Certain individualities grow into fame through their vices2 and their virtues3, or simply by their actions, which may have a temporary importance; and then they become forgotten. The names of a few leaders alone survive the end of armed strife4 and are further preserved in history; so that, vanishing from men’s active memories, they still exist in books.
The name of General Santierra attained5 that cold, paper-and-ink immortality6. He was a South American of good family, and the books published in his lifetime numbered him amongst the liberators of that continent from the oppressive rule of Spain.
That long contest, waged for independence on one side and for dominion8 on the other, developed, in the course of years and the vicissitudes9 of changing fortune, the fierceness and inhumanity of a struggle for life. All feelings of pity and compassion10 disappeared in the growth of political hatred11. And, as is usual in war, the mass of the people, who had the least to gain by the issue, suffered most in their obscure persons and their humble fortunes.
General Santierra began his service as lieutenant12 in the patriot13 army raised and commanded by the famous San Martin, afterwards conqueror14 of Lima and liberator7 of Peru. A great battle had just been fought on the banks of the river Bio-Bio. Amongst the prisoners made upon the routed Royalist troops there was a soldier called Gaspar Ruiz. His powerful build and his big head rendered him remarkable15 amongst his fellow-captives. The personality of the man was unmistakable. Some months before, he had been missed from the ranks of Republican troops after one of the many skirmishes which preceded the great battle. And now, having been captured arms in hand amongst Royalists, he could expect no other fate but to be shot as a deserter.
Gaspar Ruiz, however, was not a deserter; his mind was hardly active enough to take a discriminating16 view of the advantages or perils17 of treachery. Why should he change sides? He had really been made a prisoner, had suffered ill-usage and many privations. Neither side showed tenderness to its adversaries18. There came a day when he was ordered, together with some other captured rebels, to march in the front rank of the Royal troops. A musket19, had been thrust into his hands. He had taken it. He had marched. He did not want to be killed with circumstances of peculiar20 atrocity21 for refusing to march. He did not understand heroism22, but it was his intention to throw his musket away at the first opportunity. Meantime he had gone on loading and firing, from fear of having his brains blown out, at the first sign of unwillingness23, by some non-commissioned officer of the King of Spain. He tried to set forth24 these elementary considerations before the sergeant25 of the guard set over him and some twenty other such deserters, who had been condemned26 summarily to be shot.
It was in the quadrangle of the fort at the back of the batteries which command the road-stead of Valparaiso. The officer who had identified him had gone on without listening to his protestations. His doom27 was sealed; his hands were tied very tightly together behind his back; his body was sore all over from the many blows with sticks and butts28 of muskets29 which had hurried him along on the painful road from the place of his capture to the gate of the fort. This was the only kind of systematic30 attention the prisoners had received from their escort during a four days’ journey across a scantily31 watered tract32 of country. At the crossings of rare streams they were permitted to quench33 their thirst by lapping hurriedly like dogs. In the evening a few scraps34 of meat were thrown amongst them as they dropped down dead-beat upon the stony35 ground of the halting-place.
As he stood in the courtyard of the castle in the early morning, after having been driven hard all night, Gaspar Ruiz’s throat was parched36, and his tongue felt very large and dry in his mouth.
And Gaspar Ruiz, besides being very thirsty, was stirred by a feeling of sluggish37 anger, which he could not very well express, as though the vigour38 of his spirit were by no means equal to the strength of his body.
The other prisoners in the batch39 of the condemned hung their heads, looking obstinately40 on the ground. But Gaspar Ruiz kept on repeating: “What should I desert for to the Royalists? Why should I desert? Tell me, Estaban!”
He addressed himself to the sergeant, who happened to belong to the same part of the country as himself. But the sergeant, after shrugging his meagre shoulders once, paid no further attention to the deep murmuring voice at his back. It was indeed strange that Gaspar Ruiz should desert. His people were in too humble a station to feel much the disadvantages of any form of government. There was no reason why Gaspar Ruiz should wish to uphold in his own person the rule of the King of Spain. Neither had he been anxious to exert himself for its subversion41. He had joined the side of Independence in an extremely reasonable and natural manner. A band of patriots42 appeared one morning early, surrounding his father’s ranche, spearing the watch-dogs and hamstringing a fat cow all in the twinkling of an eye, to the cries of “Viva La Libertad!” Their officer discoursed43 of Liberty with enthusiasm and eloquence44 after a long and refreshing45 sleep. When they left in the evening, taking with them some of Ruiz, the father’s, best horses to replace their own lamed46 animals, Gaspar Ruiz went away with them, having been invited pressingly to do so by the eloquent47 officer.
Shortly afterwards a detachment of Royalist troops, coming to pacify48 the district, burnt the ranche, carried off the remaining horses and cattle, and having thus deprived the old people of all their worldly possessions, left them sitting under a bush in the enjoyment49 of the inestimable boon50 of life.
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