Page 440 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

cho howled with conviction, was the only man equal to the
patriotic task. They assented to that, too.
The morning was wearing on; there were already signs
of disruption, currents and eddies in the crowd. Some were
seeking the shade of the walls and under the trees of the
Alameda. Horsemen spurred through, shouting; groups of
sombreros set level on heads against the vertical sun were
drifting away into the streets, where the open doors of pul-
perias revealed an enticing gloom resounding with the
gentle tinkling of guitars. The National Guards were think-
ing of siesta, and the eloquence of Gamacho, their chief, was
exhausted. Later on, when, in the cooler hours of the after-
noon, they tried to assemble again for further consideration
of public affairs, detachments of Montero’s cavalry camped
on the Alameda charged them without parley, at speed, with
long lances levelled at their flying backs as far as the ends of
the streets. The National Guards of Sulaco were surprised
by this proceeding. But they were not indignant. No Costa-
guanero had ever learned to question the eccentricities of a
military force. They were part of the natural order of things.
This must be, they concluded, some kind of administrative
measure, no doubt. But the motive of it escaped their unaided
intelligence, and their chief and orator, Gamacho, Comman-
dante of the National Guard, was lying drunk and asleep in
the bosom of his family. His bare feet were upturned in the
shadows repulsively, in the manner of a corpse. His eloquent
mouth had dropped open. His youngest daughter, scratch-
ing her head with one hand, with the other waved a green
bough over his scorched and peeling face.