Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso dia;

Adios, dulce extrangera, mi amiga, mi alegria,

Adios, queridos seres, morir es descansar.

The woman who had long responded to his love was only too proud to bear his illustrious name, and in the sombre rays which fell from his prison grating, the vows of matrimony were given and sanctified with the sad certainty of widowhood on the morrow. Fortified by purity of conscience and the rectitude of his principles, he felt no felonʼs remorse, but walked with equanimity to the place of execution. About 2,000 regular and volunteer troops formed the square where he knelt facing the seashore, on the blood-stained field of Bagumbayan. After an officer had shouted the formula, “In the name of the King! Whosoever shall raise his voice to crave clemency for the condemned, shall suffer death,” four bullets, fired from behind by Philippine soldiers, did their fatal work. This execution took place at 6 a.m. on December 30, 1896. An immense crowd witnessed, in silent awe, this sacrifice to priestcraft. The friars, too, were present en masse, many of them smoking big cigars, jubilant over the extinction of that bright intellectual light which, alas! can never be rekindled.

The circumstances under which Rizal, in his exile, made the acquaintance of Josephine Taufer, who became his wife, are curious. The account was given to me by Mrs. Rizalʼs foster-father as we crossed the China Sea together. The foster-father, who was an American resident in Hong-Kong, found his eyesight gradually failing him. After exhausting all remedies in that colony, he heard of a famous oculist in Manila named Rizal, a Filipino of reputed Japanese origin. Therefore, in August, 1894, he went to Manila to seek the great doctor, taking with him a Macao servant, his daughter, and a girl whom he had adopted from infancy. The Philippine Archipelago was such a terra incognita to the outside world that little was generally known of it save the capital, Manila. When he reached there he learnt, to his dismay, that the renowned practitioner was a political exile who lived in an out-of-the-way place in Mindanao Island. Intent on his purpose, he took ship and found the abode of Dr. Rizal. The American had been forsaken by his daughter in Manila, where she eventually married a young native who had neither craft nor fortune. The adopted daughter, therefore, was his companion to Dapítan. When they arrived at the bungalow the bright eyes of the lovely Josephine interested the doctor far more than the sombre diseased organs of her foster-father. The exile and the maiden, in short, fell in love with each other, and they mutually vowed never to be parted but by force. The old manʼs eyes were past all cure, and in vain he urged the girl to depart with him; love dissented from the proposition, and the patient found his way back to Manila, and thence to Hong-Kong, with his Macao servant—a sadder, but a wiser man. The foster-child remained behind to share the hut of the political exile. When, an hour after her marriage, she became Widow Rizal, her husbandʼs corpse, which had received sepulture in the cemetery, was guarded by soldiers for four days lest the superstitious natives should snatch the body and divide it into a thousand relics of their lamented idol. Then Josephine started off for the rebel camp at Imus. On her way she was often asked, “Who art thou?” but her answer, “Lo! I am thy sister, the widow of Rizal!” not only opened a passage for her, but brought low every head in silent reverence. Amidst mourning and triumph she was conducted to the presence of the rebel commander-in-chief, Emilio Aguinaldo, who received her with the respect due to the sorrowing relict of their departed hero. But the formal tributes of condolence were followed by great rejoicing in the camp. She was the only free white woman within the rebel lines. They lauded her as though an angelic being had fallen from the skies; they sang her praises as if she were a modern Joan of Arc sent by heaven to lead the way to victory over the banner of Castile. But she chose, for the time being, to follow a more womanly vocation, and, having been escorted to San Francisco de Malabon, she took up her residence in the convent to tend the wounded for about three weeks. Then, when the battle of Perez Dasmariñas was raging, our heroine sallied forth on horseback with a Mäuser rifle over her shoulder, and—as she stated with pride to a friend of mine who interviewed her—she had the satisfaction of shooting dead one Spanish officer, and then retreated to her convent refuge. Again, she was present at the battle of Silan, where her heroic example of courage infused new life into her brother rebels. The carnage on both sides was fearful, but in the end the rebels fell back, and there, from a spot amidst mangled corpses, rivulets of blood, and groans of death, Josephine witnessed many a scene of Spanish barbarity—the butchery of old inoffensive men and women, children caught up by the feet and dashed against the walls, and the bayonet-charge on the host of fugitive innocents. The rebels having been beaten everywhere when Lachambre took the field, Josephine had to follow in their retreat, and after Imus and Silan were taken, she, with the rest, had to flee to another province, tramping through 23 villages on the way. She was about to play another rôle, being on the point of going to Manila to organize a convoy of arms and munitions, when she heard that certain Spaniards were plotting against her life. So she sought an interview with the Gov.-General, who asked her if she had been in the rebel camp at Imus. She replied fearlessly in the affirmative, and, relying on the security from violence afforded by her sex and foreign nationality, there passed between her and the Gov.-General quite an amusing and piquant colloquy. “What did you go to Imus for?” inquired the General. “What did you go there for?” rejoined Josephine. “To fight,” said the General. “So did I,” answered Josephine. “Will you leave Manila?” asked the General. “Why should I?” queried Josephine. “Well,” said the General, “the priests will not leave you alone if you stay here, and they will bring false evidence against you. I have no power to overrule theirs.” “Then what is the use of the Gov.-General?” pursued our heroine; but the General dismissed the discussion, which was becoming embarrassing, and resumed it a few days later by calling upon her emphatically to quit the Colony. At this second interview the General fumed and raged, and our heroine too stamped her little foot, and, woman-like, avowed “she did not care for him; she was not afraid of him.” It was temerity born of inexperience, for one word of command from the General could have sent her the way many others had gone, to an unrevealed fate. Thus matters waxed hot between her defiance and his forbearance, until visions of torture—thumb-screws and bastinado—passed so vividly before her eyes that she yielded, as individual force must, to the collective power which rules supreme, and reluctantly consented to leave the fair Philippine shores in May, 1897, in the s.s. Yuensang, for a safer resting-place on the British soil of Hong-Kong.

The execution of Dr. Rizal was a most impolitic act. It sent into the field his brother Pasciano with a large following, who eventually succeeded in driving every Spaniard out of their native province of La Laguna. They also seized the lake gunboats, took an entire Spanish garrison prisoner, and captured a large quantity of stores. Pasciano rose to the rank of general before the rebellion ended.[11]

General Fernando Primo de Rivera, Marquis de Estella, arrived in Manila, as the successor of General Camilo Polavieja, in the spring of 1897. He knew the country and the people he was called upon to pacify, having been Gov.-General there from April, 1880, to March, 1883. A few days after his arrival he issued a proclamation offering an amnesty to all who would lay down their arms within a prescribed period. Many responded to this appeal, for the crushing defeat of the rebels in Cavite Province, accompanied by the ruthless severity of the soldiery during the last Captain-Generalcy, had damped the ardour of thousands of would-be insurgents. The rebellion was then confined to the north of Manila, but, since Aguinaldo had evacuated Cavite and joined forces with Llaneras, the movement was carried far beyond the Provinces of Bulacan and Pampanga. Armed mobs had risen in Pangasinán, Zambales, Ilocos, Nueva Ecija, and Tárlac. Many villages were entirely reduced to ashes by them; crops of young rice too unripe to be useful to anybody were wantonly destroyed; pillage and devastation were resorted to everywhere to coerce the peaceful inhabitants to join in the movement. On the other hand, the nerves of the priests were so highly strung that they suspected every native, and, by persistently launching false accusations against their parishioners, they literally made rebels. Hence at Candon (Ilocos Sur), a town of importance on the north-west coast of Luzon, five influential residents were simply goaded into rebellion by the frenzied action of the friars subordinate to the Bishop of Vigan, Father José Hévia de Campomanes. These residents then killed the parish priest, and without arms fled for safety to the mountain ravines. A few months before, at the commencement of the rebellion, this same Austin friar, Father Rafael Redondo, had ignominiously treated his own and other native curates by having them stripped naked and tied down to benches, where he beat them with the prickly tail of the ray-fish to extort confessions relating to conspiracy. In San Fernando de la Union the native priests Adriano Garcés, Mariano Gaerlan, and Mariano Dacanaya were tortured with a hot iron applied to their bodies to force a confession that they were freemasons. The rebels attacked Bayambang (Pangasinán), drove out the Spanish garrison, seized the church and convent in which they had fortified themselves, made prisoner the Spanish priest, burnt the Government stores, Court-house, and Spanish residences, but carefully avoided all interference with the British-owned steam rice-mill and paddy warehouses. Troops were sent against them by special train from Tárlac, and they were beaten out of the place with a loss of about 100 individuals; but they carried off their clerical prisoner. General Monet operated in the north against the rebels with Spanish and native auxiliary forces. He attacked the armed mobs in Zambales Province, where encounters of minor importance took place almost daily, with no decisive victory for either party. He showed no mercy and took no prisoners; his troops shot down or bayoneted rebels, non-combatants, women and children indiscriminately. Tillage was carried on at the risk of oneʼs life, for men found going out to their lands were seized as spies and treated with the utmost severity as possible sympathizers with the rebels. He carried this war of extermination up to Ilocos, where, little by little, his forces deserted him. His auxiliaries went over to the rebels in groups. Even a few Spaniards passed to the other side, and after a protracted struggle which brought no advantage to the Government, he left garrisons in several places and returned to Manila. In Aliaga (Nueva Ecija) the Spaniards had no greater success. The rebels assembled there in crowds, augmented by the fugitive mobs from Pangasinán, and took possession of the town. The Spaniards, under General Nuñez, attacked them on two sides, and there was fought one of the most desperate battles of the north. It lasted about six hours: the slaughter on both sides was appalling. The site was strewn with corpses, and as the rebels were about to retreat General Nuñez advanced to cut them off, but was so severely wounded that he had to relinquish the command on the field. But the flight of the insurgents was too far advanced to rally them, and they retired south towards Pampanga.

In Tayabas the officiousness of the Governor almost brought him to an untimely end. Two well-known inhabitants of Pagsanján (La Laguna) were accused of conspiracy, and, without proof, court-martialled and executed. The Governor went to witness the scene, and returning the next day with his official suite, he was waylaid near Lucbang by a rebel party, who killed one of the officers and wounded the Governor. Filipinos returning to Manila were imprisoned without trial, tortured, and shipped back to Hong-Kong as deck passengers. The wet season had fully set in, making warfare in the provinces exceedingly difficult for the raw Spanish recruits who arrived to take the place of the dead, wounded, and diseased. Spain was so hard pressed by Cuban affairs that the majority of these last levies were mere boys, ignorant of the use of arms, ill clad, badly fed, and with months of pay in arrear. Under these conditions they were barely a match for the sturdy Islanders, over mountains, through streams, mud-pools, and paddy-fields. The military hospitals were full; the Spaniards were as far off extinguishing the Katipunan as the rebels were from being able to subvert Spanish sovereignty. The rebels held only two impregnable places, namely Angat and San Mateo, but whilst they carried on an interminable guerilla warfare they as carefully avoided a pitched battle. The Gov.-General, then, had resort to another edict, dated July 2, 1897, which read thus:—

Edict

Don Fernando Primo de Rivera y Sobremonte, Marquis de Estella, Governor and Captain-General of the Philippines, and Commander-in-Chief of the Army.