A TASTE OF CUBAN PRISON-LIFE.
Two Views of the Morro Castle--The Commandant--The Town Jail--Cuban
Policemen--Prisoners--A Captive Indian--Prison Fare--A Court of
Justice--A Trial--A Verdict.
I dream that I am Silvio Pellico, that the prisoner of St. Helena is my
fellow-captive, and that an apartment belonging to the Spanish
Inquisition is our dormitory. Clasps of iron eat their way into our
ankles and wrists; gigantic rats share our food; our favourite exercise
is swinging head downwards in the air, and our chief recreation is to
watch the proceedings of tame spiders.
I awake and find my bed unusually hard. My bed-clothes have vanished,
and in their stead are a couple of hard benches, with my wearing apparel
rolled up for a pillow. By a dim light I observe that my apartment is
remarkably small, bare, damp, and dome-shaped. The window is a barred
aperture in the door; is only a foot square, and looks on to the patio,
or narrow passage, where unlimited wall stares me in the face. Do I
still dream, or is this actually one of 'le mie prigioni'? I rub my eyes
for a third time, and look about the semi-darkened vault. Somebody is
snoring. I gaze in the direction whence the sound proceeds, and observe
indistinctly an object huddled together in a corner. So, this is no
dream, after all; and that heap of sleeping humanity is not Napoleon,
but my companion, Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu.
We are both shut up in one of the subterranean dungeons of the Morro
Castle; not the Havana Morro, but the fortress at Santiago de Cuba,
alluded to by Tom Cringle.
Why are we here?
What were we doing yesterday afternoon?
Well; we were taking a seven miles walk to the Morro Castle, the
picturesque neighbourhood of which we had not yet visited, and as the
grounds attached to the fortress are always open to the public, we
proposed a quiet evening saunter over them.
We had a negro with us, an old and faithful vassal, who at the present
moment is enjoying solitary confinement in another part of the fortress.
We reached the castle grounds, where a group of Spanish 'militares' were
seated. We gave them the 'Buenas tardes:' they returned our salute, and
their chief, who was no less a personage than the commandant of the
Morro, offered us refreshment, and permitted us to wander about the
grounds. In our ramble we paused here and there to admire the
picturesque 'bits' of scenery which, at every turn of a winding road,
broke upon our view. By a narrow path cut in the grey rock we descended
to the sea-shore, and stood before the entrance of the Cuban harbour. We
watched the French packet as she steamed into port on her way to the
town, and saw the gun fired which announced her arrival. The steamer was
so near, that we could scan the faces of everybody on board, and hear
enthusiastic congratulations on their safe arrival after their tedious
voyage. The skipper conferred with the Morro guard. What was the ship's
name? Where did she hail from? Who was her captain? Where was she bound
for? A needless demand, I thought, seeing that there is no water
navigable beyond the town; but it was in strict conformity with Spanish
regulations.
As evening advanced, we prepared to return to our temporary home, where
a good dinner doubtless awaited us, with a cup of cafe noir to follow,
and correspondence--ah! my friends never missed a mail--to open and to
devour.
'Alto alla!' The ominous command to halt where we stood, still rings in
my ear. A party of soldiers, with pointed muskets and fixed bayonets,
ran with all speed in our direction.
'Car-amba!' Were we the object of their precipitation? We were!
They conducted us to an eminence, where stood a podgy, high-shouldered,
short-necked man with a squeaky interrogative voice and gold spectacles.
This was the commandant. Without explanation, that officer, in brief
words, ordered us to be arrested.
The soldiers obeyed. They bandaged our eyes with handkerchiefs. They led
us along hollow-sounding alleys; beneath echoing archways; down scores
of stone steps; through mouldy passages. Lower yet, where a strong
flavour of cooking assailed our sense of smell. A couple more downward
flights, and then we paused--heard a jingling of big keys--an opening of
ponderous doors--and here we were.
Here, in a subterranean vault, I know not how many feet below sunlight.
The air is close and vaporous; the domed chamber is damp and musty. They
have divested us of all our portable property save a few cigarettes
which we have secreted in a dark corner, and there is nothing to be had
in the way of refreshment for love or money.
Yes, for money. I have bribed the sentinel, who occasionally eclipses
our square of window, with all my ready cash, and he has brought us
contraband cups of weak coffee. Will he treat our dark domestic as well?
We try him, and find that he won't.
What's o'clock? We have no means of ascertaining this, as Phoebus, who
might have suggested the time of day, is a long way out of sight. Our
sentinel says it is early morning.
Hark! A sound of many footsteps; a rattling of arms and keys. Enter our
military jailer with a dozen soldiers to release us from our present
quarters. Our eyes are bandaged as before, and after passing up several
flights of steps in another direction, our sight is restored: the scene
changes, and we are discovered, like the Prince of Denmark, upon another
part of the platform. Our faithful vassal is with us, looking as much
like a ghost as it is possible for a negro to appear. They have tied his
arms behind him with cords, and serve us in the same manner; while eight
soldiers encircle us at respectful distances, and deliberately proceed
to load their weapons. The negro trembles with affright, and falls on
his knees. Misericordia! they are going to shoot us, he thinks; for he
is ignorant of the Spanish custom of loading in the presence of the
prisoner before escorting him from one jail to another.
To another? Santo Dios! Then we are prisoners still? I think of the
victim of Santa Margherita and his many prisons, and begin to wonder how
many years of incarceration we shall experience.
'En marcha!' Eight 'militares' and a sergeant place us in their midst,
and in this way we march to town, a distance of seven miles. Our
sergeant proves to be more humane than his superior, and on the uneven
road pauses to screw up cigarettes for us, and, in consideration of our
helpless condition, even places them in our mouths.
It is Sunday morning, and when we reach the town all good Catholics have
been to high mass, and are parading the narrow thoroughfare dressed in
fashionable attire. Crowds gather around us and speculate as to the
particular crime we are guilty of; and, to tell the truth, our
appearance is by no means respectable. Have we shot the commandant?
Undermined the Morro? Poisoned the garrison? Have we headed a negro
conspiracy, or joined a gang of pirates? Friends whom we recognise on
our way endeavour to interrogate us, but are interrupted by the
sergeant. We halt before the governor's house; but his excellency is not
yet out of bed, and may not be disturbed. So we proceed to the town
jail, where everybody is stirring and where they are happy to see us,
and receive us with open doors. A dozen policemen, dressed in
brown-holland coats, trimmed with yellow braid and silver buttons, with
panama hats, revolvers, and short Roman swords, are seated on benches at
the prison entrance. Passing them, we are hurried into a white-washed
chamber, where a frowning functionary, in brown-holland and silver lace,
with a panama on his head, and a long cigar in his mouth, sits at a desk
scribbling something on stamped paper. He pauses to examine and peruse
a large letter which our sergeant hands him, and which contains a
statement of our arrest, with full particulars of our misdeeds. The
document is folded in official fashion, is written, regardless of
economy, with any quantity of margin, and is terminated by a tremendous
signature, accompanied by an elaborate flourish, which occupies exactly
half a page. The gentleman in brown-holland casts a look of suspicion at
us, and directs a couple of policemen to search us, 'registrar' us, as
he calls it, which they accordingly do; but nothing that we could
dispense with is found on our persons, except the grime upon our hands
and faces, and a pearl button, which has strayed during the journey, and
somehow found its way into my boot.
Nothing further being required of us for the present, we are conducted
into the centre of the jail to an extensive court-yard, where a crowd of
prisoners of all shades and castes lie basking in the sun. We are led to
one of the galleries which surround the patio, our arms are untied, and
we are introduced into three different chambers.
The apartment alloted to me is spacious and airy enough, and has a huge
barred window that overlooks the main thoroughfare. In these respects,
at least, my quarters resemble an ordinary Cuban parlour in a private
house. But the only articles of furniture are a couple of hard benches
and a straw mattress; and although a Cuban parlour has a barred window,
a brick floor, and white-washed walls, it has also a few cane-bottomed
chairs, an elegant mirror, and a gas chandelier.
The prison in which I am confined was originally a convent, and now it
is not only devoted to the use of malefactors, but also accommodates
mad people, whose shrieks and wild laughter I occasionally hear.
From my window I can see into the private houses opposite, where ladies
are swaying and fanning themselves in 'butacas,' or rocking-chairs,
while half a dozen naked white and black children play in an adjacent
room. Friends passing along the street recognise me; but I may not
converse with them, or the sentry below will inform, and I shall be
removed to a more secluded part of the stronghold.
I am not alone. My chamber is occupied by a native Indian, whose origin
is distinguishable by his lank, jet-black hair, his gipsy-like
complexion, and finely-cut nostrils. He is neither tattooed, nor does he
wear feathers, beads or animals' hides; but with the exception of his
face and hands (which are very dirty) he has all the appearance of a
civilized being.
The Indian has been himself arrested on suspicion, but his trial has
been postponed for many weary months, and he is at present quite
ignorant of the charge on which he may stand accused. Having no friends
to intercede for him, or golden doubloons wherewith to convince the
authorities of his innocence, the poor fellow is afraid things will go
hard with him.
The Indian is eloquent on the subjects of slavery and Spanish rule, both
of which he warmly denounces. He is careful to remind me, that although
he speaks the Spanish language, and is governed by Spanish laws, he is
no more a Spaniard than is an American an Englishman. There is something
in common between these nationalities, he says, whereas between a Cuban
and a Spaniard there is a very wide gulf!
My patriotic friend gets so excited over these and other favourite
topics that, afraid of the consequences of his conversation, I propose a
smoke.
'What!' he exclaims, approaching me in what seems a threatening
attitude. 'Is it possible that you have any tobacco, and that you are
going to smoke some here?'
Lest the Indian should be no smoker himself and dislike the odour of
tobacco, I tell him that if he objects, I will postpone my harmless
whiff until after captivity.
He does object; but after contemplating my scanty supply of cigarettes
as I restore them to my pocket, he observes with a sigh:
'I was once an inveterate smoker!'
'Till you very wisely gave up the vice,' I add.
'No!' says he, 'I did not give it up. It was my accursed captors who
withheld it from me. I have not smoked for many long months, and I would
often give ten years of my life for one little cigarette!'
'Try one of mine,' I suggest, extracting the packet again which alas!
contains my last four.
'Gracias; no,' he replies, 'I shall be depriving you, and you will find
cigarettes scarce in these quarters!'
'If you are a true Cuban,' I observe, 'you will remember that it is next
to an insult to refuse a man's tobacco. Besides, if you object to my
indulging in the luxury upon the plea that the delicious perfume is
unendurable in another, both of us will be deprived of the pleasure!'
'You are right,' says the Indian, 'then I will take just one.'
So saying, he accepts the little paper squib which I offer, and
carefully divides the contents into two equal parts; explaining, as he
does so, how he intends to reserve one half of the tobacco for another
occasion.
While thus engaged I am reminded of the awful fact that I have no means
of igniting our cigarettes. When I mention this unfortunate circumstance
to my companion, he smiles triumphantly, and after placing his ear to
the door in melodramatic fashion, proceeds to raise a particular brick
in the floor of our apartment under which at least half a dozen matches
are concealed.
'These matches,' he remarks, 'have been treasured in that hole ever
since I came to lodge in this jail.'
'Have you resided here long?' I inquire.
'It has appeared long to me,' he answers, 'eighteen months, more or
less; but I have no record of the date.'
'You must have found the hours hang heavily on you,' I remark, 'or,
maybe, you have a hobby like the political prisoners one reads of. You
have a favorite flower somewhere? Or, perhaps, you are partial to
spiders?'
'There are plenty of gigantic spiders here,' he replies, 'together with
centipedes and scorpions; but whenever one of those reptiles crosses my
path--I kill it!'
When my fellow-captive learns my nationality, his surprise and pleasure
are very great.
'I like the English and Americans,' says he, 'and I would become one or
the other to-morrow, if it were possible.'
'You are very kind to express so much esteem for my countrymen,' I say.
'It is not so much your countrymen,' he says, 'as your free country with
its just and humane laws, which every Cuban admires and covets.'
I remind him that, under existing circumstances, I am no better off
than he is, though to be sure as a British subject, my consul, who
resides in Santiago, will doubtless see me righted.
The Indian is, however, of a different opinion. He assures me that my
nationality will avail me nothing if I have no interest with some of the
Spanish officials. He gives me instances to prove how it is often out of
the power of a consul to assist a compatriot in difficulties.
'Not long since,' says my friend, 'a marine from your country, being
intoxicated, and getting mixed up in a street brawl, was arrested and
locked up with a crowd of insubordinate coolies and Spanish deserters.
His trial was, as usual, postponed. In the meanwhile, the jail had
become overcrowded by the arrival of some wounded soldiers from San
Domingo, and your countryman was shipped off with others to another
prison at Manzanillo, where he was entered on the list of convicts, and
has never been heard of since.'
'In this very jail,' continues the Indian, 'are a couple of American
engineers, both of whom stand accused of being concerned in a negro
conspiracy, and who have been locked up here for the last six months.
They are ignorant of the Spanish language, have mislaid their passports,
and have been denied a conference with their consul, who is, of course,
unaware of their incarceration.'
I make a mental note of this last case, with a view to submit it to the
proper authority as soon as I shall be able to do so.
My attention is presently arrested by a sound which reminds me of
washing, for in Cuba this operation is usually performed by placing the
wet linen on a flat board, and belabouring it with a smooth stone or a
heavy roller. My companion smiles when I give him my impression of the
familiar sounds, and he tells me that white linen is not the object of
the beating, but black limbs! An unruly slave receives his castigation
at the jail when it is found inconvenient to perform the operation under
his master's roof. No inquiry into the offence is made by the officers
of justice; the miscreant is simply ordered twenty-five or fifty lashes,
as the case may be, by his accuser, who acts also as his jury, judge,
and occasionally--executioner!
Whilst listening to the unfortunate's groans and appeals for mercy, I
watch the proceedings of a chain-gang of labourers, some twenty of whom
have left the jail for the purpose of repairing a road in an adjacent
street. They are dressed in canvas suits, numbered and lettered on the
back, and wear broad-brimmed straw-hats. Each man smokes, and makes a
great rattling of his chains as he assists in drawing along the heavy
trucks and implements for work. A couple of armed soldiers and three or
four prison-warders accompany the gang; the former to keep guard, the
latter to superintend the labour. Some of the prisoners sell hats, fans,
toys, and other articles of their own manufacture as they go along. One
of these industrious gentlemen has entered, chains and all, into a
private house opposite, and while he stands bargaining with a highly
respectable white, his keeper sits, like Patience, on the doorstep
smoking a cigar.
I withdraw from the window to meet my jailer, who has brought--not my
freedom? no; my food. It is the first meal I have tasted for many long
hours, and I am prepared to relish it though it be but a banana and
Catalan wine.
These are, however, the least items in the princely fare which the
jailer has brought. The whitest of tablecloths is removed from the
showiest of trays, and discloses a number of small tureens, in which
fish, flesh, and fowl have been prepared in a variety of appetising
ways. Besides these are a square cedar-box of guava preserves, a pot of
boiling black coffee, a bundle of the best Ti Arriba cigars, and a
packet of Astrea cigarettes; all served on the choicest china. This
goodly repast cometh from La Senora Mercedes, under whose hospitable
roof I have lodged and fed for many months. Dona Mercedes has heard of
our captivity, and, without making any enquiry into the nature of our
misdemeanour, has instantly despatched one of her black domestics with
the best breakfast she can prepare.
The Indian assures me that the admittance into jail of such a collation
augurs well. I have doubtless friends who are using their influence with
the officials in my behalf, and, in short, he considers my speedy
release a certainty.
'Usted gusta?' I invite my companion to share the good things, but he
excuses himself by saying that, with his present prospects, he would
rather not recall the feeling of a good meal. He, however, partakes of
some of my coffee, the odour of which is far too savoury for his
self-denial, and helps me with the tobacco.
Breakfast over, I take a siesta on half the furniture, and after a few
hours' delicious oblivion am awakened by the jailer, who comes with the
welcome news that the court is sitting, and that my presence is
required.
'Imprisoned and tried on the same day!' exclaims my Indian friend.
'Then,' says he, 'I may well wish you adieu for ever!'
A Cuban court of justice, broadly described, consists of two old men, a
deal table, a bottle of ink, and a boy. One of the elders is the alcalde
mayor, an awful being, invested with every kind of administrative power;
the other functionary is his escribano, or legal man-of-all-work, who
dispenses Spanish law upon the principle of 'French without a master.'
He professes to teach prisoners their fate in one easy lesson, without
the interposition of either counsel or jury. None but those immediately
concerned in the case are admitted into the tribune; so that the
prisoner, who is frequently the only party interested, has the court, so
to speak, all to himself!
The chamber into which I am ushered on the present occasion has very
much the appearance of a schoolroom during the holidays. The walls are
white-washed, and half a dozen short forms lie in disorder about the
brick floor. At one end of the apartment is a yellow map of the
Antilles; at the other is hung a badly painted oil portrait of her
Catholic Majesty Isabella, with a soiled coat-of-arms of Castile above
her, and a faded Spanish banner half concealing her royal countenance.
Beneath this trophy, on a raised platform, is seated the prison
magistrate, or fiscal, as he is called. Before him is a cedar-wood
table, with a bottle of ink, a glass of blotting sand and a quire of
stamped paper. On his right is an escribano and a couple of
interpreters, whose knowledge of the English language I afterwards find
to be extremely limited. On his left is seated my captive companion
Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu. Everybody present, including a couple of
brown-holland policemen at the door, is smoking, which has a sociable
air, and inspires me with confidence. Upon my appearance in court
everybody rises; the fiscal politely offers me a cigar and a seat on the
bench.
As a matter of form--for my Spanish is by no means unintelligible--I am
examined through the medium of an interpreter, who makes a terrible hash
of my replies. He talks of the 'foots of my friend's negro,' and the
'commandant's, officers', sergeant's relations,' by which I infer that
the learned linguist has never overcome the fifth lesson of his
Ollendorff. It is accordingly found necessary to conduct the rest of the
inquiry in good Castilian.
A great case has been made out against us by the commandant, who
represents us in his despatch as spies in league with any quantity of
confederates. A pocket-book full of nefarious notes and significant
scratches has been found upon me: together with a four-bladed penknife,
a metallic corkscrew, a very black lead-pencil, and an ink-eraser! In
the commandant's opinion the said notes are, without doubt, private
observations on the mysteries of the Morro, and the scratches are
nothing more nor less than topographical plans of the fortifications.
Absurd and improbable as the commandant's story may appear, it would
have had great weight against us with the fiscal, and considerably
protracted the period of our release, were it not for the fact that the
fiscal is on intimate terms with my companion's family. This fortunate
circumstance, aided by the laudable efforts of my consul, who works
wonders with his excellency the governor, enables us to be set at
liberty without further delay. There is, however, some difficulty in the
case of our black attendant, whom the authorities would still keep in
bondage, out of compliment to stern justice; but we intercede for him,
and he accompanies us from jail.
Crowds of people await outside and escort us to our studio, where dear
old Don Benigno, his amiable senora and family, welcome us with joy.
Wherever we go, we are lionised and loaded with congratulations and
condolence. A kind of patriotic sentiment is mixed up with the public
sympathy; Spanish rule being extremely distasteful to a Cuban, and any
opportunity for expressing his disgust of an incompetent ruler being
hailed by him with delight. All our Cuban friends--and, to say the
truth, many of the Spaniards themselves--are unanimous in their
disapproval of the commandant's conduct.
But I have not yet done with the commandant, as will be seen in another
chapter.