John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“He’s getting in his carriage,” announces the capitán breathlessly. “We’ll greet him at the church.”

They form in double file and march, the rest of the spectators tagging along on either side, till they come to the huge churchyard and create a passageway with their ranks, two hundred yards long, leading to the neo-classical grandeur of the basilica. The shadow of the three-story belltower gives relief to a good half of the waiting soldiers, but Diosdado is not among them. He waits, at attention, in the sun.

Malolos is renowned for its churches, “infested with them” as Scipio would say, and within them many of the Spanish friars captured in the central provinces are being held prisoner. Humiliated, yes, but fortunate to have been spared the wrath of the poor villagers they have bullied and defrauded for so many years. If it had not been for the Church some sort of reform acceptable to Filipinos might have been possible, some link with Spain preserved. But the religious corporations had the ear of the Queen Regent, that girl of sixteen years who famously stated that she would “rather lose all of the Philippines than a single soul for Christ.”

There will be a Philippine Republic now, with Philippine laws and a Philippine Constitution, each new proclamation, Diosdado hopes, no matter how compromised by the principalía in their top hats, further refutation to American designs on the archipelago.

Cheers erupt from the crowd as they see the carriage, drawn by four enormous white horses, passing over the small bridge and under the towering, hastily constructed triumphal arch, a trotting phalanx of infantrymen to keep the well-wishers from mobbing it, now swinging into the passageway of soldiers and stopping in a waft of dust at the foot of the great church.

Diosdado can see the delegates crowding at the entrance to the basilica, the Banda playing the newly written national anthem, cries of “ Viva Aguinaldo! Viva la República Filipina! ” filling the air.

He is a small man, even smaller than Diosdado remembers from Hong-kong, carrying a large ivory cane with a golden head, flanked by his taller subordinates as he mounts the steps. The mass of cheering delegates part to allow him entrance.

A small detail of Janolino’s men is left to guard the doorway, and Dios-dado is able to squeeze his way back through the spectators who press forward hoping to catch a phrase or more of the Supremo’s opening address, till he reaches the shade of a huge mango tree. It is an honor to be here, he knows, but he can’t escape a twinge of disappointment at being left outside like this, after his close and valuable service—

Eulalio and Zacharias are there beside him, squatting on their heels and fanning themselves with their hats.

“First Don Emiliano will give a speech,” says Zacharias, “and then the rest will make up the new rules.”

“And what will these be?”

“Better ones, God willing.”

Eulalio indicates a dozen Augustinians, no doubt receiving their daily allotment of exercise, being shepherded across the rear of the yard by a pair of armed soldiers. Robes wrinkled and dusty, the frailes hide their unshaven faces from the happy indio throng with their parasols.

“Will they be sending these ones away?”

“Without a doubt. As soon as it is allowed by the Americans.”

Eulalio ponders this. “Why do we need their permission?”

Zacharias sighs at the ignorance of his friend. “Because the Americans control the harbor of Manila and every ship that sits upon it. We can’t make the prayles swim home.”

“I would like to see them try,” says Eulalio, his face brightening. “I bet the fat ones can float for a long time.” He looks around the churchyard. “Are the Americans here?”

Zacharias stands to look over the heads of the crowd, then approaches Diosdado, holding his hat over his heart.

“Excuse me, po ,” he says, bowing slightly to the younger man. “Do you know if any Americans have attended? Their great Admiral Dewey, perhaps?”

Every anuncio has been full of praise for “the Mighty and Humanitarian North American Nation, cradle of Liberty,” who has “offered its disinterested protection” to the fledgling republic, but the yanquis remain distant, cloistered within the Walled City and on their menacing gunships, like dark clouds of a typhoon hanging over the sea whose very mention may draw their fury screaming about one’s ears. We have mounted an impressive spectacle today, thinks Diosdado, but our most important audience is absent.

“Perhaps,” he tells the barefoot kasama , “the Americans have other plans.”

They’re supposed to burn the city down. Sally Manigault strolls up Princess, giddy with fear as she carries the basket, but at every corner there is only another pair of men she knows, tipping their hats and warning her not to be long on the street. The only smoke in the sky is behind her, a long black tail from a steamer heading upriver. They’re still working at Sprunt’s and the other big places on the water, but most of the downtown businesses are closed for the voting. It is the quietest Election Day she can recall.

Myrtle Talmadge said he was up on Tenth, so she passes the corner sentries feeling like Little Red Cap from the Grimm brothers’ story, swinging the basket and smiling and greeting the men. Niles would be out here if he hadn’t had his tiff with the Judge and been forced to go out West. Sally is wearing the lavender dress with the leg-o’-mutton sleeves and gloves of a darker purple, embroidered in rose, and the pink and black chiffon touring hat she bought in Charleston last year. Her boots, of course, pinch like the devil, but there is no remedy for that short of surgery. If she had only gotten Niles’s slender, modest feet instead of flat monstrosities like Harry’s, but one is not consulted when physical attributes are being handed out.

The men carry shotguns and rifles and all have a white handkerchief tied on their left arm. They are ever so brave, volunteers all, and she gives them her brightest smile as she walks by. The Judge wanted to send her out of town like many of the other women in their acquaintance, but she told him if the men of Wilmington had suddenly discovered their backbone the least their women could do is be there to encourage them.

He is on the northeast corner of Tenth, as dazzling as Myrtle said, standing a few yards away from a crowd of rough-looking men outside an old carriage barn being used as a polling place.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he calls out shyly. “May I ask where you’re heading?”

“You may not,” she answers, sweetening her response with a smile.

The boy flushes. “It’s just that we have orders — public safety—”

“There are armed citizens on nearly every corner. I can’t imagine any harm coming to me.”

“We don’t know their plans. There’s been all kinds of rumors.”

The burning will be the most difficult to control. One deluded soul with a tin of kerosene, a waterfront piled with cotton bales and wooden shacks—

“Besides,” says the blue-eyed volunteer, “this is where the First Ward begins. You don’t want to be up here.”

Sally casts a glance at the men hanging about, joking and jostling, many of them wearing the red shirts the Dry Pond ruffians have adopted, crudely sewn garments with sailor-type collars bordered in white stitching. She can picture their wives, hair a mess, big feet working the treadle, hunched over the machine by a sooty oil lamp. If anybody is to burn the city down, these are the prime candidates.

“You believe there’s going to be trouble?”