Agustín I moved with a swiftness that exceeded even his son's expectations.
To think he would deliver the speech the very next day.
From five o'clock in the afternoon, soldiers spread throughout the streets of Mexico City, announcing the emperor's address. The crown prince, accompanied by guards, also went out to gauge the mood of the people.
"At seven this evening, His Majesty the Emperor will speak in the Plaza de la Constitución!"
Citizens, startled by the sudden proclamation, whispered with curiosity.
"A speech? What could this be about?"
"We must go. To miss a speech from His Majesty himself would be folly."
"Yes—especially now. Since independence, all we have heard is quarrels within the government. Perhaps at last there will be clarity."
Though Agustín I retained popular support, the people were uneasy. Many of those gathered were Creoles, who formed the backbone of Mexico's middle and upper classes and knew enough politics to worry.
At the great square—called both the Zócalo and the Plaza de la Constitución—soldiers worked with haste to erect a platform.
From a corner, the crown prince noticed a group of Creoles scowling bitterly at the sight.
Deputies, he thought. Let us hear what they say.
"What is the emperor plotting with this display?" one muttered.
"Should we not stop him?"
"And on what grounds? By what right can we forbid him to speak?"
"He has moved soldiers without the consent of Congress—that alone is reason enough!"
"I confronted one of his officers earlier, and told him to return to his proper duties. He only laughed in my face—said he would obey when I paid his wages."
"Insolent cur!"
"Clearly one of Agustín's creatures."
So the republicans fretted, but they could find no ready means of disruption.
Indeed. And what could they do?
By evening, crowds began to flood the square.
More diverse than I expected, the prince observed. He had thought only the Creoles would come, but among them he saw mestizos, mulattoes, even some who looked to be native-born Indians.
New Spain, unlike the United States, had not exterminated its indigenous peoples. Exploited, yes; but not annihilated. Indeed, the Spaniards had often co-opted native nobles as collaborators. Now their descendants stood mingled in the throng.
Exploitation rather than coexistence, perhaps. But at least they were not swept away.
The vast Zócalo, still one of the largest squares in the world, filled with tens of thousands as the sun dipped low.
When at last the emperor ascended the platform, he wore not crown nor regal robes, but the crisp uniform of a soldier. He wished to appear not as a distant monarch but as the commander who had led them to victory.
Not a bad choice, the prince thought.
Then Agustín I raised his voice, resonant and commanding.
"Honored citizens of Mexico! I, your emperor, stand before you with a vision of change and hope. By your blood, your sweat, your courage, we have torn ourselves free from Spain's grasp. After a long struggle, we have won this priceless independence."
The crowd nodded gravely.
"Yet our independence is not yet complete. Centuries of exploitation, years of war have left our treasury in ruin. And as our victory grew certain, the peninsulares—those who monopolized power—fled, carrying with them their stolen wealth."
The people stirred uneasily.
He builds his case well, thought the son. First, pride. Then, grievance.
"To meet these challenges," the emperor continued, "I propose this: the wealth left behind by the peninsulares must serve Mexico herself. For centuries they drained us of taxes, seized our farms, despoiled our land. But now we are free. Why should we endure their theft a moment longer?"
The cry was simple: confiscation.
The crowd buzzed.
"Well said! Those parasites own half of Mexico still!"
"But—surely not my grandfather's estate, taken fairly?"
As if foreseeing their unease, Agustín pressed on.
"Let me be clear. This measure touches not those Spaniards who have made Mexico their home, who call themselves Mexicans. Only the property of those who opposed our independence will be seized. It is not plunder, but justice. The property of all Mexicans, and of all foreigners save the Spaniards, shall be secure. Spain, torn by civil war, cannot intervene. Let us seize this chance to lay the foundations of true independence!"
The anxious Creoles relaxed; the intellectuals, too, saw reassurance.
"This measure," Agustín thundered, "will grant us not only true independence, but strength and prosperity. For a free and mighty Mexico—Viva la Independencia!"
At once the planted cheerleaders cried out.
"¡Viva! ¡Viva la Independencia!"
"¡Viva el Emperador Agustín!"
In seconds the entire multitude roared with them, the chant rolling like thunder over the square.
"Viva la Independencia! Viva Agustín I!"
The prince leaned close as his father descended the platform.
"Majesty—we must act at once to pressure Congress."
"So soon? They will have no choice but to accept."
"But the announcement will drive many to spirit away their valuables. We must seize what can be used immediately."
"Already I ordered the inventories drawn up," Agustín replied.
"Lands and estates are secure. But goods—grain, arms, wagons, treasures—these will vanish if we wait. The government needs coins it can spend today, not revenues months from now. Puebla's farms must be secured first."
The emperor frowned, then returned to the dais.
"As emperor, I demand that Congress give answer to this people's will without delay! Let no deputy dare waste time in fruitless quarrel. I summon you—assemble at once in the Congress!"
The roar redoubled, and Agustín strode toward the legislative hall. Deputies scurried after him, pale-faced. A knot of citizens followed, still chanting.
"¡Viva la Independencia! ¡Viva el Emperador!"
The chamber of Congress trembled with tension. Outside, citizens shouted for immediate passage of the emperor's proposal.
Rafael Manjino, Speaker of the House and leader of the republicans, wiped sweat from his brow.
Damn him. A public speech? That is our weapon, not his! What has gotten into Agustín?
Until now, Rafael had felt certain of victory. The government lay in shambles; discontent spread daily. His plan was simple: let time fester, let the people's anger erupt, and lay the blame on the emperor's tyranny. Then, with Agustín deposed, Mexico would follow the American model. A presidency would be established—and he would claim it.
Congress favored republicans more than monarchists. Even the neutrals drifted toward his camp. Victory was within reach.
But this unexpected gambit had thrown him off balance.
No matter. If nothing else, I can stall for time.
At that moment Agustín entered, scanning the chamber with calm disdain.
"You have seen the people's response," he declared. "Their will is clear. I could command my army at once, but I respect this Congress. Therefore, approve my proposal now!"
Rafael pounced.
"Majesty! Mexico has neither law nor constitution. In such chaos, how can you begin such an enterprise? We have not yet defined the powers of the crown and Congress. Even the movement of troops must be agreed by us!"
Agustín smiled coldly.
"Indeed. And that is why nothing has been accomplished thus far. But now? This is different."
"Different? In what way?"
"Because this time, the people themselves demand it. I favor it, and they favor it. Will Congress oppose the will of the nation?"
"Not oppose," Rafael countered swiftly, "but only seek careful review. Prudence demands deliberation."
"Then deliberate now. If you have questions, ask them. My son, the crown prince, who proposed this plan, will answer you."
The deputies turned in one toward Jerónimo.
Rafael's lips curled into a predator's smile.
"So it is the boy. A bold fancy, perhaps—let us see how long his courage lasts."
He launched his barrage of questions, not knowing with whom he truly contended.