Excerpt from the journals ofOctavio Gerifáltez, Marquis of FuentescuraTranslated from the Spanish language by Cassian Aurelius Vauxhall
Portrait of the Marquis as a student, one month before sailing for Puerto Rico.
September the Twentieth, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Two hours after sundown
Halted in the town of Arecibo for the night, which promises torrential rain. The tropical weather of this island has been little to my favour, I fear. My company has been thrown into a flutter after receiving news from Camuy, to the west, about the arrest of one named Manuel María González by army officers. Though I do not yet comprehend the gravity, if any, of this matter, Álvaro seems profoundly troubled and continues speaking in whispers to Ubaldo and Víctor, and Arsenio has been sent to San Juan hurriedly. My opinion on the matter is that any enemy of the authorities deserves reciprocal punishment. I shall further investigate, however.
A meagre fish stew and boiled beans will serve as our repast. I should purchase cigarettes in the morning; I’ve burned through five only today. September the Twenty-First, of the year MDCCCLXVIII, Three hours into the afternoon
Arrived to Lares by midday. The mayor, whose name escapes me currently, has kindly allowed me to make my home in a room overlooking the town square, two doors down the street from the town hall. A smidge modest in comparison to my lodgings in Salamanca, but without the noisome student rabble. The provided table is too rickety for my tomes, however; I’ll take the matter up tonight at supper.
When Ordúñez finishes unpacking and has dressed me appropriately, I intend on taking an exploratory stroll through and around the centre of town, to best determine observation spots for my research. The square is an obvious choice.
Álvaro, Ubaldo and Víctor are nowhere to be found, though I overheard something regarding the hacienda of a Manuel Rojas. Something suspicious hangs about them. I shall question the mayor over supper.
No cigarettes still; the vendors in Arecibo were stocked only with local brands. Once more, the mayor could assist me with this issue, though deprivation symptoms are becoming manifest.
My feet ache terribly; eschewing a horse was a foolish idea.
September the Twenty-Second, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Sometime after midnight
Unable to catch a single wink of sleep. The table fell silent at supper when I brought up Rojas and the González arrest. The mayor blanched when I mentioned the name of my travel partners; my suspicions are confirmed. A scent of coming turmoil has impacted my nostrils. My pistols shall remain loaded for the time being.
On a more positive note, the mayor warmly conferred upon me a case of Andalusian cigarettes upon my inquiry; I’ll return the gesture with a special mention in my thesis, in which he expressed great interest. I shall mail him a copy when it is finished.
Ordúñez complains of dorsal pains; today will be a rest day for him.
September the Twenty-Second, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Sundown
What a bountiful day has transpired! My observations in the town square today are invaluable to my research; I have taken them down in another notebook, as I was unable to find this journal in the tired haze this morning; I found it under the bed but a few minutes ago.
The town has proved more academically fulfilling than the governor in San Juan divulged, but I’ll not tire my wrist with the reasons; they are duly enumerated in my notes.
There is a strange scurrying about in the town, and I’ve been told of so-called jornaleros avoiding their duties in the surrounding fields. I have resolved to not be overly inquisitive, but to prepare myself for any contingency, because some implicit trouble pervades the area; what it is, I cannot imagine.
I’ll advise Ordúñez to keep his wits about him, in case of any misfortune, but I refuse to flee based on what is most likely an empty suspicion.
A letter arrived from Valladolid. I’ll compose the response presently.
Tomorrow I shall have to beg the mayor for another case of cigarettes. My habit has become too much like an addiction, I fear.
September the Twenty-Fourth, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Three hours after midnight
My most profound fears have materialised themselves into cruel reality.
An utterly deranged, revolutionary fancy has seized the people of Lares, who have entered in force under the inky mantle of night, with flaming torches and cries of revolt. There must be hundreds in this murderous mob, who have set alight the town hall and God knows what else... Some newfound flag with blue, red and a white cross has become impressed in my memory, though in the maddened milling about, its location has been effaced from remembrance. A pyre of notebooks has been erected in the square which so placidly offered itself to my observation but yesterday, and zealous chanting mixes with furious applause and speeches before the town church, though its meaning could interest me little less than the safety of my battered body and my dear valet Ordúñez, who has received a rather pernicious-seeming wound to the shin, the provenance of which I cannot identify.
I have witnessed fellow Spaniards and provincial officials dragged by their nightgowns into the streets and taken somewhere by the rebels, but no actual bloodshed has been brought about.
Somehow we have concealed ourselves in a warehouse two streets from the centre, but these vicious brigands shall not be long in discovering us and drag us into some understaffed, overcrowded revolutionary prison, where we will most certainly perish, unless providential intervention brings the Spanish militia corps to succour us.
I write these final words as my last match is consumed by its miniature flames. Ordúñez requires immediate medical attention, so I shall send him into the street to seek mercy from the mob; they’ll not pester a wounded servant, despite his Andalusian accent...
Praying a rosary would be most in order; thank God mother included one with her latest letter.
September the Twentieth, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Two hours after sundown
Halted in the town of Arecibo for the night, which promises torrential rain. The tropical weather of this island has been little to my favour, I fear. My company has been thrown into a flutter after receiving news from Camuy, to the west, about the arrest of one named Manuel María González by army officers. Though I do not yet comprehend the gravity, if any, of this matter, Álvaro seems profoundly troubled and continues speaking in whispers to Ubaldo and Víctor, and Arsenio has been sent to San Juan hurriedly. My opinion on the matter is that any enemy of the authorities deserves reciprocal punishment. I shall further investigate, however.
A meagre fish stew and boiled beans will serve as our repast. I should purchase cigarettes in the morning; I’ve burned through five only today.
September the Twenty-First, of the year MDCCCLXVIII, Three hours into the afternoon
Arrived to Lares by midday. The mayor, whose name escapes me currently, has kindly allowed me to make my home in a room overlooking the town square, two doors down the street from the town hall. A smidge modest in comparison to my lodgings in Salamanca, but without the noisome student rabble. The provided table is too rickety for my tomes, however; I’ll take the matter up tonight at supper.
When Ordúñez finishes unpacking and has dressed me appropriately, I intend on taking an exploratory stroll through and around the centre of town, to best determine observation spots for my research. The square is an obvious choice.
Álvaro, Ubaldo and Víctor are nowhere to be found, though I overheard something regarding the hacienda of a Manuel Rojas. Something suspicious hangs about them. I shall question the mayor over supper.
No cigarettes still; the vendors in Arecibo were stocked only with local brands. Once more, the mayor could assist me with this issue, though deprivation symptoms are becoming manifest.
My feet ache terribly; eschewing a horse was a foolish idea.
September the Twenty-Second, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Sometime after midnight
Unable to catch a single wink of sleep. The table fell silent at supper when I brought up Rojas and the González arrest. The mayor blanched when I mentioned the name of my travel partners; my suspicions are confirmed. A scent of coming turmoil has impacted my nostrils. My pistols shall remain loaded for the time being.
On a more positive note, the mayor warmly conferred upon me a case of Andalusian cigarettes upon my inquiry; I’ll return the gesture with a special mention in my thesis, in which he expressed great interest. I shall mail him a copy when it is finished.
Ordúñez complains of dorsal pains; today will be a rest day for him.
September the Twenty-Second, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Sundown
What a bountiful day has transpired! My observations in the town square today are invaluable to my research; I have taken them down in another notebook, as I was unable to find this journal in the tired haze this morning; I found it under the bed but a few minutes ago.
The town has proved more academically fulfilling than the governor in San Juan divulged, but I’ll not tire my wrist with the reasons; they are duly enumerated in my notes.
There is a strange scurrying about in the town, and I’ve been told of so-called jornaleros avoiding their duties in the surrounding fields. I have resolved to not be overly inquisitive, but to prepare myself for any contingency, because some implicit trouble pervades the area; what it is, I cannot imagine.
I’ll advise Ordúñez to keep his wits about him, in case of any misfortune, but I refuse to flee based on what is most likely an empty suspicion.
A letter arrived from Valladolid. I’ll compose the response presently.
Tomorrow I shall have to beg the mayor for another case of cigarettes. My habit has become too much like an addiction, I fear.
September the Twenty-Fourth, of the year MDCCCLXVIII,
Three hours after midnight
My most profound fears have materialised themselves into cruel reality.
An utterly deranged, revolutionary fancy has seized the people of Lares, who have entered in force under the inky mantle of night, with flaming torches and cries of revolt. There must be hundreds in this murderous mob, who have set alight the town hall and God knows what else... Some newfound flag with blue, red and a white cross has become impressed in my memory, though in the maddened milling about, its location has been effaced from remembrance. A pyre of notebooks has been erected in the square which so placidly offered itself to my observation but yesterday, and zealous chanting mixes with furious applause and speeches before the town church, though its meaning could interest me little less than the safety of my battered body and my dear valet Ordúñez, who has received a rather pernicious-seeming wound to the shin, the provenance of which I cannot identify.
I have witnessed fellow Spaniards and provincial officials dragged by their nightgowns into the streets and taken somewhere by the rebels, but no actual bloodshed has been brought about.
Somehow we have concealed ourselves in a warehouse two streets from the centre, but these vicious brigands shall not be long in discovering us and drag us into some understaffed, overcrowded revolutionary prison, where we will most certainly perish, unless providential intervention brings the Spanish militia corps to succour us.
I write these final words as my last match is consumed by its miniature flames. Ordúñez requires immediate medical attention, so I shall send him into the street to seek mercy from the mob; they’ll not pester a wounded servant, despite his Andalusian accent...
Praying a rosary would be most in order; thank God mother included one with her latest letter.
[The journal concludes after this entry.]