VI
EMBOLADORES ON THE MARCH
There is in Bogota a street, the Calle de Las Montanas, that meandersdown from the treeless foothills of the gray mountain ridge overlookingthe city, and broadens out into a respectable thoroughfare before losingitself in the plaza upon which, facing each other diagonally, stand thevenerable Catedral de Santa Fe and the National Capitol. This street,resembling the bed of a mountain stream, in the first half mile ofits course runs through a huddle of lowly houses whose thatched roofsand white adobe walls seldom reach more than one story in height. Theinhabitants of this district are called, in playful irony, by their moreprosperous neighbors, "paisanos," fellow-citizens; or else, scornful ofcompliment, "peons," day-laborers. Here dwell the teamsters of the city,the washerwomen, the tinkers, the runners, the street-sweepers, thebeggars, the proprietors of small tiendas, the bootblacks, the vendorsof sweets--a mixed army of workers and idlers, who gain a livelihood, aschance favors, by their hands or their wits.
The peon of Colombia is an interesting possibility. He is more Indianthan Spanish, but he has developed certain novelties of feature thatbelong to neither of these parent races. He has something of thesavagery of the one, and the romance of the other; yet he is quiteunlike Spaniard or Indian, and when these have disappeared from themountain republic the peon will take their place. To-day he lacks theenergy needed for self-assertion. There have been occasions, however,when this peasant of the Andes has taken the lead in a popular uprisingand, although he has usually failed to win what he was after, hisreserve of power promises well for the future of his race.
It was the politically awakened peon who was in evidence on a certainmorning in Bogota, not so very long ago, at the upper end of the Callede Las Montanas. The sign of his awakening was to be seen in an unusualcommotion among the good-natured "paisanos" of the street, from whichan onlooker might reach the astonishing conclusion that some sort of"demonstration" was under way. Revolutionary or otherwise, there arepeople, it would seem, who engage in these affairs simply through adesire for sociability. Their warlike declarations are really notunamiable. An Andean revolution, indeed, may not be more terrifyingthan a "fiesta," and is never so noisy. In either case, these peoplemake common cause of their joys or their grievances; and it wasunquestionably a sudden burst of neighborliness that brought theinhabitants of the Calle de Las Montanas together on this particularmorning.
An army of bootblacks was assembled in the middle of the street. Bogota,ancient seat of the Muyscas, City of the Mountains, is, for some unknownreason, rich in bootblacks. Hence, it was not surprising to find ahundred or more knights of the brush and bottle mustered here. Theywere of varying age and size, clad in nondescript rags, over whichprotectingly flapped the ruana, or poncho, a garment inherited from theIndians, and now universally worn in Spanish America. War's ordinaryweapons were lacking in this tattered regiment. Instead of sword andmusket each youngster carried in front of him, hanging from his neck,a rude box containing the bottles and brushes needed in his calling.Ordinarily these weapons are harmless enough; but these volunteersoldiers felt that they were adequately armed for whatever adventuremight be in the wind. Patriotism--and a ruana--can start any revolution.In expert hands, the vicious twirl of a ruana should bring terror to themost stalwart of foes--and of patriotism there was a generous supplythis morning in the Calle de Las Montanas.
Pedro Cavallo, a wiry youth, taller than his fellows, gifted with shrilleloquence, acrobatic gestures, and hence acclaimed the King of theBootblacks, was the leading spirit of the throng surrounding him.
"Viva Pedro! Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Baja los puercos!" shoutedfirst one and then another in answer to his orders given with all theassurance of royalty.
"Compadres!" he addressed them, switching his cumbersome box of blackingto one side with oratorical cunning; "we will lead the way! We willmarch to the palace! We will offer ourselves to the President! We willmarch to the coast, and then we will sweep out the Yankees!"
"Si! Si!" they shrilled in eager response. "Por la Patria! Por laPatria! Mata los Yankees puercos!"
A quizzical spectator, a true Bogotano, robust and red-cheeked, swathedin an ample ruana, echoed the enthusiasm.
"It is an army of emboladores!" he shouted sonorously. "Let the Yankeebull beware!"
Now, "embolador," although it is a word familiarly used in Bogota todesignate a bootblack, has for its first meaning "one who puts balls onthe tips of a bull's horns," a thing not easy to accomplish, requiring,as it does, the conquest of a traditionally warlike animal. Applied tothis Falstaffian army of bootblacks, the irony of the term was broadenough to delight the bystanders, at the same time that it flattered thevanity of those for whom it was intended.
Distances meant little to the emboladores. No matter how far they had totravel, they vowed they would keep going until they met "los Yankees."And, when they did meet them, they had no doubt of what would happen.Confident in their own ability to put the "usurpers" to flight, they hadthe sympathy of the peons surrounding them.
At this period, immediately following the proclamation of Panama'sindependence, there was widespread indignation throughout Colombiaagainst the United States. Americans were accused of starting the"revolution" which robbed the mother country of her richest possession,and the Colombian government was accordingly expected to avenge thenational honor. The native authorities, lacking money and troops, didnot respond to the popular demand, and it was left to the "patriots" todenounce the invading Yankees, and to fit out such volunteer expeditionsas the one planned by the emboladores of the Calle de Las Montanas.Bogota, the largest city of the republic, the center of its officiallife, became the rallying place for political malcontents. A "Sociedaddel Integridad Nacional"--a body of agitators at odds with the nativegovernment and bitterly opposed to the United States--had been formedhere. This Sociedad had already organized two expeditions against theYankees and the Panamanians. Both expeditions, made up of the dregs ofthe city, poorly armed, scantily clad, relying for their food on suchcontributions as they might pick up along the way, had left for thecoast where they planned a guerilla warfare that would bring them, theybelieved, in triumph to the Isthmus. The third expedition was beingengineered by the emboladores, whose enthusiasm and love of adventuremade them excellent starters of an uprising. Even the elder peons,skeptical at first of what was going on, soon threw aside their reserveand fell into line with the bootblacks. Cheers greeted each addition tothe little army, and it was not long before Pedro Cavallo, "Rey de losEmboladores," headed an eager throng of followers numbering well intothe thousands.
What to do with so strange a mob of volunteers might have puzzleda more experienced leader than Pedro. But nothing daunted him. Thebigger and the more unruly his army, the greater seemed to be hisconfidence in himself as its commander. And his royal swagger wonunbounded admiration. Grimy children, too young to join the ranks of theemboladores, scurried hither and thither among the bystanders, shriekingwith delight at this staging of their favorite "Pedro the King." Women,setting down their bundles under the projecting latticed windows of thehouses, talked wonderingly of this sudden glory that had come to a youthwhom they had thought skilled in nothing mightier than the blacking ofboots. Solemn greybeards, proprietors of dingy little tiendas, stoodin the doorways of their shops, secretly amazed, but still holdingthemselves grimly aloof from the noisy demonstrations of theirneighbors.
"Yankees are pigs," said one of these sellers of sweets, native tobaccoand white rum, quoting gloomily the popular estimate of Americans.
"Yes," replied another; "and pigs are easily beaten."
"Truly, that is so," quoth the first philosopher, struck by the turn ofa new idea. "Yes, that is so. Even a woman can beat a pig, if the pighas eaten too much."
"Yes, yes, Compadre! And Panama is too much for the hungriest pig."
Then, out of the surging crowd of volunteers, came a stentorian voice:
"Donde vamos, Pedro el Rey?" ("Where shall we go, King Ped
ro?")
"To the President! To the Palace San Carlos!" shouted Pedro, brandishinga stick snatched from one of the faithful.
As the volunteers had agreed to do this in the first place, theannouncement was instantly approved. San Carlos, "the palace," wasnot far off--a few short blocks this side the principal plaza of thecity--and word was quickly passed along to march thither. Still shoutingvengeance on all Yankees, the emboladores, followed by a mob of peons,moved down the street, encouraged by the primitive jests and delightedcheers of the bystanders.
Early as it was, San Carlos was ready for this unusual visit. Althoughit was popularly known as "the palace"--as all residences of highofficials are in Colombia--this large rambling structure of stone andplaster was in no way distinguished from the buildings that elbowed itat each side. Its dilapidated walls ran sheer to the narrow sidewalk,overlooking which were several balconies of the kind commonly used inSpanish-American buildings. A large square opening, guarded by rude,heavily timbered doors, formed the entrance to this simple executivemansion which was built around a huge courtyard, or patio. From thispatio two broad flights of carpeted stairs led to the living roomsand offices above. This arrangement of rooms, balconies, patio--thefountain in the middle of a bed of flowering shrubs and plants,perpetually spraying a moss-grown cupid; the brick walls; the innercorridor supported on arches of masonry and forming the boundary of thefour-sided court--all this one finds, with slight variation, in the homeof the average Bogotano, as well as in the official "palace." The uniquefeature of San Carlos, growing out of the very heart of this ancientdwelling, is a huge walnut tree, rising some forty or fifty feet abovethe patio, overtopping the adjacent roofs, and marking this, better thancould any national emblem, as the presidential residence.
Within the gateway of the palace and at the foot of the stone stepsleading to the corridor above, there is always a guard of soldiers.On the morning of the visit of the emboladores this guard was greatlyincreased in numbers and was commanded by a youth whose resplendentuniform was in striking contrast with the dingy, ill-fitting apparel ofhis men. As the tramp of the peons echoed along the street, the soldiersmarched hastily across the patio and drew up outside the entrance tothe palace. Here, waiting groups of idlers shouted with delight as thebootblacks, King Pedro in the lead, rounded the corner of San Carlos.
"They will polish the Yankees," declared one admirer.
"No, they have come for the president's boots."
"Emboladores! Emboladores! Beware the bull!"
"Here, King Pedro, give us a shine!"
"Don Pedro is busy; he's lost his brush."
"He's keeping it for his Yankee customers."
"He will take Panama with it."
The unterrified Pedro, meeting this raillery with serene indifference,halted his men before the entrance to the palace and addressed thecaptain of the guard.
"We have come to see Don Jose."
"But, muchacho," replied the captain affably, "that is impossible. HisExcellency is busy. Who are you?"
"Pedro, El Rey de los Emboladores!" piped up several volunteers.
"Ah!" said the captain, saluting profoundly. "And what do you want withhis Excellency, Majestad?"
"To tell him we will fight the Yankees who have stolen Panama."
"I will tell his Excellency this," was the grave reply. "Of course, hewill be pleased."
While these two youths were talking--for after all, the magnificent toycaptain was quite as young as the King of Brush and Bottle--the curtainsof the large window above were drawn aside and a tall, spare figure, ina long frock coat, stepped slowly forth on the balcony. He was an oldman, with a close-clipped beard and moustache, sharp, thin features,and an owlish way of peering through his large, gold-bowed spectaclesthat made one look involuntarily for the ferule of the schoolmasterheld behind his back. This elderly personage had been, indeed, one ofthe notable pedagogues of Bogota in his day, a fact which, joined tohis scholarly achievements in his country's literature, seemed to hisneighbors a sufficient reason for voting him in as the proprietor of SanCarlos. To this decision the less powerful and more numerous citizens ofthe republic could make no effective protest.
On this particular morning it was the schoolmaster, wearing his mostindulgent smile, who faced the bootblacks in the street below him.As soon as they caught sight of the familiar figure they gave him anenthusiastic greeting, the democratic flavor of which he seemed torelish. Popular applause had been lacking in Don Jose's career, andsince the troubles over Panama had broken in upon his quiet cultivationof the muses, it looked very much as if his countrymen's indifferencemight turn to open hostility. Thus, the friendly greetings of a rabbleof bootblacks and peons was not to be despised.
"Don Jose! Don Jose!" they shouted cheerfully, with that peculiarupward inflection by which the Spanish-American gives a warmth to hissalutation not suggested by the words themselves. "El Presidente deColombia! Viva Don Jose! Baja los Yankees!"
To all of which Don Jose, one long thin hand thrust stiffly between thebreast buttons of his coat, listened in dignified silence, inwardlygratified by these boisterous visitors.
"Bueno, bueno," he said in a high querulous voice; "I am very glad tosee you, my friends. This is a great honor. But, what can I do for you?"
"Send us to Panama!" bawled Pedro, acting as spokesman for his men.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the old man, enjoying the situation and ignoringits political consequences. "Panama is far off--and why should I sendsuch good citizens away from Bogota?"
"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! To fight the Yankees!"
"The Yankees? But why----"
"They have stolen Panama. They are pigs!"
"What a people!" he exclaimed, nonplussed. "I am sorry for that. Well,if I send you, what will you do?"
"Esta bueno! Don Jose will send us to kill the Yankees!" they shoutedenthusiastically.
"No! No! I didn't say that!" he expostulated; then continued, as if byrote: "The government will look after Panama. If fighting is needed topreserve the republic, the army will do its duty"--an assurance whichincreased the martial swagger of the gold-braided toy captain, althoughunappreciated by his men.
"We will fight with the army, Don Jose," declared Pedro. "We will driveout the Yankees and save Panama."
"Viva Colombia! Baja los Yankees!" shouted the peons. As this voicedthe popular sentiment, and as Don Jose's loyalty in the Panama affairhad been questioned by some of his enemies, no sufficiently discreetreply occurred to the puzzled schoolmaster, whose intellectual gifts,moreover, were lacking in the quick give-and-take needed for streetoratory. So, smiling benignly, and somewhat fatuously, upon thenoisy rabble, he thrust his hand deeper into his coat, peered moreowlishly through his gold-rimmed glasses and, forgetting its futurepossibilities, got such enjoyment as he could out of the novelsituation.
The volunteers exploded with joy over the president's apparent approvalof their demand. Had Pedro cared to stop for further talk the impatienceof his comrades would have prevented him. Although these peons had nodefinite plan, they were looking for something more exciting than anexchange of opinions with this old grey-beard of San Carlos. A marchthrough the city, and then on to Panama, seemed as good a program as anyto men who were indifferent to the dry details of geography. There weremore cries of "Down with the Yankees!" and cheers for Don Jose. Then,before that bewildered statesman could take himself off, his unwashedadmirers filed past his balcony, leaving the toy captain and his men toclose the gates they had so courageously guarded.
Under other skies and among a more vindictive people, a roving crowd ofpeons, clamorous for war and threatening all who opposed them, mightbe regarded with some alarm. But the mildness of the Andean character,its dislike for actual bloodshed, lessened Bogota's danger. Even thetimid Don Jose was not apprehensive. But there were others who thoughtit wiser to keep these peons away from Americans living in Bogota. Notthat anything would really happen--past experiences seemed to prove theharmlessness of this kind of
patriotism. When the second expeditionleft for the Isthmus, for instance, an American, looking for novelimpressions, had posed the volunteers before his camera and snapshottedthem to his heart's content while they were denouncing "los Yankees."But one mob of patriots may be quite unlike another, and it so happenedthat when King Pedro's army of emboladores, in its aimless wanderingsafter leaving the Palace of San Carlos, stumbled upon a native of theUnited States, the encounter became a very lively one indeed.
As a rule plenty of Americans are in Bogota. Some go there to dobusiness for the merchant houses which they represent; some havetheir own local interests, others are after those tempting government"concessions" granted to the disinterested person who develops thenatural resources of the country by monopolizing them. When the Panama"revolution" came, most Americans left Bogota, conscious that it wasnot a promising time to seek aid from the national treasury for theirventures. Those who were unable to leave, stayed within their respectivehotels whenever a popular uprising seemed likely.
It was down a blank little side street, leading nowhere in particular,lined with modest one-storied houses, in a quiet district unfrequentedby foreigners, that the roving peons met the one American who had failedto conceal himself on this particular morning. After leaving San Carlos,Pedro had turned his men into the Plaza de Catedral, where they hadclattered along the wide concourse, pausing to make a few fiery speechesbefore the capitol, whose unroofed courts--the building was unfinishedat that time--and majestic Doric columns seem meant for oratory. Fromhere they had gone the zigzag length of the principal business street.Then tiring of their progress through an unresponsive city, they hadstarted to find their way back to the Calle de Las Montanas, choosingfor this purpose the obscure Calle de Las Flores.
At their approach the street was practically deserted, all the doorsopening on it carefully barred and, in some instances, even the blindsof the windows drawn. Thus, it happened that a tall man, muffled in aruana, wearing a wide sombrero, and with his back against the entranceto one of the houses, became unavoidably conspicuous as the throng ofemboladores surged along the roadway abreast of him.
"Viva Colombia!" shouted Pedro, giving the usual greeting. "Baja losYankees!"
Instead of answering in a like strain of enthusiasm, the man addressedtossed the loose end of his ruana over one shoulder, showing, as he didso, a pallid face on which played a contemptuous smile.
"Soy un Americano," he replied composedly, glancing at Pedro and thenturning his eyes, which were singularly piercing, from one to another ofthose crowding about him.
"Un Yankee! Un Yankee! Baja los Yankees!"
The cry was followed by a threatening movement of the emboladores towardthe man whose attitude seemed to be a challenge to them.
"Halt!" yelled Pedro. "I know this senor. Give him a chance. If hecheers Colombia, we will let him go. If he refuses, he is prisoner. Now,Senor Yankee--viva Colombia!"
The emboladores gave a lusty cheer. It was met with scornful silence bythe man who had declared himself a Yankee.
"Si! Si! Pedro el Rey!" they all shouted. "He is an enemy to Colombia.He is prisoner!"
The wily Pedro unwilling to risk his position by denying the demands ofhis followers, yet fearing to aid in an act of violence, diplomaticallysaid nothing. The defiant American, meanwhile, regarded the peons with adisdain that enraged them, although checking, through its very audacity,their hostility.
"I am not a Colombian," he said quietly; "I am not an enemy to Colombia.But I won't cheer against the Yankees."
"Un Yankee! Un Yankee!" they retorted. "A Yankee thief come for ourgold!"
"There is truth in that," he laughed sardonically. "I want gold that youare too lazy to get for yourselves--just as you were too lazy to keepPanama."
"Un loco! He is insane!" cried Pedro in disgust. "Let us go!"
"No! No!" yelled the angry mob. And amid cries of "Loco! Demonio!Yankee! Puerco!" those in the front ranks made a lunge at the man whoseexasperating coolness had kept them at bay, while a shower of missilescame from the peons who hovered in the rear.
But the attack was skilfully met. Tripping up his first two assailantsand warding off the blows of a third, the Yankee, smiling derisively,stealthily passed his left hand along the ponderous door against whichhe was leaning. This street door, as is usual in Colombian houses, hada small "postigo," or wicket, large enough to admit one person at atime, and opening much more readily than the unwieldy mass of timber ofwhich it formed an insignificant part. Having found the latch of thiswicket, the Yankee gave it a quick backward thrust, stepped lightly overthe threshold and closed and barricaded this scarcely revealed entrancebehind him.
A storm of oaths followed his escape. Then, not content with this ventto their anger, the peons, using such stones and weapons as came tohand, rushed upon the wooden barricade standing between them and theirprey, at the same time calling upon the inhabitants of the house to letthem in. These Colombian doors, however, are built to withstand a stoutsiege, and the din might have been indefinitely prolonged had it notcome to an abrupt and unexpected conclusion.
Three sharp blows upon the door were given from within. Then a clearfeminine voice was heard above the uproar.
"Stand back, Senores! I will open."
There was a dead silence. This time it was the great door itself thatswung slowly open. There was no sign of the escaped Yankee in the widecorridor beyond. In his stead there stood, unattended, unprotected, awoman.
She was clad in a long robe of white, her dark hair flowing unconfineddown her shoulders. Her bare arms, exquisitely molded, and of a tintthat vied with her dress in purity, were crossed upon her breast. Therewas no fear in her eyes as she faced the abashed men and boys beforeher.
"This is my house, Senores," she said calmly. "What do you want?"
Involuntarily the leaders of the mob fell back, awed by the girl'scourage and dignity. There was a murmur of voices, ending in a chorus ofadmiration and homage.
"La Reina! La Reina!" they cried. "La Reina de los Indios!"
Then the sharp-witted Pedro, resuming command over his ragged troops,stepped forth, waving to the others to keep silence.
"It is nothing, Senora," he said, bowing with an awkward grace thatplayed sad pranks with the box of blacking hanging from his neck. "Weare patriots of Colombia marching to Panama. We mean no harm to you."Then, turning to the emboladores, he shouted, with his old enthusiasm:
"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Viva la Reina! Baja los Yankees!"
The crowd took up the familiar call, and with one of those quick changesof sentiment that sometimes sweeps over such gatherings, fell into amarch, cheering the motionless "Reina de los Indios" as they filed pasther, and leaving the Calle de los Flores to its accustomed dreams andquiet.
The Gilded Man: A Romance of the Andes Page 7
