Gustave Aimard
The Indian Chief: The Story of a Revolution

CHAPTER XXVI
THE CATASTROPHE

Immediately after the combat a delicious comedy, began between Don Antonio Pavo and General Guerrero. The latter would not listen to any proposition tending to obtain for the French a written capitulation. He confined himself to giving his word of honour as a general officer, that if the arms were surrendered to him at once, all the rebels should have their lives granted them. Don Antonio was constrained to yield to the general's orders. The arms were surrendered, the French made prisoners of war, and locked up.

So soon as night fell, Colonel Suarez, accompanied by four other officers, presented himself at the house of Don Antonio Pavo, demanding, in the name of General Guerrero, that the Count de Prébois Crancé should be immediately handed over to him. Don Antonio hastened to obey by giving the count orders to quit his house. The latter, without replying, contented himself with darting a glance of sovereign contempt at him, and surrendered to the colonel. A quarter of an hour later he was in solitary confinement. Of all the combatants only two had escaped, Valentine and Curumilla, and that was only at the count's peremptory order.

We repeat it here, although the names are changed, and certain facts have, been expressly altered, we are not writing a romance, but the history of a man whose noble character must be dear to all his fellow countrymen. There are, then, certain things which we cannot and ought not to pass over in silence, though frequently in the course of this long narrative we have softened down facts which we felt a repugnance to display in all their horror.

Despite the solemn promise made by Don Antonio Pavo in the presence of all the volunteers, a few days after his illegal arrest the count was told to prepare for trial. The Europeans were aroused by this disloyal act, and several of them went to Don Antonio to remind him of his promise, and incite him to keep it Then Don Antonio asserted that he never made any promise, and that the affair in no way concerned him.

In the meanwhile the preparations for the count's trial were actively pushed on. All the officers of the battalion, including the commandant, were interrogated, and all, with one exception, we are compelled to confess, sought to throw the whole blame of their conduct on the count. Not a single witness for the defence was examined; for what was the use of it? The accused was condemned beforehand.

When the count was arrested he still had in his waist belt the pistols with which he marched into action. General Guerrero ordered that they should be left him. He doubtless hoped that Louis, impelled by despair, would, in a moment of terror, blow out his brains, and thus spare himself the shame of signing the death warrant. But he was not acquainted with the character of his enemy. The count possessed a mind too strongly tried by that touchstone called misfortune to have recourse to suicide, and tarnish the end of his career.

In the meanwhile Valentine had not been inactive. If he had consented to preserve his liberty, it was only in the hope of saving his foster-brother. Two or three days before the count's secret imprisonment was altered, toward evening, the door of his cell opened. He turned his head mechanically to see who entered, uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him. The newcomer was Valentine.

"You – you here!" he said to him. "Oh, thanks for coming!"

"Did you not expect me, brother?" the hunter asked.

"I expected your visit, though I did not dare count on it. You must be exposed to a thousand annoyances, and compelled to conceal yourself?"

"I! Not a bit of it."

"All the better; you cannot imagine how happy I am at seeing you. But who is the person accompanying you?"

In truth, Valentine was not alone; another person had entered the cell with him, and was standing motionless against the door, which the jailer locked again, after introducing the visitors.

"Do not trouble yourself about that person at present," Valentine said; "let us talk about business."

"Be it so: speak."

"You know that you will be condemned to death. I suppose?"

"I presume so."

"Good! Now listen to me, and, above all, do not interrupt me; for time is precious, and we must profit by it. You understand that if I obeyed you when you ordered me to escape, I did so because I suspected in what way affairs would turn. Now the moment for action has arrived. All is prepared for your flight; the jailers are bought – they will not see you quit the prison. I have freighted a vessel. Take your hat, and come. In ten minutes we shall be aboard, in half an hour under sail, and we will leave Mexican justice to deal with you in your absence. Come, I have managed capitally, I think, brother. You see that I have lost no time, and all this is very simple."

"Extremely simple indeed," the count replied with the utmost calmness. "I thank you for what you have done for me."

"Indeed, brother, it is not worth thanking for."

The count laid his hand on his arm to interrupt him.

"But," he continued, "I cannot accept your offer."

"What!" Valentine exclaimed with a start of surprise. "What do you say, brother? You must be jesting."

"Not at all, brother. What I say is the truth. It is my inflexible will to leave to the Mexican people the iniquity of my condemnation, the indelible stain of my death. I will not fly: I cannot – I ought not; for it would be an act of cowardice on my part. A soldier does not abandon his post. A gentleman does not sully his escutcheon. A Frenchman has not the right to dishonour his name. I die for a noble and grand idea – the emancipation and regeneration of a people. That idea required a baptism of blood to make it prosper and bear fruit at a later date. I give it mine without regret – without a thought of self, gladly – I will say almost with happiness. Brother, in a prison thoughts ripen quickly: it is probably because a man is nearer the tomb there, and life appears to him what it really is – a dream. I have thought much. I have reflected deeply. I have weighed with the utmost impartiality the for and against of the two questions, and I prefer death. I knew what you would attempt for me. Your life has been one long devotion; but that devotion must this night accomplish its greatest sacrifice in letting me die, and not attempting to save me. A man like I am must not secure his life by trickery. I pledged my head as the stake in the game I played. I lost, and I pay my debt."

"Brother, brother, do not speak so!" Valentine exclaimed with despair; "you break my heart."

"Reflect, my good Valentine, on the position in which I now stand. I am tried contrary to the law of nations. Hence my position is a fine one; my judges will endure all the disgrace of my condemnation. If I fly, I shall be nothing more than any common adventurer – a pirate, as they call me, prodigal of his companions' blood, and chary of his own. Must I not acquit the debt I have contracted with all my friends, who died to defend my cause? Come, brother, do not try to convince me, for it would be useless. I repeat to you, my resolution cannot be shaken."

"Ah!" Valentine exclaimed again, with an outburst of passion he could not repress, "you are determined to die. But do you reflect that, in dying, you drag down with you to the grave another person? Do you believe that she will consent to live when – "

"Silence!" the count interrupted him in great agitation. "Do not speak to me of her. Poor Angela! Alas! why did she love me?"

"Why!" the person who accompanied Valentine, and had hitherto remained motionless, exclaimed. "Because you are great, Louis; because your heart is immense."

"Oh!" he said with grief, "Angela! Brother, brother, what have you done?"

The hunter made no reply, for he was weeping. His iron nature was broken; the strong man wept like a child.

"Do not reproach him for having brought me, Don Louis. I wished to come – I insisted on accompanying him."

"Alas!" the count replied with an ineffable sadness, "you break my heart, poor darling child. In your presence all my resolution and courage abandon me. Oh! why have you come to revive, by your presence, regrets which nothing will be able to calm again?"

"You are mistaken, Don Louis," she said with febrile energy. "You believe me to be a weak woman, without courage. My love for you is too true and too pure for me ever to advise you to do anything against your honour or your glory. Just now, concealed in that obscure corner, I listened eagerly to your words. I was happy at hearing you speak as you did. I love you, Don Louis, oh, as man never was loved in this world! But I love you for yourself, and not for myself. Your glory is as dear to me as you are. Your memory must remain without a stain, as your life has been unsullied. Don Louis, I, to whom you are all in all, the man for whom I would sacrifice my life if necessary, I have come to say to you, 'Dear count, die nobly, with head erect: fall like a hero! Your memory will be revered as that of a martyr.'"

"Yes, thanks, thanks for saying that to me, Angela," the count said as he pressed her in his arms with passionate energy; "you restore me all my energy."

"And now farewell, count, to meet again soon."

The count went up to Valentine.

"Your hand, brother," he said to him. "Forgive me for not desiring to live."

The hunter threw himself into his brother's arms, and the two remained thus enfolded for several minutes. At length the count liberated himself from this loving prison by a heroic effort. Valentine left the cell, not having the strength to utter a word, and supporting Doña Angela, who, in spite of the courage she had displayed, felt on the point of fainting.

The door closed again, and the count remained alone. He fell back in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands, and remained in this position the whole night through. The next morning, at an early hour, Don Louis was fetched to go to the court. The interrogatory was over, and the pleading was about to begin.

The count had chosen as his defender a young captain of the name of Borunda, who during the siege of Hermosillo had been taken prisoner by the French at the attack on the bridge head. Borunda had remembered the generous manner in which the count had treated him at that period. His pleading was what might be expected from the young and noble officer, simple, pathetic, and imprinted with that eloquence which comes from the heart, and nothing can equal. Assuredly the count would have been acquitted, had not his death been decided beforehand.

Don Louis, who during the entire discussion remained calm and apathetic, listening to the false statements and calumnious imputations of the witnesses without quivering, or addressing a reproach to those ingrates who sacrificed him in this cowardly way, felt affected by his defender's glowing language. He rose and held out his hand to him with inimitable grace.

"Thank you, sir," he said to him. "I am happy at having found a man like yourself among so many enemies. Your pleading was as it should be, and money will not repay such words."

Then, drawing from his finger the ring bearing his coat of arms, which he had always worn since leaving France, he passed it on to the captain's finger, adding, —

"Accept this ring, and keep it in remembrance of me."

The captain pressed his hand, but could not reply.⁹

The judges retired to deliberate. They returned at the expiration of five minutes. Count Louis de Prébois Crancé, unanimously found guilty, was condemned to be shot. The sworn interpreter of the court was then called on by the president to translate the sentence to the condemned; but then a strange incident occurred. This interpreter rose and addressed the court.

"No, gentlemen," he said resolutely; "I will not translate this unjust sentence, which you will soon regret having pronounced."

This energetic protest abashed the judges for an instant. The interpreter was discharged on the spot. He was a Spaniard.

"Gentlemen," the count then said with the greatest coolness, "I understand your language sufficiently well to know that you have condemned me to death. May Heaven pardon you, as I do!"

He bowed to the judges with a smile, and withdrew as calm as he entered.

The count was immediately placed in capilla. It is the fashion in Spain and all Southern America for men condemned to death to be placed in a room, at one end of which is an altar. Near the bed stands the coffin in which the body of the condemned will be laid after the execution. The walls are hung with black cloth, on which silver tears and mournful inscriptions are sewn. This custom, which is very cruel in our opinion, and is evidently a relic of the barbarous medieval times, is probably intended to imbue the condemned with religious ideas.

The count was in no way influenced by these mournful trappings, but employed himself with the utmost tranquillity in setting his affairs in order. The very day he was put in capilla Valentine entered his cell, followed by Father Seraphin. He was the priest he would most certainly have sent for to console him in his last moments, had he known where to find him; but Valentine thought of everything. By his orders Curumilla went on the search, and the worthy Indian soon discovered the missionary, who, on learning the nature of the case, hastened to follow him.

Still the condemnation of the count had produced an extraordinary emotion. While the cívicos and other bandits of the town indulged in indecent joy, parading the streets with bands of music at their head, the upper classes and sound portion of the population displayed extreme sorrow. They spoke of nothing less than preventing the execution of the sentence, and for some hours General Guerrero trembled lest his victim should escape him.

The Vice-Consul of the United States, indignant at this unjust sentence, but not having the power to act officially, proceeded to Don Antonio Pavo with the hope of inducing him to act energetically, and save the count. Don Antonio refused. While protesting the sorrow he felt, nothing could make him recall his refusal.

Still Don Antonio understood that he could not refrain from paying a visit to the count. Valentine was with him, as well as Father Seraphin. The hunter had obtained leave to remain with his foster brother till the last moment. The count received Don Antonio with an icy face. He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders in contempt when the latter tried to exculpate himself, and alleviate all that was reprehensible in his conduct. The count handed him several papers, and, interrupting him roughly in the midst of a very involved sentence, in which he was trying to prove how innocent he was of all imputed to him, said dryly, —

"Listen to me, sir. I am willing, if it is of any use to you, to give you a letter, in which I acknowledge that your conduct toward me was always irreproachable; but on one condition – "

"What is it, sir?" he asked eagerly.

"I do not wish to be shot on my knees, and with my eyes bandaged. You understand me, sir? I want to look death in the face. Go and arrange that with the governor."

"That favour shall be granted you, I can assure you, sir," he answered, delighted at having been let off so easily.

He went out and kept his word. What did the count's enemies care whether he fell standing or on his knees, with eyes bandaged or not? Their great object was that he should be dead. Still General Guerrero profited by this opportunity to appear generous at a small cost.

The next day but one Valentine brought Doña Angela with him: the maiden had donned that monk's robe which she had already worn under critical circumstances.

"Is it for today?" the count asked.

"Yes," Valentine answered.

Louis took his foster-brother on one side.

"Swear to me to protect that child when I am no longer here to do so."

"I swear it!" Valentine said in a broken voice.

Doña Angela heard the words. She smiled sadly as she wiped away a tear.

"Now, brother, there is another oath I must obtain from you."

"Speak, brother."

"Swear to do what I ask you, whatever it may be."

Valentine looked at his foster-brother: he saw such anxiety depicted on his face that he let his eyes fall.

"I swear it!" he said in a hollow voice.

He had guessed what Don Louis was about to demand of him.

"I do not wish you to avenge me. Believe me, brother, God will take that vengeance on Himself, and sooner or later punish my enemies in a more terrible manner than you can do. Do you promise to obey me?"

"You have my word, brother," the hunter answered.

"Thanks! Now let me say good-by to this poor girl."

And he walked toward Doña Angela, who advanced to meet him. We will not describe their conversation. They forgot everything during an hour to live an age of joy by isolating themselves, and speaking heart to heart. Suddenly a loud noise was heard outside, the door of the capilla opened, and Colonel Suarez appeared.

"I am at your orders, colonel," the count said, not giving the other time to speak.

He passed his fingers for the last time through his moustache, smoothed his hair, took up his Panama straw hat, which he held in his hand, and after taking a melancholy glance around, went out.

Father Seraphin walked on his right; Doña Angela, with the hood over her head, on his left. Valentine came next, tottering like a drunken man, in spite of all the efforts he made, with haggard eyes, and face bathed in tears. There was something heart-rending in the aspect of this man, with the energetic features and bronzed face, a prey to such grief, which was the more profound because it was silent.

It was six in the morning, the sun had just risen, the dawn was magnificent, the atmosphere was filled with perfume, nature seemed rejoicing, and a man full of life, health, and intellect was about to die – die brutally, struck by unworthy foemen.

An immense crowd covered the place of execution, and the troops were drawn up in battle array. General Guerrero, in full uniform, glistening with precious stones, appeared at the head of the troops.

The count walked slowly, talking with the missionary, and from time to time addressing a word to the heroic girl, who refused to abandon him at this supreme hour. He held his hat before his face to protect him from the sunbeams, and fanned himself carelessly. On reaching the execution ground he stopped, went in the direction of the firing party, threw his hat on the ground, and waited.

An officer read his sentence. When this was over, the count affectionately embraced the missionary, did the same to Valentine, and whispered in his ear, —

"Remember!"

"Yes," the latter said in an inarticulate voice.

Then came the turn of Doña Angela. They remained for a long time in a close embrace, and then separated as if by mutual agreement.

"Though separated on the earth, we shall soon be united in heaven. Courage, my beloved!" she said with exaltation.

He replied to her with a smile which had nothing earthly about it.

Father Seraphin and Valentine fell back about fifteen paces, knelt down on the ground, and folded their hands in prayer. Doña Angela, with the cowl still over her face, placed herself only a few paces from the general, who watched all the preparations for the execution with a triumphant smile.

The count looked around him to assure himself that his friends had retired, took a step forward nearer the firing party, from which he was only eight yards, and laying his hands behind his hack, with head erect, a smile on his lips, and a resolute glance, he called out in a clear, impressive voice, —

"Come, my brave fellows, do your duty! Aim at the heart!"

Then a strange event occurred. The officer stammered as he gave the order to fire; and the soldiers, firing one after the other, did not hit the sufferer.

"Enough of this, caray!" the general shouted.

The soldiers reloaded their muskets, and the order to fire was given once more. A discharge burst forth like thunder, and the count fell with his face to the earth.

He was dead: progress counted one martyr more!

"Farewell, father," a voice cried in the general's ear. "I keep my promise."

Don Sebastian turned in terror, for he had recognised his daughter's voice.

Doña Angela had fallen to the ground. Her father rushed toward her. It was too late; he only pressed a corpse in his arms. His punishment had already commenced.

The count had scarce fallen ere Valentine rushed toward him, followed by the missionary.

"Let no one approach the body!" he said in a voice which made the bravest recoil, and kneeling on his right, while the missionary placed himself on the left, he prayed.

Curumilla had disappeared.

Those who tell us that the Count de Prébois Crancé was an adventurer, I will merely ask what Hernando Cortez was on the day before the fall of Mexico?

In politics, as in everything else, the end justifies the means, and success is only the consecration of genius.