In New Granada; Or, Heroes and Patriots

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Our men, in order to save themselves trouble, cast the remainder of the bodies into the river,—caring very little for thus horribly polluting the pure water. I had before thought war a terrible thing, but the scenes I had lately witnessed impressed me still more forcibly with a horror of its fearful results. What hundreds—what thousands, I might say—of human beings had perished miserably within the last few months! How many more, too, were doomed to die! Then I thought of the towns and villages committed to the flames; the corn-fields, the orchards, and gardens destroyed; and, more than all, of the widows and orphans who, while bewailing the loss of those they loved, their protectors and bread-winners, were doomed to struggle on in poverty; and the numberless families, formerly in affluence, now reduced to absolute beggary. Such was the state of my native land. And yet no one complained—all were ready to struggle on in the cause of Liberty; blaming, not those who had risen to fight for freedom, but the tyranny of their oppressors as the cause of all they endured.

While we were encamped at a neighbouring hamlet, which afforded sufficient means for defence, and enabled us to watch the fort, a despatch arrived for Juan, ordering him to evacuate it. Alas! had it come sooner, he and his companions might have preserved their lives, as I believe he would have succeeded, had he made the attempt, in cutting his way through the enemy; but, influenced by a stern sense of duty, he had held it after all hope of successfully defending it had gone. This added greatly to my grief at his loss.

General Bolivar had heard of the corps Uncle Richard had raised, and now sent forward requesting him to join his army without delay. By forced marches across the mountains, in which both officers and men suffered not a little, we reached the general’s camp, and I had the honour of being introduced to him. I little expected to see so young a man. In person he was small, but well-made and muscular, and able to go through astonishing exertion—frequently marching on foot over mountains and plains without exhibiting the slightest fatigue. His eyes were dark, large, and full of fire and penetration, denoting wonderful energy of mind and greatness of soul. His nose was aquiline and well-formed, his face rather long, and his complexion somewhat sallow. As Uncle Richard and I had the honour of being invited to his table, I had an opportunity of seeing him in his social moments. He was lively in his manner, full of anecdote and conversation; and it was said that, like Buonaparte, he possessed the power of reading at once a man’s character, and placing him in a position where his talents and abilities would prove useful to his country. He was also thoroughly disinterested, and so little regard did he pay to himself under the most severe privations, that he was always ready to share what he possessed with his companions-in-arms, to his last cigar or his last shirt. He was always cool, and invariably displayed the most undaunted courage. He was, to be sure, hasty in his temper, and often made use of intemperate expressions, abusing in no measured manner those who had annoyed him; but, at the same time, he was ever ready to make atonement to the person whose feelings might have been undeservedly wounded. In his bosom revenge was never harboured, and it was owing entirely to the atrocities committed by the Spaniards on the Patriots that he was induced to carry on against them that fearful war of extermination which so long raged throughout the country. Bolivar might not have been a hero to his own valet, but by those who truly understand heroic qualities he should be deservedly placed on a high niche in the temple of Fame. I may add that he was temperate in his diet, drank but a very moderate quantity of wine, never touched spirits, and that he seldom smoked. Generally he was the last to retire to rest, and the first to rise.

Soon after joining the army, to my surprise I met Lopez, now raised to the rank of colonel. He appeared to be intimate with many of the officers, but kept aloof from Captain Laffan and me, as well as from Uncle Richard, whom I should properly designate as Colonel Duffield.

We had marched forward until we heard that Murillo, with a large force, was in the neighbourhood.

One night Captain Laffan and I had been invited to dine with several English officers, and our host told us that he expected Colonel Lopez. However, when the dinner-hour arrived Colonel Lopez did not appear. A message was despatched to his quarters, but he was nowhere to be found.

“It’s my belief,” exclaimed Captain Laffan, “that the fellow has deserted! You will see that I am right; he was intending to do so when we met him.”

Dinner over, we again retired to our quarters, and all was stillness in the camp. As I wished to take a few turns to enjoy the cool night air, I accompanied one of Bolivar’s aides-de-camp who was about to visit the outposts, when we met a small body of troops marching towards headquarters. The officer in command gave the countersign, and they were allowed to proceed. Just then, who should we meet but Colonel Lopez, who informed my companion that he had some news of importance to communicate to General Bolivar respecting an intended movement of the enemy which he had just obtained from a deserter, and requested that he might be conducted to the general’s tent.

“If you will remain here, I will immediately acquaint the general with what you say, and beg that you may be admitted,” was the answer.

I returned with the aide-de-camp, but left him near Bolivar’s tent to deliver the message. I had not got many yards off, however, when I heard a volley of musketry fired close to me, and directly, as it seemed, at the tent. An instant afterwards I saw a party of men, who must have followed close upon us, disappearing in the darkness.