[1821 - 1824] The War for Independence

The year is 1821. In the grand Plaza de Armas of Lima, beneath the ornate wooden balconies of the viceregal palace, a new era is being declared. On July 28th, the Argentine general José de San Martín, a man of cautious strategy and profound resolve, stands before a hopeful crowd and proclaims the independence of Peru. The air, usually thick with the scent of street food and the sea, is now charged with a fragile electricity. For the wealthy criollos, American-born descendants of the Spanish, this is the culmination of a dream—a Peru for themselves, free from the heavy hand of Madrid. Yet, their world of imported silks and silver tableware is a universe away from the reality of the majority. For the indigenous Andean peoples, the Quechua and Aymara speakers who formed the backbone of the Viceroyalty, the word 'independence' is an uncertain promise. Would it mean an end to the forced labor in the mines, the crushing tribute payments? For the thousands of enslaved Africans toiling on coastal sugar and cotton plantations, would freedom for Peru mean freedom for them? And hidden away in the city's mansions and, more importantly, commanding powerful armies in the mountainous interior, were the royalists—the Peninsulares and their loyal followers who saw this declaration not as liberation, but as treason. San Martín's proclamation did not end the war; it merely changed its address. He established a 'Protectorate,' a temporary government to steer the new nation, but he was a general, not a politician. While Lima celebrated, the true power of Spain in Peru retreated, it did not break. Viceroy José de la Serna, a cunning and experienced commander, withdrew his formidable army of over 20,000 soldiers to the impregnable highlands. There, with the ancient Inca capital of Cusco as his fortress, he controlled the vast majority of Peru's territory and, crucially, its silver mines, the very source of colonial wealth. The war now became a brutal struggle against geography itself. The patriot armies, many of whom were from the lowlands or other countries, faced the terrifying Andes. They battled 'soroche,' the debilitating altitude sickness that could incapacitate a soldier as surely as a bullet. They navigated treacherous, narrow mountain passes where a royalist ambush could annihilate a column of men in minutes. The war settled into a tense, bloody stalemate. The fate of a continent would be decided not on a battlefield, but in a closed room. In July 1822, San Martín traveled to the port city of Guayaquil to meet the other great liberator of South America: Simón Bolívar. The contrast between the two men was stark. San Martín, the methodical Protector, believed Peru needed a European monarch to ensure stability. Bolívar, the fiery Liberator of Gran Colombia, was a fervent republican who envisioned a grand federation of Andean states under his leadership. No one knows exactly what was said during their private meetings. What is known is the result. San Martín, believing that 'there is not enough room in Peru for both Bolívar and me,' chose to step aside. He returned to Lima, resigned his command, and sailed into self-imposed exile, never to return. The stage was now set for Bolívar, the one man whose ambition and military genius were vast enough to take on the final, gargantuan task of shattering Spanish power in its most loyal and formidable stronghold. When Simón Bolívar finally arrived in Peru in September 1823, he did not find a nation ready for its final glorious chapter. He found chaos. The young Peruvian Republic was tearing itself apart with internal rivalries. Presidents rose and fell in Lima. The treasury was empty. The army was demoralized and fragmented. At one point, royalist forces even managed to briefly recapture the capital, a profound humiliation for the patriot cause. Into this vortex of despair stepped Bolívar, a man who famously declared, 'If nature opposes us, we will fight against her and make her obey us.' He was granted supreme dictatorial powers by a desperate Peruvian Congress, and he would use them to their absolute extent. His will was iron, his energy boundless. He saw the towering Andes not as an obstacle, but as a challenge to be conquered before he even met the enemy. To defeat La Serna, Bolívar had to forge an army from the ruins of the republic. This was a brutal and unforgiving process. He instituted the 'levas,' a system of forced conscription that swept through Andean villages. Indigenous men were taken from their farms, often in chains, to fill the ranks of the United Liberating Army. Their traditional slings, or 'huaracas,' were sometimes integrated into military units, a testament to their skill and the army's desperation for any advantage. Bolívar brought with him thousands of his own veteran soldiers—battle-hardened lancers and infantry from Colombia and Venezuela who had followed him across the continent. He established a headquarters in the northern city of Trujillo, turning the region into a massive military factory. Metals were requisitioned from church bells to be melted down for cannons; ponchos of thick wool were gathered to protect the troops from the paralyzing cold of the high-altitude plains; horses and mules were procured by the thousand to move men and supplies. It was a monumental feat of logistics and sheer willpower, all aimed at one objective: to march into the mountains and destroy the royalist army for good. The first great clash occurred on August 6, 1824, on a desolate, windswept plain nearly 4,100 meters (13,500 feet) above sea level. The Pampa de Junín. As Bolívar's army of around 9,000 men marched across the plateau, they were surprised by a superior royalist cavalry force. What followed was a battle of pure medieval ferocity. Not a single shot was fired. It was a whirlwind of clashing steel, a brutal dance of lances and sabers fought on horseback in the thin, icy air. Initially, the patriot cavalry buckled and began to retreat. All seemed lost. But in a moment of legendary initiative, a Peruvian officer named Andrés de Rázuri spotted a forgotten patriot cavalry squadron, the 'Húsares del Perú,' and deliberately changed his commander's order from 'retreat' to 'charge!' The Húsares slammed into the rear of the preoccupied royalist cavalry, sowing panic and turning a catastrophic defeat into a stunning victory. The battle lasted less than an hour, but its psychological impact was immense. The spell of royalist invincibility in the highlands was broken. Morale soaring, the patriot army, now under the command of Bolívar's most brilliant subordinate, the 29-year-old Antonio José de Sucre, pursued the retreating royalists deeper into the southern Andes. Bolívar returned to the coast to manage political affairs, trusting Sucre with the final military stroke. The decisive moment came on the morning of December 9, 1824, on a small plain near Ayacucho, a name in Quechua that ominously translates to 'Corner of the Dead.' Sucre's army was outnumbered, fielding just under 6,000 exhausted but determined men against more than 9,000 royalist soldiers who held the high ground. Viceroy La Serna was so confident of victory that he boasted the patriots were trapped. As the battle began, the royalist divisions descended from the hills, their initial assault threatening to shatter Sucre's lines. The fate of South America hung in the balance. At the critical moment, General José María Córdova, commanding the patriot center, dismounted his horse, pointed his sword at the enemy, and roared the immortal words, '¡División! ¡Adelante! ¡Paso de vencedores!' ('Division! Forward! Pace of victors!'). His men surged forward in a furious bayonet charge that crashed into the royalist attack, turning the tide with sheer audacity. Elsewhere on the field, the Peruvian and Colombian cavalry, including the newly christened 'Húsares de Junín,' engaged in desperate combat. Within two hours, the royalist army was broken. Their command structure collapsed, entire units surrendered, and Viceroy La Serna himself was wounded and captured. The fighting was over. The following day, the 'Capitulation of Ayacucho' was signed. It was more than just the surrender of a single army; it was the death certificate of the Spanish Empire in South America. After nearly three hundred years, colonial rule was definitively over. Yet victory came at a staggering cost. Peru was devastated, its fields fallow, its mines wrecked, and its population decimated. The grand promises of the revolution would prove elusive for many. The rigid social hierarchy was shaken but not dismantled, and the chains of slavery would not be fully broken for another thirty years. The dream of a unified, democratic republic quickly gave way to an age of instability and powerful military strongmen, the 'caudillos.' The war for independence was won, but the long, arduous battle to build a nation had just begun.