Chapter 64 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
The Plaza was partially cleared—the open space guarded by lines of soldiers. The crowds, closely packed, stood along the sides of the houses, or filled the balconies and azoteas. The officers, alcalde, magistrates, and principal men of the town, were grouped near the centre of the Plaza. Most of these wore official costumes, and, under other circumstances, the eyes of the crowd would have been upon them. Not so now. There was a group more attractive than they—a group upon which every eye was gazing with intense interest.
This group occupied a corner of the Plaza in front of the Calabozo, directly in front of the window from which Carlos looked out. It was the first thing upon which his eyes rested. He saw no more—he saw not the crowd, nor the line of soldiers that penned it back—he saw not the gaudy gentry in the square; he saw only that group of beings before him. That was enough to keep his eyes from wandering.
The group was thus composed. There were two asses—small shaggy brown animals,—caparisoned in a covering of coarse black serge, that hung nearly to their feet. Each had a coarse hair halter held in the hand of a lepero driver, also fantastically dressed in the same black stuff. Behind each stood a lepero similarly attired, and carrying “cuartos” of buffalo-skin. By the side of each ass was one of the padrés of the mission, and each of these held in his hand the implements of his trade—book, rosary, and crucifix. The priests wore an official look. They were in the act of officiating. At what? Listen!
The asses were mounted. On the back of each was a form—a human form. These sat not freely, but in constrained attitudes. The feet were drawn underneath by cords passed around the ankles; and to a sort of wooden yoke around the necks of the animals the hands of the riders were tied—so as to bring their backs into a slanting position. In this way their heads hung down, and their faces, turned to the wall, could not yet be seen by the crowd.
Both were nude to the waist, and below it. The eye needed but one glance at those forms to tell they were women! The long loose hair—in the one grey, in the other golden—shrouding their cheeks, and hanging over the necks of the animals, was further proof of this. For one it was not needed. The outlines were those of a Venus. A sculptor’s eye could not have detected a fault. In the form of the other, age had traced its marks. It was furrowed, angled, lean, and harsh to the eye of the observer.
Oh, God! what a sight for the eye of Carlos the cibolero! Those involuntary riders were his mother and sister!
And just at that moment his eye rested upon them—ay, and recognised them at a glance. An arrow passing through his heart could not have inflicted keener pain. A sharp, half-stifled scream escaped his lips—the only sign of suffering the ear might detect. He was silent from that moment. His hard quick breathing alone told that he lived. He did not faint or fall. He did not retreat from the window. He stood like a statue in the position he had first taken, hugging the wall with his breast, to steady himself. His eyes remained fixed on the group, and fixed too in their sockets, as if glued there!
Roblado and Vizcarra, in the centre of the square, enjoyed their triumph. They saw him at the embrasure. He saw not them. He had for the moment forgotten that they existed.
At a signal the bell rang in the tower of the parroquia, and then ceased. This was the cue for commencing the horrid ceremony.
The black drivers led their animals from the wall, and, heading them in a direction parallel to one side of the Plaza, stood still. The faces of the women were now turned partially to the crowd, but their dishevelled hair sufficiently concealed them. The padrés approached. Each selected one. They mumbled a few unintelligible phrases in the ears of their victims, flourished the crucifix before their faces, and then, retiring a step, muttered some directions to the two ruffians in the rear.
These with ready alacrity took up their cue, gathered the thick ends of their cuartos around their wrists, and plied the lash upon the naked hacks of the women. The strokes were deliberate and measured—they were counted! Each seemed to leave its separate weal upon the skin. Upon the younger female they were more conspicuous—not that they had been delivered with greater severity, but upon the softer, whiter, and more tender skin, the purple lines appeared plainer by contrast.
Strange that neither cried out. The girl writhed, and uttered a low whimpering, but no scream escaped her lips. As for the old woman, she remained quite motionless—no sign told that she suffered!
When ten lashes each had been administered, a voice from the centre of the Plaza cried out—
“Basta por la niña!” (Enough for the girl.)
The crowd echoed this; and he, whose office it was to flog the younger female, rolled up his cuarto and desisted. The other went on until twenty-five lashes were told off.
A band of music now struck up. The asses were d along the side of the square, and halted at the next corner.
The music stopped. The padrés again went through their mumbling ceremony. The executioners performed their part—only one of them this time—as by the voice of the crowd the younger female was spared the lash, though she was still kept in her degraded and shameful position.
The full measure of twenty-five stripes was administered to the other, and then again the music, and the procession moved on to the third angle of the Plaza. Here the horrid torture was repeated, and again at the fourth and last corner of the square, where the hundred lashes—the full number decreed as the punishment—were completed.
The ceremony was over. The crowd gathered around the victims—who, now released from official keeping, were left to themselves.
The feeling of the crowd was curiosity, not sympathy. Notwithstanding all that had passed before their eyes, there was but little sympathy in the hearts of that rabble.
Fanaticism is stronger than pity; and who cared for the witch and the heretic?
Yes—there were some who cared yet. There were hands that unbound the cords, and chafed the brows of the sufferers, and flung rebosos over their shoulders and poured water into the lips of those silent victims—silent, for both had fainted!
A rude carreta was there. How it came there no one knew or cared. It was getting dusk, and people, having satisfied their curiosity, and hungry from long fasting, were falling off to their homes. The brawny driver of the carreta, directed by a young girl, and aided by two or three dusky Indians, lifted the sufferers into his vehicle, and then, mounting himself, drove off; while the young girl, and two or three who had assisted him, followed the vehicle.
It cleared the suburbs, and, striking into a byroad that traversed the chapparal, arrived at a lone rancho, the same where Rosita had been taken before—for it was Josefa who again carried her away.
The sufferers were taken inside the house. It was soon perceived that one no longer suffered. The daughter was restored to consciousness, only to see that that of her mother had for ever fled!
Her temples were chafed—her lips moistened—her hand pressed in vain. The wild utterance of a daughter’s grief fell unheard upon her ears. Death had carried her spirit to another world.