As in all the Spanish Americas, there were churchly feasts and celebrations in Cuba whose origin has been forgot. Why did the slaves serenade their masters on New Year morning, jingling huge tambourines, and in the villages how came it to be thought that the cause of righteousness was advanced by parades and music on saints’ days? Hatred of the Jews was an inheritance rather than an experience, and for lack of Jews to prove it upon there was an annual display of wrath at Judas, who was represented by a grotesque effigy made up of straw, old clothes, and a mask. In the cities this figure was merely called The Jew, and after being carried through the streets with revilings, on the day after Good Friday, it was hanged in some conspicuous place and there stoned and shot by the crowd.
In Santiago there used to be a queer celebration on the 6th of January, “the day of the kings,” or “All Kings’ day,” meaning the kings who journeyed to Bethlehem to worship the new-born Christ. In time this function lost its dignity and became a sport, a gasconade, in which the slaves attired themselves extravagantly and paraded about, begging, blowing horns, beating drums, and bandying jokes with the spectators. In the days of King Congo the procession had some claim to show and importance, if only because he was at the head of it, for he had, in ways known only to himself, come into possession of the chapeau of a captain-general, a lieutenant’s coat, one epaulette, a pair of blue breeches, and a belt; hence, attired in all these grandeurs at once, and mounted on a mule, he looked every inch the king he said he was. For, albeit, he had been a slave, he claimed an African king as his father, and as that parent was dead, for aught he could certify to the contrary, the title, if not the crown and emoluments, descended to him; leastwise, nobody on this side of the sea could dispute it; and he bore it with conscious dignity. His family name, if he had one, has been lost, and it is as King Congo that he was known. That his royalty was genuine the other negroes never doubted, and to parade on the day of the kings without a real king of their own color to marshal the procession was not to be thought of.
El Rey Congo was aware of his power and of the impression he made on the humbler residents of Santiago. Every now and then he heightened his superiority to common clay by appearing in public in a starched collar, looking over the top of it with an assumption of pride and ease, as of one born to such luxury, but in reality chafing his neck against its ragged edges and longing to be in the fields, where he would not need to be spectacular. One year the day of the kings dawned without a cloud, and Santiago was in a holiday humor. Everybody who had work to do postponed it till to-morrow, as if All Kings’ Day were like every other day; for the procession that year was to be extra large and fine. King Congo was to ride with spurs, though barefooted, and was to have a military guard of four men. The band had been increased, especially in the drum department, and the ladies, who would have figured in the king’s court if he had had a court, were turbaned in new bandanas of red and yellow. The clergy and officers of the garrison had promised to review the parade, and the cooper, down by the custom-house, suggested that he’d better put a few hoops around King Congo to keep his swelling heart from cracking his ribs.
A long trumpet-call from the square announced the hour for assembly, and all eyes turned toward the street through which the king had been used to make his entry. He did not come. Tardiness is a privilege of kings. It proves them superior to the obligations laid upon the vulgar herd. Beside, what is an hour in a mañana country? But as the hour went by and the king kept refraining from his arrival, some presuming subjects went to look him up, and after much inquiry and pedestrian exercise they found the sovereign in jail. His Majesty explained that he had been arrested for debt a few days before, and that because of a shortage in the paltry coin of a white man’s state—a wretched matter of $4.15—he was doomed to remain behind the bars, perhaps forever. The messengers ran back to the square, made an excited appeal to the populace, scratched the required sum together in penny subscriptions, paid the innkeeper every centavo that the king owed him, woke up the sheriff and the magistrate, and before noon King Congo was a free man, in the same old uniform, riding the same old mule, and stiffly bowing to the admiring populace as he passed. The parade was a great success. So was the scheme conceived that morning by el Rey Congo; for, every year thereafter, three or four days before the festival of the adoration, he laid in supplies of rum and cigars, with even a new hat or a second-hand medal, and after getting the goods safely bestowed in his cabin, defied his creditors to collect their pay. The shopkeepers winked at this device, and regularly sent him to jail, for they knew that on the 6th of January their royal customer would pay, though by proxy. And that is more than you can say of some kings. Isn’t it?
In 1779 the Bishop of Havana took into his household as servants, and into the cathedral as altar-boys, three harum-scarum Indians, then said to have come from Florida, now believed to have been of Mexican origin, though there were not wanting citizens who solemnly declared that the trio had come from a warmer place than any on the surface of this planet. The object in the bishop’s mind was to Christianize the scapegraces and turn them loose among their own people, that they, too, might be made to see the light. The poor old clergyman little knew with whom he had to deal. When the astonishment of the youngsters at the glories of Havana had subsided, and even a regiment with a band could parade without their company, the Indian in them asserted itself once more, and they grieved the bishop by playing hookey, shirking mass, running off to the mountains on hunting trips, and once, when he went out in his night-cap to inquire the cause of a rumpus in his yard, they tripped him up and circled around and around, whooping like demons while he was trying to regain his feet and apply his cane.
At last they upset, not the clergy but the laws. Their offence was not grave, being rather a result of high spirits than of malice, but it brought the constabulary upon them and they were carried to the arsenal to work out the term of their imprisonment at loading ships and other heavy, uncongenial labor. Not many days had passed here before a chance offered for their escape, and they seized upon it, vanishing under the noses of the guard—at least, that was the way the guard reported it—like shadows before the sun. In fact, from that hour they were looked upon as a bit uncanny. The three lads found a hiding-place in the Falaco vegas, among a vagrom populace of brigands, runaway slaves, and wreckers, and there for several weeks they supported themselves by hunting, fishing, gambling, even working a little when sore pressed. Better if they had been left alone to live out their lives there. If useless, they at least were harmless. But, no; the majesty of the law again asserted itself. They were caught by a company of soldiers and marched back to Havana. Their protector and friend, the bishop, was dead. Again they were laden with chains and returned to the arsenal to work out some months of penal servitude. Their natures seemed to change in a day. To them Spaniards and Cubans now stood for tyranny and injustice. They did not understand their imprisonment as a correction: it was an act of oppression, and how were they to know that it would not last for the remainder of their lives? Every waking moment from the time of their second arrest they gave to plots for liberty and vengeance. The escape came presently. It seemed as if walls and bars were not made that could restrain them.
Two days after this last escape the country-side was stirred with horror, for just before dawn a hamlet near Guanes was burned, and when the neighbors, attracted by the flame and smoke seen above the tree-tops, arrived on the ground they found the gashed bodies of the inhabitants lying about on the gore-sodden earth. The quickness, the secrecy of the act were terrifying. All sorts of fantastic reports were spread about the province, especially after the massacre and the burning had been repeated in a second village—and a third—and a fourth. The vega was in a panic. The people went from place to place only in armed bands. The Vuelta Abajo was completely cowed, and sentries patrolled every settlement. It was reported that the murders had been committed by three giants who cut down men, horses, and cattle as they stalked across the country, and whose weapons were charmed, so that they always struck a vital spot, no matter how carelessly they were aimed. The three monsters were of vast strength and horrible countenance; they climbed tall cliffs as cats climb fences, and leaped chasms fifty feet across as other men skip over gutters.
A cave near Cape San Antonio that the aborigines had chambered for tombs was their reputed hiding-place, where they also worshipped their master, Satan, with fantastic ceremonies, and sacrificed in his honor the best of the cattle, sheep, and horses they captured on their raids. And the utter helplessness of the Spanish authorities gave a certain color to these rumors, for the giants snapped their fingers at their pursuers and went on killing, looting, burning, running off stock, always appearing in unexpected places and disappearing like mists at sunrise. Thus, two and a half years went by, and the offer of five thousand dollars each for the heads of the devil-brigands had come to nothing. Finally the Havana authorities were prayed and pestered into a spell of activity. They organized a troop of one hundred and fifty men and sixty dogs, put twenty officers at the head, and sent along four chaplains to pray the evil charms away. The three savages were cornered on a mountain, where two of them were killed after they had inflicted many hurts on their pursuers. The heads of these two were lopped, forwarded to the capital, and every one supposed that the reign of terror was at an end.
But, as if the strength of the slain ones had passed into his arm, the third man, Taito Perico, who had escaped during the fight, became a greater scourge than ever. He was fury incarnate, and so sudden were his visitations, so quick and deadly his work, so complete his disappearances, that more than ever it was believed he was a fiend. He resumed the work of slaughter in the Vuelta Arriba. He had a horse now, carried a huge lance, and killed or wounded almost every one he met,—but not all. There was in this black heart a core of sympathy. Once he stole a little child and kept her with him for some time, lavishing on her the affection of a barbarian big brother, and so endearing him to her that when she was rescued from his jungle haunt, while he was absent hunting, she wept for the kind Taito Perico, even in her parents’ arms. Then he stole a boy of eight years and kept him for some months, allowing him at the end of that time to return unharmed to his parents.
It was in one of these abductions that he worked his own undoing. Near St. John of the Remedies lived the pretty Anita de Pareira, daughter of a frugal and worthy couple and fiancée of a prosperous planter of the district. The time for the wedding having been set, the father and mother were in their little garden discussing ways and means, and Anita was indoors trimming the gown in which she was to walk to the altar. Her head was full of pretty fancies, and she hummed softly to herself as she plied her needle or gazed into the distance, smiling at the pictures created by her own fancy. She was rudely awakened from these pleasing reveries. The door was burst in by a tremendous blow with a fist and there stood glaring upon her a Caliban with mighty neck and shoulders, great goggling eyes, a hooked nose, a bush of coarse hair erect upon his head, and a stout lance in his hand. As this creature advanced into the room with extended arms she swooned and did not regain her senses until she had been carried for a mile or more from her home. She found herself lying across the back of a horse that was galloping furiously toward the hills with the savage in the saddle behind her.
The father and mother ran into the road tossing their hands in despair; a dozen belated rescuers hurried to them, each arrival adding his screams to the hubbub; then each advising the rest what should be done, and nobody doing anything. The young planter, Anita’s betrothed, was quickly on the ground, and he alone was resolute and cool. He gathered the bolder men about him, saw that they were supplied with proper arms and mounts, and with encouraging words to those who were left behind, he rode away on the outlaw’s trail. Over pastures, through ravines, across rivers, under forest arches dim as twilight, they hurried on, a pack of hounds yapping in advance, a broken branch, a trampled bush, a hoof-print in the margin of a stream also giving proof that they were on the right path; a herder, who had seen the ruffian pass, likewise testifying to the fact, and giving his service to the company; and so they came to a clearing, where they found the marauder’s abandoned and exhausted horse.
Putting their own horses under guard of negroes, twenty of the men pressed on afoot through tangled vines and thorny bushes, still led by the dogs, until they brought up at the bottom of a tall cliff, and here the hounds seemed to be at fault, for they ran around and around a tree, looking up into it and whining. The herder swung himself into the branches and scrambled almost to the top. “Nobody here,” he called. Then, when he had partly descended, they heard him utter an exclamation of surprise. He crept to the end of a long branch and swung lightly to a shelf on the face of the crag. “Footsteps!” he exclaimed, in a low, strained voice, and pointed to a thin turf that covered the jut of rock. The dogs were right. Taito Perico had climbed the tree and scaled the cliff. The dogs were hoisted by means of a lariat, the men gained the shelf, and clambering along in single file they presently reached the summit. A furious barking led them on; then those in the rear heard a shout. The savage was seen, half a mile away, crossing an opening at a run and striking at the dogs that leaped and yelped around him. Leaving his companions to follow the Indian, the lover devoted himself to the search for Anita, and presently found her at the foot of a tree, bound, gagged, but safe and thankful.
For several days and nights the chase went on and on with reinforcements, and the Indian was at last overtaken on the mountain that, in memory of the event, bears the name of Loma del Indio, where he was slain, to the great relief of the whole island. Even in death his aspect was so terrific that the people along the way were set a-shaking and a-praying as his body was carried on to Puerto Principe. Though he could do harm no longer, the post-mortem punishment inflicted on him gave general satisfaction; for the corpse was first hanged, then dragged at a horse’s heels, then chopped apart and buried in several places, and the head, in a cage, was exposed on a pole in Tanima. And if three men like Taito Perico could terrorize all Cuba, a hundred of such would have freed it.
“No trifling, señor. Speak up plainly and say what you heard.” The prosecuting attorney gave a nervous twitch at his pointed beard, a habit peculiar to him, and leaned a little toward the witness. The elder judge blinked drowsily, straightened in his chair, then turned and looked at the crucifix on the wall, for when the sun touched the bloody figure on the cross it was time for lunch. It was still in shadow. He sighed. His associates of the tribunal were duly attent.
“I’m afraid you will not believe me,” objected the witness.
“Never mind your fears. Come, now: You were passing the deserted inn on the Minas road, you say, when you heard a voice. The voice of one of the brigands?”
“I hardly think so, señor.”
“How? You charge this defendant here ——”
“With attempted robbery. Yes, señor attorney. But it was not his voice that spoke. I think worse mischief has been done near the inn.”
“Worse mischief?”
“Truly. For when this thief heard the words he let his pistol fall and dropped the bridle of my mule. By the moon I could see his face glisten with sweat, and it looked white.”
“He was afraid, eh? He was a coward? This poor cheat of a creature could not even be a brigand?”
“Afraid! Any one would be. As for myself, I gave my mule a cut and he was off at a lope, with this fellow coming after as fast as his legs could carry him, until he ran plump into the arms of the civil guard.”
“Yes, yes. You have told all that. But this voice. You heard it plainly?”
“Why, yes, although it sounded as if it came from a distance, or from under a building, or—or—out of a tomb. I couldn’t—I couldn’t help thinking it sounded like a man beneath a floor.”
The attorney twisted his beard again impatiently, coughed, then tightly folded his arms. He was silent for a little. Then, as if surprising himself out of a revery, he commanded, “Well, well. Go on.”
“This voice, señor,” resumed the witness, leaning forward and speaking mysteriously, “it was so hollow and low, and spoke the words so long, like a creature dying and in pain, and it gave me a chill.”
“Are you never to tell us what it said?”
“It moaned, ‘For the sake of the Virgin, of Her Blessed Son, of the Holy Saint Peter, of the Good God, pray for me. Pray for a sinner. Beg the good fathers at Nuevitas to say a mass for the soul of Enrique Carillo.’ Then there was a sort of groan——”
“My God!” It was the prosecutor who had gasped the words.
“Yes, just like that. Ah! Pardon, señor. I did not see. You are ill.”
For the lawyer’s face had become of a deathly pallor, his head had sunk forward, his lips trembled, his hands shook as they clutched the edge of the table behind him. The idlers in the back of the room were awake in a moment. The sun touched the figure of Christ, splashed with blood in the fashion of the official crucifix, and it seemed to look down on the scene below as in torture. The prisoner’s counsel sprang forward, placed a chair for his opponent and helped him to be seated. An officer brought a glass of water, which the lawyer drank eagerly, then sat as in a daze for an instant, shuddered, passed his hands over his face, and said, “I ask the indulgence of the court. I have lost my sleep for the last few nights. I—I——”
The senior judge had half-risen, his wig awry, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “Clear the court! It is the fever!” he cried.
There was a stampede of the unoccupied in the back of the room. The others in the court reached for their hats and drew away, leaving the prosecutor alone. He smiled faintly. “No, your Honor,” he said. “It is over now. It was a touch of faintness; nothing more.”
“With the consent of counsel I will adjourn the case.”
The face of the prosecutor hardened; he set his jaw doggedly, he regained his feet with a sort of spring. The judges slipped back deeper into their seats; the elder wiped his brow and puffed.
“We will go on,” said the attorney, in a calmer voice. “The testimony is practically exhausted. I have to confess that I have been somewhat disappointed in the witnesses, but I submit the case on the evidence without argument.”
It was plain that the people’s representative was not at his best that morning. The trial was hurried on, the lawyer for the defence insisting principally that, as the complainant had fled from the scene of the attempted robbery without looking back, he could not possibly swear that the man in the prisoner’s dock was the one who had held his bridle. Was it not at least probable that the accused had told the truth when he said he had been roused by the outcry of the man on mule-back and had run down the road to see what the matter was? Moreover, as no loss had been suffered, was it not a slender ground for prosecution? The old judge looked back at the crucifix. The illumination was passing. The knees were already in shadow. He was an hour late for his lunch. He whispered with the other judges for a moment, then smote the desk before him. “No evidence. The prisoner is discharged. Adjourn the court,” he exclaimed. And for once in the history of Puerto Principe the law had been prompt. The accused, who had been stolid and dull throughout the trial, now smiled cunningly to himself, and saying no word to any one, but with a sidelong look at the lawyers, left the building without loss of time, and after investing a few coppers in bad brandy at the least inviting groggery in town, disappeared down the road leading toward Minas. There were several anxious inquiries at the house of Prosecutor Ramirez that evening, but he was in his usual health. There was no occasion for alarm as to the fever.
Two nights after this a couple of planters were stopped near the old inn by a man of rough appearance, whose face was masked, and were forced at the pistol’s point to give up their watches and money. A few nights later a man left town with money to discharge a bill. He never reached his destination. In each case the criminals left no trace. The environs of Puerto Principe were growing in ill-repute.
The prosecutor was leaving home on an evening when rain seemed threatening. This was probably his reason for wearing a cloak,—a protection seldom needed, except at night and in bad weather. It was against his usual habit that he had drawn his cloak high about his shoulders, so that his face was half-concealed, and this made it the more difficult for one who was following to know if he were, or were not, the man he sought. Convinced, after a little, that he was, he hurried forward and placed his hand on his arm. The lawyer started and uttered an exclamation. “Are you not Don Pablo Ramirez?” asked the unknown.
The prosecutor looked long and searchingly at the frank-faced stranger, then answered, shortly, “I am he.”
“I thought so. Allow me: I am Captain Alfonso Garcia Estufa, of the Engineer Corps. I come from Havana with authority from the governor-general to confer with you about the brigands in this province.”
“Ah, indeed! You are welcome, señor captain. I was about to make a business call on a tenant in this street. May I ask if you will make my house your own till I return? I shall be absent but a few moments. I will go back with you and open the door. Enter, if you please. The sherry is on the sideboard. Cigars you will find on the table. Call my servant, if you require anything.” Then, hurrying out once more, the lawyer almost ran upon his errand. In a quarter of an hour he returned and the two began their discussion over a decanter of choice Madeira.
“It still seems to me,” said the young officer, after the talk had been going on for some minutes, “that the bold policy is the better, though we may need secrecy in certain cases, for these devils of brigands smell powder a mile away. On my life, they do. I’ve dealt with them in Pinar del Rio, and they tell me they are more slippery and far-seeing, or far-smelling, in this province. They must have confederates here in town.”
“Confederates? Preposterous, señor! Why do you think that?”
“Oh, I’ve been investigating a little. Either the brigands here are clever, or some man who is more clever has them in hand, and knows enough not to mix with them,—some man who can persuade them, or terrorize them, or shield them. Have you no conceit as to who in this city is fitted for a chieftainship like that?”
“I? None.”
“I had hoped you knew your fellow-citizens well enough to advise me whom to watch. No? Then, at least, tell me where it would be best to place my men.”
“The trails toward Sibanicu.”
“Trails? Sibanicu? Why, there’s no travel in that quarter. The robberies have happened between here and Minas.”
“Exactly. So many have happened that the brigands must abandon it henceforth. They know they are watched, and I’ll warrant your coming here, and the object of it, are already common talk among them.”
“Humph!”
“People who are bound for the coast are beginning to go around already, so as to avoid the Minas road. If our scamps are as clever as you think, they will not be long in following.”
“There is something in that, and I thank you for the hint. We will meet again shortly. Meanwhile, pray study the situation.”
“You are not going?”
“I cannot stop with you, señor, greatly as I should be pleased to do so, for I have agreed to meet my lieutenants at the other end of the town. Good-night.”
“Good-night, then, if you will not stay. Tell me early what success you have in the chase of our good citizens of Puerto Principe.”
The captain left the house with a light and jaunty step, yet he looked about him thoughtfully. He had not gone far when the night stillness was broken by the crack of a fire-arm not ten paces away. A bullet cut his hat. He turned quickly. Nobody was in sight. The air was thick with mist, and nobody was stirring. “Scoundrel!” cried the officer, shaking his fist at the darkness. “You shall pay dear for that—you and your people. Do you hear?”
There was no answer. He walked on at a faster pace.
Before the sun was up next morning the captain and his men had withdrawn from Puerto Principe. Few in the town knew that he had been there. None knew whither he had gone.
It was nine o’clock on the night following the interview. A fitful wind stirred the trees that densely shadowed the Minas road. From a chink in the walls of a dilapidated house that stood back from the highway a light shone faintly, but except for the sough of the leaves and the whirring and lisping that betoken the wakefulness of insect life there was no sound. None? What was that? Down the road, from Nuevitas way, came a blowing and stamping of horses laboring through mud. The crack of light still shone, and nothing moved along the wayside. As the horses came nearer a lantern could be seen hanging from the sheep-neck of the older one, and two voices could be heard in talk,—such village gossip as farmers might exchange when the way was tiresome. The horses plodded on till they were abreast of the house, when there was a whistle; the crack of light widened, suddenly there was a rush of feet, a torch was brandished, and brown hands fell upon the bridles.
One of the riders cried out, flung up his arms, and begged for mercy. They might take his master’s money, if they would, but for the sake of St. Isaac, St. Matthew, and St. John, let them spare his life. The other horseman, tall, spare, wrapped in a cloak, swung down from his saddle in a business-like way, addressed a remark in a low tone to the brigands, took the lantern from the neck of his neighbor’s nag,—it was a fine, mettled black he rode himself,—turned up the flap of his hat a little, only a little, not enough to reveal his face, and proceeded to rifle the pockets and saddle-bags of his amazed companion. The lantern and the torch shone on six or eight as hang-dog faces as would be met in a day’s journey, and among them was one closely resembling the prisoner who had been discharged on a trial two or three weeks before for lack of evidence. The victim of this robbery having given up all he seemed to possess was told to ride straight into town without word or halt, else he would be shot, and a fierce stroke being given with the whip, his horse was off at such a gallop that he had much ado to keep his seat. The thieves heaped the saddle-bags and parcels into the middle of the road and bent near, while the man in the cloak opened them and examined their contents in the flickering light. A gust of wind made the torch flare and put the lantern out. The cloaked man muttered an oath, and had partly risen to his feet, when there came a sound that caused him to stagger and hold his hands to his head as if in mortal terror. It was a wailing voice, and it pleaded, “For the sake of the Virgin, of Her Blessed Son, of the Holy Saint Peter, of the Good God, pray for me. Pray for a sinner. Beg the good fathers at Nuevitas to say a mass for the soul of Enrique Carillo.”
The cloaked man groaned. The others crouched, shuddering, and their eyes in the red torch-flame were the eyes of goblins. In another moment a shock ran through the group, for another voice, clear and stern, commanded, “As you value your lives, don’t stir. Men, do not fire unless I tell you.”
A light flashed up, then another, and the bandits discovered themselves in the centre of a ring formed by twenty men, with the young captain in command. Resistance would have been foolish, flight impossible; yet, as the captain stepped toward the brigand leader, the man in the cloak attempted the foolish and impossible; he fired his pistol full at the captain’s head, flung the weapon after the bullet, missing his aim each time, then started to run, upsetting one of the soldiers as he did so.
“Fire!” cried the captain.
Two musket-shots came upon the word. The tall man tumbled headlong. “It is one the less to hang,” exclaimed the officer, as he snatched a torch from the hand of one of his men. He bent over the prostrate form: the robber had been killed instantly. He withdrew the cloak from the face and looked long without speaking. Finally he said, “I was a better ghost than I supposed. These brigands will have to elect a new leader, and Puerto Principe must have a new prosecuting attorney.”
In the deserted inn, under the kitchen floor, were found the remains of Enrique Carillo and several other victims of the robbers. And it is said that on All Souls’ eve their ghosts block the road and beg all who pass to pray for them and to pay for a few masses. Most importunate of all is the ghost of Pablo Ramirez.