If Monica, left alone in the house with old Pascual and his wife, had
been disposed to listen to those who were attracted by her face she
might have found a protector worthy of her. There were men of substance
among those who came for her. But it mattered nothing to her whether
they had land and cattle or not, or what their appearance was, and
how they were dressed. Her's was a faithful heart. And she looked for
Bruno's return, not with that poor half-despairing hope which had
been Donata's, and had failed to keep her alive, but with a hope that
sustained and made her able to support the months and years of waiting.
She looked for his coming as the night-watcher for the dawn. On summer
afternoons, when the heat of the day was over, she would take her
sewing outside the gate and sit there by the hour, where her sight
commanded the road to the north. From that side he would certainly
come. On dark, rainy nights a lantern would be hung on the wall lest
he, coming at a late hour, should miss the house in the dark. Glad,
she was not, nor lively; she was pale and thin, and those dark eyes
that looked too large because of her thinness were the eyes of one who
had beheld grief. But with it all, there was a serenity, an air of one
whose tears, held back, would all be shed at the proper time, when he
returned. And he would, perhaps, come to-day, or, if not to-day, then
to-morrow, or perhaps the day after, as God willed.
Nearly three years had passed by since Donata's death when, one
afternoon, I rode to El Ombú, and on approaching the house spied
a saddled horse, which had got loose going away at a trot. I went
after, and caught, and led it back, and then saw that its owner was a
traveller, an old soldier, who with or without the permission of the
people of the house, was lying down and asleep in the shade of the ombú.
There had lately been a battle in the northern part of the province,
and the defeated force had broken up, and the men carrying their arms
had scattered themselves all over the country. This veteran was one of
them.
He did not wake when I led the horse up and shouted to him. He was
a man about fifty to sixty years old, grey-haired, with many scars
of sword and lance wounds on his sun-blackened face and hands. His
carbine was leaning against the tree a yard or two away, but he had not
unbuckled his sword, and what now attracted my attention as I sat on
my horse regarding him, was the way in which he clutched the hilt and
shook the weapon until it rattled in its scabbard. His was an agitated
sleep; the sweat stood in big drops on his face, he ground his teeth
and moaned, and muttered words which I could not catch.
At length, dismounting, I called to him again, then shouted in his ear,
and finally shook him by the shoulder. Then he woke with a start, and
struggling up to a sitting position, and staring at me one like one
demented, he exclaimed, "What has happened?"
When I told him about his horse he was silent, and sitting there with
eyes cast down, passed his hand repeatedly across his forehead. Never
in any man's face had I seen misery compared to his. "Pardon me,
friend," he spoke at last. "My ears were so full of sounds you do not
hear that I paid little attention to what you were saying."
"Perhaps the great heat of the day has overcome you," I said; "Or maybe
you are suffering from some malady caused by an old wound received in
fight."
"Yes, an incurable malady," he returned, gloomily. "Have you, friend,
been in the army?"
"Five years had I served when a wound which made me lame for life
delivered me from that hell."
"I have served thirty," he returned, "Perhaps more. I know that I was
very young when I was taken, and I remember that a woman I called
mother wept to see me go. That any eyes should have shed tears for me!
Shall I now in that place in the South where I was born find one who
remembers my name? I look not for it! I have no one but this"--and here
he touched his sword.
After an interval, he continued, "We say, friend, that in the army
we can do no wrong, since all responsibility rests with those who
are over us; that our most cruel and sanguinary deeds are no more
a sin or crime than is the shedding of the blood of cattle, or of
Indians who are not Christians, and are therefore of no more account
than cattle in God's sight. We say, too, that once we have become
accustomed to kill, not men only, but even those who are powerless to
defend themselves--the weak and the innocent--we think nothing of it,
and have no compunction nor remorse. If this be so, why does He, the
One who is above, torment me before my time? Is it just? Listen: no
sooner do I close my eyes than sleep brings to me that most terrible
experience a man can have--to be in the midst of a conflict and
powerless. The bugles call: there is a movement everywhere of masses
of men, foot and horse, and every face has on it the look of one who
is doomed. There is a murmur of talking all round me, the officers are
shouting and waving their swords; I strive in vain to catch the word
of command; I do not know what is happening; it is all confusion, a
gloom of smoke and dust, a roar of guns, a great noise and shouting of
the enemy charging through us. And I am helpless. I wake, and slowly
the noise and terrible scene fade from my mind, only to return when
sleep again overcomes me. What repose, what refreshment can I know!
Sleep, they say, is a friend to everyone, and makes all equal, the rich
and the poor, the guilty and the innocent; they say, too, that this
forgetfulness is like a draught of cold water to the thirsty man. But
what shall I say of sleep? Often with this blade would I have delivered
myself from its torture but for the fear that there may be after death
something even worse than this dream."
After an interval of silence, seeing that he had recovered from his
agitation, I invited him to go with me to the house. "I see smoke
issuing from the kitchen," I said, "let us go in so that you may
refresh yourself with maté before resuming your journey."
We went in and found the old people boiling the kettle; and in a little
while Monica came in and sat with us. Never did she greet one without
that light which was like sunshine in her dark eyes; words were not
needed to tell me of the gratitude and friendliness she felt toward me,
for she was not one to forget the past. I remember that she looked well
that day in her white dress with a red flower. Had not Bruno said that
he liked to see her in white, and that a flower on her bosom or in her
hair was an ornament that gave her most grace? And Bruno might arrive
at any moment. But the sight of that grey-haired veteran in his soiled
and frayed uniform, and with his clanking sword and his dark scarred
face, greatly disturbed her. I noticed that she grew paler and could
scarcely keep her eyes off his face while he talked.
While sipping his maté he told us of fights he had been in, of long
marches and sufferings in desert places, and of some of the former men
he had served under. Among them he, by chance, named General Barboza.
Monica, I knew, had never heard of that man, and on this account I
feared not to speak of him. It had, I said, been reported, I knew not
whether truthfully or not, that Barboza was dead.
"On that point I can satisfy you," he returned, "since I was serving
with him, when his life came to an end in the province of San Luis
about two years ago. He was at the head of nineteen hundred men when it
happened, and the whole force was filled with amazement at the event.
Not that they regretted his loss; on the contrary, his own followers
feared, and were glad to be delivered from him. He exceeded most
commanders in ferocity, and was accustomed to say scoffingly to his
prisoners that he would not have gunpowder wasted on them. That was
not a thing to complain of, but he was capable of treating his own
men as he treated a spy or a prisoner of war. Many a one have I seen
put to death with a blunted knife, he, Barboza, looking on, smoking a
cigarette. It was the manner of his death that startled us for never
had man been seen to perish in such a way.
"It happened on this march, about a month before the end, that a
soldier named Bracamonte went one day at noon to deliver a letter from
his captain to the General. Barboza was sitting in his shirt sleeves in
his tent when the letter was handed to him, but just when he put out
his hand to take it the man made an attempt to stab him. The General
throwing himself back escaped the blow, then instantly sprang like a
tiger upon his assailant, and seizing him by the wrist, wrenched the
weapon out of his hand only to strike it quick as lightening into the
poor fool's throat. No sooner was he down than the General bending
over him, before drawing out the weapon, called to those who had run
to his assistance to get him a tumbler. When, tumbler in hand, he
lifted himself up and looked upon them, they say that his face was of
the whiteness of iron made white in the furnace, and that his eyes were
like two flames. He was mad with rage, and cried out with a loud voice,
"Thus, in the presence of the army do I serve the wretch who thought to
shed my blood!" Then with a furious gesture he threw down and shattered
the reddened glass, and bade them take the dead man outside the camp
and leave him stripped to the vultures.
"This ended the episode, but from that day it was noticed by those
about him that a change had come over the General. If, friend you have
served with, or have even seen him, you know the man he was--tall and
well-formed, blue eyed and fair, like an Englishman, endowed with a
strength, endurance and resolution that was a wonder to every one: he
was like an eagle among birds,--that great bird that has no weakness
and no mercy, whose cry fills all creatures with dismay, whose pleasure
it is to tear his victim's flesh with his crooked talons. But now
some secret malady had fallen on him which took away all his mighty
strength; the colour of his face changed to sickly paleness, and he
bent forward and swayed this way and that in the saddle as he rode like
a drunken man, and this strange weakness increased day by day. It was
said in the army that the blood of the man he had killed had poisoned
him. The doctors who accompanied us in this march could not cure him,
and their failure so angered him against them that they began to fear
for their own safety. They now said that he could not be properly
treated in camp, but must withdraw to some town where a different
system could be followed; but this he refused to do.
"Now it happened that we had an old soldier with us who was a
curandero. He was a native of Santa Fé, and was famed for his cures in
his own department; but having had the misfortune to kill a man, he
was arrested and condemned to serve ten years in the army. This person
now informed some of the officers that he would undertake to cure the
General, and Barboza, hearing of it, sent for and questioned him. The
curandero informed him that his malady was one which the doctors could
not cure. It was a failure of a natural heat of the blood, and only by
means of animal heat, not by drugs, could health be recovered. In such
a grave case the usual remedy of putting the feet and legs in the body
of some living animal opened for the purpose would not be sufficient.
Some very large beast should be procured and the patient placed bodily
in it.
"The General agreed to submit himself to this treatment; the doctors
dared not interfere, and men were sent out in quest of a large animal.
We were then encamped on a wide sandy plain in San Luis, and as we
were without tents we were suffering much from the great heat and the
dust-laden winds. But at this spot the General had grown worse, so that
he could no longer sit on his horse, and here we had to wait for his
improvement.
"In due time a very big bull was brought in and fastened to a stake in
the middle of the camp. A space, fifty or sixty yards round, was marked
out and roped round, and ponchos hung on the rope to form a curtain so
that what was being done should not be witnessed by the army. But a
great curiosity and anxiety took possession of the entire force, and
when the bull was thrown down and his agonizing bellowings were heard,
from all sides officers and men began to move toward that fatal spot.
It had been noised about that the cure would be almost instantaneous,
and many were prepared to greet the reappearance of the General with a
loud cheer.
"Then very suddenly, almost before the bellowings had ceased, shrieks
were heard from the enclosure, and in a moment, while we all stood
staring and wondering, out rushed the General, stark naked, reddened
with that bath of warm blood he had been in, a sword which he had
hastily snatched up in his hand. Leaping over the barrier, he stood
still for an instant, then catching sight of the great mass of men
before him he flew at them, yelling and whirling his sword round so
that it looked like a shining wheel in the sun. The men seeing that he
was raving mad fled before him, and for a space of a hundred yards or
more he pursued them; then that superhuman energy was ended; the sword
flew from his hand, he staggered, and fell prostrate on the earth. For
some minutes no one ventured to approach him, but he never stirred, and
at length, when examined, was found to be dead."
The soldier had finished his story, and though I had many questions to
ask I asked none, for I saw Monica's distress, and that she had gone
white even to the lips at the terrible things the man had related. But
now he had ended, and would soon depart, for the sun was getting low.
He rolled up and lighted a cigarette, and was about to rise from the
bench, when he said, "One thing I forgot to mention about the soldier
Bracamonte, who attempted to assassinate the General. After he had been
carried out and stripped for the vultures, a paper was found sewn up
in the lining of his tunic, which proved to be his passport, for it
contained his right description. It said that he was a native of this
department of Chascomus, so that you may have heard of him. His name
was Bruno de la Cueva."
Would that he had not spoken those last words! Never, though I live
to be a hundred, shall I forget that terrible scream that came from
Monica's lips before she fell senseless to the floor!
As I raised her in my arms, the soldier turned and said, "She is
subject to fits?"
"No," I replied, "that Bruno, of whose death we have now heard for the
first time, was of this house."
"It was destiny that led me to this place," he said, "or perhaps that
God who is ever against me; but you, friend, are my witness that I
crossed not this threshold with a drawn weapon in my hand." And with
these words he took his departure, and from that day to this I have
never again beheld his face.
She opened her eyes at last, but the wings of my heart drooped when I
saw them, since it was easy to see that she had lost her reason; but
whether that calamity or the grief she would have known is greatest who
can say? Some have died of pure grief--did it not kill Donata in the
end?--but the crazed may live many years. We sometimes think it would
be better if they were dead; but not in all cases--not, señor, in this.
She lived on here with the old people, for from the first she was quiet
and docile as a child. Finally an order came from a person in authority
at Chascomus for those who were in the house to quit it. It was going
to be pulled down for the sake of the material which was required for a
building in the village. Pascual died about that time, and the widow,
now old and infirm, went to live with some poor relations at Chascomus
and took Monica with her. When the old woman died Monica remained with
these people: she lives with them to this day. But she is free to come
and go at will, and is known to all in the village as _la loca del
Ombú_. They are kind to her, for her story is known to them, and God
has put compassion in their hearts.
To see her you would hardly believe that she is the Monica I have told
you of, whom I knew as a little one, running bare-footed after her
father's flock. For she has grey hairs and wrinkles now. As you ride
to Chascomus from this point you will see, on approaching the lake,
a very high bank on your left hand, covered with a growth of tall
fennel, hoarhound, and cardoon thistle. There on most days you will
find her, sitting on the bank in the shade of the tall fennel bushes,
looking across the water. She watches for the flamingoes. There are
many of those great birds on the lake, and they go in flocks, and when
they rise and travel across the water, flying low, their scarlet wings
may be seen at a great distance. And every time she catches sight of
a flock moving like a red line across the lake she cries out with
delight. That is her one happiness--her life. And she is the last of
all those who have lived in my time at El Ombú.