Francisco Morazán sat at a low table in the center of the room. He was dressed in his full military uniform - it was the first time in over a decade he'd worn it. It felt tight around the stomach, he thought to himself. He sucked his gut in and glanced at the man at the table to his right, red-faced and shouting. This man's uniform didn't fit him quite right, either. The difference was that this blowhard's uniform was too loose.
"And that's not all! No, I could go on at length about this man's crimes! His utter debauchery!" Shouted the man on Francisco's right. His face was red, and spit flew from his mouth. Another very comical man, thought Francisco - an easy man to work into a frenzy, like so many other military man. "This 'Good Caudillo' as he's brainwashed the masses into calling him - we have it on good authority that it was at this man's direction that Central America does not have free elections! That it was this man who sold out to Anglo interests, invited that Balt into office, sold out our manufacturies to the northerners!"
Francisco made eye contact with his own son, one man of several sitting at the table to his left. Tomás was leaning forward, his eyes locked on the shouting general's face, pointedly ignoring his own father's. Out of disinterest, or fear, or guilt - Francisco could not say. The boy had always been headstrong, always opposed to his father's anti-clericalism. Francisco thought back to his early days in the the newly free Central American federation. He pictured little Tomás in his arms... He pictured watching the priest dip Tomás below the water. How strange things had turned out, just for want of a better country.
"But by far the worst of his crimes - worse even than his affronts against God himself, for at least God can judge him for it - crimes against his countrymen, his family! The very flesh and blood who raised this militiamen up from the mud and asked him to lead them, and lead them well! Let it be known that in our hour of need, Francisco Morazán declined the call to action! A call made by his own nephew Máximo, who languishes in foreign lands under the heel of the Sell-Out President! I name him traitor - traitor to God, to country, to the very army he himself established!"
Applause erupted around Francisco, deafening in its intensity. Lapels and badges and a whole host of awards Francisco had himself given out bounced around with the flailing of limbs. Not a single man in the chamber was out of uniform, he realized. Where had his allies gone? The Protective Allied Army, once the bastion of Central American liberalism. Once the only proponent of Central American liberalism. Who were they protecting now? Rich men from Cuba, who lived better lives than the people here. Francisco couldn't help but sneer, his eyes fixed forward.
"The panel thanks you for the very elucidating speech, Félix. Truly, you enlighten us." Tomás' much quieter, much softer voice drifted through the chamber. He folded his hands and leaned forward onto the table he sat in the center of. "In light of the damning accusations and substantial evidence brought against the accused, this tribunal finds him guilty of dereliction of duty, conspiracy against the army, and treason against God, man, and country." Tomás' tried to meet his father's eyes now, but the old man would not turn to face him. "If you have anything to say, sir, now is the time."
A moment passed in silence. Faint murmurs began to drift through the tribunal hall, and yet the elder Morazán stayed still as a statue. Only his eyes moved, scanning across the crowd laid out before him, meeting each and every pair of eyes, standing stubborn and proud atop a sneering face. Francisco's eyes stopped before they reached the table on his left. There was nothing worth looking at - not over in that direction.
Eventually, the silence was broken by a sound Francisco knew all too well. The sharp crack of a discharging rifle, somewhere to his right, and the beginnings of a cacophony of shouting. The world went terribly, blissfully, black.
Cuba
