This history of a house that had been was told in the shade, one
summer's day, by Nicandro, that old man to whom we all loved to listen,
since he could remember and properly narrate the life of every person
he had known in his native place, near to the lake of Chascomus, on the
southern pampas of Buenos Ayres.
In all this district, though you should go twenty leagues to this
way and that, you will not find a tree as big as this ombú, standing
solitary, where there is no house; therefore it is known to all as "the
ombú," as if but one existed; and the name of all this estate, which is
now ownerless and ruined, is El Ombú. From one of the higher branches,
if you can climb, you will see the lake of Chascomus, two thirds of a
league away, from shore to shore, and the village on its banks. Even
smaller things will you see on a clear day; perhaps a red line moving
across the water—a flock of flamingos flying in their usual way. A
great tree standing alone, with no house near it; only the old brick
foundations of a house, so overgrown with grass and weeds that you have
to look closely to find them. When I am out with my flock in the summer
time, I often come here to sit in the shade. It is near the main road;
travellers, droves of cattle, the diligence, and bullock-carts pass in
sight. Sometimes, at noon, I find a traveller resting in the shade, and
if he is not sleeping we talk and he tells me the news of that great
world my eyes have never seen. They say that sorrow and at last ruin
comes upon the house on whose roof the shadow of the ombú tree falls;
and on that house which now is not, the shadow of this tree came every
summer day when the sun was low. They say, too, that those who sit much
in the ombú shade become crazed. Perhaps, sir, the bone of my skull is
thicker than in most men, since I have been accustomed to sit here all
my life, and though now an old man I have not yet lost my reason. It
is true that evil fortune came to the old house in the end; but into
every door sorrow must enter—sorrow and death that comes to all men;
and every house must fall at last.
Do you hear the mangangá, the carpenter bee, in the foliage over
our heads? Look at him, like a ball of shining gold among the green
leaves, suspended in one place, humming loudly! Ah, señor, the years
that are gone, the people that have lived and died, speak to me thus
audibly when I am sitting here by myself. These are memories; but there
are other things that come back to us from the past; I mean ghosts.
Sometimes, at midnight, the whole tree, from its great roots to its
topmost leaves, is seen from a distance shining like white fire. What
is that fire, seen of so many, which does not scorch the leaves? And,
sometimes, when a traveller lies down here to sleep the siesta, he
hears sounds of footsteps coming and going, and noises of dogs and
fowls, and of children shouting and laughing, and voices of people
talking; but when he starts up and listens, the sounds grow faint, and
seem at last to pass away into the tree with a low murmur as of wind
among the leaves.
As a small boy, from the time when I was able, at the age of about
six years, to climb on to a pony and ride, I knew this tree. It was
then what it is now; five men with their arms stretched to their utmost
length could hardly encircle it. And the house stood there, where you
see a bed of nettles—a long, low house, built of bricks, when there
were few brick houses in this district, with a thatched roof.
The last owner was just touching on old age. Not that he looked aged;
on the contrary, he looked what he was, a man among men, a head taller
than most, with the strength of an ox; but the wind had blown a little
sprinkling of white ashes into his great beard and his hair, which
grew to his shoulders like the mane of a black horse. That was Don
Santos Ugarte, known to all men in this district as the White Horse,
on account of the whiteness of his skin where most men look dark; also
because of that proud temper and air of authority which he had. And
for still another reason—the number of children in this neighbourhood
of which he was said to be the father. In all houses, for many leagues
around, the children were taught to reverence him, calling him "uncle,"
and when he appeared they would run and, dropping on their knees
before him, cry out "Bendicion mi tio." He would give them his
blessing; then, after tweaking a nose and pinching an ear or two, he
would flourish his whip over their heads to signify that he had done
with them, and that they must quickly get out of his way.
These were children of the wind, as the saying is, and the desire of
his heart was for a legitimate son, an Ugarte by name, who would come
after him at El Ombú, as he had come after his father. But though he
had married thrice, there was no son born, and no child. Some thought
it a mystery that one with so many sons should yet be without a son.
The mystery, friend, was only for those who fail to remember that such
things are not determined by ourselves. We often say, that He who is
above us is too great to concern Himself with our small affairs. There
are so many of us; and how shall He, seated on his throne at so great
a distance, know all that passes in his dominions! But Santos was no
ordinary person, and He who was greater than Santos had doubtless had
his attention drawn to this man; and had considered the matter, and had
said, "You shall not have your desire; for though you are a devout
man, one who gives freely of his goods to the church and my poor, I am
not wholly satisfied with you." And so it came to pass that he had no
son and heir.
His first two wives had died, so it was said, because of his bitterness
against them. I only knew the third—Doña Mericie, a silent, sad woman,
who was of less account than any servant, or any slave in the house.
And I, a simple boy, what could I know of the secrets of her heart?
Nothing! I only saw her pale and silent and miserable, and because her
eyes followed me, I feared her, and tried always to keep out of her
way. But one morning, when I came to El Ombú and went into the kitchen,
I found her there alone, and before I could escape she caught me in
her arms, and lifting me off my feet strained me against her breast,
crying, hijo de mi alma, and I knew not what beside; and calling
God's blessing on me, she covered my face with kisses. Then all at
once, hearing Santo's voice without, she dropped me and remained like a
woman of stone, staring at the door with scared eyes.
She, too, died in a little while, and her disappearance made no
difference in the house, and if Santos wore a black band on his arm,
it was because custom demanded it and not because he mourned for her in
his heart.
That silent ghost of a woman being gone, no one could say of him that
he was hard; nor could anything be said against him except that he was
not a saint, in spite of his name. But, sir, we do not look for saints
among strong men, who live in the saddle, and are at the head of big
establishments. If there was one who was a father to the poor it was
Santos; therefore he was loved by many, and only those who had done him
an injury or had crossed him in any way had reason to fear and hate
him. But let me now relate what I, a boy of ten, witnessed one day in
the year 1808. This will show you what the man's temper was; and his
courage, and the strength of his wrists.
It was his custom to pay a visit every two or three months to a
monastery at a distance of half-a-day's journey from El Ombú.
He was greatly esteemed by the friars, and whenever he went to see them
he had a led horse to carry his presents to the Brothers;—a side of
fat beef, a sucking-pig or two, a couple of lambs, when they were in
season, a few fat turkeys and ducks, a bunch of big partridges, a brace
or two of armadillos, the breast and wings of a fat ostrich; and in
summer, a dozen ostriches' eggs, and I know not what besides.
One evening I was at El Ombú, and was just starting for home, when
Santos saw me, and cried out, "Get off and let your horse go, Nicandro.
I am going to the monastery to-morrow, and you shall ride the laden
horse, and save me the trouble of leading it. You will be like a little
bird perched on his back and he will not feel your few ounces' weight.
You can sleep on a sheepskin in the kitchen, and get up an hour before
daybreak."
The stars were still shining when we set out on our journey the
next morning, in the month of June, and when we crossed the river
Sanborombón at sunrise the earth was all white with hoar frost. At
noon, we arrived at our destination, and were received by the friars,
who embraced and kissed Santos on both cheeks, and took charge of our
horses. After breakfast in the kitchen, the day being now warm and
pleasant, we went and sat out of doors to sip maté and smoke, and for
an hour or longer, the conversation between Santos and the Brothers
had been going on when, all at once, a youth appeared coming at a
fast gallop towards the gate, shouting as he came, "Los Ingleses! Los
Ingleses!" We all jumped up and ran to the gate, and climbing up by the
posts and bars, saw at a distance of less than half-a-league to the
east, a great army of men marching in the direction of Buenos Ayres.
We could see that the foremost part of the army had come to a halt on
the banks of a stream which flows past the monastery and empties itself
into the Plata, two leagues further east. The army was all composed of
infantry, but a great many persons on horseback could be seen following
it, and these, the young man said, were neighbours who had come out to
look at the English invaders; and he also said that the soldiers, on
arriving at the stream, had begun to throw away their blankets, and
that the people were picking them up. Santos hearing this, said he
would go and join the crowd, and mounting his horse and followed by me,
and by two of the Brothers, who said they wished to get a few blankets
for the monastery, we set out at a gallop for the stream.
Arrived at the spot, we found that the English, not satisfied with the
ford, which had a very muddy bottom, had made a new crossing-place for
themselves by cutting down the bank on both sides, and that numbers
of blankets had been folded and laid in the bed of the stream where
it was about twenty-five yards wide. Hundreds of blankets were also
being thrown away, and the people were picking them up and loading
their horses with them. Santos at once threw himself into the crowd
and gathered about a dozen blankets, the best he could find, for the
friars; then he gathered a few for himself and ordered me to fasten
them on the back of my horse.
The soldiers, seeing us scrambling for the blankets, were much amused;
but when one man among us cried out, "These people must be mad to throw
their blankets away in cold weather—perhaps their red jackets will
keep them warm when they lie down to-night"—there was one soldier who
understood, and could speak Spanish, and he replied, "No, sirs, we
have no further need of blankets. When we next sleep it will be in
the best beds in the capitol." Then Santos shouted back, "That, sirs,
will perhaps be a sleep from which some of you will never awake."
That speech attracted their attention to Santos, and the soldier who
had spoken before returned, "There are not many men like you in these
parts, therefore what you say does not alarm us." Then they looked at
the friars fastening the blankets Santos had given them on to their
horses, and seeing that they wore heavy iron spurs strapped on their
bare feet, they shouted with laughter, and the one who talked with us
cried out, "We are sorry, good Brothers, that we have not boots as well
as blankets to give you."
But our business was now done, and bidding good-bye to the friars, we
set out on our return journey, Santos saying that we should be at home
before midnight.
It was past the middle of the afternoon, we having ridden about six
leagues, when we spied at a distance ahead a great number of mounted
men scattered about over the plain, some standing still, others
galloping this way or that.
"El pato! el pato!" cried Santos with excitement, "Come, boy, let us
go and watch the battle while it is near, and when it is passed on we
will go our way." Urging his horse to a gallop, I following, we came
to where the men were struggling for the ball, and stood for a while
looking on. But it was not in him to remain a mere spectator for long;
never did he see a cattle-marking, or parting, or races, or a dance, or
any game, and above all games el Pato, but he must have a part in it.
Very soon he dismounted to throw off some of the heaviest parts of his
horse-gear, and ordering me to take them up on my horse and follow him,
he rode in among the players.
About forty or fifty men had gathered at that spot, and were sitting
quietly on their horses in a wide circle, waiting to see the result of
a struggle for the Pato between three men who had hold of the ball.
They were strong men, well mounted, each resolved to carry off the
prize from the others. Sir, when I think of that sight, and remember
that the game is no longer played because of the Tyrant who forbade
it, I am ready to cry out that there are no longer men on these plains
where I first saw the light! How they tugged and strained and sweated,
almost dragging each other out of the saddle, their trained horses
leaning away, digging their hoofs into the turf, as when they resist
the shock of a lassoed animal, when the lasso stiffens and the pull
comes! One of the men was a big, powerful mulatto, and the by-standers
thinking the victory would be his, were only waiting to see him wrest
the ball from the others to rush upon and try to deprive him of it
before he could escape from the crowd.
Santos refused to stand inactive, for was there not a fourth handle to
the ball to be grasped by another fighter? Spurring his horse into the
group, he very soon succeeded in getting hold of the disengaged handle.
A cry of resentment at this action on the part of a stranger went up
from some of those who were looking on, mixed with applause at his
daring from others, while the three men who had been fighting against
each other, each one for himself, now perceived that they had a common
enemy. Excited as they were by the struggle, they could not but be
startled at the stranger's appearance—that huge man on a big horse, so
white-skinned and long-haired, with a black beard, that came down over
his breast, and who showed them, when he threw back his poncho, the
knife that was like a sword and the big brass-barrelled pistol worn at
his waist. Very soon after he joined in the fray all four men came to
the earth. But they did not fall together, and the last to go down was
Santos, who would not be dragged off his horse, and in the end horse
and man came down on the top of the others. In coming down, two of the
men had lost their hold of the ball; last of all, the big mulatto, to
save himself from being crushed under the falling horse, was forced to
let go, and in his rage at being beaten, he whipped out his long knife
against the stranger. Santos, too quick for him, dealt him a blow on
the forehead with the heavy silver handle of his whip, dropping him
stunned to the ground. Of the four, Santos alone had so far escaped
injury, and rising and remounting, the ball still in his hand, he rode
out from among them, the crowd opening on each side to make room for
him.
Now in the crowd there was one tall, imposing-looking man, wearing a
white poncho, many silver ornaments, and a long knife in an embossed
silver sheath; his horse, too, which was white as milk, was covered
with silver trappings. This man alone raised his voice; "Friends
and comrades," he cried, "is this to be the finish? If this stranger
is permitted to carry the Pato away, it will not be because of his
stronger wrist and better horse, but because he carries firearms.
Comrades, what do you say?"
But there was no answer. They had seen the power and resolution of the
man, and though they were many they preferred to let him go in peace.
Then the man on a white horse, with a scowl of anger and contempt,
turned from them and began following us at a distance of about fifty
yards. Whenever Santos turned back to come to close quarters with
him, he retired, only to turn and follow us again as soon as Santos
resumed his course. In this way we rode till sunset. Santos was grave,
but calm; I, being so young, was in constant terror. "Oh, uncle," I
whispered, "for the love of God fire your pistol at this man and kill
him, so that he may not kill us!"
Santos laughed. "Fool of a boy," he replied, "do you not know that he
wants me to fire at him! He knows that I could not hit him at this
distance, and that after discharging my pistol we should be equal, man
to man, and knife to knife; and who knows then which would kill the
other? God knows best, since He knows everything, and He has put it
into my heart not to fire."
When it grew dark we rode slower, and the man then lessened the
distance between us. We could hear the chink-chink of his silver
trappings, and when I looked back I could see a white misty form
following us like a ghost. Then, all at once, there came a noise of
hoofs and a whistling sound of something thrown, and Santos' horse
plunged and reared and kicked, then stood still trembling with terror.
His hind legs were entangled in the bolas which had been thrown. With a
curse Santos threw himself off, and, drawing his knife, cut the thong
which bound the animal's legs, and remounting we went on as before, the
white figure still following us.
At length, about midnight, the Sanborombón was reached, at the ford
where we had crossed in the morning, where it was about forty yards
wide, and the water only high as the surcingle in the deepest parts.
"Let your heart be glad, Nicandro!" said Santos, as we went down into
the water; "for our time is come now, and be careful to do as I bid
you."
We crossed slowly, and coming out on the south side, Santos quietly
dropped off his horse, and, speaking in a low voice, ordered me to ride
slowly on with the two horses and wait for him in the road. He said
that the man who followed would not see him crouching under the bank,
and thinking it safe would cross over, only to receive the charge fired
at a few yards distance.
That was an anxious interval that followed, I waiting alone, scarcely
daring to breathe, staring into the darkness in fear of that white
figure that was like a ghost, listening for the pistol shot. My prayer
to heaven was to direct the bullet in its course, so that it might go
to that terrible man's heart, and we be delivered from him. But there
was no shot, and no sound except a faint chink of silver and sound of
hoof-beats that came to my ears after a time, and soon ceased to be
heard. The man, perhaps, had some suspicion of the other's plan and had
given up the chase and gone away.
Nothing more do I remember of that journey which ended at El Ombú at
cock-crow, except that at one spot Santos fastened a thong round
my waist and bound me before and behind to the saddle to prevent my
falling from my horse every time I went to sleep.
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.
There was living at that time, a few leagues from El Ombú, one Valerio
de la Cueva, a poor man, whose all consisted of a small flock of three
or four hundred sheep and a few horses. He had been allowed to make a
small rancho, a mere hut, to shelter himself and his wife Donata and
their one child, a boy named Bruno; and to pay for the grass his few
sheep consumed he assisted in the work at the estancia house. This
poor man, hearing of El Ombú, where he could have house and ground for
nothing, offered himself as occupant, and in time came with wife and
child and his small flock, and all the furniture he possessed—a bed,
two or three chairs, a pot and kettle, and perhaps a few other things.
Such poverty El Ombú had not known, but all others had feared to
inhabit such a place on account of its evil name, so that it was left
for Valerio, who was a stranger in the district.
Tell me, señor, have you ever in your life met with a man, who was
perhaps poor, or even clothed in rags, and who yet when you had looked
at and conversed with him, has caused you to say: Here is one who is
like no other man in the world? Perhaps on rising and going out, on
some clear morning in summer, he looked at the sun when it rose, and
perceived an angel sitting in it, and as he gazed, something from that
being fell upon and passed into and remained with him. Such a man was
Valerio. I have known no other like him.
"Come, friend Nicandro," he would say, "let us sit down in the shade
and smoke our cigarettes, and talk of our animals. Here are no politics
under this old ombú, no ambitions and intrigues and animosities—no
bitterness except in these green leaves. They are our laurels—the
leaves of the ombú. Happy Nicandro, who never knew the life of cities!
I wish that I, too, had seen the light on these quiet plains, under a
thatched roof. Once I wore fine clothes and gold ornaments, and lived
in a great house where there were many servants to wait on me. But
happy I have never been. Every flower I plucked changed into a nettle
to sting my hand. Perhaps that maleficent one, who has pursued me all
my days, seeing me now so humbled and one with the poor, has left me
and gone away. Yes, I am poor, and this frayed garment that covers me
will I press to my lips because it does not shine with silk and gold
embroidery. And this poverty which I have found will I cherish, and
bequeath it as a precious thing to my child when I die. For with it is
peace."
The peace did not last long; for when misfortune has singled out a man
for its prey, it will follow him to the end, and he shall not escape
from it though he mount up to the clouds like the falcon, or thrust
himself deep down into the earth like the armadillo.
Valerio had been two years at El Ombú when there came an Indian
invasion on the southern frontier. There was no force to oppose it; the
two hundred men stationed at the Guardia del Azul had been besieged
by a part of the invaders in the fort, while the larger number of the
savages were sweeping away the cattle and horses from the country all
round. An urgent order came to the commander at Chascomus to send
a contingent of forty men from the department; and I, then a young
man of twenty, who had seen no service, was cited to appear at the
Commandancia, in readiness to march. There I found that Valerio had
also been cited, and from that moment we were together. Two days later
we were at the Azul, the Indians having retired with their booty; and
when all the contingents from the various departments had come in, the
commander, one Colonel Barboza, set out with about six hundred men in
pursuit.
It was known that in their retreat the Indians had broken up their
force into several parties, and that these had taken different
directions, and it was thought that these bodies would reunite after
a time, and that the larger number would return to their territory by
way of Trinqué Lauquén, about seventy-five leagues west of Azul. Our
Colonel's plan was to go quickly to this point and wait the arrival of
the Indians. It was impossible that they, burdened with the thousands
of cattle they had collected, could move fast, while we were burdened
with nothing, the only animals we drove before us being our horses.
These numbered about five thousand, but many were unbroken mares, to
be used as food. Nothing but mare's flesh did we have to eat.
It was the depth of winter, and worse weather I have never known. In
this desert I first beheld that whiteness called snow, when the rain
flies like cotton-down before the wind, filling the air and whitening
the whole earth. All day and every day our clothes were wet, and there
was no shelter from the wind and rain at night, nor could we make fires
with the soaked grass and reeds, and wood there was none, so that we
were compelled to eat our mare's flesh uncooked.
Three weeks were passed in this misery, waiting for the Indians and
seeking for them, with the hills of Gaumini now before us in the south,
and now on our left hand; and still no sight and no sign of the enemy.
It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up. Our Colonel
was in despair, and we now began to hope that he would lead us back to
the Azul.
In these circumstances one of the men, who was thinly clad and had been
suffering from a cough, dropped from his horse, and it was then seen
that he was likely to die, and that in any case he would have to be
left behind. Finding that there was no hope for him, he begged that
those who were with him would remember, when they were at home again,
that he had perished in the desert and that his soul was suffering in
purgatory, and that they would give something to the priests to procure
him ease. When asked by his officer to say who his relations were and
where they lived, he replied that he had no one belonging to him. He
said that he had spent many years in captivity among the Indians at
the Salinas Grandes, and that on his return he had failed to find any
one of his relations living in the district where he had been born.
In answer to further questions, he said that he had been carried away
when a small boy, that the Indians on that occasion had invaded the
Christian country in the depth of winter, and on their retreat, instead
of returning to their own homes, they had gone east, towards the sea
coast, and had encamped on a plain by a small stream called Curumamuel,
at Los Tres Arroyos, where there was firewood and sweet water, and good
grass for the cattle, and where they found many Indians, mostly women
and children, who had gone thither to await their coming; and at that
spot they had remained until the spring.
The poor man died that night, and we gathered stones and piled them on
his body so that the foxes and caranchos should not devour him.
At break of day next morning we were on horseback marching at a gallop
toward sunrise, for our Colonel had determined to look for the Indians
at that distant spot near the sea where they had hidden themselves from
their pursuers so many years before. The distance was about seventy
leagues, and the journey took us about nine days. And at last, in a
deep valley near the sea, the enemy was discovered by our scouts, and
we marched by night until we were within less than a league of their
encampment, and could see their fires. We rested there for four hours,
eating raw flesh and sleeping. Then every man was ordered to mount
his best horse, and we were disposed in a half-moon, so that the free
horses could easily be driven before us. The Colonel, sitting on his
horse, addressed us, "Boys," he said, "you have suffered much, but now
the victory is in our hands, and you shall not lose the reward. All
the captives you take, and all the thousands of horses and cattle we
succeed in recovering, shall be sold by public auction on our return,
and the proceeds divided among you."
He then gave the order, and we moved quietly on for a space of half
a league, and coming to the edge of the valley saw it all black with
cattle before us, and the Indians sleeping in their camp; and just when
the sun rose from the sea and God's light came over the earth, with a
great shout we charged upon them. In a moment the multitude of cattle,
struck with panic, began rushing away, bellowing in all directions,
shaking the earth beneath their hoofs. Our troop of horses, urged on
by our yells, were soon in the encampment, and the savages, rushing
hither and thither, trying to save themselves, were shot and speared
and cut down by swords. One desire was in all our hearts, one cry on
all lips—kill! kill! kill! Such a slaughter had not been known for a
long time, and birds and foxes and armadillos must have grown fat on
the flesh of the heathen we left for them. But we killed only the men,
and few escaped; the women and children we made captive.
Two days we spent in collecting the scattered cattle and horses,
numbering about ten thousand; then with our spoil we set out on our
return and arrived at the Azul at the end of August. On the following
day the force was broken up into the separate contingents of which it
was composed, and each in its turn was sent to the Colonel's house
to be paid. The Chascomus contingent was the last to go up, and on
presenting ourselves, each man received two months' soldiers' pay,
after which Colonel Barboza came out and thanked us for our services,
and ordered us to give up our arms at the fort and go back to our
district, every man to his own house.
"We have spent some cold nights in the desert together, neighbour
Nicandro," said Valerio, laughing, "but we have fared well—on raw
horse flesh; and now to make it better we have received money. Why,
look, with all this money I shall be able to buy a pair of new shoes
for Bruno. Brave little man! I can see him toddling about among the
cardoon thistles, searching for hens' eggs for his mother, and getting
his poor little feet full of thorns. If there should be any change left
he shall certainly have some sugar-plums."
But the others on coming to the fort began to complain loudly of the
treatment they had received, when Valerio, rebuking them, told them to
act like men and tell the Colonel that they were not satisfied, or else
hold their peace.
"Will you, Valerio, be our spokesman?" they cried, and he, consenting,
they all took up their arms again and followed him back to the
Colonel's house.
Barboza listened attentively to what was said and replied that our
demands were just. The captives and cattle, he said, had been placed
in charge of an officer appointed by the authorities and would be sold
publicly in a few days. Let them now return to the fort and give up
their arms, and leave Valerio with him to assist in drawing up a formal
demand for their share of the spoil.
We then retired once more, giving vivas to our Colonel. But no sooner
had we given up our arms at the fort than we were sharply ordered to
saddle our horses and take our departure. I rode out with the others,
but seeing that Valerio did not overtake us I went back to look for him.
This was what had happened. Left alone in his enemy's hands, Barboza
had his arms taken from him, then ordered his men to carry him out
to the patio and flay him alive. The men hesitated to obey so cruel a
command, and this gave Valerio time to speak; "My Colonel," he said,
"you put a hard task on these poor men, and my hide when taken will be
of no value to you or to them. Bid them lance me or draw a knife across
my throat, and I will laud your clemency."
"You shall not lose your hide nor die," returned the Colonel, "for I
admire your courage. Take him, boys, and stake him out, and give him
two hundred lashes; then throw him into the road so that it may be
known that his rebellious conduct has been punished."
This order was obeyed, and out upon the road he was thrown. A
compassionate storekeeper belonging to the place saw him lying there
insensible, the carrion-hawks attracted by his naked bleeding body
hovering about him; and this good man took him and was ministering
to him when I found him. He was lying, face down, on a pile of rugs,
racked with pains, and all night long his sufferings were terrible;
nevertheless, when morning came, he insisted on setting out at once on
our journey to Chascomus. When his pain was greatest and caused him
to cry out, the cry, when he saw my face, would turn to a laugh. "You
are too tender hearted for this world we live in," he would say. "Think
nothing of this, Nicandro. I have tasted man's justice and mercy before
now. Let us talk of pleasanter things. Do you know that it is the first
of September to-day? Spring has come back, though we hardly notice it
yet in this cold southern country. It has been winter, winter with
us, and no warmth of sun or fire, and no flowers and no birds' song.
But our faces are towards the north now; in a few days we shall sit
again in the shade of the old ombú, all our toil and suffering over,
to listen to the mangangá humming among the leaves and to the call of
the yellow ventevéo. And better than all, little Bruno will come to us
with his hands full of scarlet verbenas. Perhaps in a few years' time
you, too, will be a father, Nicandro, and will know what it is to hear
a child's prattle. Come, we have rested long enough, and have many
leagues to ride!"
The leagues were sixty by the road, but something was gained by leaving
it, and it was easier for Valerio when the horses trod on the turf.
To gallop or to trot was impossible, and even walking I had to keep
at his side to support him with my arm; for his back was all one
ever-bleeding wound, and his hands were powerless, and all his joints
swollen and inflamed as a result of his having been stretched out on
the stakes. Five days we travelled, and day by day and night by night
he grew feebler, but he would not rest; so long as the light lasted he
would be on the road; and as we slowly pressed on, I supporting him, he
would groan with pain and then laugh and begin to talk of the journey's
end and of the joy of seeing wife and child again.
It was afternoon on the fifth day when we arrived. The sight of the
ombú which we had had for hours before us, strongly excited him; he
begged me, almost with tears, to urge the horses to a gallop, but it
would have killed him, and I would not do it.
No person saw our approach, but the door stood open, and when we had
walked our horses to within about twenty yards we heard Bruno's voice
prattling to his mother. Then suddenly Valerio slipped from the saddle
before I could jump down to assist him, and staggered on for a few
paces towards the door. Running to his side I heard his cry—"Donata!
Bruno! let my eyes see you! one kiss!" Only then his wife heard, and
running out to us, saw him sink, and with one last gasp expire in my
arms.
Strange and terrible scenes have I witnessed, but never a sadder one
than this! Tell me, señor, are these things told in books,—does the
world know them?
Valerio was dead. He who was so brave, so generous even in his poverty,
of so noble a spirit, yet so gentle; whose words were sweeter than
honey to me! Of what his loss was to others—to that poor woman who was
the mother of his one child, his little Bruno—I speak not. There are
things about which we must be silent, or say only, turning our eyes up,
Has He forgotten us! Does He know? But to me the loss was greater than
all losses: for he was my friend, the man I loved above all men, who
was more to me than any other, even than Santos Ugarte, whose face I
should see no more.
For he, too, was dead.
And now I have once more mentioned the name of that man, who was once
so great in this district, let me, before proceeding with the history
of El Ombú, tell you his end. I heard of it by chance long after he
had been placed under the ground.
It was the old man's custom in that house, on the other side of the
Rio de la Plata where he was obliged to live, to go down every day to
the waterside. Long hours would he spend there, sitting on the rocks,
always with his face towards Buenos Ayres. He was waiting, waiting for
the pardon which would, perhaps, in God's good time, come to him from
that forgetful place. He was thinking of El Ombú; for what was life to
him away from it, in that strange country? And that unsatisfied desire,
and perhaps remorse, had, they say, made his face terrible to look at,
for it was like the face of a dead man who had died with wide-open eyes.
One day some boatmen on the beach noticed that he was seated on the
rocks far out and that when the tide rose he made no movement to escape
from the water. They saw him sitting waist-deep in the sea, and when
they rescued him from his perilous position and brought him to the
shore, he stared at them like a great white owl and talked in a strange
way.
"It is very cold and very dark," he said, "and I cannot see your faces,
but perhaps you know me. I am Santos Ugarte, of El Ombú. I have had
a great misfortune, friends. To-day in my anger I killed a poor youth
whom I loved like a son—my poor boy Meliton! Why did he despise my
warning and put himself in my way! But I will say no more about that.
After killing him I rode away with the intention of going to Buenos
Ayres, but on the road I repented of my deed and turned back. I said
that with my own hands I would take him up and carry him in, and call
my neighbours together to watch with me by his poor body. But, Sirs,
the night overtook me and the Sanborombón is swollen with rains, as you
no doubt know, and in swimming it I lost my horse. I do not know if he
was drowned. Let me have a fresh horse, friends, and show me the way to
El Ombú, and God will reward you."
In that delusion he remained till the end, a few days later, when he
died. May his soul rest in peace!
Señor, when I am here and remember these things, I sometimes say to
myself: Why, old man, do you come to this tree to sit for an hour in
the shade, since there is not on all these plains a sadder or more
bitter place? My answer is, To one who has lived long, there is no
house and no spot of ground, overgrown with grass and weeds, where a
house once stood and where men have lived, that is not equally sad. For
this sadness is in us, in a memory of other days which follows us into
all places. But for the child there is no past: he is born into the
world light hearted like a bird; for him gladness is everywhere.
That is how it was with little Bruno, too young to feel the loss of a
father or to remember him long. It was her great love of this child
which enabled Donata to live through so terrible a calamity. She never
quitted El Ombú. An embargo had been placed on the estancia so that it
could not be sold, and she was not disturbed in her possession of the
house. She now shared it with an old married couple, who, being poor
and having a few animals, were glad of a place to live in rent free.
The man, whose name was Pascual, took care of Donata's flock and the
few cows and horses she owned along with his own. He was a simple,
good-tempered old man, whose only fault was indolence, and a love of
the bottle, and of play. But that mattered little, for when he gambled
he invariably lost, through not being sober, so that when he had any
money it was quickly gone.
Old Pascual first put Bruno on a horse and taught him to ride after the
flock, and to do a hundred things. The boy was like his father, of a
beautiful countenance, with black curling hair, and eyes as lively as
a bird's. It was not strange that Donata loved him as no mother ever
loved a son, but as he grew up a perpetual anxiety was in her heart
lest he should hear the story of his father's death and the cause of
it. For she was wise in this; she knew that the most dangerous of all
passions is that of revenge, since when it enters into the heart all
others, good or bad, are driven out, and all ties and interests and all
the words that can be uttered are powerless to restrain a man; and the
end is ruin. Many times she spoke of this to me, begging me with tears
never to speak of my dead friend to Bruno, lest he should discover the
truth, and that fatal rage should enter into his heart.
It had been Donata's custom, every day since Valerio's death, to take
a pitcher of water, fresh from the well, and pour it out on the ground,
on the spot where he had sunk down and expired, without that sight of
wife and child, that one kiss, for which he had cried. Who can say what
caused her to do such a thing? A great grief is like a delirium, and
sometimes gives us strange thoughts, and makes us act like demented
persons. It may have been because of the appearance of the dead face
as she first saw it, dry and white as ashes, the baked black lips, the
look of thirst that would give everything for a drink of cold water;
and that which she had done in the days of anguish, of delirium, she
had continued to do.
The spot where the water was poured each day being but a few yards
from the door of the house was of a dryness and hardness of fire-baked
bricks, trodden hard by the feet of I know not how many generations of
men, and by hoofs of horses ridden every day to the door. But after a
long time of watering a little green began to appear in the one spot;
and the green was of a creeping plant with small round malva-like
leaves, and little white flowers like porcelain shirt buttons. It
spread and thickened, and was like a soft green carpet about two yards
long placed on that dry ground, and it was of an emerald greenness all
the year round, even in the hot weather when the grass was dead and dry
and the plains were in colour like a faded yellow rag.
When Bruno was a boy of fourteen I went one day to help him in making
a sheepfold, and when our work was finished in the afternoon we went
to the house to sip maté. Before going in, on coming to that green
patch, Bruno cried out, "Have you ever seen so verdant a spot as this,
Nicandro, so soft and cool a spot to lie down on when one is hot and
tired?" He then threw himself down full length upon it, and, lying
at ease on his back, he looked up at Donata, who come out to us, and
spoke laughingly, "Ah, little mother of my soul! A thousand times have
I asked you why you poured water every day on this spot and you would
not tell me. Now I have found out. It was all to make me a soft cool
spot to lie on when I come back tired and hot from work. Look! is it
not like a soft bed with a green and white velvet coverlid; bring water
now, mother mine, and pour it on my hot, dusty face."
She laughed, too, poor woman, but I could see the tears in her
eyes—the tears which she was always so careful to hide from him.
All this I remember as if it had happened yesterday; I can see and
hear it all—Donata's laugh and the tears in her eyes which Bruno
could not see. I remember it so well because this was almost the last
time I saw her before I was compelled to go away, for my absence was
long. But before I speak of that change let me tell you of something
that happened about two years before at El Ombú, which brought a new
happiness into that poor widow's life.
It happened that among those that had no right to be on the land, but
came and settled there because there was no one to forbid them, there
was a man named Sanchez, who had built himself a small rancho about
half a league from the old house, and kept a flock of sheep. He was
a widower with one child, a little girl named Monica. This Sanchez,
although poor, was not a good man, and had no tenderness in his heart.
He was a gambler, always away from his rancho, leaving the flock to be
taken care of by poor little Monica. In winter it was cruel, for then
the sheep travel most, and most of all on cold, rough days; and she
without a dog to help her, barefooted on the thistle-grown land, often
in terror at the sight of cattle, would be compelled to spend the whole
day out of doors. More than once on a winter evening in bad weather I
have found her trying to drive the sheep home in the face of the rain,
crying with misery. It hurt me all the more because she had a pretty
face: no person could fail to see its beauty, though she was in rags
and her black hair in a tangle, like the mane of a horse that has been
feeding among the burrs. At such times I have taken her up on my saddle
and driven her flock home for her, and have said to myself: "Poor lamb
without a mother, if you were mine I would seat you on the horns of the
moon; but, unhappy one! he whom you call father is without compassion."
At length, Sanchez, finding himself without money, just when strangers
from all places were coming to Chascomus to witness a great race and
anxious not to lose this chance of large winnings, sold his sheep,
having nothing of more value to dispose of. But instead of winning he
lost, and then leaving Monica in a neighbour's house he went away,
promising to return for her in a few days. But he did not return, and
it was believed by everybody that he had abandoned the child.
It was then that Donata offered to take her and be a mother to the
orphan, and I can say, señor, that the poor child's own mother, who
was dead, could not have treated her more tenderly or loved her more.
And the pretty one had now been Donata's little daughter and Bruno's
playmate two years when I was called away, and I saw them not again and
heard no tidings of them for a space of five years—the five longest
years of my life.
I went away because men were wanted for the army, and I was taken.
I was away, I have said, five years, and the five would have been
ten, and the ten twenty, supposing that life had lasted, but for a
lance wound in my thigh, which made me a lame man for the rest of my
life. That was the reason of my discharge and happy escape from that
purgatory. Once back in these plains where I first saw heaven's light,
I said in my heart: I can no longer spring light as a bird on to the
back of an unbroken animal and laugh at his efforts to shake me off;
nor can I throw a lasso on a running horse or bull and digging my heel
in the ground, pit my strength against his; nor can I ever be what I
have been in any work or game on horseback or on foot; nevertheless,
this lameness, and all I have lost through it, is a small price to pay
for my deliverance.
But this is not the history of my life; let me remember that I speak
only of those who have lived at El Ombú in my time, in the old house
which no longer exists.
There had been no changes when I returned, except that those five
years had made Bruno almost a man, and more than ever like his father,
except that he never had that I-know-not-what something to love in the
eyes which made Valerio different from all men. Donata was the same,
but older. Grey hair had come to her in her affliction; now her hair
which should have been black was all white—but she was more at peace,
for Bruno was good to her, and as a widow's only son, was exempt from
military service. There was something else to make her happy. Those
two, who were everything to her, could not grow up under one roof and
not love; now she could look with confidence to a union between them,
and there would be no separation. But even so, that old fear she had so
often spoken of to me in former days was never absent from her heart.
Bruno was now away most of the time, working as a cattle drover,
his ambition being, Donata informed me, to make money so as to buy
everything needed for the house.
I had been back, living in that poor rancho, half a league from El
Ombú, where I first saw the light, for the best part of a year, when
Bruno, who had been away with his employer buying cattle in the south,
one day appeared at my place. He had not been to El Ombú, and was
silent and strange in his manner, and when we were alone together I
said to him: "What has happened to you, Bruno, that you have the face
of a stranger and speak in an unaccustomed tone to your friend?"
He answered: "Because you, Nicandro, have treated me like a child,
concealing from me that which you ought to have told me long ago,
instead of leaving me to learn it by accident from a stranger."
"It has come," I said to myself, for I knew what he meant: then I spoke
of his mother.
"Ah, yes," he said with bitterness, "I know now why she pours water
fresh from the well every day on that spot of ground near the door. Do
you, Nicandro, think that water will ever wash away that old stain and
memory? A man who is a man, must in such a thing obey, not a mother's
wish, nor any woman, but that something which speaks in his heart."
"Let no such thought dwell in you to make you mad," I replied. "Look,
Bruno, my friend's son and my friend, leave it to God who is above us,
and who considers and remembers all evil deeds that men do, and desires
not that anyone should take the sword out of his hand."
"Who is he—this God you talk of?" he answered. "Have you seen or
spoken with him that you tell me what his mind is in this matter? I
have only this voice to tell me how a man should act in such a case,"
and he smote his breast; then overcome with a passion of grief he
covered his face with his hands and wept.
Vainly I begged him not to lose himself, telling him what the effect of
his attempt, whether he succeeded or failed, would be on Donata and
on Monica—it would break those poor women's hearts. I spoke, too, of
things I had witnessed in my five years' service; the cruel sentences
from which there was no appeal, the torments, the horrible deaths so
often inflicted. For these evils there was no remedy on earth: and
he, a poor, ignorant boy, what would he do but dash himself to pieces
against that tower of brass!
He replied that within that brazen tower there was a heart full of
blood; and with that he went away, only asking me as a favour not to
tell his mother of this visit to me.
Some ten days later she had a message from him, brought from the
capitol by a traveller going to the south. Bruno sent word that he was
going to Las Mulitas, a place fifty leagues west of Buenos Ayres, to
work on an estancia there, and would be absent some months.
Why had he gone thither? Because he had heard that General Barboza—for
that man was now a General—owned a tract of land at that place, which
the Government had given him as a reward for his services on the
southern frontier; and that he had recently returned from the northern
provinces to Buenos Ayres and was now staying at this estancia at Las
Mulitas.
Donata knew nothing of his secret motives, but his absence filled her
with anxiety; and when at length she fell ill I resolved to go in
search of the poor youth and try to persuade him to return to El Ombú.
But at Las Mulitas I heard that he was no longer there. All strangers
had been taken for the army in the frontier department, and Bruno, in
spite of his passport, had been forced to go.
When I returned to El Ombú with this sad news Donata resolved at once
to go to the capitol and try to obtain his release. She was ill, and it
was a long journey for her to perform on horseback, but she had friends
to go with and take care of her. In the end she succeeded in seeing the
President, and throwing herself on her knees before him, and with tears
in her eyes, implored him to let her have her son back.
He listened to her, and gave her a paper to take to the War Office.
There it was found that Bruno had been sent to El Rosario, and an order
was despatched for his immediate release. But when the order reached
its destination the unhappy boy had deserted.
That was the last that Donata ever heard of her son. She guessed why he
had gone, and knew as well as if I had told her that he had found out
the secret so long hidden from him. Still, being his mother, she would
not abandon hope; she struggled to live. Never did I come into her
presence but I saw in her face a question which she dared not put in
words. If, it said, you have heard, if you know, when and how his life
ended, tell me now before I go. But it also said, If you know, do not
tell me so that I and Monica may go on hoping together to the end.
"I know, Nicandro," she would say. "That if Bruno returns he will not
be the same—the son I have lost. For in that one thing he is not
like his father. Could another be like Valerio? No misfortune and no
injustice could change that heart, or turn his sweetness sour. In
that freshness and gaiety of temper he was like a child, and Bruno as
a child was like him. My son! my son! where are you? God of my soul,
grant that he may yet come to me, though his life be now darkened with
some terrible passion—though his poor hands be stained with blood, so
that my eyes may see him again before I go!"
But he came not, and she died without seeing him.
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.
