The Murder Was The Talk Of The Place For Some Days, Chiefly On Account
Of The Painful Facts Of The Case - That The Old Alcalde, Who Was
Respected And Even Loved By Every One, Should Have Failed In So
Pitiful A Way To Make Any Attempt At Saving His Young Relation.
But
the mere fact that the soldiers had cut the throat of their officer
surprised no one; it was a common thing in the case of a defeat in
those days for the men to turn upon and murder their officers.
Nor was
throat-cutting a mere custom or convention: to the old soldier it was
the only satisfactory way of finishing off your adversary, or prisoner
of war, or your officer who had been your tyrant, on the day of
defeat. Their feeling was similar to that of the man who is inspired
by the hunting instinct in its primitive form, as described by Richard
Jefferies. To kill the creatures with bullets at a distance was no
satisfaction to him: he must with his own hands drive the shaft into
the quivering flesh - he must feel its quivering and see the blood gush
up beneath his hand. One smiles at a vision of the gentle Richard
Jefferies slaughtering wild cattle in the palaeolithic way, but that
feeling and desire which he describes with such passion in his _Story
of My Heart_, that survival of the past, is not uncommon in the hearts
of hunters, and if we were ever to drop out of our civilization I
fancy we should return rather joyfully to the primitive method. And so
in those dark times in the Argentine Republic when, during half a
century of civil strife which followed on casting off the Spanish
"yoke," as it was called, the people of the plains had developed an
amazing ferocity, they loved to kill a man not with a bullet but in a
manner to make them know and feel that they were really and truly
killing.
As a child those dreadful deeds did not impress me, since I did not
witness them myself, and after looking at that stain of blood on the
grass the subject faded out of my mind. But as time went on and I
heard more about this painful subject I began to realize what it
meant. The full horror of it came only a few years later, when I was
big enough to go about to the native houses and among the gauchos in
their gatherings, at cattle-partings and brandings, races, and on
other occasions. I listened to the conversation of groups of men whose
lives had been mostly spent in the army, as a rule in guerilla
warfare, and the talk turned with surprising frequency to the subject
of cutting throats. Not to waste powder on prisoners was an unwritten
law of the Argentine army at that period, and the veteran gaucho
clever with the knife took delight in obeying it. It always came as a
relief, I heard them say, to have as victim a young man with a good
neck after an experience of tough, scraggy old throats:
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