THE SPANISH GALLEONS

I

Have you ever read the voyages and adventures of the handsome young Amyas Leigh, who sailed the Spanish Main with the Seawolf, Sir Francis Drake? Have you read of Ayacanora the Indian Princess with the blowgun, of Salvation Yeo, of the lost Rose of Devon, of the old Mono of Panama, and how Amyas and his fellows seized a gold pack-train and captured a Spanish Treasure-Galleon?

One of the most thrilling tales of adventure, of Spanish Gold and Spanish Galleons, is “Westward Ho!” the story of Amyas Leigh. But before the days of Amyas, Knight of Devon, and of the English Seawolves, the Spanish Treasure Ships began to sail upon the Spanish Main.

These Galleons were like huge floating castles, and were manned by armed Spaniards. They were filled with bars of glittering gold and silver and with other treasure of the New World.

For after Columbus’s discovery, there had come to the New World, greedy pearl-seekers and even greedier gold-hunters and slave-traders. They exploited the mines and pearl-fisheries, and, capturing thousands of helpless Indians, sold them to Spanish masters, to do all kinds of hard labour.

Thus Spanish America became a vast treasure-house for the Spanish Crown. Pack-trains of Indian and negro slaves and mules under guard, carrying bullion, gems, fragrant spices, and costly woods, toiled along the steep and narrow trails of the Andes, or threaded the dangerous mountain-passes. These miserable slaves, groaning under their heavy burdens, cringed beneath the lashes of their drivers’ whips. They shivered in the piercing cold of the high mountains, and panted from tropic heat, as the pack-trains wound their way across the Isthmus of Panama to the Atlantic side.

There the great Galleons took aboard the gold, silver, emeralds, pearls, spices, and woods, as well as cargoes of slaves, then sailed away with them across the Spanish Main.

But gold breeds robbers. And along the coast and on the Caribbean Sea, swarmed pirate ships waiting to swoop down upon the Galleons. Oftentimes, buccaneers grappled with the Treasure-Ships, putting the Spaniards to the knife, and carrying off the booty to their pirate-islands. So not every Galleon came safely to its Spanish port.

II

And in order that this stupendous wealth of the West Indies and of Tierra Firme, as South America was then called, should belong to no country but herself, Spain sent out Governors to rule with iron hand her Spanish-American Colonies. For the Spanish Crown had Colonies in South America, just as England had in North America. In South America were many important cities and towns.

These Governors were, for the most part, gold-grasping officials. They oppressed the Creoles, as the native-born Americans of pure Spanish blood were called. And besides the Creoles, there were in Spanish America, Indians, negro-slaves, and people of mixed blood, all subjects of the Crown.

Laws were enforced taxing the People heavily, closing their ports to foreign trade, and forbidding them to manufacture commodities which Spain herself wished to make and sell to the Colonists at exorbitant prices.

Not even the rich Creoles were allowed to travel abroad without permission from the Crown. When in Spain they were treated with contempt. Their education was limited, higher education is not for Americans, decreed the Spanish King. And they might not read books forbidden by Spain. And at that time, the Roman Catholic Church was exercising its power in Spanish America, in much the same fashion as the Established Church of England was misusing its function at the time of the Pilgrim Fathers, Roger Williams, and William Penn.

If any of the Colonists raised their voices in protest, their property was confiscated, and they were arrested. The slightest rebellion was mercilessly punished. Many of the captured rebels were either flung into filthy dungeons to die or were executed.

Large numbers of Indians, negroes and people of mixed blood, perished miserably in the mines and on the plantations, or while deep-sea diving for pearls,—all this to fill the Spanish Galleons with treasure.

III

Then came the Liberators, facing death or cruel imprisonment. But they were strengthened by the justice of their cause, and by the fact that the United States of America had succeeded in separating from her Mother Country, and had established a Republic in which the citizens, rich and poor alike, had a voice in their own government.

It is the story of some of these Liberators that is told here, the Washingtons and Lincolns of their native lands, who freed their countrymen from the curse of the Spanish Treasure-Ships, and who established the Latin American Republics.

THE ROMANCE OF MIRANDA

This is the romance of Francisco de Miranda of Venezuela, the Flaming Son of Liberty, the Knight-Errant of Freedom, who made Spain tremble.

Romance was in his blood, for Alvaro, his great Spanish ancestor, had won the family coat-of-arms, by rescuing five Christian maidens from pagan Moors. And Miranda’s father, an adventurous, bold Spaniard, had crossed the Atlantic in those dangerous days of pirates to seek his fortune in Venezuela.

So the boy, who was to make Spain tremble, was born in Venezuela, and grew up in the City of Caracas. He liked to read and study. He was given a classical education. But the call of romance and adventure was too loud for him to remain quietly at home. When he was sixteen, he sailed for Spain to try his own fortune.

His father was wealthy, and the boy bought a captain’s commission in the Regiment of the Princess. He studied military science and fought valiantly against Spain’s enemies. He collected books. In fact, he spent a great deal of money bringing books from many countries; only to have some of his precious volumes burned by the Spanish Inquisition, because they taught of Equality, Fraternity, and Liberty.

Then came our American War for Independence. While Washington and the Continental Army were fighting for our Liberty, Miranda’s romantic career as a Knight-Errant of Liberty, began.

For Spain and France were both at war with England. They sent troops to the West Indies to form an expedition to take away from England, Pensacola, in Florida. Miranda, a high-spirited, executive young officer was chosen to accompany the Spanish troops. So for two years he took part in our struggle for Independence.

But he made enemies among the Spanish officials stationed in the West Indies. They accused him of disloyalty to Spain. He was tried, and banished for ten years. Probably he had aroused their suspicion because, while fighting for our Freedom, he had begun to plan for the Independence of Venezuela.

Thus Miranda became an exile from all of Spain’s dominions. Filled with his great idea of Freedom for his Country, he went wandering about Europe armed with papers, maps, and information about Spanish America. He went from Court to Court, from Country to Country—he even visited the United States—trying to persuade some Government to take up the cause of Independence for Spanish America, and to lend him money, men, and arms.

But he found time in the midst of all this roving to become a soldier of France, and to fight for her Freedom during the French Revolution. He had many thrilling adventures, and was imprisoned and escaped. Then he once more took up his wanderings and petitionings.

He was a handsome man. His courtly manners, charm, and eloquence, his burning words of Patriotism, everywhere aroused sympathy. He told of the sufferings of his countrymen, and of the great commercial opportunities which Spanish America offered to whatever friendly Nation would help to gain her Freedom.

Everywhere he was received with attention. The Empress Catherine the Great of Russia became his friend. William Pitt gave him many assurances that England would aid him if possible; while our own Alexander Hamilton wrote him, that he hoped the United States might soon come forward openly to the support of Spanish-American Independence.

Time and again, it seemed as though Miranda were succeeding. But on each occasion international politics interfered, and the Governments withdrew their encouragement.

Spain feared Miranda. She pronounced him a fugitive from justice. Her spies followed him. They searched his papers; and would have seized him and carried him back to Spain, had they not been afraid of his powerful friends in Russia and England.

In Miranda’s London home, many Spanish-American Patriots met together, and joined a secret society founded by him. They planned to free Spanish America; and they swore to give their lives and their all to the aid of their Country.

Many years passed by. Miranda was over fifty. Yet he had not struck a single blow for Venezuela. He determined to wait no longer for foreign aid. He believed that the time was ripe to declare the Independence of Spanish America. He believed that the people there were waiting eagerly for him to raise Liberty’s standard against Spain.

He had no funds, so he pledged his precious library, which, during so many years, he had collected with such pains, industry, and affection.

Then, with the money thus raised, he sailed for the City of New York.

THE MYSTERY SHIP

It was early in the year 1806. Near a wharf in Staten Island rode the good ship Leander tugging at her anchor.

A crowd of young men, some of them from New York and Long Island, came hurrying onto the wharf. Many were college men, others were working boys. Some were dressed in fashionable clothes; while others, who shouldered their way huskily through the crowd, wore plain homespun and carried kits of tools or bundles of clothes. Among these young men was William Steuben Smith, the grandson of John Adams, ex-President of the United States. With his father’s permission he had left college to sail on the Leander; but he had not consulted his grandfather.

He and the other young men had signed ship’s papers to sail in the Leander, yet few of them knew where they were going. It was to be a mysterious voyage. A number of the men had been told that they would get much gold, and at the same time help to free an unknown suffering people from slavery. Others had been persuaded to join the expedition by being assured that they were going south to guard the Washington mail. Few, if any, had seen their new employer and commander, George Martin.

The ship’s boats filled rapidly and rowed out to the Leander. All the men were set on board. Then she weighed anchor, and, with sails spread, was soon briskly cutting her way through the waves of the outer bay. And when Sandy Hook was passed, she stood out to sea.

Then, there appeared on deck a most romantic figure, in a red robe and slippers. The word went round:—

“It’s our Commander, George Martin.”

And George Martin, though the young men did not know it, was Francisco de Miranda.

The red robe flapped in the wind around his well-built form. His gray hair, powdered and combed back from his high forehead, was tied behind with a ribbon. While from either ear stood out large, wiry, gray side-whiskers. As he strolled across the deck, examining the young men with his piercing, eager, hazel eyes, he smiled pleasantly, showing handsome white teeth.

They crowded around him, hoping to hear where they were going. Some even asked the question. But he, ignoring it, shook hands with each one, and conversed in a delightful manner, now asking the college men about their studies, and now speaking to the others about their work. Still the mystery remained—whither was the ship going?

Day after day went by, and the mystery deepened. The Leander took her course southward. George Martin, mingling with the men, chatted affably. He related his adventures, he told of his sufferings, escapes, and many perils, and of his friendships at Court and of all the romance of his life. Then he waxed warmer, and spoke of his great idea—of Equality, Fraternity, and Liberty for all men. Thus he aimed to sow seeds of heroic deeds and Freedom, in the minds of the young men.

Meanwhile, he began to drill the men on deck, assigning officers to duties. He fixed the regimental uniforms; the infantry dress in blue and yellow, the artillery in blue and red; the engineers in blue and black velvet; the riflemen in green; the dragoons in yellow and blue.

From sunrise to sunset there was hustle and bustle on deck. A printing press was set up. At an armourer’s bench a man was repairing old muskets, sharpening bayonets, and cleaning rusty swords. Tailors, sitting cross-legged on the deck, were cutting out and stitching uniforms. A body of raw recruits were drilling under a drill-master who looked as bold as a lion and roared nearly as loud.

There was buzz everywhere, and excitement too, for no one yet knew to what land the ship was going. And George Martin, looking mightily pleased, stood watching everybody and everything, and saying, “We shall soon be ready for the Main.”

Then a day arrived when several hundred proclamations were run off the printing press. They were addressed to the People of South America, painting strongly their hardships and woes, and promising them deliverance from Spain. They were signed, “Don Francisco de Miranda, Commander-in-Chief of the Colombian Army.”

Thereupon George Martin—who was Miranda—announced that he expected soon to land on the coast of Venezuela and strike the first blow against Spain.

Some of the young Americans, who were eager to fight anywhere or anybody, and who longed for the glint of Spanish Gold, cheered loudly. But their mates kept quiet, with heavy hearts, for they had begun to wonder whether after all they were not a band of mere filibusters instead of a noble army, since they were sailing under no protecting flag.

Then, too, rumours were going the round, that if any of the men were captured by the enemy, they would be given short shrift and hanged as pirates.

A few days later General Miranda hoisted for the first time the new Colombian flag of Freedom—a tri-colour, the Red, Yellow, and Blue. And as it floated wide on the southern wind, a gun was fired and toasts drunk to the banner that was long to wave—and is waving to-day—over the Republic of Venezuela.

It was the first Flag of Spanish-American Independence.

After the flag-raising the Leander sped merrily on her way, carrying the raw army of about two hundred men to fight the whole of Spain. While many of them in the gloomy bottoms of their hearts, were heartily wishing that they were safe at home again in the good old City of New York.

THE END OF THE MYSTERY SHIP

And what became of the young Americans who had been persuaded to ship in the Leander?

Two English schooners, the Bacchus and the Bee, had joined the Leander at one of the West Indies. As the latter was overcrowded, some of the Americans were transferred to the schooners.

Then, while this small fleet of three small vessels was approaching Venezuela, two Spanish revenue-cutters swooped down upon them. The Leander engaged the enemy bravely, firing her guns; but the Bacchus and Bee tried to escape and became separated from the Leander. The revenue-cutters turned, and, pursuing the little ships, captured them and all on board.

Our young Americans fought bravely, but they were badly wounded with knives and swords. They were captured, and plundered by the Spaniards. They were stripped, and tied back to back. In this humiliating condition they were carried to the Fortress of Puerto Cabello, and thrown into a dungeon; where they were chained together, two and two, and loaded with irons.

The dungeon was a living sepulchre, a mere cavity in the moss-grown mouldy fortress-wall, and below ground at that. The rain soaked through the foundations and the poor fellows lay wallowing in filth and mire.

They were tried by a Spanish Court and condemned. Fourteen of them were hanged as pirates.

As for the rest, those who were flung back alive into their dungeon, how gladly now would they have fought to liberate the Spanish-American People! They no longer blamed Miranda, but wished to aid him with all their might.

Like a spluttering candle whose flame suddenly goes out, so ended the ill-fated career of the Mystery Ship.

Miranda landed on the coast of Venezuela. He and his men fought well. But the people did not rise up to join his standard as he had expected. Instead they fled from him. They were afraid. Spain was too strong in Venezuela, and the Patriot cause too weak.

So Miranda was driven from the country. His expedition failed. He was, finally, forced to disband what was left of his little “Colombian Army,” after which he took refuge again in England.

As for the poor captive American lads, those who had not been hanged as pirates, our United States Government could do little to assist them, for we were not at war with Spain, and the young men had been taken as pirates on the high seas. Some of them continued to languish in Spanish dungeons, others were put to hard labour in the mines, and few of them were ever heard of again.

THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS FIFTH

Meanwhile, a great change was taking place. In Europe, Napoleon had forced the King of Spain to abdicate. In Venezuela the people felt no longer bound in loyalty to the Spanish Crown. Miranda’s teachings had made an impression. The seeds of Patriotism which he had sown were taking root.

The Patriot Party in Venezuela grew strong. Young Simon Bolivar, a fiery Patriot, was sent on a mission to England. While there, he sought out Miranda. He invited him to return to Venezuela and help the Patriot cause.

So Miranda returned.

On the Fifth of July, 1811, a Congress representing the Venezuelan People, assembled and voted in the name “of the all-powerful God” a Declaration of Independence of the United Provinces of Venezuela, which by right and act became a free, sovereign, and independent State.

Miranda was one of the signers.

It was a great and glorious Fifth—like our Fourth—when Liberty enlightened that land. For it was the first Declaration of Independence in all Spanish America. And the brave delegates, who put their names to it, did so at the greatest risk of their lives; for Spain was still strong in Venezuela.

On that same day, the Venezuelan Congress adopted a flag for the Republic—the tri-colour, the Red, Yellow, and Blue, which Miranda had flown from the Leander.

Miranda was made Commander-in-Chief of the Patriot Army of Venezuela, and led it against the Spanish forces.

A TERRIBLE THING

But the struggle against Spain was only just begun. Her armies were large. Her General, Monteverde, was treacherous, crafty, and cruel. Much of Venezuela yet groaned beneath the heel of Spain.

Miranda and his soldiers fought valiantly, now defeated, now victorious. It began to seem as though the Patriot cause might triumph in the end.

Then a terrible thing happened.

An earthquake—frightful, tremendous—shook the land. The earth heaved like the sea in all directions. Churches, houses, and barracks swayed, and fell with a roar. Men, women, and children were crushed and killed. The Patriot arms and supplies were buried under mountains of dÉbris.

In the City of Caracas, the ruins were awful. The frantic people ran screaming into the great square. The hearts of the bravest were frozen with terror.

But the earthquake had scarcely passed away, before Friars, who were loyal to Spain, were mounted on a table in the midst of the frightened multitude.

“The earthquake is the judgment of God,” they cried, “and his curse on all who are trying to cast off their virtuous King, the Lord’s Anointed!”

The people listened in horror. A religious panic spread from Caracas throughout Venezuela. People forgot that earthquakes had often happened before in many parts of the world, casting cities into ruins. They believed that God Almighty had condemned their struggle for Independence.

Many soldiers of the Patriot Army refused to fight any more against Spain. They deserted in numbers to Monteverde. In vain Miranda tried to rally his troops, he could no longer persuade them to believe in the justice of their cause. Superstitious terror had made cowards of them all.

Monteverde continued to advance rapidly. Miranda saw not only his ranks thinning daily, but the country that supplied food and cattle for his army, falling into the hands of the enemy.

Then came a final crushing blow:—

The strong Fortress of Puerto Cabello fell into the hands of Monteverde.

END OF THE ROMANCE

“Venezuela is wounded in the heart!” exclaimed Miranda in a deep voice as he read the despatch telling of the loss of Puerto Cabello.

It was Simon Bolivar, the fiery, impetuous, young Patriot, who had lost this important fortress and city to Monteverde. He was in despair, Bolivar said, because his own body had not been left under the ruins of that city.

But the fortress was irretrievably lost, and the tide of Fortune was turned against Independence. The cause of Venezuela seemed hopeless. Miranda was worn and weary. So he capitulated.

He capitulated to Monteverde, with the agreement that none of the Patriots should be made to suffer for their rebellion; and that any of them who so wished, might leave the country.

After signing the capitulation, Miranda prepared to leave on an English vessel and seek refuge in the West Indies. He sent his servants with his money and precious papers aboard. He then decided to sleep that night on land, and embark the next morning.

But he never embarked. Bolivar, with some of Miranda’s officers, indignant it is said because Miranda had capitulated, seized him while he was asleep, and threw him into a dungeon.

After which they surrendered him to Monteverde, who had him transferred in chains to Puerto Cabello, the same Fortress in which our young Americans from the Mystery Ship had suffered so terribly.

Meanwhile, Simon Bolivar obtained a passport from Monteverde and fled to the West Indies.

As for Miranda, he continued to languish in Spanish-American prisons for some time. Then he was carried to Spain and cast into a dungeon.

Though Miranda’s existence was miserable, he received comfort from his books, for he delighted to read. In his cell after his death, were found Horace, Virgil, Cicero, Don Quixote,—and even a copy of the New Testament.

Early on the morning of July 14, 1816, he “gave his soul to God, his name to history, and his body to the earth.” Whether he died by poison, execution, or natural death, no one knows.

Thus perished the Flaming Son of Liberty, the Knight-Errant of Freedom, the Chief of the Apostles of Spanish-American Independence.

So his romance was ended. But his work was only begun; it lived on for others to finish.

For how his work lived on, read Simon Bolivar the Liberator, page 371.