealed racial hatred by blacks towards
whites, they seemed to reveal the planning of an uprising that was by no means a
spontaneous event. In the verses, the word candela (“flame” or “fire”) could have been
394 “Candela abajo, candela arriba, muera lo blanco, lo negro viva: y Joséf Leonardo con su pandilla, junta a los negros en Macanilla, y con su volero de Palma Real, muera lo blanco, negro semillan: Blanco cava, negro queda para semillan, quien viviere lo verá,” in “Tercera pieza de Audiencia sobre Sublevación de los Negros Esclavos y libres de aquella ciudad. Contiene las declaraciones de su Teniente, Don Joséf de Zavala, Don Francisco Jacot y algunos más,” quoted in Castillo Lara, Curiepe, orígenes históricos, 42. La Macanilla was the name of a hacienda located in the Serranía of Coro, and a bolero was a kind of hat made of fibers of palm. 395 These parties were usually permitted during catholic festivities, such as Christmas, Easter Sunday and “Cruz de Mayo,” among others. 396 “que con esta expresión querían decir los negros que trataban de extender su generación en las blancas,” in “Tercera pieza de Audiencia sobre Sublevación de los Negros Esclavos y libres de aquella ciudad. Contiene las declaraciones de su Teniente, Don Joséf de Zavala, Don Francisco Jacot y algunos más,” quoted in Castillo Lara, Curiepe, orígenes históricos, 43. In this case, white women were not only the vehicles of male honor and dishonor. They also represented the most valuable point of male’s identity: the ability to reproduce themselves. This ability was seen to be crucial to the maintenance of social form and order. When black rebels reveal intentions of getting white women pregnant, they are doing both: dishonoring white males, and taking control of a new social order that did not include pure whites, just mixed-races such as pardos and mulattoes. See also Alonso, Thread of Blood, 90-6.
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used to refer to the uprising itself. The second song talked about an uprising with
recognized participants like José Leonardo – as a leader – and his people. The verses
may also have contained geographical references to the Serranía (“flame up”) and the
city of Coro (“flame down”) and demonstrated a clear motivation: that of
exterminating whites and extending the offspring of blacks through white women.
As we showed in previous chapters, violent stories from Saint-Domingue
found their way to the mainland before the year 1795. However it is interesting to note
that it was only after the rebellion of Coro occurred, that officials said that they
understood the meanings of these “seditious songs,” probably establishing
retrospective connections between the Coro black movement and Saint-Domingue
stories. Hence, before the uprising of Coro, Saint-Domingue may have been a “violent
image” of a situation as yet not thinkable in the Province. But after it, Saint-Domingue
rebellions were transformed into a “feared reality.” This association made by the
officials was also based on the several times that witnesses had heard rebels alluding
to the idea of “exterminating whites, being left with the women to get them pregnant,
and establishing the law of the French.”
Some historians have argued that it is evident how colonial elites fabricated
and invented evidence to support the idea of the influence of the Saint-Domingue
insurrection in Coro. However, the officials reported that these verses were sung in
public before the rebellion, and at this moment were not intended to be understood by
authorities and/or priests. Before the rebellion, the songs functioned as hidden
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transcripts: they were voiced in black dances, and their meanings were addressed to
free blacks and slaves. 397 Therefore, they could not all be invented by the elites. But
during the rebellion the phrases were used several to threaten whites. It also merits our
attention, that these verses did not explicitly demand the exemption of taxes or
freedom for the slaves. They clearly demonstrated blacks’ desire for revenge and
alteration of the social order, which is expressed in a violent image of extermination of
all white males and sexual possession of white women to get them pregnant with black
“seeds,” perpetuating the black line and establishing a new social order with new laws.
In August of 1795, the Real Audiencia de Caracas decided to initiate an
investigation into the events of Coro. In order to clarify the chain of events, the
members of the Audiencia asked some witnesses from Coro to go to Caracas to testify,
while ordering others to send their testimonies. On September 7, 1795, Doña Nicolasa
de Acosta, widow of Don Sebastian de Talavera and survivor of the rebel attacks,
wrote a letter in which she described the events as she lived them. She affirmed that
between 8 and 9 pm on May 11, some colored people came to her house, yelled at her,
and asked her to open the door. When not receiving any response, they decided to burn
the house. Don Joseph María Manzano, a friend who was accompanying her that
evening, decided to go out to find out what was going on, and he was immediately
397 For a rich discussion about instruments of transmission of messages in social movements, the transparency and opacity of messages, such as songs, drumming and whistles, see Guha Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, Chapter 6; on rumor see Allport and Postman, The Psychology of Rumor; on hidden discourses and transcripts, see James Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University, 1990).
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killed by the rebels. A slave smashed one of the windows of the house in order to
provide an exit for an enslaved sister who served there. Through that same window all
the women of the house escaped from the fire. When the enslaved woman asked her
brother why they were doing that to innocent people, he answered “no white male will
remain, not even for their seeds, that white women would have to adapt to their ‘new
laws,’ that slavery was over and so were the alcabalas.”398 It demands our attention
that at this point, previous to the confrontation with the official troops, some rebels
contended that “new laws” had been established, and freedom for slaves and tax
exemption were part of these laws. The idea of exterminating whites males and their
“seed” as an action to be taken by the rebels appears again, and shows clear
connections between the aforementioned verses sung in black dances and the rebels’
discourses during the uprising. These expressions of vengeance and suppressed hatred
seem to constitute a discursive strategy either to attract black people to the movement
or to threaten the white elites, with a view of forcing them to concede economic and
political concessions.
On September 23, María Dolores Chirino, slave of Don Joseph de Tellería and
Jose Leonardo Chirino’s wife, was interrogated by the Real Audiencia. After
explaining details about the way some rebels came in to the house of her master, she
affirmed that she did not know about the rebellion, which took her by surprise. She
398 “Que no había de quedar blanco barón, ni para semilla, que las hembras se havían de acomodar a sus nuevas leyes, que ya no havia esclavitud, ni Alcabalas,” in “Informe de Doña Nicolasa de Acosta, testigo de la insurrección de Coro” in Documentos de la insurrección, 112.
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said that she had heard her husband drunk and fighting outside the house where she
served, and that when she warned him about the proximity of her master, he answered
her: “Come on, that is a joke, this woman doesn’t know what is going on.”399 Later,
Chirino and his allies began a fight with the slaves, and when white men came out of
the house, they were all murdered by the rebels. María Dolores contended that she had
heard in her neighborhood that colored rebels were demanding freedom for slaves and
exemption from loyal taxes, but that she did not know the real motivations behind this
“weird situation.” This testimony allows us to suspect that, like María Dolores, other
black women were aware of a general discontent and demands regarding taxation and
social injustice, but they ignored or probably denied, in order to avoid suspicion of
complicity, the plan of action or the precise nature of the menace.
From witnesses’ testimony, we have found a contrast between an “official
discourse” that highlighted the rebels’ intentions of following the “Law of the French”
and of creating a republic and the witnesses’ discourses that, even when mentioning
that rebels wanted to follow the “Law of the French” by “killing white males and
taking their wives to marry them,” contended that the main purposes of the rebellion
were freedom and tax exemption. For the people of Coro, the rebels’ actions of killing
whites and burning houses were evidence of the application of the “Law of the
French”, yet we can still wonder whether the rebels wanted to follow this law and
399 “Bamos no me vengas con bromas, esta no sabe lo que hay,” in “Declaración de Maria Dolores Chirino, 23 de septiembre de 1795,” in Documentos de la insurrección, 116-17.
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establish a republic. Did they really want to create a republic? From official reports,
we know that, at the moment of the confrontation with Ramírez’s troops, the rebels
sent an emissary to negotiate their demands for freedom and tax exemption. If the
rebels were particularly interested in forming a republic, they would hardly have sent
an emissary to negotiate. They would have confronted the troops in order to take
control of the city. In my view, this situation reveals that the rebels used their actions -
killing some whites and burning their houses and fields - and discourses – menacing
plans of killing white males and taking their wives – to threaten. Their actions reveal
that they were not really seeking to create a “Republic” or an independent state. The
violent representations of Saint-Domingue functioned as a way of demanding and
provoking changes in their local circumstances.
This same representation of Saint-Domingue was perhaps used by Government
authorities to repress the rebellion violently and cruelly, and to punish its instigators
and leaders. On the morning of December 17, 1796, the free black, José Leonardo
Chirino, accused of being the head of the rebellion of Coro, was executed. His hands
and his head were removed from his warm body and placed in separate boxes. The
head, impaled on a pole, was placed at the beginning of the road that connected
Caracas, center of the province, to Coro. His hands were sent to officials in Coro who
had been ordered to display them at particular sites in the countryside, where Spanish
lives had been extinguished by the black rebels. In the end, more than twenty-five
black men were killed on the battleground. A similar number were executed without
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proper legal procedure. Fifty-five free black militiamen and nine of their sons were
sentenced to naval impressment for a period of ten years. Several dozens of slaves,
free blacks and Indians were sentenced to hard labor for periods of five to ten years,
while others were exiled to different provinces of the Captaincy and several women
were publicly flogged. Spanish officials executed rebels, brutalized the leader’s body,
and punished suspects in order not only to express the sovereign’s power and restore
the social order, but also to set an example and demonstrate the high cost of
insurgency.
4. Saint-Domingue as a Language of Contention
Eugene Genovese argues that slave’s uprisings in the Americas underwent a
transformation from “restorationist” to truly revolutionary movements around the time
of the Haitian revolution. According to him, this trajectory explains how rebel
demands and goals changed over time, from separatist movements based on African
political and social patterns to subaltern interpretations of the modern and bourgeois
independent state. Genovese assigns importance to those rebellions that, like the
Haitian Revolution, aimed to eradicate the white power structure and create a black
independent state. Thinking of the rebellion of Coro in terms of Genovese’s model
seems problematic because the slaves and free colored people did not want to recreate
an African-based order nor a black republic. The scores of testimonies stating that
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rebels killed white men, and damaged and sacked their properties in order to demand
freedom for slaves and taxes exemptions carried an implicit understanding that slaves
and free people of color sought to create a new society, with a new racial and social
order. Apparently, none of the witnesses testified to a rebel’s desires to create republic
or to restore an African-based society, and yet it is clear that the rebels sought a
fundamental restructuring of society: one in which they could be free and would not
pay taxes.
However, it seems clear that the rebels could have used the “creation of a
republic” or the intention of “exterminating all whites males” as discourses to threaten
their enemies and “negotiate” their demands. Ramón Aizpurua suggests that “to kill
whites, blacks rebels [of Coro] did not need the example of the haitians, as they had
their own experience of suffering the exploitation, abuse, and insults for more than
two hundred years.”400 I quite understand that, simply taking in account their own
experiences and sufferings, slaves and free coloreds everywhere had sufficient reasons
to resist and to rebel. But, on the other hand, throughout this chapter I have shown that
blacks rebels certainly needed and used Saint-Domingue and its violent references -
also known to white elites - not necessarily as an example or model, but as a menace,
as a mere possibility, as a way to call attention in part of the whites, and also as a
language of contention.
400 Aizpurua, “La insurrección de los negros de la serranía de Coro,” 717.
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In Bondmen and Rebels, D.B. Gaspar contends that the existence of a cultural
distance between black slaves and white masters could lead the latter to read “planned
subversion” into innocuous activities of slaves.401 White fear and paranoia existed and
manufactured many things, and was used to justify repression, but could not slaves
read that fear in their master’s eyes? How large could the cultural distance between the
two be? For the Spanish authorities in Venezuela, the Saint-Domingue rebellion was
the breeding ground for many problems: the “republican” disease that sought to
overthrow the monarchical system, and the abolitionist disease that aimed to end
slavery and eliminate the traditional social and economic order. By controlling the
entry of texts and people from France and Saint-Domingue, the elites sought to
prevent the spread of the republican disease in the provinces.402 Nevertheless, Saint-
Domingue was a close reality and a close example of what could happen in a race-
based society. News and rumors about Saint-Domingue spread all over the provinces
of the captaincy. Elites read and talked about Saint-Domingue, and free colored people
and slaves did so too. The cultural distance between masters and slaves was not great
enough to isolate elites’ rumors and fears from the slaves’ ears and perceptions. The
401 Gaspar, Bondmen and Rebels, Chapters 9-10. 402 In his work regarding colonial India, Ranajit Guha argues that peasant rumors, propaganda, and “subversive utterances” could be read as sedition and planned subversion by imperial authorities. Indian elites created metaphors that conceptualized the state as a body, and rebellions as diseases that attack the political body. Like a disease, rebels’ ideas were spread all over, contaminating the rest of common people, like peasants. Elites saw symptoms of the diseases in their peasant’s words and actions; their fear manufactured events and actions and applied different kinds of repression to these groups because this was the only way to prevent and/ or protect themselves from rebels’ actions. Guha Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency.
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knowledge of Saint-Domingue was perhaps a hinge that connected elites and
subalterns: elites feared Saint-Domingue, and slaves and coloreds recognized white
fear, and used Saint-Domingue to express their anger and make their demands. Saint-
Domingue, therefore, functioned as a language of contention.
In a letter written to the Real Audiencia, in December, 1796 – one year and a
half later - the Governor of Venezuela, recognized that the real cause of the rebellion
of Coro was
The negligence of the masters of the Haciendas of the Valley, who have not provided slaves with the necessary Christian and political education and care, they [slaves] abandoned in their passions, violently razed to the ground everything they encountered.403
Therefore, the recommendations to prevent other possible slave
uprisings continued to be the control of seditious ideas coming from the
revolutionized Atlantic, but also the need to increase control and vigilance
strategies – also in the subtle form of “education” - over the black population.
In fact, in the subsequent years after the rebellion, several measures were taken
by the authorities and the elites of the region of Coro in order to impede black
insurgency. Elites definitely did not trust their slaves anymore, and this even affected
manumission. In the period of 1750-1810 there were a total 289 cases of manumission
in Coro; 46.7 percent of these cases were “manumission by testament,” which is when
403 “Que el unico origen de aquella sublevacion (…), ha sido la negligencia de los dueños de las Haciendas del mismo Valle en la educación y cuidado christiano y politico de los esclavos y dependientes, que abandonados a sus pasiones, arrasaron violentamente todo lo que encontraban,” in “Informe de Carbonell a la Real Audiencia, 26 de diciembre de 1796,” AGI, Estado 58, no. 7.
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in the will, an individual decided to grant freedom to his/her slaves as an expression of
gratefulness, or as an ultimate expression of Christian charity. Between the years
1795-1799 the cases of manumissions were completely suspended in the region of
Coro, probably as a way of showing the lack of confidence in the part of whites to
their slaves, or as a way of punishing slaves for their rebelliousness. In this sense, the
rebellion made masters less prone to freeing their slaves.404
Colonial authorities also promoted important changes regarding the
establishment of a new Military Command in the region of Coro, and the
promulgation of new articles addressed to control the functioning of haciendas, the
treatment of the slaves by their masters, and the presence of the Church in the Serranía
of Coro. In October 27 1798, a Real Cedula assigned Andrés Boggiero as the new
Commander of Coro, whose responsibility was to maintain the military, political and
civil order of the region, and to apply the forty-seven articles of the Real Cedula.
These articles were directed to different individuals such as the shopkeepers, fathers of
family, mayordomos, hacendados, free blacks and slaves. One of the articles stated
that the Commander should restrict the festivities of blacks “who every Saturday night
and even on weekdays get together to dance and sing. If the commander give them
permission to do so, the slaves should talk and sing in our language, which is well-
404 Blanca De Lima, “Libertades en la Jurisdicción de Coro, 1750-1850,” Mañongo, no. 23, Vol. XII, Julio – Diciembre, 2004, and personal communication with author July, 2007.
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known by them.”405 In this way, the authorities intended to control the
communicational strategies and codes to be used among the slaves, preventing the
planning of an insurrection. Another article, ordered the establishment of a Catholic
church in the Valley of Curimagua – where the insurrection took place – and the
frequent presence of priests to give mass and to teach the Christian doctrine to the
black population, so these communities “could live in order and appropriate
subordination.” Likewise, the Real Cedula suggested masters to control the meetings
between slaves and free blacks of the region, especially if they are not married, as well
as encouraging free blacks to live in the recently founded town of Caburo, “where
there is a Church, and from were they could go everyday to the Valley in order to earn
their jornales.”406 In the following article, the decree states:
“The Commander will take all the necessary measures to prevent that free mulattos, zambos and blacks pervert the slaves of this region, upon which they had have great influence until recently. This influence was the main cause of the black insurrection of 1795”407
It is clear that the response of the colonial authorities to the black insurrection
of Coro was the increase of control and vigilance over the black population of the
region. However, there was also a group of measures that were directed to controlling
the authorities of the region, especially tax collectors, administrators of the Cajas
405 “Real Cédula sobre el establecimiento en Coro de una Comandancia Militar, como consecuencia del Movimiento Revolucionario de José María Chirino, 27/10/1798” AGN, Diversos, LXXV, 139-153. 406 Ibid. 407 Ibid.
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Reales, and lawyers who should be vigilant of appropriate execution of legal
procedures. These articles ordered tax collectors to retrieve from the population the
exact amounts of commercial taxes, tributes or aranceles approved by the King, and
also demanded the Commander to keep an eye on the abuses that tax collectors might
commit. Several articles were established to control judicial procedures, giving a
central role to the Real Audiencia, which must be vigilant that everyone implicate in
any case should follow the appropriate legal process, especially in criminal cases. An
article stated that “secretaries must elaborate written testimony of any civil or criminal
case, and the report should be sent directly to the Real Audiencia.” All these articles
allows us to appreciate that the new Captain General, Manuel Guevara Vasconcelos,
knew that blacks were not the only social group to blame of the events of Coro, and
that all the population - white elites, colonial authorities and subalterns - needed to be
controlled and reprimanded.
It is still not clear whether the rebels of Coro wanted to follow the “Law of the
French” to its ultimate consequences. What it is clear is that the elites interpreted the
rebellion as a local expression of Saint-Domingue influences and Republican values,
and rebels used those interpretations to threaten them and pursue their goals. In
February 1801, Don Agustín Yraola, an hacendado in la Serranía wrote a report in
which he stated that the news of the invasion of Toussaint to the Spanish part of Santo
Domingo spread, and that local blacks joyfully cheered each other with refrains about
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Toussaint and his triumphs.408 In March, 1801 the same hacendado wrote a letter to
the Governor of Coro in which he expressed his worries: “slaves and colored people of
La Serranía were joyfully celebrating the invasion of Santo Domingo by black
Toussain”409 and white families of the Serranía were moving to the city because, since
the events of the rebellion, they feared those “blacks celebrations.” Slaves and free
colored people were indeed aware of the latest events occurring in Haiti and Spanish
Santo Domingo. They celebrated the circumstances while the elites only felt terrible
fears.
408 “Carta de Andrés Boggiero al Capitán General de Venezuela, 24/2/1801” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XCV, 217. 409 “Sobre recibimientos de las noticias de Santo Domingo por los negros de Coro,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XCVI, 115, 152 and 225.
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CHAPTER V
Texts, Readings and Social Networks in the Conspiracy of La Guaira, 1797
On July 13 1797, the Captain General and Governor of Venezuela, Don Pedro
Carbonell heard the first rumors about the planning of a republican movement in
which hundreds of people from Caracas and La Guaira were supposedly implicated.
The rumor of the conspiracy had traveled by way of particular channels that are worth
commenting. Manuel Montesinos y Rico, a merchant in Caracas, and a participant in
the conspiracy, told his barber, Juan José Chirinos, a militia pardo who worked in the
barbershop of José Antonio Landaeta, that there was a group of people in La Guaira
and Caracas planning a republican movement based in the principles of equality and
liberty. On this occasion, Montesinos even provided Chirinos with a copy of a
republican song, the Soneto Americano, and encouraged him to copy it and pass it
along in order to gain more people to join the movement.410
What Montesinos did was not particularly risky or delicate because in the port-
town of La Guaira, where the movement had a significant number of supporters,
barbers and artisans were among the social groups attracted to a political project that
was based on social equality and justice. Montesinos probably thought that the barber
in Caracas would also be interested in participating in the movement and would be
410 López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 149.
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eager to share the news and the text with those of his class and calidad. Unfortunately
for him and his co-conspirators, Montesinos was wrong.411
Chirinos shared the rumor of insurrection with two other barbers and
militamen, Franciso Javier de León and Juan Antonio Ponte. Juan Antonio Ponte went
to Fray Juan Antonio Ravelo, ex-provincial of the Convent of San Francisco, and told
him everything he had heard. That same afternoon, accompanied by the three barbers,
Ravelo went to the house of the priest Juan Vicente Echeverría, former dean of the
University, and told him about the plans of the insurgent movement. The Priest
recommended them to keep the rumor in secret, while he communicated the news to
the Governor and decided on a course of action. However, Chirinos also shared the
information with another priest, Don Domingo Lander, who together with Echeverría
and Ravelo went to the Bishop’s house. There, the three priests told the Bishop
everything they knew about the conspiracy and the danger it represented to the
Catholic religion, the Monarchy and the people. They all decided to communicate the
news to Governor Carbonell.412
411 In a report about the causes of the Conspiracy of La Guaira, the priest José Ignacio Moreno commented that many people in La Guaira were influenced by the revolutionary ideas of liberty and equality that easily entered the coast, but he said that in Caracas “the seed of republicanism” had not yet been planted. In his opinion, Montesinos was wrong to think that he could win the “fidelity of the people of Caracas” for the revolutionary cause. See “Observaciones de un ciudadano sobre la conspiración descubierta en Caracas, el día 13 de Julio de 1797, y de los medios a que ocurrir el Gobierno para asegurar en lo sucesivo a sus habitants de iguales insultos por José Ignacio Moreno, 22/03/1798,” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 24. 412 Ibid., 150.
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The night of July 13, Carbonell received the “terrible news.” Concerned about
the danger that this republican movement represented, he called some of the highest
colonial authorities – the Lieutenant of the King, Don Joaquín de Zubillaga; the
Regent of the Real Audiencia, Don Antonio López Quintana and the oidor, Don Juan
de Pedroza – and, jointly, they decided to capture Don Manuel Montesinos and to
begin a formal inquiry process in order to discover the conspiracy’s participants, their
origins, ideals, and procedures.413
Immediately after the conspiracy was uncovered, several members of the Real
Audiencia and other colonial Authorities formed what was known as the Real
Acuerdo, a group of oidores and commissioners entrusted with the responsibility of
undertaking the inquiry and discovering the participants, their motives, the
dimensions, and significance of the subversive movement. Right from the beginning,
members of the Real Acuerdo discovered that the conspiracy had three main leaders:
the Spanish prisoner Juan Picornell, and the white creoles Don José María España and
Don Manuel Gual.414 They also believed that the movement was the result of several
circumstances; including the influence of the French and American Revolutions, as
well as, the “political confusion” created by the struggles occurring in the Caribbean
region.415
413 Ibid., 149-50; also Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” 414 Ibid., Harris Gaylord, “The Early Revolutionary Career of Juan Mariano Picornell,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 22, no. 1 (1942): 57-81; and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” 415 “Informe de la Real Audiencia de Caracas sobre sublevación, 8/8/1797,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 233.
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Soon they also found out that the conspiracy had its origin in the port of La
Guaira, and this reconfirmed their idea that the coast of tierra firme had been
ideologically contaminated. Members of the Real Audiencia had a suspicion that one
of the roots of the conspiracy was the significant presence and influence of foreigners
that came from different regions of the Caribbean to the Port of La Guaira. In an
informe written one week after the discovery of the movement, members of the Real
Audiencia contended that the entry and exit to and from the port of many foreigners
who carried ideas of “liberty and equality” generated a permissive and liberal
environment that allowed revolutionary voices to be heard frequently on the streets
and in public spaces. Also, written texts from France and Saint Domingue spread the
“false seeds of equality and liberty,” “introducing an anarchy presented as the source
of an imaginary happiness that seemed real to all simple people.”416 For the colonial
authorities, it was clear from the beginning that the flexible and liberal atmosphere of
La Guaira was fertile ground for the emergence of a movement that followed the
French model, and went against the Monarchical system, slavery and the “harmony
and order of society.”
Historians of the “Conspiracy of Gual and España” agree that the main goals
of the movement were various, and that the establishment of free trade, the abolition
of slavery with compensation to slaves owners, the elimination of Indian tributes and
416 “Informe de la Real Audiencia de Caracas sobre la sublevación que se ha descubierto en aquella Capital, 18/7/1797,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 232.
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the abolition of taxes, were among the most important ones. The movement also
argued in favor of harmony between whites, pardos, Indians, and blacks, because all
of them were seen as “brothers in Jesus Christ.” Gual and España, both white creoles,
obtained remarkable support from a group of pardos and whites, small merchants,
royal officials, soldiers, and artisans from La Guaira and Caracas, with whom they
shared a rich network of information related to the ideas of revolution, equality, and
republican principles.
The enormous quantity of documents produced by the Colonial State in the
inquiry revealed that the conspirators produced and shared a considerable number of
documents designed to instruct their followers in the Republican principles of the
movement.417 Among these documents were proclamations of insurrection, poems,
stories, songs, the “Declaration of the Rights of Man,” as well as other interesting
revolutionary documents from France, Spain, Saint Domingue and Guadeloupe that
represent fundamental sources for an understanding of the political roots of the
conspiracy, but that also provide a favorable vantage point for understanding the
diverse strategies used to impart political knowledge to the population and prompt
their mobilization. 418 Based on the examination of the modes of communication,
417 These court records, known as Expediente de la Conspiración de Gual y España, are housed in the Archivo General de Indias (AGI), section Caracas, bounds 427 – 436. Aizpurua mentions that the Archivo General de la Nación in Caracas also has several copies and originals of these records. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” 418 Through an analysis of diverse texts written by the conspirators, Adriana Hernández offers an interesting study on the local adaptations of republicanism and the ideals of liberty and equality. See Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España.”
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political knowledge and popular movements during the Age of Revolution, this
chapter seeks to analyze the social dynamics and the processes of transmission of
knowledge that could have promoted the emergence of the subversive movement of
La Guaira in 1797. I aim to look into the way in which written materials were adapted
to local conditions for the transmission of knowledge, intersecting with social
networks of communication and with the colonial political context.
There is a significant number of works in Venezuelan historiography that have
studied the conspiracy of La Guaira of 1797 from different perspectives and with
diverse purposes. However, as Ramón Aizpurua has recently suggested, many of these
works have oversimplified the conspiracy depicting it, basically, as a pre-
independence movement, more radical and republican than the independence
movement of 1810 itself.419 As happened with the Black rebellion of Coro, studying
the Republican conspiracy of 1797 under the shadow of the subsequent movement of
Independence not only obscures its real motivations, plan of action and achievements,
but also leaves aside important aspects regarding the unique social composition and
419 See José Gil Fortoul, Historia constitucional de Venezuela (Caracas: Ministerio de Educación, 1954); Pedro Grases, Derechos del hombre y del ciudadano (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1959), and La conspiración de Gual y España y el ideario de la independencia (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1997); Alí Enrique López Bohorquez, ed., Manuel Gual y José María España: valoración múltiple de la conspiración de La Guaira de 1797 (Caracas: Comisión Presidencial del Bicentenario de Gual y España, 1997); Joseph Pérez, Los movimientos precursores de la emancipación en Hispanoamérica (Madrid: Alhambra, 1977); and Lynch, The Spanish American Revolutions. Also see books and articles compiled in the CD-Rom: Doscientos años: conspiración Gual y España, CD-Rom (1997; Caracas: Archivo General de la Nación - Comisión Presidencial del Bicentenario de la Conspiración de Gual y España).
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complexity of the movement, its ideological influences and procedures regarding
communication networks, strategies, and its political base.
More recent studies have cut away these artificial threads that link “the
conspiracy of Gual and España” and the Independence movement, and provide a more
cautious, detailed and particularized interpretation of the conspiracy itself. 420 A recent
study made up of four essays by historians Juan Carlos Rey, Rogelio Pérez Perdomo,
Ramón Aizpurua, and Adriana Hernández analyzes, for example, the political roots of
the movement, its social complexity, its ideological force and its significance for the
Colonial State. In this volume, two works, one by Ramón Aizpurua and the other by
Adriana Hernández, offer interesting perspectives that examine the movement from
within, connecting it not with subsequent events, but with the local colonial context
and analyzing it taking into account the larger Caribbean political scenario and social
context.
In his work, Ramón Aizpurua offers us a detailed analysis of all the testimonies
of the Conspiracy’s participants, and paints an extremely interesting picture of the
social composition and networks upon which the movement was structured. His work
allows us to understand the motivations, aspirations, and frustrations of diverse groups
of men and women that gathered to discuss their political and economic concerns and
social conceptions, and that ended up generating alliances based on apparently
420 Rey and others, eds., Gual y España.
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common cause.421 Aizpurua argues that the incompatibility of the different political
agendas advanced by each group of conspirators could have been one of the reasons
for the failure of the movement. In this way, Aizpurua invites us to revisit the
conspiracy from the perspective of an insider, and, although he recognizes the limits
and problems that testimonial sources represent, his minucious study provides us with
a realistic picture of racial rivalries, social confrontation and resentments, and political
aspirations in Venezuela during the Age of Revolution.422
Although it is pointless to characterize the conspiracy as a pre-independence
movement, after reading Aizpurua’s work, it seems impossible to understand the
independence movement itself without considering his hypothesis that the
conspiracy’s failure was the result of diverging agendas, and the impact it had in the
colonial state and among the population at large. In this chapter, I use Aizpurua’s
421 Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” 422 Aizpurua suggests, as have other historians, that court records are a valuable and necessary source for recovering subaltern voices from the past, that might not otherwise be heard. While not underestimating the limitations of these records, Aizpurua shows that examining such evidence responsibly can make a critical difference in accounting for the activities of political agitators visible and legible. In fact, the stories of the insurgents chose to tell can be instructive in their own right, subtly inviting us to see movements, communicational strategies and social networks. See, for example, his note on the testimony of one of the conspirators, Juan Rusiñol, who seemed to have been under the threat of torture. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 228, note 22. The historiography of slave conspiracies has produced interesting debates on the use of reliable sources. Winthrop Jordan, for example writes: “the central document is a written record, produced by a white planter in his own handwriting, of what he thought he heard some slaves say under unusual and extremely stressful circumstances.” Jordan emphasizes that readers are not hearing the direct voices of slaves, but rather their voices filtered through the hearing and writing of a white elite. See Jordan, Tumult and Silence, 28. Also see, for example, the debate over the Denmark Vesey Conspiracy of 1822 in the special issue of the William and Mary Quarterly 58, no. 1 (2002), and Aisha Finch’s study on the Cuban conspiracy of La Escalera, “Insurgency at the Crossroads: Cuban Slaves and the Conspiracy of La Escalera, 1841-44” (PhD diss., New York University, 2007).
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work as a starting point for analyzing the distinctive ways in which different actors
and social groups participating in the movement produced a common language and
shared the same webs of information. I am interested in understanding the
communicational strategies and discursive formulas that these groups used in order to
recruit people of different races, social status and educational backgrounds.
Adriana Hernández’s essay offers an interesting analysis on how
Republicanism was adapted to the Venezuelan context.423 Her work is particularly
focused in the study of the “programmatic documents” of the conspiracy, that is: all
the documentation that the conspirators produced in order to explain the motivations,
goals and procedures of the movement, to recruit people and to build the Republic.
Hernández explains how pivotal revolutionary concepts such as liberty and equality
suffered transformations at the local level. Her work also allows us to explore how
conspirators felt and perceived their realities and the conspiracy itself. In this chapter,
I share Hernández’s interest in dissecting the political base of the movement through
the reading and analysis of some of the texts the conspirators produced, but I also aim
at uncovering the influence of political ideas from the “Revolutionary Caribbean” in
the La Guaira conspiracy. Like Hernández, I believe that the La Guaira Conspiracy
offered a new view of racial and social equality, with the necessary regeneration of a
civic corpus that integrates the whole population; here I argue that not only the French
and the American Revolutions, but also the Haitian Revolution was used to enrich the
423 Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España.”
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political landscape and spark the curiosity and imagination of the people of color in
the Province of Venezuela.424
In this chapter I work with historiographic sources and primary documentation.
Most of the primary documentation has been drawn from the court records housed in
the Archivo General de Indias, and particularly from the Expediente of the
Conspiracy. Although these trial records have been examined by previous historians,
and continue to be examined by current historians who are offering new and
refreshing interpretations, in this chapter I aim to offer a new focus centered on the
written materials that fed the movement, and also on the texts produced and shared by
the conspirators. I would like to show not only how the insurgents used specific
narrative formulas to spread knowledge among different social groups, but also show
that the written materials that conspirators of La Guaira produced were influenced by
Caribbean revolutionary events and representations. 425
424 Venezuelan traditional historiography has not paid enough attention to the influence that Caribbean turmoil had in the Conspiracy of La Guaira. Most of these works assume that the conspirator’s leaders (Juan Picornell, Manuel Gual and José María España) were directly influenced by French revolutionary ideals and republican ideologies, but they do not mention anything about the groups of people of color that participated in the movement and their sources of knowledge, nor anything about how French colonial visitors, prisoners and refugees could have influenced people in different towns of the Province of Venezuela. 425 For this chapter, I have particularly revised documentation that contains information regarding written materials and reading practices, especially bounds 430, 432, 434 and 436. AGI, Caracas, 427- 436.
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1. “The Revolutionary Port of La Guaira:”
Social Groups, Reading Circles and the Emergence of a Conspiracy
The coastal port-town of La Guaira, almost devoid of land to be developed, and
bathed by the Caribbean, became one of the most important ports of the Province
Venezuela during the seventeenth century, when cacao constituted one of the main
export staples of the Province. During the eighteenth century, the Guipuzcoana
Company was established in la Guaira with a monopoly for shipping and
commercializing cacao in the Spanish market and with the idea of curbing the
prevalent contraband.426 During this period of time, the port of La Guaira became an
important trading center: through this port, manufactured goods, cloths and wheat
entered the Province of Venezuela, and tropical agricultural products such as tobacco,
indigo, and, especially, cacao were sent overseas. The influence of this source-
intensive commodity on the economy of the region was impressive, transforming the
port of La Guaira into an important trading center in the region. In fact it has been
demonstrated that the connection Spain-La Guaira represented 90 percent of the legal
426 At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the crown received reports that described contraband activities between Venezuelan merchants and the Dutch, therefore the company’s emergence was closely related to the Dutch presence in Curaçao and their illegal trade with the Province. See Roland Dennis Hussey, The Caracas Company, 1728-1784; Eugenio Piñero, “The Cacao Economy of the Eighteenth-Century Province of Caracas.”
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commercial activity of the Province of Venezuela during the last decade of the
eighteenth century. La Guaira was, in fact, the legal port of the Province of Caracas.427
La Guaira was a major setting for social interaction between people of
different origins and nationalities. People from different regions of the Atlantic world
arrived to La Guaira in order to pursue commercial activities or to settle in the General
Captaincy of Venezuela. Atlantic historiography has recognized the importance that
ports and port-cities in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had for the
consolidation of the Atlantic commercial economy and for the social-political
integration of the Americas - especially Latin America and the Caribbean regions –
into the broader western economy. As we mentioned in previous chapters, ports and
port-towns were places where different languages and cultures intersected, where
commercial exchanges took place and where, of course, information arrived
permanently and spread easily. During the eighteenth century, the Port of La Guaira
followed this model, it was a place where not only merchandise was traded, including
African slaves, but where people with different backgrounds and origins, met and
exchanged information and ideas.428
427 See McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia, Chapter 4; Eduardo Arcila Farías, Economía colonial de Venezuela, Vols. 2, 2th ed. (Caracas: Italgráfica, 1973), p. 97; Hussey, The Caracas Company, 1728-1784; and Piñero, “The Cacao Economy of the Eighteenth-Century Province of Caracas.” In fact, some historians argue that Caracas received European goods through La Guaira that were either consumed in the city or distributed to others towns; Caracas also provided storage for local agricultural products that were transported to La Guaira to be exported to Europe. The port of La Guaira, also received products directly from other areas such as the coast of Barlovento and the central coast (Litoral Central). See Catalina Banko, El capital comercial en La Guaira y Caracas (1821-1848) (Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1990), 340-43. 428 See Knight and Liss, Atlantic Port Cities.
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Like many other Caribbean cities, La Guaira expanded as a result of both its
central position in Venezuela’s legal trade, and its military role in the defense of tierra
firme. Attacked by buccaneers and by the English, Dutch, and French armadas, La
Guaira was also transformed into a fortified and walled city. Located at the entrance to
tierra firme and being the most important port serving the city of Caracas, La Guaira
played a fundamental role in the military protection of the region: in fact the highest
rank military posts in Venezuela were the colonel of the Caracas Battalion, and the
Commanders in the ports of Puerto Cabello and La Guaira. From the seventeenth
century, colonial authorities recognized the importance of protecting La Guaira from
possible invasions, and for controlling smuggling activities promoted by buccaneers
and pirates; between 1660 and 1700 various fortresses were built, such as: the fort of
Catia La Mar, the fort del Peñon, fort El Colorado, fort El Zamuro and fort el Gavilán.
All these military constructions transformed La Guaira into a great fortress that
allowed it to control an important extension of the coast from the hills where the
fortresses were located. The eighteenth century also represented a period of major
investment in the fortification of La Guaira, and these projects brought employment to
hundreds of local workers and artisans, while also leading to the recruitment of many
slaves. In 1764, the Governor and Captain General, Don José Solano, wrote: “the port
of La Guaira is defended by several batteries on the shore, and these are connected by
a wall to two more batteries on the hills of the town.”429 Between 1790 and 1799,
429 Quoted by Luis Enrique González, La Guayra, conquista y colonia (Caracas: Grafarte, 1982), 157.
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approximately 800 militiamen (infantry and artillery officials, non-commissioned
offices and paid soldiers) served in La Guaira.430
The French agent, Jean François Dauxion Lavaysse, visited the port-town of
La Guaira during the first decade of the nineteenth century and described it as a “badly
built town, but tolerably well fortified.” He mentioned that La Guaira was the
commercial port of Caracas, separated from it by a distance of five leagues. According
to him there was a population of approximately “seven thousand souls in 1807, and a
garrison of eight hundred men.” He ends his short description of La Guaira, saying
“before the revolution, La Guaira did not have a Governor, it was governed by the
commander of the fortress, who united [in] his person the civil and military
authority.”431
The British merchant and traveler, Robert Semple, spent some days in La
Guaira in 1810. Referring to its population, he wrote: “The population of La Guaira is
reckoned to be about eight thousand, of all colors. Of these comparatively few are
Europeans, or even white creoles, a far greater proportion being people of color.”432 In
general terms, the population of the region of La Guaira during the last decades of the
eighteenth century resembled the social composition of the rest of Province of
430 Gary Miller, “Status and Royalty of Regular Army Officers in Late Colonial Venezuela,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 66, no. 4 (1986): 667-96; and González, La Guayra. 431 By “Revolution,” he meant the movement of Independence in 1811. Dauxion Lavaysse, A Statistical, Commercial and Political Description of Venezuela, Trinidad, 55-6. 432 Semple, Sketch of the Present State of Caracas, 35.
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Venezuela: there was an important proportion (approximately 50 percent) of free
colored population (pardos, morenos and mulattos), more than 20 percent were black
slaves, approximately 10 percent were Indians and 15 percent were whites (Spanish
and Creoles). The proportion of white and black populations varied between rural
regions and urban centers: nearby haciendas of cacao located in the coast had an
important number of black slaves and less white population, while in urban centers
and towns the proportion of white population and free mixed-races increased. The
population of La Guaira was diverse and heterogeneous: travelers noticed however
that there were less white Europeans and white creoles than people of color. 433
Most of the white elite families were occupied supervising the production of
their haciendas in the nearby areas, but they were also occupied in commercial
activities. The number of Spanish and white merchants increased rapidly once free
trade was established and the Guizpuzcoana company ceased its operations. With Free
trade established, many of these white men, former employees of the Basque
company, gained economic independence and political power, were to control the
operations of the Port and exercise decisive military influence.434
433 Ibid., 35; also see González, La Guayra; and McKinley, Caracas antes de la independencia. 434 For example, Martín Antonio de Goenaga, Francisco Sinza, Juan Xavier Arrambide, and José Montesinos Rico, all of them merchants of the Port. José María España, and Fermín Medina were hacendados in La Guaira. Also Agustín García, commander of La Guaira, Juan José Mendiri, royal accountant and guardamayor of the port, and Joaquín Sorondo, an employer of the Real Hacienda. See López, Juan Bautista Picornell, and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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There was also an important presence of free people of color who
autonomously produced food, goods and provided services in La Guaira. There were
artisans of color – black, pardo and zambo carpenters, masons, and barbers – and
small merchants – pulperos and bodegueros – that directly and indirectly participated
in the economic development of La Guaira. There were also independent peasants,
sharecroppers, and muleteers that cultivated and transported fruits and vegetables
close to La Guaira, and also transported goods and people from La Guaira to Caracas,
and viceversa. There were free women of color who worked as domestic service,
laundresses and seamstresses. Slave men, women and children worked in agriculture
in the nearby haciendas, or as domestic service, as well as in construction, petty trade
and port activities in the town.435
Like in other cities of the Province of Venezuela, all of these social groups
experienced tensions and frictions, tensions that were based on the differentiated
participation in political decisions and social status, as well as on racial distinctions
and inequality. Many elite creoles, for example, envied the privileges of the Spanish-
born, but at times these two groups were brought closer together by their common
economic and commercial interests. In the same way, pardos resented the way whites
treated them, but when the philosophy of the Enlightenment and the circumstances of
the French Caribbean islands made their way into the port-town of La Guaira, both 435 For example, Narciso Del Valle (barber in La Guaira), Andrés Renoir (hairdresser and jeweler in La Guaira), Josefina Acosta (domestic in La Guaira), Martín Amador and Juan de Andueza (both bodegueros). See “Reservada entre el Comandante Interior de La Guaira y el Gobernador de Caracas,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LIX, 268. See also López, Juan Bautista Picornell, and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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these groups started talking openly about revolution, espousing the ideals of equality
and liberty, and finding a common interest in uniting and planning an insurrection.
In a previous chapter, I showed that the presence of almost one thousand
prisoners, refugees and slaves from Martinique and Saint Domingue during the years
1793-1795 did not pass unnoticed among the inhabitants of La Guaira, who frequently
held discussions about the events of the French Islands, and used these examples to
express their inconformity with the system, emphasizing the need to transform it.
Several reports of observers of La Guaira mentioned that the presence of these
unwanted French and Dominguans visitors created the ideal environment for a
conspiracy. For example, a report sent by the Real Audiencia to Spain in August 1797
– three weeks after the conspiracy was uncovered – stated that La Guaira was affected
by the presence of “more than eight hundred” prisoners and slaves that had been sent
by the Governor of Santo Domingo, adding “although they were isolated, this was not
enough to impede their contact with the Spanish; some of these [Spanish] loved them,
and the enunciations and phrases of these prisoners influenced them, especially the
young population of both sexes and from all classes.”436 Also, José María Reina,
accountant of the Port in 1796, commented that during the time of his stay in La
Guaira he noticed that it was necessary “to control the vices so typical of port-towns,
where the diversity of nationalities promotes corruption, disorder and
436 “Real Audiencia informa a V.M. con mas extensión y documentos lo que va resultando del proceso concerniente a la conjuración que se empezó a descubrir en la noche del 13 de julio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 233.
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insubordination.” He observed that the colonial rule was flexible and permissive, “but
what ended opening up the floodgates of popular passion was the arrival of more than
nine hundred French republican prisioners from Santo Domingo who, despite the
vigilance, had relatively free relations with the general public.”437
In 1797, the priest and dean of the University of Caracas, José Ignacio Moreno
wrote a long statement about the motivations of the Conspiracy of 1797, also
recommending measures to prevent new conspiracies. In this text, Moreno clearly
stated that the prisoners and slaves sent from Santo Domingo to La Guaira inflamed
the fire of sedition among the population of La Guaira, which since 1794 had been
receiving news and texts from France and the turbulent French colonies.438
Numerous declarations and testimonies of the accused and witnesses of the
conspiracy confirm this idea of the influence of the French visitors on the conspiracy
of La Guaira. Aizpurua, for example, offers several accounts of Spanish, white creoles
and pardos confirming that different people in La Guaira had contact with the
prisoners and were receptive to their political ideas. José de Rusiñol, sergeant of the
Battallion of Caracas stationed in La Guaira and one of the ringleaders of the
conspiracy, commented that he saw a “general inclination of the people of La Guaira
to embrace the maxims of liberty and equality, observing that people talked openly
437 “Informe de José María Reina, 15 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 430, no. 44. 438 See “Observaciones de un ciudadano sobre la conspiración descubierta en Caracas, el día 13 de Julio de 1797, y de los medios a que ocurrir el Gobierno para asegurar en lo sucesivo a sus habitants de iguales insultos por José Ignacio Moreno, Agosto, 1797” AGI, Estado, 58, no. 24.
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and without any caution about the establishment of a Republic.”439 Likewise,
witnesses and suspects of the conspiracy of La Guaira noticed that some people in the
port even had friendship with the prisoners. José Manuel Del Pino, a pardo involved in
the conspiracy, declared that Narciso Del Valle, a pardo barber of La Guaira, was
friends with two French officials who were imprisoned, “one Monsieur Franquá and
another one named Rouseau, or Rossel.”440 Another pardo, José Cordero, declared that
Del Valle commented that some of the French prisoners had the intention of
provoking a revolution in this Province, and he knew this because his friend Monsieur
Fronquá had told him so. In a revealing testimony, José María España asserted that
when the French prisoners of Santo Domingo arrived
They started talking favorably about the Republican government and about the new system adopted by the French, about the articles that emanated from the convention, and consequently they showed their hatred for our constitution. In this way, they expressed themselves to the pueblo, but particularly to those who were in direct contact with them, such as Narciso Del Valle, José de Rusiñol, Don Joaquin Sorondo, Don Manuel Gual, Don Joseph Antonio and myself.441 In this testimony, España mentioned the names of individuals that were part of
social groups that held meetings and discussions about political matters; people who
shared readings, copied and circulated texts, and who were involved in the planning of
the republican conspiracy in La Guaira and Caracas. Most historians agree that a 439 “Declaración de José de Rusiñol, del 10 de noviembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 430, no. 51, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 250. 440 “Declaración de Manuel del Pino, 14 de noviembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 64, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 253. 441 “Declaración de José María España del 2 de mayo de 1798,” AGI, 433, no. 91.
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socially heterogeneous group planned and supported the conspiracy of La Guaira.
According to Casto Fulgencio López, there were two main groups of supporters: the
group of La Guaira, led by José María España and the group of Caracas, led by
Manuel Gual. However, a closer look at the expediente and its considerable number of
testimonies, reveals a more complex web of social relations, upon which the
conspiracy was built. The study of Aizpurua provides us with a fairly clear idea of
how the different social groups were conformed, what kind of threads connected them
as well as their roles in the conspiracy. Aizpurua shows that these groups not only
responded to geographical areas - La Guaira and Caracas -, but to other criteria such
as occupation, racial identity and calidad.
In first place, there was a group of people in La Guaira who were in contact
with Jose María España, a white creole born in La Guaira in 1761 but temporary
raised in Bayonne (France). España was the Corregidor of the town of Macuto – a
small town near La Guaira –, he owned and managed some haciendas of cacao and
coffee in Naiguatá and possessed several houses in the towns of Macuto and La
Guaira. He was recognized as an educated and enlightened person with a copious
library and diverse intellectual interests.
High-ranking white Spanish and creole officials, hacendados and merchants of
La Guaira met around España, conforming reading circles where books and texts
circulated, and having discussions about the French and the American revolutions, and
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about the turbulence in the French colonies.442 Among these were high ranking
officials like Don Agustín García, commander of La Guaira who used to attend these
meetings until his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel.443 Juan José Mendiri, the interim
accountant and Guardamayor of the Port, Patricio Ronán, an Irishman Lieutenant of
the Royal Corps of Engineers and Extraordinary commander in La Guaira, and Juan
Lartigue de Condé, a Frenchman who was captain of the corps of engineers of La
Guaira. There were also other lower rank characters who belonged to the military
body of La Guaira that also attended the meetings and contributed to the conspiracy by
recruiting people and connecting different groups. This was the case of José Rusiñol, a
man from Cataluña, second Sergeant of the Caracas veteran battalion stationed in La
Guaira; Bonifacio Amezcaray, second Lieutenant of the Royal Army ships, and
Joaquín Sorondo, an employee in the Real Hacienda, among others.444
The white creole Manuel Gual also attended some of these meetings and
exchanged information and news between the different regions. Gual used to be a
442 José Rusiñol declared that in these meetings they read diverse texts, from history books to political proclamations. Among the texts they read were: The Rights of Man by Thomas Paine, Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France, an account in the Cause of death of Louis XVI, a History of the Revolution in North America, the Declaration of Independence of the united thirteen provinces of America, and the Constitution of Pennsylvania, among others. See “Declaración de José Rusiñol, 6 de junio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 430, no. 51. Also quoted in Gómez, “La revolución de Caracas,” 24. 443 In a declaration, José Rusiñol asserted that in previous years he had seen a paper in the hands of García’s secretary that contained “several articles referred to the planning of an Aristocratic republic, preserving the nobility, slavery and class distinctions, but proposing various dispositions against religious institutions,” in “Declaración de Rusiñol, 31 de octubre de 1797,” AGI, 430, no. 51, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 232. 444 Grases, La conspiración de Gual y España; López, Juan Bautista Picornell; and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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captain of the veteran battalion of La Guaira but retired from his military service, and
dedicated himself to the administration of a Hacienda in Santa Lucía, located in the
Valleys of El Tuy, 20 miles away from Caracas. Gual was also in charge of
supervising with Patricio Ronán the building of forts in La Guaira. He made frequent
trips between his hacienda, Caracas and La Guaira, and was in part responsible for
establishing communication among the group of conspirators of Caracas and the one
in La Guaira.445 In Caracas, he mainly met with white elite families to discuss texts
and revolutionary ideas. Gual and other white creoles such as Don Juan Manuel Salas,
Doctor Luis Peraza, Don Nicolás Ascanio met with Don Vicente Estrada in the bodega
Los Traposos in Caracas and in the house of a white lady, named Doña Ana de
Castro.446
Accompanying high-rank militiamen in La Guaira, there were also other
informal groups of white people, connected by family ties or by their national origin,
or by their occupation: some were merchants, like Juan Xavier Arrambide, Francisco
Sinza, Martín Antonio Goenaga and Montesinos Rico brothers, others were
professionals, like Doctor Pedro Canibens (España’s brother-in-law), Doctor Juan de 445 Manuel Gual was the son of a lieutenant colonel Mateo Gual who arrived in Venezuela in 1743 with the Victoria Regiment. In 1744, the elder Gual decided to remain in Venezuela, and the crown rewarded him by granting him the title of Lieutenant Colonel. Miller notes: “He repeatedly asked the crown for a promotion, each time noting that officers who entered the service when he did were by then generals in Spain, while he floundered in Venezuela as lieutenant colonel. Although he served interim appointments as commander in Puerto Cabello and as governor of Cumaná, he remained a lieutenant colonel for nearly 30 years until his death in 1777.” Manuel Gual suffered the same fate as his father, he retired from the army with the rank of Captain in 1796 in part because his repeated pleas for promotion went unanswered. See Miller, “Status and Royalty of Regular Army Officers,” 683. 446 López, Juan Bautista Picornell.
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la Tasa, pharmacist Tomás Cardozo and an employee in the Real Hacienda, Domingo
Sánchez (also España’s brother-in-law). All of them used to attend some of the
meetings that José María España and Patricio Ronán arranged.447
In La Guaira there was a group of pardos that met around the barber and
official of the pardo battalion, Narciso Del Valle. Del Valle had a barbershop, close to
the Church and the military barracks that pardos and “common people” visited. In his
shop, they read diverse texts, listened to oral readings and discussions, and debated the
updates they heard about European and Caribbean politics. Aizpurua contends that a
considerable number of the pardos who participated in the conspiracy were recruited
by Del Valle. José Cordero belonged to this circle, and was also responsible for
establishing relations with José Rusiñol, the leader of a group of veteran white
militiamen; José Manuel Del Pino, Juan Moreno, and Manuel Granadino, all of them
soldiers of the battalion of La Guaira. Del Valle also established a relatioship with
Lorenzo Acosta, the lieutenant of the free blacks in Carayaca, and even gave him
money to recruit people for the revolutionary cause of La Guaira. According to
Acosta, Del Valle told him that they were planning a Republic to “get rid of the
alcabalas, the rights, the estanco of tobacco, the rights for burying and for baptisms,
447 Grases, La conspiración de Gual y España; López, Juan Bautista Picornell; and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.” The location of these meetings varied: sometimes they met in the houses of Ronán and España, on other occasions they went together on walks to the river where they had lunch and enjoyed a fresher climate. José María Salas comments that he attended some of these meetings, attended also by “Don Agustín García, Don Patricio Ronán, Don Pedro Canibens, and Don Manuel Gual, when he was in town.” He comments: “We talked about news in Spain and France brought by the Gacetas and papers that came from Spain and Trinidad.” “Declaración de José María Salas, 17 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 59, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 262.
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and that everyone will be equals, like they are in France, they will be ruled by judges
elected by themselves, and get rid of those who are bad.”448Acosta spread the news of
a possible revolutionary movement in La Guaira among the people of Carayaca, but he
was not successful recruiting and organizing them to go down to La Guaira.
Regarding the leadership and participation of social lower groups in the
conspiracy, historian Casto Fulgencio López affirms:
In the history of this revolution the name of José Rusiñol is barely mentioned, merely to say that he was condemned, the names of Narciso Del Valle, Agustín Serrano, José Manuel Del Pino, and Juan Moreno, are hardly mentioned either. They were humble soldiers who paid with their heads the beautiful purpose of giving us liberty.449 With the title “Conspiracy of Gual and España,” traditional historiographic
narratives of this political movement have emphasized the role that white creoles
played in the planning of the conspiracy, leaving aside the important voices and
participation of lower rank officials and people of color. Aizpurua recognizes that the
social groups that, formally or informally, were to be involved in the conspiracy were
connected thanks to the activities of six ringleaders: Narciso Del Valle, José Cordero,
José Rusiñol, José María España, Manuel Gual and Patricio Ronán. All of them
encouraged people to read and circulate revolutionary texts, recruited people to attend
their discussions, and sought to communicate with each other with the purpose of
elaborating a political plan; however, the configuration of a common cause among
448 “Declaración de Lorenzo Acosta, 5 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 429, no. 30, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 307. 449 López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 90.
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these groups was in great part promoted by another participant: Juan Baustista
Picornell.
On December 3, 1796 a Spanish prisoner was sent to the already turbulent Port
of La Guaira. A member of various scientific and literary societies in Spain, and a
teacher and writer, Juan Bautista Mariano Picornell was the leader of a group of
plotters who had planned a revolutionary movement to take place in Madrid on San
Blas day, February 3, 1796. Picornell, like many other Spanish academics of his time,
had ties with the masonry which imbued him with the philosophy of the French
Revolution and which offered a critical posture towards the rule of Charles IV and the
absolutist government of Manuel Godoy, known as the Prince of Peace.450
The Conspiracy of San Blas aimed at overthrowing the Monarchy and planned
the establishment of a Republic. The plot was planned with the assistance of other
professionals and students, such as Manuel Cortés de Campomanes, Juan Manzanares,
Sebastián Andrés Aragón and José Lax, among others. All of them produced texts to
induce people to unite, arm themselves and join the revolutionary cause. Apparently,
by the beginning of 1796, more than three hundred people in Spain were part of the
conspiracy, however it was uncovered in February 1796, and the conspirators
condemned to die on the gallows.451
450 Gaylord, “The Early Revolutionary Career of Juan Mariano Picornell.” 451 Ibid., and López, Juan Bautista Picornell.
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The Spanish government later decided to sent the accused, one by one, to the
American colonies to complete sentences with the idea of preventing the contagion of
their ideas in the Peninsula. Juan Picornell arrived in La Guaira in December 1796,
and Captain General Carbonell ordered him imprisoned and held without
communication until he could be sent on to Panamá. The rest of the conspirators
(Sebastián Andrés, José Lax, Manuel Cortés and Juan Manzanares) arrived to La
Guaira during the next year, and by May 1797 the San Blas conspirators were together
again, but this time in the colonial port.452
In prison, Juan Picornell discovered that he was not an unwelcome visitor; his
jailers became his friends and confidants, and held conversations in which the
discussion about republican and liberal ideas was common and gained supporters.
Seen as victims of Spanish persecution and the object of Godoy’s injustices, the
conspirators of San Blas won the confidence of some officials who gave them special
treatment and favors, including the privilege to communicate freely with the people of
Caracas and La Guaira who wanted to see them. José Rusiñol, for example, was the
one responsible for escorting Picornell from the Port to his prison cell when he arrived
and, after this, he continued to have frequent communication with him. Don Pedro
Canibens, a doctor at the Hospital in La Guaira and España’s brother in law, also used
to visit Picornell with the excuse of examining him, and he frequently brought his
practitioner Juan de la Tasa. Sergeant José Cordero, a young man of color attached to
452 Gaylord, “The Early Revolutionary Career of Juan Mariano Picornell.”
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the Caracas battalion, was also allowed to visit Picornell on different occasions. The
barber Narciso Del Valle also visited Picornell to shave him. According to López, at
the beginning of 1797 “Picornell had been interviewed in his jail by almost everybody
involved in the conspiracy.”453 In these visits, they learned about Picornell’s
revolutionary opinions also expressed in his writings: Spain had tyrannized America,
slavery was an outrageous imposition, Spain gained unfair economic benefits from
America, and a new more equalitarian and liberating government needed to be
established, in which all would be equals and commerce would be opened up to all
nations.
However, Picornell also learned a lot from the locals. He soon realized that the
Spanish colonies were by no means unaware of French revolutionary ideas. La Guaira,
in particular, had been affected by the presence of more than nine hundred French
prisoners and slaves from the Caribbean colonies that remained in the port from 1793
to 1795, as well as by the great number of visitors who carried information and news
about revolutionary events, by the circulation of written materials and the emergence
of social spaces for political discussion, reading circles where ideas were exchanged.
For Picornell, this environment seemed ideal for stirring a new mobilization with the
same cause as the frustrated San Blas conspiracy. However, Picornell had to confront
the particularities of the colonial world; the political and economic circumstances in
Venezuela were different from those in the Peninsula, as were the social divisions and
453 López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 75.
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tensions. Picornell needed to listen to his visitors in order to understand their
frustrations and aspirations, for him it was not difficult to realize that political, social,
and economic grievances accumulated over the years made many people in Venezuela
keen to receive revolutionary ideas, but adaptations to local circumstances needed to
be made.454
Picornell was a prolific writer of revolutionary texts, but he was also a teacher,
and he knew that he needed information from his “pupils” in order to write appropriate
texts, adapted to the local political and social contexts. So, in prison Picornell began to
write different texts that he shared with all of his visitors with the idea that they
circulate these among their families, friends and neighbors. The fundamental aim of
various of his texts was to gain support from the population of color, therefore these
were written in a style and discourse appropriate for reading outloud to the people of
color, using familiar narrative formulas such as epistles, dialogues and stories, short
and easy enough to be memorized and to be retold orally.
One of these texts was entitled The Life of the Admirable Bitatusa, an
autobiographic text that narrates the story of Bitatusa – an anagram for Picornell’s
middle name Bautista -, a young soldier at the service of the King of the ñapoleses –
an anagram for “españoles,” Spaniards – who, influenced by the ideas of a philosopher
Dadver – an anagram for “verdad,” truth –, abandoned his military career and
454 See López, Juan Bautista Picornell; Gaylord, “The Early Revolutionary Career of Juan Mariano Picornell,” and Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro.”
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dedicated his life instead to reading and enlightening himself, Bitatusa learned that in
order to stop bowing down before the King and his tyranny he had to instruct himself.
The lesson was clear: the pueblo must study because education was the practice
capable of granting them liberty.455
There was another paper entitled Revelation to Fray José María de la
Concepción, a text in which Picornell told the story of a priest who received a visit
from the spirit of José Leonardo Chirinos, the leader of the black rebellion of Coro of
1795. In this story, the spirit of José Leonardo is in heaven because he died as a
martyr, he appeared to the Fray to tell him in the name of the Father that Americans
must recover their liberty and that they will count on the support of almighty God. The
priest told the Bishop about the miraculous apparition, but he ended up in jail.
Desperate, the priest asked God for help, and miraculously he received pen and paper,
so he began writing an Exhortation to the Americans, a text in which he presented the
Rights of Man and the benefits of abolishing slavery, and enjoying liberty and
equality. In this text, Picornell sought to eradicate the idea people had about
republicanism as an anti-religious and atheistic movement, presenting God as 455 Unfortunately substantial part of these papers were burned or hidden; once the colonial authorities uncovered the conspiracy, many of the conspirators sought to destroy any written evidence. In order to learn about their content, historians have had to rely on the numerous declarations that describe the texts. José María España, for example, commented: “In order to prepare the spirits, [Picornell] produced a text in jail entitled ‘The life of Vitatusa’ that was basically directed against the King, the nobility, and the priests, another one entitled ‘Revelation of Father Fr. Joseph de la Concepción, in which the zambo martyr José Leonardo, principal accused for the rebellions in Coro, is canonized, and where the Americans are incited to declare their freedom, and another entitled ‘Letter from a grandfather to his grandchild,’ in which the grandfather exhorts the child to follow the cause of freedom in the event that an upheaval should take place in the Americas.” See “Declaración de José María España, 2 de mayo de 1799,” AGI, Caracas, 433, no. 91, 49-49v.
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someone who would support the new order and its values. Additionally, he merged
this representation with the characterization of José Leonardo as a martyr: instead of
showing him as a disloyal rebel, he used the recent memory that people had about the
zambo leader and his striking death as a rhetorical strategy to evoke powerful
emotions of empathy and compassion in the people of color. In this sense, his political
discourse was articulated and transformed by the emotionalization of the recent
memory of black insurrection.456
Another paper, entitled Letter from a Grandfather to his grandchild, also
writen by Pirconell, circulated in La Guaira. This was a text written as an epistle from
a grandfather who lived in Cádiz in Spain to his grandchild living in America. The old
man describes the tough circumstances that Spaniards experienced in la Peninsula,
where they were all oppressed by a “bad government,” and where agriculture,
commerce and the arts were devastated by the tyranny of the King. He also
commented that he knew that America also experienced oppression and misery, but
that he had heard that a revolutionary movement was being planned some place in
America, and he exhorted his grandchild to participate and be part of the important
changes that were about to take place in America.457
456 See Ibid., and López, Juan Bautista Picornell. Tropes of rage and abuse infused representations that people produced about José Leonardo Chirinos and his frustrated insurrection, Picornell perceived these feelings and articulated them in his writings. He must have heard about José Leonardo in La Guaira, probably from José Rusiñol, who also escorted and accompanied Chirinos in La Guaira, after he was captured and submitted to Caracas. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 239. 457 López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 80-1.
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Picornell also wrote another paper entitled: A Dialogue between a black
Lieutenant-Colonel of the French Republic and a Black Spaniard, his cousin. In this
text, written as a dialogue containing questions and answers, Picornell tells the story
of what happened when these two characters saw each other, the black Spaniard
impressed by the way his cousin is dressed up as a French Officer asked him about it,
and the Black French answered that in France all men were equal and free, and as such
they could attain both military and political positions.458 Obviously, this text sought to
transmit how the republican system, based on the prerogatives of liberty and equality,
highly benefited the people of color.
These papers circulated among the population of La Guaira and became an
important media for transmitting knowledge about revolutionary movements in
Europe and America, about the Republican system, and its political maxims and
values. As Adriana Hernández comments, these propagandistic texts contained
repetitive ideas and motivations. These papers
Created conscience of how the King and his functionaries oppressed, insisted in the idea of responsibly defending the American fatherland – patria americana -, and legitimated the idea of rebellion as a resource to identify revolutionary equality and fraternity with the Christian love for others and divine justice.459
Interestingly, these texts also used references taken from the local context
(such as José Leonardo, the American grandchild and the Spaniard black) and 458 “Declaración de José Cordero, 27 de octubre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 25. 459 Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España,” 365.
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incorporated them into the Atlantic revolutionary circumstances. With this rhetorical
strategy its author created a mirror in which Venezuelans could see themselves as
agents of revolutionary political change, and also as beneficiaries of these
transformations, especially the people of color, who represented the majority of the
population.
These texts were read and listened to numerous inhabitants of La Guaira. In
fact, José Rusiñol, José Cordero and Narciso Del Valle appear as the main agents in
charge of spreading these texts among their own groups of people. The medical
practitioner, Juan de la Tasa, for example, commented that he read some of the papers
that Rusiñol had given him “the one about Bitatusa, the sermon of the Fray, and
another song that a fray from Santo Domingo gave to him, but that he burned.”460 The
pardo, José Manuel Del Pino also declared that at Del Valle’s barbershop, he read a
“paper about the apparition of the spirit of José Leonardo to a priest, and the letter
from the grandfather to his grandchild” and that Rusiñol had given these to Del Valle.
Del Pino also commented that he saw the text about the “black cousins” in the hands
of the merchant José Montesinos y Rico, but that this was later burned, along with the
writings that Del Valle had provided him.461
460 “Delación de Juan de la Tasa,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 23, also quoted in Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España,” 363. 461 Several declarations allow us to appreciate the care that some of the participants of the conspiracy took of these texts. Narciso Del Valle – who possibly received them from Rusiñol or Picornell himself - circulated them in his barbershop, but afraid of being discovered there, he gave them to José Cordero who kept them in a drawer. However, once the news that the conspiracy had been discovered by the Authorities arrived in La Guaira, Cordero gave the writings to Miguel Granadino with instructions to
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Taking into consideration that the majority of the population was non-literate,
it is difficult to determine the effects and results that the texts achieved; however,
these were written in familiar discursive formulas, such as epistles, dialogues, tales,
and stories, that facilitated reading out loud and the comprehension of their contents
among the less educated groups. In this sense, the transmission of principles of
freedom and abolition, republicanism and equality was transformed in two ways: by
adapting the contents of the writings to the local environment, producing a feeling of
empathy and identification, and by making substantial adjustments in the discourse
narrative in order to reach different sectors of the population, especially the vast
majority of non literate people of color.
Being a teacher, Picornell had clear ideas about how to capture the attention of
different kinds of readers (and listeners) and use effective communicational resources;
he even instructed others in how to do so. Following the example of Picornell, Narciso
Del Valle, for example, decided to write a text to recruit the black people of Curiepe.
According to Rusiñol, in this letter Del Valle exhorted them “to unite in order to make
of this province the same that the French and the British Americans had done in their
countries […] commenting also about the natural equality and the other rights of
men.” Apparently, Del Valle previously sent the paper to Picornell and to Manuel
bury them, but he instead decided to burn them, and Cordero got mad with Granadino and told him that he “acted badly, because this was a work that had taken Don Juan Picornell six months of work.” See “Declaración de José Cordero, del 16 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 25; “Declaración de José Manuel del Pino, 15 de noviembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 64, and “Declaración de Miguel Granadino, del 2 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 23. All of them quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 243.
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Gual who agreed that this letter should not be sent to the zambos of Curiepe because
“its style and instruction was more elevated than the intelligence of these men, and
that they should be addressed in a more comprehensible way.”462
Taking into consideration Picornell’s effort in producing a good number of
texts to instruct people of La Guaira on the revolutionary cause and the numerous
conversations he had with his visitors, some individuals, organizers of the frequent
meetings and reading circles, decided to ask Picornell for his experience and support
to coordinate and give shape to an insurrectionary movement in the Province of
Venezuela. This group of people helped Picornell escape from jail and worked closely
with him in the elaboration of a political plan, including the production of a number of
texts that continued seeking the support of the people of La Guaira and Caracas. In the
next section I will look on some of these texts in order to understand the rhetorical
strategies used and how they were adapted to the local context, creating a common
language of political debate and confrontation among diverse social groups.
2. Books and Manuscripts in the Conspiracy of La Guaira, 1797-1799
One of the first decisions that members of the Real Acuerdo took after
identifying the main leaders of the conspiracy was to go to their homes in Caracas, La
Guaira and Santa Lucía in order to seize all the manuscripts and written sources that
462 “Declaración de José Rusiñol, 4 de noviembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 430, no. 51.
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could provide them with additional indications about the motivations and character of
the insurgency movement. On July 17 1797, the official Francisco Espejo and his
secretary went to the house of José María España, who had escaped from La Guaira
the night before, and began to search for documents and texts in his desk and in his
library. That same day, the oidor Don Antonio Fernández de León and his secretary
were searching the house of Manuel Gual in Santa Lucía. They found out that Gual
had left his hacienda two days earlier, and they decided to look for documents that
could shed light on the participants, motivations and characteristics of the movement.
Fernández ordered his officials to seal all the chests found in the house and carry them
to Caracas. At the bottom of one of them, in secret compartments, some of the most
important manuscripts and texts of the conspiracy were to be found.
The Colonial authorities discovered that the conspiracy was not improvised;
numerous documents showed that a group of people had planned the movement for
months. The conspiracy of La Guaira was devised by people initially inspired by
French enlightened literature, and by manuscripts from the French and American
revolutions, but fed with ideas, manuscripts and information that foreigners from
France, the Caribbean and Spain who visited the Province shared and spread. Moved
by their own concerns and interests, the conspirators also produced their own body of
documents, such as songs, instructions, constitutions and political plans that gave
shape to the movement to local circumstances.
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2.1. “Prohibited Books” in the Libraries of the Conspirators
Both José María España and Manuel Gual were “educated” white creoles that
possessed libraries containing several French titles. The presence of these French
books did not necessarily indicate an inclination to revolutionary ideas, but rather their
taste for French literature and Enlightenment currents, so common among men
belonging to their social group. As historian Casto Fulgencio López wrote, José María
España had one of the “most qualified” libraries in the town of La Guaira, a library of
approximately 90 titles in 200 volumes.463 This library was inspected by Francisco
Espejo in August, 8 1797. The list of books includes one of the most popular reformist
Spanish authors such as Feijóo and his most famous works the: Teatro Crítico and the
Cartas Críticas; and several books about geography, mathematics, agriculture, such as
the Descripción Geográfica de la Region Magallanica by Francisco Saija, Manual de
Trigonometrica by Pedro Manuel Cedillo, Naturaleza y virtudes de las Plantas by
Francisco Ximenez, and Tratado del Cultivo de Tierras by an French author. There
are many books about Maritime matters and sailing, and many others about
geographical descriptions of America and the Antilles; as well as Spanish, French and
English dictionaries. Of the ninety titles, thirty were in French, and among these there
were some books about French politics and the Revolution that were immediately
463 AGI, Caracas, 427, 3, 16-26. I thank Ramón Aizpurua for sharing these documents with me.
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seized by Espejo and upon which I will comment later on. The library of España was
the typical among any modern reader in the Americas, with lots of books about
politics, economics, and commerce and “useful subjects,” such as agriculture,
mathematics, geography and dictionaries.
In addition, I found a list of the books that were seized from the libraries of the
conspirators by the officials after uncovering the plot and that were sent to Spain
afterwards. This list not only allows us to recognize some of books that these leading
characters possessed, but also the kind of texts that were considered dangerous and
promoters of insurgency by colonial officials.
A box, containing thirty-eight volumes and sixty two copies of the text “The
Rights of men and of the citizen,” was sent by the Real Audiencia to the King in
September 1802. These books had been collected by the commissioners Antonio
Fernández de León and Francisco Espejo in the houses of the conspirators in July
1797, and remained in the hands of the Real Audiencia until they decided to send them
to Spain.464 The list contains eighteen titles. All of the books, except the sixty two
copies of “The Rights of the men and the citizen,” were written in French and
464 This list contained books belonging to different libraries, some belonged to José María España, others to Manuel Gual, and yet others to José Rusiñol and José María Salas, a captain in La Guaira who did not necessarily participate in the Conspiracy, but who attended some meetings and shared readings with some of the conspirators. “Libros que se recoxieron a los reos de la Sublevación descubierta en 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 352. The books apparently remained in the hands of the members of the Real Audiencia, who used them in their investigations until they sent them to Spain in 1802. See, for example, “Declaración de José María Salas del 23 de octubre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 59.
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belonged to diverse fields, such as history, politics, agriculture, travelers chronicles,
marine engineering, and philosophy.
Here is a description of the books seized during the investigation of the
conspiracy and sent by the Real Audiencia to Spain in 1802:
1) One volume of the work Bibiothéque amusante et instructive, contenant des
anecdotes interessantes et des Histoires curieuses tirées des meilleurs auteurs,
a book written by Jean Pierre Niceron and François Joachim Duport du Tertre.
The book, found inside a drawer of España’s desk, contains several essays
about the diversity of human nature. From a comparative perspective, the
authors explored differences between people of different nations and regions.
Topics such as beauty, memory, chastity, women, vengeance, marriage and
infidelity, festivities, justice, health and medicines, death and predictions are
studied comparatively with the intention of offering to the readers a general
knowledge about the people of different nations and regions. Indigenous
communities of the Americas are mentioned several times to show how they
differ from Europeans in their nature and the way they live. 465
2) Two volumes of the Dictionnaire de la Marine Françoise avec figures, par
Charles Romme. This is a dictionary that emphasizes the importance of
maritime sciences for the development of nations and the improvement of
465 Jean Pierre Niceron and François Joachim Duport du Tertre, Bibliothèque amusante et instructive, contenant des anecdotes interessantes et des Histoires curieuses tirées des meilleurs auteurs (Paris: Chez Duchesne, 1755): http://books.google.com/books.
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commercial activities. The book was thought of as a guide for any reader to
have a general idea of maritime notions and basic concepts.466
3) Two volumes of the book Histoire General D’Amérique. Unfortunately, I
could not find any reference for this book. The title mentioned on the list is
incomplete and no additional information is given about authors or printing
house, which makes it really hard to identify.
4) Ten volumes of the book Histoire de L’Eglise. This is a book written by the
Abbot de Choisy between the years 1700 and 1723. Ten volumes compiled the
history of the Church from the year 100 BC until the year of 1715. The Holy
Office prohibited these volumes because they considered that the author
committed many historical mistakes and imprecisions regarding the history of
the Church.467
5) Seven volumes of the book Histoire Philosophique et Politique des
établissements et du commerce des européens dans les deux Indes, written by
Abbé Guillaume Raynal. Raynal was a French writer and philosopher who
wrote several books on philosophy, politics and commerce, and about the
Americas. These volumes represented an encyclopedia in which information
466 Charles Romme, Dictionnaire de la Marine Françoise avec figures, par Charles Romme, Correspondant de L’Academie de Sciences de Paris et Professeur de mathématique e d’Hydrographie au Port de Rochefort (Paris: Chez P.L. Chauvet, 1792): http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k57125662.r=Dictionnaire+de+Marine.LangEN. 467 Abbé De Choisy, Histoire de L’Eglise (Paris: Chez Christophe Davi, 1701-1723): http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k54250306/f2.
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on the New World was accompanied by philosophical reflections about slavery
and colonialism. In this work, Raynal praises commercial activities and trade
but clearly denounces slavery and calls into question the principles of
colonization. The volumes are considered the most significant work of Raynal
in which he made a contribution to democratic propaganda. After three
successful editions, some including virulent attacks against despotic powers;
the book was included in the French and Spanish Index of Prohibited books in
1774. According documentation provided by the commissioners, these
volumes belonged to José María España.468
6) One volume entitled Histoire de Bayard. The complete title of this book is
Histoire de Pierre du Terrail, dit Chevalier Bayard, san peur et san reproche.
This book, written by M. Guyard de Berville, is a biography of a French
knight, the Chevalier de Bayard, who fought in the war between France and
Italy in 1504. The book could be considered a Chivalry book that praises
French blood and braveness.469
7) Two volumes of an unidentified book entitled Examen des Finans.
8) One volume of an unidentified book entitled Catechism de Bayonne.
468 Abbé Guillaume Raynal, Historie philosophique et politique des établissement et du commerce des européens dans les Deux Indes (Amsterdam: n.d., 1770): http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k109690m. See also “Auto de Antonio Fernández y Francisco Espejo, del 23 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 427, 3, quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 244. 469 M. Guyard de Berville, Histoire de Pierre du Terrail, dit Chevalier Bayard, san peur et san reproche (Lyon: Chez Barnuset, 1786).
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9) One volume entitled Lettres Juives, ou Correspondance philosophique,
historique, et critique entre un juif voyageur á Paris et ses correspondans en
divers endroits. Written by Jean-Baptiste De Boyer D’Argens, this book offers
a general description of life in Paris, offering interesting comments about the
changes in political and social relations. This book belonged to the captain
José María Salas, who was interrogated for sharing some of his books with the
conspirators; he declared that during his stay in La Guaira, he attended several
meetings with the insurgents “but not those in which the virtue of the
Republics of France or North America were a topic of conversation.”470
10) The first volume of a book entitled Oeuvres de Rousseau. This book seems to
be the first volume of the approximately eighteen volumes that compiled the
entire written work of the French philosopher and political thinker, Jean
Jacques Rousseau. Rousseau’s writings such as Discourse on the Origin of
Inequality, and On The Social Contract represented cornerstones in modern
political and social thought and made a strong contribution for democratic
government.471 His books were prohibited is Spain because they were
considered anti-monarchical and contrary to social harmony. This book also
belonged to the captain José María Salas who had lent it to the conspirators.
470 “Declaración de José María Salas del 23 de octubre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 59, also quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 262. 471 Jean Jacques Rousseau, Oeuvres Complets (Paris: Chez de Maisonneuve, de l’imprimerie de Didot Le Jeune, 1793-1800).
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11) Two volumes, first and second, of an unidentified book Histoires de
Tamerdam.
12) One volume of the book Bibliothéque Phissico Economique Instructive et
Amusante. This book, written by Jean-Baptiste Bory de Saint-Vincent, offers a
general appraisal of the latest improvement and inventions in agricultural
production, labor and new occupations, domestic economy and administration,
healing and diseases. This book had nineteen volumes, but the Real Audiencia
possessed only one.472
13) Two volumes, the third and fourth, of the book Recueil de pieces galantes en
prose et en vers, written by Madame Henriette de Coligny, Comtesse de la
Suze and Monsieur Paul Pelisson. This is a book of Belles Lettres that includes
stories and poetry on human feeling such as love, joy and jealousy.473
14) One volume of the book Oeuvres Choisies de J.B. Rousseau, Odes, Cantantes,
Epitres, ét poesies diverses. This is a book divided into five parts: odes, odes in
music, allegories, poetry and epistles. It was written by Jean Baptiste
Rousseau, a French poet and writer who acquired great reputation during the
eighteenth century for his poetry and comedies, although he was also accused
472 Jean-Baptiste Bory de Saint-Vincent, Bibliothéque Phissico Economique Instructive et Amusante (Paris: Chez Buisson, 1782-1793): http://gallica.bnf.fr.ark:/12148/bpt6k2057380/f2. 473 Madame Henriette de Coligny, Comtesse de la Suze and Monsieur Paul Pelisson, Recueil de pieces galantes en prose et en vers (Lyon: Chez Antoine Bondet, 1695).
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of writing obscene and libelous verses. In this work, he wrote several odes
dedicated to social values such as justice, laws and the obligations of men.474
15) The seventh volume of the book Nouveau Voyage aux Isles de L’Amerique
contenant L’Histoire Naturelle de ces Pays, L’origine, Les Moeurs, La
Religion et Le Gouvernment des habitants anciens et moderne; Les Guerres
sur les evenemens singulaires qui y son arrivez pendant le long séjour que
L’auteur y a fait: le Commerce et les manufactures qui y son établies, et les
moyens de les augmenter. This book written by Jean-Baptiste Labat, a French
Dominican who was appointed procurator-general of all the Dominican
convents in the Antilles in 1696, was a treaty that compiled his observations on
the West Indies. The book gives a general description of the geography,
vegetation and animals of islands such as Martinique, Guadeloupe, Grenada
and Saint Domingue. His book pays special attention to the history and
everyday life of black people, with a special chapter on “Black wizards” and
the system of slavery. The book also provides a complete description of the
different crops produced in the islands, especially the production of sugar cane
with several illustrations made by the author.475
474 Jean Baptiste Rousseau, Oeuvres Choisies de J.B. Rousseau, Odes, Cantantes, Epitres, ét poesies diverses (Paris: Janet et Cotelle Libraries, 1823 [1723]). 475 Jean-Baptiste Labat, Nouveau Voyage aux Isles de L’Amerique contenant L’Histoire Naturelle de ces Pays, L’origine, Les Moeurs, La Religion et Le Gouvernment des habitants anciens et moderne; Les Guerre ser les evenemens singulaires qui y son arrivez pendant le long séjour que L’auteur y a fait: le Commerce et les manufactures qui y son établies, et les moyens de les augmenter (La Haye: Chez P. Husson, 1722-1724).
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16) One book entitled La Police de Paris dévoilée, written by Pierre Manuel,
procurator of the insurrectionary Paris commune in 1792 and member of the
national assembly of Paris during the first years after the Revolution. He wrote
several revolutionary pamphlets such as La Bastille dévoilée (1789); La Police
de Paris dévoilée (1791), and Lettres sur la Révolution (1792).476
17) One volume of an unidentified book entitled Les Contemporaines ou
Aventuresdes Musjotier temmes de l’age present.
18) Sixty two copies of a text entitled Derechos del hombre y del ciudadano. This
is the Spanish translation of the original French text Déclaration des droits de
l'Homme et du Citoyen, written during the French Revolution and adopted by
the French National Assembly as an important document for the Revolution.
According to the Real Audiencia this was a small notebook (librejo or
cuadernillo) printed in Trinidad or Guadeloupe, of a type that commonly
circulated in the French colonies and that was introduced in Venezuela through
Trinidad. In this declaration, it is argued that “the natural and imprescriptible
rights of man" are "liberty, property, security and resistance to oppression."
The declaration called, among other things, for the destruction of aristocratic
privileges by proclaiming an end to exemptions from taxation, freedom and
equal rights for all men, and access to public office based on talent. The
476 Pierre Manuel, La Police de Paris dévoilée (Paris: n.d., 1791): http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b84120585.
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monarchy was to be limited, and all citizens were to have the right to take part
in the legislative process. Colonial authorities believed that this text corrupted
the order of society, and confuses, through numerous artificial, weak and
dangerous phrases, the reason of men.477
The volumes collected by the Authorities in the houses of the conspirators
allow us to perceive the kind of knowledge and information that officials believed
were the source of inspiration for the conspiracy. The commissioners Antonio
Fernández de León and Francisco Espejo declared that they seized “books prohibited
by the State and others worth of being prohibited because they contain maxims
contrary to our government.”478 However, the list shows that by the time they seized
the volumes a wider set of motivations intervened: in first place we can perceive a sort
of francophobia that made any book written in French a source of revolutionary
contamination, in this sense officials were looking for evidence that could help them
build connections between the conspirators and the French revolutionary movement.
The sixty two copies of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, the
Oeuvres of Jean Jacques Roussseau, the Histoire Philosophique and Politique by
Raynal, and the text of Pierre Manuel were evident sources of French revolutionary
contamination, but the Oeuvres Choisies of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, the Recueil de
pieces galantes written by Madame Henriette de Coligny, and the Histoire de 477 “Real Audiencia de Caracas prohibe la lectura del librillo titulado Derechos del Hombre y del Ciudadano, y cualquier otro papel sedicioso, 18 de diciembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 432, no. 85. 478 “Auto de Antonio Fernández de León y Francisco Espejo, 23 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 427, no. 3.
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Chevalier Bayard by Guyard de Berville were not revolutionary texts, they were
rather eighteenth century French literature dedicated to enlightened topics, although
some of them promoted favorable views of France and the French people that must
have produced concern among the Spanish authorities.
Secondly, the officials also collected a group of books that referred to topics
such as the geography of America, agriculture, technology, commerce and
administration. These books were seized not because they were considered
“revolutionary” but because they broached certain topics such as slavery, exploitation,
free trade and taxes, that were matter of concern for both French and Caribbean
revolutionaries. The Bibliothéque Phissico Economique Instructive et Amusante by
Jean-Baptiste Bory de Saint-Vincent, the Dictionnaire de la Marine Françoise avec
figures by Charles Romme, the Bibiothéque amusante et instructive by Niceron and
François Duport du Tertre, as well as the Nouveau Voyage aux Isles de L’Amerique by
Jean-Baptiste Labat, are included in this group. The latter in particular contained a
section dedicated to a description of the Caribbean islands, the production of sugar and
other crops, the slave trade, the slavery system and the everyday life of free blacks and
slaves.
Therefore, the volumes collected by the colonial officials responded to a
pattern: they were all written in French, some contained information about the French
revolution and its principles (such as the texts of Raynal, Jean Jacques Rousseau and
the Declaration of Rigths of men), while others were simply about general
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enlightenment topics in literature, theater and agriculture. Various of these French
books contained information about the agricultural exploitation of America, and
indirectly denounced the slavery system.
Most of these books were to be found in the libraries of accommodated white
creoles, such as José María España, Manuel Gual, the brothers Montesinos Rico, and
José María Salas, individuals that had the economic resources to buy books, as well as
the education to read them in French, and even translate them into Spanish. We know
that characters like Juan Jose Mendiri – the port official - collaborated with the
collection of written materials in the port, and that the white creole Juan Xavier
Arrambide and the pharmacist José Cardozo copied and translated texts and
documents that circulated among various social groups of La Guaira.479
The pardos Narciso Del Valle and José Cordero, however, also had some
French books – borrowed from someone or bought in the port - and asked the French
hairdresser André Renoir to help them translate some of these.480 Nevertheless, these
pardos represented rather an exception; pardos and free blacks had more easy access to
brief texts, commonly manuscripts, such as the ones that Picornell used to write.
Considering the evidence found in the lists of books and documents, I believe French
revolutionary books were read by some of the conspirators of La Guaira, but locally
produced texts adapted to local situations were much more popular and accessible than
479 See Chapter I. 480 According to Renoir, he only helped them to translate French books on medicine, comedies and grammar. See “Declaración de André Renoir, 4 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 23.
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the Rousseaus and the Raynals, only to be found in a reduced number of libraries
possessed by the white elite.
2.2 Texts and Manuscripts produced by the Conspirators of La Guaira, 1797
The chests that the authorities confiscated from Gual’s hacienda in Santa Lucía
contained several revealing documents: a text in french, entitled “Instruction about the
Civil Constitution of the Clergy” by Mr. Mirabeau, written in January 1791, a text that
contained recommendations on the adaptations that the Church and the clergy must
make with the establishment of the New Republic and its Assembly; “The Declaration
of Independence of the thirteen United Provinces of America presented to the General
Congress, July 10 1776;” and a “Letter of Don Miguel Rubín de Celis, a Spanish
official living in Bayonne who wrote to others in the Peninsula, in November 1792,” a
text in which the author criticized the Monarchical system, and praised the values of
liberty and equality. The Authorities also found a number of manuscripts that they
had not seen before: several letters, lists and papers containing instructions,
recommendations, proclamations, songs and illustrations related to the planning of a
republican conspiracy in La Guaira. At this moment, the colonial authorities
understood that the conspiracy was not an improvised or spontaneous movement, they
discovered that a group of people had been working together to produce a body of
documents designed to give shape to the movement.
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White Spaniards and creoles, like Juan Bautista Picornell, Manuel Cortés, and
Manuel Gual, leaders of the Conspiracy of La Guaira collaborated actively in the
circulation of Republican ideas and values among the colored population; they
especially took time and effort to produce a body texts to help others understand the
republican movement’s principles, motivations, procedures and plan of action. In fact,
once Juan Bautista Picornell accepted being one of the leaders of the conspiracy, he
started writing different documents addressed to the rest of the conspirators and to the
population in general. Some of these texts were written in jail, others while he was in
hiding in a house in La Guaira. Three texts, in particular, are worth mentioning: the
“Ordenanzas” (Constituciones), the Instructions, and the Exhortation to the Pueblo.
Drafts of these documents circulated between Picornell and his co-conspirators, in
fact, on several different occasions individuals copied these texts and produced
different versions of them. Nevertheless, the substance of the documents remained the
same.481
The “Ordenanzas” (or “Constituciones”) is a document that contained 44
articles regarded as essential by the revolutionary commanders in the Province of
tierra firme in order to restore liberty to the pueblo Americano. In general, these
articles encouraged revolutionaries to follow an organized plan of government that
contemplated the preservation of tranquility and order in society together with unity 481 Different versions of these texts are to be found in the archives. In his book López, for example, referred to the copies that belonged to Montesinos Rico (AGI, Caracas, 427, no. 1. which differed slightly from the copies to be found at the Archivo de la Academia Nacional de la Historia (Caracas). See López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 347 - 56.
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and loyalty between individuals. The “Ordenanzas” emphasized the importance of
following a plan while conforming a Government Board (Junta Gubernativa), taking
possession of public offices, buildings, and documents, and determining the
responsibilities, and salaries of the new public posts. Regarding the election of the
Junta Gubernativa, the seventh article of the “Ordenanzas” said: “Only those
neighbors hacendados that beforehand have proven their constant patriotism, love for
the poor and knowledge in the matters of Government can be elected as individuals to
this Board.”482
Likewise, the “Ordenanzas” attributed importance to respecting the Church
and the clergy, as well as all religious buildings, adornments and images. It also
clarified that priests and nuns should receive the same payments they received before
the revolution, but in the event that they should act against the “general happiness”
they would be treated as traitors.
The “Ordenanzas” contained several articles designed to control the payment
of taxes. It proclaimed the unrestricted cultivation and commercialization of tobacco,
and the abolition of food taxes (specifically rice, bread, fruits, vegetables, and roots).
Other items were to be automatically reduced 25 percent while the new government
adopted its definitive decisions. Likewise, the text abolished commercial taxes paid by
shopkeepers, and all the alcabala taxes that muleteers, hacendados and small
482 “Ordenanzas,” AGI, Caracas, 427, no. 1, in López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 347-56. For an interesting and detailed analysis of the political and social implications of the “Ordenanzas” see Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España.”
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cultivators had to pay. With these articles, the movement responded to a traditional
demand of the eighteenth century popular movements: the payment of taxes. This
issue was constantly regarded as a expression of monarchical oppression and the cause
of many of the miseries that common people suffered.483
Regarding the social question, the articles for thirty-two to thirty-six
introduced new depositions to establish the value of natural equality. Article 32 says:
Natural equality among all the inhabitants of the Provinces and Districts is declared: and it is mandatory that the greatest possible harmony prevail among whites, Indians, pardos and morenos, treating each other as brothers in Jesus Christ and equals in front of God, establishing distinctions between one and another only on the basis of merit and virtue, the only real basis for distinguishing between one man and another.484
It is interesting to note that the text does not explicitly mentioned “Blacks,” but
“morenos.” Strictly speaking “morenos” were the result of the combination of whites
and blacks, but the word “morenos” was frequently used to denominate free blacks as
well. In the text, it seems as though “morenos” was used as a euphemism; considering
483 In this sense, the conspiracy of La Guaira responded some of the same motivations as many of the eighteenth century popular movements in Latin American: especially due to the economic pressures caused by the Bourbon rationalizing project. The mounting economic grievances that followed increases in taxes and commercial monopolies produced several social protests one of whose main goals was the elimination of taxes or tributes, such as the Túpac Amaru rebellion, the insurrection of Aymara highland communities from La Paz, the Indian uprising of northern Potosí, the comuneros rebellion in New Granada, and even the black rebellion of Coro, all occurring during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. See Lester D. Langley, The Americas in the Age of Revolution, 1750-1850 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998); Serulnikov, Subverting Colonial Authority; Thomson, We Alone Will Rule. 484 “Ordenanzas,” in López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 354.
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that for a significant number of white persons it would have been particularly hard to
be considered equal to a black.485
The declaration of equality among the entire population implied the
elimination of two colonial institutions: Indian tributary taxes and slavery. Article
number thirty four declared the abolition of slavery because it was considered a
“system contrary to humanity.” In this sense, it was presented as an obligation for all
masters to present their slaves to the General Board in order to determine their
monetary value, adding that the masters would be economically compensated for
them.486
Social equality and the abolition of slavery were both important distinguishing
features of the conspiracy, whose leaders hope for the integration of the vast majority
of people of color into the movement. However, the articles show that there were also
concerns regarding the occupation of the newly-liberated slaves. Two solutions are
mentioned: the new citizens could join the military, or could – and should –continue to
work as peasants and jornaleros, in order to collaborate with the agricultural and
commercial development of the region.
485 There were other texts, such as songs, dialogues, and tales where the word “blacks” was explicitly mentioned. So, we should leave open the possibility that depending on the public to which texts were directed, the authors decided whether or not it was convenient or not to write “blacks” or “morenos.” 486 López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 354. As Hernández comments, it is clear that the conspirators had to consider seriously the issue of the abolition of slavery and its economic effects: they proposed an interesting solution, similar to expropriation: the “justa compensación,” which would apply only for those masters who voluntarily present their slaves to the junta. See Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España,” 375.
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The principles of freedom, abolition, and equality were introduced into
Venezuela, but they were interpreted, transformed and adapted to fit local social and
political contexts. As we mentioned before, revolutionary texts were transformed in
two ways: in their discursive narrative and in their contents. For the first case, I have
found that many of the texts produced in the local context transformed revolutionary
writings into letters, “dialogues,” songs, and tales that provided a narrative appropriate
for teaching revolutionary principles to the “semi-literate” people of color. In fact,
some of the concepts expressed in “the Rights of Man and the Citizen” were adapted
to fit into the Dialogue between the French and the Spanish black cousins, the
Revelation of the Fray, and the “Ordenanzas,” where liberty and equality played
fundamental roles.
But also the contents of these texts were adapted to respond American social
reality. In Venezuela equality meant the elimination of the racial distinctions that had
been constructed by the elites to maintain hierarchy and reinforce the social
distinctions no longer reflected by economic differences. The proclaimed equality not
only implied the application of the same law to peasants, professionals or merchants, it
also implied the application of the same laws to whites, pardos, Indians and blacks.
Another conspirator, the white Spaniard Manuel Cortés, was responsible for
composing and adapting lyrics from revolutionary songs to the Venezuelan reality. In
one of his pieces, entitled the Soneto Americano, he underlines the brotherhood that
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should prevail between people of the new republic, which would be composed of
Whites, Blacks, Indians and Pardos. The song said:
“The Whites, the Blacks
Indians and Pardos,
Let’s admit all
That we are brothers
That we are all united
With a common interest
To make war against Despotism
Long live our Pueblo.”487
In the Carmañola Americana, another song composed by Manuel Cortés after
he escaped from La Guaira to Guadeloupe, the people of color are called “the
shirtless” (descamisados) and are clearly compared with the French revolutionary sans
culottes, in sum, depicted as people that have been tyrannized by the Monarchy.488
“The French Sans culottes
Had shaken the world,
But the shirtless here
Would hardly be less successful
487 “Soneto Americano,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 2. According to López, this song was sung at the celebrations and meetings that the conspirators attended. López, Juan Bautista Picornell, 375. 488 In revolutionary France, the sans-culottes were the radical militants of the lower classes, and made up the bulk of the revolutionary army during the first years of the revolution. Some of their demands were popular democracy, and social and economic equality. See Albert Soboul, The Sans-Culottes: The Popular Movement and Revolutionary Government, 1793-1794 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980).
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The Shirtless are already Dancing!”489
The song also mentions that equality and fraternity among men of all races will
prevail; equality, in this case, not only refers to social status but to the color of the skin
and the purity of blood. The principal aim of these texts was to gain the support of the
pardos and free blacks that represented the large majority that suffered injustice and
the inequality of the racial system. In this way, the information of the French and the
Haitian Revolutions that had arrived in La Guaira during the previous years
experimented adaptations that revealed the racialized nature of local political tensions
and social confrontation in Venezuelan society. Although the abolition of slavery was
one of the conspiracy’s demands, the slaves and their abolition are barely mentioned
in these songs.
The “Instructions” was another text written by Picornell that contained twenty
two steps – or articles - to be followed by the conspirators while taking control of the
Province such as: the proclamation in public settings (“Long live the Law of God,
Long live the Pueblo Americano, Death to the Bad Government”), taking possession
of public offices and buildings, the formation of patrols by the neighbors and
inhabitants of each town, and the conformation of a Government Board.
Regarding the election of the Junta Gubernativa, the “Instructions” differed in
some respects from the “Ordenanzas,” notably where it stated that every citizen will
be incorporated into neighborhoods (barrios) and will elect two persons to be part of
489 “Carmañola Americana,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 85.
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an election board that will appoint the Junta Gubernativa. “Everyone – it says – will
give his vote to a person known for his affection to the fatherland, for being
particularly enlightened and prudent, without regard for his color or for any other
feature that could have the most minimal influence.”490 In this case, there is no
allusion to the “hacendados” as those most appropriate for joining the Junta, which
leave us with the question: why do these two documents present this fundamental
discrepancy? Hernández believes that the “Instructions” could have be written before
the “Ordenanzas,” and probably Picornell, despite his preference for an equalitarian
republic, had to make adjustments to count on the approval of the white creole
hacendados who would have not been comfortable with the idea of having people of
color in the Juntas.491
Two articles of the Instructions, number fourteen and fifteen, allow us to
appreciate the importance attributed to the abolition of slavery in the movement but
not necessarily to the role of the slaves in achieving it. Number fourteen says that after
the Government Board is established and sworn in, in the main square of the town, the
slaves living in town will present themselves in the square, two by two, “they will
have on their arms a chain easy to remove, together with any other symbol of their
enslavement, and their masters will present a brief written information about them;” 490 “Instrucciones para el Comandante en Xefe del Exercito Revolucionario del Pueblo Americano de Caracas,” AGI, Caracas, 434, no. 16. López quoted another version found in AGI, Caracas, 429, no. 35. 491 There was another paper entitled “Borrador de plan globo de Revolución” also written by Picornell,” this text contained the same articles as the “Instructions.” This is the one that Hernández quotes, see Hernández, “Doctrina y gobierno en la conspiración de Gual y España,” 370.
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then, a person will remove the symbols of enslavement and, hugging them, “the
secretary will announce in the name of the fatherland, the president and the other
individuals that they are free and will be recognized as citizens.”492
In the text, the abolition of slavery is represented in a ritualized act in which
the united Pueblo Americano is not just a witness, but rather an actor, a beneficiary
that grants liberty to the slaves. At the same time, and by way of contrast, the slaves
are depicted as passive characters, as recipients of a prize: their liberty. They don’t
remove the chains by themselves, but passively wait until someone removes slavery
from them. Here, the abolition of slavery is not the result of the struggle of slaves – as
it would have been in the case of Coro – but the consequence of the determination of a
supposedly mestizo government to eradicate the slavery system.
While it is true that rumors and texts coming from the turbulent French
colonies permeated the environment of the Province and gained significance within
the emerging social spaces for political debate; the reluctance to use of the word
“blacks” in some texts of the conspiracy, the ambiguity regarding the participation of
black people in the conformation of the Juntas, and the vision of slaves as passive
recipients of a freedom granted by someone else, give us enough evidence to ask:
What kind of example was the revolution of Saint Domingue for the Conspiracy of La
Guaira? Depending on the social context, Saint-Domingue was both a feared and an
admired model.
492 Ibid.
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Several declarations show that white participants feared the fate of Saint
Domingue and convinced themselves into joining the conspiracy because they feared
that people of color could reproduce the same actions as their counterparts in Guarico,
Saint Domingue. Manuel Montesinos Rico, for example, declared that Manuel Gual
persuaded him to convince other friends to join the movement because “if they do not
accept, they could become the victims of blacks and zambos.” Another participant of
the conspiracy, Martin de Goenaga, said that in a meeting in España’s house, he heard
someone saying: “if we don’t unite with the people of color, we will die as victim of
their fury.” Likewise, Jean Lartigue, remembered a conversation in which Gual
asserted that “it was necessary to abolish slavery to prevent events as unfortunate as
those of Guarico where whites were victims of the people of color.”493 Also as the
plan of the conspiracy developed, many whites also expressed the fear that the
revolution would incite violent responses from slaves and people of color against the
whites.
People of color participating in the conspiracy, on the other hand, looked at the
revolutionary movements of Saint Domingue with admiration and as an example to be
followed in tierra firme, where they were victims of inequalities and discrimination.
However, as Aizpurua comments, pardos mistrusted their white co-conspirators, as
493 “Declaración de Manuel Montesinos y Rico, 6 de septiembre de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 431, no. 62, “Declaración de Martín de Goenaga, 24 de julio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 428, no. 21, “Delación de Jean Lartigue, 4 de agosto de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 427, no. 16. All quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 264-65.
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they had doubts that the conspiracy would be a success and feared that in case of
failure “the whites will remain free, and will put the blame on us.”494
An understanding of the specific politics and social conflicts in Venezuela
allows us to see how representations of the French and Saint Domingue revolutions
refracted and reformulated events and ideologies, as they were not apprehended as
monolithic political structures, but as meaningful moldable frameworks within which
differentiated social groups in colonial Venezuela found space to produce their own
representations and interpretations. In the conspiracy of La Guaira, Saint Domingue
was understood by some conspirators – mainly pardos and people of color - as a
model, and by others – whites creoles - as a menace to be deflected by assuming the
leadership of the conspiracy and providing some “controlled” benefits for the people
of color.495
Revolutionary ideas did travel, but individuals in each locality and cultural
context channeled words and ideas through particularized circuits and webs. In La
494 See “Delación del sargento Miguel Granadino, 31 de julio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas 428, no. 23, and “Declaración de Narciso Del Valle, del 29 de julio de 1797,” AGI, Caracas, 427, no. 7, both quoted in Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 267. 495 In this sense, Alejandro Gómez and Ramón Aizpurua argue that the revolution led by Victor Hugues in Guadeloupe could have been an appropriate model for the whites of the conspiracy, who agreed to grant freedom to the slaves but recommended that they remain in the Haciendas while the General Board decided their final destination. As Dubois argues, Hugue’s system condemned slaves to a permanent political incapacity “as it prevented them for becoming anything other than plantation laborers.” See Laurent Dubois, A Colony of Citizens. Revolution and Slave Emancipation in the French Caribbean. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004, 187). Gómez shows that Manuel Gual and Patricio Ronán had, in fact, a relationship with Victor Hugues who, at some point, even agreed to support the revolution in tierra firme. See Aizpurua, “La conspiración por dentro,” 284-87. Gómez, “La revolución de Caracas,” and “Las semillas de la libertad lanzaron su precioso grano más allá de los mares: la ley de los franceses,” Akademos no. 1, vol. 7, 2006.
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Guaira, the authors of the written propaganda had to deal with the ambiguity that the
example of Saint Domingue represented: they tried to offer the promise of a “multi-
ethnic” political movement to the people of color, while guaranteeing political control
and social order to white elites. The incompatibility of these two postures could have
been one of the reasons for the failure of the movement.
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CHAPTER VI
The Intesification of the Haitian Revolution and its Impact
in Venezuelan Colonial Society
“I confess that much as I desire the independence and liberty of the New World, I fear anarchy and revolution even more.
God forbid that other countries suffer the same fate as Saint-Domingue. It would be better to remain another century
under the barbarous and senseless oppression of Spain.” Francisco de Miranda, 1798496
1. “We can not trust black slaves anymore:”
Contestation and Negotiation between White Elites and Black Subalterns.
The revolutionary events of Haiti, the “disorder of the French islands,” and
rumors of “chaos and atrocities” made white elites reconsider their relationship with
their slaves and with free colored people. Rumors of revolution made them suspicious
about people of color, not only increasing their fear of them, because they knew what
they were capable of doing, but undermining a sense of confidence that appeared to
have existed before 1791. For Venezuela, the response by whites to black insurrection
496 Francisco de Miranda, a Venezuelan white creole who led the first movement for Independence of Venezuela. Quoted in Anthony Pagden, Spanish Imperialism and the Political Imagination. Studies in European and Spanish-American Social and Political Theory 1513-1830. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990) 12.
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and the Haitian Revolution was fear, control, and repression in proportional doses.
However, they also showed their willingness to make concessions that could calm the
“spirits” of blacks who expressed their discontent in a number of uprisings throughout
the last decade of the eighteenth century. Diverse strategies were developed in order to
offset the possibility of black insurrections and movements in the region during the
last decade of the eigheenth century. For example, both Captain Generals, Pedro
Carbonell first, and later Guevara Vasconcelos, and their officials issued orders
requiring greater vigilance from white masters and local authorities. They asked them
not to give firearms to their slaves or to free blacks, to prohibit free people of color
and slaves from working as foremen (mayordomos) on the haciendas, to establish
hunting squads to capture and control black fugitives, to restrict manumission, and
also to recommended masters to moderate their punishments. In this way, white elites
resorted to a multiplicity of responses to the perceived threat of black subversion. In
contrast with the naked coercion employed in the case of the rebellion of Coro, here I
will show that elites also used more subtle measures of control amd made concessions
to improve the material conditions of slaves, curtailing the abuse by masters and local
authorities. Slaves and free colored, for their part, perceived the shift in colonial
authorities’ dispositions and took advantage of the new spaces of negotiations to
demand attention, make accusations and elevate petitions.
In orders issued in 1795, the Captain General Carbonell emphatically stated:
“Experience and reflection have made me recognize the danger of putting firearms in
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blacks’ hands as their haughtiness has increased in intensity in recent years,”497
therefore he prohibited masters and mayordomos from providing slaves and free
people of color with firearms, except for the knives and machetes they used for
working in the fields. In the last line of this document, the Captain General concluded:
“With this understanding, under no circumstances, is it convenient to trust the black
slaves anymore.”498
One of the first things that the colonial authorities demanded from white
hacendados and masters was to examine the social composition of the power structure
in their haciendas. In Venezuela, many hacendados lived between their haciendas and
the houses they owned in urban centers. Generally, during most of the year, masters
were absent from their haciendas. For the administration and control of the haciendas
they designated a mayordomo. A mayordomo was the person entrusted with the task
of controlling the slaves’ and the free workers’ labor, the process of collecting, and
storing crops or producing merchandise, as well as for the transportation and
commercialization of the products. In a way, the mayordomos replaced the master
when he was absent, and often they were responsible for determining and even
497 “Comunicado del Capitan General de Venezuela, Carbonell, a los Gobernadores de la Provincia” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, tomo LV, 235. 498 Idem
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administering the punishment of slaves.499 For this reason mayordomos often
constituted one of the most feared, but also most hated, figures in the haciendas.
In social terms, the mayordomos were usually whites or pardos. Their higher
social status in relation to the population of free blacks and slaves, reinforced
mayordomos’ authority to rule the hacienda. However, it was not easy to find a good
mayordomo, and frequently masters employed free blacks and even slaves they trusted
in the position.500 In 1801, the Captain General warned the hacendados not to employ
people of color as mayordomos and not to give them any sort of authority. He argued:
“It is convenient to have the haciendas, especially those close to the coast, managed
and ruled by their own owners or, if this is not possible, by white mayordomos.” This
decision was coherent with the lack of confidence and suspicion in blacks that the
authorities felt and promoted after the development of the Haitian Revolution.
Colonial authorities and elites needed to maintain the subordination of the
colored communities of the haciendas and plantations, and kept free blacks and slaves 499 A document from the eighteenth century described the role and importance of mayordomos in the haciendas: “In his job the mayordomo takes on the role of the master and the father at the same time. The master put his confidence in him, and also put in his hands the subsistence of his family. With the purpose of maintaining the tranquility of his conscience, his credit, and his reputation, the mayordomo should comply with his obligations” in Documentos para la Diócesis de Mérida, quoted in José Rafael Lovera, Vida de Hacenda en Venezuela, Siglos XVIII al XX, (Caracas: Fundación Bigott, 2009), 290. 500 I have found several cases of free blacks and slaves that served as mayordomos. One example was a captured runaway slave named Juan Alexandro who had escaped from José Antonio Bolívar, a resident of Caracas and owner of a nearby hacienda. Bolívar “had proposed he be mayordomo of the hacienda,” and although he did not want to do the job, he was forced to do it. As mayordomo, he had differences with a slave mulatta, who was one of the master’s mistresses, and she invented the charge that Juan Alexandro had stolen cacao. Bolívar harshly punished him, treating him like an animal (literally making him live – sleep and eat – with mules and horses), Juan Alexandro escaped from this “atrocious punishment.” “Procedimientos contra esclavos fugitives en los montes de Capaya y sus declaraciones” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 469-569, 481v.
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under strict control and vigilance. The authorities not only prohibited the use of
firearms among slaves, and required the designation of white mayordomos, they also
asked masters to keep slaves and free blacks away from any foreign or unknown
visitors, away from the possible arrival of people from other nations, and from fugitive
slaves who were seen as transmitters of rumors. As I have showed in previous
chapters, the colonial authorities easily blamed French visitors and fugitive slaves for
transmitting “false” information and stirring mobilizations among slaves, free people
of color, and Indians, but they also attempted to prevent communications or family
bonds between slaves and the maroon communities. As I showed in the chapter on
Coro, it was not easy to control the relationships between slaves and maroons, and
traditionally authorities had been always inclined to think that slaves upheavals were
frequently stimulated from the outside, especially by maroon communities.501
Runaways were a matter of concern for Venezuelan authorities and elites
during the Age of Revolution because they could have provided encouragement and
material support to potentially rebellious slaves. Cumbes and palenques502 had long
provided refuge for fugitive slaves and thieves: in fact, cumbes were seen by the
501 See Acosta Saignes, Vida de Esclavos Negros en Venezuela, and chapter IV of this work. 502 Cumbe and palenques were the names given to the relatively autonomous maroon communities made up of fugitive slaves that were established near the haciendas, or urban centers. As Jane Landers contends: “Located on the peripheries of European cities, and also on the fringes of indigenous worlds, maroons communities borrowed elements they found useful from both the dominant and native cultures.” See “Cimarron and Citizen, African Ethnicity, Corporate Identity, and the Evolution of Free Black Towns in the Spanish Circum-Caribbean” in Jane Landers (ed.): Slaves, Subjects and Subversives.Black in Colonial Latin America (Alburquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2006), 123.
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authorities as uncontrolled communities where vices accumulated, and maroons were
characterized as robbers, smugglers, and criminals who stole away other slaves,
provided shelter and support to recent runaways or to others of their type, and carried
on contraband trade with pirates. Hacendados feared cumbes for many reasons: one
was that they knew that these communities, living on the borders of colonial life, often
depended on their haciendas to steal crops, firearms, instruments for agricultural work,
or animals. It was common for whites to assume that the maroon communities
contributed to slave uprisings, with resources – for example, weapons, food, animals –
and people. Runaways were seen not only as sources of inspiration and
communicators, but also as supporters who helped insurgents to hide and provided
them with resources.
The rumors of conspiracies and insurrection between 1794 and 1796 in
Venezuela had the effect of encouraging the flight of slaves. In fact, the government
and white elites feared that the haciendas of the General Captaincy would get wiped
out not only as a result of slave uprisings but also through continuous and pervasive
defections from the slave order.503 In 1794, the Captain General ordered the
establishment in different regions of Venezuela of squadrons of soldiers – some
squads were paid by the merchant guild and others by hacendados themselves – to
monitor slaves zones, dismantle maroons communities, and “reestablish order among
503 See Jeremy Adelman, Sovereignty and Revolution in the Iberian Atlantic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), Chapter 2.
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the colored population in the rural regions.”504 In September 1794, in the Province of
Caracas the merchant guild created five patrol squadrons of twenty-four soldiers each
to monitor slaves zones. In the subsequent months more patrol squadrons started to
function in the province: three more in January 1795, seven others in March 1795.505
Many runaways of the Province of Caracas were captured by these squadrons.
Members of the squadrons wrote lists with the names of the blacks, the years they had
been living under these conditions, the area where they were captured, and the
products and/or animals they supposedly had stolen (generally cacao, tobacco, and
horses). They were sent to jail in Caracas, where they were kept during several months
in order to continue an investigation of their circumstances and their purposes, and to
decide on their sentence.506 The declarations of these runaways provide valuable
material for a construction of the history of the everyday life of these maroon
communities in Venezuela. These documents show how maroons drew on a variety of 504 “Sobre establecimiento de patrullas de vigilancia en Cracas, Agosto 1794” AGN, Real Consulado, Actas, 2526, 37-38, “Del Capitán General de Venezuela al Justicia Mayor de Carora, sobre establecimiento de milicias urbanas para controlar alzamientos de esclavos y de gente de color, junio 1795” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LV, 353, and “Lista de los esclavos cimarrones aprehendidos por las Patrullas, de las que se han presentado a sus dueños después de su establecimiento, Mayo 1795” AGN, Diversos, LXIX, 113. 505 These squadrons operated in the following departments of Caracas: Caracas, Petare, Sabana de Ocumare, Guarenas, Caucagua, Capaya, Guapo, Turmero, Cupira, Río Chico, San Felipe, Puerto Cabello, Maracay, and La Guaira. See “Lista de los esclavos cimarrones aprehendidos por las Patrullas, de las que se han presentado a sus dueños después de su establecimiento, Mayo 1795” AGN, Diversos, LXIX, 113. 506 I do not have a definitive number of apprehended runaways, because the lists seem incomplete. I had access to a large expediente that has the declarations of twenty-four runaways. One of the runaways assured that there were more than fifty runaways in the area, but others contradicted him. See “Procedimientos contra esclavos fugitives en los montes de Capaya y sus declaraciones,” AGN, Dversos, LXVI, 469-569.
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African cultural models, the ways they established their authority, and how they
became stable communities based on small-scale settled agricultural production, not
necessarily dependent on theft. However, in the context of my research, a look into
this source has allowed me to understand the reasons why slaves resisted white
oppression by escaping, and how the authorities and the white elites related the
maroons to slave insurrections and even to the Haitian Revolution.
The most frequent questions that these runaway men and women confronted
during the investigation were: why did they escape, how did they live and organize
themselves in the forests, and whether they were willing to initiate a black insurgent
movement. Most of them escaped from their haciendas for, more or less, the same
reasons: heavy physical punishment, deprivation, and humiliations; terrible living
conditions – such as lack of food or of an appropriate place to sleep –, sexual abuses
on the part of the mayordomos and masters, and severe labor exploitation.507
A proportion of the twenty-four investigated runaways were working as free
laborers (jornaleros) on haciendas in the area, but ten of them declared that they lived
in a small maroon community. They lived in small houses made by themselves, and
507 I studied twenty-four declarations of runaway men and women in the Province of Caracas. Of these twenty-four maroons: thirteen declared that they had escaped because of the humiliations and severe punishments they suffered in the hands of their masters and mayordomos; four declared that they had escaped mainly because working conditions were unbearable – they had to work when they were sick; four others said that they fled because they did not receive enough food or clothes - one said that he was discontented because his master did not give him enough tobacco -; and of the rest, two were free blacks captured by mistake, and one said he was lost because he was a “Dutch” slave and he could not speak Spanish. See “Procedimientos contra esclavos fugitivos en los montes de Capaya, y sus declaraciones,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 469-500.
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surrounded by fields cultivated by them and for their own consumption. They
organized their work in the fields, and followed a captain. The captain named Miguel
Gerónimo (alias Guacamaya) had escaped six years before because of the severe
living conditions he suffered on the hacienda. He said that he had never stolen
anything, that “instead of stealing he preferred to cultivate his own crops.” In the
fields he encountered other fugitives, and they decided to cultivate produce together,
each of them taking care of a conuco (plot of land for small-scale agricultural
production). Everyday, Guacamaya called them to pray the rosary in the afternoon,
and if “someone refused to do so, I made him leave the place. The same happened to
those who did not want to work properly.” Miguel Gerónimo was asked if he was
seeking to provoke an upheaval among the fugitives and slaves of the area, and he
clearly answered: “We did not have any other intentions than living there, free from
the tyranny of our masters.”508 Althought authorities were not completely convinced
by his declaration, they assigned a punishment for each of them for having escaped:
some were whipped in jail, others were delivered to their masters with permission to
whip them, and others were assigned to new masters. One slave women was punished
so severely by her masters, that she asked to go back and live in jail. In May 1795,
Miguel Gerónimo was punished in jail with fifty strokes and given the order to return
to his master, who was to put shackles on one of his feet.509
508 Idem, 476v. 509 Idem, 479.
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Some members of the squadrons did not agree with the judge’s decisions, and
made serious accusations against Miguel Gerónimo and two other slaves, Domingo
Antonio and Silvestre. According to them, these slaves escaped not for the reasons
they expressed, but because they wanted to flee “from their condition as slaves,
producing tumults and shaking off the yoke of subordination.”510 In the opinion, of the
members of the squadrons, the slaves escaped in order to provoke slaves uprisings,
and not because they wanted to escape the punishments of their masters. They alleged
that fifty strokes were nothing, and that these slaves deserved more severe bodily
punishments in public and even the death penalty, as an example so that “slaves can
see what would happen if they tried to escape.” The judge maintained that his decision
was final, and that those were the proper punishments for maroons whose only fault
was to have escaped from their masters and remain fugitives. He added that he could
not sentence a capital penalty for these men, based only on “rumors and suspicious
accusations.”511
But the rumors and accusations of black insurrection in the province of
Caracas started to flow more intensely in 1795 and 1796. Several hacendados and
members of the squadrons declared that the slaves of Caucagua and of the Valleys of
El Tuy intended to rise up in order to “recover their freedom, freedom that they heard
had been granted to them by the King through a Royal Decree, which has been 510 Idem, 544. 511 Idem, 545.
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published in the Valleys of Caucagua.”512 Rumors spread that the blacks of the region
had intentions of killing one of the chiefs of the squadrons, Rafael Heredia, “in order
to be free, in the same way that the slaves of the Guarico (Haiti) did.” Another
squadron chief, Miguel José Sanz, sent a communication to the Captain General
saying that these rumors should not be ignored, and that they must be wary of any
movement or signal of insurrection, in order to quickly take control of the situation.
Sanz clearly felt threatened by the menacing rumors. He was the chief of ten
squadrons in Caucagua, Capaya, Guarenas, Petare, Sabana de Ocumare, Barlovento,
La Guaira, La Victoria and Turmero.513 These rumors suggested that blacks of the
region could have resented the pressure and control that the relatively recent squadron
raids represented. The threat of killing the chief of a squadron was a clear enough
indication that the prospects of slave insurrection seemed to respond more to the
increased vigilance than to the Haitian revolution. But still, the reference to the “slaves
of Guarico” was powerful and attracted the attention of local authorities. Blacks
perceived both the fear of local whites and the discursive power of Haiti, and took
advantage of these to threaten.
For their part, whites perceived the danger of insurrection in even the most
innocent black expressions. A conversation, a song, the sound of drumming at night,
or a opinion critical of whites - elites felt that these were all evidence that a tumult of 512 Idem, 548. 513 “Carta de Miguel José Sanz al Capitán General de Venezuela, 26/8/1796” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 548v.
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blacks was being planned. According to Joaquín Zubillaga, Lieutenant of the King and
Interim Governor of the Province of Caracas, these expressions should not be
underestimated
Because although they were no more than obscenities or isolated voices among the slaves, mulattos, and zambos, they could over time produce the fatal consequences of preparing their spirits for an uprising, like the one that took place in Coro a year ago.514
With this concern in mind, in September 1796, Zubillaga ordered Juan de La
Torre to undertake an investigation with the support of the members of the squadrons
in the Valley of Caucagua to find out whether there were intentions of planning a
black uprising, and what the relationship was between whites and blacks, and maroons
and slaves. Interestingly, the mentioning of Coro in the text of Zubillaga allows to
appreciate that Coro reinforced the concerns and fears that the St. Domingue’s
rebellions had already awoke in the authorities
That same month, a strong rumor spread among the population that a slave,
named Anselmo had injured a mayordomo on the hacienda of Blanco Uribe, in the
Valley of Caucagua. Juan Agustín de La Torre decided to visit the region immediately
in order to head the inquiry into a case that was clearly related to the rumors, spread
by hacendados some months before, that a black insurgent movement was emerging in
Caucagua. De La Torre spent two months in the Valley, observing blacks (slaves, free
workers, and fugitives) as well as their relationship with whites. He also took the 514 “Comunicación del Gobernador interino, Don Joaquín Zubillaga, en respuesta a la carta de Miguel José Sanz, con respecto al rumor del possible alzamiento de los negros esclavos de Caucagua” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 549.
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declarations of two white men (a hacendado and a free worker), and of one slave who
had supposedly seen the confrontation between the slave Anselmo and the
mayordomo. The first person to declare was the hacendado Diego Muñoz. He said that
he was fairly sure that the slaves of his hacienda, located in Caucagua, were looking
forward to an uprising, “because someone told them that a Royal Decree from the
King had given them their freedom but that we, the whites, are hiding it from
them.”515
Apparently, Muñoz shared his concerns with a free white worker named Carlos
Hernández who told him that he had been told that a black from the Hacienda of
Camejo usually visited the slaves of other haciendas during the night in order to
spread the news that “in Guarico, the blacks got away with it (se salieron con la suya),
and were now free,” and that they themselves could do the same because “they were
stronger.”516 According to Muñoz, this slave was willing to lead the insurrection, and
he proposed beginning by killing one of the chiefs of the squadrons, Heredia, as a
signal for the start of the uprising.
De La Torre decided to request a formal declaration from Hernández. The
white worker practically repeated the same story as Muñoz; involving the black visitor
who came at night, referred to Haitian blacks, urged the slaves to rebel, and
encouraged them saying that they were stronger and could achieve the same ends.
515 Idem. 516 “Expediente del caso del delito del esclavo Anselmo que hirió al mayordomo de la Hacienda de Blanco Uribe, 21/9/1796,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 554-565.
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Hernández also said that this black was willing to lead the rebellion and suggested
killing Heredia. He also mentioned that this man had connections with others black
groups in La Sabana de Ocumare, Capaya, and Curiepe that shared the same goals,
and believed that together they could achieve their purposes. In his declaration,
Hernández recommended asking more questions to a slave named Hilario who had
probably heard the black visitor himself in one of his visits.
De La Torre called the slave Hilario to declare. Asked what were the reasons
that drove the slave Anselmo to injure his mayordomo, Hilario answered that
“Anselmo was injured too and he was defending himself from the mayordomo.”
Hilario also added that the only black who had visited them was a slave named
Vicente who came to the hacienda for a baptism because he was the godfather of the
child. He met him but did not hear a word about “any royal decree, or anything about
maroons and leaders (cabecillas).”517 In the end, he concluded that he knew nothing
about insurrections or about the slaves of Guarico. Evidently, if the slave did have
information and had heard the rumors, he decided to remain in silence and not to
comment on them. In view of the apparent ignorance of Hilario, de La Torre decided
to keep quiet too and stop the investigation, because “he was not sure about the slaves’
knowledge of a black insurgency, and did not want to exchange more information with
them that could give them hopes or inspiration to plan a movement on their own.”518
517 Idem, 558. 518 Idem.
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In this way, the silence of the slave forced de La Torre to remain in silence about the
rumors of the blacks of Haiti, and about the aspirations of the blacks of the region.
However, in this case in particular, Haiti seems to have functioned as a model that
blacks used theoretically but not necessarily in practice, in a way, it allowed them to
get the attention they wanted, without necessarily taking up arms and rising up.519
De La Torre closed the case, but also submitted a long report about the general
situation of slavery and of free blacks in the region. He concluded that he had only
heard rumors and “voices” of insurrection, but that he could not find any clear
evidence or motive for a black movement. Instead, he believed that there was a
general “disorder of customs” (desorden de costumbres), and a lack of authority and
control on the part of the whites. Some slaves escaped from one hacienda to work in
another just like a free worker; landlords did not control their workers, employing
blacks regardless of their condition, without asking for a card of liberty (carta de
libertad), and without inquiring where they came from. In his opinion the blacks lived
in a “general disorder and responded with insolence.”520
He believed that there were some measures that could be taken by masters and
colonial authorities to impose some restraints on the slaves. For example, he argued
519 Regarding the use of Haiti as a “theoretical” but not “practical” reference in Cuba see Ada Ferrer, “Cuba a la sombra de Haití: Noticias, Sociedad y Esclavitud,” 214-219. She argues: “It is evident that the majority of slaves that declared felt attracted, in theory but not in practice, by the revolution of Haiti,” 219. 520 “Informe de De La Torre al Gobernador interino Joaquin Zubillaga, sobre sospecha de sedición en los Valles, 25/09/1796,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 566-568.
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that there should be restrictions on the consumption of alcohol which “incited slaves to
be disobedient and disrespectful with their superiors, and to have seditious
conversations.” He also recommended not to give the role of mayordomo to a black,
or even worse to a black woman, as some hacendados had done in the Valley, because
“the moment you give a black the authority to rule others, you do not know if he will
inspire them to rebel and to shake off the yoke of subordination.”521
But de La Torre also argued that there were other concessions that should be
taken to keep the slaves contented and calm. For him, the happiness of the slaves
assured the tranquility of the province. Therefore, he suggested for example, the
controlling of the activities of local shopkeepers (pulperos). With stores in the small
towns of the area, these “tyrants” – he said – bought agricultural products from thieves
– usually maroons – at very low prices, and sold these same products to slaves and
free blacks at very high prices, gaining more than fifty percent of the value of the
product. Likewise, these pulperos “did not use measures or weights, and sold
everything just the way they wanted.” De La Torre noticed that the slaves who went to
the town to buy some products they lacked on the haciendas or in their conucos felt
frustrated by the abuses committed by these shopkeepers.
De La Torre also noticed that the price of meat was very high, and that “blacks,
who are very attracted to eating meat” can only eat it occasionally during the course of
the year. He recommended the authorities open new roads that could connect the
521 Idem.
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central valleys with the plains where cattle were raised, and in this way provide the
population of the valleys with better-quality meat at a more reasonable price. In this
way, hacendados could provide their slaves with better food and they would
consequently be more contented to work. De La Torre also argued that these roads
could be used to control the contraband of cacao from the valleys to the plains, an
activity that was supposedly controlled by maroon communities.
De La Torre made a fourth recommendation that calls our attention. He
suggested the supervision and improvement of tobacco crops in the valleys, so the
slaves could consume tobacco of better quality. He wrote:
I believe that blacks get upset when they don’t have tobacco, and also because of the bad quality of that which grows in the valleys. It is undeniable that these slaves prefer tobacco to meat. If you ever find a slave lacking both, he will prefer tobacco to meat.522 The observer was impressed by the many times that slaves had complained to
him about tobacco. “Slaves thought that I had the authority to remedy this.” De la
Torre felt the need to calm these slaves by arguing that they had a bad year with
tobacco, but that better times would come. However, he confessed: “I have always
noticed the bad quality of the tobacco grown in these valleys, and this is something
that creates great displeasure among the slaves.”523 So he recommended importing the
tobacco from other regions to the central Valleys.
522 Ibid, 568. 523 Idem.
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Comparing the runaways’ reasons for escaping mentioned above with the
observations and recommendations of De La Torre, allows us to notice coincidences
and to get a clearer idea of the situation of the blacks in the Valley of Caucagua.
Runaways and slaves, indeed, demanded better living conditions in terms of the food
they could buy, the consumption of meat, and also complained about the lack of
tobacco or the poor quality of it. 524 But what about the cruelty and punishment
imposed by masters and mayordomos? According to our records about the maroons of
the Valley, mistreatment and physical punishment represented 50 percent of the
complaints by runaways.525 It was unlikely that slaves and maroons complained more
about the quality of tobacco than about the mistreatment by their masters. Why did de
La Torre not mention anything about the punishments and the cruelty? My
interpretation is that a claim for better treatment for the slaves would have
contradicted de La Torre’s recommendations to establish greater control over the
slaves. In a sense, his recommendations were two-pronged: on the one hand,
tightening control and increasing submission of the slaves and maroons, while at the
same time improving living conditions (food and tobacco) which did not necessarily
endanger due subordination and order. Heavy punishments would be part of
524 Some runaways said that they never had the chance to eat meat on their haciendas. One said that his master only gave him plantains and corn to eat, “not even grains or bread.” Another said that he never got water and one day he was so hungry that he ate the food of the beasts. “Procedimientos contra esclavos fugitivos en los montes de Capaya y sus declaraciones,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 469-569, 481v. 525 See “Procedimientos contra esclavos fugitivos en los montes de Capaya, y sus declaraciones,” AGN, Diversos, LXVI, 469-500.
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maintaining order, so he did not even need to mention this in his report. Considering
this, I believe that some complaints of blacks caught the attention of the authorities,
while others did not prompt an immediate response because they implied recognizing
the problems and failures of the system. So the authorities were willing to recognize
and negotiate certain demands, but not others that might have compromised or
undermined their authority over the black population. The cases mentioned above
show us that fear of black insurrection not only justified more control, but also the
search for consent and the recommendation for “better treatment” on the part of the
masters, as a way of decreasing slaves and free blacks’ motivations for rebellions.
Free blacks and slaves appreciated this inclination on the part of the authorities
and manipulated it for their own purposes. In December 1797, the free blacks and
slaves of Curiepe sent a letter to the Captain General of Venezuelan denouncing that
they were treated in a miserably way by the white hacendados of the region and by the
Justicia Mayor of Curiepe. They also complained that the commercial taxes were too
high. Immediately, the Captain General sent a letter to José Anís, Justicia Mayor of
Curiepe, alerting him that “in the current circumstances” he was “not to oppress or
allow anyone to oppress” the blacks of the region.526 Enraged, José de Anís answered
that all those denunciations were “lies made up by a group of blacks who don’t want
to work and who live miserably because they do not accomplish their tasks.” He also
526 “Comunicación del Gobernador y Capitán General al Justicia Mayor de Curiepe, 11/1/1798” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXVII, 240.
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added that these blacks did not show any respect for his authority, “believing that they
depend directly on your Government and Captaincy.” In the end, Anís assured the
Captain General that “he was a good man (hombre de bien)” and he had always treated
them gently, fulfilling his responsibilities and preventing complaints from anyone in
town.527 Additionally, Anís commented that he had heard that the real origin of the
blacks’ discontents was that they were treated by pardos with contempt, but that he
was not even sure about this rumor either, because he had witnessed blacks and pardos
having a friendly relationship and attending public celebrations together.
In the end, Anís assured that he was aware of the importance of keeping people
of color contented, but that he could not control the “malicious intentions” and rumors
of some of the blacks who “in order to provoke fear, stir up hotheads and spread false
rumors that seriously damage the population.”528 Such was the case of a black man
from Curiepe, Juan Pablo Castellanos, who seeking to improve the situation of black
people in the town, supposedly went to Caracas in order to directly express his protest
to the Captain General.
The cases mentioned above, showed that Haiti brought more attention in part
of the whites to slaves and the colored population, who did not lose any opportunity to
speak up and make clear their demands in order to win better material conditions. For
the elites the situation was completely different, the Haitian Revolution made them
527 “Comunicación de Don José Anís al Gobernador y Capitán General, acusa recibo de su carta, 22/1/98” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General LXVIII, 261-63. 528 Ibid, 264.
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reconsider their relations with subalterns, heightening their suspicions and
underminining their confidence in their slaves. The colonial authorities, in particular,
became more aware of the need of keeping blacks of the region contented while
controlling the potential emergence of new subversive movements. This concern led
them to pay more attention to the relationshiop between masters and slaves, and
especially to any complaints rised by the latter. The shift of local authorities
relationship with free blacks and slaves will become more evident as increasing
negative and fearful views of the blacks uprisings arrived in the region of Venezuela
thank to the great number of Spanish Dominican who migrated to the region and
shared their own fearful and horrifying stories of the invasion of Toussaint and his
troops. The next section will analyze the kind of stories that these immigrants shared
and their impact on the authorities and elites.
2. Toussaint Invades Santo Domingo: The Presence
of Spanish Dominican Families in Venezuela and their “Stories of Chaos”
On January 20, 1801, Captain Josef Blade arrived in the Port of Puerto Cabello
on his ship “Nuestra Señora del Carmen.” Blade had left Puerto Cabello at the
beginning of December 1800 with a load of foodstuffs and cacao which he transported
to Spanish Santo Domingo. On January 6, 1801, he and all the population of the city
of Santo Domingo received the news that “the Black Toussaint and his people were
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heading to the city of Santo Domingo in order to take it.” Immediately after hearing
the news, the governor of the Spanish section of the island, Don Joaquín García,
ordered all men (older than 16 years and younger than 60 years) to organize
themselves and be prepared to defend the city from the “atrocious actions that the
black troops of Toussaint could commit.”529
Blade left the port of Santo Domingo on January 14. Twelve passengers
accompanied him, most of them were white women from the city of Santo Domingo
who wanted to escape “from Toussaint and his blacks.” Blade also told Miguel
Marmión, Commander of Puerto Cabello, that many people in Santo Domingo were
boarding ships with different destinations, such as Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the different
ports on the coast of Venezuela. He was sure that in the next months many more ships
would come to Venezuela bringing people from Santo Domingo who were afraid of
the invasion of Toussaint and his people.530 Blade was right, between January and
May of 1801, more than one thousand emigrants arrived at different ports and cities of
Venezuela.531
529 “Comunicación de Don Miguel Marmión, Teniente de Puerto Cabello, al Capitán General de Venezuela, 20/1/1801,” in AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XCVI, 229-234. 530 Ibid. 531 See “Estado que manifiesta el número de personas emigradas en este Puerto, así particulares como de los Cuerpos Político y Militar, y de la Real Hacienda procedentes de la Ysla Española de Santo Domingo, Maracaibo, 21 de marzo de 1801” quoted in Fernando Carrera Montero, Las complejas relaciones de España con la Española: El Caribe hispano frente a Santo Domingo y Saint-Domingue, 1789-1803” (República Dominicana: Fundación García Arévalo, 2004), 505.
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The Haitian Revolution provoked an incredible mobilization of people in the
Atlantic World. Plantations went up in flames; hundreds of people of all colors were
killed; Spanish, British, and French armies invaded; and thousands of residents fled.
Throughout the last decade of the eighteenth century and during the early years of the
nineteenth century, ships carried thousands of white refugees, their slaves, and free
people of color from Saint-Domingue to ports in other Caribbean islands, Europe,
Spanish America, and North America. The historiography that has studied the impact
that these people had on each location is vast and rich, and has raised interesting
questions regarding the complex web of representations and images that these refugees
produced and reproduced about race, freedom, and republicanism in the western world
during the Age of Revolution.532 The stories that these refugees told and retold have
provided interesting ways for historians to restore the connection between the French
and Haitian Revolutions, and the rest of the Atlantic World. As Ashli White contends:
“Saint-Dominguan exiles raised as many questions about being a republic as they did
532 On Saint-Domingue refugees, their mobilizations, and their stories, see Carla A. Basseaux and Glenn R. Conrad, eds., The Road to Louisiana: The Saint-Domingue Refugees, 1792-1809 (Louisiana: Center for Louisiana Studies, University of South Louisiana, 1992); R.D. Meadows, “Engineering Exile: Social Networks and the French Atlantic Community, 1789-1809,” French Historical Studies 23, no. 1 (2000): 67-102; Soler, “Las repercusiones de la Revolución Francesa en el Caribe español”; Ashli White, “A Flood of Impure Lava: Saint-Domingue Refugees in the United States, 1791-1820” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2003) and Encountering Revolution. Haiti and the Making of the Early Republic (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2010); Susan Branson and Leslie Patrick, “Etrangers dans un Pays Etrange: Saint-Dominguan Refugees of color in Philadelphia,” in The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, ed. David P. Geggus (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2001), 193-208; Jennifer Pierce, “Discourses of the Dispossessed: Saint-Domingue Colonists on Race, Revolution, and Empire, 1789-1825” (PhD diss., State University of New York at Binghamton, 2005).
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about slaveholding” and, in the case of the United States, these questions forced
Americans to confront the paradox of being a slaveholding republic.533
When Toussaint decided to invade the Spanish section of the island, a wave of
Spanish Dominican refugees, carrying with them the stories of terror about the Haitian
Revolution and its black leaders, fled to other Caribbean islands and to different ports
in Spanish America. Like the Saint-Domingue refugees, these Spanish Dominican
refugees also brought their stories and interpretations of the invasion of the black
troops, republicanism, race, and slavery. Their accounts were framed in a narrative
that depicted them as victims of a revolution that leaped across the territorial borders,
invaded their hometowns, and forced them to leave their land, their possessions, and
their slaves. These refugees became masters of the narrative: they provided detailed
descriptions of how they had to confront the fury of the sea, the danger of pirates, and
the pain of separation from their families.534 The circumstances that these refugees had
endured attracted not only the interest of colonial officials who tried to offer them
support, but also of common people who met them in the streets and in the market,
533 White, Encountering Revolution. Haiti and the Making of the Early Republic, 3. 534 Natalie Zemon Davis and Carlo Ginzburg have shown us that when the condemned seek to portray themselves as victims, they become masters of the narrative. Both historians have proven that the study of narrative strategies is a valuable model for understanding the relationship between individuals’ perception and the broader political, social, and cultural forces that shape them. See Natalie Zemon Davis, Fiction in the Archives: Pardon Tales and their Tellers in Sixteenth Century France (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987) and Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms. For interesting discussions of the politics of victimization, see John C. Torpey, ed., Politics and the Past: On Repairing Historical Injustices (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003) and Robert Elias, The Politics of Victimization: Victims, Victimology, and Human Rights (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986).
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and who came face to face with a powerful and fearful version of the Haitian
Revolution: a version which reduced it to chaos, disorder and devastation.
Many of the refugees who came to Venezuela during the Haitian revolutionary
events were Spaniards from the colony of Santo Domingo. Most of these families
began to move from Spanish Santo Domingo to Venezuela by the end of 1795 (when
the Spanish section of the Island was ceded to France), but the most significant wave
of refugees arrived during the first months of 1801, as a result of the occupation of the
Spanish section of the island by Toussaint Louverture. Most of these families did not
have Venezuela as their final destination; in fact, many of them visited different places
in the greater Caribbean until they found a definitive place to settle. The island of
Cuba was among the most popular destinations of these families who wanted to
recreate the same political, economic and social conditions that they had enjoyed in
Santo Domingo before the revolutionary turbulences occurred.535 However, while they
stayed in Venezuela, these refugees spread a radical version of the Haitian revolution
as an extremely chaotic event that brought disorder and destruction to the political and
and the social order. They shared powerful representations of what happened when a
territory became ruled by blacks who were depicted as savages, violent, and insolent
subjects, naturally prone to authoritarism and anarchism. In addition, these refugees
were also a clear and direct evidence of the expansionist intentions of Toussaint and
535 About Dominican refugees in Cuba, see Carlos Esteban Deive, Las emigraciones dominicanas a Cuba (1795-1808) (Santo Domingo: Fundación Cultural Dominicana, 1989) and Ferrer, “Cuba en la sombra de Haití: noticias, sociedad y esclavitud.”
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his revolution, a movement that, in the refugees’ opinions, did not follow any political
plan and did not respect territorial boundaries and sovereignty. In this sense, the
refugees’ narratives generated a more negative, harsh, and fearful version of the blacks
and the subaltern politics than had existed previously in the province, and reinforced
the increasing suspicions that elites developed on their slaves and free colored
workers.
As we mentioned before, the Spanish section of Santo Domingo had been
ceded by the Spanish Crown to the French Republic in 1795 with the Treaty of Basle.
The Treaty stated that the colony was to be ceded in exchange for the evacuation of
territory occupied by the French troops on the Iberian Peninsula. In 1795, the French
government appointed a commission to undertake the civil administration of the
Spanish section. Among these men were: Mr. Roume de St. Laurent, named as the
French agent in Spanish Santo Domingo, General Etienne Lavaux, already Governor
of the French section of the island, General Rochambeau, named to a similar post in
the Spanish section, and General Kerversau. Nevertheless, different circumstances
delayed the official cession; one of the most important was that France lacked the
military force to replace the Spanish military personnel, nor did it count on the
economic resources necessary to establish a government. Although it was official, the
fact is that the cession of this section of the island to the French never took place.536
536 For a complete description of the cession of Santo Domingo to France, see Wendell G. Schaeffer, “The Delayed Cession of Spanish Santo Domingo to France, 1795-1801,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 29, no. 1 (1949): 46-8, and Deive, Las emigraciones dominicanas.
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In spite of the delay in carrying out the provision of the Treaty of Basle, many
Spanish inhabitants left the island because for them it was evident that there was no
going back. By this time, many of the richer Spanish proprietors and merchants had
fled with their goods and their slaves to other Spanish American destinations. I have
found that some families reached the coast of Venezuela in 1796 with the intentions of
settling and developing commercial activities there. Venezuelan colonial authorities
were reluctant to accept the presence of these refugees from Santo Domingo on the
mainland because their slaves could become a source of revolutionary contagion
among other slaves and free people of color.
In May 1796, for example, several families from Santo Domingo arrived in the
port of La Guaira and the port of La Vela de Coro. Many of these people were
merchants, and brought with them agricultural and manufactured goods, such as
textiles, tobacco, and alcohol that they intended to sell in the province. They
demanded exemption from the 22 percent of commercial tax that the Real Hacienda
applied to anyone importing merchandise into the Province of Venezuela. According
to them, they did not have to pay such taxes when they left Santo Domingo and they
believed that their special condition exempted them from paying commercial taxes in
Spanish ports.
In a communication to the Captain General, one of the Dominican merchants,
José Peralta, stated that he had left the comfort of his home and his land to follow the
Spanish flag, sacrificing everything he owned for his loyalty to the King. He added
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that he was sure that the King, “who is willing to relieve the pain of his beloved
vassals, people who have abandoned their island and have followed the flag, driven by
their loyalty and love,” would grant them these favors. Peralta used a discourse of
victimization, listing the number of sacrifices he had made and the number of risks he
and his family had taken when putting their health in jeopardy and leaving everything
for their loyalty to Spain. He, and all of the other Dominican merchants, expected
exemption from commercial taxes as a way of compensating them for their fidelity to
the Crown.537
Quatermaster General Esteban Fernández de León argued that the exemption
of commercial taxes for Dominican merchants only applied to other Spanish islands
like Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Trinidad, but not to Venezuela. Local authorities
considered that only the Crown could make a final decision about any exemption from
taxes, and in consequence they requested the payment of taxes for commercial
products, except for those goods that were for personal use and consumption.
In a report to the Crown, Fernández de León stated that it was preferable to
create “some difficulties” for the Spanish Dominicans to enter the province, as a way
to dissuade others like them from coming to Venezuela. He argued that “most of them
bring slaves contaminated with the ideas of freedom, especially since the French agent
Mr. Roume arrived. These ideas could cause a terrible impression in this country, as
537 “Testimonio del Expediente de Don José Peralta y varios vecinos del comercio, solicitando se les declare libres de impuestos los efectos que traen por su emigración a la Provincia de Venezuela, 5/1796,” AGI, Caracas, 507, no. 991.
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the population is made up in large proportion by slaves.”538 Fernández de León’s
response shows that the colonial authorities did not favor the entrance of these
refugees and their “contaminated slaves” on the mainland, where ideas spread more
easily and quickly. However, when Toussaint invaded the Spanish section of Santo
Domingo in 1801, the colonial authorities responded positively to the entry of refugees
in the province, as they came in larger numbers and brought “stories of terror” that
could not be ignored.
In 1798, the tensions between the legitimate French authorities – assisted by
the Captain General of Santo Domingo, Joaquín García – and Toussaint Louverture
changed the fate of the Spanish section of the island. By this time, Toussaint had made
up his mind to invade Santo Domingo. According to many historians, Toussaint had
sufficient reasons to invade: in the first place, he wanted to abolish slavery and the
slave trade on the entire island because he was sure that men, women, and children
who were “French citizens” were kidnapped, taken to Santo Domingo, and sold as
slaves. In the second place, considering his confrontation with the French government,
Toussaint also needed to control the eastern part of the island which could be used as a
base for French military operations against him. Toussaint forced General Roume, the
Franch agent in Santo Domingo, to issue a decree calling for the occupation, and
538 “Comunicación de Esteban Fernández de León a Don Diego de Gardoqui, 6/1796,” AGI, Caracas, 507, no. 991.
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under huge pressure Roume signed the capitulation. On April 27, 1800, Toussaint
ordered the occupation of the Spanish part of Santo Domingo.539
Eight months later, and after defeating Rigaud in the south, Toussaint led his
troops to San Juan de la Maguarán and divided his army of 20,000 men into two
groups. One group entered the southern area of the Spanish section, and the other, led
by his nephew Moyse, entered the northern region. On January 10, rumors circulated
among the population of Santo Domingo that Toussaint and his troops were close to
the city. In order to prevent Toussaint from capturing the French officials, Joaquín
García gave them passports, and on January 13, Generals Chalantee and Kerversau left
the city.540
The French generals arrived in Puerto Cabello (Venezuela) on January 18,
1801. Upon their arrival, the commander of Puerto Cabello, Miguel Marmión, in
accordance with the law that prohibited the entry of French people into the province,
ordered them to stay on board and leave for the port of La Guaira. The French generals
sent a letter to the Captain General, Manuel Guevara Vasconcelos, pleading for their
entry into the province, arguing that “instead of rigorously applying the laws, the
commander of Puerto Cabello should listen to the voice of humanity, politics, and the
539 Schaeffer, “The Delayed Cession of Spanish Santo Domingo to France,” and Dubois, Avengers of the New World, Chapters 10 and 11. 540 “Pasaporte otorgado por Joaquín García a Antonio Chanlantte, General de Brigada francés en la parte española de Santo Domingo, 13/01/1801,” AGI, Estado, 59, no. 14, 3.
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common cause that today unites Spain and France.”541 They also explained the
circumstance of the invasion by Toussaint Louverture of the Spanish section of Santo
Domingo and the need to receive the Venezuelan government’s support in order to
continue their trip to France. In France they would communicate to the French
government “the deplorable state to which the horrible ambition of Toussaint had
reduced the entire Island of Santo Domingo.” The generals were sure that Toussaint’s
intentions were to extend his dominion beyond the limits of the island, and to control
all the communication networks such in a way that “soon France would not have any
direct information apart from those that which Toussaint – the enemy –
communicates.”542
Captain General, Guevara Vasconcelos, sent the Generals a reply in which he
stated that in the current circumstances they would receive them in the province, and
that he understood the importance of Spain and France becoming allies against the
terrible menace of Toussaint. Therefore, on January 23, he authorized their landing,
offered his hospitality, and expressed his willingness to safeguard the archives that
these generals had brought with them. The archives contained valuable documents
regarding military, administrative and political affairs for both the French and the
541 “Carta de los Generales Chanlantte y Kerversau al Gobernador y Capitán General de Venezuela,” AGI, Estado, 59, no. 14. Following the Treaty of Aranjuez, Spain became the active ally of France on June 27, 1796, and the following November a war started between Spain and England. See Schaeffer, “The Delayed Cession of Spanish Santo Domingo to France,” 55. 542 “Comunicación de los Generales Franceses al Capitán General de Venezuela, 3/1801,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, XCVI, 51-52, 85-87.
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Spanish sections of the Island.543 Among these documents there was a long report
written by Chalantte that showed how the relations between Toussaint and the French
generals had deteriorated in 1799 and 1800. In this report, Toussaint was described as
a traitor, “usurper of the Antilles,” and as a tyrannical ruler who had submerged the
island in the worst state of anarchy.544
While in Caracas, General Kerversau wrote another report with the intention
of explaining the procedures and the general nature of Toussaint’s political actions and
their effects on the island. Kerversau again contended that Toussaint was a traitor who
had assumed different positions and allied with different parties, with the sole
intention of pursuing his personal ambitions. He wrote:
I have witnessed Tusain (sic) oppressing whites while persuading them to join him; exterminating people of color while listening to their sacred songs and clamors for piety, and ruling blacks after having killed some of the chiefs that had influence over the population.545 In the opinion of Kerversau, Toussaint used the “republic” as an instrument to
establish the tyrannical rule, of an ambitious and haughty caracter. The invasion of the
Spanish section was, precisely, a strategy to eliminate the presence of the French in
the entire territory. He concluded:
543 “Comunicación del Capitán General de Venezuela autorizando el desembarco de los Generales Franceses, 23/01/1801,” AGI, Estado, 59, no. 14. 544 “Relación sobre el estado de la parte francesa y de la parte española de Santo Domingo, por Antonio Chalantte, General de Brigada y Comisario del Gobierno Francés en la parte española, 8/5/1800,” AGI, Estado, no. 14. 545 “Extracto de la principal relación sobre los acontecimientos de Santo Domingo por el General Kerversau,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, LXXXV, 316 – 324v, 317.
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For those of you who do not know Toussaint, forget your illusions: as long as the colony continues he alone will rule. There will be laws, but these simply reflect his will; there will be authority, but only his…, because this is what happens in a colony ruled by an unruly and traitorous black.546 In this last paragraph, Kerversau allows us to perceive his racial prejudice
against Toussaint. Kerversau argues that “republicanism” in the hands of blacks like
Toussaint become a “tyrannical system,” not because blacks don’t know what
republicanism is and how it works, but because blacks have a “haughty and arrogant
character” and are prone to authoritarianism.
In the following months, several accounts and reports written by the
Dominican refugees who came to Venezuela reinforced this negative image of
Toussaint and of the black men who made up his troops. These accounts could only
have aggravated the racial and social tensions already existing in the Province of
Venezuela, promoting greater resistance on the part of the colored people and
increasing fear, and the urge to control and repress on the part of whites.
On January 20, 22, and 23, 1801 three ships, carrying two hundred seventy-
one Dominican refugees arrived at the Port of Maracaibo, one of the most important
cities in the northwestern region of Venezuela. Although the governor of Maracaibo,
Fernando Mijares, was surprised by the unexpected arrival of these refugees, he soon
made arrangements to receive them and ordered the neighbors of Maracaibo to
welcome them in their homes and provide them with food and shelter. He also decided
546 Ibid, 322.
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to send two of these ships back to Santo Domingo carrying food from the region, and
with orders to pick up more people willing to escape from Toussaint.547
The Governor noticed that the great majority of the refugees were women,
children, and domestic servants. Of approximately twenty-five families, there were
only four male heads of household. The reason why Dominican husbands did not
board the ships was that Joaquín García, Governor of Santo Domingo, had ordered
that the men should stay to confront Toussaint’s troops. However, once García
capitulated on January 27, everyone in Santo Domingo tried to flee from the city with
their families.
Table 1
Number of Dominicans in Maracaibo, January 1801 – March 1801548
Ship Whites “Criados” Slaves Total Ventura
01/20/1801 53 43 0 96
Santa Cecilia 01/22/1801
11 6 11 28
Soledad 01/23/1801
55 28 64 147
Ntra. Señora del Carmen
01/29/1801
33 54 0 87
Ventura 02/4/1801
101 68 0 169
Dinamarquesa549 02/14/1801
85 12 0 97
547 “Comunicación del Gobernador Fernando Mijares al Capitan General de Venezuela, 23/01/1801,” AGI, Estado 60, no. 3. 548 This table compiles 13 reports in “Relaciones del número de personas emigradas de la Isla Española de Santo Domingo y llegadas al Puerto de Maracaibo (enero – marzo, 1801),” AGI, Estado, 60, no. 3.
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San Cristobal 02/23/1801
295 4 1 300
La Elisa550 02/22/1801
4 6 0 10
Soledad 02/27/1801
90 0 0 90
Nuestra Señora del Carmen
02/27/1801
32 0 0 32
Americana 02/27/1801
14 2 16
San Quins and Santa Julita
03/02/1801
289 14 7 310
Nuestra Señora del Rosario
03/28/1801
21 0 0 21
Total 1,083 237 83 1,403
It is interesting to note that the first three ships that arrived in Maracaibo (see
table 1) brought a total of one hundred fifty-two slaves (seventy-five plantation slaves
and seventy-seven domestics) that represented 56 percent of the emigrants aboard.
This was exceptional because in subsequent ships the proportion of slaves decreased
significantly. Deive explained this situation: once Toussaint entered the city, he
strictly prohibited Dominican masters to take their slaves with them. He argued that he
could not allow the exit of the people upon whom the agricultural development of
549 In this ship arrived Don Leonardo Del Monte y Medrano with his family and five ‘criados.’ Del Monte was a Magistrate of the Real Audiencia of Santo Domingo. Apparently he stayed in Maracaibo until 1809, when he and his family moved to Cuba. His son Domingo del Monte was born in Maracaibo on August 4, 1804. Domingo del Monte was a recognized man of letters and critic, and accused of participating in the Conspiracy of La Escalera in 1844. 550 In this ship arrived the governor and Captain General of Santo Domingo, Don Joaquín García, and his family. García stayed in Maracaibo for three months and a half. He arrived in La Habana on July 20 1801.
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region depended. García tried to persuade Toussaint, but he only allowed the
Dominicans to take their domestic slaves (who were included in he category
“criados”) with them, which they surely did, as almost 17 percent of the refugees were
named as “criados.”551
White refugees portrayed themselves as victims of Toussaint Louverture,
whose invasion forced them to leave their homes and haciendas, abandoning also their
slaves and possessions, and separating them from their families and communities.
Their narratives also described the dangers they faced in the Caribbean sea, not only
because of the bad climate and strong winds, but also because of the presence of
pirates who pursued ships in order to sack them.
This was the situation that the refugees on board the ship Ventura confronted
when an English frigate captured them. The pirates boarded their ship, took everything
they could from the families – including twenty four slaves –, broke everything else,
and “when they tried to fondle the women, the Priest Valverde bravely opposed them,
claiming that they would have to kill him before committing these atrocious actions
against the women.” Another ship also carrying families from Santo Domingo
suffered the impact of strong winds and a heavy sea, and its capitan was forced to
551 Deive, Las emigraciones dominicanas, 95. In Latin America, the term criado usually referred to a person raised by the family, a poor relative, or someone from the hacienda who depended on the family. The term did not normally applied to the slaves. However, since Toussaint prohibited the exit of field slaves, and allowed only the exit of domestic slaves, Dominicans masters seemed to have included his/her domestics slaves under the category “criados,” in order not to call the attention of the authorities. The table shows how the number of criados significantly increased as the prohibition of taking slaves took place. See table 1.
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change course. The ship reached the land in the middle of the night and entire families
had to walk along the beach in the dark, suffering hunger and fatigue, until they found
help. 552
Maracaibo was the destination chosen by García for the Cantabria Regiment,
the commanders of Santo Domingo, some ministers of the Real Hacienda, Magistrates
of the royal court, secretaries, important militiamen of Santo Domingo, and for
himself and his family. According to Deive, García believed that the maritime route
from Santo Domingo to Maracaibo was more secure than the others, and he wanted to
bring to safety all the papers, money, and books that belonged to the Crown.553 García
landed with his family, six domestic slaves, and the Secretary Nicolás Toledo in
Maracaibo on February 22. Immediately after his arrival, he got in contact with the
governor of Maracaibo and shared with him his impressions of Toussaint Louverture’s
invasion. In a letter addressed to the Captain General, García contended that the black
leader had taken the island violently, breaking all the terms of the Treaty of Basle. He
obliged to leave, and took “everything that belonged to the king, establishing an
authoritarian rule, and setting a terrible example for the people of color and for the
slaves.”554
552 “Comunicación del Gobernador Mijares al Capitán General de Venezuela, 14/02/1801,” AGI, Estado, 60, no. 13, 211. 553 Deive, Las emigraciones dominicanas, 93-6. “Comunicación del Gobernador Mijares al Capitán General de Venezuela, 24/2/1801 and 3/2/1801,” AGI, Estado, 60, no. 13, 218. 219, 220. 554 “Comunicación de Joaquín García al Capitán General de Venezuela sobre situación de Santo Domingo, la toma de la plaza por las tropas de Toussaint, 24/02/1801,” AGI, Estado 60, no. 3.
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On March 11, 1801, eighteen Dominicans who had settled in the city of
Maracaibo signed a letter sent to the Governor of Caracas in which they offered a
narrative of the events of Toussaint’s invasion to Santo Domingo. They reported:
The consternation that from that awful moment invaded our hearts was such that there was no longer order nor agreement in Santo Domingo. Everyone tried immediately to abandon the unhappy fatherland with all their goods and possessions: each person borded a ship wherever and however he could. Therefore our exit resembled more a precipitous escape than a planned emigration, and those who have managed it are fortunate, because the unfortunate who were not able to leave now find the port closed and are suffering the humiliations and shame that are the consequence of the Goverment of a despotic black, full of ambition and desire.555 These testimonies of the refugees from Santo Domingo strongly condemned
the actions of Toussaint and his black troops. In general, these accounts depicted the
actions of the blacks and mulattos in Haiti as chaotic and destructive, without
responding to any political plan or ideological purpose. For the Dominican refugees, it
was not possible to imagine blacks and mulattos fighting for the political ideals of
liberty and equality, or for republicanism. None of these accounts mentioned the
“political plan” or goals of Toussaint, because for white Dominicans these blacks and
555 “La consternación que desde aquel fatal momento se apoderó de nuestros corazones; fue tal que no hubo mas orden no concierto en Sto. Domingo; todos trataron inmediatamente de abandonar una patria infeliz y con ella todos sus bienes, y posesiones: cada cual se embarcó donde pudo, y como pudo, suerte que nuestra salida mas ha parecido una fuga precipitada que una emigración arreglada, y […] dichosos los que lo hemos verificado! Pues los desgraciados que no han podido efectuarla, ya tienen cerrado el Puerto, y están sufriendo las vejaciones y aprobios que son consecuentes al Gobierno de un negro déspota, lleno de ambición y de codicia.” “Comunicado de los emigrados de Santo Domingo residentes en Maracaibo,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, Tomo XCVI, 102-103. In February 8 1801, Toussaint forbid any inhabitant of Spanish Santo Domingo to leave the island, with the exception of the Governor, Ministers and the Regiment of Cantbria. With this decision, Toussaint clearly violated the terms of both the Treaty of Basle and the Capitulations. The Dominicans became citizend of the Republic. See Fernando Carrera Moreno, Las complejas relaciones de España con La Española, 473.
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mulattos were just “ambitious” people whose only purpose was to kill whites, destroy
their possessions, and take absolute control of the city. Although records show that
320 slaves (domestics and from plantations) arrived with their masters in Maracaibo, I
have not found any testimony from the slaves that allows me to assess their opinions
about Toussaint, the Revolution of Haiti, or the invasion of Santo Domingo. In Santo
Domingo, according to Deive, free people of color favored Toussaint and celebrated
his invasion, while the slaves that remained on the island, acclaimed him when he
abolished slavery in August 1801. I would think that black Dominican refugees would
have felt the same as their counterparts in Santo Domingo, and would probably have
spread favorable rumors about the black rebellion and about freedom and equality in
Haiti, as slaves and free blacks of Coro who celebrated the news of the invasion.
During the months of January through April, other ships carrying refugees
reached different ports in Venezuela, such as Barcelona in the Province of Cumaná
where Governor Emparan received approximately thirty-one refugees, and Paraguaná
de Coro, where small groups of refugees also arrived. On January 27, 1801, Andrés
Boggiero, Commander and Magistrate of Coro, received the news that a ship
proceeding from Santo Domingo had run aground in the Port of La Vela de Coro. On
board the ship were approximately one hundred twenty people who had “fled from the
revolution of blacks in Santo Domingo,” and who had walked from the beach to the
city of Coro for more than twenty-four hours under the sun and arrived extremely
tired. Boggiero was not sure whether to welcome these families that could bring
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rumors and information to the mainland, but he soon received the official order to do
so, while keeping an eye on any “French individuals” entering into the province.556
These refugees also brought their own stories about Toussaint’s invasion,
which they shared with Boggiero. Their descriptions followed the same pattern as
those told by the rest of the Dominicans refugees: Toussaint was a traitor; he did not
respect the terms of the Treaty of Basle or of the capitulations; he took everything he
could from the royal treasury; and declared freedom for all the slaves on the island.557
For them Toussaint represented chaos and disorder. To show blacks’ lack of order and
respect, they commented:
It seems that the disorder is so extreme that these blacks do not even respect women, and insult white officials. Apparently two white militiamen passed by a guard of Toussaint, who whipped the hats off their heads with a bayonet, because the whites had not saluted him.558 In March, Boggiero sent four accounts written by these refugees who had
temporally settled in Coro to the Captain General of Venezuela. The accounts
described the events of the invasion: the number of Toussaint’s troops, the capitulation
of García, and general reports regarding the presence and actions of the black troops in
the city. All four accounts argued that Toussaint had breached the Treaty of Basle and 556 “Comunicación de Andrés Boggiero al Capitán General de Venezuela, 24/01/1801,” AGI, Estado 60, no. 3, 176. 557 The truth is that Toussaint did not abolish slavery in the Spanish Part of Santo Domingo until August 1801. He did prohibit the sale of slaves as well as their exit from the island. Slaves had to stay and remain under the custody of the Republic, as a way of preventing their dispersion and the loss of agriculture. See Fernando Carrera Montero, Las complejas relaciones de España y La Española, 472. 558 “Comunicación de Andrés Boggiero al Capitán General de Venezuela, 18/03/1801,” AGI, Estado 60, no. 3, 181.
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his troops had established anarchy and chaos in the capital of Santo Domingo. Don
Bartolomé Segura, for example, asserted that Toussaint had come into the capital with
“2,200 hungry and naked blacks” who violated the capitulations, and installed
“barbarism, disorder, despotism, sensuality, and others vices.” Don Domingo Díaz
Páez asserted: “the situation of our island is monstrous. The city, which before was a
center of harmony and good order, has been reduced today to the most astonishing
anarchy.”559 Don Andrés Angulo affirmed: “Toussaint is determined to take absolute
control over the Island and all its possessions, destroying and eliminating all the rights
and properties of the people. […] Everyday, these blacks will increase their boldness
and abuses, provoking lamentable misfortunes.” At the end, Angulo concluded:
The purposes of Toussaint are that they [the blacks] should become masters of the entire island, as its absolute masters in order to destroy it and anhiliate it, and even spread its fire to the neighboring possessions. This, I think, may be expected in view of his ambition and his daring nature.560 Another witness, Don Fancisco Mosquera y Cabrera stated: “The purposes of
the blacks are doubtless to extend their evilness all over the island, destroying
everything – like they did in the French part –. Then they would be willing to expand
it to other islands.” 561
559“Información que remiten los emigrados de Sto. Domingo habitantes en Coro, 1801,” AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, Tomo XCVI, 66-67. 560 “Las miras de Tousain es de creerse que podran senorearse en toda la Ysla como dueno absoluto de esta, destruirla y aniquilarla y aun extender el fuego por defuera de sus posesiones vecinas. Esto digo puede esperarse de su ambicion y genio,” Ibid. 561 Ibid.
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In general, the discourses and representations of these “victims of the
Revolution” underlined the “violent nature” of blacks, their incapacity for living under
any political order, their haughtiness, propensity to vengeance, and their desire to
extend their revolution and rule to neighboring regions. Along these lines, the
narratives of victimization that French agents and the Dominican refugees produced,
radicalized the view of blacks as incompetent rulers, not necessarily because of their
ignorance, but because they were seen as naturally prone to violence and authoritarian
rule. French agents clearly separated “French republicanism” from “black
republicanism,” depicting the latter as a system corrupted by the vices of blacks. But
the more conservative perspective of Spanish Dominicans saw republicanism as the
seed from which chaos and disorder grew, promoting ambition and insolence among
the people of color.
This new wave of rumors and information brought by Dominicans refugees
created more concerns among colonial authorities and the local elites. They not only
worried about the possibility that local slaves and free colored might imitate these
actions and movements, but also feared the possibility of suffering the same fate as
their counterparts in Santo Domingo who suffered the effects of the territorial
expansion of the Haitian Revolution. The Captain General and Governor of
Venezuela, Guevara Vasconcelos, wrote a letter to the Spanish minister of state in
which he argued that it was extremely important for European nations to unite to
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confront and oppose the menace that Toussaint represented to all the American
possessions.562
Saint-Domingue and Santo Domingo were used as terrible examples of what
happened when a territory became dominated by blacks. In a revealing paragraph the
Captain General contended that they must keep a close eye on the actions of
Toussaint, in order to avoid a terrible fate:
Falling into the hands of a barbarian horde of blacks who until recently were slaves, and that brutally abusing the laws – they can’t even understand – that the French Republic has established, manifest without restraint a furious desire to expel all white men from the island, or to make those who do not leave suffer in revenge for the suffering that blacks think they were subjected to before.563
In this paragraph, Guevara Vasconcelos shows a revealing interpretation of the
Haitian events. He believed that the blacks’ actions responded to a desire for
vengeance, and to the need of blacks to produce suffering in those (white masters)
who had made them suffer before. Reflecting on this argument, surely Guevara
Vasconcelos could well have concluded that the best ways of decreasing the risk of
rebellions in the region of Venezuela would be by reducing the blacks’ discontent and
desires for revenge. Of course, Guevara believed that the blacks in Spanish America
were not as insolent and rebellious as those in the Antilles, because in Venezuela “they
562 “Carta del Capitán General de Venezuela, Guevara Vasconcelos, a Urquijo, Primer Secretario de Estado. 28/01/1801” AGI, Estado 61, n.3, reservada no. 48. 563 “Carta del Capitán General de Venezuela, Guevara Vasconcelos, a Urquijo, Primer Secretario de Estado. 28/01/1801” AGI, Estado 61, n.3, reservada no. 48.
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generally look upon their masters with love and gratefulness.”564 But since the ideas
and feelings of the “blacks of Guarico” were contagious, it was still necessary to
maintain control of the situation and the vigilance over any suspicious movement on
the part of blacks.
The violent image of Haiti, the menace of the emergence of new black
insurrections like the one in Coro, the accumulated fear that the rumors spread by
Dominican refugees produced, the denunciations and complaints from the people of
color, and the need to maintain social order encouraged the Captain General to impose
certain restraints on the masters’ treatment towards the blacks. On March 19, 1801, for
example, the Captain General issued an order to the hacendados and mayordomos
blancos of Haciendas located in the Valley of Rio Chico, Paraquire and Tapipa
(Province of Caracas) requesting they to maintain their haciendas in good condition,
order, and subordination, “helping to establish a gentle and rational method for
maintaining harmony and happiness among their slaves, but without loss of respect
and subordination.”565 With this order, the Captain General recognized the importance
of controlling the masters’ irrational punishments. Colonial elites and authorities
recognized the danger of having discontented slaves, and the fear they felt about Haiti
not only led them to justify repression in case of an evident insurrection – as happened
in Coro. They also sought to establish more “rational and gentle methods,” satisfying
564 Idem. 565 “A todos los Dueños de Haciendas de los Valles de Rio Chico, Paraquire y Tapipa” en AGN, Gobernación y Capitanía General, Tomo XCVI, 25.
347
slaves in some of their demands, particularly when these were easy to accommodate,
and controlling any excessive violence in order not to waken feelings of revenge
among the colored population.
The events of Haiti definitely changed the way Venezuelan slaves and masters
perceived themselves and each other. Black slaves and free coloreds embraced not
only the events and the heroes of Haiti, but the principles that were sustaining the
Revolution. For them, the Haitian revolution was a victory for their race and for the
people of their same condition. The stories of Toussaint and his black troops fueled
their hopes of freedom and equality. However, Haiti was also evoked for other
purposes. The fear that the colored population sensed among the colonial authorities,
allowed them to be heard. Haiti brought more visibility to slaves and the colored
population, who did not lose any chance to make clear their demands and win better
conditions regarding commercial taxes, treatment from their masters, and acquisition
of merchandise. For the elites the situation was completely the reverse, the Haitian
Revolution heightened their suspicions and undermined their confidence in their
slaves. They became more aware of the need to keep blacks contented while
controlling any movement that potentially could give power to blacks. In this sense,
the web of rumors that circulated among the elites and the slaves not only fed their
respective fears and hopes, but also provided them with an awareness of the
perceptions of the other.
348
Epilogue
The Political Use of The Haitian Revolution in Colonial Venezuela
In March 2006, Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez expressed, in his weekly
radial program “Aló Presidente” (“Hello President”), his concern about the difficult
political circumstances in Haiti. President Chávez had always shown a sympathetic
and supportive attitude towards the people of Haiti, but this time he went a little
further. He commented that he felt the need to know more about Haiti, and that for this
reason he decided to read an “interesting book”: The Black Jacobins by C.R.L James.
“I have learned” he said “that there, in Haiti, blacks organized themselves and formed
military troops to get their freedom, and later to defeat Napoleon and obtain their
independence.”566 Then, he added that he highly recommended all Venezuelans to
read this book because this was a story barely mentioned in Venezuela’s schools. A
week later, the book was sold out in Caracas bookstores.
Chávez was right that the Haitian Revolution is a historic event scarcely
mentioned in Venezuelan history textbooks, and generally speaking an event that
seems completely erased from Venezuelan collective memory. In this sense, I believe
Venezuela should be included on the map of the Western historiographies that have
silenced Haiti and its revolution through different formulas of erasure and
banalization. Moreover, having read and revised the voluminous quantity of
566 Hugo Chávez, “Alo Presidente, no. 248.” March, 5, 2006.
349
documents from the eighteenth-century Venezuela that did mentioned Saint-
Domingue and its blacks rebels, I agree with Michel Trouillot’s observation that the
acts of silencing did end up hiding the political significance of the event for its
contemporaries and for the generation immediately following.567 Here, I have
provided examples of how colonial authorities sought to keep in secret all information
coming from or about the black rebellions in Saint-Domingue. However what they
most tried to hide was not only the knowledge and information about Saint-
Domingue, but their own fears that another Haiti could emerge in Venezuela and that
Venezuelan blacks could become key political actors. In this way, the silence of the
contemporaries towards Haiti was tied to white fear, a fear that was “a valuable
political commodity with plenty of potential consumers.”568
However, I have also shown that reference to Saint-Domingue and its
rebellions was inevitable and unavoidable. Venezuela not only received many written
communications, reports and pamphlets that openly commented on the political
circumstances of Saint-Domingue and the french colonies, and on the different social
and political actors involved in them. These written materials were also read and
discussed by different social groups, regardless of their level of education. These
written materials developed alongside the emergence of new spaces for socialization,
where discussions and debates concerning racial identities, political values, and power
567 Michel Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 97. 568 João José Reis and Flávio dos Santo Gomes, “Repercussions of the Haitian Revolution in Brazil, 1791-1850,” in David Geggus and Norman Fiering, The World of the Haitian Revolution, 289.
350
relations took place. Colonial Venezuela was also invaded by the numerous
individuals who, directly or indirectly, had been affected by the Haitian Revolution.
Royalists Frenchmen, black revolutionaries, slaves, and French, and Spanish refugees
shared their version of revolutionary events with the local population, and these
versions nourished white fear and, at the same time, fueled the hopes of slaves and
free blacks. The chapter about the conspiracy of La Guaira shows how the spaces for
political discussion emerged, who participated in them and how they functioned as
platforms for planning a conspiracy. The plot was clearly inspired by republican
values; but in ambivalent fashion, it also sought to put limits on the political
participation of blacks, and the role of slaves in the configuration of the new Republic.
Throughout this work, I have offered numerous examples of how in colonial
Venezuela, the Haitian Revolution became a frequent and powerful reference used by
different social groups for different purposes. In some cases, the colonial authorities
and white elites deployed Haiti as a rhetorical tool to justify more control and even
overt repression of the black population. This is particularly clear in the case of the
rebellion of Coro, in which the authorities viewed the rebellion as a duplicate of those
in Saint-Domingue. I have shown how official narratives transformed the events of
Coro into a “revolutionary event,” with the production of discourses that frequently
alluded to the “Law of the French” and to the “Republic” as the main claims of the
rebels. Based on these representations, the authorities of Coro took justice into their
own hands, and not only condemned many blacks to death, torture, or exile, without
351
applying the appropriate legal procedures, but they also found an excuse for killing the
leader of the Luango communities who had been pressuring local elites.
But Haiti was also used by the population of color to manipulate white fears
and to threaten elites. The presence of Saint-Domingue prisoners and slaves in La
Guaira for more than a year seemed to have clear repercussions on the people of color
of La Guaira who used the example of Saint-Domingue in everyday conversations and
as a tool to threaten the elites, make demands, and solicit better treatment or living
conditions. This same situation was repeated with the slaves of Curiepe and the
maroons in the Valleys of Caucagua, who identified white fear and the authorities’
concerns with potential black uprisings, and used the shared reference of the “rebels of
Guarico” to denounce bad treatment on part of the part of their masters, poor living
conditions, and even the bad quality of tobacco. The significance and singularity of
theses cases reside not only in the fact that blacks spoke up, but that there were spaces
in which they were actually heard by the colonial authorities. Colonial authorities like
de La Torre, the Captain General, Guevara Vasconcelos, the new commander of Coro
Andrés Boggiero, although promoting the silence about Haiti and its blacks rebels,
seemed well-disposed to listen to blacks in order to keep them satisfied with the clear
intention of preventing black insurrections.
All these cases have allowed me to show that Haiti was more than a feared
possibility, or a discourse to justify repression, or an excuse to plan a conspiracy. It
was more than a discourse used by people of color to threaten whites and make
352
demands. Haiti, above all, functioned as a common framework that allowed elites and
subalterns to communicate and negotiate their relationship. On the one hand, it
provided blacks with visibility in front of the elite and the colonial authorities and on
the other, it offered blacks a vocabulary and examples with which they could speak
politically, they could have a voice. Haiti was a common and meaningful framework
that has allowed me to examine both the power and the fragility of the colonial state,
and the ways subaltern subjects, specifically free blacks and slaves, confronted the
state through open forms of rebellion and subtle resistance.
Through of the common representations of Haiti and its revolutionaries, the
colonial state in Venezuela both oppressed and empowered the population of color in
specific realms, while coloreds, for their side, continued pressuring and finding spaces
for struggle. We have to bear in mind, that autonomy does not mean isolation.
Although there are plenty of examples that have allowed us to evidence the presence
of autonomous domains where subalterns imagined and organized, in their own ways
and codes, their own rebellions, here I have shown that Haiti emerged as a common
code of communication among diverse social groups that provided spaces for
negotiation. Elites, fearing the repetition of Haiti in the local context, found strategies
to control subalterns, and these strategies included the accommodation of certain
complaints in part of subalterns. The polysemic, ambiguous, overlapping, and
sometimes concealed, representations of Haiti functioned as a common framework, a
language of deliberation that connected rulers and subalterns.
353
This relationship nevertheless, was not a static one but part of a field of forces
within which struggle and negotiation between rulers and subalterns took place
unceasingly in times of profound political destabilization. This process continued
during Independence when the ruling white creole elite resisted both the aspirations of
equality from pardos and the desires for freedom of the slaves. Social inequality and
slavery survived despite the burst of liberal and abolitionist initiatives that emerged
during the Independence war. The new nationalist codes and frameworks that replaced
the language of the Haitian Revolution allowed subalterns and rulers to continue their
struggle, but ended up silencing the black revolution politically and historically.
354
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