ROUGH JUSTICE.
I did not take much rousing in the morning, and even before remembering
the exact circumstances, felt oppressed by the weight of coming sorrow.
I breakfasted alone, Sorillo sending a profuse apology for not being
able to join me, though I was rather glad than otherwise at his absence.
Leaving the hut, I went into the ravine. There were perhaps a hundred
men in sight, all armed, and apparently waiting for some signal. Their
comrades, no doubt, had been dispatched on an errand, or were guarding
the neighbouring passes. In front of Don Felipe's hut stood a sentry,
and, somewhat to my surprise, I now noticed a second hut, slightly
lower down and similarly guarded.
"Two prisoners!" I thought. "I wonder who the other is? Sorillo did
not mention him."
Nearer the head of the ravine some soldiers were at work, and going
towards them I beheld a strange and significant sight. In the side of
the hill was a natural platform, broad and spacious, while round it
stretched in a semicircle a wide stone seat, which the men were
covering with bright red cloth. Below the platform stood a ring of
soldiers with impassive faces.
I was still wondering what this might mean, when Sorillo, touching my
arm, led me to the centre of the stone seat, saying, "Sit there; you
shall be a witness that the people of the Silver Key treat their
enemies justly."
Rather reluctantly I took the seat indicated. Sorillo sat next me, and
six officers, ascending the platform, took their places, three on
either side of us. That portion of the seat occupied by the chief was
slightly raised; but this, of course, makes no difference to the story.
At a signal from Sorillo the door of Don Felipe's hut was opened, and
the prisoner came out escorted by two armed men. The soldiers, opening
to right and left, made way for him, and by means of the boulders,
which served as steps, he climbed to the platform.
In spite of my prejudice against the man, I rejoiced to see how boldly
he held himself. He appeared to have summoned to his aid all the pride
of his dead-and-gone ancestors. He glanced contemptuously at the
gigantic Sorillo, and meeting my eyes, smiled defiantly. As to the
officers, he did not give them even a look.
[Illustration: He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo.]
"Thank goodness," said I to myself, "no one can call Rosa's father a
coward!"
Then Sorillo began to speak, clearly and distinctly, but with no note
of anger in his voice.
"Don Felipe Montilla," he said, "you are brought here by order of the
Society of the Silver Key." Don Felipe's lips curled as if in
amusement. "It is charged against you that you, having taken the oath
of loyalty to the government, have since been in traitorous
communication with the Royalist leaders. Do you deny or admit the
charge?"
Don Felipe shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, "A truce to your
mummery! Do you think I would plead for my life to a band of
cut-throats? What care I for your society?"
I thought this outburst would provoke his captors beyond measure, but,
as far as I could judge, it produced no effect at all. They sat quite
still, as if the remarks had been addressed to others.
"It is our custom," continued Sorillo, "to give those brought before us
every chance to defend themselves. We are not lawyers; we do not
juggle with words; our one desire is to get at the truth."
"By St. Philip," muttered Montilla, "this is the last place I should
have thought to find it in!"
"For this reason," continued the chief, ignoring the sarcastic
interruption, "the story shall be told plainly, and then you will
understand exactly what you are charged with. Three nights ago we
stopped a man returning from Lima. Many times he had gone to and fro
unmolested, protected by a pass from Riva-Aguero. At last he was
recognized by one of our men as Pardo Lureña, an utterly worthless man,
who had already changed sides several times during the war."
"He would have made a good recruit for you," remarked Montilla.
"Suspecting this man, we had him watched," continued the chief, again
passing over the interruption, "and found that always he went to your
house, señor, returning under the cover of night. We knew you to be an
excellent Patriot, yet the circumstance made us uneasy. At length we
decided to ignore the president's passport. Lureña was stopped and
searched, with this result," and he flourished a letter before the
prisoner.
Don Felipe must have known by now how helpless his case was; but he
only smiled. In truth, at this crisis of his life he showed no want of
pluck.
"There is much in this letter," said the chief mercilessly. "It
contains a full list of the troops just dispatched to the south, and of
those still remaining in Lima, with an exact statement as to the
quantity of their stores and ammunition. It describes their position,
and advises General Canterac how he can best enter Lima and seize
Callao. It provides also a list of those who will join him, and
stipulates that the writer shall keep not only his own estates, but
shall be given those of which he has lately been deprived."
At this last revelation Don Felipe changed colour somewhat, and
withdrew his eyes from my face.
"This letter," said Sorillo, "came from your house; it is signed F. M.,
and I charge you with having written it. Can you deny that it is in
your handwriting?"
The prisoner seemed to have regained self-possession, for looking
steadily at Sorillo, he exclaimed, "A gentleman of Spain does not
answer the questions of a mountain robber."
Passing the letter to me, Sorillo said, "You know this man's
handwriting; perhaps you will satisfy yourself that he wrote this
letter?"
"No," said I coldly, thrusting the paper away; "I will be neither judge
nor witness in this case."
"Very well," answered the chief; "let the second prisoner be brought
forward." And two men immediately fetched Pardo Lureña from his hut.
He was still a young man, but looked old. His eyes were shifty and
cunning, his lips full and thick; he did not seem to be at all the kind
of man to play so daring a game. Don Felipe looked at him so
scornfully that he turned away his face in confusion. He gave his
answers clearly, however, and told the story from beginning to end
without a tremor.
It was as Sorillo had said. The fellow admitted being a Royalist spy
employed in carrying messages between General Canterac and Montilla.
The Don, he declared, had procured him the pass signed by Riva-Aguero,
and had given him the letter now in the guerilla chief's possession.
Don Felipe never once interrupted him either by word or gesture; to
look at him, one would have thought he was merely a spectator, with no
interest in the matter one way or another. But when at last the tale
ended, and Sorillo called upon him to speak, his attitude changed.
"Do your murders your own way," he cried defiantly. "If the farce
pleases you, play it. What has it to do with me? When I am accused of
crime by the government of my country, I will answer."
"Don Felipe is right, Sorillo," I interrupted. "If he has done wrong,
let him be brought before a proper tribunal. Whether he be innocent or
guilty, if you kill him you commit murder. You and your followers have
no right to punish him."
"In the case of a traitor we take the right," answered Sorillo
drily.--"But there is a further charge, Don Felipe Montilla, more
serious still. You have been proved false to your country; I accuse
you also of being false to your friend."
Hitherto, I am bound to admit, the guerilla chief had acted like a
perfectly impartial judge; now there was a ring of anger in his voice
and a dangerous glitter in his eyes. As to Montilla, I could hardly
suppress an exclamation of surprise at the change in his appearance.
No longer boldly erect, he stood with drooping head, pale cheeks, and
downcast eyes. In the first act he had behaved like a man of spirit;
the second he began like a craven.
"Listen!" exclaimed Sorillo sternly, and his first words told me what
would follow. "For many years there has lived in Lima a man who loves
the Indians. He saw that they were treated as dogs, and because of his
great pity he resolved to help them. To this end he worked day and
night, making many enemies among the rulers of the country. They tried
to turn him from his purpose, now with threats, again with offers of
heavy bribes: he would not be moved. So badly were the Indians treated
that it mattered little whether they lived or died. They banded
together, procured arms and ammunition, and determined to fight for
their liberty. Their friend sent them word that the attempt was
hopeless; but they were very angry, and would not listen. Then he left
his home to speak to them himself, and endeavour to dissuade them from
their purpose."
Montilla had not once raised his head, and now his limbs quivered. As
for me, I sat listening with fascinated interest.
"Side by side with this friend of the Indians," the chief continued,
"there lived a Spanish gentleman, who told the viceroy falsely that his
neighbour was going to the mountains to raise the standard of
rebellion. The viceroy, who was frightened, sent soldiers to seize
him. Second in command of the party was a lieutenant, young in years
but old in crime. To him this Spaniard went secretly. 'If this man
should be killed in the scuffle,' said he, 'you can come to me for five
thousand dollars.'
"The lieutenant did his best to earn the money, and thought he had
succeeded. As it chanced, however, his victim did not die, but his
estates were confiscated and given to the man who had betrayed him."
The speaker stopped. All was still; save for the leaping waters of the
torrent, no sound was to be heard. I glanced at Montilla: he was
deathly pale, and on his forehead stood great beads of perspiration,
which, with his bound hands, he was unable to wipe away.
"Shall I tell you who these men were?" asked Sorillo. "One is Don
Eduardo Crawford; the others stand here," and he pointed to the
prisoners. "Listen to your accomplice, Felipe Montilla, if you care to
hear the story repeated."
Again Lureña gave his evidence glibly. I think he had no sense of
shame, but only a strong desire to save his life. He might not have
committed the deed for the sake of the money alone, he said, but he
hated my father for having cast him into prison.
It was poor evidence on which to try a man for his life, yet no one
doubted Montilla's guilt. There he stood with trembling limbs and
ashen face--truly a wretched figure for a cavalier of Spain! His
courage had broken down completely, and to all the questions put by his
self-appointed judge he answered no word.
At length Sorillo asked his officers for their verdict, and with one
consent they pronounced him "Guilty!"
"It is a true verdict," exclaimed Sorillo; "any other would be a
lie.--And now, Felipe Montilla, listen to me for the last time. You
have been proved a traitor to your country, and that alone merits
death; but this other crime touches the members of the Silver Key more
closely. When the great men of Peru called the Indians dogs, Don
Eduardo was our friend. He took our side openly, encouraged us,
sympathized with us, pitied us. And you tried to slay him! not in fair
fight, mind you, and only because you coveted his possessions. For
that you die within forty-eight hours, as surely as the sun will rise
to-morrow!" And all his hearers applauded.
The condemned man still made no reply, uttered no appeal for mercy, but
stood as one dazed. But I thought of the daughter who loved him so
well, and sprang to my feet.
"Hear me!" I cried excitedly. "If Don Felipe has done wrong, it is
against my father. Do you think he will thank you for killing his
enemy? Is that his teaching? You know it is not; you know that he
would forgive him freely--would beg his life from you on his bended
knees. If you really love my father, if you feel that he deserves your
gratitude, spare this man's life. If he has sinned he will repent. I
have come here for him. Do not let me go back alone. Am I to say to
my father, 'You are foolish in thinking the Indians care for you; they
care nothing! I asked of them a boon in your name, and they refused
it'? Raymon Sorillo, I appeal to you, give me this man's life for my
father's sake!"
I looked at him earnestly, hoping to find a spark of mercy in his eyes.
Alas, there was none! He was hard as iron, cold as ice; on that day,
at least, there was no pity in him.
"You are foolish," said he; "you are like a child who cries for the
moon. Set this man free and he will immediately begin his old games of
deceit and trickery. He cannot help himself. It is his nature, as it
is a spider's to weave its web. Your father's happiness depends on
this traitor's death."
I heard him patiently, and then renewed my appeal. It was quite
useless.
"Remove the prisoners," said he; and at a sign the troops marched off,
the officers dispersed, and none save we two remained on the platform.
For a long time neither spoke. I was thinking of Rosa anxiously
awaiting my return. I had bidden her hope, and there was no longer any
hope. I made no attempt to deceive myself in this respect. Sorillo
would do much for me, but this one thing he would not do. I dreaded
the thought of returning to Lima. What would Rosa say and do when she
heard of her father's shameful death? Perhaps that part might be
spared her; she need not learn the whole truth. I must invent some
story which would save her the knowledge of his double treachery.
At last I turned to the chief, saying, "Will you allow me to speak with
Don Felipe in private? He has a daughter at home; he may wish to send
her a last message."
"He is not worth your kindness; but do as you please."
I thanked him, and walked toward the hut in which Don Felipe was
confined. The sentry let me pass without protest, and opening the door
I entered.
The sight before me was a pitiful one. The wretched prisoner sat on a
wooden bench in the dreary hovel. His arms were bound, but he was free
to walk about if he so wished. At the click of the latch he raised his
head, but seeing me dropped it again quickly, as if ashamed to meet my
gaze.
"Don Felipe," I began, "have you any message for your daughter?"
Instead of answering my question, he himself asked one.
"Will that brigand really put me to death?" he said.
"I am afraid so. I have begged hard for your life, but in vain."
Looking at me curiously, he exclaimed, "I cannot understand why you
should wish to save me!"
"For Rosa's sake! When you were carried off, she came to me, and I
promised if it were possible to bring you back with me."
"Then you do not believe the story you heard to-day, about--about--"
"My father? Yes, I believe it; but that is no reason why I should be
unkind to Rosa. Poor girl! 'twill be hard enough for her to lose you."
"Is there no way of escape?"
I shook my head. "An armed sentry stands outside; a hundred soldiers
are in the ravine; the path is closely watched. I would help you if it
were possible."
"It will be dark to-night."
"That would help us little. Even if you escaped from the hut, you
would be challenged at every dozen yards. No, I can see no way out."
I think that at this time he began to fully realize the danger he was
in. He had a hunted look in his eyes, and again the perspiration stood
on his forehead. Fear was fast killing shame, and he seemed to care
nothing that I was the son of the man whom he had tried to murder.
"Juan," said he, "can't you make an excuse to visit me after dark?"
"I should think so," I replied.
"And will you cut these cords?"
"If you think it will help you at all."
"Leave that to me," said he, speaking almost hopefully. "By St.
Philip, I shall escape the ruffian yet!"
What his plan was he did not tell me, but it seemed to please him
greatly. He even laughed when I again mentioned Rosa, and said he
would carry his message himself. And with hope there came back to him
something of the old cunning and smoothness of speech for which he was
so noted.
"I am sorry you were misled by that preposterous tale," said he softly.
"Pardo Lureña is a villain, but we will unmask him. Of course, there
was a little truth in his story, but so twisted and distorted that it
could not be recognized. Your father will understand, however, and
even you will come to see that I am not greatly to blame. A little
thoughtlessness, Juan, and a desire to help a friend--no more; but that
can wait. You will be sure to come, Juan; you will not fail me?"
"I will do my very best, Don Felipe, for your daughter's sake."
Wishing him farewell, I returned to the chief's hut. He was not there,
so I lay down to think out the situation; but my head was in a hopeless
muddle. I went into the ravine again, and, watching the soldiers,
wondered how the unhappy prisoner hoped to escape them.
As it chanced, his plan was doomed to disappointment. Toward the end
of the afternoon I stood chatting with Sorillo and some of his
officers, when a messenger rode up the ravine. His horse had travelled
far and fast, while he looked worn out with fatigue.
Springing to the ground, he saluted, while the chief cried, "What news,
Sanchez? it should be worth hearing!"
"I think it is," replied the man, with a significant smile. "General
Canterac is marching on Lima at the head of a Spanish army."
"How many men has he?"
"Nine thousand, perhaps ten--horse, foot, and guns. The advance-guard
is not far off."
"Thanks, Sanchez.--Let the men assemble, Barros: a dozen to stay here,
the rest to follow me. Has Cerdeña sent word to Lima? Good. He knows
his business.--Juan, you will just have time to ride clear, and not
much to spare. No doubt Canterac has sent some of his troops by the
near cut."
All was bustle and activity in the ravine. Officers issued commands,
troopers saddled their horses, muskets were seen to, an extra supply of
ammunition was served out, and in a very short time everybody save the
few men left to guard the ravine was ready to march.
"What can your handful of men do against Canterac's army?" I asked
Sorillo as we rode away.
"Not much beyond cutting off a few stragglers," he replied, smiling;
"but we shall obtain information of which our leaders in Lima seem to
stand badly in need."