II
GASPAR Ruiz, condemned to death as a deserter, was not thinking eitherof his native place or of his parents, to whom he had been a good son onaccount of the mildness of his character and the great strength of hislimbs. The practical advantage of this last was made still morevaluable to his father by his obedient disposition. Gaspar Ruiz had anacquiescent soul.
But it was stirred now to a sort of dim revolt by his dislike to die thedeath of a traitor. He was not a traitor. He said again to the sergeant:"You know I did not desert, Estaban. You know I remained behind amongstthe trees with three others to keep the enemy back while the detachmentwas running away!"
Lieutenant Santierra, little more than a boy at the time, and unused asyet to the sanguinary imbecilities of a state of war, had lingerednear by, as if fascinated by the sight of these men who were to be shotpresently--"for an example"--as the Commandante had said.
The sergeant, without deigning to look at the prisoner, addressedhimself to the young officer with a superior smile.
"Ten men would not have been enough to make him a prisoner, mi teniente.Moreover, the other three rejoined the detachment after dark. Why shouldhe, unwounded and the strongest of them all, have failed to do so?"
"My strength is as nothing against a mounted man with a lasso," GasparRuiz protested eagerly. "He dragged me behind his horse for half amile."
At this excellent reason the sergeant only laughed contemptuously. Theyoung officer hurried away after the Commandante.
Presently the adjutant of the castle came by. He was a truculent,raw-boned man in a ragged uniform. His spluttering voice issued out of aflat, yellow face. The sergeant learned from him that the condemned menwould not be shot till sunset. He begged then to know what he was to dowith them meantime.
The adjutant looked savagely round the courtyard, and, pointing to thedoor of a small dungeon-like guard-room, receiving light and air throughone heavily-barred window, said: "Drive the scoundrels in there."
The sergeant, tightening his grip upon the stick he carried in virtueof his rank, executed this order with alacrity and zeal. He hit GasparRuiz, whose movements were slow, over his head and shoulders. GasparRuiz stood still for a moment under the shower of blows, biting hislip thoughtfully as if absorbed by a perplexing mental process--thenfollowed the others without haste. The door was locked, and the adjutantcarried off the key.
By noon the heat of that low vaulted place crammed to suffocation hadbecome unbearable. The prisoners crowded towards the window, beggingtheir guards for a drop of water; but the soldiers remained lying inindolent attitudes wherever there was a little shade under a wall, whilethe sentry sat with his back against the door smoking a cigarette, andraising his eyebrows philosophically from time to time. Gaspar Ruizhad pushed his way to the window with irresistible force. His capaciouschest needed more air than the others; his big face, resting with itschin on the ledge, pressed close to the bars, seemed to support theother faces crowding up for breath. From moaned entreaties they hadpassed to desperate cries, and the tumultuous howling of those thirstymen obliged a young officer who was just then crossing the courtyard toshout in order to make himself heard.
"Why don't you give some water to these prisoners!"
The sergeant, with an air of surprised innocence, excused himself by theremark that all those men were condemned to die in a very few hours.
Lieutenant Santierra stamped his foot. "They are condemned to death, notto torture," he shouted. "Give them some water at once."
Impressed by this appearance of anger, the soldiers bestirredthemselves, and the sentry, snatching up his musket, stood to attention.
But when a couple of buckets were found and filled from the well, it wasdiscovered that they could not be passed through the bars, which wereset too close. At the prospect of quenching their thirst, the shrieks ofthose trampled down in the struggle to get near the opening became veryheartrending. But when the soldiers who had lifted the buckets towardsthe window put them to the ground again helplessly, the yell ofdisappointment was still more terrible.
The soldiers of the army of Independence were not equipped withcanteens. A small tin cup was found, but its approach to the openingcaused such a commotion, such yells of rage and' pain in the vaguemass of limbs behind the straining faces at the window, that LieutenantSantierra cried out hurriedly, "No, no--you must open the door,sergeant."
The sergeant, shrugging his shoulders, explained that he had no rightto open the door even if he had had the key. But he had not the key.The adjutant of the garrison kept the key. Those men were giving muchunnecessary trouble, since they had to die at sunset in any case.Why they had not been shot at once early in the morning he could notunderstand.
Lieutenant Santierra kept his back studiously to the window. It wasat his earnest solicitations that the Commandante had delayed theexecution. This favour had been granted to him in consideration ofhis distinguished family and of his father's high position amongst thechiefs of the Republican party. Lieutenant Santierra believed that theGeneral commanding would visit the fort some time in the afternoon,and he ingenuously hoped that his naive intercession would inducethat severe man to pardon some, at least, of those criminals. In therevulsion of his feeling his interference stood revealed now as guiltyand futile meddling. It appeared to him obvious that the general wouldnever even consent to listen to his petition. He could never save thosemen, and he had only made himself responsible for the sufferings addedto the cruelty of their fate.
"Then go at once and get the key from the adjutant," said LieutenantSantierra.
The sergeant shook his head with a sort of bashful smile, while his eyesglanced sideways at Gaspar Ruiz's face, motionless and silent, staringthrough the bars at the bottom of a heap of other haggard, distorted,yelling faces.
His worship the adjutant de Plaza, the sergeant murmured, was having hissiesta; and supposing that he, the sergeant, would be allowed access tohim, the only result he expected would be to have his soul flogged outof his body for presuming to disturb his worship's repose. He made adeprecatory movement with his hands, and stood stock-still, looking downmodestly upon his brown toes.
Lieutenant Santierra glared with indignation, but hesitated. Hishandsome oval face, as smooth as a girl's, flushed with the shame ofhis perplexity. Its nature humiliated his spirit. His hairless upper liptrembled; he seemed on the point of either bursting into a fit of rageor into tears of dismay.
Fifty years later, General Santierra, the venerable relic ofrevolutionary times, was well able to remember the feelings of theyoung lieutenant. Since he had given up riding altogether, and foundit difficult to walk beyond the limits of his garden, the general'sgreatest delight, was to entertain in his house the officers of theforeign men-of-war visiting the harbour. For Englishmen he had apreference, as for old companions in arms. English naval men of allranks accepted his hospitality with curiosity, because he had known LordCochrane and had taken part, on board the patriot squadron commandedby that marvellous seaman, in the cutting-out and blockading operationsbefore Callao--an episode of unalloyed glory in the wars of Independenceand of endless honour in the fighting tradition of Englishmen. He was afair linguist, this ancient survivor of the Liberating armies. A trickof smoothing his long white beard whenever he was short of a word inFrench or English imparted an air of leisurely dignity to the tone ofhis reminiscences.