VII
The current political controversy was but a typical incident in the history of Honduras.
The term of President Rafael López Gutiérres had come to an end. During his two and a half years of office, he had weathered thirty-three insurrections. He was ready to retire. But his fellow politicians, although they had already prospered to the extent of three million pesos, demanded that he follow the Central-American custom of turning over his office to one of their own group, in order that their prosperity might continue. And the President gave his support to his personal friend, Bonilla.
At the elections recently held, there had arisen two other candidates, Carías and Árias. Through some oversight, the President had allowed a few of their supporters to help in the counting of the ballots. As a result, Carías led with fifty thousand votes, Árias following with thirty-five thousand, and Bonilla (the presidential favorite) bringing up the rear with only twenty thousand. And although Carías led, he failed to receive the absolute majority required by the Constitution to insure his election. It therefore devolved upon Congress to choose one of the three. And Congress favored Árias. To sum up the situation, the people preferred one candidate, Congress another, and the President another.
A revolution appeared inevitable. The President had declared martial law. Soldiers were everywhere. One could distinguish them from civilians because they carried rifles, and because when there were two or more of them they marched one behind the other in the center of the street, sometimes in cadence. A few had blue uniforms, a few had khaki; most of them wore whatever garments they happened to be wearing when drafted. Many were soldiers of fortune from neighboring countries—professional scrappers called in by a President who knew that his people were against him. They would stop me on the street occasionally to ask that I lend them a peseta—twenty-five cents—until pay-day, but they impressed me as a doubtful risk.
The city was ablaze with election slogans, scribbled with chalk upon every doorway—“Viva Árias!”—“Viva Carrías!”—“Muerto Bonilla!” Translated into “Live Árias,” “Live Carrías,” and “Death to Bonilla,” they seemed indicative of the earnest nature of Central-American political campaigns. All three candidates were now in the city. Each had a troop of his followers living at his residence for protection. One, who was stopping at the principal hotel, was surrounded by twenty armed gunmen, who sat about the bar-room and the lobby, scanning everybody who entered, and ready to take a precautionary shot at a member of another party. Each had spies watching the others, to see that they did not slip out of town to some assembly-point in the mountains. Some day, one of them would do it. In the meanwhile, the President in office kept a close eye on all three. From time to time a detachment of soldiers would come marching through town, bringing to prison a party of conspirators caught hatching insurrections in the neighboring villages.
The American Minister, Franklin Morales, was holding daily conferences at the Legation, bringing the candidates together in an effort to reach an agreement. Each took turns making speeches about his love of Honduras, his aversion to bloodshed, and his earnest hope that the muddle might be solved peacefully. When asked for a specific suggestion as to the solution, each seemed to think that it could be most satisfactorily achieved by the withdrawal of the other two candidates.
Meanwhile, every one in Tegucigalpa ripped up the boards of his floor, brought out the rifle and ammunition secreted for such an emergency, and waited for the fireworks. And the time-scarred old Capital seemed to be saying to itself: “Another revolution can’t do me any harm.”
But when I inquired as to just when the fireworks would start, it developed that a revolution was as undependable as transportation facilities had been.
“Who knows, señor? Perhaps the day after to-morrow, perhaps the day after that. Quién sabe?”