Chapter Thirty Three. “Is it a Grito?”
The soldiers of the guard had grounded arms, and were sauntering back to their benches, when something came into the sergeant’s mind which caused him misgiving.
Was it possible he had been paying honours to those undeserving of them?
He was sure of it being the carriage of Don Ignacio Valverde; his horses and livery too. But nothing more. None of the party was known to him as belonging to Don Ignacio’s family or servants. For José was but groom or second coachman, who occasionally drove out his young mistress, but never to the Palace, or other place where the sergeant had been on duty.
Equally a stranger to him was the big fellow on the box, who had hold of the reins, as also one of the gentlemen inside. It occurred to him, however, that the face of the other was familiar – awakening the memories of more than ordinary interest.
“Mil diablos!” he muttered to himself as he stood gazing after the retreating equipage. “If that wasn’t my old captain, Don Ruperto Rivas, there isn’t another man in Mexico more like him. I heard say he had turned salteador, and they’d taken him only the other day. Carria! what’s that?”
The carriage, as yet not over a hundred yards from the garita, still going on at a rather moderate pace, was seen suddenly to increase its speed: in fact, the horses had started off at a gallop! Nor was this from any scare or fright, but caused by a sharp cut or two of the whip, as he could tell by seeing the arm of the big man on the box several times raised above the roof, and vigorously lowered again. Extraordinary behaviour on his part; how was it to be accounted for? And how explain that of the gentleman inside, who appeared satisfied with the changed pace? At all events they were doing naught to prevent it, for again and again the whip strokes were repeated. None of the party were intoxicated; at least they had no appearance of it when they passed the gate. A little excited-looking, though no more than might be expected in men returning from a public procession. But an elegant light equipage with horses in full gallop, so unlike the carriage of a Cabinet Minister! What the mischief could it mean?
The guard-sergeant had just asked himself the question, when, hark! a gun fired at the citadela! Soon after another from the military college of Chapultepec! And from the direction of the Plaza Grande the ringing of bells. First those of the Cathedral, then of the Acordada, and the convent of San Francisco, with other convents and churches, till there was a clangour all over the city!
Hark again! A second gun from the citadel, quickly followed by another from Chapultepec, evidently signals and their responses!
“What the demonio is it? A pronunciamento?” Not only did the sergeant thus interrogate, but all the soldiers under his command, putting the question to one another. It would be nothing much to surprise them, least of all himself. He was somewhat of a veteran, and had seen nigh a score of revolutions, counting ententes.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it is,” he suggested, adding, as a third gun boomed out from the citadel; “it must be a grito!”
“Who’s raising it this time, I wonder?” said one of the soldiers, all now in a flurry of excited expectancy.
Several names of noted militarios were mentioned at a venture; but no one could say for certain, nor even give a guess with any confidence. They could hardly yet realise its being the breaking out of a pronunciamento, since there had been no late tampering with them – the usual preliminary to revolutions.
It might not be, after all. But they would be better able to decide should they hear the rattle of small arms, and for this listened they all ears.
More than one of them would have been delighted to hear it. Not that they disliked the régime of the Dictator, nor the man himself. Like all despots he was the soldiers friend; professed and giving proofs of it, by indulging them in soldierly licence – permission to lord it over the citizen. But much as they liked “El Cojo” (Game leg), as they called him, a grito would be still more agreeable to them – promising unlimited loot.
The sergeant had views of his own, and reflections he kept to himself. He felt good as sure there was something up, and could not help connecting it with the carriage which had just passed. He now no longer doubted having seen his old captain in it. But how came he to be there, and what doing? He had been in the city, that’s certain – was now out of it, and going at a speed that must mean something more than common. He could get to San Augustin by that route. There were troops quartered there; had they declared for the Liberals?
It might be so, and Rivas was on his way to meet and lead them on to the city. At any moment they might appear on the calzada, at the corner round which the carriage had just turned.
The sergeant was now in a state of nervous perplexity. Although his eyes were on the road his thoughts were not there, but all turned inward, communing with himself. Which side ought he to take? That of the Liberales or the Parti Pretre? He had been upon both through two or three alternate changes, and still he was but a sargento. And as he had been serving Santa Anna for a longer spell than usual, without a single step of promotion, he could not make much of a mistake by giving the Republican party one more trial. It might get him the long-coveted epaulette of alferez.
While still occupied with his ambitious dreams, endeavouring to decide into which scale he should throw the weight of his sword, musket, and bayonet, the citadel gun once more boomed out, answered by the canon of Chapultepec.
Still, there was no cracking of rifles, nor continuous rattle of musketry, such as should be heard coincident with that cry which in the Mexican metropolis usually announces a change of government.
It seemed strange not only to him, but all others on guard at El Nino. But it might be a parley – the calm before the storm, which they could not help thinking would yet burst forth, in full fusillade – such as they had been accustomed to.
Listening on, however, they heard not that; only the bells, bells, bells, jingling all over the city, as though it were on fire, those of the cathedral leading the orchestra of campanule music. And yet another gun from the citadel, with the answering one from the “Summer Palace of the Monctezunas.”
They were fast losing patience, beginning to fear there would be no pronunciamento after all, and no chance of plundering, when the notes of a cavalry bugle broke upon their ears.
“At last!” cried one, speaking the mind of all, and as though the sound were a relief to them. “That’s the beginning of it. So, camarados! we may get ready. The next thing will be the cracking of carbines!”
They all ran to the stack of muskets, each clutching at his own. They stood listening as before; but not to hear any cracking of carbines. Instead, the bugle again brayed out its trumpet notes, recognisable as signals of command; which, though only infantry men, they understood. There was the “Quick march!” and “Double quick!” but they had no time to reflect on what it was for, nor need, as just then a troop of Hussars was seen defiling out from a side street, and coming on towards them at a charging gallop.
In a few seconds they were up to the gate, which, being still open, they could have passed through, without stop or parley. For all, they made both, the commanding officer suddenly reining up, and shouting back along the line —
“Alto!”
The “halt” was proclaimed by the trumpeter at his side, which brought the galloping cohort to a stand.
“Sargento!” thundered he at their head to the guard-sergeant, who, with his men re-formed, was again at “Present arms!”
“Has a carriage passed you, guard – a landau – grey horses, five men in it?”
“Only four men, Señor Colonel; but all the rest as you describe it.”
“Only four! What can that mean? Was there a coachman in light blue livery – silver facings?”
“The same, Señor Colonel.”
“That’s it, sure; must be. How long since it passed?”
“Not quite twenty minutes, Señor Colonel. It’s just gone round the corner; yonder where you see the dust stirring.”
“Adelante!” cried the colonel, without waiting to question further, and as the trumpet gave out the “Forward – gallop!” the Hussar troop went sweeping through the gate, leaving the guard-sergeant and his men in a state of great mystification and no little chagrin; he, their chief spokesman, saying with a sorrowful air —
“Well hombres, it don’t look like a grito, after all!”