"This is absurd…"
The republican deputies sat with stricken faces. For two hours they had hurled attacks at the crown prince's proposal, but the boy—only fifteen years old—had refuted them all.
Weaker than I thought, he mused. When I debated Agustín I, it lasted four hours at least.
He remembered—drunken though he had been—he had once even beguiled a divine being with his rhetoric. Of one thing he was certain: his tongue was sharp.
And besides, the opposition's arguments are hollow—mere opposition for opposition's sake. With the suddenness of this move, the advantage is mine.
As the debate faltered into silence, Agustín I himself spoke.
"It seems you have nothing more to say. This review is sufficient."
The conservatives, who had until now sat watching, were quick to seize their chance.
"Indeed, Majesty. Let us waste no more time—let us proceed to the vote."
"Yes! Enough of this obstruction without cause!"
Hmph. They sat silent all this time, only now to feign loyalty.
Agustín disliked the conservatives no less than the republicans, but he welcomed their support now. Fixing Speaker Rafael Manjino with a hard stare, he pressed mercilessly.
"Speaker Manjino. Conduct the vote at once. If you persist in these petty delays and spurn the people's will, I shall be forced to question your intent. Is it not then clear—that a deputy, for his own ambition, deliberately obstructs the governance of the nation?"
His gaze bored into Rafael until the man trembled.
"…We shall proceed to a vote," the Speaker whispered.
The motion passed.
Hemmed in by the emperor and people alike, the republicans had no choice.
No sooner was it done than Agustín I and his son left the hall to review the inventories of confiscated estates, compiled by their subordinates.
"Twenty percent of all land in Mexico?" the emperor demanded. "Is this figure true?"
Colonel Fernando Bowed.
"Yes, Majesty. That excludes the northern wilderness and wasteland. And this, too, is greatly reduced. Before independence, the peninsulares owned nearly forty percent. But when war broke out, fearing what independence would bring, they sold much of it. Thus the share shrank to twenty."
"Ah yes—I myself bought several farms at a pittance in those days," Agustín mused.
Remarkable. A people scarcely one or two percent of the population held forty percent of all Mexico's land.
"There remain many farms still in Puebla," the prince observed, scanning the list.
Fernando nodded.
"Indeed. The great landlords of Puebla resisted selling at a loss. Many were expelled with their estates still in hand."
His father laughed.
"And who would surrender so cheaply the richest soil in Mexico? Then Puebla is paramount."
"Father," the prince said firmly, "I shall go to Puebla."
"You?"
"Yes. Its wealth is known to all. And all know, too, that many of its landlords were expelled. Ambitious men—the local notables, the commanders—will covet what remains. To restrain them, authority is required. Mine."
"It is too dangerous. Fernando can go in your stead."
"But many of Puebla's commanders outrank the colonel. With only him, there will be strife. If I bring soldiers, the risk is not great."
"…."
The prince pressed again.
"If we do not secure Puebla's storehouses, the loss will be severe. You know as well as I that many provinces defy the center already. Only my presence will suffice."
Agustín I hesitated, then relented.
"…Very well. But should conflict break out, obey your commanders and withdraw at once."
"Yes, Father."
Orders went forth: loyal generals were to recover confiscated estates across Mexico.
Gods, this will kill me.
On the map Puebla seemed near, but in truth it lay over a hundred kilometers away. An urgent march—sleepless, beginning at dawn—was agony. Riding in stiff formal attire, merely for the sake of dignity, made it worse.
The first target was the estate of Don Sebastián, a man whose name stood at the very top of the list.
He had owned fifty thousand hectares—one hundred twenty-three thousand acres—of farmland. Wheat, maize, and sugarcane rolled across his fields; vineyards produced small but fine wines; even silver mines dotted his domain.
Fifty thousand hectares… and yet, before the tides of revolution, such a man could do nothing but flee.
With Colonel Fernando and five hundred soldiers, the prince reached the estate. Five hundred might sound few, but the entire central army of Mexico numbered under twenty thousand, spread across a vast land.
After three days' march they arrived.
"Your Highness, shall we go to the mansion or the warehouses first?"
"The warehouses. There will be wagons there."
Two more hours of riding brought them to the sprawling granaries—only to see, even from afar, troops already swarming.
"…Soldiers," Fernando muttered grimly.
"Damn it. Move quickly."
"Rapid march! Now!"
So. Some thief dares pluck the juiciest fruit for himself.
As they drew near, the intruders formed ranks. A general's voice rang out.
"Who commands these troops?"
A lieutenant general. How tiresome.
"I am Colonel Fernando Mendoza, acting under His Imperial Majesty's order, to confiscate the estate of Don Sebastián."
"I," came the reply, "am Javier Paredes, Commander of Puebla's defense. I shall recover this estate and send it to Mexico City. Go elsewhere."
So. He means to gorge alone.
Fernando's voice hardened.
"Impossible. I carry the emperor's warrant and shall execute it."
"Then surrender that warrant to me and begone, Colonel."
"I refuse."
"Refuse? Then you defy your superior officer's command?"
Time to intervene.
The prince spurred forward.
"You will disarm at once and submit to Colonel Fernando's command."
The lieutenant general scowled.
"And you are?"
"I am Agustín Jerónimo de Iturbide, Crown Prince of Mexico, and my father's plenipotentiary."
He raised his voice so the enemy soldiers would hear.
Faces blanched. Paredes snarled.
"Even Your Highness may not meddle in command!"
"This is no matter of command, General. You marched without orders, to plunder this estate for yourself. It is a crime, not duty. Lay down your arms!"
"…Insolent whelp."
His eyes glinted with fury. Both armies tensed, hands on muskets.
"Make ready!" Fernando ordered calmly.
Eight hundred men—more than ours. But poorly armed, half without muskets, and scarcely trained. We hold the advantage.
Then, shockingly, Paredes shouted:
"Fire!"
"You fool—!"
The volley cracked—but flintlocks were slow, and the prince flung himself from his horse, ducking behind a wagon.
Not a week in this body, and already I nearly die.
Shots thundered back and forth.
"Return fire! Protect His Highness! Lieutenant Manuel—get him to safety!"
A young officer dragged him rearward as musketry roared and bayonets clashed. Neither side broke, though both fell by the score.
This will bleed us white. Unless… the cannons.
Two bronze field guns, dragged from Mexico City, sat in reserve.
He ran to them, where Lieutenant Manuel had also arrived with men.
"You too?"
"I thought of it as well, Highness. Do you know how to fire them?"
"I do."
Together they hauled the gun to higher ground. Below, dozens already lay dead.
"Load!"
"Wait. Aim for their officers. Can we reach them?"
"Yes, the range suffices."
"Then strike them. One shot only. If it fails, we turn on the ranks."
"…As you command."
Manuel sighted carefully, sweat beading.
"Ready… Fire!"
The cannon boomed.
The enemy command, careless until now, turned in horror as the ball screamed toward them.
"General!"
"Damn—!"
Impact. Flesh and steel alike flew apart as Javier Paredes, commander of Puebla, was torn asunder.
At once his officers surrendered.
Two cannons were enough to shatter the balance. None wished to die needlessly.
The enemy's leaders were seized; their conscripts, wounded and whole alike, were set to work hauling confiscated goods.
The cost: thirty dead, seventy wounded of their own; ninety dead, one hundred forty wounded of the foe. The prince resolved to petition his father to allot compensation from the seized goods to the families of the fallen.
And yet—even with over a thousand men, it is not enough. We have gravely underestimated Puebla's yield.
Wagons and horses ran short; soldiers built carts by hand and dragged them like beasts.
We cannot take it all at once.
The scale of Don Sebastián's estate was staggering. Eight vast granaries, each thousands of pyeong; scores more scattered across the land.
So many in Mexico starve—yet here grain rots in heaps. Proof, if any were needed, of our feudal rot.
"Leave plows and seed," the prince ordered. "These farms will be managed under the state."
"Understood."
The warehouses brimmed with grain, with silver ore, with liquor. The mansion yielded still more: silver plates, coins, deeds, contracts, gilded furniture, books, wine, arms, art, carriages—treasure without end.
"See that the soldiers keep discipline," the prince warned. "They will be rewarded, but not permitted to pilfer."
"Fear not, Highness," Fernando replied. "When they return to the capital, even their uniforms will be searched. And the officers—I shall keep a close watch myself."
"…Good. Three days to finish here, then we return with reinforcements."
Unlike that fool Paredes, Fernando shows sense. Small wonder my father favors him.
For three days the prince worked without pause, directing the confiscation. At last, the time came to carry their spoils back to the capital.