THE EXECUTION SCENE.
The morning was bright and beautiful that ushered in the day which was
appointed for the execution of Captain Lorenzo Bezan, in accordance
with the sentence passed upon him. The birds carolled gaily in the
little grove that is formed about the fountain which fronts the
governor-general’s palace and the main barracks of the army, while the
fresh, soft air from inland came loaded with delicious flavors and
sweet aroma. Nature could hardly have assumed a more captivating mood
than she wore at that time.
The soldiers, who sauntered about the Plaza, and hung around the doors
of the guard house, wore an air quite different from that which the
bright and beautiful tropical morning might be supposed to induce. They
knew only too well of the tragedy that was that day to enacted; such
occasions-the spilling of the tide of life, in cold blood-suited not
their chivalrous notions at any time, much less so now, for they loved
the officer who was to lose his life-a victim to Harero-whom, again,
few men respected, either as a soldier or a man-his character was
repulsive to nearly all.
“So the captain is to be shot to-day,” remarked one of Captain Bezan’s
own company, to a comrade whom he had just met in the Plaza.
“Yes, I had rather it had been—”
“Hush, Alonzo,” said his companion, observing General Harero walking
across the street.
“That is he, and he is the only man I ever saw,” continued the officer,
“that I would like to see shot in cold blood. Poor Bezan, he’s
sacrificed to the general!”
“I wonder what gave the trouble between them.”
“Don’t know; some say there’s a lady in the case.”
“I hadn’t heard of that.”
“Yes, you know he challenged the general?”
“Yes,”
“Well, that was about a lady, in some way; I heard one of the officers
say so.”
“The first file do the business.”
“Yes, and thankful am I, Alonzo, that you and I are in the fourth
section.”
The hour appointed for the execution of the sentence had nearly
arrived, and the steady roll of the drum beat the regiment to which
Captain Bezan’s company belonged, to the line. His own immediate
company was formed on the side of the Plaza at right angles with the
rest of the line, in all some thousand rank and file. This company
“stood at ease,” and the men hung their heads, as if ashamed of the
business they were about to perform. In the rest of the line the men
exchanged a few words with each other, now and then, quietly, but the
company referred to, spoke not a word. to each other. Their officers
stood in a little knot by themselves, and evidently felt sad at heart
when they remembered the business before them, for their comrade
condemned to die had been a universal favorite with them.
But a few moments transpired, after the forming of the line, before an
aid-de-camp approached and transmitted an order to the
first-lieutenant, now commanding the company, and the first file of
twelve men were marched away to the rear of the barracks, while the
rest of the company were sent to the prison to do guard duty in
escorting the prisoner to the ground. It seemed to them as though this
additional insult might have been spared to the prisoner-that of being
guarded by his late command, in place of any other portion of the
regiment being detailed for this service. But this was General Harero’s
management, who seemed to gloat in his own diabolical purposes.
In the meantime the prisoner had risen that morning from his damp, rude
couch, and had completed his simple toilet with more than usual
neatness. After offering up a sincere prayer, and listening to the
words of the priest who had been sent to prepare him for the last hour,
he declared calmly that he was ready to die. He had looked for Ruez
Gonzales, and wondered not a little that the boy had not come to bid
him farewell that morning-a last, long farewell.
“Perhaps his young heart was too full for him to do so,” said the
doomed soldier; “and yet I should have felt happier to see him again.
It is strange how much his purity and gentleness of character have
caused me to love him. Next to Isabella Gonzales, surely that boy is
nearest to my heart. Poor Ruez will miss me, for the boy loves me
much.”
As he mused thus to himself, the steady and regular tread of armed men
was heard approaching his prison door, and the young soldier knew full
well for what purpose they came. In a few moments after, he who had
formerly been his second in command entered the cell and saluted the
prisoner respectfully.
“Captain Bezan,” said the lieutenant, “I need not explain in detail to
you the very unpleasant business upon which I have been at this time
sent, nor add,” continued the officer, in a lower tone of voice, “how
much I regret the fate that awaits you.”
“Nay, Ferdinand,” answered Captain Bezan, calmly, “say nothing of the
matter, but give me your hand, my friend, and do your duty.”
“Would to God I could in any way avoid it, Lorenzo,” said his brother
officer, who had long been associated with him, and who had loved him
well.
“Regrets are useless, Ferdinand. You know we all have our allotted
time, and mine has come. You shall see that I will die like a soldier.”
“Ay, Lorenzo; but in such a way; so heartlessly, so needlessly, so in
cold blood; alas! why were you so imprudent? I am no woman, comrade.
You have fought in the same field, and slept in the same tent with me
oftentimes, and you know that I have laid the sod upon my companion’s
breast without a murmur, without a complaint; but this business is too
much for me!”
“Fie, fie, man,” said the prisoner, with assumed indifference; “look
upon it as a simple duty; you but fulfil an order, and there’s the end
of it.”
“I can’t, for the life of me, I can’t!”
“Why, my good fellow, come to think of it, you should not complain, of
all others, since it gives you promotion and the command of our brave
boys.”
A look of deep reproach was the only answer he received to this remark.
“Forgive me, Ferdinand, forgive me, I did but jest,” he continued,
quickly, as he again grasped the hand of his comrade between his own.
“Say no more, Lorenzo. Is there aught I can do for you before we
march?”
“Nothing.”
“No little boon-no service you would like to trust to a friend and
comrade?”
“My papers are all arranged and addressed to you, with directions how I
should like to have them disposed of. There is nothing else,
Ferdinand.”
“It will be my melancholy pleasure to follow your wishes implicitly,”
was the reply.
“Thank you, Ferdinand.”
“Is that all?”
“All.”
“Then we must at once away.”
“One moment-stay, Ferdinand; tell my poor boys who act the
executioners, those of the first file, to fire low-at my heart,
Ferdinand! You will remember?”
“Alas! yes,” said his comrade, turning suddenly away from the prisoner.
“And tell them, Ferdinand, that I most heartily and sincerely forgive
them for the part they are called upon to play in this day’s drama.”
“I will-I will.”
“That is all. I have no other request, and am prepared now to follow
you,” he added, with a calm and resigned expression of countenance.
The drum beat-the file opened-the prisoner took his position, and the
detachment of men whom he had so often commanded amid the carnage of
battle and the roar of cannon, now guarded him towards the place of his
execution.
Lorenzo Bezan had but a little way to march; but still a blush suffused
his face as he passed, thus humiliated, through the public Plaza, where
he had so often paraded his company before. All eyes were low bent upon
him, from the humblest to the highest, for he was well known, and his
fate had created much remark among all. He was marched quietly to the
rear of the barracks, and as the company filed by the guard house, to
the long open space on the city side, just opposite Moro Castle, he
distinctly heard a voice from one of the windows say:
“God bless and help you, Captain Bezan!”
He turned partially round to see the speaker, but no one was visible.
He was sure it was Ruez’s voice, and wondering why he did not come
forward to meet his eye, he marched on to the plain where the entire
division of General Harero’s command was drawn up to witness the scene.
It is difficult to conceive, and much more so to describe, such an
impressive sight as presented itself at this moment to the spectator.
There was so much mockery in the brilliant uniforms, flaunting plumes
and gilded accoutrements of the soldiery, when contrasted with the
purpose of the scene, that one could hardly contemplate the sight even
for a moment with ordinary composure.
The prisoner, attended by a private and two officers, was led to his
position, where, divested of his coat, he stood simply in his linen and
nether garments, and quietly submitted to have his hands bound behind
him, while he exchanged a few pleasant words with those who were about
him. At a signal from the provost marshal, one of the officers essayed
to bind a handkerchief before his eyes, but at an earnest request to
the contrary by the prisoner, he desisted, and in a moment after he
stood alone beside the open grave that had been dug to receive his
remains!
Behind him rolled the ocean, mingling with the waters of the Gulf
Stream; on either side were ranged the long line of infantry that
formed his division, while in front was ranged his own company, and
some ten yards in front of them stood the file of thirteen men who were
to be his executioners. They had just been supplied with their muskets
by an officer, and were told that one was without ball, that each one
might hope his was not the hand to slay his former comrade in arms.
Another signal from the provost, and the lieutenant commanding Captain
Bezan’s company advanced from the rear to the side of the first file to
his regular position, at the same time saying in a low voice:
“Fire low, my men, as you love our former comrade-aim at his heart!”
A glance, and a sad one of intelligence, was all he could receive from
the men. Two or three successive orders brought the file to the proper
position for firing.
At that moment Lorenzo Bezan, with a slight exertion of the great
physical strength which he possessed, easily broke the cords asunder
that bound his wrists behind him, and dashing the dark hair from his
high and manly forehead, he calmly folded his arms upon his breast, and
awaited the fire that was to end his existence. The fearful word was
given by the officer, and so still was every one, so breathless the
whole scene, that the order was distinctly heard through the entire
length of the lines.
The morning sun shone like living fire along the polished barrels of
the guns, as the muzzles all ranged in point towards the heart of the
condemned. In spite of the effort not to do so, the officer paused
between the order to aim, and that to fire. The word appeared to stick
in his throat, and he opened his mouth twice before he could utter the
order; but at last he did so, distinctly, though with a powerful
effort.
The, sharp, quick report of the muskets that followed this order,
seemed to jar upon every heart among that military throng, except,
indeed, of him who sat upon a large dapple gray horse, at the right of
the line, and whose insignia bespoke him to be the commanding officer,
General Harero. He sat upon his horse like a statue, with a calm but
determined expression upon his features, while a stern smile might be
observed to wreathe his lips for an instant at the report of the guns
fired by the executing file.
But see, as the smoke steadily sweeps to seaward, for a moment it
completely covers the spot where the victim stood, and now it sweeps
swiftly off over the water. But what means that singular murmur so
audible along the line-that movement of surprise and astonishment
observed in all directions?
Behold, there stood erect the unharmed form of Lorenzo Bezan! Not a
hair of his head was injured; not a line of his noble countenance was
in the least distorted. As calm as though nought had happened, he stood
there unmoved. He had so braced himself to the effort, that nothing
human could have unnerved him. Hastily directing an aid-de-camp to the
spot with some new order, General Harero issued another to his officers
for the lines to be kept firm, and preparations were instantly set
about for another and more certain attempt upon the life of the
condemned, who seemed to the spectators to have escaped by some divine
interposition, little less than a miracle.
At that instant there dashed into the area a mounted aid-de-camp,
bearing the uniform of the governor-general’s suite, and riding
directly up to General Harero, he handed him a paper. It was done
before the whole line of military and the spectators, all of whom
seemed to know as well its purport, as did the general after reading
it.
“A reprieve! A reprieve!” ran from mouth to mouth along the whole
length of the line, until at last it broke out in one wild huzza,
defying all discipline.
Those nearest to General Harero heard him utter a curse, deep but
suppressed, for the surmise of the multitude was correct. Captain Bezan
had been reprieved; and, probably, in fear of this very thing, the
general of the division had taken upon himself to set the time of
execution one hour earlier than had been announced to Tacon-a piece of
villany that had nearly cut off the young soldier from the clemency
that the governor had resolved to extend to him at the very last
moment, when the impressiveness of the scene should have had its
effect.
Issuing one or two hasty orders, General Harero put spurs to his horse
and dashed off the grounds with chagrin but too plainly written in his
face not to betray itself. He could even detect a hiss now and then
from the crowd, as he passed; and one or two, bolder than the rest,
cast epithets at him in vile language, but he paused not to listen. He
was no favorite with citizens or soldiers, and hastily dismounting at
the door of the palace, he sought his own room with deep feelings of
suppressed rage and bitterness.
But what was the meaning of those twelve musketeers all missing their
aim? So vexed was General Harero at this, that his first order was for
their united arrest; but that had been countermanded now, since the
governor had reprieved the prisoner; for the general saw that he stood
in a false position, in having changed the hour for execution, and did
not care to provoke a controversy that might lead to his exposure
before the stern justice of Tacon, and he did well to avoid it.
It was very plain to officers and men that there had been foul play
somewhere, and so excited had the division become by this time, that
the officers began to look seriously at each other, fearing an
immediate outbreak and disregard of discipline. It was a time to try
the troops, if one had ever occurred. They would have stood firm and
have received an enemy’s fire without wavering; but there seemed some
cold-blooded rascality here, in the arriving of the reprieve after the
twelve men had fired, even though they did so ineffectually.
Quick, stern orders were quickly passed from line to line, the division
was wheeled into column, the drums beat a quick march, and the whole
column passed up the Calle del Iganasio towards the front of the main
barracks, where, lest the symptoms, already referred to, should ripen
into something more serious still, orders were issued to keep the
division still under arms. In the meantime, Captain Lorenzo Bezan,
still as calm as though nought had occurred, was marched back to his
cell in the prison, to hear the conditions upon which the reprieve, as
dictated by Tacon, was granted. As he passed the guard house again, on
his return, he heard his name called as he had heard it when he marched
with the guard:
“God bless you, Captain Bezan!”
“Strange,” thought the prisoner-he knew it for Ruez Gonzales’s voice at
once; “where can that boy be secreted?” He mused for a second of time.
This was the portion of the guard room where the officer on duty had
loaded the guns for his execution, and from here they had been taken
and passed into the hands of the men. It did not require much
penetration on the part of the reprieved soldier to understand now the
reason why these twelve men had missed their aim!
Had they exercised the skill of Kentucky sharp-shooters they could have
done no harm; blank cartridges don’t kill. But how unexpected, how
miraculous it appeared, how strange the sensations of the young
officer, after that loud sounding discharge, to find himself standing
thus unharmed,—no wound, no bullet whistling by his ears, the dead,
sluggish smoke alone enveloping his person for a moment, and then, as
it swept away seaward, the shout of the astonished division rang upon
his senses. He felt that all eyes were upon him, and adamant itself
could not have remained firmer than did he. Few men would have
possessed sufficient self-control to bear themselves thus; but he was a
soldier, and had often dared the bullet of the enemy. He was familiar
with the whistling of bullets, and other sounds that carry on their
wings the swift-borne messengers of death. Besides this, there was an
indifference as to life, existing in his bosom at that moment, that led
him to experience a degree of apathy that it would be difficult for us
to describe, or for the reader to realize. He felt as he did when he
exclaimed, in his lonely cell in prison, as he was left for the last
time by her he so loved—“Welcome, welcome, death! I would that thou
wert here already!”
How it was accomplished, of course he knew not; nor could he hardly
surmise in his own mind, so very strictly is the care of such matters
attended to under all like circumstances; but one thing he felt
perfectly sure of, and indeed he was right in his conjecture—Ruez had
drawn the bullets from the guns!