LA MONTONERA.
Montonero, the feminine of which is montonera, is essentially an
American word, although its root is undoubtedly Spanish. It signifies,
literally, a heap, a mass, a collection. Taken in the bad acceptation
of the word, a montonera means a gathering of men of the sack and
cord--of bandits without faith or law--of highway robbers.
But this is not the meaning which was at first given to the word. They
understood by montonera, a cuadrilla--a guerilla composed of banished
politicians--of insurgents who made war as partisans at their own risk
and peril, but who were brave and honest.
The Spaniards, at the commencement of the insurrection of the colonies
against the government, imposed this name on them in order to lower
them in public opinion--a name in which the Montoneros themselves
boasted, and which they considered it an honour to bear.
But when the civil war degenerated into a fratricidal struggle among
citizens--when the Spaniards were conquered and constrained to abandon
the new world--the Montoneros degenerated, and suspicious men of all
parties came to shelter themselves under their banners, and to seek
there an impunity for their crimes. They were then nothing more than a
lot of sinister bandits, resembling those bands of robbers and vagrants
of the middle ages which so long desolated Europe, and the successive
governments were, during more than two centuries, powerless to destroy,
or even to repress them.
Appearing to have received the traditions of their progenitors of
the old World, the Montoneros commenced to ravage the country, to
pillage the haciendas, to put to ransom the towns too weak to oppose
an energetic resistance to them; and serving any cause for pay, they
adopted all parties in turn, remorselessly betraying one after the
other, and only seeing in civil war one end--pillage.
At the epoch in which our history transpires, although the Montoneros
had already degenerated from their original loyalty, and a number
of people without any occupation had succeeded in getting into
their ranks, they nevertheless preserved, at least in appearance,
the principles of chivalrous patriotism which had governed their
formation, and their name did not inspire, as it afterwards did, terror
to the honest folk and peaceable citizens whom it was the mission of
the Montoneros to protect and defend.
In a fertile valley, at the foot of a wooded hill of moderate height,
on the bank of the Río Tucumán, at about fifteen leagues from the town
of San Miguel, a troop of horsemen, whose number might be about three
hundred, had camped in a delicious position.
The soldiers, all clothed in the costume of the gauchos of the
pampa--their features expressive of energy, and their faces bronzed in
the sun, but with a fierce look--were for the most part armed, not only
with sabres and guns, but also with a long and strong lance, the blade
of which was garnished with a bright red streamer.
Lying or sitting at the foot of the fig and orange trees, they had
planted their lances in the ground, and were playing, talking, or
sleeping, while their horses were freely wandering about, feeding on
the green grass of the plain.
Some sentinels, scattered on the somewhat distant heights--motionless
as statues of Florentine bronze, of which they had the warm and coppery
tint--were watching over the common safety.
These men, whose reputation for bravery was celebrated in all the Banda
Oriental, composed the Montonera of the celebrated Zeno Cabral--the
same who had had, they said, some days before, a quarrel with the royal
troops, and whose victory the town of San Miguel was celebrating with
shouts and fireworks.
This wild and primitive encampment, which more resembled a halt of
bandits than anything else, had a most picturesque appearance, and
would have been the admiration of a painter of the Salvator Rosa school.
Nearly in the centre of the encampment, at the summit of a little hill
of a scarcely perceptible slope, several men, whose arms and clothing
were in a better position, and their appearance less fierce than those
of their companions, were seated on the grass smoking their cigarettes.
These men were the officers. In the midst of them was their chief, or
the general, as they called him.
This chief was a very young man, appearing, at the most, twenty-two,
with fine and delicate features, and gentle and graceful manners,
which, in the eyes of an indifferent spectator, would have appeared
little calculated to command men like those who had voluntarily ranged
themselves under his banner; but an observer would not have been
deceived by the energetic expression on his calm and handsome face,
by the uncommon height of his clear and well-chiselled forehead, and
by the eagle glance which escaped from his full black eyes. A sad
melancholy seemed settled on his features, and it was with extreme
difficulty that his companions--for the most part young men of his own
age, and belonging to the first families of the country--could succeed
at long intervals in bringing a sad smile upon his lips.
His head supported on his right hand, thoughtlessly twirling with his
left hand his long and silky black moustache, he carelessly gazed,
without any apparent object, on the immense and magnificent panorama
which was spread before him, only answering by monosyllables to the
questions which were addressed to him, and appearing absorbed in some
secret thought.
His officers, seeing all their advances repulsed by their chief, had
decided to leave him to his reflections, whatever they were, since he
appeared to wish to indulge them, and began to chat and laugh among
themselves, when all of a sudden some forty horsemen appeared on the
horizon, coming at full speed towards the spot where the Montonera was
encamped.
"Eh?" said one of the officers, placing his hand as a shade over his
eyes, "Who can these horsemen be?"
"They are our people, since the sentinels have allowed them to pass,"
answered another officer.
"Have we, then, scouts in the environs?"
"I could not be certain of it; but as the general had spoken of
detailing Captain Quiroga, with some twenty soldiers, to watch the
defiles of the Sierra, and as I do not see him among us, it is probable
that the general has given effect to the project."
"It would be his troop, then, that is coming up?"
"I think so; for that matter, we shall not be long in knowing the real
state of affairs."
The horsemen still rode towards them; they were soon sufficiently near
to be recognised.
"You were not deceived, Don Juan Armero," resumed the first officer:
"it is, in fact, Captain Quiroga. I can distinguish from here his long
lean body, which appears to sway about in his clothes, and his angular
and morose face, which makes him appear like a bird of night."
"The fact is," answered don Juan, "that the worthy captain is easy to
recognise; but you should be more careful, Don Estevan; you know that
the general likes him much, and perhaps it would displease him to hear
him thus spoken of."
"To the devil! As if I said any ill of him! Captain Quiroga is a brave
and worthy soldier, whom I love and appreciate very highly myself, but
that is no reason why he should have the figure of Adonis."
"A matter about which he cares very little, without doubt, gentlemen,"
said Zeno Cabral, mingling in the conversation; "he contents himself
with being one of our bravest and most experienced officers."
"¡Caramba! General; and we also all love him--the brave old man who
might be our father, and who tells us during the nights of bivouac such
pleasant tales of old times."
The chief of the party smiled, without answering.
"But what is he bringing us here?" suddenly cried don Estevan Albino,
the officer who had first spoken. "Why, I can see the folds of a robe
and a mantilla fluttering in the wind!"
"Two robes and two mantillas, if you please, Don Estevan; and even
more, if I am not deceived," sententiously remarked Don Juan Armero.
"¡Válgame Dios!" said the young officer, laughing; "The old boy is
bringing us a bevy of petticoats."
The officers rose; some opened their lorgnettes, and began to examine
attentively the troops which were arriving, freely commenting on the
prize made by the old officer, and which he was bringing with him.
Zeno Cabral had fallen again into his reverie, apparently indifferent
to what was passing around him; but the feverish flush which suffused
his face, and the knitting of his eyebrows, belied the affected calm,
and showed that he was inwardly a prey to strong emotion.
Meanwhile, the horsemen rapidly traversed the plain, and approached
nearer and nearer, coming towards the group of officers, recognisable
by the Buenos Airean flag, the staff of which was fixed in the ground,
and which floated in long folds to the breeze.
On the arrival of the horsemen the Montoneros rose, looked at them
curiously, and then followed them, laughing and sneering among
themselves, so much that, when they reached the foot of the little
hill where the officers were waiting for them, they found themselves
literally enveloped by a compact crowd that Captain Quiroga was obliged
to separate with a blow or two from a piece of lancewood, of which he
acquitted himself with imperturbable coolness.
The officers had not calumniated the worthy captain. The difference of
costume apart, he resembled, trait for trait, Don Quixote, at the time
of his second sortie.
There was the same long and meagre body, the same lean and angular
countenance, with a depressed forehead, sunken eyes, hooked nose like
the beak of a bird, large jaws furnished with a few worn-out teeth,
long grey moustaches, and high reddish cheekbones.
And yet this eccentric appearance--as they would nowadays have called
it--had nothing ridiculous in it. This singular physiognomy was set
off by such an expression of bravery, candour, and goodness, that at
first sight one felt oneself attracted towards the old officer--for he
was at least fifty--and quite disposed to love him.
The soldiers laughed convulsively on receiving the blows that the
captain generously distributed to them, and it was with great
difficulty that he could rid himself of them.
"Devil take these fellows!" said the captain; "They will not let me
approach the general."
And, followed by a part of his soldiers, who, like himself, had
alighted, he walked up the hill where the officers were gathered.
The soldiers led several prisoners in their midst; among these
prisoners were some women, of whom two appeared, by their costume and
manners, to belong to high society.
The Montoneros, notwithstanding the indiscreet curiosity which
animated them, had not dared, out of respect for their chief, to pass
the natural limit traced by the foot of the little hill. Grouped in
disorder round some soldiers who were guarding the horses, they gazed
anxiously on their officers.
The latter were ranged right and left of Zeno Cabral, and had given
free passage to Captain Quiroga and to those whom he brought with him.
Zeno Cabral had slowly risen, and, his hand supported by the handle
of his sabre, his countenance cold and impassive, and his eyebrows
knitted, he waited for his subordinate to speak.
The captain, having with a gesture ordered those who followed him to
stop, took some steps in advance, and, after a military salute, he
remained motionless without uttering a word. Amongst all his qualities,
the captain did not reckon that of being an orator; his silence had
become proverbial in the company.
Don Zeno knew that if he did not interrogate the captain, the latter
would never make up his mind to speak first. He therefore made an
effort, and affecting an indifference which was doubtless very far from
his real feeling--
"You have returned, then, Captain Quiroga?" said he.
"Yes, General," laconically answered the officer.
"Have you fulfilled the mission that I confided to you?"
"I believe so, General."
"You have surprised the enemies of the country?"
"Those or others, General. I seized the people you designated when they
debouched from the ravine; whether they are enemies of the country or
not I do not know--that does not concern me."
"That is right," said don Zeno Cabral, who was evidently dragging
out the conversation, and hesitated to attack the point of it really
interesting to him.
The captain was again silent.
Don Zeno resumed, after a short pause, fidgeting his sabre knot with
suppressed ill temper.
"But, in a word, what have you done?"
At this moment one of the prisoners motioned the captain on one side
with a sudden gesture, and taking a step in advance--
"Do you not know, Don Zeno Cabral?" she said, in a haughty voice,
throwing on her shoulders, with a gesture full of nobility, the rebozo
of black lace which veiled her face.
The officers stifled a cry of admiration at the sight of the sovereign
beauty of this woman.
Don Zeno Cabral took a step backward, biting his lips with vexation,
while his countenance became covered with a mortal paleness.
"Madame," said he, with closed teeth, "you are a prisoner, and must
only speak--do not forget that--when you are questioned."
A smile of contempt curled the lips of the lady. She slightly shrugged
her shoulders, and fixed on the general a look with such an expression
that, in spite of himself, he turned away his eyes.
This lady, in all the force and pride of her beauty, appeared to be
about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age, although in reality
she was about thirty-three. Her features, with extreme regularity of
outline, realised the ideal of Roman beauty; her black eyes, full of
fire and passion, her delicate forehead, her pretty mouth, her fine
and velvet skin, her complexion very slightly bronzed by the sun,
and, above all, the haughty and mockingly cruel expression of her
countenance, excited a repulsion for her for which it was impossible at
first to account. Her majestic figure, her noble gestures--everything
about this woman, by an inexplicable contrast, repelled instead of
attracting. One would have looked for the roar of a wild beast in the
harmonious modulations of her voice, and the claws of a tiger under her
rosy nails.
"Beware what you do, caballero," she resumed; "I am a foreigner; I am
travelling peaceably; no one has a right to stop me, or even to impede
my course."
"I repeat, Madame," coldly answered the general, "when I interrogate
you, then, and then alone, I will permit you to answer me."
"Have I then fallen into the hands of bandits, without faith or law?"
pursued she, with contempt. "Am I in the power of robbers of the
desert? For that matter, the manner in which, up to the present time, I
have been treated, and the sight of the man before whom I am conducted,
would make me suppose so."
A murmur of anger, immediately repressed by a gesture from don Zeno
Cabral, arose among the officers at this imprudent outburst.
"Where is the guide that we suspected of treason?" said the general,
turning towards the captain.
"I have seized him," answered the latter.
"Have you acquired proofs of his treason?"
"Undoubted proofs, General."
"Have him brought in."
There was a movement among the soldiers. Some of them separated
from the group which surrounded the prisoners, and led--treating
him roughly--before their chief a half-caste of pitiful mien, with
squinting eyes and thickset limbs, who, for more safety, no doubt, they
had firmly bound round the neck with a lasso.
Don Zeno Cabral looked for a moment at this man--who stood humble and
trembling before him--with a singular mixture of pity and disgust.
"You are convicted of treason," said he to him at last. "I have the
right to hang you. I give you five minutes to commend your soul to God."
"I am innocent, noble General," murmured the wretch, falling on his
knees, and hanging down his head with fear.
The general shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards the officers,
with whom he began to talk in a low voice, without appearing to hear
the prayers that the prisoner continued to address to him in a crying
tone.
Three or four minutes passed. A funereal silence characterised the
attentive crowd of the Montoneros.
It is always a serious matter, that condemnation to death, pronounced
coldly, resolutely, and without appeal, even for men habituated to
stake their lives on the hazard of a die, like those who were assisting
at this scene; thus, in spite of themselves, they felt themselves
seized with a secret fright, increased by the doleful sounds of the
voice of the wretch who was writhing with fear in their midst, and
imploring with sobs the pity of their chief.
The latter turned round, and making a sign to Captain Quiroga--
"It is time," said he.
"¡Caray!" said the captain; "The pícaro has been long enough seeking
the gallows; he will not have cheated it, that will be at least a
satisfaction for him in his last moments."
This singular speech on the part of a man who spoke so little as a
rule, astonished everybody, and suddenly changing the course of ideas
among the company, caused them to burst out into mocking laughter and
jests directed to the condemned, who from that time lost all hope.
A soldier had mounted a tree a few paces off, and had attached his
lasso to the principal branch. The captain ordered that the spy should
be led under the tree, and a running knot was cast around his neck.
"Stop!" cried the lady prisoner, suddenly interposing; "That man is
mine; take care what you are about to do."
There was a moment of hesitation. The wretch drew breath again; he
thought he was saved.
"Take care yourself, Señora," harshly answered Zeno Cabral; "I alone
command here."
"I am the Marchioness de Castelmelhor," she resumed, "the wife of
General Castelmelhor; each drop of blood of that man shall cost the
lives of thousands of your countrymen."
"You are a foreigner, Madame--the wife--you have said so yourself--of a
Portuguese general, who has only entered our territory a few days since
to ravage it. Think of yourself, and do not intercede anymore for that
wretch."
"But," said she, with bitter irony, "are you not a Portuguese yourself,
Señor--a Portuguese by descent at least?"
"Enough, Madame; from respect to yourself, do not insist any more. This
man is guilty; he is condemned; he ought to die; he shall die."
At this moment a second woman, who, up to this time, had remained
unnoticed among the other prisoners, darted quickly forward, and
seizing with a nervous gesture the arm of the general, while tears ran
down her face, pale with emotion--
"And mine, Don Zeno," she cried, "and mine! If I asked pardon for that
man, would you refuse me?"
"Oh!" cried the general, with despair; "You here--you, Doña Eva!"
"Yes, I--I, Don Zeno, who supplicate you by all you hold most dear, to
pardon him."
The general looked at her for some moments with an expression of love,
of anger, and of grief, impossible to describe; whilst the young woman,
panting, desolate, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clasped,
almost kneeling before him, addressed him a mute prayer. Then, suddenly
making a last effort over himself, and resuming his cold and impassive
appearance, he regained his composure, and crossing his arms on his
breast--
"It is impossible," said he; "obey, Captain."
The latter did not allow the order to be repeated. The miserable spy,
seized by hands of iron, was raised into the air, and launched into
eternity before even having a clear perception of this unforeseen
dénouement.
The young girl--for the person who had vainly endeavoured to interpose
between the justice and the clemency of the general was a young girl,
almost a child, scarcely fifteen years of age--seized with fright at
the sight of this hideous spectacle, terrified by the cries of brutal
joy raised by the soldiers, quite gave way; her arms hanging down, her
head falling on her breast, half fainting, her beautiful and gentle
countenance was suffused with a mortal paleness; her long tresses fell
in disorder on her shoulders, and her eyes, so mild and tender, the
azure of which appeared to reflect the blue of the sky, were veiled and
dimmed by grief, whilst a nervous movement agitated her whole body.
The marchioness approached her, lifted her up calmly, and directing the
general's attention to her with a look of sovereign contempt--
"Stand up, my daughter," said she; "this posture only befits suppliants
or criminals, and you are, thank God, neither. Did I not forewarn you
that this man had a tiger's heart?"
"Oh! My mother! My mother!" cried she, hiding her face in her bosom,
"How much I suffer!"
At these words, uttered with an agonising expression, the general made
a sudden movement, as if to start towards the young girl.
But the marchioness, standing erect with a leonine boldness, fixed him
to his place with a scornful look.
"Back, Señor," said she; "neither my daughter nor I know you. We
are your prisoners. If you dare, kill us also, as you have almost
threatened."
At this speech, the cruel accent of which recalled him suddenly to
himself, the general resumed his coolness, and answered, with a cutting
tone--
"Not you, Madame; we do not kill women; but your accomplices will be
shot within an hour."
"What matters it to me?" she answered.
And supporting her daughter in her arms, she went with a firm step to
mingle again with the prisoners.
This strange scene, incomprehensible to all that witnessed it, had
plunged the officers and soldiers into profound astonishment.
Up to that time they had known their chief, brave--even rash--hard
towards others as towards himself--of extreme severity in matters
of discipline, but just, humane, and never in cold blood commanding
the death of the unhappy prisoners whom the chances of war placed in
his power. Thus, this sudden change in the humour of their chief,
this cruelty which he had exhibited, astonished them, and filled
them, unknown to themselves, with secret terror. They instinctively
understood that this man, ordinarily so cold and impassive, must have
very powerful motives to act as he did, and thus to give a complete
denial to the mildness of character which, up to that time, he had
always manifested; so, though this cruelty appeared revolting, no one
dared to blame him, and those of his officers who felt disposed to
accuse him could not decide to do so.
Meanwhile, don Zeno Cabral, without appearing to remark the emotion
produced by this scene, strode about the place where he was, his arms
behind his back, and his head leaning on his breast, seemingly a prey
to great agitation.
The officers stood apart, watching him by stealth, waiting with visible
anxiety the determination which doubtless he would not be long in
taking--a determination on which depended the life or death of the
unhappy prisoners.
Captain Quiroga at last approached him, and respectfully barred his
passage at the moment when, after having terminated his promenade in
one direction, he was turning to continue it in the other.
Don Zeno raised his head.
"What do you want?" said he.
"The order, General."
"What order?"
"The confirmation of that you have given me."
"I!" said he, with astonishment.
"Yes, General; I wish to know if it is necessary to shoot immediately
the twelve Brazilian prisoners there."
The general started as if a serpent had stung him; he stealthily darted
a look towards the beautiful young girl. She was weeping, her face
hidden in her mother's bosom.
"What are these men?" said he.
"Nothing much--poor devils of servants, I believe."
"Ah! Not soldiers?"
"Not one."
"However, they defended themselves."
"Well, General, that is their right."
The general fixed his piercing eye upon the impassive face of the old
soldier.
"Ah!" said he; "How many of your men have they killed?"
"Two, and wounded five, but honourably."
"I find you very tenderhearted today, Captain Quiroga," said he, in a
tone of sarcasm.
"I am just, as usual, General," he answered.
The general turned pale at this hard remark, but immediately recovering
himself--
"Thank you, my old friend," pursued he, holding out his hand; "thank
you, for having reminded me what I owe to myself. Let them sound the
signal to saddle; we leave for San Miguel, gentlemen. Captain, I
leave the prisoners under your special care; let them be treated with
kindness."
"Good Zeno, I am grateful to you," answered the old soldier, with a low
but firm voice, taking the hand that his chief held out, and kissing
it; "good, my friend."
"Come, gentlemen, to horse!" cried the general, turning aside to
conceal his emotion.