My prison--My guards--An English hymn book--A fellow
prisoner--Capture of the Eliza Cornish--Fears of the English
mate--Death of Mr. Shaw--Of Captain Talbot and boy--Barbarity of
their execution--The Chilian prisoners sympathize with us--Cambiaso’s
bravado--Captain Avalos and others led out to view the dead
bodies--Treacherous betrayal of Governor Gamero--Execution of the
traitor--My walk.
I now began to feel for a few days, some of the monotony of a
prisoner’s life. Shut up alone, without occupation, within hearing of
the riotous conversation of my guard, but forbidden to speak to them,
with hard fare, and no arrangements for my personal comfort or even
cleanliness, except when I could take water enough from the guard room
to wash my face, using my pocket handkerchief for a towel.
Three or four days had passed, and I had lost the fear of immediate
death, but my suspense and anxiety to know what Cambiaso’s intentions
with regard to us were, were very great. There seemed to me no motive
that he could have for keeping us prisoners, after he had satisfied
himself that we had no treasure on board the Florida, except the fear
that we would carry the news of his revolt back to Valparaiso; and
that danger to himself, it seemed to me, could be obviated only by
putting us to death. It was in vain that I applied to my guards; they
were evidently under orders to hold no communication with me, and the
prisoners who visited me from time to time, knew nothing of Cambiaso’s
plans. To my entreaties to be allowed to see Mr. Shaw, no answer was
given, except that it could not be allowed, that he had been sick, and
was now very unwell.
A few days after my imprisonment, an English book, containing prayers
and hymns, was handed me by one of my guard, a man named Preito, who
probably could make no use of it himself. The hymns had little poetical
merit, and probably at another time would scarcely have aroused my
attention; but now the promises and consolations of religion which
breathed through them, the spirit of Christian resignation and faith of
which I was then so much in need, and which to me shone out in every
part of them, were an unspeakable comfort. The first hymn to which I
opened, seemed so very applicable to my situation, that it impressed
itself upon my memory; and I insert it here, thinking that it may be
interesting to my readers to see how the promises of Christianity are
the truest consolation in all trials.
To my complaint, O Lord, my God,
Thy gracious ear incline;
Hear me, distressed and destitute
Of all relief but thine.
Do thou, O God, preserve my soul
That does thy name adore;
Thy servant keep, and him whose trust
Relies on thee, restore.
To me, who daily thee invoke,
Thy mercy, Lord, extend;
Refresh thy servant’s soul, whose hopes
On thee alone depend.
To my repeated, humble prayer,
O Lord, attentive be;
When troubled, I on thee will call,
For thou wilt answer me.
Some few days after Mr. Shaw’s removal from the barracks, one evening,
the exact date of which has escaped me entirely, I was aroused by a
great confusion in the fort, a noise of shouting, and, apparently, of
rejoicing. While I was standing at my window, trying to discover the
meaning of the uproar, my prison door was opened, and a man put in. He
was in sailor’s dress, was apparently an American, and looked terrified
and bewildered.
I accosted him immediately, in English--asked who he was, saying that
he was probably a prisoner, like myself. The guards in the next room
were in such a state of excitement that they allowed us to converse
unchecked.
He told me that he was the mate of an English brig, the Eliza Cornish,
of Liverpool, bound from Valparaiso to Liverpool; that the vessel had
anchored in Sandy Bay, intending to lay over for the night; that the
captain, Capt. Talbot, of Liverpool, had landed in the brig’s boat,
with a boy, a son of his owner, who was passenger on board, and one
or two seamen; that they had been seized and put in irons the moment
they were out of sight of the brig. The boat was then sent back to the
vessel, with five or six men in her, who came on board and told the
mate that the captain wanted him to come on shore; but that while he
was hesitating what to do, they, seeing the small number of the crew,
attacked and overpowered them, and took possession of the brig. They
then demanded of him whatever money was on board, threatening him
with instant death if he did not give it up at once. The brig had on
board about ninety or one hundred thousand dollars, in bars of gold
and silver, which they seized and brought on shore, together with the
mate and crew. Some of the bars of gold were cut up before his eyes,
and distributed around among the soldiers; and their exultation at the
sight of their booty had raised the general shout which I had heard.
This man was kept in my room during all the rest of our imprisonment.
He was a well meaning fellow, but evidently not much accustomed
to depend upon himself, and very much intimidated by the dread of
approaching death, by these rebels. I constantly found it necessary
to encourage him, and prevail upon him to show a bold face before our
captors, were it only to command their respect. For myself, I was not
really much afraid of them. I was afraid of dying, for my danger made
me realize how unfit I was for another world; and my dread of death
was such as a man might have during a dangerous illness.
At midnight, on December 2d, I was aroused from my sleep by the report
of muskets, of which they seemed to me to number about ten or twelve.
A short time afterwards there was another report, and our guards began
to run out of the next room. The whole encampment seemed in great
confusion, and I became alarmed, thinking some of our companions had
been shot, and that our turn was coming next. I dared not ask any
questions of the guard, some of whom I saw looking through the door of
our room, which always stood open at night. The mate of the E. Cornish
spoke to me, and said, “That is foul play, captain Brown; something
desperate is going on. I am afraid my captain and Mr. Shaw are gone for
it.” Then, throwing himself upon his face, he began to cry.
His manner gave me a feeling of impatience, and I answered him pretty
quickly that I did not doubt he was right, and that I supposed our turn
would come next, but I did not want to hear the thing talked about; and
at any rate, he might as well show as bold a face as possible, for the
guard were watching us, and listening to our conversation. This roused
him, and he sat up, and during the rest of the night we remained in
anxious suspense. I believe I was too proud to ask any questions of my
guard, nor would I allow the mate to ask any.
Soon after sunrise, some of the men who had come down with me as
prisoners, came into our room and whispered to me in Spanish, “Your
poor owner! poor English captain! poor English boy!” I questioned them
closely, and learned that Mr. Shaw and captain Talbot, with the young
passenger, had been taken from their beds just before midnight, put
in irons, both hands and feet, led out to a short distance from the
barracks, and there tied to a tree, and shot. I afterwards gathered
some particulars of their execution, which, for the sake of clearness,
I will insert here.
Mr. Shaw had been very sick ever since we were separated; and I was
told that on the 2d December he sent to Cambiaso, to ask if he might
have some medical advice. Cambiaso’s brutal reply was, “Pass him out
and shoot him, for we have no time to attend to the sick!” When they
were led out, captain Talbot entreated most earnestly that the boy’s
life might be spared, saying that he had been put under his care by his
parents, that he was a mere boy, and could do no harm; but his prayers
were not even listened to. He never asked once for his own life. The
boy was about eighteen years old, a son of one of the owners of the E.
Cornish, and had made the voyage as a pleasure excursion.
The first volley killed captain Talbot and the young man, leaving Mr.
Shaw standing unharmed, not a shot having touched him. Then a whole
volley was fired into him, killing him instantly. One of the soldiers
was attracted by the glitter of a diamond ring on Mr. Shaw’s finger,
and as soon as he was shot, the soldier went up to him, trying to
remove it; but finding that difficult, he cut off the finger with his
cutlass. This ring I afterwards heard of, as being seen on the finger
of one of the women about the fort, and on my return to Valparaiso,
I offered twenty-five dollars to recover it, thinking it would be
a gratification to Mr. Shaw’s friends to obtain even so slight a
remembrance of him, but I was not able to procure it. The bodies were
afterwards taken down and hung by the neck to a tree, exposed to all
the passers by.
I never knew why Mr. Shaw was shot, but I have every reason to suppose
that what I was told of Cambiaso’s reply to his request for medical
advice was the truth. It would have been too much trouble to take care
of a sick man. The same fear of trouble probably decided the poor boy’s
fate. Why captain Talbot was executed, while I was reserved, is also a
mystery to me. I never saw captain Talbot, but from his mate’s remarks
about him, I felt that he was a man of some spirit and character.
Perhaps his high spirit led him to say things that exasperated
Cambiaso. He gave some expression of this spirit at the time he was
seized. Two officers (Chilians,) were handling him rather roughly, when
he indignantly told them they need not look so surly, and at the same
time drew a dirk knife from the waist of his pantaloons. But it was
immediately taken from him.
Mr. Shaw’s death was a great shock to me, and is still a matter of
deep grief. We had been friends for some time, and I had the highest
respect for him. He was indeed a young man of great promise, and his
loss to his family and friends is one which cannot easily be replaced.
I grieved for them, even there in my prison, while I expected each
day to be my last, and while I remembered the agony of my own family,
when the news of our sad fate should reach them; and now that a kind
Providence has restored me to them, I grieve to remember him who met so
cruel a death from such barbarous hands, on a desert and far distant
shore.
I was told by one of the men who came into my cell that morning,
that the bodies were to be left hanging until we had all seen them.
Accordingly, about one o’clock that afternoon, three of the prisoners
(I think they were captain Avalos, with the captain of the regular
troops, and Mr. Dunn,) were taken from their prison, their irons
knocked off, and, when they were unshackled, Cambiaso walked up to
them, and with much mock politeness asked them to accompany him for
a walk. They were in no situation to refuse, but accompanied him in
silence, followed by a file of soldiers as guard. He led them out of
the barracks, toward the vessels. As they passed under the trees on
which hung the bodies of Mr. Shaw, captain Talbot, and the young lad,
Cambiaso pointed to them, and laughing, said, “You see what happens to
such villains when they fall into my hands; it will be your turn next.”
After compelling them to pass round the tree, so as to view the bodies
from every side, he conducted them back to the barracks and to their
crowded prison.
The mate of the E. Cornish and myself spent that morning in a state of
anxiety, expecting every moment to be called for--perhaps to be led
out to death, perhaps to be shown the dead bodies of our friends, and
to be conscious that any emotion we might show would be watched by
eyes that would interpret it into an expression of unmanly fear. My
feeling was a sort of indignant pride; my own honor and the honor of
my country seemed to me to depend upon my bearing before these pirates
and desperate men; and I repeatedly requested the mate, whose power
of self control I began to doubt, to be bold, whatever might happen
to him. I remember thinking that if he did not, all around him would
attribute it to a cowardly disposition. Towards three o’clock we heard
the report of fire-arms, and a general hurry and bustle in the yard. At
the report, the mate sprung to his feet, saying, “Good God, captain!
who has gone now?” We listened anxiously, but all was quiet again, and
I ventured to ask our guard what the disturbance was. They answered,
carelessly, “it is only a soldier who was shot; he is a traitor.” In
about two hours my guard called me out, saying that the mate and I were
to walk in the yard. I refused, at first, telling them that I did not
need a walk, I was well enough as I was, and so forth; but one of the
soldiers, with an oath, exclaimed that they had the general’s orders,
and that I had better come, or worse might happen to me. I rose, and
walked out quietly with the mate. The first thing that struck my eyes,
as I reached the door of the guard room, was a temporary gallows, on
which was suspended the body of a poor soldier. Near it was a tree, the
bark of which was torn with bullet-holes, and the ground below, which
was soaked with blood. I turned sick at the sight; but, summoning up
all my resolution, I walked quietly up to the body, and asked who it
was. One of my acquaintances, a Chilian prisoner who came with us,
and who was sauntering around, walked up to my side, and said, “You
need not feel pity for him, captain Brown; he was a traitor, not worth
caring for. Our general has served him right.”
I questioned the man further, and found that this was the body of one
of the soldiers who had escaped from the barracks with the governor,
and who, worn out by suffering and the fear of starvation, had appeared
at the gate that morning, and delivered himself up, offering to give
Cambiaso information of the governor’s hiding place, if he would
promise him safety, and the sum of five hundred dollars. Cambiaso
promised, and as soon as he had gained what he wanted from him, had him
ironed, and led out and shot. I felt that he had deserved his fate, but
remembering the proverb, “honor among thieves,” could not but think
that it was not at Cambiaso’s hands that he should have met it.
His story was, that after the boat in which they had left the shore
on the night the Florida arrived, had drifted past our vessel, and
they had found it impossible to make us understand what they wanted,
they drifted on through the night, paddling as well as they could till
they reached the Terra del Fuego shore, soon after daylight. There
they attempted to land, but were prevented by a party of Indians, who
fired on them, and wounded one of the soldiers. The weather then being
calm, they paddled to the westward, and crossed the Straits again to
Port Famine, the former site of the colony. There they had concealed
themselves in the bushes, and for the last week had been living on
nothing but roots, and were now in a state of starvation.
All this I gathered from my guards and visitors, after I returned to
my room from my walk, in company with the mate, although we had never
expected to see it again.