A third time a wave of sailors swept into a house and a third time they were swept out again by infuriated women. By now the square was wide awake. Women hung out of every window, three-quarters of them having neglected to dress. A few made their way purposefully towards the Gunnery Officer; any man who had the temerity to disturb them during the afternoon siesta must be particularly in need of their services. The shouting increased as one house passed the news of the outrage on to the next and all joined in pouring maledictions upon the Gunnery Officer’s head.
The Captain of Royal Marines hurried back to the square, having heard the tumult. He was afraid that he had unknowingly left the Gunnery Officer in a hornets nest of rebels and he hastened back to help before it was too late. When he reached the square the Captain of Royal Marines stopped, scarcely believing his eyes.
The peaceful square which he had left only a few minutes before deserted except for the Gunnery Officer and his landing party was now seething with women in dressing gowns. More women leaned out of the windows displaying their charms. The Gunnery Officer himself was surrounded by upraised fists and buffeted by furious voices.
The Captain of Royal Marines forced his way through to the Gunnery Officer.
‘Guns, have you gone stark staring mad? If there wasn’t a revolution before there will be now! You know how sensitive these people are about their brothels!’
‘But every house seems to be a brothel!’
‘Well look at the name of the square, man!’
The Gunnery Officer looked up through the fists and saw a sign on the side of a house. It read ‘Plaza del Concubinas.’
The noise in the Plaza del Concubinas had awoken more than the women who lived in it. A group of young men carrying banners pushed through the crowd. They were led by a young man in a blue poplin suit. He was olive-skinned, with dark wavy hair brushed back over his head, and he was flashing a smile. He advanced to meet the Gunnery Officer, hand outstretched.
‘My dear chap!’ cried the young man. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I am Aquila Monterruez, of whom you’ve heard perhaps? I must say I’m delighted to see you. But how hot and bothered you look! And no wonder, when I see what company you’re in. Let me first get rid of the lacrosse team.’
Aquila waved the women away. They fell back respectfully, but reluctantly.
‘And now, where was I? I must say it astonishes me how you naval types always seem to gravitate to this part of the town. Is it some extra sixth sense they teach at Dartmouth? Give a naval type half an hour in a strange town and he’ll find the red light quarter as sure as . . .’
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the Gunnery Officer said stiffly. ‘My name is Lieutenant Commander Blake and this is Captain Gumshott, Royal Marines.’
‘My dear chap how do you
do
?’
‘How do you do?’ said the Captain of Royal Marines.
‘
Well
now. What
shall
we flee at next? A drink, I think. You must come to my house or no, better still, we’ll go to the British Consulate and you can meet my old man.’
Bemused, the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines fell in behind Aquila, who led the way chatting gaily. The landing parties tore themselves away from the attentions of the ladies of the square (who were beginning to regret having repulsed the advances of these lovely sailors so vigorously) and marched behind Aquila’s young men.
On board, The Bodger had heard the roaring from the Plaza del Concubinas and he had listened during the silence which followed it. His first thought was for his brother officers, the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines.
‘Name of a name!’ cried The Bodger as the shouting died away on the wind, ‘they’re massacring Guns and Boots! Quartermaster, call away cadets landing parties!’
He caught the Commander’s eye.
‘Carry on, please, sir?’
The Commander nodded and shook The Bodger’s hand as though it was likely that they would not meet again.
‘When you get ashore, set up a shore signal station to let us know what’s going on,’ the Commander said. ‘We’ve heard nothing from shore yet. Good luck, Bodger.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
In ten minutes the cadets were on their way. The Bodger sat in the leading boat, smelling the battle from far off, and snorting.
The cadets were not met with the same indifference as their predecessors. On the contrary, the SanGuanos were now used to landing parties and The Bodger was met by a large and enthusiastic crowd who pointed out the way the other landing parties had gone.
SanGuanos lined the route to the Plaza del Concubinas, cheering and waving flags. Although it went past their understanding why the Englishmen should choose to come ashore with guns and steel helmets, it seemed to them entirely natural that the English should want to visit the Plaza del Concubinas first. They were anxious that no Englishman should mistake the way.
The Bodger and his cadets entered the square at a smart trot and ran straight into the arms of the waiting women. It was now past six o’clock and the Plaza was open for business. The girls were delighted and not a little flattered that their square should hold such importance in the eyes of the English. ‘Nombre de Dios,’ they whispered excitedly amongst themselves, ‘but these Englishmen
ran
here all the way from the boat!’
The Bodger hesitated, looking wildly about him, and was engulfed in a happy, struggling mass of women. The cadets could see his head now and then, tossed hither and thither, now submerging, now appearing, as The Bodger was carried towards the largest of the houses in the square. The name of the house was ‘The Sign of Maria of the Seven Breasts’ and in the doorway stood an enormous old woman in a dressing gown, Maria herself by the look of her, beaming a welcome. Simultaneously, the cadets were themselves hustled towards ‘The Sign of the Donkey’s Buttocks’ and ‘The Sign of the Satisfied Monkey’ where in the doorways stood other huge women, also beaming welcomes.
The cadets often speculated afterwards on their fate had there not been an interruption. A thunderous shout cut through the clamouring of the women. The Bodger was released on the threshold of the house.
‘Let go of that man!’
A tall man wearing a sun-helmet, a white linen suit and a flower in his button-hole was standing on the edge of the square. He was accompanied by another, smaller man who appeared to The Bodger to be wearing only a blanket and by a squad of men in uniform whom The Bodger assumed were the SanGuana equivalent of the Carabinieri. The square cleared. The women vanished into their houses and it seemed to The Bodger that they vanished, not because of the man in the linen suit but because of the small man in the blanket, who had swarthy Indian features and a look of cynical disillusionment.
The Bodger replaced his cap, brushed down his uniform and stepped forward.
‘I am the British Consul for SanGuana Annuncion,’ said the tall man. ‘This is Dominquin Monterruez, the rightful ruler of SanGuana.’
The Bodger bowed and the man in the blanket nodded.
‘How do you do, sir,’ The Bodger said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Commander Badger, Royal Navy, of H.M.S.
Barsetshire
’
‘Just what were your intentions in this square, Mr Badger?’
‘To support our two advance landing parties, sir. They landed three hours ago and as we hadn’t heard from them we thought on board that they might have run into trouble, sir.’
The Consul frowned. ‘There’s been no
trouble
that I’ve heard of. In any case, this is not the place to discuss the matter. I’ll show you to the British Consulate.’
The British Consulate was a large white building facing the town hall. It had been built of the local stone brought by mule from the hills inland under the orders of the Consul’s predecessor. The building was in the shape of a hollow oblong with a small garden in the centre. A wide verandah ran round the garden, its roof supported by high stone pillars. There was a fountain in the garden, some grass, and a few tiny orange trees. It was a pleasant place in which to sit with a drink and there Aquila had taken the Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines.
The landing parties had stacked their rifles, carbines, steel helmets, tear-gas bombs and haversacks in the hall and were drinking beer brewed locally, under the supervision of an expert from Milwaukee, which was renowned through South and Central America for its strength and flavour. The bottles carried labels representing a panther urinating into a remarkably accurate facsimile of a grecian urn and the beer was marketed, and enjoyed a wide sale, under the name of ‘Panther’s Water.’
‘I’m glad you fellows have come,’ Aquila was saying to his guests. ‘We don’t often get visitors here and those we do get are mostly down-and-outs, or queers. The people inland don’t like them. We had a chap a few months ago, called himself a painter. Public-school type, too. So he said, anyway. We’ve got some of his stuff hanging in the lavatories. He gave us it for saving him from being eaten. I must say when I looked more closely at it I began to feel we’d made a mistake. We should have let them eat him. We’re still very conservative here, you know, in spite of all that’s happened in the last twenty or thirty years. Especially the people who live in the remoter parts. They don’t even like modern buildings or cars. It’s hardly surprising that they don’t like modern painting.’
Aquila glanced at the armoury of weapons piled in the hall.
‘Nice of you to come all togged up in your bow-tie and all that’ he remarked. ‘But you really needn’t have bothered. The old man and I have more or less come to an agreement. That’s why there was no one down there to meet you this afternoon. We were still talking when you arrived and by the time we’d decided that I should go and do the honours, you’d already landed. The old man’s going to retire to the hills and keep bees while I run the show here. I let him out this afternoon. I wonder you didn’t run into him? You didn’t happen to see him while you were passing through the town, did you? He’s about the place somewhere with that ridiculous old Consul.’
‘I’m afraid we must have missed him,’ said the Gunnery Officer.
‘Not to worry. He’ll be along soon, I expect. Extraordinary chap, my old man. Goes about the place looking like Geronimo. The people love him. He represents the old way. I represent the new. That’s what all the argument’s about, as a matter of fact. But I suppose you knew about that?’
‘We were given an inkling of the situation,’ replied the Gunnery Officer.
‘However, that’s all settled now. I wonder what can be keeping the old man? He’s supposed to be here to meet you chaps. Ah, talk of the devil, the Consul I mean, here he is!’
The Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines turned to see the British Consul, Dominquin and The Bodger stride into the hall and stop in stupefaction.
‘Guns!’
cried The Bodger. ‘Do you realise you’re drinking with the rebels?’
‘Your protest would carry more weight if you cleaned your collar first, old chap,’ said Aquila amiably. ‘That lipstick’s ferocious stuff, I happen to know. But let’s not squabble over peccadilloes. I think we can consider the revolution, such as it was, officially over, can we not? Now I don’t think all you people have met. ...’
The news that the revolution was officially over was greeted with wild excitement amongst the citizens of Cajalcocamara, none the less wild because most of the town were unaware that the Englishmen had arrived to quell the revolution. The town gave itself over to celebration. The landing parties returned to the Plaza del Concubinas, not as aggressors, but as heroes.
‘Panther’s Water’ flowed like rain water in the gutters. The Bodger made a speech from the balcony of the British Consulate. The signals from the shore signal station became more and more incoherent.
At nine o’clock the Commander stormed into the M.S.O. waving the latest signal.
‘Yeoman!’
‘Sir!’
‘What’s the meaning of this gibberish? R.P.C. Plates of Concubines? Have you all gone mad?’
‘That’s the signal from shore, sir. We asked them to repeat it and they made R.P.C. Concubines, sir. Request the Pleasure of your Company signed Concubines, sir. The last time we called they just made R.P.C., sir.’
‘Ring the quarterdeck and tell them I’m going ashore.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
As the Commander stepped up on to the jetty a figure darted forward. It was a small man wearing soiled shorts and shirt, sandals, and a growth of stubble on his chin. He held out a notebook.
‘I’m from the
Daily
...’
‘Stand
back!
’
The Commander thrust out his arm. The figure in shorts tottered back on his heels to the edge of the jetty and dropped into the water. The Commander strode on into the town.
The revolution ended to everyone’s satisfaction. Aquila governed the SanGuanos much as his father had done before him; the only overt effect of his government was in the composition of the programmes broadcast by Radio SanGuana which showed a preponderance of music by Granados and Castelnuovo-Tedesco played by Andres Segovia. The Captain received a signal of commendation from the Admiralty; the Gunnery Officer received that ultimate accolade for a member of his Branch, a letter of congratulation from the Captain of Whale Island; The Bodger received the Freedom of Cajalcocamara; and Captain Gumshott, Royal Marines, received a knitted balaclava helmet from a Girl Guide Company in Manchester who saw his photograph in the newspapers and liked his face. The Consul was made a K.C.M.G. in the next Honours Lists and promoted to Zagreb, while Maria of the Seven Breasts, to everyone’s surprise and delight, was given an M.B.E., for services to the Crown, unspecified.
The SanGuana Revolution was the end of the West Indies cruise.
Barsetshire
’s headlong dash across the Caribbean did enough damage to her main engines to make it necessary for her to return a week early to England. She spent a day in Kingston, Jamaica, to refuel, two days in Gibraltar for the traditional buying of presents, and then sailed for home.