Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

I was riding back from the Stanimaka battle-field sufficiently elated at the prospect of a speedy termination of the war--now made certain by the breaking up of Suleiman's army--to forget where I was, and to imagine myself back in my comfortable apartments in Paris. I only awoke from my dream at the station where the highway from Stanimaka crosses the railway line about a mile south of Philippopolis. The great wooden barracks had been used as a hospital for wounded Turks, and as I drew up my horse at the door the last of the lot of four hundred, who had been starving there nearly a week, were being placed upon carts to be transported to the town. The road to Philippopolis was crowded with wounded and refugees. Peasant families struggled along with all their household goods piled upon a single cart. Ammunition wagons and droves of cattle, rushing along against the tide of human beings, toward the distant bivouacs, made the confusion hopeless. Night was fast coming on, and in company with a Cossack, who was, like myself, seeking the headquarters of General Gourko, I made my way through the tangle of men, beasts, and wagons toward the town. It was one of those chill, wet days of winter when there is little comfort away from a blazing fire, and when good shelter for the night is an absolute necessity. The drizzle had drenched my garments, and the snow-mud had soaked my boots. Sharp gusts of piercing wind drove the cold mist along, and as the temperature fell in the late afternoon the slush of the roads began to stiffen, and the fog froze where it gathered. Every motion of the limbs seemed to expose some unprotected part of the body to the cold and wet. No amount of exercise that was possible with stiffened limbs and in wet garments would warm the blood. Leading my horse, I splashed along, holding my arms away from my body, and only moving my benumbed fingers to wipe the chill drip from my face. It was weather to take the courage out of the strongest man, and the sight of the soaked and shivering wounded, packed in the jolting carts or limping through the mud, gave me, hardened as I was, a painful contraction of the heart. The best I could do was to lift upon my worn-out horse one brave young fellow who was hobbling along with a bandaged leg. Followed by the Cossack, whose horse bore a similar burden, I hurried along, hoping to get under cover before dark. At the entrance to the town numerous camp-fires burned in the bivouacs of the refugees, who were huddled together in the shelter of their wagons, trying to warm themselves in the smoke of the wet fuel. I could see the wounded, as they were jolted past in the heavy carts, look longingly at the kettles of boiling maize which made the evening meal of the houseless natives.

Inside the town the wounded and the refugees were still more miserable than those we had passed on the way. Loaded carts blocked the streets. Every house was occupied, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with Russian soldiers, who looked wretched enough in their dripping overcoats, as they stamped their rag-swathed feet. At the corner, in front of the great Khan, motley groups of Greeks, Bulgarians, and Russians were gathered, listlessly watching the line of hobbling wounded as they turned the corner to find their way among the carts, up the hill to the hospital, near the Konak. By the time I reached the Khan the Cossack who accompanied me had fallen behind in the confusion, and without waiting for him I pushed along, wading in the gutter, dragging my horse by the bridle. Half way up the hill I saw a crowd of natives watching with curiosity two Russian guardsmen and a Turkish prisoner. The latter was evidently exhausted, for he was crouching in the freezing mud of the street. Presently the soldiers shook him roughly and raised him forcibly to his feet, and half supporting him between them they moved slowly along, the Turk balancing on his stiffened legs and swinging from side to side.

A most wretched object he was to look at. He had neither boots nor fez. His feet were bare, and his trowsers were torn off near the knee, and hung in tatters around his mud-splashed legs. An end of the red sash fastened to his waist trailed far behind in the mud. A blue cloth jacket hung loosely from his shoulders, and his hands and wrists dangled from the ragged sleeves. His head rolled around at each movement of the body, and at short intervals the muscles of the neck would rigidly contract. All at once he drew himself up with a shudder and sank down in the mud again.

The guardsmen were themselves near the end of their strength, and their patience was wellnigh finished as well. Rough mountain marching had torn the soles from their boots, and great unsightly wraps of rawhide and rags were bound on their feet. The thin worn overcoats, burned in many places, flapped dismally against their ankles; and their caps, beaten out of shape by many storms, clung drenched to their heads. They were in no condition to help any one to walk, for they could scarcely get on alone. They stood a moment shivering, looked at each other, shook their heads as if discouraged, and proceeded to rouse the Turk by hauling him upon his feet again. The three moved on a few yards, and the prisoner fell again, and the same operation was repeated. All this time I was crowding nearer and nearer, and as I got within a half dozen paces the Turk fell once more, and this time lay at full length in the mud. The guardsmen tried to rouse him by shaking, but in vain. Finally, one of them, losing all patience, pricked him with his bayonet on the lower part of the ribs exposed by the raising of the jacket as he fell. I was now near enough to act, and with a sudden clutch I pulled the guardsman away, whirled him around, and stood in his place. As I was stooping over the Turk he raised himself slowly, doubtless aroused by the pain of the puncture, and turned on me a most beseeching look, which changed at once into something like joy and surprise. Immediately a deathlike pallor spread over his face, and he sank back again with a groan.

By this time quite a crowd of Bulgarians had gathered around us, and seemed to enjoy the sight of a suffering enemy. It was evident that they did not intend to volunteer any assistance, so I helped the wounded Russian down from my saddle, and invited the natives rather sternly to put the Turk in his place. With true Bulgarian spirit they refused to assist a Turk, and it required the argument of the rawhide (_nagajka_) to bring them to their senses. Three of them, cornered and flogged, lifted the unconscious man and carried him toward the horse, the soldiers, meanwhile believing me to be an officer, standing in the attitude of attention. As the Bulgarians bore the Turk to the horse, a few drops of blood fell to the ground. I noticed then that he had his shirt tied around his left shoulder, under his jacket. Supported in the saddle by two natives on each side, his head falling forward on his breast, the wounded prisoner was carried with all possible tenderness to the Stafford House hospital, near the Konak. As we moved slowly up the hill I looked back, and saw the two guardsmen sitting on the muddy sidewalk, with their guns leaning against their shoulders--too much exhausted to go either way.

I found room for my charge in one of the upper rooms of the hospital, where he was washed and put into a warm bed. His wound proved to be a severe one. A Berdan bullet had passed through the thick part of the left pectoral, out again, and into the head of the humerus. The surgeon said that the arm would have to be operated on, to remove the upper quarter of the bone.

The next morning I went to the hospital to see what had become of the wounded man, for the incident of the previous evening made a deep impression on my mind. As I walked through the corridor I saw a group around a temporary bed in the corner. Some one was evidently about to undergo an operation, for an assistant held at intervals a great cone of linen over a haggard face on the pillow, and a strong smell of chloroform filled the air. As I approached the surgeon turned around, and recognizing me, with a nod and a smile said, "We are at work on your friend." While he was speaking he bared the left shoulder of the wounded man, and I saw the holes made by the bullet as it passed from the pectoral into the upper part of the deltoid. Without waiting longer, the surgeon made a straight cut downward from near the acromion through the thick fibre of the deltoid to the bone. He tried to sever the tendons to slip the head of the humerus from the socket, but failed. He wasted no time in further trial, but made a second incision from the bullet-hole diagonally to the middle of the first cut, and turned the pointed flap thus made up over the shoulder. It was now easy to unjoint the bones, and but a moment's work to saw off the shattered piece, tie the severed arteries, and bring the flap again into its place.

There was no time to pause, for the surgeon began to fear the effects of the chloroform on the patient. We hastened to revive him by every possible means at hand, throwing cold water on him and warming his hands and feet. Although under the influence of chloroform to the degree that he was insensible to pain, he had not been permitted to lose his entire consciousness, and he appeared to be sensible of what we were doing. Nevertheless, he awoke slowly, very slowly, the surgeon meanwhile putting the stitches in the incision. At last he raised his eyelids and made a movement with his lips. With a deliberate movement he surveyed the circle of faces gathered closely around the bed. There was something in his eyes which had an irresistible attraction for me, and I bent forward to await his gaze. As his eyes met mine they changed as if a sudden light had struck them, and the stony stare gave way to a look of intelligence and recognition. Then, through the beard of a season's growth and behind the haggard mask before me, I saw at once the circus-rider of Turin and Paris. I remember being scarcely excited or surprised at the meeting, for a great sense of irresponsibility came over me, and I involuntarily accepted the coincidence as a matter of course. He tried in vain to speak, but held up his right hand, and feebly made with his fingers the sign of the letter which had played such a part in the story of his life. Even at that instant the light left his eyes, and something like a veil seemed drawn over them. With the instinctive energy which possesses every one when there is a chance of saving human life, we redoubled our efforts to restore the patient to consciousness. But while we strove to feed the flame with some of our own vitality, it flickered and went out, leaving the hue of ashes where the rosy tinge of life had been. His heart was paralyzed.

As I turned away, my eye caught the surgeon's incision, which was now plainly visible on the left shoulder. The cut was in the form of the letter Y.

[2] _Century Magazine, March_, 1883.

THE END OF NEW YORK.[3]

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

INTRODUCTORY.

THE WAR CLOUD.

Towards dusk on the afternoon of Monday, December 5th, 1881, the French steamer "Canada," from Havre, arrived at her pier in New York City. Among the passengers was a tall, dark, rather fine-looking man, of about middle-age. After the usual examination of his baggage by the Custom House officials had been made, this person, accompanied by a lady, took a hack at the entrance of the pier, and was driven to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The initials on the luggage strapped on the rear of the vehicle were M.B.

In conversing with the driver the gentleman--for his appearance and bearing fully indicated his right to the title--spoke English, though somewhat imperfectly; with the lady he talked in sonorous Castilian.

Apparently, no one bestowed any particular notice upon the pair. They were two foreigners out of the great throng of foreigners which lands daily in the metropolis; they were Spaniards and reasonably well-to-do, seeing that they came over in the saloon, and not in the steerage.

The names registered at the hotel were Manuel Blanco and wife.

Late during the following evening the lady personally came to the office seemingly in great distress. An interpreter being procured, it was learned that Señor Blanco, in response to a visiting-card sent to his room, had left the apartment shortly after breakfast that morning, and had not since returned.

The lady explained that he had no business affairs in New York, and that they were merely resting in the city for a few days to recover from the effects of the ocean voyage, before going to Charleston, S.C., their destination.

The clerk in the office simply knew that a stranger had called and sent a card to Señor Blanco, and that the two, after meeting, had left the hotel together.

The anxiety of Señora Blanco was evidently excessive. She rejected such commonplace reasons as that her husband might have lost his way, or that some unlooked-for business matters had claimed his attention.

"No, no!" she repeated, almost hysterically; "no beezness. Ah, Dios! El está muerte."

A physician was sent for, and the lady, who was fast reaching a stage of nervous prostration, placed in his care. The hotel detective proceeded at once to Police Headquarters, whence telegrams were despatched to the various precincts, giving a description of the missing man, and making inquiries concerning him. The replies were all in the negative: no such person had come under the notice of the police.

From what has thus far been narrated, it might be inferred that Blanco's absence was due to one of those strange disappearances which happen in great cities. The inference, however, would be wrong. Blanco had not disappeared.

True, his agonized wife and the police of New York City had no trace of his whereabouts; but Mr. Michael Chalmette, an officer detailed by the U.S. Marshal in New Orleans to arrest Leon Sangrado, at the request of the Republic of Chili, on the charge of repeatedly committing murder and highway robbery in that country, was entirely sure that the missing person was sitting beside him, handcuffed to his left wrist, and that both were speeding toward New Orleans as fast as a railway-car could take them.

When the French steamer "Canada" arrived, Mr. Michael Chalmette, wearing the uniform and badge of a Custom House officer, stationed himself by the gang-plank and narrowly scrutinized each passenger that came ashore. While Blanco's trunks were being examined, he stood near that gentleman, and furtively compared his features with those on a photograph. It was Chalmette who sent the card to Blanco's room, in the hotel, next day, and who induced Blanco to accompany him in a carriage, as he said, to the Custom House, to arrange some irregularity in the passing of Blanco's luggage. The driver of that carriage, however, was told to go to the Pennsylvania Railroad Dépôt, in Jersey City.

Blanco evinced some surprise on being taken across the ferry, but was easily satisfied by his companion's explanation that the branch of the Custom House to be visited was on the Jersey side.

When the station was reached Chalmette led the way to the waiting-room, and quietly observed, before the unsuspecting Blanco could finish a sentence beginning:

"Ees it posseeble zat zees is ze Custom--"

"You are my prisoner. You had better come without making trouble."

Blanco looked at him aghast--not half comprehending the words.

"A prisoner--I--for what?"

Chalmette returned no answer, but produced his warrant.

"But I no understand--I--"

Just then the warning bell rung. Chalmette seized his prisoner by the arm and pushed him through the gateway.

On the platform Blanco made some slight resistance. The policeman, whose attention was attracted thereby, after a few words with Chalmette, assisted the latter in forcing him upon the train, which was already slowly moving out of the dépôt.

* * * * *

It is necessary to break the thread of the story here to note an odd coincidence. While there is a French steamer "Canada" belonging to the Compagnie Générale Trans Atlantique, and plying between New York and Havre, there is also an English steamer "Canada" belonging to the National Line, which travels between New York and London. It so happened that on the same afternoon that the French vessel came in, as before narrated, the English steamer of like name also arrived.

Among the passengers who landed from the English "Canada" there was also a couple, man and woman, apparently Spaniards, and there was an undeniable resemblance between the man and Blanco. The former, however, had features cast in a much rougher mould, and his general bearing indicated that he was not a gentleman, as plainly as Blanco's did the reverse.

The luggage of the pair consisted of a single valise, which was carried by the woman, the man striding on ahead, leisurely puffing a cigarette. They hired no carriage, but walked from the pier, across and up West Street, and took a street-car going to the east side of the city.

As soon as they left the conveyance the man spread out his arms and expanded his chest with a long breath. The woman half smiled, and said something to him in Spanish. Then they mingled with the crowd around Tompkins Square and disappeared.

* * * * *

Two days after Blanco's arrest the physician, now in constant attendance upon his wife, filed the death certificate of a stillborn child. Puerperal fever set in, and the life of the unhappy woman for more than two weeks trembled in the balance. During the first week a telegram from New Orleans, which Blanco's captor had permitted him to send, came, addressed to her.

The physician opened it; but as she was almost constantly unconscious, it was impossible to inform her of its contents for some days. Then she was simply told that her husband had been heard from, and was safe. The doctor peremptorily forbade any information being given her of Blanco's true situation; and as she could not understand the language, and so glean intelligence from the newspapers, which contained reports of the inquiry conducted by the Commissioner, and the complete identification of the prisoner as Leon Sangrado, she, of course, remained in ignorance of what had happened.

Some five weeks elapsed before she was judged sufficiently strong to bear the shock which such news would inevitably produce. Then she was told as gently as possible, all mention of the nature of the charges against Blanco being avoided.

She listened in silent surprise.

"But he has never been in Chili in his life," she insisted.

The old doctor, himself a Spaniard, looked at her pityingly, but said nothing.

"He has been Consul before nowhere but at Trieste; how could he have been in South America?" she continued.

"Consul? Is your husband, then, in the Consular service of Spain?" queried the doctor, somewhat surprised.

"He is here as Consul to Charleston--in--ah, what is the name?--Carolina."

"Can you prove that?" demanded the physician, somewhat excitedly.

"I can--that is, I think there are official papers in the trunks. Is it necessary?"

"Very necessary."

"Here are the keys, then."

The doctor in her presence opened the luggage, and in a curiously arranged secret compartment in one of the trunks found the documents. After a few moments spent in looking them over, he said:

"Do you feel strong to-day?"

"Not very."

"I think you could travel, however. I will see that your baggage is properly packed, if you will be prepared to accompany me to-morrow morning."

"But whither?"

"To Washington; to the Spanish Minister. This is a serious business."

Under the supervision of the doctor the journey was safely accomplished. After proper repose Señora Blanco and the physician proceeded to the Spanish Legation, and within a very short time Señor Antonio Mantilla, Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary of His Catholic Majesty, was in possession of Blanco's papers, and of the facts, so far as known to his visitors, attending that gentleman's arrest.

Señor Mantilla looked grave and said little. He thanked the physician, however, warmly for the part he had taken in the matter, and calling a secretary placed Señora Blanco in his charge, with instructions that she should receive the greatest care and attention.

He then desired the attendance of his Secretary of Legation, and the two officials remained in earnest consultation for more than two hours. During this period several telegrams were sent to the Spanish Consul at New Orleans, and a long cipher-message to the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Madrid.

A few days later a lengthy report was received from the Consul at New Orleans, accompanied by three letters from Blanco to his wife, not one of which had been forwarded from the jail in which he was confined.

Another consultation was held at the Spanish Legation, during which this report and an answering message from Madrid were frequently referred to.

The report set forth the facts of the identification of Blanco as Sangrado by the Chilian representatives, with sufficient certainty to convince the U.S. Commissioner. Until a late period in the inquiry Blanco had had no counsel. He had, however, asseverated from the beginning that he was the Consul of Spain at Charleston--a fact not believed, because there was already a Consul resident at that place. Communication with that official simply showed that he expected to be transferred to another post, but had not been informed of the name of his successor. The Commissioner, seeing that Blanco was doing nothing to obtain testimony in his own favor, quietly arranged that counsel should be provided for him; and the lawyers, as a matter of course, at once sent to New York for Blanco's papers.

Señora Blanco, being then in a dangerous condition, was helpless. Search was made through the trunks, without finding any trace of the documents hidden in the secret compartment.

The Legation of Spain in Washington had information that Manuel Blanco had been sent to assume the Consulship at Charleston, but no one could personally identify the prisoner to be the Manuel Blanco appointed.

The Chilian witnesses had sworn that the prisoner was Leon Sangrado in the most unequivocal manner--and Chalmette deposed that he saw him land from the "Canada," in which vessel he had been instructed to look for the fugitive.

The facts, as thus gathered by the Spanish diplomatists from the Consul at New Orleans, from Señora Blanco, and from her physician, were complete. The outcome of their deliberations upon them was twofold.

_First_.--The departure of Señora Blanco, under care of an attaché of the Spanish Legation, to join her husband at New Orleans.

_Second_.--The following diplomatic communication from the Minister of Spain to the Secretary of State of the United States of America.

Legation of Spain at Washington,

January 16th, 1882.

The undersigned, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
of His Catholic Majesty, has the honor to address the Honorable
Secretary of State, with a view to obtaining from the Federal
Government reparation for the arrest of Señor Don Manuel Blanco,
His Catholic Majesty's Consul at Charleston, S.C., at the demand of
the Republic of Chili, on a charge of crime preferred by the
Government of that country. The undersigned is instructed to
protest, in the most distinct terms, against this grave breach of
international obligations, to insist upon the immediate release of
the said Blanco, and to require from the Federal Government an
apology suited to the circumstances. The undersigned avails
himself, etc.,

ANTONIO MANTILLA.

DEPARTMENT OF STATE,

WASHINGTON, January 20th, 1882.

SIR: Referring to your communication of the 16th inst., in which
you protest against the arrest of the person alleged to be Señor
Don Manuel Blanco, His Catholic Majesty's Consul at Charleston, at
the instance of the Republic of Chili, and demand the release of
the said person, with a suitable apology from this Government in
the premises, I have the honor to inform you that the
representatives of the Chilian Government allege the person in
question to be one Leon Sangrado, a fugitive from justice, charged
with the crimes of murder and robbery; that, before the United
States Commissioner at New Orleans, the Chilian representatives
have produced evidence identifying the prisoner as Leon Sangrado,
which evidence has warranted the said Commissioner in rendering
judgment accordingly; and that the proceedings and judgment, on
review by the President of the United States, have been confirmed,
and the warrant of extradition ordered. I have the honor to
transmit herewith a copy of the record of the evidence in the case
for your Excellency's information. I have also to state that, in
the circumstances, this Government conceives itself to be acting
in a spirit of strict international comity with the Republic of
Chili, and, upon the representations made by your Excellency,
cannot admit that any reparation or apology is due to the
Government of His Catholic Majesty.

I have the honor, etc.,

JAS. G. BLAINE,

_Secretary of State_.

Some days later the Spanish Minister forwarded a note to the State Department, wherein, after the usual formal recitals, he stated as follows:

The undersigned has the honor to inform the Honorable Secretary of
State that, having transmitted his communication by cable to the
Government of His Catholic Majesty, he is now instructed to make
the following demands:

1st. That the Federal Government shall deliver Señor Don Manuel
Blanco, His Catholic Majesty's Consul at Charleston, S.C., alleged
to be Leon Sangrado, a fugitive from justice from the Republic of
Chili, to the undersigned, at the Legation of Spain at Washington,
by or before the first day of February, proximo.

2. That the Federal Government shall address to the Government of
His Catholic Majesty a formal and solemn apology for the insult
offered by the arrest of said Blanco. And, in further proof
thereof, shall, on said first day of February, at noon, cause the
Spanish flag to be hoisted over Fort Columbus, in New York Harbor;
Fort Warren, in Boston Harbor; the Navy Yard, in Washington; and at
the mast-head of the flag-ship of the North Atlantic squadron--then
and there to be saluted with twenty-one guns.

I have the honor, etc.,

ANTONIO MANTILLA.

The reply sent by Secretary Blaine to this peremptory demand was, as might be expected, an equally peremptory refusal.

Thereupon the Spanish Minister demanded his passports, and with his Legation left the country.

The passports of the American Minister at Madrid were at the same time forwarded to him, and he returned to the United States.

Blanco was delivered to the Chilian representatives, and duly extradited, his wife accompanying him.

The anti-administration newspapers commented with great severity upon the case, alleging that undue haste was manifested in forwarding the proceedings; that proper opportunity was not afforded the accused to establish his true identity; that the warrant of extradition was illegal, inasmuch as it had been issued by an Assistant Secretary of State during the absence of both the President and Secretary from Washington, and that, consequently, there had been in fact no real review of the proceedings by the Executive.

The administration journals, on the contrary, found the extradition of the prisoner to be perfectly within the letter of the law; but were not inclined to say much on this point, preferring rather to applaud Mr. Blaine's new proof of a "vigorous foreign policy," as exemplified in the previously quoted correspondence with the Spanish Minister.

* * * * *