Much joyous dancing and much drinking of
aguardiente had buried the inhabitants in a drugged slumber. The
garrison slept, the sentries slept, the city slept. But when the
convent bells called for early mass, the air was shaken with sharp
reports that to the ears of the Legitimists were unfamiliar and
disquieting. They were not the loud explosions of their own
muskets nor of the smooth bores of the Democrats. The sounds
were sharp and cruel like the crack of a whip. The sentries flying
from their posts disclosed the terrifying truth. "The Filibusteros!"
they cried. Following them at a gallop came Walker and Valle and
behind them the men of the awful Phalanx, whom already the
natives had learned to fear: the bearded giants in red flannel shirts
who at Rivas on foot had charged the artillery with revolvers, who
at Virgin Bay when wounded had drawn from their boots glittering
bowie knives and hurled them like arrows, who at all times shot
with the accuracy of the hawk falling upon a squawking hen.
There was a brief terrified stand in the Plaza, and then a complete
rout. As was their custom, the native Democrats began at once to
loot the city. But Walker put his sword into the first one of these
he met, and ordered the Americans to arrest all others found
stealing, and to return the goods already stolen. Over a hundred
political prisoners in the cartel were released by Walker, and the
ball and chain to which each was fastened stricken off.
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