Collective identity and cultural resistance in contemporary chicana/o autobiography 1st edition juan
Collective Identity and Cultural Resistance in Contemporary Chicana/o Autobiography 1st Edition Juan Velasco (Auth.)
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Human Reproductive Genetics: Emerging Technologies and Clinical Applications Juan A. Garcia-Velasco (Editor)
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Juan Velasco
Collective Identity and Cultural Resistance in Contemporary Chicana/o Autobiography
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W
HY
C
HICANA
/ O A UTOBI OGRAPHY : A P REFACE
My interest in Chicana/o literature began at age 16, when I discovered, quite by chance, one of the quintessential poems of the Mexican-American Civil Rights Movement, “I am Joaquín.” The poem was powerful and the call for freedom resonated deeply with some of my own struggles. Autobiographical expression became an important question for me when, later, I discovered that the author of the poem “I am Joaquín” was Corky Gonzales, and that Joaquín was and was not a real person, was both fictional and autobiographical. Obviously, the poem was based on the corrido of Joaquín Murrieta, but the question deepened when I tried to match Gonzales’s life with Joaquín’s narrative of resistance. I realized I was not able to say that “Joaquín” was a completely invented entity. In fact, many Chicanas/os identified strongly with the character to the point that Joaquín was a part of their very identity. On the other hand, I wondered, what was it, specifically, that millions of people have in common with the narrative voice in the poem? My question remained: What is this “I” that, through a poem, mobilized thousands of Chicanas/os during the Civil Rights Movement? What is the secret of writing a life experience? This book has been written with two goals in mind. The title indicates my first goal. By using the first part of the title, collective identity, I explore the explicit tension created by the open-ended quality of a “self” constructed with a different autobiographical effect in mind, that is, a construction always unfolding, and wrestling with personal and communal representation. Also, by acknowledging the second part of the title, cultural resistance, I emphasize the realities and experiences embedded in the
unique autobiographical mode that defines the construction of the “I” in contemporary Chicana/o autobiography.
Another goal is also implicit in the title. The notion of Contemporary Chicana/o Autobiography is open enough (I analyze twentieth- and twenty-first-century works) to suggest that this is the beginning of a muchneeded conversation. As I finish this book we are about to enter another presidential campaign. The candidate ahead of the polls, Donald Trump, is making the argument that “when Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best, they’re sending people that have lots of problems … They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.” Given the pressures of this election year, it is important to open a conversation that makes clear the contributions of the most demographically influential group among Latinos in the USA. Through the examination of some texts in visual arts and literature, the aim of this book is to theorize and to analyze the space for self-expression, whose 53-year development, between 1959 and 2012, created a new paradigm in Chicana/o autobiography. That there is no book-length focus on twentieth- and twenty-first-century Chicana/o autobiographical literature is not only surprising, it underlines the long-needed examination of a genre which, deeply embedded in Chicana/o arts and culture, has always been ignored by critics and the media alike. By exploring the relationships between “home” and identity, citizenship and borders, familia and writing, I show the expansive and varied group of themes and techniques involved in the project of self-representation. With this diverse body of work, I wish to reveal the different strategies used in the creation of practices of resistance within US culture, and analyze the shifting paradigms involved in the construction of collective notions of the “I.” I offer this book, then, as a first step toward a conversation on the “autobiographical value” of Chicana/o writing and the arts, and its specific mode of representation, which uses the open-ended quality of the constructed “I” to speak not only of personal experiences but to create voices that speak for the collective experience of the “imagined” community.
Three main issues need to be fleshed out to discern some of the complexities involved in those goals. First, my interest lies less in a theory of Mexican-American writing than in a theory of Chicana/o selfrepresentation. Rather than attempting to create a canon of traditional “memoirs,” what is distinctive about this project is the selection of a group of writers and artists whose current politics and artistic choices— autobiography instead of and in relation to other genres, including
semiautobiographical fiction, documentaries, children’s books, autobioethnography, essays, and journal writing—are involved in active processes that transform the genre and the way it is understood in autobiography studies. How do I use the term “autobiography” then? I use this term interchangeably from “lifewriting,” “personal essay,” or “creative nonfiction.” I reserve the term “memoir” for nineteenth-century constructions of self in Mexican-American works, but I agree with Fred White in his appreciation that “these terms do not convey the purpose of such writing, which is to entertain and edify readers with stories about your experiences, or the experiences of others through your eyes” (6). By including a wide range of technologies of self-representation, and the representation of other’s experiences, I made the decision to incorporate filmmakers, artists, and essayists who show the distinct and multiple strategies of selfrepresentation in what I define as the unique “value” of automitografía. The need for the inclusion of hybrid genres is attested to in I Am Aztlán: The Personal Essay in Chicano Studies. In the introduction, Chon A. Noriega and Wendy Belcher recognize how they “focus on the process of self-naming—the ubiquitous “I am … ”—because it is found not just in early Chicano literary, performing, and visual arts, but in Chicano scholarship as well” (v). In this context, and because we have such a various and large tradition of works to choose from, some important writers and genres, including new technologies of autobiography such as blogging, had to be left out of the mix. In fact this was one of my most difficult challenges. At an early stage in my research I realized the impossibility of integrating all the texts I would have liked to see in this book. I had to start this conversation but without the pretense that I was writing the final text on twentieth- and twenty-first-century Chicana/o autobiography. I decided to write about works within a 53-year period after the publication of the first mainstream Chicano literary work of the twentieth century, José Antonio Villarreal’s Pocho (1959), and end in the second decade of the twenty-first century with Reyna Grande’s book, The Distance between Us: A Memoir, published in 2012. Among the most difficult decisions I made was leaving out poets such as Alurista, Juan Felipe Herrera, and Jimmy Santiago Baca, and semiautobiographical fiction such as that by Rudy Anaya, Oscar Zeta Acosta, and Sandra Cisneros. I also had to cut the analysis of traditional autobiographies by authors like Ron Arias, Mary Helen Ponce, and Alberto Alvaro Ríos. My goal was to offer the beginning of a dialogue on automitografía, while going beyond the canonical, well-known texts, keeping a balance between men and women, and also
being sure that I was making space to show the “value” embedded in these works of art and non-literary culture. Ultimately, through the examination of visual arts and literature, the aim of this book is to analyze the technologies of self-expression that created a new paradigm in twentieth- and twenty-first-century Chicana/o autobiography. By opening the scope and variety of the works studied in the book, this project not only gains an understanding of a wide sample of texts that have been ignored in autobiography studies, but I also show the complex picture of self-fashioning and self-story in the Mexican-American context. I use the Spanish word, automitografía, to move away from the traditional memoirs as the only source of autobiographical value and, instead, describe a process of creation that points to a continuity of strategies used in Chicana/o literary and visual arts.
By paying attention to the Chicana/o artists who have kept the same active process of transformation of the genre, I do not advocate, however, for the consolidation of a single theory for all. The concept, derived from Luis Valdez’s notion of mito and Gloria Anzaldúa’s total Self, points to an unfolding space for cultural identity, and a site of struggle filled with the ambivalence and contradictions of communal claim and selfrepresentation. Thus, I introduce the idea of automitografía as a model of self-expression where multiple interactions between autobiography and fiction occur, and which allows for both individual self-expression and a voice of resistance for the community.
Second, it was my fascination with those autobiographical “effects” that drove me to the concepts of mito and the total Self, and the investigation of those technologies, its tradition, and its complexities. In reading those elements in the works, I also saw a logical way of imagining some patterns that might guide the diverse volume of works, genres, and authors that could’ve been included. Furthermore, this approach is not a vague or random structure imagined to fit the needs of this book, but a solid continuation of previous theoretical work (that of Genaro Padilla among many others) engaged in discerning a distinct pattern of resistance located in Chicana/o arts and literature. While Mexican-American autobiographies are distinctly personal and should be envisioned as open, they also carry the seeds of a rich, innovative, complex Mexican-Americanness that is always in flux. Thus, the analysis of hybrid cultural productions calls attention to the ways in which the constructions of the individual “bio” become a voice for the changing elements of the community, and also how
those two aspects show critical links to the mito, the narrative unfolding a culture of resistance—and the violence of attempting to separate the three.
The concept of automitografía facilitates the understanding of Chicana/o autobiography as a discourse of identity that challenges dualistic notions of the personal and the communal, but also what previous texts have regarded as “hope” versus “loss” concerning the issue of the land and the 1848 Mexican–American War. As an example of this dichotomy, we would only have to look at the nineteenth-century philosopher Josiah Royce, who imagined California as a community of expectation, a “community of hope.” Richard Rodriguez, another Californian, paraphrases Royce, asserting that maybe “some epic opportunity had been given [to] California—the chance to reconcile the culture of the Catholic south and the Protestant north. California had the chance to heal the sixteenth century tear of Europe.” But Rodriguez adds that the Catholic, the Mexican “opportunity was lost” (Days xvi). Although most of Rodriguez’s work is focused on a particular form of loss that goes beyond the issue of culture and the land, my point is that neither hope nor loss defines the Chicana/o cultural realities of the second part of the twentieth century and the first decades of the twentieth-first century. Automitografía breaks away from the fixed binary cage of the American Dream versus the “hunger” of memories of those assimilated into “loss.” For example, the physical and cultural crossings of Elva Treviño Hart, Frances Esquibel Tywoniak, and Francisco Jiménez reveal the experience of undocumented workers and the struggle of child farmworkers as a “breakthrough” in a process of expanding cultural citizenship, radical identities, and transnation. Self-representation in these works is more interested in the process of transformation as a source of personal and communal self-empowerment. By transcending the binary cage, Chicana/o poets, essayists, filmmakers, painters, and novelists go beyond hope and loss into the rebirth of a Mexican-Americanness that connects the visions and nightmares of its people to the experiences and the landscapes of lands inhabited by beauty and not separated by borders. Even though a sole focus on agency and contributions might cover over the conditions of exploitation that also render Mexican-Americans so central and necessary to the economy of the state and the nation, it is this very instinct for survival, transformation, and change that took Chicana/o literature and arts to the political Renaissance of the 1960s and beyond. These artists see themselves in relation to a history that involves the empowerment of self and community through the aesthetics of creation. Thus it is necessary to start with the first mainstream Chicano
literary work of the twentieth century (and a prelude to the Civil Rights Movement), Pocho, and move from there to twentieth-first-century writers like Rigoberto González and Reyna Grande.
One last word about the works chosen for the analysis: rather than referring to a canonical list of well-known authors engaged on the repetition of traditional “memoirs,” what is incisive about this project is the selection of writers and artists whose current politics and literary choices are involved in transforming the genre. This focus is to show the distinct envisioning of a collective self, while emphasizing the autobiographical value as much in fiction (and the visual arts) as it is characteristic and peculiar to other genres. This book rightfully acknowledges those contributions, and includes some of its more powerful voices—figures like Ernesto Galarza, Jose Antonio Villarreal, Norma E. Cantú, Carmen Lomas Garza, Lourdes Portillo, Ana Castillo, and Gloria Anzaldúa, and other voices as well, such as Francisco Jiménez, Rigoberto González, Elva Treviño Hart, and Reyna Grande.
I want to make a clarification regarding the temporal context of this book. To see the continuity and disruptions of these technologies of selfrepresentation, it is necessary to not only account for the early attempts at redefining cultural Chicano space during the Civil Rights Movement, but also to understand how they are rewritten during the 1980s and 1990s, and in the twentieth-first century, toward intersectional forms of identity—specially through the new mestiza approach of Gloria Anzaldúa, the fictional autobioethnographies of Norma E. Cantú, and the Xicanisma approach of Ana Castillo. Their view of Mexican-Americanness, and their new feminist Chicana approach regarding mestizaje, helped to transcend weak forms of multiculturalism by developing intersectional views of identity in the USA that render impossible dualistic thinking, and become inclusive of gender, race, and sexuality. Guided mainly by feminist critics, those projects reclaim the interrelationality of cultures, their multiple crossings, their tensions, and address Chicana/o self-representation as a complex net that goes beyond loss and hope to show the wide range of experiences created by history and culture. Those works also show the urgency and significance of rescuing Las Américas as part of the rich cultural and literary heritage that make up Chicana/o history.
Third, any book that tries to bring some pattern to the study of a volume of literature and visual arts so vast has only two options. It could become encyclopedic; my first draft of the book was almost 600 pages. Or it could be perceived as flawed because of the need to pick and choose
different works that will best address the autobiographical volume of literature, filmmaking, and visual art presently published. So, it is my hope to offer an example of how those devices work, show a diverse sample of selfrepresentation, and attend to the vision of identity offered by these artists—a vision of interconnectedness in a web of communal possibilities. In this context, I show how automitografía, by proposing a desire for wholeness and the total Self, produces a sense of identity, closer to the image of a rotating wheel of interconnecting opposites—fractured and scarred, but moving and transforming, rather than a static Mexican-Americanness. By integrating a sense of the total Self in automitografía, Chicana/o art ists have used remember as a way of reclaiming multiple experiences and identities. Thus, I think of automitografía as healing performance going beyond the hunger of memories, as much as an opportunity to envision a space where multiple notions of self, identity, and culture come together in the potential for new social activism and change. Through this space of self-representation, it is possible to rebuild a collective mito, trace the steps of survival and personal dreams, and search for a source of selfempowerment and well-being under the radiant sky.
This is what I learned, decades later, after reading “I am Joaquín” with a different lens; whether envisioned by activist poets, child farmwork ers, Chicana filmmakers, mothers, daughters, visual artists, or educators, their diverse narratives or “parabolas” (as Valdez describes the mito) corroborate the image of an ever-evolving community where creations diagram not only disappointments and struggles, but also dream images and words—the words, strangely enough, that also trace the individual steps taken by so many men and women, the lives of the familias that make up these stories and histories. This book assembles the many stories created by the Chicana/o writers, painters, and filmmakers of this land, the many roads that mito takes, the many ways Mexican-Americanness interact and travel, the way history casts fruitful unions or causes irremediable conflict, and the ways in which the decisions of the past inform the collective future.
I owe my gratitude to Amy Shachter, Senior Associate Provost for Research and Faculty Affairs at Santa Clara University, and to the Ignatian Center, for the support; my research would not have been completed without the generous Postdoctoral position at the Chicano/a Studies Research Center at University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). I owe my gratitude to colleagues in the field who have made great contributions to this book; among them are Justo Alarcón, Norma E. Cantú, Mario García,
Leigh Gilmore, María Herrera-Sobek, Francisco Jiménez, AnaLouise Keating, Genaro Padilla, Raymund Paredes, and Ramon Saldívar.
I am deeply grateful to the Department of English at Santa Clara University for supporting my project since my arrival and for providing the support that enabled me to write this book. Along with my great colleagues, Terry Beers, Michelle Burnham, Juliana Chang, Judy Dunbar, Eileen Elrod, and Anna Sampaio, the students at Santa Clara University (SCU) have influenced my thinking about the book in a profound manner. The anonymous first reader at Palgrave Macmillan has my gratitude for suggestions that improved this book. I am grateful to Zach Milkis for his wonderful editing abilities and to Mary Hashman for her work with the manuscript. I requested permission to draw on earlier versions of previously published articles: “Teaching Richard Rodriguez,” in Latino/a Literature In The Classroom, published by Routledge, 2015; “Making Evil: Crime Thrillers and Chicana Cinema,” in Denver University Law Review 78.2 (2001); “Using Queer Chicana/o Autobiography to Teach Courses on Identity and Solidarity,” in Expanding the Circle, published by SUNY press, 2015; and “Automitografías: The Border Paradigm and Chicana/o Autobiography,” which appeared in Biography 27.2 (Spring 2004). I gratefully acknowledge the extensive research trajectory and the support of other presses here.
My parents and mi familia at Programa Velasco will not be able to read this book unless it is translated into Spanish, but it is the result of the work and effort of those who always encouraged my commitment to social justice through education, and who allowed me to become the first PhD in my family. Gracias.
Juan Velasco Santa Clara, CA
CHAPTER 1
Introduction: Beyond the Hunger of Memories
Already in the 1970s, in an article published in Aztlan, Arturo MadridBarela reflected on the painful theme of healing and memory:
Why, someone might ask, should we dig back into our painful memories? Why should we recall the anguish of our Pocho past? Because what we are is inseparable from what we were. Because only by knowing where we have been can we determine where we shall go. (61)
The fact that I opened this chapter with Madrid-Barela’s wish for a communal reworking of memory is a sign of the many difficulties this project faced while determining the structures that define the notion of “self,” and while locating a certain set of experiences (“our Pocho past”) at the very heart of the autobiographical act. What the aforementioned quote suggests is that autobiographies not only relate episodes of a life told in first person, but that the genre produces artifacts destined to feed the desire for visibility of an experience often filtered through the particular lens of the “I.” Moreover, as Madrid-Barela points out, the intentions and desired effects of autobiography involve healing, constructing, and organizing the discourses of identity, culture, memory, and writing. In the light of these assumptions, the task of autobiography is no simple achievement. The autobiographer searches for a construction that involves the writer’s sense of personhood, together with politically and personally
charged notions of community and nation. Furthermore, not only the past, but also the present and future are involved, built by reconstructed notions of self and culture. In that case, for both reader and autobiographer, what is at stake is not only the nature of the “I” as it unfolds in the writing, but also the emerging nature of a collective sense of history itself as it is reflected in the text.
I want to emphasize the ambivalent aspects of automitografía, a mode of representation that is open enough to include tensions, and introduces different political interventions regarding its autobiographical effects. But my objective is to uncover the technologies of self-representation by which artists address those concerns and show the disruptions and tensions embedded in that task. Thus, this book is making at least two key interventions. The first relates to Chicana/o automitografía’s critique of Western individualism and its understanding of the person as an individual separable from the communal. Indeed, this is a project designed to uncover the workings of those coexisting paradoxical terms (communal wholeness and the particularity of the personal), describe the interaction of both categories—autobiography as a genre disturbed by the personal, and the role of culture as an ever-unfolding communal project filtered through the “I”—and show the diversity of technologies of representation that inhabit this particular expression of American life.
The second intervention, to which I briefly alluded in the Preface, is a critique of a poststructuralist understanding of autobiography, specifically in relation to the dichotomy of the presence and absence of an “I” in the writing, therefore refusing language as simply loss or “hunger.” This is increasingly relevant if we realize that previous works on contemporary Chicana/o autobiography have been treated only in isolated articles or book chapters and have been dominated by the single figure of Richard Rodriguez.1 However, the overwhelming attention dedicated to a single book, 1982’s Hunger of Memory, can easily obscure the analysis of the genre. As mentioned by Lene M. Johannessen, “few works written by a Mexican-American writer have received more notice on the American national literary arena than this book, favorable as well as unfavorable” (125). Richard Rodriguez does not occupy a central role in this study for several reasons. First, there is already a large body of work on his writing that is available to anyone interested. My goal is, instead, to establish a much longer, deeper, and richer literary and cultural history of the genre. Also, Rodriguez’s books diverge from the pattern, present in so many other Chicana/o autobiographies, of a self
that is both personal and communal, and the search for an intersectional space of identity. Those elements are especially pertinent to this book since I argue for a specific mode of autobiography that not only speaks of personal experience but also creates voices that intervene into the dialogue for an “imagined” community, and the specific “effect” of cultural resistance. Madrid-Barela argues that memory is not so much a tool for individual recollection, as it is (through “our Pocho past”) a way of exploring issues of citizenship and familia, writing and home, aiming at the reclaiming of all the dimensions of cultural survival beyond the hunger of memories. The authors of automitografías see their product as destined not to reproduce the hunger for memories but to address its visibility and the boundaries of the desire created by a genre promising to take care of those needs.
My intent here is neither to undermine the legitimacy of Rodriguez’s experience, nor to dismiss the value of his contribution to autobiography. Rodriguez solidified his position as a skillful writer and innovative storyteller with the widely successful autobiography Hunger of Memory, a haunting exploration into his experience as a gay Mexican-American man. The narrative, however, concludes in a moment of profound loneliness and despair, as Rodriguez silently stares at his Mexican father—the chasm of alienating “difference” insurmountable.
This notion of difference is in clear contrast with Madrid-Barela’s recollection of “painful memories” as healing, since, for Rodriguez, “memory” is merely the trace of Spanish sounds slowly fading into the silence of his assimilation and his secrets. This is relevant since the “silence and silencing of people begins with the dominating enforcement of linguistic conventions, the resistance to relational dialogues, as well as the disenablement of peoples by outlawing their forms of speech” (Alarcón “Theoretical” 36).
The absence of language and words and the “loss” of culture and family define Rodriguez’s identity. Hunger of Memory reveals what can go wrong when loss, silencing, and assimilation define “difference” as simply absence. He reactivates the most pessimistic and desolate perspective of identity by relating loss to “hunger” as well. His text advances the idea of loss as a set of painful memories that lack meaning or structure. It is a story that functions as an empty and floating sign, a faint echo of a voice sinking slowly into the world of his assimilation. This text is a warning to the kind of intense pain available to those unable to transcend the dualistic division of experience (hope or loss), or detect any “presence” in the fainting void of sexual and cultural assimilation. Thus, his story translates the emptiness
(the loss) into an insatiable hunger—this is the pain of a hungry ghost lost in a world of empty words.
Indeed, Hunger of Memory is an important autobiography filled with secrets and silences. Secrets permeate every word. Even language, manifesting the silence between him and his father, erases the signs of memory and his familial connections. In the chapter titled “The Achievement of Desire,” Rodriguez reaffirms as inexorable not only the distancing from his family, but also the loss of any memories of himself, the inevitable price for gaining success through assimilation: “Here is a child who cannot forget that his academic success distances him from a life he loved, even from his own memory of himself” (Hunger 48).
Rodriguez, through his process of assimilation, experiences not only negation of his parents’ language, but also negation of his own physical self. This connection between erasure of culture and language and the erasure of body is illustrated in a moment where he takes a razor to his own skin, attempting to cut away any remainder of his race. “I wanted to forget that I had a body because I had a brown body,” Rodriguez writes (Hunger 126). In a manner similar to his presentation of ethnicity, family, and language, homosexuality appears merely in terms of its negation. Rodriguez’s act of writing is solely an act of nostalgia, his sexuality remaining closeted to the very end.
In this sense, as opposed to the other automitografías that I will explore here, Hunger of Memory represents the rejection of a common mito. As Rodriguez understands his experience to be “queer” in the eyes of Joaquín (the warrior symbol of the Mexican-American Civil Rights Movement), Hunger of Memory can be interpreted as the inability to carve out a space for queerness inside the confines of the Chicano Movement. Furthermore, through hunger, Rodriguez constructs his identity as alienated, while refusing to rewrite his homosexuality as a challenge to heteropatriarchal conceptions of cultural nationalism. Ultimately, his hunger pervades as it is manifested in the text as secrets, silence, or journey toward assimilation. The desire, “the hunger” for what is inevitably lost, becomes the only mark of difference. Loss is the manifestation of an empty being, and only the hunger remains.
Rodriguez’s negation of the Chicana/o Civil Rights Movement translates into a no-man’s land, an emptiness that turns into the nostalgia of memory lacking meaning and significance—a place where even the body becomes an empty and floating sign. In further works, Rodriguez’s hunger renders memory into a place of loss that rewrites the self as “craving,”
an impulse lost and pushed back. In Days of Obligation: An Argument with My Mexican Father (1992), the Catholic—the Mexican—impulse “was pushed back” (xvi). In Brown: The Last Discovery of America (2003), he states that “I write about race in America in hopes of undermining the notion of race in America” (xi). In Darling: A Spiritual Autobiography (2013), he tells the story of a saint who lived in craving: “St. Sabas desired the taste of an apple. The craving was sweeter to him than the thought of God. From that moment Sabas forswore apples. The desire for apples was the taste of God” (47). Again, he links the desert God of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam to a divinity that “demands acknowledgment within emptiness” (35). It is not surprising that he is interested in the desert religions and this ecology. “The desert remains an absence” (49), Rodriguez writes, and his last book is an exploration of this elusive, incomprehensible emptiness.
I will discuss this perception of autobiography later, which was anticipated in Memories for Paul de Man, where Jacques Derrida defines the term prosopopeia (from the Greek expression “face making”) as the tropology of memory and “autobiographical discourse as epitaph” (25). However, the cultural and sexual anxiety conferred upon autobiography is transcended by a different way of understanding the dialectics of loss (absence) and hope (presence) in the automitografías created by the writers I will analyze later. The text, as epitaph or as a space of loss, is rewritten by Gloria Anzaldúa through what she calls the act of “making faces.” From Anzaldúa’s point of view, autobiography is not so much the signature of the epitaph (loss), as described by poststructuralists, as it is the setting for “making faces.” Self-restoration is delivered through narratives as the act of haciendo caras, a way to recreate the voices to break away from loss. Other writers, like Cherrie Moraga, will use the notion of “making familia from scratch” to envision an alternative community (her lesbian familia) against heteropatriarchy and narrow versions of cultural nationalism. The alternatives offered through the works of Anzaldúa and Moraga transcend the binary discourse offered by the readings of hunger and craving, silence and loss as “absence,” in the context of Rodriguez’s multiple autobiographies. Since the book focuses on Chicana/o autobiographical works, my intent is to include different strategies used by artists that reclaim this act of “making faces.” Investigating new as well as foundational texts, I explore the nature of this kind of self-representation, and its relationship to self-restoration based on theories of identity in transition. Moreover, by including visual and literary production, I align my project with
contemporary work in American and border studies, and engage with earlier studies on the creation of cross-border communities (Sonia SaldívarHull, José David Saldívar, José Limón, Donna Kabalen de Bichara, and Héctor Calderón), the liberatory dimensions of cultural survival (María Josefina Saldana-Portillo, Genaro Padilla, and Ramón Saldívar), and the reclaiming of new feminist subjects (Norma Alarcón, Angie ChabramDernersesian, Paula Moya, Yvonne Yarbro-Bejarano, and Chela Sandoval) fashioned against the mechanisms of violence that Mexican-Americans have endured. It is my belief that a focus on identity, culture, and the politics of this unique mode of representation will give us a clearer vision to distinct notions of cultural citizenship that are expanding the notion of “America” into Las Américas. I pay critical attention to Naoki Sakai’s notion of “translation” in the border as the “unfamiliar in transition,” and José David Saldívar’s notion of “trans-Americanity” to address notions of identity formation and its relationship with the physical and cultural space of Las Américas
The creation of this unique space challenges fixed locations of language, citizenship, and identity within the USA. The crossings in this space move our perspective then, from “loss” or “illegality” to a transAmericanity point of view, and frames the importance of culture (José Limón’s “Greater Mexico”) as the existence of a trans-Mexican space that connects both sides of the border. Within such a theoretical framework, this project examines the constitution of a unique, but ever unfolding, transnation in the USA, which questions colonizing conditions and serves as a category that defines political awareness within self-representation.
In order to address the key interventions and the interests I have mentioned earlier, I shift simultaneously within two critical discourses: Chicana/o cultural studies and autobiography studies. Let me start with the need for the first one, which points at how these works go beyond dualistic alternatives regarding cultural space, and are marked neither by presence nor absence but rather by the act of crossings within the context of Las Américas. The subversive nature of a cultural space that transcends dualistic thinking regarding citizenship, identity, or even geographical territory has been a point of special focus by Chicano/a critics. Going back to some of the pioneers of Chicana/o criticism, the issue was already being discussed in Philip D. Ortego’s “The Chicano Renaissance” (1971), Carlota Cárdenas de Dwyer’s “Chicano Literature: An Introduction” (1975), and especially in Ramón Saldívar’s “A Dialectic of Difference: Toward a Theory of the Chicano Novel” (1979).2
When researching earlier Chicana/o literary and cultural history, even those from different theoretical perspectives, we can see that a major contribution of those works is the idea that the Chicana/o writer is able to create a response to the “threat of erasure” through the creation of a unique cultural “space,” which is able to extend citizenship and identity beyond nationality or birthplace. Luis Leal explains the intertwined, continuous aspect of this literature in sociological terms by stating that “if immigration from Mexico stopped, then perhaps Chicano literature in time would cease to exist because it might be integrated fully into American literature. However, this is not the case now and probably not into the foreseeable future. As long as Mexico is next door and immigrants continue to come in, there will be something like Chicano literature” (Leal Auto/Biography 114–15). José David Saldívar addresses this phenomena as he states Americanity as a concept, which “might also serve as a crucial document for any comparative project that attempts to foreground the transnational and post-disciplinary impulses related to Chicano/a studies, Latin American studies, and American studies as interdisciplinary fields” (J.D. Saldívar Trans-Americanity x).
Notions of trans-Americanity, as well as its crossings, are critical elements to be addressed, as the notion of culture itself is affected by this fluidity, coloniality, and power. From this perspective, then, we should not look at just another attempt at redefining some cultural essences of which literature would be a mere manifestation. Instead, we should look for ways of analyzing how the autobiographical impulse is interested in grappling with this complex net of fluid, changing, and diverse transnational impulses invested in the reshaping of a culture of resistance. María Herrera-Sobek describes how this impulse as “the production of specific cultural ‘products’ deviating from those established ones or encapsulating a new message within accepted cultural constructs [is] in response to perceived threats to the survival of a group or a people” (Herrera-Sobek and Maciel 8). Scholar Mario García, referring to his work with Frances Esquibel Tywoniak, states that “there are no monolithic or essentialist or ‘authentic’ cultures in this exchange, either from a subaltern or postcolonial perspective or from a colonial or neocolonial one. Individual as well as collective identity is always in a state of flux, constantly being reinvented and always open and fluid” (Tywoniak and García xvi). Generalizations about the nature of those cultural experiences and strategies are almost impossible to sustain since every story offered in these works must be defined historically. By identifying distinctive individual characteristics
regarding cultural space, and placing them in relation to each other, we can have access, however, to the changing character of the process of identity creation.
Part of the discussion involves the ways we need to explore how the authors’ strategies can be analyzed and classified to give us insight into how they have been produced, in what context, and for what reasons. How experience is materialized into an autobiographical “effect,” and in which ways that aspect is specific to each work, also provide a framework to understand the “I” as a complex technology, intertwined with the construction of a cultural space for Chicano/a expression, and defined by the outlines of representation that give way to the establishment of new notions of identity within the USA.
The way those technologies of autobiography affect the expressions of the cultural discourse demands also to engage constructively with the critical discourse of autobiography studies. The ambiguous margins of the genre have been explored in The Limits of Autobiography (2001) by Leigh Gilmore who considers how “for many writers, autobiography’s domain of first-person particularities and peculiarities offers an opportunity to describe their lives and their thoughts about it … some writers, however, are more interested in the constitutive vagaries of autobiography, in how its weirder expansiveness lets them question whether and how ‘I’ can be ‘here or there’, what the self is that it could be the subject of its own representation, what the truth is that one person could tell it” (9). This statement presents not only the “limits” of autobiography, but also the critical tension that inhabits the genre itself; some writers conceive of the self as a coherent and separate entity formed outside the dominant culture that is able to bring light into history (Wilhelm Dilthey), while others understand autobiography as a textualized identity pressured by the indeterminacy and nonhierarchical conceptualizations of the genre (Françoise Lionnet). Even though both are perfectly valid for the ways writers engage the genre, the first position creates the danger of emphasizing universal values and the erasure of the rhetorical nature of a heavily gendered, sexualized, and racialized genre.
The second form of assessment, although carefully negotiated by the pressures of Derrida’s “differénce,” risks erasing the agency of an “I” regarded by poststructuralists as the signature of an epitaph. Whether or not, ultimately, the rendering of the “I” in writing is a futile exercise has engaged most of the critics in autobiography studies during the last few decades, including Paul John Eakin, Georg Misch, Sidonie Smith, and
Julia Watson. The expansiveness and the mediations faced by autobiography were already addressed in Gilmore’s “autobiographics” in women’s autobiographies, a concept that showed the careful negotiations writers engage in as they shape subject (and “difference”) positions within the constraints of genre, race, sexuality, and gender. Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson’s work has been important to Chicana/o autobiography since they point at how “issues of positionality and the geography of identity are especially complex in autobiographical narratives of de/colonization, immigration, displacement, and exile” (215). But I find Elizabeth Bruss’s notion of “autobiographical acts” especially relevant, as she argues for performativity and emphasizes the narrative itself as a created product, with a chosen purpose or function embedded within the realm of storytelling itself. The relational aspect of this form of expression has also been elaborated by Nancy K. Miller as she argued for the dialogical shifts of the text as a model for other genres, while Lionnet’s métissage allowed for the reading of multiple voices embedded in the subjects of autobiographical narratives. Automitografía specifically emphasizes a fluid and dialectically positioned discourse, where the strategies that create the mito facilitate an ever-unfolding space, and the cultural production itself becomes a source for “making faces,” cultural resistance, and inclusive notions of collective identity. This aspect has been underlined by Kabalen de Bichara’s analysis of Chicanas’ “border autobiographies,” which asserts that those autobiographical texts stand “in opposition to the erasure of individual and collective identity” (31).
The inseparable nature of self-representation from the collective or communal, and its relationship to cultural space through transAmericanity, is an important strategy used not only in the creation of a post–civil rights performative identity, but also in the representation of an “untotalizable totality” inclusive of multiple subject positions that address a “patrón de poder in its relation between its parts” (J.D. Saldívar TransAmericanity xvii). In comparison to other mainstream American autobiographies, automitografía uses its critique of Western dualistic thinking to grapple with geographical boundaries, and with questions of positionality and performativity that result in the development of intersectional aspects of identity inclusive of class, race, gender, and sexuality. Those new subject positions became the special focus of the criticism produced during the 1980s and 1990s in works such as María Herrera-Sobek’s Beyond Stereotypes: The Critical Analysis of Chicana Literature (1981), Angie Chabram’s “Chicano Literary Criticism: Directions and Development of
an Emerging Critical Discourse” (1986), Renato Rosaldo’s Culture and Truth (1989), Norma Alarcón’s “Chicana Feminism: In the Tracks of ‘the’ Native Woman” (1990), Ramón Saldívar’s Chicano Narrative: Dialectics of Difference (1990), Criticism in the Borderlands: Studies in Chicano Literature: Culture and Ideology (1991) edited by Héctor Calderón and José David Saldívar, José E. Limón’s autobiographical Dancing with the Devil: Society and Cultural Poetics in Mexican-American South Texas (1994), Carl Gutiérrez-Jones’s Rethinking the Borderlands (1995), and José David Saldívar’s The Dialectics of Our America: Genealogy, Cultural Critique, and Literary History (1991) and Border Matters: Remapping Cultural Studies (1997).
Those expansions of the autobiographical production into other fields are significant since, according to José David Saldívar, the US–Mexico border, “as a paradigm of crossing, resistance, and circulation in Chicano/a studies has contributed to the ‘worlding’ of American Studies and further helped to instill a new transnational literacy in the U.S. academy” (Border Matters xiii). From Border Matters to Trans-Americanity: Subaltern Modernities, Global Coloniality, and the Cultures of Greater Mexico, Saldívar has argued that part of the problem is the way American culture abstracts the concepts of space and identity, inadvertently eliding the specificity of the margins or making them invisible. The need for a larger interdisciplinary study based on José Martí’s understanding of Las Américas stands in continuity with the way Chicana/o artists rewrite the boundaries that create the situation of marginalization in the first place. Those aspects of experience are recognized in the work of Ramón Saldívar as he points at Américo Paredes’s vision for a “border story of racial and economic conflict [which] was recorded on the Mexican American side in the folk art form of corridos (ballads) and later becomes one of the subtexts for much of contemporary Chicano narrative” (Chicano Narrative 18). The rich variations on the analysis of crossings, and the aspects involving a communitarian response to the boundaries of marginalization, continue during the first decade of the twenty-first century Chicana/o criticism in works such as Methodology of the Oppressed (2000) by Chela Sandoval, Feminism on the Border: Chicana Gender Politics Literature (2000) by Sonia Saldívar, Disrupting Savagism: Intersecting Chicana/o, Mexican Immigrant, and Native American Struggles for Self-Representation (2001) by Arturo Aldama, MeXicana Encounters: The Making of Social Identity on the Borderlands (2003) by Rosa Linda Fregoso, The Chicana/o Cultural Studies Reader (2006) by Angie Chabram-Dernersesian, Postethnic
Narrative Criticism (2003) by Frederick Luis Aldama, and Postnationalism in Chicana/o Literature and Culture (2009) by Ellie D. Hernández.3
The critical theory of this project, then, engages with the key interventions mentioned before, helps to clarify the development of a critical cultural space during the last five decades, and shows the effects of these frameworks of analysis in the autobiographical context, a field that rarely engages with (and usually ignores) the specific historical experiences of Mexican-Americans. Moreover, by taking an interdisciplinary approach, and by emphasizing visual culture and literary analysis, we can also examine the performative aspects of automitografía, what self-representation reveals and conceals about its authors, and the evolving understanding of Chicano/a culture during those years. Especially in an election year, it is important to describe the ways automitografía engage with mainstream American discourses of “illegality,” and how these works establish crossborder voices for a community that expands the boundaries of experience and expression in the artistic American literary and visual landscape. By understanding these mechanisms of self-representation, it is also possible to understand certain aspects of experience in the twentieth and the twentyfirst centuries that go beyond the realm of the “American Dream”—we can expose the structural and economic violence exercised on the community, and analyze the space created by these artists as a reconfiguration of the cultural, political, and ideological boundaries of mainstream representation of the Mexican-American experience in Las Américas.
Furthermore, focusing on a diverse range of cultural productions provides a natural occasion for studying the differences and tensions among particular notions of identity, nationality, and citizenship. Placing together visual and literary works, we recuperate an impulse toward representation that involves a hybridity of genres that have been lost in recent theories of borders and identity politics. Moreover, by looking at how mito is created in these works, it becomes possible to grasp the liberatory dimensions of cultural survival and discern the personal forms of self-representation that fight the perpetuation of violence imposed on Chicano/a identities. Thus, it is important to discuss hybrid genres as well, such as essays, semiautobiographical novels, autobioethnography, oral narratives, journal writing, testimonios, photography, film, and painting to comprehend the diversity and complexity of the available technologies of self-representation. These works include the first mainstream semiautobiographical novel Pocho (1959) by José Antonio Villarreal; Barrio Boy: The Story of a Boy´s Acculturation (1971), the autobiographical work of scholar and activist
Ernesto Galarza; Massacre of the Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma (1994) by journalist and writer Ana Castillo; La Ofrenda: The Days of the Dead (1988) and The Devil Never Sleeps/El Diablo Nunca Duerme (1994), documentaries by Lourdes Portillo; the diary Waiting in the Wings: Portrait of a Queer Motherhood (1997) and the first queer Chicana autobiography Loving in the War Years: Lo que Nunca Pasó por sus Labios (1983) by Cherrie Moraga; children’s book A Piece of My Heart/Pedacito de mi corazón (1991) and Family Pictures/Cuadros de familia (1990) by Carmen Lomas Garza; fictional autobioethnography Canícula: Snapshot of a Girlhood in La Frontera (1995) by Norma E. Cantú; and the famous fronterista cultural manifesto, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987) by Gloria Anzaldúa. The wave of women writers of the 1980s and 1990s plays an important role in this book, as well as new stories of child farmworkers such as Barefoot Heart: Stories of a Migrant Child (1999) by Elva Treviño Hart, Migrant Daughter (2000) by Frances Esquibel Tywoniak and Mario García, the bilingual trilogy The Circuit (1997), Breaking Through (2001), and Reaching Out (2008) by Francisco Jiménez, Butterfly Boy: Memories of a Chicano Mariposa (2006) by Rigoberto González, and The Distance Between Us: A Memoir (2012) by Reyna Grande.
As María Herrera-Sobek has noted in her previous work, feminist critical theory is crucial to the understanding of self-representation since it expands “the Chicano literary space by demystifying the external image imposed upon them” (Beyond Stereotypes 10). In examining authors and artists as diverse as Gloria Anzaldúa, Lourdes Portillo, Ana Castillo, Carmen Lomas Garza, Norma E. Cantú, Reyna Grande, Cherrie Moraga, Frances Esquibel Tywoniak, and Elva Treviño Hart, I also advance feminist and queer notions of totality and particularity, global and the local, and performativity and positionality within Chicana/o works. The significance of such an approach is that it shows how for Chicana/o artists, the connection between experience and the creation of an individual, cultural space is interrelated with the development of a performative (and ever evolving) communal space, and “cultural memory as a mechanism through which certain types of communication or texts are conserved and transmitted” (Kabalen de Bichara Telling Border Stories 7).
These artists and writers have also been influential in rejecting essentialist notions of identity in their autobiographical work, and emphasize instead the changing phenomena of self-representation within the expanding cultural space of Las Américas. These locations of identity challenge
the exceptionality model of American studies and contribute to new anthropological understandings of how people and culture are displaced or reinvent themselves. As mentioned at the beginning of the book, my goal in this project is to see self-representation through more complex, intersectional lenses and start a much-needed conversation on the value of Chicana/o autobiography to other fields of study. In Chap. 2, I identify the unique autobiographical mode that defines the construction of self through the concept of automitografía. This construction is explained through Valdez’s notion of mito and Anzaldúa’s notion of the total Self, and both point to identity as a site of struggle filled with the ambivalence of both individual self-expression and a voice for the community. This chapter provides a theoretical and critical framework for these tensions within Chicana/o self-representation, building on the research of Genaro Padilla, Donna Kabalen de Bichara, and others. I also explain how this mode of writing introduces new strategies of expression that recognize multiple interactions between self-representation and fiction, and allow for an open-ended notion of self that accounts for new locations of identity.
In Chap. 3, “Crossings,” I use José David Saldívar’s notion of transAmericanity and Aníbal Quijano’s Americanity in works such as Barefoot Heart by Elva Treviño Hart and Migrant Daughter by Frances Esquibel Tywoniak and Mario García; additionally, I analyze Francisco Jiménez’s bilingual trilogy The Circuit, Breaking Through, and Reaching Out. The experience of undocumented workers and the struggle of child labor engage in a critique of transnationalism that results in new ways of understanding Americanity and, what Bill Ashcroft calls, “transnation.” Jiménez’s trilogy, in particular, by creating a profound sense of empathy toward the experience of undocumented immigrants, presents the despair and difficulties of child labor and the farmworkers’ experience in search of realizing the problematic American Dream. This chapter shows also how, by challenging fixed notions of language and citizenship, these writers propose a rethinking of home, community, and nation.
In Chap. 4, “Culture as Resistance,” I discuss representations of “Mexican-Americanness” in the USA. I compare theories of mexicanidad and identity written during the Mexican Revolution to the MexicanAmericanness recreated by Chicana/o autobiographies. I start my discussion on the representation of the Mexican-American experience before the Chicana/o Movement with Ernesto Galarza’s Barrio Boy and with José Antonio Villarreal’s autobiographical novel Pocho. In contrast to these works, I also show contemporary attempts at portraying a queer
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England could have borne with patience the punishment of the West Indies had not the American cruisers inflicted equally severe retribution nearer home.
Great Britain was blockaded. No one could deny that manifest danger existed to any merchant-vessel that entered or left British waters. During the summer the blockade was continuous. Toward the close of 1812 an American named Preble, living in Paris, bought a small vessel, said to have belonged in turn to the British and French navy, which he fitted as a privateer-brig, carrying sixteen guns and one hundred and sixty men. The “True-Blooded Yankee,” commanded by Captain Hailey, sailed from Brest March 1, 1813, and cruised thirty-seven days on the coasts of Ireland and Scotland, capturing twenty-seven valuable vessels; sinking coasters in the very bay of Dublin; landing and taking possession of an island off the coast of Ireland, and of a town in Scotland, where she burned seven vessels in the harbor. She returned safely to Brest, and soon made another cruise. At the same time the schooner “Fox” of Portsmouth burned or sunk vessel after vessel in the Irish Sea, as they plied between Liverpool and Cork. In May, the schooner “Paul Jones” of New York, carrying sixteen guns and one hundred and twenty men, took or destroyed a dozen vessels off the Irish coast, until she was herself caught in a fog by the frigate “Leonidas,” and captured May 23 after a chase in which five of her crew were wounded.
While these vessels were thus engaged, the brig “Rattlesnake” of Philadelphia, carrying sixteen guns and one hundred and twenty men, and the brig “Scourge” of New York, carrying nine guns and one hundred and ten men, crossed the ocean and cruised all the year in the northern seas off the coasts of Scotland and Norway, capturing some forty British vessels, and costing the British merchants and ship-owners losses to the amount of at least two million dollars. In July the “Scourge” fell in with Commodore Rodgers in the “President,” and the two vessels remained several days in company off the North Cape, while the British admiralty sent three or four squadrons in search of them without success. July 19, after Rodgers had been nearly a month in British waters, one of these squadrons drove him away, and he then made a circuit round Ireland
before he turned homeward At the same time, from July 14 to August 14, the “Argus” was destroying vessels in the British Channel at the rate of nearly one a day. After the capture of the “Argus,” August 14, the “Grand Turk” of Salem, a brig carrying sixteen guns and one hundred and five men, cruised for twenty days in the mouth of the British Channel without being disturbed. Besides these vessels, others dashed into British waters from time to time as they sailed forward and back across the ocean in the track of British commerce.
No one disputed that the privateers were a very important branch of the American navy; but they suffered under serious drawbacks, which left doubtful the balance of merits and defects. Perhaps their chief advantage compared with government vessels was their lightness,—a quality which no government would have carried to the same extent. The long-range pivot-gun was another invention of the privateer, peculiarly successful and easily adapted for government vessels. In other respects, the same number or even half the number of sloops-of-war would have probably inflicted greater injury at less cost. The “Argus” showed how this result could have been attained. The privateer’s first object was to save prizes; and in the effort to send captured vessels into port the privateer lost a large proportion by recapture. Down to the moment when Admiral Warren established his blockade of the American coast from New York southward, most of the prizes got to port. After that time the New England ports alone offered reasonable chance of safety, and privateering received a check.436 During the war about twenty-five hundred vessels all told were captured from the British. Many were destroyed; many released as cartels; and of the remainder not less than seven hundred and fifty, probably one half the number sent to port, were recaptured by the British navy. Most of these were the prizes of privateers, and would have been destroyed had they been taken by government vessels. They were usually the most valuable prizes, so that the injury that might have been inflicted on British commerce was diminished nearly one half by the system which encouraged private war as a money-making speculation.
Another objection was equally serious. Like all gambling ventures, privateering was not profitable. In the list of five hundred privateers furnished by the Navy Department,437 three hundred were recorded as having never made a prize. Of the remainder, few made their expenses. One of the most successful cruises of the war was that of Joshua Barney on the Baltimore schooner “Rossie” at the outbreak of hostilities, when every prize reached port. Barney sent in prizes supposed to be worth fifteen hundred thousand dollars; but after paying charges and duties and selling the goods, he found that the profits were not sufficient to counterbalance the discomforts, and he refused to repeat the experiment. His experience was common. As early as November, 1812, the owners of twenty-four New York privateers sent to Congress a memorial declaring that the profits of private naval war were by no means equal to the hazards, and that the spirit of privateering stood in danger of extinction unless the government would consent in some manner to grant a bounty for the capture or destruction of the enemy’s property
If private enterprise was to fail at the critical moment, and if the government must supply the deficiency, the government would have done better to undertake the whole task. In effect, the government in the end did so. The merchants asked chiefly for a reduction of duties on prize-goods. Gallatin pointed out the serious objections to such legislation, and the little probability that the measure would increase the profits of privateering or the number of privateers. The actual privateers, he said, were more than enough for the food offered by the enemy’s trade, and privateering, like every other form of gambling, would always continue to attract more adventurers than it could support.438
Congress for the time followed Gallatin’s advice, and did nothing; but in the summer session of 1813, after Gallatin’s departure for Europe, the privateer owners renewed their appeal, and the acting Secretary of the Treasury, Jones, wrote to the chairman of the Naval Committee July 21, 1813,439 —
“The fact is that privateering is nearly at an end; and from the best observation I have been enabled to make, it is more from the deficiency of remuneration in the net proceeds of their prizes than from the vigilance and success of the enemy in recapturing.”
In deference to Jones’s opinion, Congress passed an Act, approved Aug. 2, 1813, reducing one third the duties on prize-goods. Another Act, approved August 3, granted a bounty of twenty-five dollars for every prisoner captured and delivered to a United States agent by a private armed vessel. A third Act, approved August 2, authorized the Secretary of the Navy to place on the pension list any privateersman who should be wounded or disabled in the line of his duty.
These complaints and palliations tended to show that the privateer cost the public more than the equivalent government vessel would have cost. If instead of five hundred privateers of all sizes and efficiency, the government had kept twenty sloops-of-war constantly at sea destroying the enemy’s commerce, the result would have been about the same as far as concerned injury to the enemy, while in another respect the government would have escaped one of its chief difficulties. Nothing injured the navy so much as privateering. Seamen commonly preferred the harder but more profitable and shorter cruise in a privateer, where fighting was not expected or wished, to the strict discipline and murderous battles of government ships, where wages were low and prize-money scarce. Of all towns in the United States, Marblehead was probably the most devoted to the sea; but of nine hundred men from Marblehead who took part in the war, fifty-seven served as soldiers, one hundred and twenty entered the navy, while seven hundred and twenty-six went as privateersmen.440 Only after much delay and difficulty could the frigates obtain crews. The “Constitution” was nearly lost by this cause at the beginning of the war; and the loss of the “Chesapeake” was supposed to be chiefly due to the determination of the old crew to quit the government service for that of the privateers.
Such drawbacks raised reasonable doubts as to the balance of advantages and disadvantages offered by the privateer system. Perhaps more careful inquiry might show that, valuable as the privateers were, the government would have done better to retain all military and naval functions in its own hands, and to cover the seas with small cruisers capable of pursuing a system of thorough destruction against the shipping and colonial interests of England.
CHAPTER XIV.
G and Bayard, having sailed from the Delaware May 9, arrived at St. Petersburg July 21, only to find that during the six months since the Czar offered to mediate, Russia had advanced rapidly in every direction except that of the proposed mediation. Napoleon after being driven from Russia in December, 1812, passed the winter in Paris organizing a new army of three hundred thousand men on the Elbe, between Dresden and Magdeburg, while a second army of more than one hundred thousand was to hold Hamburg and Bremen. Russia could not prevent Napoleon from reconstructing a force almost as powerful as that with which he had marched to Moscow, for the Russian army had suffered very severely and was unfit for active service; but the Czar succeeded in revolutionizing Prussia, and in forcing the French to retire from the Vistula to the Elbe, while he gained a reinforcement of more than one hundred thousand men from the fresh and vigorous Prussian army. Even with that assistance the Czar could not cope with Napoleon, who, leaving Paris April 17, during the month of May fought furious battles at Lützen and Bautzen, which forced the allied Russian and Prussian armies back from the Elbe to the Oder.
At that point Austria interfered so energetically as to oblige Napoleon to accept an armistice for the purpose of collecting new forces. During the armistice the Czar stationed himself at Gitschin in Bohemia, nine hundred miles from St. Petersburg, and about the same distance from London by the path that couriers were obliged to take. When Gallatin and Bayard reached St. Petersburg, July 21, the armistice, which had been prolonged until August 10, was about to expire, and the Czar could not be anxious to decide subordinate questions until the issue of the coming campaign should be known.
Meanwhile the government of England had in May, with many friendly expressions, declined the Russian mediation.441 Castlereagh probably hoped that this quiet notification to Lieven, the Russian envoy in London, would end the matter; but toward the month of July news reached London that the American commissioners, Gallatin and Bayard, had arrived at Gothenburg on their way to Russia, and Castlereagh then saw that he must be more explicit in his refusal. Accordingly he took measures for making the matter clear not only to the Russian government but also to the American commissioners.
With the Russian government he was obliged by the nature of their common relations to communicate officially, and he wrote instructions to Lord Cathcart, dated July 5, directing communication to be made.
“I am afraid,” said Castlereagh’s letter,442 “this tender of mediation which on a question of maritime right cannot be listened to by Great Britain, however kindly and liberally intended, will have had the unfortunate effect of protracting the war with the United States. It is to be lamented that the formal offer was made to America before the disposition of the British government was previously sounded as to its acceptance of a mediation. It has enabled the President to hold out to the people of America a vague expectation of peace, under which he may reconcile them with less repugnance to submit to the measures of the Government. This evil, however, cannot now be avoided, and it only remains to prevent this question from producing any embarrassment between Great Britain and Russia.”
Embarrassment between Great Britain and Russia was no new thing in European politics, and commonly involved maritime objects for which the United States were then fighting. Castlereagh had much reason for wishing to avoid the danger. The most fortunate result he could reasonably expect from the coming campaign was a defeat of Bonaparte that should drive him back to the Rhine. Then
Russia and Austria would probably offer terms to Napoleon; England would be obliged to join in a European Congress; Napoleon would raise the question of maritime rights, and on that point he would be supported by Russian sympathies. Napoleon and Russia might insist that the United States should take part in the Congress, and in that case England might be obliged to retire from it. Castlereagh felt uneasy at the prospect, and ordered Cathcart to “press the Emperor of Russia in the strongest manner not to push his personal interference on this point further.” Cathcart was to use his utmost endeavors to persuade the Czar “pointedly to discountenance a design so mischievously calculated to promote the views of France.”
Another week of reflection only increased Castlereagh’s anxieties, and caused the British government to take a step intended to leave the Czar no opening for interference. July 13 Castlereagh wrote Cathcart new instructions,443 directing him to present a formal note acquainting the Czar that the Prince Regent was “ready immediately to name plenipotentiaries to meet and treat with the American plenipotentiaries in the earnest desire” of peace, either in London or at Gothenburg; although he could “not consent that these discussions should be carried on in any place which might be supposed to imply that they were in any way connected with any other negotiations.” He wrote privately to Cathcart that the mere knowledge of the intervention of a third power in any arrangement with the United States would probably decide the British people against it.444
Thus in July, 1813, when the war was barely a year old, Castlereagh reached the point of offering to negotiate directly with the United States. This advantage was gained by the Russian offer of mediation, and was intended not to pacify America but to silence Alexander and Roumanzoff. Castlereagh was frank and prompt in his declarations. His offer of direct negotiation was dated July 13, at a time when Alexander Baring received a letter from Gallatin announcing his arrival at Gothenburg and inviting assistance for the proposed mediation. Baring consulted Castlereagh, and wrote, July 22, a long letter to Gallatin, to inform the American commissioners
what the British government had done and was willing to do. “Before this reaches you,” said Baring,445 “you will have been informed that this mediation has been refused, with expressions of our desire to treat separately and directly here; or, if more agreeable to you, at Gothenburg.” To leave no room for misunderstanding, Baring added that if the American commissioners were obliged by their instructions to adhere pertinaciously to the American demands in respect to impressments, he should think negotiation useless.
In regular succession all these expressions of British policy were received at St. Petersburg in the Czar’s absence, and in the doubtful state of mind which followed the battles of Lützen and Bautzen. Alexander had left Count Roumanzoff at St. Petersburg, continuing to act as Chancellor of the Empire and Foreign Secretary; but in truth the Minister of Foreign Affairs, as far as the Czar then required such an officer, was Count Nesselrode, who attended Alexander in person and received his orders orally. Nesselrode at that time was rather an agent than an adviser; but in general he represented the English alliance and hostility to Napoleon, while Roumanzoff represented the French alliance and hostility to England.
Of English diplomacy Americans knew something, and could by similarity of mind divine what was not avowed. Of French diplomacy they had long experience, and their study was rendered from time to time more easy by Napoleon’s abrupt methods. Of Russian diplomacy they knew little or nothing. Thus far Minister Adams had been given his own way. He had been allowed to seem to kindle the greatest war of modern times, and had been invited to make use of Russia against England; but the Czar’s reasons for granting such favor were mysterious even to Adams, for while Napoleon occasionally avowed motives, Alexander never did. Russian diplomacy moved wholly in the dark.
Only one point was certain. For reasons of his own, the Czar chose to leave Roumanzoff nominally in office until the result of the war should be decided, although Roumanzoff was opposed to the Czar’s policy. The chancellor did not stand alone in his hostility to the war; probably a majority of the Russian people shared the feeling.
Even the army and its old General Koutousoff, though elated with an immense triumph, grumbled at being obliged to fight the battles of Germany, and would gladly have returned to their own soil. The Czar himself could not afford to break his last tie with the French interest, but was wise to leave a path open by which he could still retreat in case his war in Germany failed. If Napoleon should succeed once more in throwing the Russian army back upon Russian soil, Alexander might still be obliged to use Roumanzoff’s services if not to resume his policy. Such a suspicion might not wholly explain Alexander’s course toward Roumanzoff and Koutousoff, but no one could doubt that it explained the chancellor’s course toward the Czar. Indeed, Roumanzoff made little concealment of his situation or his hopes. Adams could without much difficulty divine that the failure of the Czar in Germany would alone save Roumanzoff in St. Petersburg, and that the restoration of Roumanzoff to power was necessary to reinvigorate the mediation.
Castlereagh’s first positive refusal to accept the mediation was notified to Count Lieven in May, and was known to Roumanzoff in St. Petersburg about the middle of June. Early in July the Czar received it, and by his order Nesselrode, in a despatch to Lieven dated July 9, expressed “the perfect satisfaction which his Imperial Majesty felt in the reasons which actuated the conduct of this [British] government on a point of so much delicacy and importance.”446 The Czar was then in the midst of difficulties. The result of the war was doubtful, and depended on Austria.
Just as news of the armistice arrived in St. Petersburg, Minister Adams went to Roumanzoff, June 22, to inform him of Gallatin’s and Bayard’s appointment. Roumanzoff in return gave Adams explicit information of England’s refusal to accept the Czar’s offer. Adams immediately recorded it in his Diary:447 —
“He [Roumanzoff] said that he was very sorry to say he had received since he had seen me [June 15] further despatches from Count Lieven, stating that the British government, with many very friendly and polite assurances that there was no
mediation which they should so readily and cheerfully accept as that of the Emperor of Russia, had however stated that their differences with the United States of America involving certain principles of the internal government of England were of a nature which they did not think suitable to be settled by a mediation.”
Adams expected this answer, and at once assumed it to be final; but Roumanzoff checked him. “It would now be for consideration,” he continued, “whether, after the step thus taken by the American government [in sending commissioners to St. Petersburg], it would not be advisable to renew the proposition to Great Britain; upon which he should write to the Emperor.” Not because of any American request, but wholly of his own motion, Roumanzoff proposed to keep the mediation alive. His motives were for Adams to fathom. The chancellor did not avow them, but he hinted to Adams that the chances of war were many. “Perhaps it might be proper not to be discouraged by the ill success of his first advances. After considerations might produce more pacific dispositions in the British government. Unexpected things were happening every day; ‘and in our own affairs,’ said the count, ‘a very general report prevails that an armistice has taken place.’” A Congress had been proposed, and the United States were expressly named among the Powers to be invited to it.
Adams reported this conversation to his Government in a despatch dated June 26,448 and waited for his two new colleagues, who arrived July 21. Personally the colleagues were agreeable to Adams, and the proposed negotiation was still more so, for the President sent him official notice that in case the negotiations were successful, Adams’s services would be required as minister in London; but with the strongest inducements to press the mediation, Adams could not but see that he and his colleagues depended on Roumanzoff, and that Roumanzoff depended not on Alexander, but on Napoleon. Roumanzoff’s only chance of aiding them was by clinging to office until the Czar should be weary of war.
Unwilling as Gallatin was to be thus made the sport of imperial policy, he was obliged, like his colleagues, to submit. Two days after
their arrival, Roumanzoff told them that he meant, if possible, to begin the whole transaction anew.
“The count said he regretted much that there was such reason to believe the British would decline the mediation; but on transmitting the copy of the credential letter to the Emperor, he would determine whether to renew the proposal, as the opposition in England might make it an embarrassing charge against the Ministry if they should under such circumstances reject it.”449
Roumanzoff had written soon after June 22 to ask the Czar whether, on the arrival of the American commissioners, the offer of mediation should be renewed. The Czar, overwhelmed with business, wrote back, about July 20, approving Roumanzoff’s suggestion, and authorizing him to send a despatch directly to Count Lieven in London renewing the offer. The Czar’s letter was communicated to Adams August 10450 by Roumanzoff, who was evidently much pleased and perhaps somewhat excited by it.
Such a letter warranted some excitement, for Roumanzoff could regard it only as a sign of hesitation and anxiety. Alexander was in a degree pledged to England to press the mediation no further. While he assured England through Nesselrode, July 9, that he was perfectly satisfied with the British reasons for refusing his offer of mediation “on a point of so much delicacy and importance,” he authorized Roumanzoff only ten days afterward to annoy England a second time with an offer which he had every reason to know must be rejected; and he did this without informing Nesselrode.
Gallatin and Bayard found themselves, August 10, condemned to wait two or three months for the British answer, which they knew must be unfavorable, because Gallatin received August 17 Baring’s letter announcing the determination of Castlereagh to negotiate separately. Roumanzoff’s conduct became more and more mysterious to the commissioners. He did not notify them of Castlereagh’s official offer to negotiate directly. He confounded
Adams, August 19, by flatly denying his own information, given two months before, that England rejected mediation in principle because it involved doctrines of her internal government. Roumanzoff insisted that England had never refused to accept the mediation, although he held in his hands at least two despatches from Lieven, written as late as July 13, officially communicating England’s determination to negotiate directly or not at all. Castlereagh, foreseeing the possibility of misunderstanding, had read to Lieven the instructions of July 13 for communication to Roumanzoff, besides authorizing Cathcart to show them in extenso to the Czar.451 In denying that such instructions had been given, Roumanzoff could not have expected the American commissioners to believe him.
The motive of Roumanzoff’s persistence might be open to the simple explanation that the chancellor hoped to recover power, and within a few months to re-establish his policy of antagonism to England. Alexander’s conduct could be explained by no such obvious interest. When Castlereagh’s letters of July 13 and 14 reached Cathcart at the Czar’s headquarters in Bohemia about August 10, they arrived at the most critical moment of the war On that day the armistice expired. The next day Austria declared war on Napoleon. The combined armies of Russia, Prussia, and Austria concentrated behind the mountains, and then marched into Saxony. While starting on that campaign, August 20, the Czar was told by Lord Cathcart the reasons why his offer of mediation was rejected, and answered at once that in this case he could do nothing more. 452 Cathcart wrote to Nesselrode a formal note on the subject August 23 or 24, but did not at once communicate it,453 because the campaign had then begun; the great battle of Dresden was fought August 26 and 27, and the allies, again beaten, retired into Bohemia August 28. The Czar saw his best military adviser Moreau killed by his side at Dresden, and he returned to Töplitz in no happy frame of mind.
At Töplitz, September 1, Cathcart delivered to Nesselrode his formal note,454 refusing Russian mediation and communicating the offer of England to negotiate directly. In an ordinary condition of government Nesselrode should have taken care that the British note
should be made known without delay to the American commissioners at St. Petersburg, but the Czar kept in his own hands the correspondence with Roumanzoff and the Americans, and neither he nor Nesselrode communicated Cathcart’s act to Roumanzoff.455 Possibly their silence was due to the new military movements. August 29 the French marshal Vandamme with forty thousand men, pursuing the allies into Bohemia, was caught between the Prussians and Austrians August 30 and crushed. During the month of September severe fighting, favorable to the allies, occurred, but no general advance was made by the allied sovereigns.
Alexander next received at Töplitz toward September 20 a letter from Roumanzoff enclosing a renewal of the offer of mediation, to be proposed in a despatch to Lieven, read by Roumanzoff to the American commissioners August 24, and sent to London August 28. The Czar must have known the futility of this new step, as well as the mistake into which Roumanzoff had been led, and the awkward attitude of the American commissioners. Only a fortnight before, he had received Cathcart’s official note, and a few days earlier he had assured Cathcart that he should do no more in the matter. Yet, September 20, Alexander wrote with his own hand a note of four lines to Roumanzoff, approving his despatch to Lieven, and begging him to follow up the affair as he had begun it.456
The Czar’s letter of September 20 completed the embroglio, which remained unintelligible to every one except himself. Cathcart was the most mystified of all the victims to the Czar’s double attitude. At the time when Alexander thus for the second time authorized Roumanzoff to disregard the express entreaties of the British government, Cathcart was making an effort to explain to Castlereagh the Czar’s first interference. If Castlereagh understood his minister’s ideas, he was gifted with more than common penetration.
“I believe the not communicating the rescript of the Emperor concerning the American plenipotentiaries to have been the effect of accident,” wrote Cathcart457 from Töplitz September 25;
“but what is singular is that notwithstanding his [Nesselrode’s] letter of the ninth [July], by the Emperor’s command, to Count Lieven, this communication from and instruction to Roumanzoff was not known to Count Nesselrode till this day, when I mentioned it to him, having received no caution to do otherwise, and he was not at all pleased with it. It was during the advance to Dresden. But I cannot help thinking that there must have been some policy of Roumanzoff’s stated in regard to keeping hold of the mediation, which, whether it was detailed or not, would not escape the Emperor’s penetration, and upon which he may have been induced to act as far as sanctioning the proposal of treating at London under Russia’s mediation, which the Prince Regent’s government might accept or reject as they pleased; and that not wishing to go at that time into a discussion of maritime rights with either Nesselrode or me, he afterward forgot it.”
Cathcart’s style was involved, but his perplexity was evident. His remarks related only to the Czar’s first letter to Roumanzoff, written about July 20, not “during the advance to Dresden.” He knew nothing of the Czar’s second letter to Roumanzoff, dated September 20, renewing the same authority, only five days before Cathcart’s labored attempt to explain the first. Of the second letter, as of the first, neither Nesselrode nor Cathcart was informed.
The Czar’s motive in thus ordering each of his two ministers to act in ignorance and contradiction of the other’s instructions perplexed Roumanzoff as it did Cathcart. Lieven first revealed to Roumanzoff the strange misunderstanding by positively refusing to present to Castlereagh the chancellor’s note of August 28 renewing the offer of mediation. Roumanzoff was greatly mortified. He told Gallatin that the mediation had been originally the Czar’s own idea; that it had been the subject of repeated discussions at his own motion, and had been adopted notwithstanding Roumanzoff’s hints at the possibility of English reluctance.458 The chancellor sent Lieven’s despatch immediately to the Czar without comment, requesting the Czar to read it and give his orders. The British officials, unwilling to blame Alexander, attacked Roumanzoff. Lord
Walpole, who came directly from Bohemia to St. Petersburg to act as British ambassador, said “he was as sure as he was of his own existence, and he believed he could prove it, that Roumanzoff had been cheating us all.”459 Cathcart wrote, December 12, to Castlereagh,—
“I think Nesselrode knows nothing of the delay of communicating with the American mission; that it was an intrigue of the chancellor’s, if it is one; and that during the operations of war the Emperor lost the clew to it, so that something has been unanswered.”460
Perhaps the Czar’s conduct admitted of several interpretations. He might wish to keep the mediation alive in order to occupy Roumanzoff until the campaign should be decided; or he might in his good nature prefer to gratify his old favorite by allowing him to do what he wished; or he took this method of signifying to Roumanzoff his disgrace and the propriety of immediate retirement. Apparently Roumanzoff took the last view, for he sent his resignation to the Czar, and at the close of the year quitted his official residence at the Department of Foreign Affairs, telling Gallatin that he remained in office only till he should receive authority to close the American mission.
The American commissioners in private resented Alexander’s treatment, but were unable to leave Russia without authority. Gallatin learned, October 19, that the Senate had refused to confirm his appointment, but he remained at St. Petersburg, chiefly in deference to Roumanzoff’s opinion, and probably with ideas of assisting the direct negotiation at London or elsewhere. Meanwhile the campaign was decided, October 18, by Napoleon’s decisive overthrow at Leipzig, which forced him to retreat behind the Rhine. Still the Czar wrote nothing to Roumanzoff, and the American commissioners remained month after month at St. Petersburg. Not until Jan. 25, 1814, did Gallatin and Bayard begin their winter journey to Amsterdam, where they arrived March 4 and remained a month.
Then Gallatin received, through Baring, permission to enter England, and crossed the Channel to hasten if he could the direct negotiation which Castlereagh had offered and Madison accepted.
The diplomatic outlook had changed since March, 1813, when the President accepted the offer of Russian mediation; but the change was wholly for the worse. England’s triumphs girdled the world, and found no check except where Perry’s squadron blocked the way to Detroit. The allied armies crossed the Rhine in December and entered France on the east. At the same time Wellington after a long campaign drove Joseph from Spain, and entering France from the south pressed against Bordeaux. The government and people of England, in their excitement and exultation at daily conquests, thought as little as they could of the American war. Society rarely mentioned it. Newspapers alone preserved a record of British feelings toward the United States during the year 1813. The expressions of newspapers, like those of orators, could not be accepted without allowance, for they aimed at producing some desired effect, and said either more or less than the truth; as a rule, they represented the cool opinion neither of the person who uttered nor of the audience who heard them; but in the absence of other records, public opinion was given only in the press, and the London newspapers alone furnished evidence of its character.
The “Morning Chronicle”—the only friend of the United States in the daily press of England—showed its friendship by silence. Whatever the liberal opposition thought in private, no one but Cobbett ventured in public to oppose the war. Cobbett having become a radical at the time of life when most men become conservative, published in his “Weekly Register” many columns of vigorous criticism on the American war without apparent effect, although in truth he expressed opinions commonly held by intelligent people. Even Lord Castlereagh, Cobbett’s antipathy, shared some of Cobbett’s least popular opinions in the matter of the American war.
English society, whatever shades of diversity might exist, was frank and free in expressing indifference or contempt. Of the newspapers which made a duty of reflecting what was believed to be the prevailing public opinion, the “Times,” supposed to favor the
interests of Wellesley and Canning, was probably the ablest. During the early part of the war, the “Times” showed a disposition to criticise the Ministry rather than the Americans. From the “Times” came most of the bitter complaints, widely copied by the American press, of the naval defeats suffered by the “Guerriere,” the “Java,” and the “Macedonian.” British successes were belittled, and abuse of Americans was exaggerated, in order to deprive ministers of credit. “The world has seen President Madison plunge into a war from the basest motives, and conduct it with the most entire want of ability,” said the “Times” of February 9, 1813. “The American government has sounded the lowest depth of military disgrace, insomuch that the official records of the campaign take from us all possibility of exulting in our victories over such an enemy.” The “Times” found in such reflections a reason for not exulting in ministerial victories, but it bewailed defeats the more loudly, and annoyed the Ministry by the violence of its attacks on naval administration.
As the year passed, and England’s triumph in Europe seemed to overshadow the world, the “Times,” probably recognizing the uselessness of attacking the Ministry, showed worse temper toward the United States. The Americans were rarely mentioned, and always with language of increasing ill humor. “Despicable in the cabinet, ridiculous in the field,”461 the Americans disappeared from sight in the splendor of victory at Vittoria and Leipzig. No wish for peace was suggested, and if the “Times” expressed the true feelings of the respectable middle class, as it was supposed to aim at doing, no wish for peace could be supposed to exist.
Of the ministerial papers the “Courier” was the best, and of course was emphatic in support of the American war. The Ministry were known to be lukewarm about the United States, and for that reason they thought themselves obliged to talk in public as strongly as the strongest against a peace. When the Russian mediation called for notice, May 13, the “Courier” at once declared against it:—
“Before the war commenced, concession might have been proper; we always thought it unwise. But the hour of concession and compromise is passed. America has rushed unnecessarily
and unnaturally into war, and she must be made to feel the effects of her folly and injustice; peace must be the consequence of punishment, and retraction of her insolent demands must precede negotiation. The thunders of our cannon must first strike terror into the American shores.”
The “Courier” felt that Americans were not Englishmen, and could not forgive it, but was unable to admit that they might still exercise a considerable influence on human affairs:—
“They have added nothing to literature, nothing to any of the sciences; they have not produced one good poet, not one celebrated historian! Their statesmen are of a mixed breed,— half metaphysicians, half politicians; all the coldness of the one with all the cunning of the other. Hence we never see anything enlarged in their conceptions or grand in their measures.”
462
These reasons were hardly sufficient to prove the right of impressing American seamen. The literary, metaphysical, or social qualities of Americans, their “enlarged conceptions,” and the grandeur or littleness of their measures, had by common consent ceased to enter into discussion, pending a settlement of the simpler issue, whether Americans could fight. For a long time the English press encouraged the belief that Americans were as incapable of fighting as of producing poets and historians. Their naval victories were attributed to British seamen. Perhaps the first turn of the tide was in November, 1813, when news of Perry’s victory on Lake Erie crossed in London the news of Napoleon’s defeat at Leipzig. Perry’s victory, like those of Hull, Decatur, and Bainbridge, was too complete for dispute: “It may, however, serve to diminish our vexation at this occurrence to learn that the flotilla in question was not any branch of the British navy, ... but a local force, a kind of mercantile military.”
463
By a curious coincidence, Castlereagh’s official letter to Monroe, offering direct negotiation, was dated the same day, November 4, when news of the victory at Leipzig met in London news of the
defeat on Lake Erie, and Castlereagh probably meant to allow no newspaper prejudices to obstruct a peace; but public opinion was slow to recover its balance. When news arrived that the Americans had captured Malden, recovered Detroit, and destroyed Proctor’s army on the Thames, the “Courier” showed the first symptom of change in opinion by expressing a somewhat simple-minded wish to hear no more about the Americans:—
“The intelligence is unpleasant, but we confess that we do not view, and have never from the beginning of the war viewed, the events in America with any very powerful interest. The occurrences in Europe will no doubt produce a very decisive effect upon the American government; and unless it is more obstinate and stupid in its hostility than even we think it, it will do as the other allies of Bonaparte have done,—abandon him.”
If the national extravagance could be expected to show its full force in one direction rather than in another, naturalized Americans taken in arms were certain to produce it. The issue was regularly raised after Van Rensselaer’s defeat at Queenston in 1812. When the American prisoners arrived at Quebec, they were mustered, and twenty-three native-born subjects of Great Britain, belonging to the First, Sixth, and Thirteenth U. S. Infantry, were taken from the ranks and shipped to England to be put on trial as British subjects for bearing arms against their king. The American agent in London reported to the President that the men had arrived there for the reason given. Secretary Armstrong, May 15, 1813, then ordered twenty-three British soldiers into close confinement as hostages. The British government directed Sir George Prevost to put double the number of Americans in close confinement, and Sir George, in giving notice of this measure to General Wilkinson, October 17, 1813,464 added:—
“I have been further instructed by his Majesty’s government to notify to you for the information of the government of the United States that the commanders of his Majesty’s armies and
