DOOMED TO DIE.
My captors conducted me to a dilapidated building near the Plaza Major,
which did duty as a temporary jail, the principal prison of Caracas having
been destroyed by the earthquake and left as it fell. Nevertheless, the
room to which I was taken seemed quite strong enough to hold anybody
unsupplied with housebreaking implements or less ingenious than Jack
Sheppard. The door was thick and well bolted, the window or grating (for
it was, of course, destitute of glass) high and heavily barred, yet not
too high to be reached with a little contrivance. Mounting the single
chair (beside a hammock the only furniture the room contained), I gripped
the bars with my hands, raised myself up, and looked out. Below me was a
narrow, and, as it might appear, a little-frequented street, at the end of
which a sentry was doing his monotonous spell of duty.
The place was evidently well guarded, and from the number of soldiers whom
I had seen about the gateway and in the _patio_, I concluded that, besides
serving as a jail, it was used also as a military post. Even though I
might get out, I should not find it very easy to get away. And what were
my chances of getting out? As yet they seemed exceedingly remote. The only
possible exits were the door and the window. The door was both locked and
bolted, and either to open or make an opening in it I should want a brace
and bit and a saw, and several hours freedom from intrusion. It would be
easier to cut the bars--if I possessed a file or a suitable saw. I had my
knife, and with time and patience I might possibly fashion a tool that
would answer the purpose.
But time was just what I might not be able to command. I had heard that
the sole merit of the military tribunal was its promptitude; it never kept
its victims long in suspense; they were either quickly released or as
quickly despatched--the latter being the alternative most generally
adopted. It was for this reason that, the moment I was arrested, I began
to think how I could escape. As neither opening the door nor breaking the
bars seemed immediately feasible, the idea of bribing the turnkey
naturally occurred to me. Thanks to the precaution suggested by Mr. Van
Voorst, I had several gold pieces in my belt. But though the fellow would
no doubt accept my money, what security had I that he would keep his word?
And how, even if he were to leave the door open, should I evade the
vigilance of the sentries and the soldiers who were always loitering in
the _patio_?
On the whole, I thought the best thing I could do was to wait quietly
until the morrow. The night is often fruitful in ideas. I might be
acquitted, after all, and if I attempted to bribe the turnkey before my
examination, and he should betray me to his superiors, my condemnation
would be a foregone conclusion. The mere attempt would be regarded as an
admission of guilt.
A while later, the zambo turnkey (half Indian, half negro) brought me my
evening meal--a loaf of bread and a small bottle of wine--and I studied
his countenance closely. It was both treacherous and truculent, and I felt
that if I trusted him he would be sure to play me false.
As it was near sunset I asked for a light, and tried to engage him in
conversation. But the attempt failed. He answered surlily, that a dark
room was quite good enough for a damned rebel, and left me to myself.
When it became too dark to walk about, I lay down in the hammock and was
soon in the land of dreams; for I was young and sanguine, and though I
could not help feeling somewhat anxious, it was not the sort of anxiety
which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of
despair. That time was not yet.
When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the
rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window
of my room, making it hardly less light than day.
As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something
strike against the grating.
I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a
small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room.
A signal!
Yes, and a signal that demands an answer. In less time than it takes to
tell I slip from my hammock, gather up the pebbles, climb up to the
window, and drop them into the street. Then, looking out, I can just
discern, deep in the shadow of the building opposite, the figure of a man.
He raises his arm; something white flies over my head and falls on the
floor. Dropping hurriedly from the grating, I pick up the message-bearing
missile--a pebble to which is tied a piece of paper. I can see that the
paper contains writing, and climbing a second time up to the grating, I
make out by the light of the moonbeams the words:
"_If you are condemned, ask for a priest._"
My first feeling was one of bitter disappointment. Why should I ask for a
priest? I was not a Roman Catholic; I did not want to confess. If the
author of the missive was Carera--and who else could it be?--why had he
given himself so much trouble to make so unpleasantly suggestive a
recommendation? A priest, forsooth! A file and a cord would be much more
to the purpose.... But might not the words mean more than appeared? Could
it be that Carera desired to give me a friendly hint to prepare for the
worst?... Or was it possible that the ghostly man would bring me a further
message and help me in some way to escape? At any rate, it was a more
encouraging theory than the other, and I resolved to act on it. If the
priest did me no good, he could, at least, do me no harm.
After tearing up the bit of paper and chewing the fragments, I returned to
my hammock and lay awake--sleep being now out of the question--until the
turnkey brought me a cup of chocolate, of which, with the remains of the
loaf, I made my first breakfast. About the middle of the day he brought me
something more substantial. On both occasions I pressed him with questions
as to when I was to be examined, and what they were going to do with me,
to all of which he answered "_No se_" ("I don't know"), and, probably
enough, he told the truth. However, I was not kept long in suspense. Later
on in the afternoon the door opened for the third time, and the officer
who had arrested me, followed by his alguazils, appeared at the threshold
and announced that he had been ordered to escort me to the tribunal.
We went in the same order as before; and a walk of less than fifteen
minutes brought us to another tumble-down building, which appeared to have
been once a court-house. Only the lower rooms were habitable, and at a
door, on either side of which stood a sentry, my conductor respectfully
knocked.
"_Adelante!_" said a rough voice; and we entered accordingly.
Before a long table at the upper end of a large, barely-furnished room,
with rough walls and a cracked ceiling, sat three men in uniform. The one
who occupied the chief seat, and seemed to be the president, was old and
gray, with hard, suspicious eyes, and a long, typical Spanish face, in
every line of which I read cruelty and ruthless determination. His
colleagues, who called him "marquis," treated him with great deference,
and his breast was covered with orders.
It was evident that on this man would depend my fate. The others were
there merely to register his decrees.
After leading me to the table and saluting the tribunal, the officer of
police, whose sword was still drawn, placed himself in a convenient
position for running me through, in the event of my behaving
disrespectfully to the tribunal or attempting to escape.
The president, who had before him the letter to Señor Ulloa, my passport,
and a document that looked like a brief, demanded my name and quality.
I told him.
"What was your purpose in coming to Caracas?" he asked.
"Simply to see the country."
He laughed scornfully.
"To see the country! What nonsense is this? How can anybody see a country
which is ravaged by brigands and convulsed with civil war? And where is
your authority?"
"My passport."
"A passport such as this is only available in a time of peace. No stranger
unprovided with a safe conduct from the _capitan-general_ is allowed to
travel in the province of Caracas. It is useless trying to deceive us,
señor. Your purpose is to carry information to the rebels, probably to
join them, as is proved by your possession of a letter to so base a
traitor as Señor Ulloa."
On this I explained how I had obtained the letter, and pointed out that
the very fact of my asking the _posadero_ to direct me to Ulloa's house,
and going thither openly, was proof positive of my innocence. Had my
purpose been that which he imputed to me, I should have shown more
caution.
"That does not at all follow," rejoined the president. "You may have
intended to disarm suspicion by a pretence of ignorance. Moreover, you
expressed to the _señor posadero_ sentiments hostile to the Government of
his Majesty the King."
"It is untrue. I did nothing of the sort," I exclaimed, impetuously.
"Mind what you say, prisoner. Unless you treat the tribunal with due
respect you shall be sent back to the _carcel_ and tried in your absence."
"Do you call this a trial?" I exclaimed, indignantly. "I am a British
subject. I have committed no offence; but if I must be tried I demand the
right of being tried by a civil tribunal."
"British subjects who venture into a city under martial law must take the
consequences. We can show them no more consideration than we show Spanish
subjects. They deserve much less, indeed. At this moment a force is being
organized in England, with the sanction and encouragement of the British
Government, to serve against our troops in these colonies. This is an act
of war, and if the king, my master, were of my mind, he would declare war
against England. Better an open foe than a treacherous friend. Do you hold
a commission in the Legion, señor?"
"No."
"Know you anybody who does?"
"Yes; I believe that several men with whom I served in Spain have accepted
commissions. But you will surely not hold me responsible for the doings of
others?"
"Not at all. You have quite enough sins of your own to answer for. You may
not actually hold a commission in this force of filibusters, but you are
acquainted with people who do; and from your own admission and facts that
have come to our knowledge, we believe that you are acting as an
intermediary between the rebels in this country and their agents in
England. It is an insult to our understanding to tell us that you have
come here out of idle curiosity. You have come to spy out the nakedness of
the land, and being a soldier you know how spies are dealt with."
Here the president held a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then
he turned to me, and continued:
"We are of opinion that the charges against you have been fully made out,
and the sentence of the court is that you be strangled on the Plaza Major
to-morrow morning at seven by the clock."
"Strangled! Surely, señores, you will not commit so great an infamy? This
is a mere mockery of a trial. I have neither seen an indictment nor been
confronted by witnesses. Call this a sentence! I call it murder."
"If you do not moderate your language, prisoner, you will be strangled
to-night instead of to-morrow. Remove him, _capitan_"--to the officer of
police. "Let this be your warrant"--writing.
"Grant me at least one favor," I asked, smothering my indignation, and
trying to speak calmly. "I have fought and bled for Spain. Let me at least
die a soldier's death, and allow me before I die to see a priest."
"So you are a Christian!" returned the president, almost graciously. "I
thought all Englishmen were heretics. I think señores, we may grant Señor
Fortescue's request. Instead of being strangled, you shall be shot by a
firing party of the regiment of Cordova, and you may see a priest. We
would not have you die unshriven, and I will myself see that your body is
laid in consecrated ground. When would you like the priest to visit you?"
"This evening, señor president. There will not be much time to-morrow
morning."
"That is true. See to it, _capitan_. Tell them at the _carcel_ that Señor
Fortescue may see a priest in his own room this evening. _Adios señor!_"
And with that my three judges rose from their seats and bowed as politely
as if they were parting with an honored guest. Though this proceeding
struck me as being both ghastly and grotesque, I returned the greeting in
due form, and made my best bow. I learned afterward that I had really been
treated with exceptional consideration, and might esteem myself fortunate
in not being condemned without trial and strangled without notice.