Bab Bab 28 · TATAKUT

With prophetic inspiration Ben-Zayb had been for some days past

maintaining in his newspaper that education was disastrous, very

disastrous for the Philippine Islands, and now in view of the events of

that Friday of pasquinades, the writer crowed and chanted his triumph,

leaving belittled and overwhelmed his adversary Horatius, who in the

Pirotecnia had dared to ridicule him in the following manner:

From our contemporary, El Grito:

“Education is disastrous, very disastrous, for the Philippine

Islands.”

Admitted.

For some time El Grito has pretended to represent the Filipino

people—ergo, as Fray Ibañez would say, if he knew Latin.

But Fray Ibañez turns Mussulman when he writes, and we know how the

Mussulmans dealt with education. In witness whereof, as a royal

preacher said, the Alexandrian library!

Now he was right, he, Ben-Zayb! He was the only one in the islands who

thought, the only one who foresaw events!

Truly, the news that seditious pasquinades had been found on the doors

of the University not only took away the appetite from many and

disturbed the digestion of others, but it even rendered the phlegmatic

Chinese uneasy, so that they no longer dared to sit in their shops with

one leg drawn up as usual, from fear of losing time in extending it in

order to put themselves into flight. At eight o’clock in the morning,

although the sun continued on its course and his Excellency, the

Captain-General, did not appear at the head of his victorious cohorts,

still the excitement had increased. The friars who were accustomed to

frequent Quiroga’s bazaar did not put in their appearance, and this

symptom presaged terrific cataclysms. If the sun had risen a square and

the saints appeared only in pantaloons, Quiroga would not have been so

greatly alarmed, for he would have taken the sun for a gaming-table and

the sacred images for gamblers who had lost their camisas, but for the

friars not to come, precisely when some novelties had just arrived for

them!

By means of a provincial friend of his, Quiroga forbade entrance into

his gaming-houses to every Indian who was not an old acquaintance, as

the future Chinese consul feared that they might get possession of the

sums that the wretches lost there. After arranging his bazaar in such a

way that he could close it quickly in case of need, he had a policeman

accompany him for the short distance that separated his house from

Simoun’s. Quiroga thought this occasion the most propitious for making

use of the rifles and cartridges that he had in his warehouse, in the

way the jeweler had pointed out; so that on the following days there

would be searches made, and then—how many prisoners, how many terrified

people would give up their savings! It was the game of the old

carbineers, in slipping contraband cigars and tobacco-leaves under a

house, in order to pretend a search and force the unfortunate owner to

bribery or fines, only now the art had been perfected and, the tobacco

monopoly abolished, resort was had to the prohibited arms.

But Simoun refused to see any one and sent word to the Chinese that he

should leave things as they were, whereupon he went to see Don Custodio

to inquire whether he should fortify his bazaar, but neither would Don

Custodio receive him, being at the time engaged in the study of a

project for defense in case of a siege. He thought of Ben-Zayb as a

source of information, but finding the writer armed to the teeth and

using two loaded revolvers for paper-weights, took his leave in the

shortest possible time, to shut himself up in his house and take to his

bed under pretense of illness.

At four in the afternoon the talk was no longer of simple pasquinades.

There were whispered rumors of an understanding between the students

and the outlaws of San Mateo, it was certain that in the pansitería

they had conspired to surprise the city, there was talk of German ships

outside the bay to support the movement, of a band of young men who

under the pretext of protesting and demonstrating their Hispanism had

gone to the Palace to place themselves at the General’s orders but had

been arrested because it was discovered that they were armed.

Providence had saved his Excellency, preventing him from receiving

those precocious criminals, as he was at the time in conference with

the Provincials, the Vice-Rector, and with Padre Irene, Padre Salvi’s

representative. There was considerable truth in these rumors, if we

have to believe Padre Irene, who in the afternoon went to visit Capitan

Tiago. According to him, certain persons had advised his Excellency to

improve the opportunity in order to inspire terror and administer a

lasting lesson to the filibusters.

“A number shot,” one had advised, “some two dozen reformers deported at

once, in the silence of the night, would extinguish forever the flames

of discontent.”

“No,” rejoined another, who had a kind heart, “sufficient that the

soldiers parade through the streets, a troop of cavalry, for example,

with drawn sabers—sufficient to drag along some cannon, that’s enough!

The people are timid and will all retire into their houses.”

“No, no,” insinuated another. “This is the opportunity to get rid of

the enemy. It’s not sufficient that they retire into their houses, they

should be made to come out, like evil humors by means of plasters. If

they are inclined to start riots, they should be stirred up by secret

agitators. I am of the opinion that the troops should be resting on

their arms and appearing careless and indifferent, so the people may be

emboldened, and then in case of any disturbance—out on them, action!”

“The end justifies the means,” remarked another. “Our end is our holy

religion and the integrity of the fatherland. Proclaim a state of

siege, and in case of the least disturbance, arrest all the rich and

educated, and—clean up the country!”

“If I hadn’t got there in time to counsel moderation,” added Padre

Irene, speaking to Capitan Tiago, “it’s certain that blood would now be

flowing through the streets. I thought of you, Capitan—The partizans of

force couldn’t do much with the General, and they missed Simoun. Ah, if

Simoun had not been taken ill—”

With the arrest of Basilio and the search made later among his books

and papers, Capitan Tiago had become much worse. Now Padre Irene had

come to augment his terror with hair-raising tales. Ineffable fear

seized upon the wretch, manifesting itself first by a light shiver,

which was rapidly accentuated, until he was unable to speak. With his

eyes bulging and his brow covered with sweat, he caught Padre Irene’s

arm and tried to rise, but could not, and then, uttering two groans,

fell heavily back upon the pillow. His eyes were wide open and he was

slavering—but he was dead. The terrified Padre Irene fled, and, as the

dying man had caught hold of him, in his flight he dragged the corpse

from the bed, leaving it sprawling in the middle of the room.

By night the terror had reached a climax. Several incidents had

occurred to make the timorous believe in the presence of secret

agitators.

During a baptism some cuartos were thrown to the boys and naturally

there was a scramble at the door of the church. It happened that at the

time there was passing a bold soldier, who, somewhat preoccupied,

mistook the uproar for a gathering of filibusters and hurled himself,

sword in hand, upon the boys. He went into the church, and had he not

become entangled in the curtains suspended from the choir he would not

have left a single head on shoulders. It was but the matter of a moment

for the timorous to witness this and take to flight, spreading the news

that the revolution had begun. The few shops that had been kept open

were now hastily closed, there being Chinese who even left bolts of

cloth outside, and not a few women lost their slippers in their flight

through the streets. Fortunately, there was only one person wounded and

a few bruised, among them the soldier himself, who suffered a fall

fighting with the curtain, which smelt to him of filibusterism. Such

prowess gained him great renown, and a renown so pure that it is to be

wished all fame could be acquired in like manner—mothers would then

weep less and earth would be more populous!

In a suburb the inhabitants caught two unknown individuals burying arms

under a house, whereupon a tumult arose and the people pursued the

strangers in order to kill them and turn their bodies over to the

authorities, but some one pacified the excited crowd by telling them

that it would be sufficient to hand over the corpora delictorum, which

proved to be some old shotguns that would surely have killed the first

person who tried to fire them.

“All right,” exclaimed one braggart, “if they want us to rebel, let’s

go ahead!” But he was cuffed and kicked into silence, the women

pinching him as though he had been the owner of the shotguns.

In Ermita the affair was more serious, even though there was less

excitement, and that when there were shots fired. A certain cautious

government employee, armed to the teeth, saw at nightfall an object

near his house, and taking it for nothing less than a student, fired at

it twice with a revolver. The object proved to be a policeman, and they

buried him—pax Christi! Mutis!

In Dulumbayan various shots also resounded, from which there resulted

the death of a poor old deaf man, who had not heard the sentinel’s

quién vive, and of a hog that had heard it and had not answered España!

The old man was buried with difficulty, since there was no money to pay

for the obsequies, but the hog was eaten.

In Manila, [59] in a confectionery near the University much frequented

by the students, the arrests were thus commented upon.

“And have they arrested Tadeo?” [60] asked the proprietess.

“Abá!” answered a student who lived in Parian, “he’s already shot!”

“Shot! Nakú! He hasn’t paid what he owes me.”

“Ay, don’t mention that or you’ll be taken for an accomplice. I’ve

already burnt the book [61] you lent me. There might be a search and it

would be found. Be careful!”

“Did you say that Isagani is a prisoner?”

“Crazy fool, too, that Isagani,” replied the indignant student. “They

didn’t try to catch him, but he went and surrendered. Let him bust

himself—he’ll surely be shot.”

The señora shrugged her shoulders. “He doesn’t owe me anything. And

what about Paulita?”

“She won’t lack a husband. Sure, she’ll cry a little, and then marry a

Spaniard.”

The night was one of the gloomiest. In the houses the rosary was

recited and pious women dedicated paternosters and requiems to each of

the souls of their relatives and friends. By eight o’clock hardly a

pedestrian could be seen—only from time to time was heard the galloping

of a horse against whose sides a saber clanked noisily, then the

whistles of the watchmen, and carriages that whirled along at full

speed, as though pursued by mobs of filibusters.

Yet terror did not reign everywhere. In the house of the silversmith,

where Placido Penitente boarded, the events were commented upon and

discussed with some freedom.

“I don’t believe in the pasquinades,” declared a workman, lank and

withered from operating the blowpipe. “To me it looks like Padre

Salvi’s doings.”

“Ahem, ahem!” coughed the silversmith, a very prudent man, who did not

dare to stop the conversation from fear that he would be considered a

coward. The good man had to content himself with coughing, winking to

his helper, and gazing toward the street, as if to say, “They may be

watching us!”

“On account of the operetta,” added another workman.

“Aha!” exclaimed one who had a foolish face, “I told you so!”

“Ahem!” rejoined a clerk, in a tone of compassion, “the affair of the

pasquinades is true, Chichoy, and I can give you the explanation.”

Then he added mysteriously, “It’s a trick of the Chinaman Quiroga’s!”

“Ahem, ahem!” again coughed the silversmith, shifting his quid of buyo

from one cheek to the other.

“Believe me, Chichoy, of Quiroga the Chinaman! I heard it in the

office.”

“Nakú, it’s certain then,” exclaimed the simpleton, believing it at

once.

“Quiroga,” explained the clerk, “has a hundred thousand pesos in

Mexican silver out in the bay. How is he to get it in? Very easily. Fix

up the pasquinades, availing himself of the question of the students,

and, while every-body is excited, grease the officials’ palms, and in

the cases come!”

“Just it! Just it!” cried the credulous fool, striking the table with

his fist. “Just it! That’s why Quiroga did it! That’s why—” But he had

to relapse into silence as he really did not know what to say about

Quiroga.

“And we must pay the damages?” asked the indignant Chichoy.

“Ahem, ahem, a-h-hem!” coughed the silversmith, hearing steps in the

street.

The footsteps approached and all in the shop fell silent.

“St. Pascual Bailon is a great saint,” declared the silversmith

hypocritically, in a loud voice, at the same time winking to the

others. “St. Pascual Bailon—”

At that moment there appeared the face of Placido Penitente, who was

accompanied by the pyrotechnician that we saw receiving orders from

Simoun. The newcomers were surrounded and importuned for news.

“I haven’t been able to talk with the prisoners,” explained Placido.

“There are some thirty of them.”

“Be on your guard,” cautioned the pyrotechnician, exchanging a knowing

look with Placido. “They say that to-night there’s going to be a

massacre.”

“Aha! Thunder!” exclaimed Chichoy, looking about for a weapon. Seeing

none, he caught up his blowpipe.

The silversmith sat down, trembling in every limb. The credulous

simpleton already saw himself beheaded and wept in anticipation over

the fate of his family.

“No,” contradicted the clerk, “there’s not going to be any massacre.

The adviser of”—he made a mysterious gesture—“is fortunately sick.”

“Simoun!”

“Ahem, ahem, a-h-hem!”

Placido and the pyrotechnician exchanged another look.

“If he hadn’t got sick—”

“It would look like a revolution,” added the pyrotechnician

negligently, as he lighted a cigarette in the lamp chimney. “And what

should we do then?”

“Then we’d start a real one, now that they’re going to massacre us

anyhow—”

The violent fit of coughing that seized the silversmith prevented the

rest of this speech from being heard, but Chichoy must have been saying

terrible things, to judge from his murderous gestures with the blowpipe

and the face of a Japanese tragedian that he put on.

“Rather say that he’s playing off sick because he’s afraid to go out.

As may be seen—”

The silversmith was attacked by another fit of coughing so severe that

he finally asked all to retire.

“Nevertheless, get ready,” warned the pyrotechnician. “If they want to

force us to kill or be killed—”

Another fit of coughing on the part of the poor silversmith prevented

further conversation, so the workmen and apprentices retired to their

homes, carrying with them hammers and saws, and other implements, more

or less cutting, more or less bruising, disposed to sell their lives

dearly. Placido and the pyrotechnician went out again.

“Prudence, prudence!” cautioned the silversmith in a tearful voice.

“You’ll take care of my widow and orphans!” begged the credulous

simpleton in a still more tearful voice, for he already saw himself

riddled with bullets and buried.

That night the guards at the city gates were replaced with Peninsular

artillerymen, and on the following morning as the sun rose, Ben-Zayb,

who had ventured to take a morning stroll to examine the condition of

the fortifications, found on the glacis near the Luneta the corpse of a

native girl, half-naked and abandoned. Ben-Zayb was horrified, but

after touching it with his cane and gazing toward the gates proceeded

on his way, musing over a sentimental tale he might base upon the

incident.

However, no allusion to it appeared in the newspapers on the following

days, engrossed as they were with the falls and slippings caused by

banana-peels. In the dearth of news Ben-Zayb had to comment at length

on a cyclone that had destroyed in America whole towns, causing the

death of more than two thousand persons. Among other beautiful things

he said:

“The sentiment of charity, MORE PREVALENT IN CATHOLIC COUNTRIES

THAN IN OTHERS, and the thought of Him who, influenced by that same

feeling, sacrificed himself for humanity, moves (sic) us to

compassion over the misfortunes of our kind and to render thanks

that in this country, so scourged by cyclones, there are not

enacted scenes so desolating as that which the inhabitants of the

United States mus have witnessed!”

Horatius did not miss the opportunity, and, also without mentioning the

dead, or the murdered native girl, or the assaults, answered him in his

Pirotecnia:

“After such great charity and such great humanity, Fray Ibañez—I

mean, Ben-Zayb—brings himself to pray for the Philippines.

But he is understood.

Because he is not Catholic, and the sentiment of charity is most

prevalent,” etc. [62]