Last we left off, Simón had returned to Caracas.
But even as he returned to his home city,
burning with a new ardor for revolution
and beginning to think about how to make it a reality,
events were afoot in Europe.
Napoleon, that great wildcard, the great overthrower of tradition,
had invaded Spain
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Napoleonic armies, once the allies of Spain,
came tearing in into the Iberian Peninsula.
The King abdicated, his son was forced to put aside the Crown,
Napoleon declared his own brother the King of Spain.
The Court was in confusion, the army was in disarray, central authority had broken down.
Small "Juntas" began to crop up everywhere, claiming rightful authority in Spain.
But even the most legitimate of these contenders was stuck in a besieged city,
surrounded by 70.000 of Napoleon's men.
So what were the colonies to do?
Were they now the subjects of Napoleon's brother?
Or were they to submit to the will of the walled-off Junta, bottled up in Cadiz?
Who knew?
These question might not have been the ones foremost in the minds of Europe at the time,
but in Caracas they burn through the steets.
After much debate, they found a third option:
they would create their own Junta
and declare it in support of Ferdinand VII,
the King who Napoleon had deposed.
But since the King was pretty much out of the picture,
and they recognized no other continental authority,
this basically meant they were now independent.
With that sorted, they then sent the representatives of the Central Junta of Spain packing
and began self-government under a council of the leading men of Venezuela
Simon was not to be found among these leading men;
to them, Simon was just a youth,
he was reckless, rude, a bit dissolute,
and yeah he had returned recently from europe with a fire in his belly
but all they figured it was just a matter of time before that fire burnt out.
He was a liability.
But... they were broke.
They wanted to send a delegation to England,
but as a newly established government and with the Napoleonic wars wreaking havoc on trade,
they just didn't have the money to do it.
But Bolivar! That kid was rich, like, really rich.
And with all the impetuosness and the arrogance that they came to expect of him
Bolivar offered to pay for the whole trip
if they would let him come along.
Even with this generous offer,
some at the council were worried about the idea of Bolivar
being one of their official representatives to England.
In the end, though, money won, and they figured:
"Well, he can't put us in too much worse a position than we are now so, why not".
Of course, just to be safe
they sent him with two other, older and more respected members of the community.
They figured: "Let Bolivar spend the money,
have those guys actually do the work".
So, Bolivar departed for England,
looking to secure recognition and aid for his fledging nation.
Upon arrival, they quickly arrange the private visit with England's Foreign Minister,
they gather at his stately mansion on the edge of Hyde Park and begin the meeting.
They speak in French because Bolivar, though he was acting as an emissary to England,
does not know a word of English.
The Foreign Minister takes the lead
stating bluntly -or at least so he thinks-
that he needs to know whether Venezuela is seeking total indepence
or if it is still loyal to the deposed King of Spain.
You see, he is trying to signal to them that the Spanish are fighting Napoleon and,
therefore, they are now England's allies,
which is something he can not jeopardize.
So, boldly, knowing this to be his moment to shine,
that he will be one to convince the English to enter in their cause,
Bolivar steps forward before either of the other can respond and speaks at lengt.
With elegance and passion,
about the struggle that has gone into throwing off the mother country's yoke
and the desire of the people to be truly free.
Clearly he didn't get the hint.
So, the Foreign Minister quietly sighs and figures: "Ok, I'll try again".
This time he states, in a way that he finds too straightforward to really even be civil,
than England is Spain's ally, so they need to tell him -wink, wink-
that they aren't planning to totally break from the Spanish Crown.
One of the others tried to step in and respond, but Bolivar was filled with passion.
He knew this was his moment.
He had this.
He doubled down, offering his most soaring and powerful rethoric,
a cry so passionate that it must move even this stone-faced Englishman,
and then, at the height of the performance, in a flash of inspiration,
the type of monumental genius only he was capable of,
he handed the English minister the letters of introduction
and the package of credentials that he had been given by the government back home,
so that the minister may see his people's commitment and passion in their own words.
He continued in his most stunning, gripping rethoric,
as the minister leafed through the letters from his people.
And then he brought it home.
The ending was perfect
There is no way that the minister cannot see the righteousness of their cause now.
The minister was quiet.
Clearly he had been stunned to silence by Bolivar's moving words.
When he'd recovered himself enough to move
he slowly lifted a single piece of paper out of the packet
and handed it across the table.
In his passion, Bolivar had accidentally handed the minister ALL the letters from his people,
including the instructions that he received from his government.
And in those instructions was a note that basically read -in BOLD LETTERS-:
"ABSOLUTELY DO NOT MENTION THE IDEA OF VENEZUELEN INDEPENDENCE"
"We are not doing that, we are loyal to the King,
We are in no way going to try to break off from the King,
so whatever you do do not imply that we are.
Before Bolivar's jaw could hit the floor or his face could turn tomato red,
the minister landed the one-two punch,
sliding Simon's passport across the desk, tapping it with one finger,
and saying: "My Spanish is poor, but
Isn't the nation you hail from literally called
'The Supreme Junta of Caracas dedicated to preserving the rights of the King Ferdinand the VII'?"
But then the stone-faced Englishman laughed, and said that he admired Bolivar's zeal.
Still, needless to say, none of the Junta's goals were met.
No concrete deal on trade or formal recognition were forthcoming.
But there was another man who Bolivar met in London,
A man named Francisco de Miranda.
The one man in all of London whom the delegates were instructed to NOT meet.
Miranda was perhaps the oldest Venezuelan freedom fighter.
He was now sixty,
and for decades he had been agitating for South and Central American freedom from Spain.
He even once launched a catastrophicly inept attempt to liberate Venezuela by force back in 1804.
And he had dreams like Bolivar had dreams.
Not of some mere republic that paid lip service to a monarch back in Spain,
but true and complete independence for his native land.
He was now residing in London,
because after his bungled attempt to take over his country by force
he had taken refuge with the English.
His house had become a meeting place for latinamericans in London.
There, Bolivar not only met much of the upper echelons of British and ex-pat society,
but he also became fast friend with Miranda himself.
Soon he convinced Miranda that he needed to return to Venezuela.
That the people were waiting for him to reignite the fires of revolution.
But, when they did both return to Venezuela,
Miranda was not greeted by a cheering crowd waiting to bestow on him the command of a newly formed republic,
but rather a small group of onlookers who, for lack of anything better to do,
boredly watched him get off the ship.
Slightly miffed but undetered,
they soon threw themselves into politics.
Subborning a small political party called "The Patriotic Society"
and using it as a platform to run the type of political campaigns
that had became a staple of London
but had never been seen in the southern half of the New World.
They made inroads with the mixed race peoples
who had been largely ignored by the Junta of rich whites.
There was some ego clashing between Bolivar and Miranda,
but soon all of that was overshadowed by two great events.
First, a member of the newly formed congress turned out to be a spy for the Spanish regency
and had fled in the night with important papers of state.
This incident caused an uproar.
Why defend the Spanish Government if they were spying on and thieving from Venezuela?
But this incident might have blown over if it weren't for the second piece of news that followed swiftly on its heels.
Wellington had defeated another of Napoleon's armies in Spain.
The Spanish Government would soon truly return.
This became a pivot point.
One of those seminal moments in history where a decision has to be made.
And make it, the Venezuelans did.
They finally declared themselves truly and fully independent.
But this independence was an independence by rich whites for rich whites,
and, as soon as word on the inequites in its constitution spread,
slave rebellions and counter revolutions spread with it.
Before long, the inexperienced and inept forces of the republic were routed,
and they turned to the only experienced soldier among them, Miranda, to lead their forces.
He did so on one condition:
That Bolivar be stripped of his rank and not allowed to participate.
This was totally unexpected, to Bolivar and the ruling council
Bolivar exploded in rage but there was little he could do
until a sympathetic general brought him onto his staff as an adjutant.
Here he served with distinction, proving his valor and value on the battlefield,
so much so that Miranda allowed him to bring news of their successes back to Caracas,
commending him and recommending that his rank be restored.
But always in the background, in private, he said that Bolivar fought like a gorilla,
undisciplined, with little of the strictures of military life for command.
Things soon took a turn for the worse.
Spanish officers arrived on the scene and began raising and training an army of the discontent,
then an even greater tragedy struck.
An earthquake of uninimagined magnitude struck Caracas.
Tens of thousands of people died.
The financial, cultural and political capital of the new nation was reduced to ruins.
The people thought it was the punishment of God.
Troops began to desert and Bolivar, who was sent to garrison a stronghold,
ended up getting fired upon by the very troops that were supposed to be guarding the fort he was to protect.
And through this, Miranda waged an anaemic campaign,
always on the retreat.
Until, in a shock to everybody,
he offered an unilatteral surrender.
He did not consult congress, he didn't speak to Bolivar.
He made the terms with the Spanish as if he were Venezuela's King.
Bolivar sensed treason, could only think of it as a betrayal.
And betrayal was to be met with betrayal.
On the night before Miranda was to slip away,
allowing himself passage on a ship while he had locked down the ports to all the other Venezuelans,
Bolivar and a group of his friends seized Miranda
and turned him over to the local constable,
who soon turnde him over to the Spanish.
Miranda would die in a prison a few years later,
tossed into a mass grave like a common criminal.
But Bolivar, in the chaos, somehow managed to slip away before the arrival of the Spanish forces.
His family connections kept him safe,
And he plotted his next move
in a fight he considered far from finished.
The fight for Venezuelan independence.
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