new _jefe politico_. This however, did not last long, for, greatly to
the scandal of all the good citizens who had aided in creating the new
regime, the official was not long in getting on friendly terms with the
progressists of San Miguel, especially with the proprietor of La Sirena,
who had been the head of the party there. According to what the evil
tongues said, the astute shopkeeper gave on credit the politician all
the cognac that he could drink, so that six months after the great
triumph, which had cost so much labor, those who really governed the
village were the keeper of the pulpería and his friends, with great
detriment to the conquerors. The disgusted villagers complained among
themselves, and there were even some who missed the former _jefe
politico_, who after all was amiable and obliging. An anonymous letter
against the new man, which a daily paper of the capital published,
finished the work of spoiling things, strengthening the union of the
official and the progressists, who wrote another letter in which they
hotly defended him and censured the wayward and rebellious spirit of
certain citizens of San Miguel, who aspired only to command.
The relations between the _jefe politico_ and the villagers became
embittered to such a degree that ’Nor Juan Alvarez, at the request of
many of the citizens, resolved to make use of his influence with the
president to have the official removed from office.
He set out one morning, full of confidence, remembering the cordiality
of the reception which the president had given him when he was a
candidate. As he was riding to the city, the details of the interview
came to his mind, the friendly words, the cigar, the glass of beer, the
protests of good will. “As soon as I talk to him everything will be
arranged,” thought the gamonal, as he sat in the antechamber, in company
with ten or twelve other persons. After three hours of waiting, his
confidence was not so great, and when his turn arrived, and an aid
directed him to enter the office of the chief of the government, he
completely lost his former self-confidence. One glance sufficed to
inform him that the man before him was not now the good-natured, smiling
candidate, who had received him with so much affability. Cold and grave,
his glance calmly inquiring, the president asked him the motive of his
visit. ’Nor Juan, much disturbed, explained to him, timidly and with
hesitation, the legitimate complaints of the Nationalists in San Miguel
against the _jefe politico_, and their desire that he be removed. With
unexpected severity, the magistrate rebuked him for the spirit of
rebellion which the people of San Miguel had been showing for some time,
and insisted on the necessity of respecting the authorities. Then he
said that he knew the _jefe politico_ personally, that he was a good man
and worthy of his entire confidence, incapable of abusing it; that his
relations with the progressists were far from constituting a fault,
rather it was a proof of his amiable and conciliatory disposition.
Moreover, it was well that things were as they were, for the country was
desirous of tranquillity, and the hatreds stirred up by the electoral
battle should be forgotten. The countryman went out from the interview
much crestfallen and returned to his village with his ears drooping.
* * * * *
To the enthusiasm of the conflict and the joy of victory in San Miguel
succeeded the most bitter disenchantment. The chains of twenty years of
dictatorship were to have been broken, the sovereignty of the people was
to have been re-established, the slothful men of the former
administrations were to have been swept aside, but the truth was that
everything remained the same. Religion was not triumphant, nor were
“guaro” and tobacco free, nor had anyone a dollar more in his pocket.
What had the citizens of San Miguel gained by the change? To be sure
they had been given a new _jefe politico_. A great gain indeed, since
everybody was anxious to have him leave! The progressists laughed at the
dissatisfaction of their adversaries, and when the latter complained of
having been cheated with false promises, they answered: “They were right
in taking you for fools. If our candidate were in power it would be
another cock that is crowing. At least you would not have this _jefe
politico_ who bothers you so much.” In all the village the only one who
said nothing was Toribio Cascante, the former surety of ’Nor Juan
Alvarez. He neither despised the _jefe politico_ nor desired the return
of the former one, nor clamored for the promised suppression of the
monopoly on brandy and tobacco. This rustic philosopher had never
believed in any of the promises of the parties that were contending for
power; and while the others lost time in talking, in agitating
themselves, in drinking, he kept quietly on with his farm labor and
habitual tasks, without worrying over the fact that they called him
“pancista,”[21] and said he was of the cat party, that is to say, one of
those who always land on their feet. It was thus that his affairs had
prospered. The coffee plantation gave good returns, the cattle were
bursting with fatness, and every Saturday he returned from the market
with his pockets full of money. In contrast with this pleasing
situation, that of ’Nor Juan Alvarez was more distressing each day. The
enormous interest that the money lender charged was an ulcer that was
eating away his fortune, already so impaired. The small crop which La
Lima produced, on account of lack of assistance during the absence of
Evaristo, completed the work of demoralizing things, and the gamonal,
seeing that he was on the road to inevitable ruin, began to lose heart.
“Toribio Cascante is the only one who can get me out of these
difficulties,” he used often to say in the bosom of his family, but
since the wealthy philosopher had refused to keep on acting as his
security the relations between the two neighbors and friends had grown
cool. This did not prevent Cascante from making prudent observations,
when ’Nor Juan became a member of the Orthodox League, a clerical
association whose ramifications extended throughout the whole country
like the tentacles of a monstrous octopus, a branch of which the priest
had just founded in San Miguel. The citizens, discontented with the
government and having still fresh in their imaginations the stupid
arguments with which the nationalists had awakened their dormant
religious fanaticism, rallied with enthusiasm to the new standard. ’Nor
Juan Alvarez was elected president of the orthodox club, and each day
conceived a greater liking for politics. Nevertheless, when the priest
told him that the cause of religion was very poor and that it was
necessary for all true believers to make a pecuniary sacrifice in order
to help their triumph, he felt as though they had dashed a bucket of
cold water over him. He stammered a few excuses and vague explanations
about his embarrassed financial situation. But the priest, who knew the
habitual avarice of the country people, replied indignantly that as a
rich and influential man he had to set the example; that his fondness
for worldly things was a great sin in the eyes of God, who had heaped
good things upon him; that our Lord returns a hundred fold the alms that
are given him, and that it would not be a bad thing for him to look a
little more after his soul’s salvation. The old man, with grief in his
heart, had to detach himself from a considerable sum. A little while
afterwards the opportunity presented itself for testing the enormous
political power which the Orthodox League represented.
The time had arrived for renewing half of the congress, and the real
leaders behind the scenes who pulled the wires of the association felt
sure of the triumph of the clerical ticket.
In the morning of the day appointed for the voting, the electors of San
Miguel, who had confessed the evening before, received the sacrament
very early before setting out on what the priest compared to a new
crusade. At the front went the gamonal, who, during the whole trip, did
not cease to admonish them to follow faithfully the instructions which
the priest had given them. Everybody proclaimed his obedience with much
warmth, but on arriving at the capital, each having in his pocket the
neatly folded list which had just been given him at the central club of
the league, their firmness had to withstand a rude assault. Gathered
there were all the most influential men of the nationalist and
progressist parties working together for one and the same ticket which
was opposed to that of the clergy. The countryman looked with
stupefaction at the intimate union of men, who, two years before, had
been desirous of killing each other and had called one another bandits
and scoundrels in the newspapers, in the clubs and in public places.
Well did Toribio Cascante say that the people who wore frock coats[22]
were all the same kind of monkeys with different tails. There was one
moment when the gamonal himself felt that he was faltering, and that was
when Don Simeón and the lawyer Castrillo tried to dissuade him from
voting for the league. Don Simeón confabulating with the Masons! What
was the world coming to, when even the saints were turning against God!
But the gamonal was too religious to break a promise made under the
auspices of the sacrament of the confession and the mystery of the
eucharist. So the seductive voice of Don Simeón uttered his best
arguments in vain; ’Nor Juan Alvarez remained firm as a rock. Contrary
to the hope of the clericals, their ticket was defeated throughout
almost the whole country, owing to the coalition of the advanced
elements, and in great part also to the numerous desertions from the
ranks of the league at the last hour.
Nevertheless the triumph was by a small margin and the clerical
propaganda continued more active and powerful than ever, aided by the
discords of the liberals, who broke forth into dissensions again at the
very time of their victory, forgetting the famous motto: “In union there
is strength.” The league, concealing its rancor, offered its aid to the
weak and wavering administration, which, making certain concessions,
hastened to accept it. This state of affairs, however, could not last
long, because the league felt itself sufficiently vigorous to get on
alone and repulsed the idea of adopting a political head which was not
selected freely by itself from among the most docile and inane. Of the
fourteen progressists of San Miguel, some had joined the league. The
rest did not know which of the liberal candidates to choose, because the
latter, not to go back on their custom, were at loggerheads. Therefore,
when the elections came the triumph of the clerical party there, as well
as in all the rest of the country, was astonishing. The gamonal rubbed
his hands together with pleasure, thinking that this time, with the
coming into power of his friends, who had promised to aid him, he was
going to get out of debt. The priest could scarcely contain himself in
his skin, considering as good as abolished all those hateful laws made
by those demons of liberals; the secularization of cemeteries, lay
education, civil marriage and so on; but above all he rejoiced in the
blessed re-establishment of the tithes, offerings of first-fruits and
other sinecures, although he thought it more prudent to say nothing to
his parishioners on this point. But the illusions of the members of the
league were not to last long. In the midst of their rejoicing they
forgot that in the admirable hand which they held there was one card
lacking. Their adversaries, on the other hand, had only one, but that
was the best, or the worst, as you prefer--the trump of swords.[23] In
the final elections the league was beaten, or more correctly they were
told that they were beaten, so that their fusion with those who had
before been their worst enemies profited them nothing. They tried to
re-enact the famous farce played four years ago by the national party.
Poor Orthodox League! They forgot that the progressists, those monsters
of iniquity, who after all were only sheep in wolves’ clothing, tyrants
who did not shed blood, were not now in power. The clericals learned on
this occasion, with some detriment to their ribs, that everything
varies as the glass through which one looks. The cavalry took charge of
gathering in the excited countrymen who were trying to remember those
patriotic songs about the restored sovereignty of the people, of the
breaking of the chains of twenty years of dictatorship, and others not
less pretty, forgetting that it is quite another thing when sung with
the guitar. Evaristo, ’Nor Juan, the priest, and some more from San
Miguel, went to take up their abode in the various prisons in which some
nationalists of last year acted as hosts to their former fellow
partisans, doubtless to recompense them for having believed in their
promises. The women were left to die, as is natural, thinking of their
husbands, fathers, sons and brothers.
In the house of ’Nor Juan the affliction was greater than ever, because
the usurer, holder of the mortgage which hung over La Lima, had just
commenced suit for non-payment, at that time so full of distress for
them. By the gateway of politics all the misfortunes of that peaceful
home had entered. A week passed without their being able to learn
anything of the prisoners. The wife and daughters of the gamonal had
gone twice to San José, in search of news, but all their efforts had
been in vain, and they had had to return more disheartened than ever,
after having looked at the silent walls of the different prisons, for
they did not even know in which of them the two men were. Alarming
rumors concerning the prisoners were rife among the people and the poor
women were in despair when they heard them. Toribio Cascante advised
them to ask the _jefe politico_ to use his influence in favor of the
prisoners, and the proprietor of La Sirena, who was a leading man in the
new party which had just been born out of nothing, promised to help
their petition with his powerful influence. ’Na Mercedes went very
humbly to see the official, accompanied by her daughter Ester, who was
not now the rosebud which the former _jefe politico_ had so much
admired, but a beautiful flower that inflamed the desires of the new
one. The poor old woman begged in tears for the compassion of the man
who was able to return her husband and son to her, and he, without
promising anything, said that he would see, that he would talk it over,
but that the thing was very difficult, inasmuch as both father and son
were much involved in that terrible attempt against law and order, which
it had been necessary to drown in blood. As the women were leaving, the
_jefe politico_ took advantage of the moment when ’Na Mercedes was going
out first, to say to Ester:
“Come back alone and we will talk about it.”
* * * * *
Early in the morning, the family of the gamonal set out from San Miguel.
The three women and the youngest child of the widow were riding in the
oxcart which Evaristo was driving, with his goad on his shoulder. Behind
came ’Nor Juan Alvarez and his grandson José, on foot. All remained
silent, oppressed with a great sadness, because they had to leave that
well-beloved village, where they had enjoyed good fortune and plenty
for so many years. But the usurer had been implacable and the auction of
La Lima had taken place. Toribio Cascante had bought it for a third of
its value, because as he said, “Business is business.”
Deeply affected by the loss of his beloved coffee plantation, the
gamonal did not wish to keep on living in San Miguel, although he still
had his house and another small bit of land. He sold everything, so as
to go and establish himself in a distant place where he had a tract of
uncultivated land among the mountains. When he passed in front of La
Lima, that fine coffee plantation which twenty years before he had set
out with his own hands, a tear rolled down the weather-beaten cheeks of
the poor old man. He could scarcely believe that that fertile land was
no longer his. The little child was sleeping in the lap of its mother.
José, with the indifference of childhood, was amusing himself with the
incidents of the road, making the dogs bark or throwing pebbles at the
chickens which were scratching about. At the top of the hill called
Jocote the travellers halted. In the centre of the smiling valley which
lay spread out at their feet could be seen a white dot,--it was the
church of San Miguel. The gamonal contemplated it for a long time with
deep emotion, and after a while he exclaimed with resignation:
“God be praised that he oppresses but does not crush entirely. If it had
not been for the _jefe politico_, who knows where Evaristo and I should
be now! God be praised that he so orders it that there are still good
souls in this world.”
Ester, who had heard these words, sighed deeply. She alone knew what it
had cost that there might “still be good souls in the world.”
CHIVALRY
One night in the month of July four horsemen, well mounted, emerged from
an hacienda in Uruca[24] and rode hurriedly along the highway to the
joining of the road to San Antonio de Belén, where they stopped.
“Here we must separate,” said one of them. “May you have good luck,
Ramón,” he added searching in the darkness for his friend’s hand.
“Adiós, Salvador, adiós,” replied the one spoken to, in a voice
trembling with emotion. The two men, without letting go of each other’s
hands, drew together until their stirrups touched, and embraced warmly.
“Adiós, adiós”--“Good luck.”
After a last embrace, long and affectionate, both started off in
different directions, each escorted by one of the two horsemen who had
just witnessed the sad scene of farewell. Those who followed the
highroad did not get very far. At the Ciruelas river they fell into the
hands of a picket of soldiers who carried them prisoners to the Alajuela
Barracks. The other two fugitives, for fugitives they were, kept on,
with better fortune, along the San Antonio road.[25] The darkness did
not permit them to see where they were going, so that the travellers had
to trust to the instinct of their horses to avoid the bad places or to
get out of them. Luckily it did not rain, which would have been one more
hindrance to the rapid march that the critical situation in which
Salvador Moreno found himself necessitated, for he was being eagerly
searched for on account of his share in the attack made the night before
on the Cuartel Principal[26] in San José. The revolutionary uprising had
failed through the fault of those who were to have brought men from the
neighboring towns, with the intention of arming them when the Cuartel
had surrendered, and of laying siege to the other ones.
Not one of them appeared at the critical moment, and the few valiant
ones who had surprised the garrison asleep at two o’clock in the
morning, had to abandon at daybreak the conquest which had cost them so
much blood.
Salvador did not answer the questions which from time to time his
companion asked him. Absorbed in his thoughts he lived over again the
happenings of last night’s bloody drama; the meeting in the house of one
of the conspirators, the irritating wait for those who did not come, the
fear of a betrayal, the doubts and hesitations of the last hour, finally
the moment of marching, the gate of the Cuartel opened by the hand of a
traitor, the hand to hand fight with the guard, the gallantry of the
officers meeting death at their posts. But more than all there harassed
him the vision of a young lieutenant running up hurriedly, sabre in
hand, to aid his comrades, whom he had laid low by a shot at barely
arm’s length. In vain he tried to make himself believe that it was a
legitimate act of warfare. An internal voice cried out in the tribunal
of his conscience against the blood that had been shed. Salvador Moreno
was a high-strung, refined man to whom the brutality of force was
repugnant. At the same time his indomitable and lofty spirit could not
bend itself to the political despotism which is killing us like a
shameful chronic sore. In the conspiracy he had seen the shaking off of
the heavy yoke, the dignity of his country avenged, and the triumph of
liberty. To gain all that, the sacrifice of his life had not seemed too
much. Now his sorrow was very great, his patriotic illusions had
disappeared like the visions of a beautiful dream when one awakens, and
his heart was throbbing with wrath against those who through their
cowardice had caused the daring attempt to fail. With keen regret he
thought of his comrades uselessly sacrificed, of the agony of a brave
young fellow whom he had carried out of the Cuartel in his arms,
mortally wounded. Clear and exact the events of the combat went marching
through his mind, some of which were atrocious, worthy of savages,
others irresistibly comical, like that of the boastful fellow who
withdrew from the gate of the Cuartel to go in search of his revolver
which he pretended to have forgotten; and always persistent and sad, the
vision of the lieutenant falling without a cry, his hand at his breast.
Afterwards the despair at the failure, the retreat at daybreak through
the deserted streets of the capital, the interminable hours of anguish,
hidden with Ramón Solares under some sacks in the country house of a
friend, listening to the voices of those who were searching for them.
Finally the sheltering night, the hurried flight, the gloomy future,
forbidding as the wrath of the enraged dictator. In order to aid their
escape the fugitives had agreed to follow different roads; Salvador
Moreno chose the one to Puntarenas,[27] passing through San Antonio de
Belén, and the plains of Carmen. Ramón Solares preferred the San
Carlos[28] route, with the idea of seeking refuge in Nicaragua by land,
where the two friends were to meet if Salvador should succeed in
escaping the vigilance of the authorities of the port.
Both were accompanied by trusty retainers who knew the country and were
of proved courage. It was Fate that decided in this case, and we have
already seen that she declared in favor of Salvador Moreno, who without
meeting a soul, arrived at the highroad to Puntarenas at one o’clock in
the morning, while his friend, chained in his prison, offered prayers
that he might succeed in escaping from those who pursued him. At three
o’clock he passed through Atenas and at six in the morning he and his
companion arrived at the gates of San Mateo,[29] but now the horses
could endure no more. It was part of the fugitive’s plan to pass the day
hidden in a friendly and secure house on the plains of Surubres,
although now this was not possible, on account of the fatigue of the
horses and the danger of the young conspirator’s being recognized in
passing through the village, in spite of the fact that he was wearing
the costume of a countryman.[30] It was necessary then to decide on
something.
“Don Salvador,” said the guide, “three hundred yards from here there
lives an acquaintance of mine, who is a man you can trust. If you like
we can dismount here, so that we shan’t have to pass through San Mateo
in the daytime.”
“Very well, let us go there.”
The two men spurred their horses and a few minutes afterwards arrived at
a house situated a short distance from the road. Through the unbarred
gate they entered, saluted by the barking of three thin, mangy dogs. At
this disturbance an old and corpulent countryman came out on the
veranda.
“Buenos días, ’Nor José,” said the guide.
“Buenos días, Pedro,” replied the old man. “How goes it?”
“Well; and how are you? How are the girls getting on?”
“Very well, thank you. Why don’t you get off a while and rest?” added
the old fellow.
The horsemen dismounted and Salvador dropped, half dead with fatigue,
on the settle that stood on the veranda. While he was stretching his
aching legs, ’Nor José and Pedro unsaddled the horses and the latter
confided to the old man that his companion was fleeing the country.
Hurriedly he told him a story which he made up as he went on; something
about a quarrel in which machetes had been flourished in the air. The
old man did not insist on the details, promising to keep quiet about the
unlooked for guests in his house.
Pedro went to take the horses to the pasture and Salvador accepted with
pleasure the coffee which the youngest daughter of ’Nor José served him.
The old man was proud of having for a son-in-law the _jefe politico_[31]
of San Mateo, who had married his oldest daughter, a handsome girl, so
people said. Noticing that his guest was getting sleepy he conducted him
to a cot bed that he might rest.
Five minutes afterwards the fugitive was sleeping like a log. The night
came on without Salvador’s awakening from the deep slumber into which he
had fallen, his bones aching and his nerves being unstrung by the
fatigue and emotions he had endured.