Chapter XII: Part TWO: Castro Duro (5)

In the hamlet of Val de San Gil, another trick was tried; the polling place was established in a hay-loft to which one went up by a ladder. While the villagers were waiting for the ladder to be set up, the urn was being filled. When the ladder was put into place and the voters went up one by one, they found that they had all voted already. As the ladder was narrow, they had to go up singly, and it was not likely they would have ventured to protest. Besides, there were a number of ruffians in the place, armed with sticks and pistols, who were ready to club or to shoot any one protesting.

In spite of all, Cæsar had the election won, always supposing that the Government did not carry things to the limit; but at the last moment he learned that more Civil Guards were going to come to Castro, and that the Government agents had orders to prevent Moncada’s victory by any method.

In the evening on Saturday, Cæsar was told that the commissioner was in a tavern, with others of the police, giving out ballots for illegal voters. Cæsar went there alone, and entered the tavern.

The commissioner, on seeing him, grew confused.

“I know what you are doing,” said Cæsar. “Be careful, because it may cost you a term in prison.”

“You are the one that may have to pay by going to prison,” replied the inspector.

“Just try to arrest me, you poor fool, and I’ll shoot your head off!”

The police inspector jumped up from the table where he was seated, and, as he went out, he let one of the ballots fall. Cæsar looked over the men who were with the police inspector; one of them was “Sparkler.” Some days before he had come to Moncada’s headquarters to offer to work for him, and he was the director of the contaminating persons sent to Castro by the Government.

A CLANDESTINE MEETING

When he returned to the headquarters, they told him there was a meeting in “Furibis’s” tavern at nine that night. Cæsar got there a little later than the time set. The place was gloomy, and had some big earthen jars in it. They had put a table at the back of this cave, and an acetylene light illuminated it.

Those present formed a semicircle around the table.

Cæsar knocked at the tavern, and they opened the door to him; a workman who was speaking delayed his peroration, and they waited until Cæsar had reached the table and got seated. The atmosphere was suffocating. Everything was closed so that the Civil Guards would not see the light through the windows and suspect that there was a meeting being held there. The workmen were, for the most part, masons, weavers, brickmakers. There were women there with their little ones asleep in their bosoms. The air one breathed there was horrible. It looked like a gathering of desperate people. They had learned that their arrested comrades had been beaten in the prison, and that San Román and Dr. Ortigosa were in the infirmary as a result.

_EULOGY OF VIOLENCE_

The excitement among those present was terrible. “Limpy” was the most strenuous; he was in favour of their all going out that moment and storming the jail.

When they had all spoken, Cæsar got up and asked them to wait. If he won the election the next day, he promised them that the prisoners should be freed immediately; if he did not win and the prisoners remained there...

“Then what is to be done?” said a voice.

“What is to be done? I am in favour of violence,” answered Cæsar; “burning the jail, setting fire to the whole town; I am ready for anything.”

At that moment he really did think he had been too lenient.

“Man’s first duty is to break the law,” he shouted, “when it is a bad law. Everything is due to violence and war. I will go to the post of danger this very second, whenever you wish. Shall we storm the jail? Let’s go right now.”

This storming of the jail didn’t seem an easy thing to the others. One might try to climb down the hill and surprise the prison guards, but it would be difficult. According to “Furibis,” the best thing would be for ten or twelve of them to go out into the street with guns and pistols and shoot right and left.

At this disturbance the Civil Guard would come out, and that would be the moment for the others to enter the jail and drag the prisoners out into the street.

Some one else said that it seemed better to him for them to approach the Civil Guards’ quarters cautiously, kill the sentinels, and take possession of the rifles.

“Decide,” said Cæsar; “I am ready for anything.”

Cæsar’s attitude made the excited ones grow calmer and understand that it was not so easy to storm the jail.

It was about eleven when the meeting at the tavern ended. They had decided to wait and see what would happen the next day, and they left the place one by one.

“We will escort you, Don Cæsar,” several of them said.

“No. What for?”

“Remember there are people who might attack you. ‘Driveller’ Juan is at large in Castro.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That bully can’t do anything to me.”

* * * * *

_AT NIGHT_

Cæsar went out of the tavern, pulled down his hat, and wrapped himself in his cape. He had not brought the motor, to avoid being recognized. It was a cloudy night, but still and beautiful.

Before they got out of the town a small boy came up to Cæsar.

“‘The Cub-Slut’ sent me to tell you to come to her house; she wants to speak to you.”

“I will go tomorrow.”

“No. You must come now, because what she has to say is very important,” shouted the youngster.

“Well, I can’t go now.”

The youngster protested, and Cæsar continued on his way. “Limpy” and “Uncle Chinaman” followed him. Cæsar was walking in the middle of the highway, when, about half way home, a man on the run passed him. No doubt he was going to give some signal.

“Limpy” and “Chinaman” shouted over and over:

“Don Cæsar! Don Cæsar!”

Cæsar halted, and “Chinaman” and “Limpy” ran up to him.

“What’s going on?” asked Cæsar.

“They are lying in wait for you,” said “Limpy.” “Didn’t you see a man go past running?”

“Yes.”

“We are going to stay with you. We will sleep at your house,” said “Chinaman,” “and if they attack us, we will defend ourselves.”

He showed a pistol which he carried in his sash.

The three walked on together, and as they passed a little grove in front of the palace, a shadow passed by, crawling, and fled away.

“He was there,” said “Chinaman.”

They went into the house. Amparito, with the old nurse, was praying before a lighted image.

XX. CONFIDENCE

_YES, HE IS THE HERO_

When he got up, Cæsar found a lot of letters and notices from his followers all over the district, giving him pointers.

With the help of a manservant who used to go about with him, he himself got the motor ready and prepared to visit the polls.

As he got into the car, the youngster of the night before appeared with a letter.

“From ‘The Cub-Slut’; please read it right away.”

“Give it to me; I will read it.”

“She told me you were to read it right away.”

“Yes, man, yes.”

Cæsar took the letter and put it distractedly into his pocket. The motor started and Cæsar did not read the note. At eight in the morning he was on his way to Cidones. The polls had been established legally.

It was raining gently. As he drew near Cidones, the sun appeared. The river was turbid and mud-coloured. Thick grey fog-clouds were rolling about the plain; when they gathered below the hill where Cæsar stood, they gave it the appearance of an island in the middle of the sea. From the chimneys of the town the smoke came out like hanks of spun silver, and bells were ringing through this Sunday morning calm.

Cæsar stopped at an inn which was a little outside the town. The blacksmith, an old Liberal, came out to receive him. The old man had been suffering with rheumatism for some while. “How goes it?” Cæsar asked him.

“Very well. I have been to vote for you.”

“And your health?”

“Now that spring is coming, one begins to get better.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Cæsar; “I hadn’t noticed that the trees are in bloom.”

“Oh, yes, they are out. In a little while we shall have good weather. It’s a consolation for old folks.”

Cæsar took leave of the blacksmith and got into the motor.

* * * * *

_CÆSAR! CÆSAR!_

“Yes, spring is in flower,” said Cæsar. “I will remove all the obstacles and men’s strength will come to life, which is action. This town, then others, and finally all Spain.... May nothing remain hidden or closed up; everything come to life, out into the sunlight. I am a strong man; I am a man of iron; there are no obstacles for me. The forces of Nature will assist me. Cæsar! I must be Cæsar!”

The automobile began to move in a straight line toward Castro.

The ground on both sides of the highway fled away rapidly.

The automobile lessened its pace at the foot of the hill, and began to climb.

It went in by an old gate in the wall, which was called the Cart Gate.

The street of the same name, a street in the poor suburb, was narrow and the houses low; it was paved with cobbles. A little farther along several lanes formed a crossroads.

This was a quarter of brothels and of gipsies who made baskets.

When he reached the crossroads, in the narrowest part there was a cart blocking the street. The automobile stopped.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cæsar, standing up.

At that moment two shots rang out, and Cæsar fell wounded into the bottom of the car. The chauffeur saw that the discharges came from the low windows of a loom, and backing the motor, he returned rapidly, passed out the Cart Gate, at risk of running into it, went down to the highway, and drove at high speed to Cæsar’s house.

A moment later “Driveller” Juan and “Sparkler” came out of the loom and disappeared down a lane. The judge who went to take depositions learned from the chauffeur that Cæsar had received a letter as he was getting into the car. He had the wounded man’s clothes searched, and they found “The Cub-Slut’s” letter, in which she warned Cæsar of the danger he was in. Fate had kept Cæsar from reading it.

* * * * *

_THE RED FLAG_

The news that Cæsar was seriously wounded ran through the town like a train of powder.

A movement of terror shook everybody. “Limpy,” “Furibis,” and the other hysterical ones gathered at the tavern and agreed to set fire to the monastery of la Peña. “Furibis” had arms in his house and divided them among his comrades. A woman fastened a red rag to a stick, and they left Castro by different paths and met opposite Cidones.

Nine of them went armed, and various others followed behind.

On reaching Cidones, one of the party advanced up the lane and saw two pairs of Civil Guards. They discussed what they had better do, and the majority were in favour of going into Moro’s inn, which was at the entrance to the town, and waiting until night.

They did go in there and told Moro what they had just done. The inn-keeper listened with simulated approval, and brought them wine. This Moro was not a very commendable party; he had been convicted for robbery several times and had a bad reputation.

While the revolutionists were drinking and talking, Moro stole out without any one’s noticing, and went to see the chief of the Civil Guard, and told him what was going on. “They are armed, then?” asked the chief.

“Yes.”

“And how many are they?”

“Nine with arms.”

“We are only five. Do you want to do something?”

“What is it?”

“At dusk we will pass by the inn. I will knock. And you shall say to them: ‘Here is the chief of the Civil Guard; hide your arms.’ They will hide them, and we will arrest them.”

“Shall I get something for doing this favour?” asked Moro.

“Naturally.”

“What will they give me?”

“You will see.”

The ruse worked as they had plotted it; Moro played the comedy to perfection.

On learning that the chief of the Civil Guard wanted to come in, the revolutionists, on the landlord’s advice, left their arms in the next room. At the same instant the window panes burst to bits and the soldiers of the Civil Guard fired three charges from close up. Two women and four men fell dead; the wounded, among whom was “Limpy,” were taken to the hospital, and only one person was lucky enough to escape.

* * * * *

_FATE_

At the chief headquarters of Moncada’s followers, a strange phenomenon was noticed; on the preceding days they had been chock full; that night there were not over ten or a dozen men from the Workmen’s Club collected by a table lighted by a petroleum lamp. The pharmacist, Camacho, presided.

The news of the election was worse every minute. At the last hour the Padillists, knowing that Moncada was wounded, were behaving horribly. In the polls at Villamiel the tellers had fled with the blank ballots, and the Conservative boss arranged the outcome of the election from his house.

As the teller from Santa Inés, who was a poor Liberal school-master, was on his way from the hamlet with the papers, six men had seized him, had snatched the returns from him, changed all the figures, and sent them to the municipal building at Castro full of blots.

They had fired over twenty shots at the teller for Paralejo. Many of Moncada’s emissaries, on knowing that Cæsar was wounded and his campaign going badly, had passed over to the other party.

Only Moncada could have rallied that flight. His most faithful gave one another uneasy looks, hoping some one would say: “Come along!” so that they could all have gone. Camacho alone kept up the spirits of the meeting.

At nine o’clock at night the chief of police entered the headquarters, accompanied by two Civil Guards.

“Close up here, please,” said the inspector.

“Why?” asked the pharmacist.

“Because I order you to.”

“You have no right to order that.”

“No? Here, get out, everybody, and _you_ are under arrest.”

Those present took to their heels; the pharmacist went to jail to keep San Román and Ortigosa company, and the Club was shut up....

* * * * *

The election was won by Padilla.

XXI. OUR VENERABLE TRADITIONS! OUR HOLY PRINCIPLES!

The banquet in honour of Padilla was given at the Café del Comercio. All the important persons of the town, many of whom had been Cæsar’s adherents the day before, had gathered to feast the victor. The majority gorged enthusiastically, the chief of police distinguishing himself by his hearty applause. A fat lawyer presided, a greasy person with a black beard, a typical coarse, dirty, tricky Moor. Next to him sat a small attorney, pock-marked, pale of face. By dessert one no longer heard anything but cries of “Hurrah for Padilla!” among the smoke of the big cigars they were all smoking.

Then the lawyer with the black beard arose and began to orate.

He spoke slowly and with great solemnity.

“This meeting shows,” he said in a strong and sonorous voice, “your enthusiasm and your loyalty for the good cause. Never, never will we permit outsiders devoid of religion and patriotism to upset the existence of our beloved city.” (Applause.) “We will defend our venerated traditions by all the means in our power; we will not permit the hydra of anarchy to rise up in Castro; and if it should arise to attack our holy principles, we shall crush it under our heels.” (Applause.) “When men turn their backs on God, when they preach the relaxation of discipline, and licentiousness, when they are not willing to acknowledge any authority, divine or human, then it is time for decent men to form a bulwark with their breasts, for the defence of their traditions. We are, before all else, Catholics and Spaniards; and we will not consent to having Anarchists, Masons, sacrilegious persons get the mastery of this sacred soil, and wipe out its memories, and spot the most holy rights of our mother, the Church.” (Ovation.)

“Hurrah for Jesus Christ and His Immaculate Church!” shouted a priest, a bit upset by his wine, in a raucous voice.

Next, the fat, greasy lawyer paraded all the glories of Spain, with their appropriate adjectives: the Cid, Columbus, Isabella the Catholic, the Great Captain, Hernán Cortés.... Then a couple of dozen orators spoke, and the meeting ended very late at night.

CASTRO DURO TODAY

Today Castro Duro has definitely abandoned her intentions of living, and return to order, as the weekly Conservative paper says; the fountains have dried, the school been closed, the little trees in Moncada Park have been pulled up. The people emigrate every year by hundreds. Today a mill shuts down, tomorrow a house falls in; but Castro Duro continues to live with her venerated traditions and her holy principles, not permitting outsiders devoid of religion and patriotism to disturb her existence, not spotting the most holy rights of the Church, our mother; enveloped in dust, in dirt, and in filth, asleep in the sun, in the midst of her grainless fields.

XXII. FINIS GLORIÆ MUNDI. _FROM A SOCIETY COLUMN_

To be in Castro Duro and not visit Don Cæsar Moncada’s house is a veritable crime of _lèse-art_. Señor Moncada, who is a most intelligent person, has gathered in his aristocratic residence a collection of precious things, old pictures, antiques, sculptures of the XV and XVI Centuries, badges of the Inquisition. Señor Moneada has made a conscientious study of the primitive Castilian painters, and is certainly the person most at home in that line.

His most beautiful wife, who is also a distinguished artist, has aided him in forming this collection, and they have both gone about by automobile through all the towns in this province and the neighbouring ones, collecting everything artistic they found.

At Don Cæsar’s house we had the pleasure of greeting the learned Franciscan Father Martin, to whom the population of Castro Duro owes so much.

At a halt in the conversation we asked Señor Moncada:

“And you, Don Cæsar, have no idea of going back into politics?”

And he answered us, smiling:

“No, no. What for? I am nothing, nothing.”

THE END