Chapter 63 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
The female prisoners remained in the Calabozo. Carlos, for better security, was carried on to the Presidio, and placed in the prison of the guard-house.
That night he received a visit. The Comandante and Roblado could not restrain their dastard spirits from indulging in the luxury of revenge. Having emptied their wine-cups, they, with a party of boon companions, entered the guard prison, and amused themselves by taunting the chained captive. Every insult was put upon him by his half-drunken visitors—every rudeness their ingenuity could devise.
For long all this was submitted to in silence. A coarse jest from Vizcarra at length provoked reply. The reply alluded to the changed features of the latter, which so exasperated the brute, that he dashed, dagger in hand, upon the bound victim, and would have taken his life, but that Roblado and others held him back! He was only prevented from killing Carlos by his companions declaring that such a proceeding would rob them of their anticipated sport! This consideration alone restrained him; but he was not contented until with his fists he had inflicted several blows upon the face of the defenceless captive!
“Let the wretch live!” said Roblado. “To-morrow we shall have a fine spectacle for him!”
With this the inebriated gang staggered out, leaving the prisoner to reflect upon this promised “spectacle.”
He did reflect upon it. That he was to be made a spectacle he understood well enough. He had no hopes of mercy, either from civil or military judges. His death was to be the spectacle. All night long his soul was tortured with painful thoughts, not of himself, but about those far dearer to him than his own life.
Morning glanced through the narrow loophole of his gloomy cell. Nothing else—nought to eat, to drink—no word of consolation—no kind look from his ruffian gaolers. No friend to make inquiry about him—no sign that a single heart on earth cared for him.
Midday arrived. He was taken, or rather dragged, from his prison. Troops formed around, and carried him off. Where was he going? To execution?
His eyes were free. He saw himself taken to the town, and through the Plaza. There was an unusual concourse of people. The square was nearly filled, and the azoteas that commanded a view of it. All the inhabitants of the settlement seemed to be present in the town. There were haciendados, rancheros, miners, and all. Why? Some grand event must have brought them together. They had the air of people who expected to witness an unusual scene. Perhaps the “spectacle” promised by Roblado! But what could that be? Did they intend to torture him in presence of the multitude? Such was not improbable.
The crowd jeered him as he passed. He was carried through their midst, and thrust into the Calabozo.
A rude banqueta along one side of his cell offered a resting-place. On this the wretched man sank down into a lying posture. The fastenings on his arms and legs would not allow him to sit upright.
He was left alone. The soldiers who had conducted him went out, turning the key behind them. Their voices and the clink of their scabbards told him that some of them still remained by the door. Two of them had been left there as sentinels. The others sauntered off, and mingled with the crowd of civilians that filled the Plaza.
Carlos lay for some minutes without motion—almost without thought. His soul was overwhelmed with misery. For the first time in his life he felt himself yielding to despair.
The feeling was evanescent; and once more he began to reflect—not to hope—no! Hope, they say dies but with life: but that is a paradox. He still lived, but hope had died. Hope of escape there was none. He was too well guarded. His exasperated enemies, having experienced the difficulty of his capture, were not likely to leave him the slightest chance of escape. Hope of pardon—of mercy—it never entered his thoughts to entertain either.
But reflection returned.
It is natural for a captive to glance around the walls of his prison—to assure himself that he is really a prisoner. It is his first act when the bolt shoots from the lock, and he feels himself alone. Obedient to this impulse, the eye of Carlos was raised to the walls, his cell was not a dungeon—a small window, or embrasure, admitted light. It was high up, but Carlos saw that, by standing upon the banqueta, he could have looked out by it. He had no curiosity to do so, and he lay still. He saw that the walls of his prison were not of stone. They were adobe bricks, and the embrasure enabled him to tell their thickness. There was no great strength in them either. A determined man, with an edge-tool and time to spare, could make his way through them easily enough. So Carlos reflected: but he reflected, as well, that he had neither the edge-tool nor the time. He was certain that in a few hours—perhaps minutes—he would be led from that prison to the scaffold.
Oh! he feared not death—not even torture, which he anticipated would be his lot. His torture was the thought of eternal separation from mother, sister, from the proud noble girl he loved—the thought that he would never again behold them—one or other of them—this was the torture that maddened his soul.
Could he not communicate with them? Had he no friend to carry to them a last word?—to convey a dying thought? None.
The sunbeam that slanted across the cell was cut off at intervals, and the room darkened. Something half covered the embrasure without. It was the face of some idle lepero, who, curious to catch a glimpse of the captive, had caused himself to be hoisted upon the shoulders of his fellows. The embrasure was above the heads of the crowd. Carlos could hear their brutal jests, directed not only against himself, but against those dear to him—his mother and sister. While this pained him, he began to wonder that they should be so much the subject of the conversation. He could not tell what was said of them, but in the hum of voices their names repeatedly reached his ear. He had lain about an hour on the banqueta, when the door opened, and the two officers, Vizcarra and Roblado, stepped within the cell. They were accompanied by Gomez.
The prisoner believed that his hour was come. They were going to lead him forth to execution. He was wrong. That was not their design. Far different. They had come to gloat over his misery. Their visit was to be a short one. “Now, my brave!” began Roblado. “We promised you a spectacle to-day. We are men of our word. We come to admonish you that it is prepared, and about to come off. Mount upon that banqueta, and look out into the Plaza; you will have an excellent view of it; and as it is near you will need no glass! Up then! and don’t lose time. You will see what you will see. Ha! ha! ha!”
And the speaker broke into a hoarse laugh, in which the Comandante as well as the sergeant joined; and then all three, without waiting for a reply, turned and went out, ordering the door to be locked behind them.
The visit, as well as Roblado’s speech, astonished and puzzled Carlos. For some minutes he sat reflecting upon it. What could it mean? A spectacle, and he to be a spectator? What spectacle but that of his own execution? What could it mean?
For a time he sat endeavouring to make out the sense of Roblado’s words. For a good while he pondered over the speech, until at length he had found, or thought he had found, the key to its meaning.
“Ha!” muttered he; “Don Juan—it is he! My poor friend! They have condemned him, too; and he is to die before me. That is what I am called upon to witness. Fiends! I shall not gratify them by looking at it. No! I shall remain where I am.”
He threw himself once more prostrate along the banqueta, determined to remain in that position. He muttered at intervals:—
“Poor Don Juan!—a true friend—to death—ay, even to death, for it is for me he dies—for me, and—oh! love—love—”
His reflections were brought to a sudden termination. The window was darkened by a face, and a rough voice called in:—
“Hola! Carlos, you butcher of buffaloes! look forth! Carajo! here’s a sight for you! Look at your old witch of a mother! What a figure she cuts! Ha! ha!”
The sting of a poisonous reptile—a blow from an enemy—could not have roused Carlos more rapidly from his prostrate attitude. As he sprang to an upright position, the fastenings upon his ankles were forgotten; and, after staggering half across the floor, he came down upon his knees.
A second effort was made with more caution, and this time he succeeded in keeping his feet. A few moments sufficed for him to work himself up to the banqueta; and, having mounted this, he applied his face to the embrasure and looked forth.
His eyes rested upon a scene that caused the blood to curdle in his veins, and started the sweat in bead-drops over his forehead. A scene that filled his heart with horror, that caused him to feel as if some hand was clutching and compressing it between fingers of iron!