Remember, Señor, that I have spoken of things that passed when I
was small. The memories of that time are few and scattered, like
the fragments of tiles and bricks and rusty iron which one may find
half-buried among the weeds, where the house once stood. Fragments that
once formed part of the building. Certain events, some faces, and some
voices, I remember, but I cannot say the year. Nor can I say how many
years had gone by after Doña Mericie's death, and after my journey to
the monastery. Perhaps they were few, perhaps many. Invasions had come,
wars with a foreigner and with the savage, and Independence, and many
things had happened at a distance. He, Santos Ugarte, was older, I
know, greyer, when that great misfortune and calamity came to one whom
God had created so strong, so brave, so noble. And all on account of a
slave, a youth born at El Ombú, who had been preferred above the others
by his master. For, as it is said, we breed crows to pick our eyes out.
But I will say nothing against that poor youth, who was the cause of
the disaster, for it was not wholly his fault. Part of the fault was in
Santos--his indomitable temper and his violence. And perhaps, too, the
time was come when He who rules over all men had said, "You have raised
your voice and have ridden over others long enough. Look, Santos! I
shall set My foot upon you, and you shall be like a wild pumpkin at
the end of summer, when it is dryer and more brittle than an empty
egg-shell."
Remember that there were slaves in those days, also that there was a
law fixing every man's price, old or young, so that if any slave went,
money in hand, to his master and offered him the price of his liberty,
from that moment he became a free man. It mattered not that his master
wished not to sell him. So just was the law.
Of his slaves Santos was accustomed to say, "These are my children, and
serve because they love me, not because they are slaves; and if I were
to offer his freedom to any one among them, he would refuse to take
it." He saw their faces, not their hearts.
His favourite was Meliton, black but well favoured, and though but a
youth, he had authority over the others, and dressed well, and rode his
master's best horses, and had horses of his own. But it was never said
of him that he gained that eminence by means of flattery and a tongue
cunning to frame lies. On the contrary, he was loved by all, even by
those he was set above, because of his goodness of heart and a sweet
and gay disposition. He was one of those whose can do almost anything
better than others; whatever his master wanted done, whether it was
to ride a race, or break a horse, or throw a lasso, or make a bridle,
or whip, or surcingle, or play on a guitar, or sing, or dance, it was
Meliton, Meliton. There was no one like him.
Now this youth cherished a secret ambition in his heart, and saved, and
saved his money; and at length one day he came with a handful of silver
and gold to Santos, and said, "Master, here is the price of my freedom,
take it and count it, and see that it is right, and let me remain at
El Ombú to serve you henceforth without payment. But I shall no longer
be a slave."
Santos took the money into his hand, and spoke, "It was for this then
that you saved, even the money I gave you to spend and to run with,
and the money you made by selling the animals I gave you--you saved it
for this! Ingrate, with a heart blacker than your skin! Take back the
money, and go from my presence, and never cross my path again if you
wish for a long life." And with that he hurled the handful of silver
and gold into the young man's face with such force, that he was cut and
bruised with the coins and well nigh stunned. He went back staggering
to his horse, and mounting, rode away, sobbing like a child, the blood
running from his face.
He soon left this neighbourhood and went to live at Las Vivoras, on the
Vecino river, south of Dolores, and there made good use of his freedom,
buying fat animals for the market; and for a space of two years he
prospered, and every man, rich or poor, was his friend. Nevertheless he
was not happy, for his heart was loyal and he loved his old master, who
had been a father to him, and desired above all things to be forgiven.
And, at length, hoping that Santos had outlived his resentment and
would be pleased to see him again, he one day came to El Ombú and asked
to see the master.
The old man came out of the house and greeted him jovially. "Ha,
Meliton," he cried with a laugh, "you have returned in spite of my
warning. Come down from your horse and let me take your hand once more."
The other, glad to think he was forgiven, alighted, and advancing, put
out his hand. Santos took it in his, only to crush it with so powerful
a grip, that the young man cried out aloud, and blinded with tears of
pain, he did not see that his master had the big brass pistol in his
left hand, and did not know that his last moment had come. He fell with
a bullet in his heart.
Look, señor, where I am pointing, twenty yards or so from the edge of
the shadow of the ombú, do you see a dark green weed with a yellow
flower on a tall stem growing on the short, dry grass? It was just
there, on the very spot where the yellow flower is, that poor Meliton
fell, and was left lying, covered with blood, until noon the next
day. For no person dared take up the corpse until the Alcalde had been
informed of the matter and had come to inquire into it.
Santos had mounted his horse and gone away without a word, taking the
road to Buenos Ayres. He had done that for which he would have to pay
dearly; for a life is a life, whether the skin be black or white, and
no man can slay another deliberately, in cold blood, and escape the
penalty. The law is no respecter of persons, and when he, who commits
such a deed, is a man of substance, he must expect that Advocates and
Judges, with all those who take up his cause, will bleed him well
before they procure him a pardon.
Ugarte cared nothing for that, he had been as good as his word, and
the devil in his heart was satisfied. Only he would not wait at his
estancia to be taken, nor would he go and give himself up to the
authorities, who would then have to place him in confinement, and
it would be many months before his liberation. That would be like
suffocation to him; to such a man a prison is like a tomb. No, he would
go to Buenos Ayres and embark for Montevideo, and from that place he
would put the matter in motion, and wait there until it was all settled
and he was free to return to El Ombú.
Dead Meliton was taken away and buried in consecrated ground at
Chascomus. Rain fell, and washed away the red stains on the ground.
In the spring, the swallows returned and built their nests under the
eaves; but Ugarte came not back, nor did any certain tidings of him
reach us. It was said, I know not whether truly or not, that the
Advocate who defended him, and the Judge of First Instance, who had the
case before him, had quarreled about the division of the reward, and
both being rich, proud persons, they had allowed themselves to forget
the old man waiting there month after month for his pardon, which never
came to him.
Better for him if he never heard of the ruin which had fallen on
El Ombú during his long exile. There was no one in authority: the
slaves, left to themselves, went away, and there was no person to
restrain them. As for the cattle and horses, they were blown away like
thistle-down, and everyone was free to pasture his herds and flocks on
the land.
The house for a time was in charge of some person placed there by the
authorities, but little by little it was emptied of its contents; and
at last it was abandoned, and for a long time no one could be found to
live in it on account of the ghosts.