THE NIGHT OF SORROW
All day the city had been in a state of nervous anxiety, all manner of
conflicting rumours were current, every horseman who appeared in the
streets was beset by a crowd of eager questioners, men ran to and fro
and went from house to house, gleaning what intelligence they could.
According to some General Liniers had marched from the Puente Galvès at
dawn in search of the enemy, according to others he was yet encamped
there and beset by the entire English army. As either hope or fear
gained the ascendant, so each man spoke as his hopes or his fears
prompted him.
Thus the day wore on; occasionally there was heard the far-off rattling
of musketry or the dull boom of a distant gun, but nothing certain was
known. Then in the eventide it spread about that the enemy had passed
the Riachuelo and was marching upon the city, from the church towers
their red-coated soldiery could be seen manoeuvring on the open ground
of the Plaza Miserere. But where was General Liniers? where were the
citizen soldiers who had marched out so proudly to drive those English
into the sea? The anxiety of the city became consternation.
Then from the west and near at hand there came again the rattling sound
of musketry, interspersed with the frequent booming of the guns. The
sound came in gusts, fitfully, now dying away into a feeble treble, the
spattering fire of skirmishers anon swelling to a full chord, the
regular volley-firing of drilled troops accompanied with the deep bass
of the cannon. About half-an-hour the firing lasted, dying gradually
away as the shades of night fell upon the anxious city. What had
happened? Men hurried about no longer, seeking news, each sat in his own
place, waiting for the news which would surely come.
After nightfall terror-stricken fugitives hurried through the streets,
each seeking his own home, each telling his own tale of defeat and
ruinous disaster. Then the anxiety of the city, which had become
consternation, became despair.
From every household arose the voice of sorrow and of lamentation.
Mothers embraced their sons, wives clasped husbands to their bosoms,
welcoming them back from deadly peril, but they welcomed them back with
tears, and as they listened to their tale a cry of sorrow burst from
them, and there was loud wailing over the shame and disgrace which had
fallen upon their native city. And there were households to which none
returned, there were mothers who watched and waited for sons whom they
were never more to see, there were wives who listened with painful
eagerness for a well-known footstep which would never more fall upon
their ears, and who, though they knew it not, were already widows.
Throughout the great straggling city there was mourning and desolation.
And the city was in darkness, and darkness, if it be not rest, is sorrow
and despair.
Then up rose Don Martin Alzaga from his seat at the council-table; Don
Martin Alzaga, president of the Cabildo, of that body which had now the
destinies of the city in its hands. Don Martin had listened in stern
silence to the various reports brought in by members of the Cabildo who
had been abroad in the city in search of news. Of Liniers himself no one
knew anything, but of the fate of his army there could be no question,
it had been shamefully beaten and dispersed by what was, from all
accounts, only a detachment of the invading force; it was no longer an
army, Buenos Aires lay defenceless before her victorious enemy. Buenos
Aires lay defenceless, yet, though she knew it not, in her defenceless
condition lay her chiefest strength. The overthrow over which she
mourned awakened the heroism innate in the Iberian race, and at the same
time inspired the British generals with an overweening confidence, sure
prelude of disaster.
From the days of Cortes and Pizarro to the present, the Iberian race has
ever shown itself greatest in misfortune. In prosperity cruel, arrogant,
and blind, the Spanish people have, when overwhelmed by disaster, ever
shown a capacity for endurance and a fertility of resource such as has
rarely been displayed by any other. When misfortunes have fallen upon
them, such as would crush other peoples to the dust, then it is that
they first put out their strength and rise superior to all disaster. The
secret of it lies partly in national character, but more still in this
fact, that the strength of Spain lies, not in her great men and her
nobles, but in her people. When Spain was the head of a mighty empire,
her nobles were new men sprung from the great body of the people, who
had carved out their fortunes by their swords; their valour and their
skill gave Spain the empire over two worlds; these men were the
representative men of the Spanish people. Since then, the ruling class
in Spain had been gradually and systematically raised above the people,
and separated from them. The people were taught submission, and learned
to see others rule over them until they lost all care or interest in the
aims and objects of their rulers.
At the commencement of the war of succession the Archduke Charles and
his English allies overran nearly the whole of Spain and took possession
of the capital. So again, at an epoch later than this of which we treat,
the armies of Napoleon marched from the Pyrenees to Cadiz in one
unbroken series of triumphs. The great men of Spain, as imbecile as they
were arrogant, invited by their ignorance the destruction which fell
upon them; the soldiers of Spain, who were recruited from the people,
cared not to shed their blood for rulers they despised, they fled,
hardly waiting for the enemy to attack them. Then in each case, when all
was lost, the Spanish people rose in their strength and cast out the
foreign rulers set over them by foreign force.
Buenos Aires, a colony of Spain, has inherited two of the chief
characteristics of the mother-country, pride and heroism. As though they
were Spaniards, her native leaders have often shown themselves too proud
to learn, and have thus brought disaster upon their country; when the
disaster has come, they have ever met it with the heroism of the Iberian
race.
Don Martin Alzaga was a true son of Spain, he had supported Liniers in
his rash determination to face the veteran troops of England with his
militia and half-drilled levies, he had scoffed at the idea of taking
any further measures for defence; the blow had now fallen, Buenos Aires
lay at the mercy of her enemy. All evening Don Martin had sat in his
chair, listening in silence to the long chronicle of disaster; as each
said his say and sat down, his spirits rose within him, and in his brain
he revolved rapidly all that had been before said concerning the defence
of the city. If Buenos Aires must fall, then let the enemy have nothing
more than ruins over which to triumph.
Such were the thoughts of Don Martin Alzaga as he rose from his chair at
the head of the council-table and spoke as follows:--
"Señores, a great disaster has befallen us. Our army is destroyed, we
know not what has become of our general-in-chief, the illustrious Señor
Don Santiago Liniers; in his absence the responsibility falls upon us.
There is now no time for vacillation, we must look our danger straight
in the face, and, if it please God, we shall yet find a way for our
deliverance. We have now no army, but the dispersed soldiers are
flocking back to the city; we have yet guns, muskets, and men, why then
should we despair? I look upon many a downcast face, I have heard from
many of you words of sorrow, as though hope were gone from us; from what
you relate, the whole city is given over to lamentation. True it is that
we have suffered a great disaster, but shall one blow suffice to subdue
us? Are we not Spaniards? Is not this Buenos Aires of ours the first
city on the great South American continent? Are we not the same men who
not a year ago forced an entire English army to capitulate, although
they were established in our citadel and had taken our city from us? Let
us cast aside this depression and this unmanly sorrow, and join heart
and hand together in the great work which it has fallen upon us to
perform. Let us show ourselves worthy of the trust which the illustrious
Reconquistador placed in us when he marched only yesterday against the
foe. Let us rouse the citizens from the stupor of despair into which
they have fallen, let us reunite our dispersed soldiery, and to-morrow
again show a firm front to the arrogant enemy who assails us. To-morrow
this enemy, exultant with his transient success, will doubtless summon
us to surrender our city; I, as the chief of this Cabildo, will receive
this summons and shall return it with disdain, without waiting to know
what terms he may offer; never shall any treaty for the surrender of our
city bear the signature of Martin Alzaga.
"What say you, Señores? Will you show yourselves worthy to be rulers of
Buenos Aires? Will you aid me to vindicate the outraged honour of our
country?"
Don Martin paused and looked proudly round him, the faces of his
hearers, no longer downcast, reflected his own enthusiasm, each eye
sought his, brilliant with hope. Springing to their feet they crowded
round him, assuring him that they were all of one mind, and that mind
was to lay the city in ruins rather than surrender.
"Señores," said Don Gregorio Lopez, "we will entrench the city and
defend it block by block against the invaders. Old as I am I encharge
myself with the defence of my own quarter."
"Yet you have your plan, Don Gregorio!" said Don Martin Alzaga gaily. "I
believe it comes now very much to the point."
"The plan of my young friend Evaña," replied Don Gregorio.
"Let it be whose it may, we will study it together, and we two will
decide what can be done with it, but first, Señores, there are other
things more urgent. The people are in despair, and night has covered the
city with mourning; the first thing we have to do is to raise the spirit
of the people. Once that we reinspire them with confidence, we may hope
everything from their courage and abnegation, which we all know. Let us
disperse the darkness of night with bonfires and illuminations; the
sorrow and the shame will give place to enthusiasm."
"Well said," said Don Gregorio Lopez. "The illuminations will also
attract the fugitives, who may yet be dispersed about the suburbs. It
also appears that General Balviani took no part in the engagement with
the English, and is yet encamped at the Puente Galvès with his division;
let us send for him at once, and we shall have a nucleus upon which to
reform the stragglers."
No time was lost in discussion, these propositions were at once adopted.
Various members of the Cabildo sallied forth to see after the
illuminations, and a mounted officer galloped away by the southern road
with an order to General Balviani to retire at once upon the city.
Midnight came, the city was one blaze of light. Lights shone from the
windows of every house, festoons of lamps hung across many a street; on
every open space and at every street corner in the suburbs there blazed
huge bonfires, encircling the city with a girdle of flames. The British
sentries at the Plaza Miserere looked wonderingly upon these endless
lines of fire, and listened anxiously to the rising hum of many thousand
voices, which declared the whole city to be astir. That city, since
sundown so dark and desolate, so sunken in sorrow and despair, was now a
scene of wild excitement and of fierce resolve; men said only one to
another, What shall we do? Men sought only for a leader. The defeat of
the evening was an affair long past and forgotten; men thought only of
the morrow, and of the stern duty which on that morrow they would surely
do.
In the midst of all this excitement Balviani's division returned to the
city, marching swiftly along the illuminated streets, dragging their
guns with them, which guns Balviani had directed to be spiked on receipt
of the order from the Cabildo for his immediate return; but to his
command the artillerymen paid no heed, harnessing themselves to the guns
and dragging them through pantanos and mud, when their wearied cattle
dropped with fatigue, while the rain poured down upon them in torrents.
Yet in spite of the rain the people crowded round them as they marched
along, saluting them with shouts and with many a warm pressure of the
hand. Their march more resembled the triumphant entry of a victorious
army than the return of the remnant of a beaten one.
Meantime some of the elder members of the Cabildo had been occupied in a
careful examination of the plan of the Señor Evaña for the defence of
the city. It was improbable that the English would at once attack them,
a day at least must elapse before they could bring up their entire force
from the Ensenada. But the plan was much too extensive to be carried out
in one day, though it was exceedingly simple; they therefore determined
upon the adoption of one part of it only: to draw a line including one
block of houses all round the two central Plazas; to dig a ditch across
the end of every street on this line, throwing up the earth inside, and
forming on it a breastwork, and a platform for a gun; to garrison
strongly all the azoteas on this line, and to station a strong force at
each trench. Further, they determined that all the spare arms they
possessed should be distributed to such of the citizens as might apply
for them for the defence of their own houses, and that all the troops
they could spare, after providing sufficiently for the central garrison,
should be distributed about the azoteas all round to the distance of ten
squares from the Plaza Mayor, and that each block should be placed under
the command of some trustworthy officer; with instructions to harass the
invaders to the utmost of their power as they advanced towards the
centre, but not to attempt to meet them in the streets.
Then a list was made out of the officers to whom was to be entrusted the
work of constructing the various trenches and a second of those who were
to command in each block, both within and without the line of
entrenchments.
Among these appointments Major Belgrano was entrusted with the
construction of two of the defences to the south of the Plaza Mayor.
Captain Lorea, with his own company, had charge of the block in which
his own house stood, which was considered to be one of the most
important outposts; his brother-in-law, Don Felipe Navarro, had command
of the block situated to the west of the Church of Santo Domingo; and
Don Marcelino Ponce de Leon and his negroes were appointed to the block
contiguous to the Church of San Miguel. All these appointments were
provisional, for nothing positive was known as yet as to the losses
which the army had suffered in the action at the Corrales de la
Miserere.
The plan of defence thus adopted was a part only of that sketched out by
Don Carlos Evaña, which was modified by the suppression of an exterior
line of defence and of sundry details, for the carrying out of which the
time was too short. The garrisons of the Retiro and the Residencia,
which formed two most important outposts to the north and south of the
central Plazas, were to be instructed to defend themselves to the last
extremity.
* * * * *
Two hours after sundown on that night of sorrow, Doña Dalmacia Navarro
sat alone in her sala, alone and in darkness, save for a lamp which
burned dimly in the ante-sala on the writing-table of her husband. So
had she sat alone ever since the firing had ceased on the Plaza
Miserere, communing anxiously with herself, refusing all attention or
sympathy from those who would gladly have shared her anxiety with her,
replying only to those who would at times approach her with this one
question:
"Yet has no one come?"
And the answer was always, no. Men hurried across the wide, open space
before her sala windows and along the adjacent street; eagerly
listening, she heard something of the words they spoke as they passed
on--these words were ever of disaster, ruin and despair, and as she
listened her heart sank within her. The army was evidently completely
beaten; and Isidro and the gallant men he led, she knew them well, they
were not the men to fly like frightened boys, they would have withstood
the onset of the English even if left alone; and those volleys she had
heard, and that roaring of the guns, at whom had they been directed? who
had fired them? She shuddered to herself as she thought how she had
exulted at the sound, and had pictured to herself hundreds of prostrate
foes, stretched in wounds and death on her native soil.
Unable to bear her anxious thoughts in the quiet darkness of her sala,
she rose from her seat and went into the ante-sala, drawing her heavy
mantle round her with a shiver. She went and sat in her husband's chair,
and leaned upon his desk, turning over his papers mechanically, scarce
knowing what she did. She took up his pen and fondled it in her hands;
beside it lay a tinsel penwiper, heavily embroidered with beads and gold
cord, which she had made for him herself; she bent over it and kissed
it, as she had seen him do the day she had given it to him, his saint's
day, not two short months ago. Then she looked under the sofa and saw
his slippers lying there, and drew them out and laid them beside his
chair ready for him when he should come in. Would he ever put them on
again? As she asked herself that question a low moan broke from her, she
could look at them no longer, she could no longer bear the sight and
neighbourhood of all these things which spoke to her of him, and seemed
to ask her were they his no more? She left the ante-sala and the dim
light, and went back to the darkness of her sala, crouching down on a
low chair and burying her face in her hands.
Then there came a footstep and a voice, two voices, both of them she
knew. They were safe--her husband and her brother. What mattered defeat
and shame, they might be retrieved, but from death there is no return. A
wild joy succeeded to her anxious sorrow, she started to her feet; as
she reached the folding-doors, her husband stood before her, but oh! so
changed. Dripping wet--for it was raining heavily,--with clothes torn
and covered with mud, his face pale and haggard, his eyes deep sunk in
his head; but for his voice she would scarce have known him.
"Isidro!" she exclaimed, opening her arms to him.
But he shrank from her, and, throwing himself upon the sofa, buried his
face in the cushions.
"Do not touch me, do not come near me," he said, as she bent over him.
"You know not what has happened."
"The English have been too strong for you," said Doña Dalmacia, seating
herself beside him, and laying one soft arm on his neck.
"They were few, and we fled from them like sheep, like sheep. We are
disgraced for ever. Never more shall we dare to look them in the face."
"You are tired; to-morrow will be another day."
"Ah! Dalma, if you only knew how they made us march; all the blessed day
without a morsel to eat and nothing but muddy water to drink," said Don
Isidro, raising himself on his elbow and venturing at last to look at
his wife. What he saw in her face was a tender look of pity and of
sympathy.
"Are you not ashamed of me, Dalma?" he asked her, with a brightening
eye. "I am a runaway and a coward. Are you not ashamed of me, Dalma?"
"You are no coward, Isidro," said Doña Dalmacia, throwing her arms round
his neck; "you are tired and have eaten nothing; to-morrow will be
another day."
Don Isidro bowed his head upon her shoulder, and for a minute there was
silence between them.
Don Felipe Navarro, who had come in with his brother-in-law, had thrown
himself wearily into an arm-chair.
"Yes, Dalma, my sister," said he, "to-morrow will be another day, and we
without an army shall have all the invaders upon us. Those we saw to-day
were only the vanguard."
"Without an army," exclaimed Doña Dalmacia, looking round at him with a
fresh terror in her eyes. "Have then so many fallen? And the
Reconquistador, what has become of him?"
"Of Liniers I know nothing. We have not many killed, but the army is
dispersed," replied Don Felipe.
"We have no hope now, for there is no confidence," said Don Isidro. "All
the fight was without order; it may be said that there was no fight. We
were not beaten, we ran away because we did not know what to do."
"So long as it was an affair of shooting," said Don Felipe, "our men
stood well enough, but when they came at us with the bayonet----Do you
know, it is an imposing thing, that charge with the bayonet. Those
English with their smooth faces look like boys, but when they came at us
in a long line close together we felt that they were men. If we had
waited for them the half of our men would have stopped there for ever."
"Have many stopped there?" said Doña Dalmacia. "I have heard heavier
firing at a review."
"Of ours we have lost very few," replied Don Isidro. "The corps on the
left, where Liniers was, were all in disorder, and I don't think they
lost many. But I fear me much, Dalma, we have lost a friend."
"Say!" said Doña Dalmacia, nervously closing one hand upon his shoulder.
"'Los Morenos de Ponce,' are almost annihilated."
"Marcelino sacrificed himself and his men to save the others," said
Felipe Navarro.
"It is what one might foretell of him," said Doña Dalmacia, bursting
into tears.
"Do not weep, my soul," said Don Isidro. "As yet we know nothing
positive. Felipe and I met some of the negroes after nightfall, and went
back with them to the quinta from which they were driven. There were
many dead lying about, and we carried off a great many wounded; every
house about there is a hospital. We searched where they said he had
fallen--we found the bodies of three negroes, but of him we could find
nothing."
"Always we will hope," said the brave lady, rising and wiping away her
tears. "To-morrow will be another day."
Just then there came a knock at the outer door, and a loud voice
shouted:
"Order from the Señores of the Cabildo. That three lights be placed in
every window and a lamp hung in every doorway."
Again the knock was repeated.
"It shall be done," said Don Isidro, running out himself in answer to
the summons.
* * * * *
At the Quinta de Ponce the whole household was astir before sunrise on
the morning of the 2nd July, roused from sleep by the cries of the
female servants and slaves, who had seen Evaristo saddle his pony and
gallop off towards town at dawn. Don Roderigo paced anxiously to and fro
in the sala, his wife covered with a loose wrapper and with dishevelled
hair vainly trying to soothe him.
"Where can that foolish boy have gone to?" said he. "Did he speak to no
one before he went?"
"I can tell you, papa," said Dolores, who came in at that moment, "he
has gone to join Marcelino; he said he would be with him when the
fighting began, and Evaristo always does what he says he will."
"What can he do? a mere boy like him?" said Doña Constancia, clasping
her hands and looking tearfully at her husband.
"Do not cry, Mamita," said Dolores, half crying herself, "God will
protect him as he will Marcelino."
"Who has made you so wise about what God will do?" said Don Roderigo
sharply. "No duty calls him away from us."
As they spoke a mulatta girl came running into the room.
"Oh! Patrona! the English! the English!!" cried she, wringing her hands.
Dolores and her mother clung to each other in terror.
"Where?" said Don Roderigo, putting himself in the way of the terrified
mulatta, and stamping his foot to bring her to her senses.
"The English Señor, Patron, the English Señor, Don Alejandro, he has
climbed up a tree, and he can see them on the highroad. They go straight
for the city, he knows them. Oh! my God! what will become of us?"
"Silence, fool!" said Don Roderigo; "if they are going to the city they
will not come here."
At frequent intervals all day long Lieutenant Gordon climbed up into his
tree, giving an account of all the movements he saw in the open country
round him. Three hours after the passing of this first body, which
Gordon had calculated at about 2000 men, and which had marched by the
highroad leading to the Puente Galvès, there came a much larger body,
which left the road, and crossing camp about half-a-league to the south
of the Quinta de Ponce, marched round the headwaters of the Arroyo
Maciel and then turned northwards towards the Paso Zamorra on the
Riachuelo.
Anxiously the day passed with them all. About noon the sound of cannon
and musketry came to them from a direction far to the west of the Puente
Galvès, but it soon ceased, and no more was heard till close upon
sundown, when it commenced again, dying gradually away as darkness came
on. Again Gordon climbed into his tree; over the tree-tops of the
quintas about the Plaza Miserere there hung light clouds of white smoke,
then night came on, all was again silent; what had happened?
This question Doña Constancia asked herself as she sat in a low chair in
the sala. Dolores, seated beside her on a low stool, resting her head
upon her mother's knee, asked herself that question also. Don Roderigo,
Juan Carlos, and Gordon each also asked himself that question; no one
answered it, and they expected no answer till the morrow. They sat in
darkness, for darkness was to them rest and relief, hiding from each the
anxiety which clouded the faces of them all; and in silence, for each
feared to give utterance to his own thoughts. There came a barking of
dogs, a trampling of horses' feet, and a confused sound of voices
outside; the door opened, a servant came in bearing a lighted lamp and
announced: "El Señor Colonel Lopez."
As Colonel Lopez entered the room he bowed gravely to all present, then
advancing to Doña Constancia he ceremoniously kissed her hand. They
crowded round him in silence, waiting for him to speak, all save Doña
Constancia, who sat still in her chair twining her fingers together
nervously, and looking eagerly at him. But he spoke not, throwing his
hat on to a chair, and fumbling with the throat-buttons of his cloak.
"Say--what news?" said Don Roderigo. "How has the day gone with ours?"
"What news?" replied the colonel. "Little, and what there is is bad.
Where can I take off this cloak of mine?" he added, looking
significantly at Don Roderigo.
"Come this way," said the latter.
"No, no!" exclaimed Doña Constancia, springing to her feet and clutching
him with both hands by one arm. "My son! have you seen him? Quick, tell
me, anything is better than this uncertainty."
"Marcelino! yes, I was with him this morning. Since then I know nothing
of him. We tried to capture two guns from these English; me they pitched
into the river, of him I know nothing."
"No, no! you are hiding something from me; he was with you, what has
become of him?"
"I tell you, Constancia, I know nothing."
"He is dead!" said Doña Constancia, sinking back into her chair and
covering her face with her hands.
"Uncle," said Dolores in a hoarse voice, "tell all you know. I know that
he can't be----" she could not finish the sentence.
"I believe he is a prisoner," said the colonel. "He passed the river
with his negroes, and was cut off from the rest. He had no way to
escape, I suppose he is a prisoner."
"I saw them," said Gordon. "There could not be much over 2000 of them.
Where was Liniers? They said yesterday that he had marched out with all
the garrison of the city."
"Liniers talks much, but knows nothing. The English played with him, got
behind him, and marched upon the city. I watched them; for my part, I
have had plenty of it. What could Marcelino and I do alone? They did not
even take one step to support us. It appears that he counter-marched at
once when he saw them across the river, and went back to the city; in
the suburbs they fell upon him and routed him completely; without doubt
you heard the firing two hours ago. We have no army now, and by this
time the English have the city. All is lost, and I have come to consult
with you," added he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Don Roderigo.
These two left the room together; the others remained, looking at one
another in consternation.
"Do not believe him, Doña Constancia," said Gordon, kneeling down beside
her. "You have been so good to me, I cannot bear you to look like that.
What he has said is simply impossible; I am a soldier and know how these
things are done. Marcelino would never have passed the river unless he
had supports, and Liniers had five times as many men as those English I
saw."
While Gordon with Juan Carlos and Dolores did all they could to calm the
anxiety of Doña Constancia, Don Roderigo heard enough from the colonel
to fill him with even deeper anxiety than before. Leaving him, he went
out, called for his horse, and then returned to the sala, covered from
neck to ankles in a large horseman's cloak, and with a brace of pistols
in his waist-belt.
"You leave us?" exclaimed Doña Constancia, as she saw him return.
"Yes," said he, bending over her caressingly. "I am not a soldier; while
we had an army I left this work to soldiers, now we have no army I shall
do my duty as a citizen. Adios!"
So he left them, and Doña Constancia, leaning upon the shoulder of Juan
Carlos, said dreamily:
"Father, sons, husband, all that I have, and this is what they call
patriotism."
So saying, her knees bent under her and she would have fallen, but that
her remaining son threw his arm round her, and supported her in a
fainting state to a sofa, where, as she lay, she heard the footfalls of
her husband's horse as he galloped rapidly away.