Around his neck, hanging outside his linen blouse,
he wore a new scapular.
It seems a petty thing to have been pleased with at such a time, but
I confess to have felt a thrill of satisfaction when I saw, as the
Cuban passed me, that he held a cigarette between his lips, not
arrogantly nor with bravado, but with the nonchalance of a man who
meets his punishment fearlessly, and who will let his enemies see
that they can kill but cannot frighten him.
It was very quickly finished, with rough and, but for one frightful
blunder, with merciful swiftness. The crowd fell back when it came
to the square, and the condemned man, the priests, and the firing
squad of six young volunteers passed in and the line closed behind
them.
The officer who had held the cord that bound the Cuban's arms behind
him and passed across his breast, let it fall on the grass and drew
his sword, and Rodriguez dropped his cigarette from his lips and bent
and kissed the cross which the priest held up before him.
The elder of the priests moved to one side and prayed rapidly in a
loud whisper, while the other, a younger man, walked behind the
firing squad and covered his face with his hands. They had both
spent the last twelve hours with Rodriguez in the chapel of the
prison.
The Cuban walked to where the officer directed him to stand, and
turning his back on the square, faced the hills and the road across
them, which led to his father's farm.
As the officer gave the first command he straightened himself as far
as the cords would allow, and held up his head and fixed his eyes
immovably on the morning light, which had just begun to show above
the hills.
He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, but of such courage
and dignity, that he reminded me on the instant of that statue of
Nathan Hale which stands in the City Hall Park, above the roar of
Broadway. The Cuban's arms were bound, as are those of the statue,
and he stood firmly, with his weight resting on his heels like a
soldier on parade, and with his face held up fearlessly, as is that
of the statue. But there was this difference, that Rodriguez, while
probably as willing to give six lives for his country as was the
American rebel, being only a peasant, did not think to say so, and he
will not, in consequence, live in bronze during the lives of many
men, but will be remembered only as one of thirty Cubans, one of whom
was shot at Santa Clara on each succeeding day at sunrise.
The officer had given the order, the men had raised their pieces, and
the condemned man had heard the clicks of the triggers as they were
pulled back, and he had not moved. And then happened one of the most
cruelly refined, though unintentional, acts of torture that one can
very well imagine. As the officer slowly raised his sword,
preparatory to giving the signal, one of the mounted officers rode up
to him and pointed out silently that, as I had already observed with
some satisfaction, the firing squad were so placed that when they
fired they would shoot several of the soldiers stationed on the
extreme end of the square.
Their captain motioned his men to lower their pieces, and then walked
across the grass and laid his hand on the shoulder of the waiting
prisoner.
It is not pleasant to think what that shock must have been. The man
had steeled himself to receive a volley of bullets. He believed that
in the next instant he would be in another world; he had heard the
command given, had heard the click of the Mausers as the locks
caught - and then, at that supreme moment, a human hand had been laid
upon his shoulder and a voice spoke in his ear.
You would expect that any man, snatched back to life in such a
fashion would start and tremble at the reprieve, or would break down
altogether, but this boy turned his head steadily, and followed with
his eyes the direction of the officer's sword, then nodded gravely,
and, with his shoulders squared, took up the new position,
straightened his back, and once more held himself erect.
As an exhibition of self-control this should surely rank above feats
of heroism performed in battle, where there are thousands of comrades
to give inspiration. This man was alone, in sight of the hills he
knew, with only enemies about him, with no source to draw on for
strength but that which lay within himself.
The officer of the firing squad, mortified by his blunder, hastily
whipped up his sword, the men once more levelled their rifles, the
sword rose, dropped, and the men fired. At the report the Cuban's
head snapped back almost between his shoulders, but his body fell
slowly, as though some one had pushed him gently forward from behind
and he had stumbled.
He sank on his side in the wet grass without a struggle or sound, and
did not move again.
It was difficult to believe that he meant to lie there, that it could
be ended so without a word, that the man in the linen suit would not
rise to his feet and continue to walk on over the hills, as he
apparently had started to do, to his home; that there was not a
mistake somewhere, or that at least some one would be sorry or say
something or run to pick him up.
But, fortunately, he did not need help, and the priests returned - the
younger one with the tears running down his face - and donned their
vestments and read a brief requiem for his soul, while the squad
stood uncovered, and the men in hollow square shook their
accoutrements into place, and shifted their pieces and got ready for
the order to march, and the band began again with the same quickstep
which the fusillade had interrupted.
