ON my arrival at the Havana I found that Durham, who was still an
invalid, had taken up his quarters at Mr. Crauford’s, the Consul-General.
Phoca, who was nearly well again, was at the hotel, the only one in the
town. And who should I meet there but my old Cambridge ally, Fred, the
last Lord Calthorpe. This event was a fruitful one,—it determined the
plans of both of us for a year or more to come.
Fred—as I shall henceforth call him—had just returned from a hunting
expedition in Texas, with another sportsman whom he had accidentally met
there. This gentleman ultimately became of even more importance to me
than my old friend. I purposely abstain from giving either his name or
his profession, for reasons which will become obvious enough by-and-by;
the outward man may be described. He stood well over six feet in his
socks; his frame and limbs were those of a gladiator; he could crush a
horseshoe in one hand; he had a small head with a bull-neck, purely
Grecian features, thick curly hair with crisp beard and silky moustache.
He so closely resembled a marble Hercules that (as he must have a name)
we will call him Samson.
Before Fred stumbled upon him, he had spent a winter camping out in the
snows of Canada, bear and elk shooting. He was six years or so older
than either of us—_i.e._ about eight-and-twenty.
As to Fred Calthorpe, it would be difficult to find a more ‘manly’ man.
He was unacquainted with fear. Yet his courage, though sometimes
reckless, was by no means of the brute kind. He did not run risks unless
he thought the gain would compensate them; and no one was more capable of
weighing consequences than he. His temper was admirable, his spirits
excellent; and for any enterprise where danger and hardship were to be
encountered few men could have been better qualified. By the end of a
week these two had agreed to accompany me across the Rocky Mountains.
Before leaving the Havana, I witnessed an event which, though disgusting
in itself, gives rise to serious reflections. Every thoughtful reader is
conversant enough with them; if, therefore, he should find them out of
place or trite, apology is needless, as he will pass them by without the
asking.
The circumstance referred to is a public execution. Mr. Sydney Smith,
the vice-consul, informed me that a criminal was to be garrotted on the
following morning; and asked me whether I cared to look over the prison
and see the man in his cell that afternoon. We went together. The poor
wretch bore the stamp of innate brutality. His crime was the most
revolting that a human being is capable of—the violation and murder of a
mere child. When we were first admitted he was sullen, merely glaring at
us; but, hearing the warder describe his crime, he became furiously
abusive, and worked himself into such a passion that, had he not been
chained to the wall, he would certainly have attacked us.
At half-past six next morning I went with Mr. Smith to the Campo del
Marte, the principal square. The crowd had already assembled, and the
tops of the houses were thronged with spectators. The women, dressed as
if for a bull-fight or a ball, occupied the front seats. By squeezing
and pushing we contrived to get within eight or nine yards of the
machine, where I had not long been before the procession was seen moving
up the Passeo. A few mounted troops were in front to clear the road;
behind them came the Host, with a number of priests and the prisoner on
foot, dressed in white; a large guard brought up the rear. The soldiers
formed an open square. The executioner, the culprit, and one priest
ascended the steps of the platform.
The garrotte is a short stout post, at the top of which is an iron crook,
just wide enough to admit the neck of a man seated in a chair beneath it.
Through the post, parallel with the crook, is the loop of a rope, whose
ends are fastened to a bar held by the executioner. The loop, being
round the throat of the victim, is so powerfully tightened from behind by
half a turn of the bar, that an extra twist would sever a man’s head from
his body.
The murderer showed no signs of fear; he quietly seated himself, but got
up again to adjust the chair and make himself comfortable! The
executioner then arranged the rope round his neck, tied his legs and his
arms, and retired behind the post. At a word or a look from the priest
the wrench was turned. For a single instant the limbs of the victim were
convulsed, and all was over.
No exclamation, no whisper of horror escaped from the lookers on. Such a
scene was too familiar to excite any feeling but morbid curiosity; and,
had the execution taken place at the usual spot instead of in the town,
few would have given themselves the trouble to attend it.
It is impossible to see or even to think of what is here described
without gravely meditating on its suggestions. Is capital punishment
justifiable? This is the question I purpose to consider in the following
chapter.