Gustave Aimard
Stronghand: or, The Noble Revenge
CHAPTER XL
FUNERAL OF A SACHEM
Two days had elapsed since the atrocious attack made by Don Rufino on Don Rodolfo de Moguer. The Papazos had captured the hacienda without a blow, as the gates were opened to them; for the stupor and terror of the Mexicans at this horrible crime were so great, that they forgot all precautions. But we must do the Redskins the justice of stating that, contrary to their habits, they committed no excesses in the hacienda, either by virtue of superior orders, or in consequence of the sorrow which the wound of their great sachem caused them. Doña Esperanza had arrived with Padre Serapio at the same time as the Indian warriors, and she and Doña Marianna did not leave the wounded man's bed.
Don Hernando was inconsolable, and the colonel could not forgive himself for having supposed for a moment that the senator was an honest man. The whole hacienda was plunged into sorrow, and Don Rodolfo alone watched death approach with a calm brow. Fray Serapio dressed his wound: his night was tolerably quiet, and in the morning the monk entered the wounded man's room. At a sign from Don Rodolfo his wife and niece, who had watched the whole night through by his bedside, withdrew.
"Now, padre," he said, when they left the room, "it is our turn."
And he helped him to remove the bandages. The monk frowned.
"I am condemned, am I not?" said Don Rodolfo, who attentively followed in the monk's face the feelings that agitated him.
"God can perform a miracle," the Franciscan stammered, in a faint voice.
The sachem smiled softly.
"I understand you," he replied; "answer me, therefore, frankly and sincerely. How many hours have I still to live?"
"What good is that, my dear, good master?" the monk murmured.
"Padre Serapio," the chief interrupted him, in a firm voice, "I want to know, in order that I may settle my affairs on earth, before I appear in the presence of God."
"Do you insist on my telling you the truth?"
"Pray do so – the entire truth."
The poor man stifled a sigh, and answered, in a voice broken by emotion – "Unless a miracle occur, you will give back your soul to your Creator at sunset."
"I thank you, my friend," the sachem said, his austere face not displaying the slightest trace of emotion. "Ask my brother to come here, for I have to talk with him. Keep back my wife and niece until I ask for them. Go, father; I will see you again before I die."
The worthy monk withdrew, choked with sobs. The interview of the two brothers was long, for Don Hernando had many faults to ask pardon for at the hands of him whose place he had taken. But Don Rodolfo, far from reproaching him, tried on the contrary to console him, by talking to him in a cheerful voice, and reminding him of the happy days of their childhood. He also thanked his brother warmly for having freed him from the heavy burden of supporting the family honour, and allowing him to live in accordance with his tastes and humour. Many other things were talked of, after which the Marquis retired, with pale brow and eyes swollen with tears, which he tried in vain to repress, that he might not sadden the last moments of the man whose great soul was revealed to him at this supreme moment – of the brother whom he had so cruelly misunderstood, and who had even sacrificed his life to insure his brother's happiness.
Doña Marianna and Doña Esperanza then returned to the dying man's room, followed by Padre Serapio, and a few moments after the Marquis came back, accompanied by Stronghand. The young man, in spite of his Indian education and affected stoicism, knelt down sobbing by his father's side. For some moments father and son talked together in a low voice; no one save God knew what words were uttered by these two men during the solemn interview.
"Come here, niece," Don Rodolfo at length said, addressing Doña Marianna.
The maiden knelt down sobbing by the hunter's side. The aged man looked for a moment tenderly at their two young faces, pale with sorrow, which were piously leaning over him; then making an effort to sit up, and supported on one side by his brother, on the other by Doña Esperanza, he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion – "Niece, answer me as you would answer God; for the dying, you know, no longer belong to this world. Do you love my son?"
"Yes, uncle," the maiden answered through her tears – "yes, I love him."
"And you, Diego, my son, do you love your cousin?"
"Father, I love her," the young man answered, in a voice crushed by emotion.
Don Rodolfo turned to his brother, who understood his glance.
"Bless our children, brother," he said, "according to the wish you expressed to me; Padre Serapio will unite them in your presence."
The wounded man stretched out his trembling hands over the two young people.
"Children," he said, in a powerful voice, though with an accent of ineffable tenderness, "I bless you; be happy."
And, crushed by the efforts he had been forced to make, he fell back in a half-fainting state on his bed. When he regained consciousness, through the attention of Don Esperanza and his niece, he perceived an altar by the side of his bed. On his expressing a desire that the ceremony should take place at once, Padre Serapio, assisted by José Paredes, who was weeping bitterly, read the marriage mass. After the nuptial benediction, Don Rodolfo received the last sacraments, amid the tears and sobs of all present.
"And, now, my friends," he said, "that I have accomplished my duties as a Christian and Spanish gentleman, it is time for me to perform my duties as an Indian chief; so allow the Papazo warriors to enter."
The doors opened, and the warriors entered: they were sad, gloomy, and thoughtful. The sachem had sat up to receive them, supported by his son Stronghand. The warriors silently surrounded the bed on which their venerated chief lay, among them being Sparrowhawk and Peccary. The sachem looked calmly round the circle, and then spoke in a calm and deeply accentuated voice: —
"The Master of Life has suddenly recalled me to Him. I did not fall in action, but beneath the dagger of a cowardly assassin. I regret leaving my nation before I had completed the task which I undertook for their happiness. What I had not time to do, another will doubtless terminate. My brothers must continue the war they have so happily and gloriously commenced; and though I am leaving them, my mind will remain among them. The warriors of my nation must never forget that the Master of Life created them free, and that they must live and die free. The Papazos are brave men, invincible warriors, and slavery is not made for them. On the point of appearing before the Master of Life, I implore the chiefs not to forget that the white persons who surround me form part of my family. If my brothers retain after my death any recollection of the good which I have continually sought to do them, they will be kind to the palefaces whom I love. I have only one more word to add: I desire to give back my soul to the Master of Life beneath the buffalo hide cabin of the warriors of my nation, and in the midst of my nation. I desire also that all the rites customary at the death of the chiefs should be performed for me."
A tremor of joy ran along the ranks of the redskin warriors on hearing the last words; for they had feared in their hearts that the sachem would wish to be interred after the fashion of the white men. The Peccary then replied, in the name of all —
"My father's wishes are orders for his children; never, so long as the powerful confederation of the Papazos exists, shall an insult be offered to the palefaces whom he loves. Our father can die in peace; all his wishes will be religiously carried out by his children."
A flash of joy sparkled in the sachem's eye at this promise, which he knew would be strictly kept. The Peccary continued —
"The Papazos chiefs are sad; their hearts are swollen by the thought of losing their father: they fear lest his death may be the cause of great disorder in their confederation, and injure the success of the war which had scarce begun."
"I belong to my sons till the last moment of my existence; what can I do for them?"
"My father can do a great deal," the chief answered.
"My ears are open; I am waiting for my son to explain himself."
"The chiefs," continued Peccary, "and the great braves of the confederation, assembled at sunrise round the council fire: they desire, in order that no discord may spring up among them, that our father, the great sachem, should himself appoint his successor; for they feel persuaded that our father's choice will fall on a brave and wise chief, worthy to command men."
The sachem reflected for a moment.
"Be it so," he said at length; "the determination of the sachems is wise, and I approve of it. Sparrowhawk will command in my place when I am called away by the Great Spirit; no one is more worthy to be the first sachem of the nation."
Sparrowhawk quitted the ranks, stepped forward, and bowed respectfully to the dying man.
"I thank my father," he said, "for the signal honour he has done me; but I am very young to command chiefs and renowned warriors, and I fear that I shall break down in the heavy task imposed on me. My father leaves a son; Stronghand is one of the great braves of our nation, and his wisdom is renowned."
"My son is a paleface; he does not know the wants of the Papazos so well as Sparrowhawk. Sparrowhawk will command."
"I obey my father since he insists; but Stronghand will ever be one of the great chiefs of my nation."
A flattering murmur greeted these clever remarks.
"I thank my son Sparrowhawk in the name of Stronghand. Modesty becomes a chief so celebrated as is my son," the sachem continued; "the Great Spirit will inspire him, and he will do great things. I have spoken. Do the chiefs approve my choice?"
"We could not have chosen better," Peccary answered. "We sincerely thank our father for having anticipated our dearest wishes by choosing Sparrowhawk."
This scene so simple in its grandeur, and so truly patriarchal, affected all the spectators, who felt their hearts swollen by sorrow. The sachem continued —
"I feel my strength rapidly leaving me, and life is abandoning me; the Great Spirit will soon call me to Him. My sons will carry me beneath a tent of my nation, in order that I may breathe my last sigh in their midst."
Stronghand, the Marquis, Peccary, and Sparrowhawk gently lifted the wounded man on their shoulders, and carried him to the front yard of the hacienda, followed by all the rest, who walked silently and thoughtfully in the rear. A lodge, formed of stakes covered with buffalo hides, had been prepared to receive the great chief; the bed on which he was lying was softly put down, and the chief's eyes were turned toward the setting sun. Then all the warriors and their squaws, whom messengers had informed of the sachem's wound, and who had hurried to the hacienda, surrounded the tent. The Mexicans themselves mingled with the crowd, and a deadly silence brooded over the hacienda, in which, however, more than six thousand persons were assembled at this moment.
All eyes were turned toward the dying sachem, by whose side were standing the members of his family, Padre Serapio, and the principal chiefs of the Papazos. Now and then the aged man uttered a few words, which he addressed at times to the monk, at others to his brother, or to the Indian chiefs. When the sun was beginning to sink on the horizon, the wounded man's breathing began to grow panting, his eyes gradually became covered by a mist, and he did not speak; but he tightly grasped his son's and wife's hands in his right hand, and Sparrowhawk's in his left.
All at once a nervous tremor passed over the dying man's body; his cheeks were tinged; his half closed eyes opened again; he sat up without any extraneous help, and shouted, in a strong, clear voice, which was heard by all – "I come, Lord! Papazos, farewell! Esperanza! Esperanza! We shall meet again!"
His eyes closed; a livid pallor spread over his face; his limbs stiffened, and he fell back heavily as he exhaled his last sigh. He was dead. His last thought was for his wife, whom he had so dearly loved. The sobs, hitherto restrained, burst forth suddenly and violently among the crowd.
"Our father is dead!" Sparrowhawk shouted, in a thundering voice.
"Vengeance!" the Redskins yelled.
In fact the murderer of the chief was still alive. The white men who did not wish to witness the horrible scene that was about to take place, withdrew. Stronghand, the colonel, Paredes, and Mariano alone remained. The body of the defunct sachem was at once surrounded by the squaws: they painted it with several bright colours, dressed it in a buffalo robe, formed his hair into a tuft as a sign of his rank, and stretched him out on a dais. The assassin, who was pale but resolute, was then brought up.
Sparrowhawk placed himself at the head of the corpse, and began a long funeral oration, which was frequently interrupted by the sobs of his audience; then, pointing with an expressive gesture to the murderer, who was still standing motionless in the midst of the Indians who guarded him, he said —
"Commence the punishment."
We will not describe the frightful punishment which was inflicted on the senator; such horrible details are repulsive to our pen. We will restrict ourselves to stating that he was flayed alive, and that all his joints were cut in succession. He suffered indescribable agony for three long hours ere he died. Night had set in during this interval. When the wretched assassin was dead, chosen warriors took their chief's body on their shoulders, and proceeded by the light of torches to the huerta, at the spot where the hacienda hung over the precipice. On reaching this spot the chief's magnificent steed was brought up. On his back his master's corpse was securely tied with deerskin thongs, holding his totem in one hand and his gun in the other; the scalps of his foes were fastened to his saddle-bow, and on his neck and arms were his bead necklaces and copper ornaments. Then, amid the sobs of the squaws, the horse was led to the plateau, where the Papago warriors, mounted and dressed in their war paint, formed a semicircle, whose ends reached the precipice.
Then took place a scene whose savage grandeur could only be compared to the funeral rites performed at the death of the barbarous chiefs during those great national migrations which produced the overthrow of the Roman Empire. By the glare of the torches – whose flames, agitated by the wind, imparted a fantastic aspect to the gloomy and stern landscape in this part of the huerta – the horse was placed in the midst of the semicircle, and the horsemen, brandishing their weapons, struck up their war song with a savage energy. The startled horse bounded on to the plateau, bearing the corpse, to which each of its bounds imparted such an oscillating movement that the rider appeared to be restored to life. On reaching the brink of the precipice the horse recoiled with terror, with flaming nostrils; then, suddenly turning round, it tried to burst the living rampart, which was constantly contracted behind it. Several times the animal renewed the same exertions; but at last, attacked by a paroxysm of terror, pursued by the yells of the Indians, and wounded by their long lances, it rose on its hind legs, uttered a terrible snort, and leaped into the gulf with its burden. At the same moment all the torches were extinguished, the tumult was followed by a mournful silence, and the warriors retired.
On the morrow, at sunrise, the Redskins left the hacienda, to which they did not once return during the whole of the war, which lasted three years. We may possibly some day tell what was the termination of this grand uprising of the Indians, who on several occasions all but deprived the Mexican republic of its finest and richest, provinces.
