CHAPTER III
HERETIC AND REVOLUTIONIST.
Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila,is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gentlyto lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hatand drew a deep, long breath.
Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going,rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristicalike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward thePlaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiarobjects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses withwhite and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash orrepainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old churchtower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there,too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and ironrods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it whena boy.
"Things go slowly here!" he muttered and continued up the street pastthe vestry.
As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying"sorbettes." The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light forthe stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeatsand fruit.
"It is marvellous," he exclaimed. "There is the same Chinaman who wasat that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom Iremember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe buta night's sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired thisbroken place in the pavement!"
Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement beforehe left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditatingupon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country,some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up,and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left theCaptain's house. A smile had displaced the officer's usual harshexpression and characteristic frown.
"Be careful, young man!" said he. "Remember what happened to yourfather!"
"I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father veryhighly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?" asked Ibarra, gazingintently into the lieutenant's eyes.
"Do you not know?" said the officer.
"I asked Don Santiago, but he said that he would tell me nothinguntil to-morrow. Have you no information regarding him?"
"Why, yes; everybody knows about him. He died in prison."
The young man stepped back and stared wildly at the officer. "Inprison! Who died in prison?" he asked in astonishment.
"Why, your father, who had been arrested," answered the officersomewhat surprised.
"What! My father in prison! Arrested and imprisoned! Man, what areyou talking about? Do you know who my father was? Are you----?" askedthe young man, nervously grasping the officer's arm.
"I don't think that I am mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra."
"Yes. Don Rafael Ibarra," repeated the young man, scarcely able toutter the words.
"I thought that you knew it," said the officer, in a sympatheticvoice, as he saw the emotion his words had caused. "I thought thatyou knew it; but be brave. Here, you know, no man can be honorablewithout being imprisoned."
"I cannot believe that you are not jesting," replied Ibarra, aftera few minutes of deep silence. "Can you tell me for what offense hewas imprisoned?"
The old man paused as if to meditate. "It seems strange to me thatyou have not been kept informed as to the affairs of your family."
"My father's last letter, which I received a year ago, told me notto be uneasy if he failed to write to me, for he was very busy. Headvised me to continue my studies, he sent me his blessing----"
"In that case, he must have written the letter to you shortly beforehis death. It is almost a year since we buried him in his own town."
"Why was my father arrested?" asked Ibarra in a voice full of emotion.
"The cause of his arrest was an honorable one. I must go to myquarters now; walk along with me and then I can tell you on theway. Take my arm."
They walked for some time in melancholy silence. Deep in thought andnervously stroking his goatee, the officer sought inspiration beforehe could begin the pitiful tale.
"As you very well know," he at last began, "your father was the richestman in the province, and, although he was loved and highly respected bymany, there were some envious persons who hated him. Your father hada great many enemies among the priests and the Spaniards. Some monthsafter your departure, trouble arose between Don Rafael and FatherDamaso, but I do not know what it was all about. Father Damaso accusedyour father of not attending confession. In former times, however,he had never attended confession. Nothing was said about it, and heand the priest were good friends, as you will remember. Furthermore,Don Rafael was a very honorable man and much more upright and justthan many who go to confession regularly. He was very conscientious,and, in speaking to me in regard to his troubles with Father Damaso,used to say:
"'Senor Guevara, do you believe that God will forgive a crime, amurder for instance, simply because that crime has been confessedto a priest--confessed to a man who is in duty bound to keep itsecret? Will God pardon a man whose repentance is brought about byhis cowardly fear of hell? I have a very different opinion of God. Icannot see how one evil can be corrected by another, nor how pardoncan be procured by mere idle tears and donations to the Church.' Yourfather always followed the strictest rules of morality. I may safelysay that he never harmed any one, but, on the contrary, alwayssought by doing good to offset certain unjust deeds committed by yourgrandfathers. However, his troubles with the priests continued and tookon a dangerous aspect. Father Damaso alluded to him from the pulpit,and, if he did not do so directly by name, it was an oversight on hispart, for anything might be expected from a man of his character. Iforesaw that sooner or later the affair would have a bad ending."
The old lieutenant paused for a few minutes and then continued:"About this time there came to the province a man who had been inthe artillery, but had been thrown out of the ranks on account ofhis brutality and ignorance. This man had to make a livelihood. Hewas not allowed to engage in the work of an ordinary laborer, sincethat might damage Spain's prestige, but somehow obtained the positionof collector of taxes on vehicles. He had no education whatever, andthe natives soon found it out. A Spaniard who cannot read and writeis a wonder to them, and hence he became the subject of all sorts ofridicule. Knowing that he was being laughed at, he became ashamed tocollect his taxes. This had a bad effect on his character, which wasalready bad enough. People used to give him documents upside down tosee him pretend to read them. He would make a show of doing so, andthen, on the first blank space he found, would fill in some sprawlingcharacters which, I may say, represented him very accurately. Thenatives continued to pay their taxes, but kept on ridiculing him. Hefairly raved with anger and worked himself up to such a frame ofmind that he respected none. Finally, he had some words with yourfather. It happened that one day, while the collector was studyinga document which had been given to him in a store, some school boyscame along. One of them called the attention of his companions to thecollector, and they all began to laugh and point their fingers at theunhappy man. The collector finally lost his patience, turned quicklyand chased his tormentors. The boys, of course, ran in all directions,at the same time mimicking a child learning the alphabet. Blind withrage because he could not reach them, he threw his cane, struck oneof the boys on the head and knocked him down. Not content with this,he went up and kicked the boy several times. Unfortunately, your fatherhappened to be passing just at the moment. Indignant at what he saw,he seized the tax collector by the arm and severely reproached him forhis actions. The tax collector in anger raised his cane to strike,but your father was too quick for him. With that strength which heinherited from his forefathers, he, as some say, struck the collector,or, as others claim, only gave him a push. The fact is that the manstaggered and fell to the ground, and, in falling, struck his headagainst a stone. Don Rafael quietly lifted up the wounded boy andc
arried him to the court house near by, leaving the collector wherehe had fallen. The ex-artilleryman began to bleed at the mouth anddied without regaining consciousness.
"Naturally the law stepped in. They showered calumnies of allkinds upon your father and accused him of being a heretic and arevolutionist. To be a heretic is a great misfortune anywhere orat any time, but it was especially so at this particular time,for the chief magistrate of the province was the loudest prayermaker in the Church. To be a revolutionist is still worse. One mightbetter have killed three highly educated tax collectors than be thusaccused. Everybody deserted your father, and his books and paperswere seized. He was accused of being a subscriber to 'El Correo delUltramar' and to Madrid newspapers, of having sent you to Germany,of having in his possession incriminating papers and pictures,and--well, I don't know what not. He was even attacked because,although he was the descendant of Spaniards, he wore the dress ofthe natives. If your father had been anybody else, he would have beenacquitted, for the doctors pronounced the death of the collector dueto natural causes. His fortune, however, his confidence in the law,and his hatred for everything which seemed unlawful and unjust, costhim his life. I myself, much as I dislike begging for mercy, calledupon the Governor General, the predecessor of the present Governor. Ibrought out the fact that a man who aided every poor Spaniard, whogave food and shelter to all, and whose veins were filled with thegenerous blood of Spain--such a man could not be a revolutionist. Invain I argued for him, pledged my own life for him, and swore bymy military honor. What did it all amount to? I was badly received,curtly and summarily dismissed, and called a fool."
The old man paused to take breath. His young companion neither lookedup nor made a sound. The narrator proceeded: "I took charge of thecase for your father. I called upon the celebrated Filipino lawyer,young A----a, but he refused to undertake the defense. 'I would losethe case,' he said, 'my defense would cause new accusations againsthim, and perhaps bring them upon me. Go and see Senor M----, who is aneloquent orator, a Spaniard and a man of great reputation.' I did so,and the celebrated lawyer took charge of the case, which he conductedin a masterful and brilliant manner. But your father had many enemies,some of whom did their work secretly. There were many false witnessesin the case, and their calumnies, which anywhere else would have beenoverthrown by a single sarcastic phrase from the defending attorney,were here given a great deal of weight. As fast as the attorneyproved the falsity of their accusations, new charges were broughtforward. They accused him of having wrongfully taken possession ofa large tract of land. They sued him for damages and for injuriescaused. They said that he had dealings with the organized banditsor tulisanes, and that thus he had been able to keep his propertyunmolested. In fact, the case became so complicated that within a yearno one understood it. The chief magistrate was called away from hispost and replaced by another of good reputation, but unfortunatelythis magistrate, too, was displaced in a few months.
"The sufferings, disappointments and discomforts of prison life,and his great grief at seeing the ingratitude of so many supposedfriends, finally broke down your father's iron constitution and hebecame fatally ill. When it was all over; when he had proved himselfnot guilty of being an enemy to his country, and innocent of thedeath of the tax collector, he died in prison, with no one to carefor him in his last hours. I arrived just as he was expiring."
The old man had finished all he had to say. Ibarra, overcome withgrief at the pathetic story he had heard, could not utter a word. Thetwo had arrived at the gate of the barracks. Stopping and shakinghands with the young man, the officer said: "My boy, Captain Tiagocan give you the details. I must say good night, for my duty callsme." With deep emotion, Ibarra grasped the lean hand of the lieutenant,and then looked after him in silence until he disappeared in thebuilding. Turning slowly about, he saw a carriage passing and madea sign to the cabman.
"Lala's Hotel," he said in a low voice.
"This fellow is just out of jail," said the cabman to himself as hewhipped up his horses.