"Gaspar Ruiz had clambered up on the sill, and sat down there with his
feet against the thickness of the wall and his knees slightly bent.
The window was not quite broad enough for the length of his legs. It
appeared to my crestfallen perception that he meant to keep the window
all to himself. He seemed to be taking up a comfortable position. Nobody
inside dared to approach him now he could strike with his hands.
"'Por Dios!' I heard the sergeant muttering at my elbow, 'I shall shoot
him through the head now, and get rid of that trouble. He is a condemned
man.'
"At that I looked at him angrily. 'The general has not confirmed the
sentence,' I said--though I knew well in my heart that these were but
vain words. The sentence required no confirmation. 'You have no right to
shoot him unless he tries to escape,' I added, firmly.
"'But sangre de Dios!' the sergeant yelled out, bringing his musket up
to the shoulder, 'he is escaping now. Look!'
"But I, as if that Gaspar Ruiz had cast a spell upon me, struck the
musket upward, and the bullet flew over the roofs somewhere. The
sergeant dashed his arm to the ground and stared. He might have
commanded the soldiers to fire, but he did not. And if he had he would
not have been obeyed, I think, just then.
"With his feet against the thickness of the wall and his hairy hands
grasping the iron bar, Gaspar sat still. It was an attitude. Nothing
happened for a time. And suddenly it dawned upon us that he was
straightening his bowed back and contracting his arms. His lips were
twisted into a snarl. Next thing we perceived was that the bar of forged
iron was being bent slowly by the mightiness of his pull. The sun
was beating full upon his cramped, unquivering figure. A shower of
sweat-drops burst out of his forehead. Watching the bar grow crooked, I
saw a little blood ooze from under his finger-nails. Then he let go.
For a moment he remained all huddled up, with a hanging head, looking
drowsily into the upturned palms of his mighty hands. Indeed he seemed
to have dozed off. Suddenly he flung himself backwards on the sill, and
setting the soles of his bare feet against the other middle bar, he bent
that one, too, but in the opposite direction from the first.
"Such was his strength, which in this case relieved my painful feelings.
And the man seemed to have done nothing. Except for the change of
position in order to use his feet, which made us all start by its
swiftness, my recollection is that of immobility. But he had bent the
bars wide apart. And now he could get out if he liked; but he dropped
his legs inwards, and looking over his shoulder beckoned to the
soldiers. 'Hand up the water,' he said. 'I will give them all a drink.'
"He was obeyed. For a moment I expected man and bucket to disappear,
overwhelmed by the rush of eagerness; I thought they would pull him down
with their teeth. There was a rush, but holding the bucket on his lap he
repulsed the assault of those wretches by the mere swinging of his feet.
They flew backwards at every kick, yelling with pain; and the soldiers
laughed, gazing at the window.
"They all laughed, holding their sides, except the sergeant, who was
gloomy and morose. He was afraid the prisoners would rise and break
out--which would have been a bad example. But there was no fear of
that, and I stood myself before the window with my drawn sword. When
sufficiently tamed by the strength of Gaspar Ruiz they came up one by
one, stretching their necks and presenting their lips to the edge of the
bucket which the strong man tilted towards them from his knees with
an extraordinary air of charity, gentleness, and compassion. That
benevolent appearance was of course the effect of his care in not
spilling the water and of his attitude as he sat on the sill; for, if a
man lingered with his lips glued to the rim of the bucket after Gaspar
Ruiz had said 'You have had enough,' there would be no tenderness or
mercy in the shove of the foot which would send him groaning and doubled
up far into the interior of the prison, where he would knock down two
or three others before he fell himself. They came up to him again and
again; it looked as if they meant to drink the well dry before going to
their death; but the soldiers were so amused by Gaspar Ruiz's systematic
proceedings that they carried the water up to the window cheerfully.
"When the adjutant came out after his siesta there was some trouble over
this affair, I can assure you. And the worst of it was that the general
whom we expected never came to the castle that day."
The guests of General Santierra unanimously expressed their regret that
the man of such strength and patience had not been saved.
"He was not saved by my interference," said the General. "The prisoners
were led to execution half an hour before sunset. Gaspar Ruiz, contrary
to the sergeant's apprehensions, gave no trouble. There was no necessity
to get a cavalry man with a lasso in order to subdue him, as if he were
a wild bull of the campo. I believe he marched out with his arms free
amongst the others who were bound. I did not see. I was not there. I had
been put under arrest for interfering with the prisoner's guard. About
dusk, sitting dismally in my quarters, I heard three volleys fired, and
thought that I should never hear of Gaspar Ruiz again. He fell with the
others. But we were to hear of him nevertheless, though the sergeant
boasted that as he lay on his face expiring or dead in the heap of the
slain, he had slashed his neck with a sword. He had done this, he said,
to make sure of ridding the world of a dangerous traitor.
"I confess to you, senores, that I thought of that strong man with a
sort of gratitude, and with some admiration. He had used his strength
honourably. There dwelt, then, in his soul no fierceness corresponding
to the vigour of his body."
V
Gaspar Ruiz, who could with ease bend apart the heavy iron bars of the
prison, was led out with others to summary execution. "Every bullet has
its billet," runs the proverb. All the merit of proverbs consists in
the concise and picturesque expression. In the surprise of our minds is
found their persuasiveness. In other words, we are struck and convinced
by the shock.
What surprises us is the form, not the substance. Proverbs are
art--cheap art. As a general rule they are not true; unless indeed they
happen to be mere platitudes, as for instance the proverb, "Half a
loaf is better than no bread," or "A miss is as good as a mile." Some
proverbs are simply imbecile, others are immoral. That one evolved out
of the naive heart of the great Russian people, "Man discharges the
piece, but God carries the bullet," is piously atrocious, and at bitter
variance with the accepted conception of a compassionate God. It would
indeed be an inconsistent occupation for the Guardian of the poor, the
innocent, and the helpless, to carry the bullet, for instance, into the
heart of a father.
Gaspar Ruiz was childless, he had no wife, he had never been in love.
He had hardly ever spoken to a woman, beyond his mother and the ancient
negress of the household, whose wrinkled skin was the colour of cinders,
and whose lean body was bent double from age. If some bullets from those
muskets fired off at fifteen paces were specifically destined for
the heart of Gaspar Ruiz, they all missed their billet. One, however,
carried away a small piece of his ear, and another a fragment of flesh
from his shoulder.
A red and unclouded sun setting into a purple ocean looked with a fiery
stare upon the enormous wall of the Cordilleras, worthy witnesses of his
glorious extinction. But it is inconceivable that it should have seen
the ant-like men busy with their absurd and insignificant trials of
killing and dying for reasons that, apart from being generally childish,
were also imperfectly understood. It did light up, however, the backs
of the firing party and the faces of the condemned men. Some of them
had fallen on their knees, others remained standing, a few averted their
heads from the levelled barrels of muskets. Gaspar Ruiz, upright, the
burliest of them all, hung his big shock head. The low sun dazzled him a
little, and he counted himself a dead man already.
He fell at the first discharge. He fell because he thought he was a dead
man. He struck the ground heavily. The jar of the fall surprised him.
"I am not dead apparently," he thought to himself, when he heard the
execution platoon reloading its arms at the word of command. It was then
that the hope of escape dawned upon him for the first time. He remained
lying stretched out with rigid limbs under the weight of two bodies
collapsed crosswise upon his back.
By the time the soldiers had fired a third volley into the slightly
stirring heaps of the slain, the sun had gone out of sight, and almost
immediately with the darkening of the ocean dusk fell upon the coasts of
the young Republic. Above the gloom of the lowlands the snowy peaks
of the Cordilleras remained luminous and crimson for a long time. The
soldiers before marching back to the fort sat down to smoke.
The sergeant with a naked sword in his hand strolled away by himself
along the heap of the dead. He was a humane man, and watched for any
stir or twitch of limb in the merciful idea of plunging the point of his
blade into any body giving the slightest sign of life. But none of the
bodies afforded him an opportunity for the display of this charitable
intention. Not a muscle twitched amongst them, not even the powerful
muscles of Gaspar Ruiz, who, deluged with the blood of his neighbours
and shamming death, strove to appear more lifeless than the others.
He was lying face down. The sergeant recognized him by his stature, and
being himself a very small man, looked with envy and contempt at the
prostration of so much strength. He had always disliked that particular
soldier. Moved by an obscure animosity, he inflicted a long gash across
the neck of Gaspar Ruiz, with some vague notion of making sure of that
strong man's death, as if a powerful physique were more able to resist
the bullets. For the sergeant had no doubt that Gaspar Ruiz had been
shot through in many places. Then he passed on, and shortly afterwards
marched off with his men, leaving the bodies to the care of crows and
vultures.
Gaspar Ruiz had restrained a cry, though it had seemed to him that his
head was cut off at a blow; and when darkness came, shaking off the
dead, whose weight had oppressed him, he crawled away over the plain on
his hands and knees. After drinking deeply, like a wounded beast, at
a shallow stream, he assumed an upright posture, and staggered on
light-headed and aimless, as if lost amongst the stars of the clear
night. A small house seemed to rise out of the ground before him. He
stumbled into the porch and struck at the door with his fist. There
was not a gleam of light. Gaspar Ruiz might have thought that the
inhabitants had fled from it, as from many others in the neighbourhood,
had it not been for the shouts of abuse that answered his thumping. In
his feverish and enfeebled state the angry screaming seemed to him part
of a hallucination belonging to the weird, dreamlike feeling of his
unexpected condemnation to death, of the thirst suffered, of the volleys
fired at him within fifteen paces, of his head being cut off at a blow.
"Open the door!" he cried. "Open in the name of God!"
An infuriated voice from within jeered at him: "Come in, come in. This
house belongs to you. All this land belongs to you. Come and take it."
"For the love of God," Gaspar Ruiz murmured.
"Does not all the land belong to you patriots?" the voice on the other
side of the door screamed on. "Are you not a patriot?"
Gaspar Ruiz did not know. "I am a wounded man," he said, apathetically.
All became still inside. Gaspar Ruiz lost the hope of being admitted,
and lay down under the porch just outside the door. He was utterly
careless of what was going to happen to him. All his consciousness
seemed to be concentrated in his neck, where he felt a severe pain. His
indifference as to his fate was genuine. The day was breaking when he
awoke from a feverish doze; the door at which he had knocked in the dark
stood wide open now, and a girl, steadying herself with her outspread
arms, leaned over the threshold. Lying on his back, he stared up at her.
Her face was pale and her eyes were very dark; her hair hung down black
as ebony against her white cheeks; her lips were full and red. Beyond
her he saw another head with long grey hair, and a thin old face with a
pair of anxiously clasped hands under the chin.