Chapter XXI: The Patriot Cacique Hatuey

The march back to the Cuban seat of government was made more rapidly than the march out had been. Then, all had been gaiety and brightness. A band of picked men under a favourite and joyous-natured leader, peace and good-will for their motto, and friendly natives hovering ever around them as they journeyed, to turn each day into one of pleasant feastings.

Now the leader had but stern, grief-stricken eyes to turn upon those under his command, and the men walked on bowed with a sense of well-merited disgrace. Few and far between were the offerings made to them now, and those were bestowed with trembling hands, and countenances marked by abject terror. None of the circumstances of the homeward way tempted the explorers to linger.

But full as was the generous-hearted Montoro's cup of sorrow, it was not yet so full but that it was to be called upon to hold more, even to overflowing.

The shadows of the marching men were beginning to lengthen as they moved along, as though the shades had learnt the art of deception with each hour of the growing day, and wished to startle the whole race of earth's crawlers, beetles, snakes, worms, and their fellows, with the semblance of an oncoming race of giants. The air was full of humming insects, quivering heat, and the rich scent of leaves and flowers.

The Spaniards stepped onwards slowly. They were near the end of their journey now, and their eyes were tired with gazing at that

"Landscape winking through the heat."

A hot shimmer over all things, such as Tennyson had never seen when he wrote a line which almost makes one feel warm even on a cold winter's day.

Montoro was feeling depressed and weary, and sentiments of gladness and regret were pretty equally mingled in his breast as he saw the various roofs close before him of the newly-founded town of St. Jago. But personal sorrow cannot be indulged by leaders.

"Put your best feet forward, my friends," cried Bartholomew Las Casas at this moment. However bitterly he might grieve over recent occurrences, there was still sufficient of the spirit of the commander in him to rebel against the notion of reappearing before Velasquez, Cortes, and the rest of their fellow-adventurers, like a company of whipped dogs; but he need not have troubled himself, for an event was taking place at that hour in St. Jago that absorbed all interests.

Hatuey, the Cacique of Hispaniola--Hatuey, the noble, untutored patriot--had been taken prisoner whilst fighting his last battles for freedom and his country, and Hatuey was adjudged to suffer as a rebel! He was to be made an example of, so the Governor declared--to be the scarecrow to frighten all others of his race and the surrounding nations from daring to perform one of the most sacred duties of mankind. The Spaniards acknowledged it to be so for themselves; but then--Hatuey was a heathen, and had refused to be forced into Christianity at the point of the sword.

Las Casas, Montoro, and their followers were close to the town when Montoro de Diego was suddenly almost thrown to the ground by an Indian woman, who flung herself before him with a wild, heart-rending cry, and clasped his knees convulsively.

Already Diego had become known on the island as a friend of the friendless, an eager helper of the helpless, and this poor, despairing creature had been on the look-out for him, during the past hours of that day, with a gnawing agony of longing that had made the hours seem like weeks. He was her last hope, and now, catching sight of him, she flew forward with a wildness of look and manner that made those around believe her to be mad.

And in truth the favourite wife of Hatuey was well-nigh frantic with dread and horror at the threatened fate of the one she loved.

Las Casas and the whole of the small band of warriors drew around as she poured forth her lamentable tale, with groans and sighs and streaming tears, and the countenances of the two leaders glowed with deepening indignation as they listened. At length Montoro lifted himself up with flashing eyes, and turning to his friend exclaimed passionately--

"It seems that we Spaniards are bent on accumulating sins upon our heads, until the measure of Heaven's wrath shall be attained. Give me your permission that I leave you now on the instant, and hasten to avert at any rate this threatened iniquity."

"If it be possible, with the grace of God," murmured Las Casas; but Montoro had hastened away with the Indian woman before the words were uttered, and was already on his road to the Governor's house. The others followed.

"What! returned, my very esteemed friend Diego?" exclaimed the laughing voice of Juan de Cabrera from the verandah of the Governor's residence as the other approached.

Montoro sprang forward more quickly.

"Well met, Cabrera," he cried, in tones so stern that their ordinary melody was lost; "well met, for thou canst tell me where I may most wisely seek the Governor."

"That can I," was the reply more seriously, "or rather, I can tell thee where thou mayest seek him and find him; but as to the wisdom of the search, verily that is another matter. For my part, I am thankful to maintain my present distance between myself and him just now. And if you are prudent you will remain with me, and ask no further questions."

Montoro strode forward still more hastily, and his face paled with emotion as he asked huskily--

"Toy not with me, Juan. Thou canst not surely mean that yon diabolical act of which this woman speaks is already in progress?"

Cabrera bowed, murmuring at the same time--

"Ah! then thou hast heard. I would have spared thee."

Montoro shook himself wrathfully.

"Exert thyself to spare the deeds, not the hearing of them after. Where is the spot that is to be made foul for ever by this crime?"

Cabrera raised his hand, and pointed.

"But, Diego, stay with me. Spare thyself a needless agony. Wert thou eloquent as the archangel Gabriel himself thou wouldst avail nought to turn Velasquez from his present purpose."

Diego was already going off to the place indicated, but he turned back a moment.

"I am not purposing to use my words on Velasquez, but on his prisoner. This poor creature tells me that Hatuey is offered life on one condition. It shall be my office as a humble suppliant to implore him to accept it."

So saying, with a sign to the weeping Indian woman, he darted off with a fiery speed that gave the poor creature at least the comfort of feeling that she had one with her who sympathized with her hapless misery. They were not long in reaching their destination.

Scattered groups of men and women, chiefly Indians, they came up with first, and then there was a dense crowd around a central space occupied by the Governor, a small group of counsellors, and a tall and noble-looking Indian, so still, so silent, so immovably calm of face, that he seemed rather a life-like statue of a Stoic than a human being.

Yet more central still was a great stake surrounded by a pile of faggots, beside which stood two Indian slaves, who were to feel the bitterest sting of slavery in doing to death their champion.

Had Hatuey been a slave, and assigned this post, he would have joined the victim at the stake rather than perform it; but all are not thus noble-minded. Life is sweet, even with floggings, or rather, death has terrors for all men, excepting such as are steeled by doggedness, or for such as are sustained by the hidden strength from on high, a strength to which the Cacique may now have owed his courageous calm, although his Christian murderers scorned him as a heathen.

But his poor, heart-stricken squaw felt no courage, no grand sentiments of resignation, as she caught sight of her chief and husband being now dragged towards the giant pile, and saw the ropes which were to bind his body to the stake. With a piercing cry she tore a way for herself through that dense circle of pitiless Spanish warriors, and cast herself at Hatuey's feet uttering dry gasping moans worse to hear than any weeping. Montoro de Diego followed her through the crowd, and strode up to Velasquez.

"Señor!" he exclaimed, in a voice that vibrated to the depths of many a callous heart of even those hardened listeners by whom he was surrounded; "Señor, already are we as so many Cains in this land; pause ere you give Satan yet another plea against us in the courts above. Lay upon me what burden or what fine you will, and let me ransom yon grand example to all patriots. Give me his life, that the heathen may learn that Spaniards prize true greatness."

He came to a pause in his rapid speech from breathlessness, and then for the first time gave himself full opportunity to notice his hearer's face.

Cynicism and contemptuous indignation were united in the Governor's expression, but there was no hope to be read there for the success of Montoro's prayer.

There was a sarcastic sharpness in Velasquez' voice as he replied--

"Methinks, Señor Diego, you take somewhat too much upon yourself. I trust to teach Spaniards, and the heathen too, to prize true greatness, in the person of one who knows how to punish those who dare to set themselves in defiance to his country. For the rest, ill news travels apace, and we have heard of the brave doings of your _peaceful_ expedition at Caonao. It were a pity that ere you hastened to the rescue of one man you did not spare those hundreds."

"I would have laid down my own life to do so," was the low, hurried answer. "But do not add to my remorse by refusal of this petition."

Velasquez turned himself about to his officers with a scornful laugh, exclaiming--

"Verily, my Señors, 'petition' he calls his demand, backed up by threats of Heaven's thunderbolts for refusal. Humility and arrogance could not well be more perfectly combined."

The great man's laugh was subserviently echoed by some throats, whilst some other of the faces showed shame, or indifference to the spectacle before them.

Montoro de Diego stood yet for some moments gazing with deep, solemn eyes at the Governor. Years before, his father had pleaded for a life with the Inquisitor, Arbues de Epila, and vainly, and had left a true prophecy behind him when he left. So now the son. Turning his eyes slowly from one to another of the group, and then of the wide circle, Montoro raised his hand and cried aloud--

"As that man stands there doomed most basely to a barbarous and cruel death, so may many standing here now, at no long distant date, know what it is to await a horrible death at the pitiless hand of savages."

"He is offered mercy if he will become a Christian," suddenly said the Governor with some change of tone, and an involuntary shudder at the horrible mental pictures conjured up by the denunciation.

Montoro started. Yes; he had forgotten that. He had forgotten there was yet a hope, and that it was to that he had intended to cling when he accompanied the Indian woman to the scene of judgment. Wasting neither time nor words on ceremony, he turned his back on the Governor, and followed the woman to the edge of the faggot-pile, in the centre of which Hatuey stood, already bound to the stake, and utterly calm as ever, excepting when his eyes seemed constrained to rest upon the sobbing woman at his feet.

The priest, Father Olmedo, now stood beside him, exhorting him to change his faith and save his soul. But the admonitions were as though spoken to the wind, for all the heed the Cacique appeared to pay.

"It is useless," said Father Olmedo at last. "I have done all I can for mercy's sake, and for the glory of our most holy faith, but he is obstinate and irreclaimable. He will not hearken to me. He will not be saved. Slaves, light the pile."

The Indians raised their torches, a thrill ran through the assembled multitude, the crouching woman sprang to her feet with a piercing shriek, flinging her arms above her head, and Montoro sprang forward, shouting in stentorian tones to the faggot-lighters,

"Hold!"

There was a moment's pause. Some gleam of thankfulness began to come into the executioners' eyes. The woman dropped her arms to clasp her hands with renewed hope and entreaty. A shade of half-impatient curiosity gathered on the Cacique's face. He had betrayed no agitation at impending death, but this reprieve troubled him. And it was only a reprieve.

The passionate earnestness of Montoro did touch some answering chord in the Indian's breast which the priest had not known how to reach, and, but for that swift-flying news from Caonao, Hatuey might have consented to look forward to the Paradise which Montoro painted in such glowing colours. But, as he listened with some signs of yielding on his face, recollections crowded back upon his mind, and suddenly turning full to Montoro, he asked with startling abruptness--

"But tell me then, assure me of this. There are two of these abodes of bliss, are there?--two of these glorious, sunlit homes of paradise?"

Diego's eyes widened with wonder. So earnest, so eager were the tone and manner of the questioner as he put his singular query, that the answer was not at once forthcoming. He repeated it impatiently.

"Tell me then, and truly, if one of the white-faces knows how to speak the truth--has this gracious Lord of whom you speak provided one Paradise for those of your race, another for His children here? I would know that before I hear ought else, or give my answer to your plea."

Yet again Montoro paused an instant, and then he replied slowly and distinctly--

"They shall be one fold under one Shepherd. Spaniards and Indians who have been good, and loved their Lord, will live there together in love."

As that last word was uttered the Cacique drew himself up to his full height once more, and with curling lip exclaimed--

"In love, you say! Ah! in love such as that which murdered my people in Haiti, and drove me from my home! In love such as that which has hunted me to death, and will look on now to note exultingly if my tortured body writhes! In love such as that which has slain the hundreds of the innocent and the helpless at Caonao! The love of the wild cat or of the rattle-snake! I spurn your love! I hate your love! and will none of your Lord nor of your Paradise. Our gods teach us not such love. Light your fires quickly. I welcome your faggots and their flames. I long to escape from the sight of the faces of the dastard white men to my own heaven, where nought so vile as a Spaniard can ever hope to enter."

Montoro fell back stunned from before the dark face working with mortal hatred. Stumbling against the woman, who once again lay moaning on the ground, he stooped to raise her, and the next moment he himself, with his swooning charge, was dragged back from the lighted pile, and forced by friendly hands to the outside of the wide circle; while Hatuey, the heathen patriot, was burnt to death by Spaniards claiming to do all things "for the glory of the Christian faith."

"And thus," murmured Las Casas as he withdrew, sick-hearted, from the dismal scene,--"thus do they let the light of the Gospel shine, even with a lurid light that makes it to be abhorred."

"As I abhor this land," groaned Montoro. "I have fled from the horrors of Hispaniola, and now I am driven forth once more to find, if it be possible, a land where I may dare without shame to confess myself a Spaniard."