Who Goes There?

The world is a huge playground, after all. Just as the sympathy of those who watch a fight between two boys—one a big fellow and a known bully, the other a plucky youngster half his size—always goes with the smaller and weaker, so it is among nations. Thus, early in the last century, when the small states of Spanish America were struggling fiercely with the mother country to throw off the Spanish yoke, practically the whole world wished them the success that eventually crowned their efforts.

It seems ridiculous to call them “tiny” states when the smallest of those we are talking about—the Republics of Central America—could hold all the counties of Wales. And if we were to set down the whole of England on the largest, we would find not only that it fit comfortably, but that the foreign state would still have a good slice of land to spare—enough, at any rate, to accommodate three or four cities the size of London. So I call them tiny only because they are small compared to other countries on the American continent, like Canada, the United States, and Brazil.

During the years 1820 and 1821, a very keen spirit of independence appeared in those regions, and by 1823 the last link of the rusty chain that had bound those colonies to Spain was snapped beyond repair. Then, for a time, Central America became part of the State of Mexico. One by one, however, the colonies withdrew, and in 1824 the independent Republic of Central America was formed, which in its turn was dissolved. Ever since, the states have been continually at war—either with their neighbors or among themselves.

These endless wars and revolutions have given the country its bad name today. They have convinced those who once sympathized with the inhabitants when they were fighting for independence that, after all, they had fared better even under the lame government of Spain than they have under their own.

The present-day native of Central America can hardly be called an improvement over the inhabitant of 1824. He still carries the fire and anger of the Spaniard in his blood—in fact, he is nothing short of an unfortunate mixture of the fiery Spaniard and the extremely restless Indian. Small wonder, then, that “peace” is quite a luxury in those parts, and that revolutions break out regularly.

In Nicaragua—the country my tale is about—this is especially true. A year without a revolution is a rarity, and I have lived through at least four such outbreaks. While the trouble exists, it is certainly inconvenient and uncomfortable for a foreigner, but the real danger is often sadly exaggerated. During one of these disturbances, however, I narrowly escaped serious conflict with the authorities—all because of a boyish prank that would have been silly at any time, but amounted to near madness when played in the very heart of a town under martial law. When I first set foot on Central American soil, my majority was still months away, and I had not yet outgrown the period of foolishness that most young men go through. So I will offer no other excuse, but simply relate what happened.

A pig—a common or garden pig—was at the bottom of it all. The natives are very fond of pork, and nearly every household has at least one pig, which is allowed to run freely around the house and is almost treated like one of the family. At the time, the air in the town where I was staying had suddenly thickened with rumors of war. It was well known that thousands of men were ready to grab their rifles at a given signal and, led by a few seasoned veterans, make a mad and murderous dash upon anything and everything belonging to the government.

In such situations, nothing is too bad for either side, except perhaps interfering with foreigners. Because of a few severe lessons learned in recent years, the natives have come to respect foreign visitors. Fusillades in the center of town, sudden bayonet charges in a crowded market, unexpected explosions, and similar proof of the “patriotism” of one side or the other can happen at any moment. Even though they pretend to be part of the civilized nations, neither side would dream of giving notice before bombarding a town. Everyone is on alert, and the tension is truly trying, especially if it is your first “revolution.”

Bloodthirsty natives, speaking barely above a whisper, gather in small groups on almost every street corner. In parts of town where known supporters of the attacking party live, much military movement is noticeable. Every few hundred yards, there are pickets of gendarmes or barefoot soldiers. After dark, no matter who you are or what your errand, you risk a bullet if you fail to answer quickly when challenged with the usual “Who goes there?”

And so it was on the occasion I am talking about. Everyone’s nerves were stretched to a painful point. Any unusual noise—any sound, almost, above a half-smothered cough—would bring fifty or sixty reckless gendarmes with fixed bayonets to the spot in a short time. It was generally expected that an assault on the town—in which half the inhabitants were willing, even eager, to join—would start before morning, and an ominous silence hung in the air.

That was when my “little joke” was hatched. I was enjoying a quiet game of billiards on a small French table in my hotel. During the game, I had been bothered several times by the owner’s favorite pig, which kept wandering under the table and emerging on the other side to bump heavily into my legs just as I was taking a difficult shot. The animal had done this at least four times, giving my opponent a good lead. I had often beaten him at this game before, so the reader must not think I am just making excuses for my poor play. It was the pig’s fault, without a doubt, and I was starting to lose my temper.

“I’ll teach that pig a lesson when the game is over,” I told my opponent. And so, after putting my cue away, I cornered the pig and tied a piece of cord to its back leg. A large empty biscuit tin and a bunch of Chinese firecrackers did the rest. The tin was tied to the other end of the cord, and the firecrackers were tucked inside the tin.

The natives who stood around watching these preparations seemed to see what was coming, even if I didn’t. They whispered and laughed among themselves, rubbing their hands together and saying, “A good joke!” “Eh! A good joke, you see!”

The whole town was startled a few minutes later by the racket, and by the shouts and laughter of those who saw the pig dash out of the hotel.

I lit the tiny fuse on the firecrackers, put them back in the tin, and gave the tin a kick. That startled the pig, and it galloped off down the street.

The slight pull on its hind leg from the weight of the tin annoyed it, and wanting to get away from it, the pig ran faster.

Boom! Boom! The biscuit tin swung from side to side with every step, and every time it hit the ground it made a noisy bang, loud enough to alarm the already jittery town.

Then, when the fuse burned down, the firecrackers went off. Bang! Bang! Burr-rr—bang! Burr-rr—bang-bang-BANG! The vibrations of the tin made each explosion louder, and it would be hard to imagine a better imitation of distant gunfire. The frightened pig only ran faster.

I ran behind, trying to keep up with the pig, because I wanted to see the fun. But he soon outdistanced me, though I was lucky enough to be within earshot when the firecrackers gave their final pops.

Bang! Bang! Burr—rr—bang! Bang! BANG!

Then the real fun began. The inhabitants rushed to their doors to see from which direction the attack on the town was coming. The military ran back and forth like madmen. Big generals in their shirtsleeves galloped through the streets on small horses, gathering their men. Cannons were rushed out of the barracks and made ready. Scouts went out in every direction to see what was happening, and the military band, playing all the national songs they knew, marched around the town square, stopping every so often so an officer could read the commandant’s orders, telling everyone to stay indoors or face all kinds of terrible penalties.

Because of those orders, I decided it was wise to give up the chase and return to my hotel to wait and see what would happen next. As I made my way back, cries of “The enemy! The enemy!” came from almost every corner. People shouted questions at me about where the attack was coming from, but I didn’t dare stop to answer, or I would have given myself away. At first, boylike, I had thought this was a “splendid joke,” but now the alarm was so widespread that I didn’t know whether to be scared or proud that I had thrown an entire town into panic.

I thought of the fun a practical joker at home would have if he could cause such a stir with his everyday pranks, and I marveled that a harmless biscuit tin, a few firecrackers, and a pig could cause such excitement.

With great difficulty, I managed to get past the pickets, though every one of them stopped me for questioning. Before I reached my hotel, I was overtaken by half a company of soldiers returning to the barracks, carrying a prisoner. Then my conscience started to bother me.

“This has gone too far,” I thought. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone—I just wanted to teach that pig a lesson.” In fact, I felt very uncomfortable as I walked, and a bit alarmed at what had happened. I resolved that in the future I would think ahead before pulling a prank.

When I reached the next picket, I was surprised that the soldiers didn’t challenge me. I had gotten used to the “Who goes there?” that had met me at every corner, and its absence made me suspicious. The explanation wasn’t long in coming. I found them all laughing, and since they were in a good mood, I asked who the prisoner was that had been marched off a few minutes before. That made them laugh even more, but I finally found out, and I started laughing too, because the prisoner was—a pig with a tin tied to its leg.

That pig, they told me, had caused the whole alarm. There was no attack—in fact, there was no enemy near enough to the town to try anything. It had all been a practical joke. Someone had set the pig loose with a biscuit tin tied to its leg, and that had set off the alarm. The pig had been chased and lassoed by the soldiers on the outskirts of town, so now it was over—except that the authorities were looking for the person who had caused the scare.

Now I realized how foolish I had been. I, who had been laughing at the panic of others, was now genuinely scared. As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered what to do. I could only imagine a heavy fine, prison, or maybe being banished from the country.

When I reached the hotel, I was met by some people who had seen me start the prank and knew I was responsible. They told me what had happened while I was gone.

Not five minutes after the pig and I left, a picket of soldiers rushed into the hotel, closed all the exits, and told everyone they were under arrest until the person who had caused the scare was found. The officer said that he knew the thing had started there, and although the pig hadn’t been caught yet, it had been recognized as “belonging to the proprietor’s family.”

Then, to everyone’s surprise, a certain Colonel Moyal, a native who was strongly against the government and suspected of being a revolutionary, stepped forward and said that he had done the whole thing himself, and he was prepared to take the consequences.

Needless to say, my champion was arrested and marched off to the Cabildo. I was told that he had done this to protect me because he liked me.

But I couldn’t let him stay in that position. I decided quickly that the honorable thing to do was to confess my own actions. So, soon after, I went to see the commandant. I had made it a point to get on his good side. He told me it was too late that night to take evidence, but he would see me at eight o’clock the next morning.

The next day, at the appointed hour, I told him I was the one responsible. I secured the colonel’s release, paid a small fine, and by nine o’clock I was back at the hotel. That night, I invited the colonel to a special dinner to show my gratitude. I made a rather childish speech about how sorry I was that he had spent an uncomfortable night in prison because of me.

To my surprise, Moyal said that he had to thank me for the chance I had given him. “Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to see you in trouble, and I would have done anything to keep you out of it, but I have to admit that my motive was not as generous as people think. It was rather selfish, just between you and me. I’m a leader in the revolution that is brewing, and I have important business with the government soldiers in the Cabildo. Since I’m known as a revolutionary, I can’t get in touch with them openly, so I had to get arrested. You gave me that chance!”

I was about to ask if he had succeeded, but he added, “The only pity is that you didn’t let me stay there longer—but you couldn’t have known, so I appreciate your quick action.”

Afterwards, I had reason to believe that he hadn’t succeeded in his mission, which I think was to persuade the soldiers to join his side, for to this day, the political party that the colonel belonged to is still out of power, though it has tried many times to take control.