THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

CHAPTER TWENTY

News of the Governor's arrival had spread quickly through the territory and all those who could prepare valid excuses to leave their isolated outposts had converged on Santa Cruz del Bravo, together with all manner of indians and idlers. Now, the Federal colony swelled like an engorged and sleeping snake. Had the sublevados massed, they could easily have overrun any of the stations between Santa Cruz and Peto... perhaps several of them... but this was not their intent. Not a few of them, however, had come into the capital in the garb of wandering chicleros moving through the throngs; eyes down, ears open, indistinguishable from the plague of peddlers and vendors whose numbers so dismayed Governor Canton.

Captain José Macias and Dr. Rosario, somewhat leaner of purse for a night of gambling, showed their new acquaintance Solis the camp as preparations were made Saturday afternoon for the festivities of the evening. As sundown drew near, the visitors and occupants alike gathered in the plaza, where Bravo's military band played its tribute and the flag of Mexico was lowered.

The Governor's reception, over the vain objections of Padre Juliano, was to be held in the cathedral. A wooden stage had been erected over the altar to benefit the actors and, on this, were placed enormous pots of steaming meat and beans and chiles. In the yard behind the church, a score of indian women labored over mounds of lime and cornmeal to be fashioned into thousands of tortillas, their thin, consumptive coughing a countermelody to the patting noises made during the shaping of dough into the flat cakes. The priest, an exile in his sanctuary, observed a great glob of phlegm fly into the bowl in which the dough reposed and turned away, crossing himself.

A sergeant of Canton's guard pinched the arm of a Maya maiden no older then twelve. Another guest, impatient for the banquet, picked up one of Bravo's sour oranges, bit into it and spat the sour pulp out in disgust. Padre Juliano crossed himself again.

At eight the diners assembled, taking seats in groups according to their rank. General Bravo, Governor Canton, Colonels Huerta and Blanquet and the Governor's top aides looked down from the altar upon long rows of Majors, Captains, Tenientes and Sergeants, some of whom possessed twenty years of service. There, too, were a few of the more influential civilians in Santa Cruz; Padre Juliano, Dr. Rosario, several of the Chinese merchants who had supplanted the unfortunate Turk - Bravo had suspected him of holding back on his commission and shortly after the man had simply disappeared - and chicle traders of random origin... who paid their admission fee as much for insurance in subsequent encounters with the military as for the fare. Men of lower rank, convicts and Indians were given the worst of the food and drink, but were not allowed to enter the church... which soon swelled with the toasts, boasts, oaths and intrigues of the territory. Plates were first distributed to the head of the table and, by the time the officers had eaten their fill, those nearest the door were left with broken tortillas, some beans and such remnants of meat that even the dogs would have disdained - gobs of fat, heads and feet of fowl - and chiles so hot that the unfortunate diners resorted quickly to the bottles that were, happily, abundant.

Men of the higher ranks were cheered by wines and spirits of great variety, from champagne to genuine French cognac, which Colonel Huerta set by the Governor's table. Farther down the table was raw aguardiente, the distillation of which had taken place as soon as Santa Cruz del Bravo was secured; the manufacturers licensed by, and paying tribute to, the General. Glasses were raised... or where these were unavailable, tin cups... and the honorable persons of the Republic, from President Diaz on down, paid tribute. As the meal progressed, even less than honorable personages were toasted, and the troops proceeded to drinking directly from the bottle, the melody of scores of forks and knives tapping out tunes on empty and half emptied containers rising out of the old cathedral of Juan de la Cruz. Drunken snatches of song briefly rose above the tables.

"It has been some time since many of these men have been exposed to the comforts of civilization," Bravo confessed.

"Of course," the Governor replied with a tight smile.

The iron pots upon the altar emptying, Bravo now clapped to the Captain entrusted to the care of traveling performers. "Start them up," he ordered.

"At once, General!" responded the impresario, a dapper old man. The altar was cleansed of the remains of the feast, and such dogs who had entered without invitation chased out. This sprightly old fellow... in his cutaway coat that could no longer be buttoned over his gravy spattered breast... took the pulpit from which Padre Juliano regularly addressed his congregation of pious Maya women, fretful children and frequently snoring soldiers. Drawing a small trumpet from his coat, he blew a few notes of alarm and introduced the entertainers with a sly wink.

"Gentlemen, Gentlemen, distinguished officers of the Army, of the Guard... lend me your ears. This is no funeral occasion but rather... you!" he pointed far down, "stop your fighting there! For those who defend Mexico from its enemies we have a varied, amusing night of entertainments. Those that uplift," he cried. "Those that merely..." and he leered so dramatically that the whistles and applause drowned out his explanation. "... also of Guadalajara, dear to many, including our own distinguished General, don Felipe Baqueiro, orator without peer, who will recite the address of Pericles before..."

"Bring on Aspasia!" came a shout from the corner of the church where the freshest and the youngest graduates of military college congregated and the laughter and applause caused the vaudevillian to glower helplessly until it died down.

"Baqueiro... el Griego!" he repeated, and an old man in a voluminous bedsheet, crowned with leaves in lieu of laurel, started towards the altar for his rendition of the famous discourse. A captain favored by Victoriano Huerta put his boot down on the trailing fabric and the orator was stripped, revealing the wrinkles of an extraordinary age. Blushing, scolding, Baqueiro gathered his robes about him, proceeded to the pulpit and, though losing his place on two occasion and resorting to the notes he'd lain over the Padre's Bible, he managed to recover his dignity and earn what was, by the time his words reached a concluding crescendo, an enthusiastic applause.

"And they are most rightly reputed valiant," Baquiero thundered, "who, though they perfectly apprehend both what is dangerous and what is easy, are never the more thereby diverted from adventuring. Again we are contrary to most men in bounty, for we purchase our friends not by receiving, but by bestowing benefits."

His labors concluded, El Griego received a grateful hand, as much for the troubles he'd overcome as for his oratorical abilities, and Canton took advantage of the tumult to lean towards General Bravo. "That is one of the wells of counsel upon which Don Porfirio has dipped his cup. We may all be better leaders of men by his example."

Following the orator came a trio of guitarists who set the company's feet to tapping and, after these, a poet of the romantic school whose verses... sensual and limp, aglut with Arcadian bowers and consumptive maidens... elicited sighs then, as the odes followed upon one another, boorish catcalls and whistles, punctuated by the slurping of a hundred tongues against the bowls of thin soup which had lately been provided to the tables furthest from the rear.

The unfortunate poet coming to the end of his recitation, Bravo's band... at least such of it that could fit behind the dignitaries with their instruments... took up their station upon the altar and, for quarter hour, the old church of the True Cross shook with the oom pah pah of German brass and thump of drum; the Governor of Yucatan enduring, stoically, the fierce winds of the trombone and tuba that lifted his beard with the almighty force of Hurakan, that aboriginal god of storms who has given us his name in their description. Deafened, the aging Canton reached for his wineglass, and a grinning Colonel Huerta promptly filled it. The Governor drank deeply and waited for the day to end.

At length the musicians put down their instruments and a larger hurrah rose up when one of the guitarists returned with his daughter, a girl of no more than sixteen years; round of form, full of lip and with a bright blossom of the plumeria lodged behind her ear. The impresario cultivated a special welcoming for "the distinguished musico Juan Morelos, and the lovely Maria", to whom more than a few rude comments were directed from those quarters of the church concealed by shadow from the glare of the bedeafened Governor.

Completing one number, a plaintive Andalusian ballad, Maria paused for a reprise and a scuffle broke out; a table was overturned, plates, candles and bottles tumbling to the floor. The soldiers swarmed to the brawl as horses to a burning barn, at first with an intent to separate the participants but then joining in with fists and chairs and candlesticks. The fighting diffused in waves towards the altar, engulfing men of higher and higher rank like the scythe of don del Muerte during the plague months, and a chair rose high above the tumult and crashed to the table before José Macias, overturning the remains of his meal and sending a candle skidding into his lap.

In the brief instance of his burning, before his reflexive hand beat out the flames, the young Captain felt something rise up his spine and with a thundering "Pop!" take leave of his head. His reason! Gathering up the candlestick, the Imp that had entered José arose and grabbed the shoulder of one of the quarrelers... a wealthy and useless Teniente, fresh from Chapultepec and full of himself... striking the young popinjay again and again. The man fell and José attacked another officer, the brass bent and wet with blood, and when he fell to the floor, another.

"Calm yourself!" a voice rose over the din. The Captain saw no faces, by this time, but only uniforms at which he flailed anew, grunting and kicking until tackled from behind and borne to earth by half a dozen men. An entire table and its contents toppled to the floor beside his ear, a tin plate bounced off his neck.

Governor Canton glared at the territorial commander, lips compressed into an icy frown. "I had expected more from the army of Mexico," he said, while Bravo squirmed in his chair, muttering apologies.

"They've been too long removed from convivial society," he stammered. "They have a dif... difficult assignment." He licked his lips anxiously, mortally fearful that the incident might bring another fit, in which his weakness would stand exposed to all. His teeth rattled and squawking noises emerged from his throat.

"What are you going to do to stop this disgrace?" asked Canton. "Nothing? Then I am obliged to settle the disgrace on my own initiative."

The Governor rose and took his pistol from his belt; staring down the rows of brawling officers he raised it above his head and fired! The sound of the shot thundered above the roar of the fight and a small puff of plaster dust sprung from the Virgin Padre Juliano had mounted above the altar. Her head creaked, fell and shattered at the feet of the terrified orchestra.

One last, prodigious feminine shriek pierced the silence - Victoriano Huerta, from the podium, beside Maria, smiled bashfully, the fingers of his right hand drawn up into a crustacean's claw.

The brawlers turned, as one, towards Canton... looming over the desolation of the ruined banquet as an avenging archangel beneath the headless Virgin with his pistol raised and eyes alert for the most egregious of the wrongdoing. Their scuffling stopped at once... diners scurried meekly to right the overturned tables and chairs. The many boots that had pinned José to the floor were raised and the Captain felt his reasoning self return, he looked up and observed Solis, the Governor's aide, swabbing at a bloody gash across shoulder. His coat had been slashed away.

"Did I do that?" José wondered, innocently.

"It's nothing serious," said Solis. "I'm only relieved that I'm not one of those revolted indians about this place." He sprinkled aguardiente from its broken, bloody bottle and rubbed it across the wound. "I guess when there is no one else to fight, you have to fight among yourselves."

The numbed contingent, mindful of Governor Canton's pistol, meekly took their seats and a final performance, a recitation from Shakespeare's "As You Like It", was received decorously. The company, afterwards, filed out in orderly rows, but not before one last toast from Colonel Huerta... whose smile had broadened as the fighting spread from sergeants to tenientes to Captains... raising his cognac to toast a still shivering Bravo.

"Unto the administration of this great man, this patriot, let us drink to the end of the sublevado war that has concluded with their total pacification and submission accomplished."

All looked questioningly to Bravo for a speech, but the General could only nod and made a dismissive motion, bringing to an end the reception in honor of the territory's neighboring Governor, a man who, never again, would know the hospitality of Santa Cruz del Bravo, and be grateful for this. And so it was that Padre Juliano was compelled to hold Sunday mass in the plaza. In the cathedral, forty prisoners under the watchful eye of El Chacol swept the debris of the banquet from the floor, the altar, even from the walls. Many red eyes and bandaged heads were visible among the worshippers.

Miguel Chankik, the old sacristan, had mercifully been relieved of his position for the day. Such had been the consequences of the uproar that General Bravo had conceived a plan to keep Governor Canton occupied until his departure. Having, himself, run out of things to talk about, and fearing that the debacle of the night before had surely turned the Yucatecan into an enemy or worse, one who held the Territory... and its chief... in abject contempt, Bravo deigned to exploit the Governor's infamous curiosity. There were things in Santa Cruz that Canton's attention would be best drawn away from! And so, to occupy the Governor's curiosity, he brought a trophy from the campaign to him as soon as the sun was high in the sky, and the battered company dozing under Padre Juliano's words.

Chankik... God’s trophy!

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