CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRIAL.
“Proceed to judgment; by my sou!, I swear.
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me.”
SHAKSPEARE.
I could not pass the still bleeding corpse of the old commander without gazing for a moment on the body, and expressing my sympathy aloud. The Empecinado directed a careless look at the fallen Frenchman.
“Yes,” he said, “La Coste has fought his last battle; and he who would wish that the event were otherwise, would be indeed his enemy. I have one weak point of character, Mr. O’Halloran, and occasionally, forget the man in the soldier. The Spaniard who struck for freedom had in La Coste a ruthless foe. By the orders of him and another, I have lost, as you know, two brave companions; and within an hour after ‘the Student’ breathed his last, the dying commands of my friend were carefully conveyed to me. Vengeance he demanded—vengeance I swore should be exacted—and I doomed his murderers accordingly. From my fixed purpose no earthly intervention could have saved the devoted commander—but the chances of war have averted an ignominious end. He died a soldier’s death—I don’t regret it;—and the halter, designed for him, is reserved for some less fortunate camarado. No more—the morning has been a busy one. Come, we need refreshment. Follow me!”
He led the way through an opening in the abatis made by the removal of a tree, ascended the steep rock behind it, and when we gained the summit, we found there a guerilla déjeuné prepared. The scene and meal were wild alike. Substantial viands, a leathern bottle of capacious size filled with wine of superior excellence, a few rude platters, the rock our table, the sky, cloudless and blue, the canopy—while a rivulet, clear as crystal, trickled at our feet through the deep hollow of a mountain ravine, whose volume of water varied at seasons from a torrent to a thread. Above, the rugged pinnacles of the wild Sierra overhung the place we occupied—while below, the broken road wound through the underwood, which by turns revealed or hid it. The lower portion was crowded with the guerillas and their prisoners in march to Villa Moro, but the upper presented a less pleasing spectacle. It was thickly studded with the bodies of the slain—an hour ago “instinct with life,” but now mutilated, cold, and naked.
We found two chosen friends of Juan Diez waiting to share the morning meal. As the dark complexion of the guerilla leader had given the Empecinado his by-name, so also, the person or profession of his companions had obtained for each a sobriquet. One was a low-sized man, of extraordinary muscular proportions, who, from a distortion of his left hand, was termed El bianco, or “The Maimed.” The other retained the title of his former calling; and although the missal had long since been abandoned for the sword, he still was designated “El Cura.” Than the respective dresses and appearance of these partida chiefs, nothing could be more dissimilar. The “Maimed One” wore the simple costume of an Estremduran peasant—while the rich uniform of a chef-d’escadron of Joseph’s lancers of the guard, was adopted by the churchman, whose tall and martial figure seemed never intended for one, whose sphere of action should be confined to the drowsy duties of cell and cloister.
At the invitation of Juan Diez, we assumed a Roman attitude, and stretched ourselves upon the rock; the fosterer modestly falling back, as if he considered himself unworthy of breakfasting in such goodly presence. The Spaniard noticed his secession.
“What ho!” he exclaimed, with a smile,—“hast thou no appetite to-day?—or after sticking stoutly to a comrade in the fray, wouldst thou desert him afterwards at feasting time? ’Tis not the world’s way in general—and men love to see the cork drawn, who hate the sparkle of a sabre. Sit thee down,” and he pointed to a place beside himself. Then turning to his companions, the Empecinado thus continued:—
“I told you, my friends, how narrowly I avoided the trap which French gold and Spanish treachery had baited for me. I planned and led a desperate effort at escape—and never was man more gallantly supported. This youth and I succeeded. ‘Twas all mere accident. We kept our legs and gained the river. My brave friend here,” (I coloured at the compliment like a peony,) “and our murdered brethren, were beaten down and captured. It is marvellous how the whistle of a passing bullet accelerates one’s speed—and faith, I never fancied I could run so fast. If my camarado here proved that in the fray he could use his arms stoutly, in flight nothing but a goatherd could keep him company. Fast as I ran, he still ran faster—and we fairly outstripped pursuit, save that of two rascally voltigeurs, who had thrown away their musquets, and thus lightened, were enabled to keep close at our heels. We neared the river—ten paces more would gain the bank—and then escape would be pretty certain. I turned my head to see what number of the enemy pursued us. A score came straggling after at various distances, and, fifty yards ahead of their companions, those two accursed sharpshooters led the chase. I wished the scoundrels hamstrung; but, thanks to our Lady! the Sedana was at hand. Alas! it seemed fated that I should not reach its waters. An infernal vine-root crossed the path—it caught my foot—down I came; and, as I believed, my doom was sealed,—captivity first, and death afterwards. My young companion heard my fall; and checking his course, he boldly turned to assist me to escape, or share my fate if taken. With a blow he felled the leading voltigeur, and while the other hesitated to close with two desperate men, I regained my feet, and in another moment I and my brwe preserver were breasting the swollen stream, and jive minutes found us in safety on its farther side. Yes, my stout comrade—but for thee, France would have been freed of one of her worst enemies, and Spain have lost a faithful son. Juan Diez owes thee a life—and the dearest wish of his heart is, that a time may come when he can repay thy gallant service.”
“On their own merits modest men are dumb,” and therefore, in the Empecinado’s narrative of our outbreak from the posada, I omit that honourable mention was made of the superior style in which I finished a chasseur, and rendered a second member of the same distinguished corps hors de combat. But decidedly, Mark Antony was the lion of the morning. Before his high deserts, mine sank immeasurably—and from the gentleman with the maimed hand, and his pious confrère. El Cura, we both received flattering tokens of friendship and respect. As to me, there was not a French throat in the peninsula, were it only to be got at, that would not be slit at my solicitation; and had the fosterer made the request, the French detachment would have been decimated without a doubt, to prove the high place he held in the personal esteem of the Empecinado.
We despatched our breakfast, the guerillas prepared to move, called for their horses, and provided a couple for Mark Antony and me, which an hour before had carried different riders—namely, poor La Coste and his aid-de-camp. As we wound down the mountain-road, leading to Villa Moro, the Empecinado pointed out the thickets his followers had occupied, and dwelt with evident satisfaction on the plan and execution of his late successful surprise. And yet, like an unskilful engineer, the mine he had charged for the ruin of another, had nearly caused his own. The alcade and postmaster were false to their country, and in the pay of the invaders. They knew that a French scouting party had secretly advanced within two leagues of Villa Moro, on the night we arrived at the posada—and having gained imperfect information that a guerilla movement was contemplated, they suspected that the late visitors at the village inn were probably connected with the attempt, and despatched our muleteer, to apprise the French commandant that suspicious strangers were in the venta, where they could be easily apprehended.—Acting on this intelligence—correct enough so far as it extended—La Coste executed a rapid night march, which failed in its object, and terminated in disaster and defeat.
Before we reached the little town, the prisoners, with a numerous escort, had crossed the Sedana, directing their march upon the mountains which divide Murcia from Toledo. As we rode slowly down the streets, Vivas greeted us on every side—the women being the loudest in their acclamations. One circumstance I afterwards had cause to recollect. Nearly in the centre of the village, I observed a house of superior appearance, having a court yard in front, with a beech-tree of unusual size, whose spreading branches extended nearly over the whole area of the enclosure. The Empecinado turned a careless glance on the building and the tree.—“That beech will answer”—he muttered—and without another observation, rode forward and entered the yard of the posada.
It was crowded with dismounted partidas, whose horses were picketed and feeding—and in my life I never saw more savage countenances than those which were half hidden and half seen beneath the shadow of their dark-plumed sombreros. In a remote corner, some dozen French voltigeurs, bound two and two, were drawn up. An ominous silence prevailed—in the pale faces of the prisoners, intense anxiety was marked—their guards only conversed in whispers—and it appeared that all were in expectation of some coming event, which seemed dependent on the arrival of the Empecinado.
From the living my eye turned to the direction where I had witnessed the execution of “the Student” and his friend.—The bodies, however, had been removed,—but the spot where they had fallen was readily discovered, for here and there, patches of cement had fallen on the ground, detached from the wall where the bullets of the firing party had struck the brick-work.—Juan Diez cast a gloomy look from the place his friends had met their death to that captive group, whose suspense as to their fate the presence of the dreaded chief would presently remove—and without uttering a word, he entered the well-remembered kitchen of the posada—the curate and El Maneo following, and the fosterer and I with a few partidas bringing up the rear.
It appeared that this singular chamber was destined to present alternately images of life and death, and in quick succession the venta became the house of mourning and of feasting.—On the same table where I had supped with the Empecinado and La Coste, the bodies of the dead guerillas were laid out side by side, the village priest kneeling at their feet, land offering a mass for their souls’ repose. Until the religious duty was performed, the partida leaders observed a respectful silence—but when the Cura rose up and departed, the Empecinado addressed his companions:—
“You have heard,” he said, “the dying injunction of our lost comrade, when he confided to me the sacred duty of executing vengeance on those who murdered him. That hour is come, and ere high noon, blood shall be repaid with blood. To those without, their doom shall be speedily communicated; and on the same spot, and by the same means by which our brethren perished, their slayers shall be slain. So much for retribution on the enemy. Another task is to be performed—greater criminals remain—and justice sternly demands her victims. Diego,” he continued, pulling out his watch, and turning to one of the partidas, who seemed to follow his movements as an orderly, “Go out—apprise the condemned that in fifteen minutes they will be in eternity. The time is short—the priest must be the busier. Deliver this watch to Juan de Castro; and when this hand stands there—he knows the rest—and then conduct the other prisoners hither.”
He whom the Empecinado had addressed as Diego made no reply, but bowed, and left the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned, and we looked anxiously to the door to discover who the other criminals might be.
The first who presented himself, from dress and appearance, was evidently a hidalgo, or Spanish gentleman. The second bore a lower Stamp, and appertained to the middle order of society. The third, to our unbounded astonishment, was our quondam fellow-traveller, the muleteer. The arms of each prisoner were bound behind his back with a common halter, the end of which the partida, who conducted the criminal, held within his grasp.
On the countenances of the prisoners despair was plainly written; and if one ray of hope still remained unextinguished in their bosoms, the chilling address of Juan Diez would have quenched it.
In dead silence they were placed in a line, and at the foot of the table, where the bodies of “the Student” and his comrade were extended. Bending on the devoted wretches a scowl of indescribable ferocity, the Empecinado thus addressed them:—
“Spaniards—but in name—false to your God, faithless to your country!—have ye aught to say why a felon death should not be instantly awarded?”
The hopeless agony which the faces of the criminals thus addressed exhibited, shall never fade from my memory. Colourless—wordless—their white lips moved; but not a syllable was articulated but the single supplication, half lost, half heard, of “mercy!”
“Mercy!” returned their stern judge, “Mercy!”—and he laughed. Oh! what a laugh it was!—“Mercy, and from me! Look round gaze upon your victims—and then ask mercy from Juan Diez But softly, we must be just. The mockery of a trial was extended to our comrades, and a similar act of justice shall be meted out to you. I shall be the accuser, and those shall be your judges and he pointed to El Manco and the Curate. Yes, justice ye shall have; and I swear, by the decree only of these worthy gentlemen, life or death shall be determined!”
He placed his hand within his jacket, and then slowly pulling out several written documents, selected two or three, and then proceeded with his address.
“Answer me briefly—speak truth—for, remember, the first falsehood ensures the transfer of yonder halters from arm to neck. Jose de Toro,” he continued, turning to the postmaster, “knowst thou this handwriting?”
The person questioned gave a hurried look at the well remembered characters, and, with the sickly hope that, leaning on a straw, still clings desperately to life, he at once determined to betray his guilty companion.
“Noble sir,” he muttered, “that writing is the alcades.”
“Thou hearest,” said the Empecinado, handing the fatal document to the Cura. “Honest Sancho thou wert bearer of a letter, two nights ago, addressed to Captain St. Pierre. Wouldst thou know it, honest Sancho?” and the word honest hissed sarcastically between his teeth.
To the unfortunate muleteer, life was dear as to the postmaster. He took the fatal packet in his hand, looked at it attentively, and then replied, that he had indeed received it from Jose de Toro, under a promise of ten dollars for its safe delivery, which promise had been faithfully fulfilled.
“Ho! Ho!” exclaimed the Empecinado, “said I not truly that thou wert honest? ‘Tis marvellous what virtue lies in a yard or two of hemp. There, Cura, read that letter also, and then thou and El Manco will know what will be due to justice. What proves the alcade’s letter?”
“That the writer is a traitor, and in French pay,” was the brief reply.
“And what, the worthy postmaster’s?”
“That he is a sworn confederate.”
“And what, Cura, wouldst thou term the caitiff who advisedly was bearer of treacherous intelligence?”
“I would say that, in effecting the villany of others, he was on a par, in guilt, with the traitors who employed him.”
“And now, El Manco, be it thy duty to pronounce sentence on these offenders.”
The maimed one answered this appeal by directing a concentrated look of hatred and vengeance at the convicted. Neither the alcade or De Toro had power to speak a word; but the luckless muleteer cried lustily, and in the name of every saint, for mercy and forgiveness.
“Well,” said the partida chief, “‘twere wrong to keep you in suspense, as one fate awaits ye. But we will justly apportion it according to your respective ranks.”
Here the muleteer, under fallacious expectations, broke in with a loud torrent of future loyalty and everlasting gratitude.
“Stay, fellow, keep thyself cool awhile,” said El Manco, drily. “Thou know’st the proverb, surely—‘Hallo not until ye clear the forest;’ and now listen to your sentences. With due consideration for thy rank, alcade, thou shalt ornament a topping branch of your own beech tree. The postmaster must needs content himself with a lower bough. And for thee, good fellow,” and he addressed himself to the trembling muleteer, “no matter to what limb they attach thy worthless carcase, provided thy feet clear the court-yard by a yard or two. Off with them—let them have five minutes; and, by San Jago, that will be longer by four than the knaves deserve!”
Never, on a shorter trial, were men condemned, nor sentence more savagely delivered. To a ruthless judge, appeal or remonstrance would have been equally unwailing; and they were removed from the posada to the tree in a sort of sullen and stupid unconsciousness. Their shrift was short—the last sad ceremony hurried over—and, as the fosterer afterwards observed, “they were hanged before they could find time to bless themselves!”
The passing scene was one that would dwell long upon the fancy.—One may view the dead with indifference—the trial’s over—the goal is past.—But who can look upon “a thing of life,” whose thread of existence a few short minutes will sever, without recoiling at the thought? So much had these sad reflections occupied my mind, that I forgot there were others besides those on whom I had just looked my last, who were standing on the confines of eternity. But these musings were interrupted. Without, a rolling volley was suddenly delivered. It knelled the doom of the luckless voltigeurs—and by a similar impulse, Mark Antony and I sprang from the bench, and rushed forward to the casement which looked out upon the courtyard.
For a moment the smoke from the guerilla muskets partially obscured our view—but as it rose upwards, we saw the unhappy sufferers stretched in a line before the wall—dead, or rolling in the agonies of death. There was one singular exception;—an officer appeared to have escaped—for he stood upright and firmly on his feet, with his hand across his bosom. In military executions, some loaded muskets are always reserved to abridge the sufferings of the condemned, should the volley of the firing party fail to end existence. But the partidas were willing executioners—every piece had been discharged—and though the Frenchman boldly called on them to “fire!”—the order was not obeyed.
[Original]
To rescue the gallant victim was my instant determination, and I appealed warmly to the Empecinado in his favour. The Spaniard shook his head—and the Cura and El Manco protested against any exercise of mercy. The guerillas commenced reloading—in a few brief moments the deed would be effected, and remonstrance of no avail—but a sudden impulse of generous ardour eventually proved successful. The fosterer bounded from the casement to the courtyard—sprang through the crowd, passed along the front of the firing party, clasped the condemned soldier in his arms, and swore in very excellent Irish, and by every saint he could remember at the time, that to reach the Frenchman’s body, the bullets must pass first through his.
There was not a partida in that wild band who did not personally estimate Mark Antony as the saviour of their chief—but still the fosterer’s was a dangerous and doubtful experiment. It was interposing between the tiger who has tasted blood, and the victim already underneath his paw. Dark looks were turned upon the preserved and the preserver—and muttered oaths were heard, like the distant growl which heralds the bursting of a thundercloud. The Empecinado, who witnessed the occurrence from the casement, however, lulled the coming storm—and in a voice that to be heard was to be obeyed, he commanded the surviving prisoner to be conducted to his presence; and next moment Lieutenant Cammaran entered the kitchen of the pesada—on one side guarded by a guerilla—on the other supported by the honest fosterer, who still, for better security, encircled the Frenchman with his arm.
Scott says that “a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but a fosterbrother is a piece of his heart.” The truth of the remark never came so home to me before. In infancy, the same bosom had sustained us,—in childhood, our joys and sorrows were the same,—in youth, Mark Antony had followed my fortunes, and in manhood preserved my life. No wonder, that for him mine was indeed a brother’s love. But I never felt so proud of our relationship, as when I saw the fosterer confront the guerilla chiefs, with his arm locked firmly round the poor French voltigeur.