Ribas waved the Declaration of Human Rights as though it were a sharp sword. "We must make the King understand: either he gives us what we want, or he loses all of the Americas!"
The library erupted in fervent cries: "Establish a real Parliament!"
"Keep our taxes in Venezuela!"
"End the Peninsulares' monopoly on the City Hall!"
Ribas jumped down from his chair and beckoned everyone closer. "If we want the King to yield, we need an army of our own! I need every one of you!"
The library fell silent.
More than a dozen people lowered their heads. After a long while, a young teacher asked quietly, "Can you get weapons?" Ribas shook his head. "Not yet. But we have unmatched courage and a conviction that can destroy anything! Those are more powerful than any flintlock gun!"
The heads around him sank lower.
They could hardly be blamed. Ever since Delaportilla had been hanged, the Creoles had understood that machetes alone could never stand against the Captain General's troops.
Some of them had even witnessed Delaportilla's execution.
Ribas tried to rally them for a while longer, but still no one answered.
At five that afternoon, he walked wearily out of the Royal and Pontifical University, wondering whether he could use the fervor surrounding the Vienna Revolution to raise money from a few plantation owners, then smuggle weapons in from North America.
Just then, someone called from behind him. "Mr. Ribas, please wait."
Assuming it was a Liberal student from the university, he hurriedly put on an eager expression and turned. "I knew there had to be brave souls willing to join—" The rest of his words died in his throat. This man had not been in the library, and his face was plainly not Castilian. "You are?"
The man