Post by Puerto Rico on Jul 7, 2011 16:11:49 GMT
End of Spanish-American War
Postwar Annexation Process
December --, 1898
San Juan, La Fortaleza[/b]
He had returned from his expedition under Spain’s orders to Cuba half a year ago, his skin toasty from clumsily handled gunpowder, a saber so dull it could no longer cut through bread. Yes, just several months ago, the Cubans achieved their long-awaited independence—with some assistance. Emilio was happy for them, never mind the fact that he tried to suppress said achievement with the Spaniards. They valiantly fought for their freedom. As for his own battle, one with somewhat different purposes in mind, it’s been close to 5 months since the day of armistice, since arriving to scrap through the island’s final losses before all firing suddenly ceased at the raise of a white flag. He had returned home not fifteen days before the Treaty was signed, having felt drained of strength as his land struggled through the famine and sickness caused immediately after the war began and only worsened by the American’s naval blockages. The news that reached him then had not surprised him, not after witnessing the conquer of Santiago de Cuba and the Spaniard forces’ downfall—along with his own—after the battle of San Juan Hill. Things had already been bad before he left. But he felt something surge through his chest nonetheless. Something he could not place a word to; something akin to remorse perhaps. He fought as best he knew how to and now…What, is it over? Well thank Jesu Cristo for that, but now what? Are they…free? Are they free now?
Even though the war had ended, things were still unfolding at an impressive pace. Too quickly, for him. It was almost disorienting at first. Four months. Only four months passed since the war began on his land and then ended abruptly. The sun seemed ablaze with their cheering still, those of the people. Out on the streets, plenas and shouts of fiestas rose above any general feelings of loss, which seemed to belong only to the Spaniards and reformists. Emilio wanted in—oh how he sulked and bit his parched lips wanting to join—but he didn’t have quite the same energy as his people to be parading down to Yauco for the liberalist’s celebrations. Or did he? No, even if he did, current dealings called for a sober presence and a show of sobriety would be all the more exemplary before the new republics who so kindly liberated them, or so said his remaining chief lieutenants. At least while formalities that needed scrutinizing still remained, they amended later with wry smiles and cigars in their mouths, his own grin much more genuinely happy. He knew they all wanted to leave behind all this serious business pertaining to war already too. It wasn’t in any of their tastes, despite their having volunteered. What else could they have done? It was big brother Antonio that was fighting for them and he needed help—surprising as it sounds. Besides, he couldn’t just ignore a war for his land either. None of them could.
The last boats set for Spain had finished sailing out of port by October, along with all their remaining militia and some nationalists. Emilio was alone now, literally. His home felt too spacious even. The authorities and officials had all finished packing up and evacuating, leaving a glaring vacancy all throughout the house. In all honesty, he should be worried, depressed, vindictive, or maybe even desperate, but no such thoughts visited him. He’s always repelled such thoughts, in any case. Instead, he lounged back against the leather of the governor’s seat, a bit torn on the sides, a pensive expression on his face, scattering now useless papers across the room as he set the heels of his boots atop the wooden desk with a resounding thunk!. An awkward silence had quickly penetrated the great stone halls of La Fortaleza, Castillo El Morro a simple glance away from windows of the western wing. It sure was a sight for sore eyes. All office buildings, the Spanish government—empty.
A bit of noise rose through the windows to the sides of the room. A small throng of citizens had begun crowding as close as they could around La Fortaleza, anxiously awaiting the news from Paris. Waiting for the new republicans to arrive with news from Paris…He must be dreaming. Yes, that’s it. He wasn’t even in San Juan. He was actually enjoying another round of Bacardi at some local bar at Mayaguez. Definitely Bacardi. And suddenly, everyone began to sing La Bomba all in unison, all other noise drowned out by the trailing drums and collective claps. And he, he was grinning, like a fool, but he started dozing off right before his turn to sing came and—a knock came to the door. His happy dreaming popped like a bubble as he jumped on his seat, almost falling back, and blinked bemusedly. ”Emilio, the Americans. They will arrive soon.” A small, shaky voice called out. Someone opened a crack through the door and squeaked through a little. Someone? There was someone left? Emilio straightened up in his seat with sudden alarm, thinking he might have just dreamt all of this after all. But looking closely at the small figure poking her head in, he sighed with relief and smiled warmly at the frightened little girl. ”It’s alright, Vieques. We should—…I, should go greet them then, huh? Go wait in your room. I’ll be out soon.” He comforted. Her smile seemed successfully relieved before nodding and retreating, forgetting to close the door behind her. Well, that reminded him, his room was a mess. It should definitely stay off limits for a while.
Emilio stood up and stretched, unexpectedly sore. He still lacked energy, but that wasn’t about to cut him off the cheerfulness that radiated through the walls from his people. He took in a deep breath of the salty ocean air, and set out through the double doors and into the main hall. He couldn’t help noticing a crooked portrait of the Queen Regent Maria Christina though. Should he take it down, he wondered. It was such a fine work of art, it would be a shame to throw it away or even store it somewhere to collect dust and ruin. He puzzled over this, staring intently at the Queen’s smiling face, feeling somewhat stuck before he could advance into the main hall.
Footnotes:
1. La Fortaleza: The Governor’s mansion, located at the capital, San Juan City.
2. Plena: Native puertorican music produced by small tambourines and accapella singing.
3. Castillo El Morro: El Morro Castle (Fortress)
4. Bacardi: Favorite Puertorican rum brand
5. Vieques: Puerto Rico’s Little sister island, located southeast.
6. La Bomba: A popular african dance and sing-along created by the mulatoes
Ehh I dated it to the same month the treaty was ratified officially. Puerto Rico wasn't really involved in anything concerning the signing of the treaty so can't put any details up for that...First posts always feel like it's mostly just setting and stuff D8~