'Who mixed this drink?' I enquire, after taking a sip of it.

'La mama mixed it,' replies Perpetua.

Has the old hag added some infernal drug to the refreshment? I wonder; for there is something besides guanabana in the libation!

While I am speculating about this, lo! a strange odour is wafted into the little chamber, and presently some smoke is seen to issue from an aperture in the door.

Is the house on fire? Perpetua is again summoned by Dona Choncha; but before leaving the apartment she begs me not to be alarmed, as it is only her mother at her duties. I would willingly believe what she says, but being sufficiently familiar with the process of drying tobacco leaves, I am convinced that sulphur, hair, mustard, and heaven knows what besides, are not employed in it. The fumes of these burning substances are, however, entering the apartment, and the atmosphere is most oppressive—so much so, that my pulse beats high, and my head begins to swim.

Without waiting another moment, I seize my walking-stick and panama hat, and escape from the enchanted chamber into the street. The hot air does not dispel the giddy feeling which had come over me, and not until I have reached my well-ventilated abode, changed my damp linen, and sponged my fevered body with 'aguardiente' and water, do I feel myself again. I am better still after having taken a refreshing siesta in my swinging hammock, in which condition I dream of black pins, burnt hair, raw mustard, and sulphur. When I awake, I examine carefully the lining of my panama, and the ferule end of my walking-stick, to satisfy myself that no burglarious bruja has taken advantage of my repose to tamper with my property. But whether it is that my stick and hat are of no great value, or that the defences of our studio are impregnable, no bruja has offered to take 'charge' of these things by labelling them with their infernal tickets.

My partner, to whom I record the events of the day, is of opinion that if all models are as difficult to secure as La Perpetua, we had better abandon our researches in this direction, and abide by our street criers and mendicants. He also suggests a little landscape-painting by way of variety, and, with this object in view, we plan certain walking expeditions into the surrounding country. What subjects for landscape pictures we meet with, and whether or not we are more successful in our quest after inanimate nature, will be told in another chapter.



CHAPTER VIII.

A TASTE OF CUBAN PRISON-LIFE.

Two Views of the Morro Castle—The Commandant—The Town Jail—Cuban Policemen—Prisoners—A Captive Indian—Prison Fare—A Court of Justice—A Trial—A Verdict.

I dream that I am Silvio Pellico, that the prisoner of St. Helena is my fellow-captive, and that an apartment belonging to the Spanish Inquisition is our dormitory. Clasps of iron eat their way into our ankles and wrists; gigantic rats share our food; our favourite exercise is swinging head downwards in the air, and our chief recreation is to watch the proceedings of tame spiders.

I awake and find my bed unusually hard. My bed-clothes have vanished, and in their stead are a couple of hard benches, with my wearing apparel rolled up for a pillow. By a dim light I observe that my apartment is remarkably small, bare, damp, and dome-shaped. The window is a barred aperture in the door; is only a foot square, and looks on to the patio, or narrow passage, where unlimited wall stares me in the face. Do I still dream, or is this actually one of 'le mie prigioni'? I rub my eyes for a third time, and look about the semi-darkened vault. Somebody is snoring. I gaze in the direction whence the sound proceeds, and observe indistinctly an object huddled together in a corner. So, this is no dream, after all; and that heap of sleeping humanity is not Napoleon, but my companion, Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu.

We are both shut up in one of the subterranean dungeons of the Morro Castle; not the Havana Morro, but the fortress at Santiago de Cuba, alluded to by Tom Cringle.

Why are we here?

What were we doing yesterday afternoon?

Well; we were taking a seven miles walk to the Morro Castle, the picturesque neighbourhood of which we had not yet visited, and as the grounds attached to the fortress are always open to the public, we proposed a quiet evening saunter over them.

We had a negro with us, an old and faithful vassal, who at the present moment is enjoying solitary confinement in another part of the fortress. We reached the castle grounds, where a group of Spanish 'militares' were seated. We gave them the 'Buenas tardes:' they returned our salute, and their chief, who was no less a personage than the commandant of the Morro, offered us refreshment, and permitted us to wander about the grounds. In our ramble we paused here and there to admire the picturesque 'bits' of scenery which, at every turn of a winding road, broke upon our view. By a narrow path cut in the grey rock we descended to the sea-shore, and stood before the entrance of the Cuban harbour. We watched the French packet as she steamed into port on her way to the town, and saw the gun fired which announced her arrival. The steamer was so near, that we could scan the faces of everybody on board, and hear enthusiastic congratulations on their safe arrival after their tedious voyage. The skipper conferred with the Morro guard. What was the ship's name? Where did she hail from? Who was her captain? Where was she bound for? A needless demand, I thought, seeing that there is no water navigable beyond the town; but it was in strict conformity with Spanish regulations.

As evening advanced, we prepared to return to our temporary home, where a good dinner doubtless awaited us, with a cup of cafe noir to follow, and correspondence—ah! my friends never missed a mail—to open and to devour.

'Alto alla!' The ominous command to halt where we stood, still rings in my ear. A party of soldiers, with pointed muskets and fixed bayonets, ran with all speed in our direction.

'Car-amba!' Were we the object of their precipitation? We were!

They conducted us to an eminence, where stood a podgy, high-shouldered, short-necked man with a squeaky interrogative voice and gold spectacles. This was the commandant. Without explanation, that officer, in brief words, ordered us to be arrested.

The soldiers obeyed. They bandaged our eyes with handkerchiefs. They led us along hollow-sounding alleys; beneath echoing archways; down scores of stone steps; through mouldy passages. Lower yet, where a strong flavour of cooking assailed our sense of smell. A couple more downward flights, and then we paused—heard a jingling of big keys—an opening of ponderous doors—and here we were.

Here, in a subterranean vault, I know not how many feet below sunlight. The air is close and vaporous; the domed chamber is damp and musty. They have divested us of all our portable property save a few cigarettes which we have secreted in a dark corner, and there is nothing to be had in the way of refreshment for love or money.

Yes, for money. I have bribed the sentinel, who occasionally eclipses our square of window, with all my ready cash, and he has brought us contraband cups of weak coffee. Will he treat our dark domestic as well? We try him, and find that he won't.

What's o'clock? We have no means of ascertaining this, as Phoebus, who might have suggested the time of day, is a long way out of sight. Our sentinel says it is early morning.

Hark! A sound of many footsteps; a rattling of arms and keys. Enter our military jailer with a dozen soldiers to release us from our present quarters. Our eyes are bandaged as before, and after passing up several flights of steps in another direction, our sight is restored: the scene changes, and we are discovered, like the Prince of Denmark, upon another part of the platform. Our faithful vassal is with us, looking as much like a ghost as it is possible for a negro to appear. They have tied his arms behind him with cords, and serve us in the same manner; while eight soldiers encircle us at respectful distances, and deliberately proceed to load their weapons. The negro trembles with affright, and falls on his knees. Misericordia! they are going to shoot us, he thinks; for he is ignorant of the Spanish custom of loading in the presence of the prisoner before escorting him from one jail to another.

To another? Santo Dios! Then we are prisoners still? I think of the victim of Santa Margherita and his many prisons, and begin to wonder how many years of incarceration we shall experience.

'En marcha!' Eight 'militares' and a sergeant place us in their midst, and in this way we march to town, a distance of seven miles. Our sergeant proves to be more humane than his superior, and on the uneven road pauses to screw up cigarettes for us, and, in consideration of our helpless condition, even places them in our mouths.

It is Sunday morning, and when we reach the town all good Catholics have been to high mass, and are parading the narrow thoroughfare dressed in fashionable attire. Crowds gather around us and speculate as to the particular crime we are guilty of; and, to tell the truth, our appearance is by no means respectable. Have we shot the commandant? Undermined the Morro? Poisoned the garrison? Have we headed a negro conspiracy, or joined a gang of pirates? Friends whom we recognise on our way endeavour to interrogate us, but are interrupted by the sergeant. We halt before the governor's house; but his excellency is not yet out of bed, and may not be disturbed. So we proceed to the town jail, where everybody is stirring and where they are happy to see us, and receive us with open doors. A dozen policemen, dressed in brown-holland coats, trimmed with yellow braid and silver buttons, with panama hats, revolvers, and short Roman swords, are seated on benches at the prison entrance. Passing them, we are hurried into a white-washed chamber, where a frowning functionary, in brown-holland and silver lace, with a panama on his head, and a long cigar in his mouth, sits at a desk scribbling something on stamped paper. He pauses to examine and peruse a large letter which our sergeant hands him, and which contains a statement of our arrest, with full particulars of our misdeeds. The document is folded in official fashion, is written, regardless of economy, with any quantity of margin, and is terminated by a tremendous signature, accompanied by an elaborate flourish, which occupies exactly half a page. The gentleman in brown-holland casts a look of suspicion at us, and directs a couple of policemen to search us, 'registrar' us, as he calls it, which they accordingly do; but nothing that we could dispense with is found on our persons, except the grime upon our hands and faces, and a pearl button, which has strayed during the journey, and somehow found its way into my boot.

Nothing further being required of us for the present, we are conducted into the centre of the jail to an extensive court-yard, where a crowd of prisoners of all shades and castes lie basking in the sun. We are led to one of the galleries which surround the patio, our arms are untied, and we are introduced into three different chambers.

The apartment alloted to me is spacious and airy enough, and has a huge barred window that overlooks the main thoroughfare. In these respects, at least, my quarters resemble an ordinary Cuban parlour in a private house. But the only articles of furniture are a couple of hard benches and a straw mattress; and although a Cuban parlour has a barred window, a brick floor, and white-washed walls, it has also a few cane-bottomed chairs, an elegant mirror, and a gas chandelier.

The prison in which I am confined was originally a convent, and now it is not only devoted to the use of malefactors, but also accommodates mad people, whose shrieks and wild laughter I occasionally hear.

From my window I can see into the private houses opposite, where ladies are swaying and fanning themselves in 'butacas,' or rocking-chairs, while half a dozen naked white and black children play in an adjacent room. Friends passing along the street recognise me; but I may not converse with them, or the sentry below will inform, and I shall be removed to a more secluded part of the stronghold.

I am not alone. My chamber is occupied by a native Indian, whose origin is distinguishable by his lank, jet-black hair, his gipsy-like complexion, and finely-cut nostrils. He is neither tattooed, nor does he wear feathers, beads or animals' hides; but with the exception of his face and hands (which are very dirty) he has all the appearance of a civilized being.

The Indian has been himself arrested on suspicion, but his trial has been postponed for many weary months, and he is at present quite ignorant of the charge on which he may stand accused. Having no friends to intercede for him, or golden doubloons wherewith to convince the authorities of his innocence, the poor fellow is afraid things will go hard with him.

The Indian is eloquent on the subjects of slavery and Spanish rule, both of which he warmly denounces. He is careful to remind me, that although he speaks the Spanish language, and is governed by Spanish laws, he is no more a Spaniard than is an American an Englishman. There is something in common between these nationalities, he says, whereas between a Cuban and a Spaniard there is a very wide gulf!

My patriotic friend gets so excited over these and other favourite topics that, afraid of the consequences of his conversation, I propose a smoke.

'What!' he exclaims, approaching me in what seems a threatening attitude. 'Is it possible that you have any tobacco, and that you are going to smoke some here?'

Lest the Indian should be no smoker himself and dislike the odour of tobacco, I tell him that if he objects, I will postpone my harmless whiff until after captivity.

He does object; but after contemplating my scanty supply of cigarettes as I restore them to my pocket, he observes with a sigh:

'I was once an inveterate smoker!'

'Till you very wisely gave up the vice,' I add.

'No!' says he, 'I did not give it up. It was my accursed captors who withheld it from me. I have not smoked for many long months, and I would often give ten years of my life for one little cigarette!'

'Try one of mine,' I suggest, extracting the packet again which alas! contains my last four.

'Gracias; no,' he replies, 'I shall be depriving you, and you will find cigarettes scarce in these quarters!'

'If you are a true Cuban,' I observe, 'you will remember that it is next to an insult to refuse a man's tobacco. Besides, if you object to my indulging in the luxury upon the plea that the delicious perfume is unendurable in another, both of us will be deprived of the pleasure!'

'You are right,' says the Indian, 'then I will take just one.'

So saying, he accepts the little paper squib which I offer, and carefully divides the contents into two equal parts; explaining, as he does so, how he intends to reserve one half of the tobacco for another occasion.

While thus engaged I am reminded of the awful fact that I have no means of igniting our cigarettes. When I mention this unfortunate circumstance to my companion, he smiles triumphantly, and after placing his ear to the door in melodramatic fashion, proceeds to raise a particular brick in the floor of our apartment under which at least half a dozen matches are concealed.

'These matches,' he remarks, 'have been treasured in that hole ever since I came to lodge in this jail.'

'Have you resided here long?' I inquire.

'It has appeared long to me,' he answers, 'eighteen months, more or less; but I have no record of the date.'

'You must have found the hours hang heavily on you,' I remark, 'or, maybe, you have a hobby like the political prisoners one reads of. You have a favorite flower somewhere? Or, perhaps, you are partial to spiders?'

'There are plenty of gigantic spiders here,' he replies, 'together with centipedes and scorpions; but whenever one of those reptiles crosses my path—I kill it!'

When my fellow-captive learns my nationality, his surprise and pleasure are very great.

'I like the English and Americans,' says he, 'and I would become one or the other to-morrow, if it were possible.'

'You are very kind to express so much esteem for my countrymen,' I say.

'It is not so much your countrymen,' he says, 'as your free country with its just and humane laws, which every Cuban admires and covets.'

I remind him that, under existing circumstances, I am no better off than he is, though to be sure as a British subject, my consul, who resides in Santiago, will doubtless see me righted.

The Indian is, however, of a different opinion. He assures me that my nationality will avail me nothing if I have no interest with some of the Spanish officials. He gives me instances to prove how it is often out of the power of a consul to assist a compatriot in difficulties.

'Not long since,' says my friend, 'a marine from your country, being intoxicated, and getting mixed up in a street brawl, was arrested and locked up with a crowd of insubordinate coolies and Spanish deserters. His trial was, as usual, postponed. In the meanwhile, the jail had become overcrowded by the arrival of some wounded soldiers from San Domingo, and your countryman was shipped off with others to another prison at Manzanillo, where he was entered on the list of convicts, and has never been heard of since.'

'In this very jail,' continues the Indian, 'are a couple of American engineers, both of whom stand accused of being concerned in a negro conspiracy, and who have been locked up here for the last six months. They are ignorant of the Spanish language, have mislaid their passports, and have been denied a conference with their consul, who is, of course, unaware of their incarceration.'

I make a mental note of this last case, with a view to submit it to the proper authority as soon as I shall be able to do so.

My attention is presently arrested by a sound which reminds me of washing, for in Cuba this operation is usually performed by placing the wet linen on a flat board, and belabouring it with a smooth stone or a heavy roller. My companion smiles when I give him my impression of the familiar sounds, and he tells me that white linen is not the object of the beating, but black limbs! An unruly slave receives his castigation at the jail when it is found inconvenient to perform the operation under his master's roof. No inquiry into the offence is made by the officers of justice; the miscreant is simply ordered twenty-five or fifty lashes, as the case may be, by his accuser, who acts also as his jury, judge, and occasionally—executioner!

Whilst listening to the unfortunate's groans and appeals for mercy, I watch the proceedings of a chain-gang of labourers, some twenty of whom have left the jail for the purpose of repairing a road in an adjacent street. They are dressed in canvas suits, numbered and lettered on the back, and wear broad-brimmed straw-hats. Each man smokes, and makes a great rattling of his chains as he assists in drawing along the heavy trucks and implements for work. A couple of armed soldiers and three or four prison-warders accompany the gang; the former to keep guard, the latter to superintend the labour. Some of the prisoners sell hats, fans, toys, and other articles of their own manufacture as they go along. One of these industrious gentlemen has entered, chains and all, into a private house opposite, and while he stands bargaining with a highly respectable white, his keeper sits, like Patience, on the doorstep smoking a cigar.

I withdraw from the window to meet my jailer, who has brought—not my freedom? no; my food. It is the first meal I have tasted for many long hours, and I am prepared to relish it though it be but a banana and Catalan wine.

These are, however, the least items in the princely fare which the jailer has brought. The whitest of tablecloths is removed from the showiest of trays, and discloses a number of small tureens, in which fish, flesh, and fowl have been prepared in a variety of appetising ways. Besides these are a square cedar-box of guava preserves, a pot of boiling black coffee, a bundle of the best Ti Arriba cigars, and a packet of Astrea cigarettes; all served on the choicest china. This goodly repast cometh from La Senora Mercedes, under whose hospitable roof I have lodged and fed for many months. Dona Mercedes has heard of our captivity, and, without making any enquiry into the nature of our misdemeanour, has instantly despatched one of her black domestics with the best breakfast she can prepare.

The Indian assures me that the admittance into jail of such a collation augurs well. I have doubtless friends who are using their influence with the officials in my behalf, and, in short, he considers my speedy release a certainty.

'Usted gusta?' I invite my companion to share the good things, but he excuses himself by saying that, with his present prospects, he would rather not recall the feeling of a good meal. He, however, partakes of some of my coffee, the odour of which is far too savoury for his self-denial, and helps me with the tobacco.

Breakfast over, I take a siesta on half the furniture, and after a few hours' delicious oblivion am awakened by the jailer, who comes with the welcome news that the court is sitting, and that my presence is required.

'Imprisoned and tried on the same day!' exclaims my Indian friend. 'Then,' says he, 'I may well wish you adieu for ever!'

A Cuban court of justice, broadly described, consists of two old men, a deal table, a bottle of ink, and a boy. One of the elders is the alcalde mayor, an awful being, invested with every kind of administrative power; the other functionary is his escribano, or legal man-of-all-work, who dispenses Spanish law upon the principle of 'French without a master.' He professes to teach prisoners their fate in one easy lesson, without the interposition of either counsel or jury. None but those immediately concerned in the case are admitted into the tribune; so that the prisoner, who is frequently the only party interested, has the court, so to speak, all to himself!

The chamber into which I am ushered on the present occasion has very much the appearance of a schoolroom during the holidays. The walls are white-washed, and half a dozen short forms lie in disorder about the brick floor. At one end of the apartment is a yellow map of the Antilles; at the other is hung a badly painted oil portrait of her Catholic Majesty Isabella, with a soiled coat-of-arms of Castile above her, and a faded Spanish banner half concealing her royal countenance. Beneath this trophy, on a raised platform, is seated the prison magistrate, or fiscal, as he is called. Before him is a cedar-wood table, with a bottle of ink, a glass of blotting sand and a quire of stamped paper. On his right is an escribano and a couple of interpreters, whose knowledge of the English language I afterwards find to be extremely limited. On his left is seated my captive companion Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu. Everybody present, including a couple of brown-holland policemen at the door, is smoking, which has a sociable air, and inspires me with confidence. Upon my appearance in court everybody rises; the fiscal politely offers me a cigar and a seat on the bench.

As a matter of form—for my Spanish is by no means unintelligible—I am examined through the medium of an interpreter, who makes a terrible hash of my replies. He talks of the 'foots of my friend's negro,' and the 'commandant's, officers', sergeant's relations,' by which I infer that the learned linguist has never overcome the fifth lesson of his Ollendorff. It is accordingly found necessary to conduct the rest of the inquiry in good Castilian.

A great case has been made out against us by the commandant, who represents us in his despatch as spies in league with any quantity of confederates. A pocket-book full of nefarious notes and significant scratches has been found upon me: together with a four-bladed penknife, a metallic corkscrew, a very black lead-pencil, and an ink-eraser! In the commandant's opinion the said notes are, without doubt, private observations on the mysteries of the Morro, and the scratches are nothing more nor less than topographical plans of the fortifications.

Absurd and improbable as the commandant's story may appear, it would have had great weight against us with the fiscal, and considerably protracted the period of our release, were it not for the fact that the fiscal is on intimate terms with my companion's family. This fortunate circumstance, aided by the laudable efforts of my consul, who works wonders with his excellency the governor, enables us to be set at liberty without further delay. There is, however, some difficulty in the case of our black attendant, whom the authorities would still keep in bondage, out of compliment to stern justice; but we intercede for him, and he accompanies us from jail.

Crowds of people await outside and escort us to our studio, where dear old Don Benigno, his amiable senora and family, welcome us with joy. Wherever we go, we are lionised and loaded with congratulations and condolence. A kind of patriotic sentiment is mixed up with the public sympathy; Spanish rule being extremely distasteful to a Cuban, and any opportunity for expressing his disgust of an incompetent ruler being hailed by him with delight. All our Cuban friends—and, to say the truth, many of the Spaniards themselves—are unanimous in their disapproval of the commandant's conduct.

But I have not yet done with the commandant, as will be seen in another chapter.



CHAPTER IX.

A WEST INDIAN EPIDEMIC.

A Cuban Physician and his Patient—A Nightmare—A Mystery—A Cure—By the Sad Sea Waves—A Cuban Watering-place—Lobster-hunting—Another View of the Morro Castle—What 'Dios sabe' means.

Not many days after the events recorded in the last chapter, I am on a sick couch.

What is the nature of my infirmity? Neither I nor my companion can tell. Don Benigno, who comes to offer me his condolences, attributes the cause of my complaint to confinement in the close, vaporous dungeon of the Morro Castle, and his medical adviser, Don Francisco, who is summoned to my bed-side, confirms Don Benigno's opinion, adding, that the sudden transition from a damp atmosphere to the heat of a tropical sun may have contributed to produce my disorder.

After examining me in the usual way, the physician inquires whether my head throbs without aching; whether I am troubled with certain pains in my joints and across my loins, and whether I feel altogether as if I had been confined several weeks to my bed.

Marvelling much at the doctor's penetration, I reply that the symptoms he described exactly correspond with those which I experience. In short; Don Francisco is perfectly acquainted with the nature of my malady. Strange to say, however, he does not venture to give it a name, and stranger still, he leads my partner into our studio, where with closed doors both converse like a couple of assassins conspiring against my life. What passes between them is not revealed to me, but after the doctor's departure, my companion assures me I have only caught a severe cold, and that if I remain 'under cover,' I shall be perfectly well in six days.

Why in six days? While pondering much over this, a strange heat oppresses me; my head throbs more than ever; my pains increase, and to add to my discomfiture, Nicasio, together with Don Benigno and our black attendant, suddenly begin to dance furiously around my 'catre,' terminating their wild gyrations by vanishing between the bars of the grated window!

My friends were doubtless afraid of the commandant of the Morro and her Majesty's British consul; for these gentlemen have entered the apartment and established themselves on either side of my catre. The commandant, claiming me for his prisoner, again attempts to carry me off to the Morro Castle, but my consul envelopes me in an enormous Union Jack, and declaring that I am a British subject, dares the Spanish officer to lay a finger on me. The commandant now draws his sword—a weapon of such monstrous length that it cannot be conveniently unsheathed without detaching the scabbard from the belt from which it depends. The consul in turn exhibits a mighty scroll of parchment, which takes as long to unroll as the officer's sabre takes to unsheath. Meanwhile I watch the combatants in agonising suspense, till the chamber becomes suddenly dark. But, after a painful pause, daylight appears, and to my unspeakable relief I find that my formidable visitors have vanished, and that I am alone with Nicasio.

My companion smiles and tells me that I have been talking in my sleep. In other words, that I have been delirious.

Now that we are alone, I press my partner to reveal to me the true cause of my complaint; for, in spite of his previous assertion, I am more than ever convinced that the truth is being concealed from me. But Nicasio cannot be persuaded, neither does he explain why he mentioned six days as the period for my convalescence.

On the fifth day, I am considerably worse than I was before. A feeling of utter prostration accompanied by an inordinate thirst comes over me. This is followed by a sensation as of sea-sickness and overpowering lassitude. I am parched with thirst, but I have neither strength to express my want in words nor to indicate it by suitable gestures. Some refreshing draught is, however, placed to my lips, which I swallow greedily; at the same time my head is relieved by the application of 'vejicatorios,' or blisters, to the soles of my feet. More than half my medical advisers prescribe bleeding, but Don Francisco will not hear of it, and from first to last this expedient is never adopted.

My deplorable condition is not improved by a thought which suggests itself from the hue of my hands, which I perceive for the first time are saffron-coloured.

Santo Dios! Can this be the yellow fever?

The yellow fever it is; though for some mysterious reason the secret is carefully kept from me to the last.

Yes: I have the 'fiebre amarilla:' but, thank God, not the 'vomito negro,' or black vomit, which is the worst form of the yellow fever, and in nine cases out of ten proves fatal. To-morrow my troubles will be over, provided that the night is passed tranquilly; but should there be the least indication of a relapse before daylight—well; the fact would not be recorded by me!

To say that my beloved companion never for an instant leaves my bed-side until the critical moment has passed; or that good old Don Benigno provides for my wants, and consults at least six different doctors, who come at prescribed hours to tap me on the chest, probe me in the ribs, and press my pulse; to say that Dona Mercedes proves the best and kindest of nurses and most sympathetic of friends; and that even the loquacious Tunicu, together with a host of acquaintances, makes kind enquiries after my daily progress, and offers to provide a shopful of dainties—is to say that the attentions which I receive from strangers in a foreign country are all that my dearest relatives at home could desire.

Having passed the night of the fifth day tranquilly, I awake on the morning of the memorable sixth, in a perfect state of health. All my pains have disappeared as if by magic: my head ceases to throb; my body is delightfully cool, and I am otherwise so convalescent that were it not for my doctor's strict injunctions, I should arise, dress, and betake myself to the nearest restaurant. But my West Indian physician administers to my wants in easy stages. I am allowed to sit in a rocking chair near the window with closed shutters, but I may not wash, neither may I brush my hair, nor breathe a new atmosphere for several days to come. From the mildest nourishment in the way of sugar panales and water, I am gradually introduced to more solid food, and at least a week elapses before Don Francisco approves of Don Benigno's proposal to recruit his patient's health at the sea-side.

Now that the crisis is over, I learn that the greatest fears had been entertained for my recovery; that six out of the seven doctors, who had considered my case, had pronounced it hopeless. I was an Englishman, they said, and my countrymen had the reputation for indulging rather freely in stimulants—above all in malt liquors, and these stimulants were fatal to a constitution when attacked by yellow fever. But Don Francisco, who had carefully interrogated me on my past, which he found greatly belied his brother practitioners' conjectures, was more sanguine of the cure, and now that I am free from danger, he pronounces me 'acclimatised,' and as unlikely to experience another attack of the same epidemic as the natives of Cuba themselves. He, however, warns me of 'tercianas' or intermittent fevers which occasionally succeed yellow fever, and which are consequent on intemperate habits and undue exposure to the sun.

Accepting Don Benigno's generous invitation to pass a few weeks with him, his family and a few friends at a watering place, I take leave of Nicasio for the first time, and become Don Benigno's guest once more. Our destination is La Socapa, a small fishing village three miles distant from town. The only way to reach La Socapa (which is situated at the narrow entrance of the Cuban Bay, and faces the Morro Castle which stands on the opposite bank) is by water. We therefore hire a heavy boat, and after an hour's sail along the sinuous harbour, we are landed at La Socapa.

There are no 'apartments to let' at this favourite watering-place. When a Cuban gentleman proposes to rusticate with his family at this locality, he hires an empty house and fits it up with some furniture brought by his slaves from his residence in town. Not more than a dozen cottages are available as lodging-houses at La Socapa; the village being occupied by fishermen and their families. Don Benigno's temporary abode is isolated from the village and stands on an eminence looking seawards. It is a single-storied habitation and provides the usual accommodations of a Cuban country-house.

There are no bathing machines at La Socapa. Those who are inclined for a dip in the sea betake themselves to secluded spots on the coast, and disrobe themselves behind rocks and bushes. 'Tiburones,' or sharks, occasionally visit this neighbourhood, and as these voracious creatures have a strange partiality for human limbs, the bathers are careful not to venture beyond certain stones which have been placed for the purpose of keeping out the greedy invaders.

Sometimes we indulge in a little fishing off the banks of the harbour, or the gentlemen of our party take their sporting guns to an adjacent wood where wild pigeons, partridges, quails and guinea-fowl abound. This sport may be varied by a hunt after wild deer, small specimens of which are to be obtained in these parts. Our favourite evening amusement is lobster-hunting. For this sport, a big barge is procured, and, after having been furnished with carpets and rugs for the ladies' accommodation, we proceed to navigate the shores and creeks of the harbour. Three or four black fishermen accompany us and bear long torches of wood, by the light of which the ground beneath the shallow water is visible. Our prey is secured by throwing a net, in the meshes of which the lobster becomes entangled; but should this prove ineffectual, a long pole forked at one end is thrust over the creature's hard back, and as he struggles to free himself from the pronged embrace, a nimble negro dives into the water and captures him alive. Great excitement prevails when a lobster comes on board, and bounds among our crew and passengers. Having brought provisions with us, we 'make a night' of this molluscular expedition, and keep up the convivialities till two or three o'clock, A.M.

One of the liveliest of our party is a young Spanish officer, whom everybody addresses as Manuel. Manuel is engaged to Don Benigno's eldest daughter, Paquita, a young lady of fourteen tropical summers, who, however, has the appearance of a senorita of sweet seventeen. I am on terms of the closest friendship with the young officer, for it was partly through his intercession with the authorities that Nicasio and I obtained our release from captivity.

One day, after attiring himself in his regimentals, Don Manuel proposes a visit to the Morro Castle, and invites me to accompany him, assuring me that under his trusty escort there will be no danger of arrest. We accordingly hire a small canoe, and after rowing across the narrow harbour, land at one of the forts of the formidable fortress.

The officer's uniform is an all-powerful pass wherever we go. It enables us to land, to pass the various sentries, who touch their caps respectfully as we approach, and finally to reach the commandant's private dwelling in the very heart of the stronghold.

El senor comandante is at home, and invites us in. He is delighted to see his young friend the captain, and charmed to form the acquaintance of the captain's companion. He does not recognise me in the least, and satisfied of that fact, I accept his pressing invitation to lunch with himself and officers.

After coffee and cigars, our host offers to show us the secrets of his prison-house. This time my eyes are not bandaged, and I follow the commandant without military assistance.

We are shown all over the fortifications. We inspect minutely the old-fashioned twenty-four pounders; rest on the six bronze French guns (which, we are told, are quite new, and the only serviceable weapons in the fortress), and make other observations, which, if we were enemies with an inclination to storm the place from the sea, would greatly assist us in our operations. Now we are in the sleeping caves, where the hundred men who compose the garrison are lodged. Now we are descending flights of stone steps. We pass along hollow-sounding alleys and under echoing archways. Presently we arrive at the cooking department, where the atmosphere feels oppressive, and is black with innumerable flies. We come at last to the deepest part of the fortress, where 'criminals of the worst description' (so the commandant informs me) are lodged. Narrow, intricate passages lead to the different cells. Our guide points out some of the prisoners, and invites us to look in at them through their little square windows. Strange to say, he does not seem to be at all conversant with the nature of their offences. 'Dios sabe!' accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders, is invariably the commandant's reply to any query respecting a particular prisoner. 'Dios sabe' may, however, signify a great deal more than 'Heaven knows;' and, perhaps, the commandant chooses not to explain himself.

We pause before a dungeon where it is said a Chinaman committed suicide after six days' incarceration: self-slaughter among Celestials being their favourite mode of killing care. An equally suicidal Chow-chow is confined there now; but they have bound him hand and foot, and he lies muttering in falsetto like a maniac. He would doubtless give something for a little soothing opium!

My friend the commandant assures me that the vault I am now surveying with such interest is unoccupied, and persuades me to pass on. But I linger lovingly at the little square window, and take a fond look at the interior. The theatre of my woe has changed in appearance, the company having gone. But there still remain the empty benches!

'Whom have you had within the past twelve months?' I ask.

'Dios sabe!'

It is not the commandant's business to know where his prisoners are quartered, or what becomes of them.

I apply afterwards for the same information to the captain of the garrison.

'Dios sabe!'

The staff of officers engaged in the Morro service is relieved once a month, and the captain I address has only lately taken the command.

'Dios sabe!' In the majority of cases, it is, indeed, Heaven alone who knows what becomes of unfortunates in a country where law is directed through the agency of military despotism, and where the disposal of a man's life and liberty is entrusted to the mercy of a vain and capricious commandant.



CHAPTER X.

GENERAL TACON'S JUDGMENT.

Pleasant Company—The Cigar Girl of Havana—A Tobacconist's Shop in Cuba—A Romance of Real Life—Spanish Justice abroad.

My health being now perfectly established, I signify my intention of returning to my companion and duties in town. As my military friend, Don Manuel, must also depart—his leave of absence having expired—I accept his invitation to share the boat which is to convey him to Santiago, and bid adieu to Don Benigno and his family, who contemplate remaining at the sea-side for some days longer.

Don Manuel is excellent company, and, although an officer in the Spanish service, his views of politics are exceedingly liberal. During the homeward passage, the officer entertains me with various stories illustrative of Cuban administration. He tells me that since the Pearl of the Antilles has adorned the Spanish crown, the island of Cuba has always been governed by a captain-general, a mighty personage, invested with much the same power and authority as that of a monarch in some countries, and, like a king, could not possibly do anything that was wrong.

'The Cubans,' says he, 'have seldom had reason to be grateful to Spain for the rulers she has appointed over them, because these have been usually selected rather on the score of influence than capacity or merit. There is, however, on record at least one captain-general whose name is held in esteem by the Cuban people, on account of the good he effected during his short reign in Havana. Captain-General Tacon established some degree of safety for the inhabitants by introducing new laws, and by severely punishing certain social offences which his predecessors had rather overlooked, if they did not themselves set the example. It is said of Tacon that, like Alfred the Great, he promised the Cubans that they should be able to cast their purses upon the public pavement, and yet find them there again after many days. Stories are current in Cuba of the general's singular mode of administering justice, which in many cases partook of an originality somewhat whimsical of its kind.'

Don Manuel gives me the most popular story of this sort—that of the cigar girl of Havana, which I will now repeat to the reader in the following form:

Miralda Estalez was remarkable alike for the beauty of her person and the excellence of her tobacco. She kept a cigar-shop in Havana, in the Calle del Comercio; a narrow street, with a footpath scarcely wider than an ordinary kerbstone. It was the veriest section of a shop, without a front of any kind; presenting, from the street side, much the same appearance as a burnt-out dwelling would exhibit, or a theatrical scene viewed by an audience. During the hot hours of the day a curtain was suspended before the shop to ward off the powerful rays of the sun, under whose influence the delicate goods within might otherwise be prematurely dried, while the effect would be equally detrimental to their fair vendor. The easy mode of access, assisted by the narrow kerbstone, together with many attractions within the shop, tempted many passers to drop in for a chat and a cigar. There was a little counter, with little pyramidal heaps of cigarette packets and cigars, of the genuine Havana brand, distributed upon it. Affixed to a wall at the back was a glass show-case, fitted with shelves like a book-case, and laden with bundles of the precious leaves, placed like volumes side by side, and bound in bright yellow ribbon. Although Miralda was visited from morning till night by every kind of male, black and brown, as well as white, nothing was ever said against the virtue of the young tobacconist.

Like the cigars she sold, Miralda was of 'calidad superior;' and, in the same manner, age had rather improved her quality than otherwise, for it had ripened her into a charming full-grown woman of sixteen tropical summers. Some merit was due to Miralda for the respectable life she led; for, besides the temptations to which she was daily and hourly subjected, she was quite alone in the world, her parents, brothers, and sisters being dead. Miralda naturally found many admirers among her numerous customers; she, however, made no distinction with them, but had a bright smile and a kind word for all who favoured her with their praises and their patronage. One alone, perhaps, held a place nearer her heart than all others. This was Don Pedro Mantanez, a young boatman employed in the harbour near the Morro Castle. Pedro was of good white parentage, though one would not have judged so from the colour of his skin, which, from long exposure to the sun and the weather, had turned a pale coffee colour. Pedro loved Miralda fondly, and she was by no means indifferent to the handsome Creole. But the pretty tobacconist was in no hurry to wear the matrimonial chains. The business, like herself, was far from old-established, and she thought in her capacity of a married woman the attractions of her shop would diminish by at least one-half, while her patrons would disappear in the same ratio. Miralda once made her lover a promise that she would marry him as soon as he should have won a prize in the lottery; for, with his savings, this would enable Pedro to have a share in her business as well as in her happiness. So, once a month, Pedro invested a doubloon in lottery-tickets; but, as he never succeeded in winning a prize, he failed to wed the pretty tobacconist. Still, the young boatman continued to drop anchor at the cigar-shop as often as his spare time would allow; and as the fond couple always conducted themselves with the strictest propriety, their engagement remained a secret.

Now Pedro Mantanez had a rival, and, to a certain extent, a formidable one. The Count Almante was a noble of Spanish birth, and an officer by profession. He was one of those fortunate gentlemen who, from no inherent talent or acquired ability, had been sent from the mother-country to enrich himself in her prosperous colony. Besides his wealth, which report described as ill-gotten, he gloried in the reputation of being a gay cavalier in Havana, and a great favourite with the Creole ladies. It was his boast that no girl beneath him in station had been yet known to reject any offer he might propose; and he would sometimes lay wagers with his associates that the lady whom he had newly honoured with his admiration would, at a given time, stand entered in his book of amours as a fresh conquest. To achieve a particular object, the count would never allow anything, human or otherwise, to stand in his path; and by reason of his wealth, his nobility, and his influence with the authorities, his crimes were numerous and his punishments few, if any.

It happened that the last senorita who had taken Count Almante's fancy was Miralda Estalez. The count spent many hours and many pesetas at the pretty tobacconist's counter, where, we may be sure, he used his most persuasive language to attain his very improper purpose. Accustomed to have pretty things poured into her ears by a variety of admirers, Miralda regarded the count's addresses with indifference; and, while behaving with her wonted amiability of manner, gave him neither encouragement nor motive for pressing his suit. One evening the count lingered at the cigar-shop longer than custom allows, and, under the pretence of purchasing and smoking more cigars, remained until the neighbouring shops were closed and the streets were deserted. Alone with the girl, and insured against intruders, Count Almante ventured to disclose his unworthy passion. Amongst other things, he said:

'If you will love me and live with me, I will give you as many golden onzas as you require, and I will place at your disposal another and a better shop in the suburbs of the Cerro, where you can carry on your business as before.'

The Cerro was situated near the count's palace. Miralda said nothing in reply; but, looking the count steadily in the face, gave him the name of another shop where, she informed him, he would obtain better cigars than those she sold.

Heedless of the significance of her remark, which he attributed to shyness, Almante rose from where he had been seated, and, approaching the girl, endeavoured to place his arm round her waist. Ever guarded against the casualties of insult, Miralda retreated a step, and at the same moment drawing a small dagger from the folds of her dress, warned the count not to touch her. Baulked in his design, Almante withdrew, assuring the girl with a smile that he did but jest; but as he left the shop he bit his lip and clenched his fist with evident disappointment.

When Pedro heard of what had happened, his indignation was great, and he resolved to take summary vengeance; but Miralda begged him not to be precipitate, as she had now no fear of further molestation from the count; and as days elapsed, and Almante had not resumed his visits, it seemed apparent that he had taken Miralda's advice, and transferred his custom elsewhere.

One evening, as Miralda was about to close her shop for the night, a party of soldiers halted before her door. The commanding officer entered, and, without a word, presented to the astonished tobacconist a warrant for her arrest. Knowing that it was useless to disobey any officer in the employ of the captain-general, Miralda signified her readiness to accompany the military escort, who, accordingly, placed her in their midst, and conducted her through the streets in the direction of the prison. But instead of halting here, the party continued their march until they had reached the confines of the city. Miralda's courage now deserted her, and, with tears in her eyes, she appealed to the officer in command.

'Por la Virgen Santisima!' she exclaimed, 'let me know where I am being taken to.'

'You will learn when you get there. Our orders strictly forbid us to make any explanation,' was the only reply she obtained.

Miralda was not long in learning the worst. Very shortly, her escort halted before Count Almante's castle in the neighbourhood of the Cerro, and, having entered the court-yard of that building, the fair captive was conducted tremblingly into a chamber elegantly fitted up for her reception. After waiting here a few minutes in painful suspense, an inner door was thrown open, and Count Almante stood before her. The scene which then followed may be better imagined than described. We may be sure that the count used every effort in order to prevail upon his prisoner, but without success. Miralda's invariable response was a gleam of her dagger, which never left her hand from the first moment of entering the odious building. Finding that mild measures would not win the pretty tobacconist, the count, as is usual under such circumstances with persons of his nature, threatened her with violence; and he would, doubtless, have carried out his threat, if Miralda had not anticipated him by promising to relent and to become his if her persecutor would allow her one short week to reconsider her determination. Deceived by the girl's assumed manner, Almante acceded to her desire and agreed to wait. Miralda, however, felt assured that before long her lover would discover her whereabouts, and by some means effect her release. She was not disappointed. Miralda's sudden disappearance was soon made known to Pedro Mantanez, who, confident that his beloved had fallen into the count's clutches, determined to obtain access to Almante's palace. For this purpose he assumed the dress of a monk; and, his face being unknown at the castle, he easily obtained an entry, and afterwards an interview with Miralda herself. The girl's surprise and joy at beholding her lover were unbounded. In his strong embrace, she became oblivious of her sorrows, confident that the young boatman would now conduct her speedily into a harbour of refuge. She was not mistaken. Pedro sought and obtained an audience with General Tacon. The general was, as usual, immersed in public affairs; but, being gifted with the enviable faculty of hearing, talking, and writing at the same moment, merely glanced at his applicant, and desired him to tell his story. Pedro did as he was desired, and when he had concluded, Tacon, without raising his eyes from the papers with which he appeared intently engaged, made the following inquiry:

'Is Miralda Estalez your sister?'

'No, su excelencia, she is not,' replied Pedro.

'Your wife, perhaps?' suggested the general.

'She is my betrothed!'

General Tacon motioned the young man to approach, and then directing a look to him which seemed to read him through, held up a crucifix, and bade him swear to the truth of all that he had stated. Pedro knelt, and taking the cross in both hands, kissed it, and made the oath required of him. When he had done so, the general pointed to an apartment, where he desired Pedro to wait until he was summoned. Aware of the brief and severe manner in which General Tacon dealt with all social questions, Pedro Mantanez left the august presence in doubt whether his judge would decide for or against his case. His suspense was not of long duration. In an hour or so, one of the governor's guards entered, ushering in Count Almante and his captive lady. The general received the new-comers in the same manner as he had received the young boatman. In a tone of apparent indifference, he addressed the count as follows:

'If I am not mistaken, you have abused your authority by effecting the abduction of this girl?'

'I confess I have done so,' replied the count, in a tone intended to match that of his superior; 'but,' he continued, with a conciliatory smile, 'I think that the affair is of such a nature that it need not occupy the attention of your excellency.'

'Well, perhaps not,' said his judge, still busy over the documents before him.

'I simply wish to learn from you, upon your word of honour, whether any violence has been used towards the girl.'

'None whatever, upon my honour,' replied Almante, 'and I am happy in believing that none will be required!'

'Is the girl already yours, then?'

'Not at present,' said the count, with a supercilious smirk, 'but she has promised to become mine very shortly.'

'Is this true?' inquired the captain-general, for the first time raising his eyes, and turning to Miralda, who replied:

'My promise was made only with a view to save myself from threatened violence.'

'Do you say this upon your oath?'

'Upon my oath I do!'

The general now ordered Pedro Mantanez to appear, and then carefully interrogated the lovers upon their engagement. Whilst doing so he wrote a dispatch and handed it to one of his guards. When the latter had departed, Tacon sent a messenger in quest of a priest and a lawyer. When these arrived, the general commanded the priest to perform the ceremony of marriage between Miralda Estalez and Count Almante and bade the lawyer prepare the necessary documents for the same purpose.

The count, who had already expressed his vexation at what promised to be an attempt to deprive him of his new favorite by allying her with the boatman, was horrified when he heard what the governor's mandate really was. His indignation was extreme, and he endeavoured to show how preposterous such an alliance would be, by reminding the general of his noble birth and honorable calling. Pedro was equally disappointed at being thus dispossessed of his betrothed and appealed to Tacon's generosity and sense of right. Miralda remained speechless with astonishment, but with the most perfect reliance in the wisdom of her judge. Meanwhile, in spite of all remonstrances, the marriage was formally solemnised, and Miralda Estalez and Count Almante were man and wife. The unhappy bridegroom was then requested to return to his palace in the Cerro, while his bride and her late lover were desired to remain.

Upwards of an hour had passed since the count's departure, and nothing further transpired. The governor had resumed his business affairs, and appeared, as before, utterly unconscious of all present. He was however shortly interrupted by the appearance of the guard whom he had despatched with his missive.

'Is my order executed?' inquired the general, looking up for a moment only.

'Si, mi general, it is,' replied the guard. 'Nine bullets were fired at the count as he rode round the corner of the street mentioned in your dispatch.'

Tacon then ordered that the marriage and death of Count Almante should receive all publicity, and that legal steps should be taken for the purpose of showing that the property and name of the defunct were inherited by his disconsolate widow. When the general's commands had been fulfilled, and a decent period after the count's demise had transpired, it need scarcely be added that Pedro Mantanez married the countess, with whom he lived happily ever after.

'Rather a barbarous way of administering justice,' I remark, at the conclusion of Don Manuel's story. 'In my country,' I add, 'such an act as that which General Tacon committed would be called murder.'

'It is not looked upon in that light here,' says the officer. 'You must remember that the count had been already guilty of many crimes worthy the punishment of death, and as there had been no means of bringing him to justice, justice improved the occasion which his last offence presented, and, as it were, came to him!'



CHAPTER XI.

(VERY) HIGH ART IN CUBA.

On the Ceiling—'Pintar-monos'—A Chemist's Shop a la Polychrome—Sculpture under Difficulties—'Nothing like Leather'—A Triumph in Triumphal Arches—Cuban Carpenters—The Captain-General of Havana.

Our incarceration proves of professional service to us. It spreads our renown and procures us more congenial patronage than we have hitherto received. While I have been rusticating at La Socapa, my brother limner has been busily employed on work in which he takes especial delight.

A rich marquis having just returned from a visit to Europe, is inspired with the desire to decorate his new mansion, which has lately been purchased by him, in what he calls a 'tasteful' fashion. For this purpose all the decorative talent of the town is engaged. Nicasio is also applied to, and undertakes to adorn the ceiling of the long reception-room with four large oil paintings representing the seasons. The marquis has not perfected his taste for the fine arts by his visit to Europe, for he still persists in applying the vulgar term 'mono,' or monkey, to all paintings in which figures form the leading features, and of classifying everything else under the general denomination of 'paisaje.' All artists are to him 'pintar-monos,' or painters of monkeys, and when he summons my partner to arrange about the pictures which he desires to have affixed to his ceiling, he points to the octagonal spaces which these productions are destined to fill, and observes:

'Quiero cuatro monos para tapar estos hoyos,' which is equivalent to saying: I want four daubs (monkeys) to cover over those holes with.

Nicasio accordingly makes sundry small designs for the four 'monos,' in which certain allegorical figures of ladies in scanty robes, and Cupids without any apparel, are introduced. My partner's favourite water-carriers, Regina and Mapi, together with Dona Mercedes' well-formed baby Isabelica, serve as models for Spring, Summer and Winter which when finished, are affixed to their respective 'hoyos' or holes in the ceiling. The picture of Autumn, however, remains uncompleted. The rich marquis discovers that the quality of the work far exceeds his expectations and finding also that its value has increased in proportion, he considers that this season, which happens to be the last executed, should be 'thrown in,' or in other words included in the price charged for the other three. In short, he declares that unless the 'pintar-monos' agrees to this arrangement, that he (the marquis) will get another pintar-monos to complete the series. As Nicasio objects to work gratis, our patron, true to his word, commissions a house decorator to supply the missing season, and the result may be easily imagined!

The Cuban critics are, however, sufficiently intelligent to distinguish between the good and the very bad; and thus while the local papers are unanimous in their praises of Spring, Summer and Winter, they do not hesitate to pronounce Autumn a failure and an 'unseasonable' production.

The success which attends my companion's efforts, induces others to embark in decorative enterprises, and among our patrons for this new kind of work, is a 'botecario,' or chemist, who offers us a large amount to paint and otherwise adorn his new shop in what he calls the polychrome style.

We have the vaguest notions on that subject, but so have also the chemist and the Cuban critics. We accordingly undertake the work, and manufacture something in which the Pompeian, the Rafaelesque, the Arabesque, and the French wall-paper equally participate. In the centre of the ceiling is to be placed a large allegorical oil-painting, representing a female figure of France in the act of crowning the bust of the famous chemist Orfila. In the four angles of the ceiling are to be painted portraits of the Spanish physician the Marquis of Joca, the English chemist Faraday, the Italian anatomist Paganucci, and the French chemist Velpeau. It takes exactly seven months to carry out our design, in the execution whereof we are assisted by the native talent already alluded to. Among our staff of operators are a couple of black white-washers for the broad work, a master carpenter with his apprentice for the carvings, and an indefatigable Chow-chow, or Chinaman, whom we employ extensively for the elaborate pattern work. Our mulatto pupils also help us in many ways.

The chief objects of attraction in this great undertaking are without a doubt a pair of life-sized figures of two celebrated French chemists, named Parmentier and Vauquelin, destined to stand in a conspicuous part of the shop. As there are no sculptors in our town, it devolves as usual upon the 'followers of the divine art of Apelles' to try their hands at the art of Phidias. Confident of success, the chemist provides us with a couple of plaster busts representing the French celebrities in question, and bids us do our best. The fragments of drapery exhibited on these gentlemen enable us to decide on the kind of costume which our figures should wear; the one being indicative of a robe somewhat clerical, and the other evincing without a doubt that the original belonged to a period when knee-breeches and top-boots were much in vogue. The resources of Cuba for the making of statues are limited, so the material we employ is slight. We construct our figures upon the principle on which paper masks are made, and by painting them afterwards in imitation of marble, a very solid appearance may be obtained. I will not describe the many difficulties which we encounter at every stage of this process; but when the hollow effigies are complete and we have fixed them to their painted wooden plinths, we are vain enough to believe that we have produced as goodly a pair of sham statues as you would see if you travelled from one extremity of Cuba to the other.

It is the night which precedes the opening of the chemist's shop, and we have retired to our dormitories after having given a final coat of marble colour to our pasteboard productions. I am about to tumble into my hammock, when my progress is arrested by a strange sound which seems to emanate from an adjoining chamber. I re-ignite my extinguished lamp, and take a peep into the studio. Something is certainly moving in that apartment. I summon my companion, who joins me, and we enter our sanctum.

'Misericordia! One of the statues is alive,' I exclaim, horrified at what appears to me a second edition of Frankenstein.

'Eppur si muove!' ejaculates Nicasio, quoting from another authority.

Monsieur Parmentier—he of the periwig and top-boots—is sinking perceptibly, though gradually. We advance to save him, but alas! too late; the illustrious Frenchman is already on his bended boots. The wooden props which supported his hollow legs have given way, and his top boots are now a shapeless mass. We pause for a moment to contemplate the wreck before us, and immediately set about repairing the damage.

But how? A brilliant idea suggests itself.

In a corner of the studio stand the leather originals which have served us as models for the extremities of the injured statue. These same boots belong to an obliging shoemaker who has only lent them to us. But what of that? The case is urgent, and this is no time to run after our friend and bargain with him for his property.

To fill the boots with plaster of Paris; to humour them, while the plaster is yet moist, into something which resembles the human leg divine, is the work of a few moments. To fix them firmly to the wooden plinth, and prop over them the incomplete torso by means of laths cunningly concealed, occupies little more than an hour and a half. A coat of thick white paint administered below, completes the operation, and Parmentier is erect again, and apparently none the worse for his disaster. One more layer of paint early next morning, and the statue is faultless, and ready for being borne triumphantly from our studio to its destination. There it is placed in its niche, and no one suspects the mishap. Evening approaches, and with it come crowds of Cuban dilettanti and others who have been invited. The ceremony of blessing the new undertaking is solemnised according to custom by a priest, and an assistant who sprinkles holy-water from a small hand-broom upon everything and everybody, while a short prayer in Latin is chanted. Then the guests proceed to examine the various embellishments of this singular shop, pausing to refresh themselves from the sumptuous repast which the chemist has provided for his guests and patrons in an adjoining chamber.

The statues form a subject for wonder with everybody, and no one will believe that they are constructed of other than solid material. Even the credulous, who are permitted to tap one of Parmentier's boots as a convincing test, cannot help sharing the popular delusion.

But our friend the shoemaker is not so easily deceived. From certain signs, known only to himself, he recognises in the statue's painted extremities his own appropriated goods. We swear him to secrecy, and offer to pay him liberally for the loss he has sustained; and it pleases him to discover that in the pursuit of the fine arts—and as regards statue-making in the West Indies we echo the sentiment—there is nothing like leather!

The chemist's shop is scarcely disposed of, when application is again made to us for another important undertaking.

The Captain-General of Havana has signified his intention to honour our town with a visit, and preparations for his reception must accordingly be made. The good people of Cuba have not a superabundance of affection for their distinguished chief: possibly because captains-general are not as a rule all that their subjects might desire. But a visit from his excellency is such an unusual event (for our captain-general is rarely absent from his comfortable palace in the Havana) that the inhabitants of Santiago determine to make at least holiday—if not to profit—out of the occasion. The merchants and shopkeepers are especially interested in exhibiting their loyalty; for in this manner they hope to obtain many mercantile concessions. Certain little nefarious transactions connected with the custom-house may through the captain-general's benevolence be forgiven or ignored, while other matters, connected with the landing of negroes, may also pass censorship. A number of petitions for various local favours have been also prepared, and in short the inhabitants hope to derive many advantages from the visit of their colonial King.

The merchants' contribution towards the festivities will be a public ball in the theatre, and a grand triumphal arch, which they propose to erect in the principal thoroughfare. But a triumphal arch, such as these gentlemen contemplate, is not so easily obtained in Cuba. Los Senores Bosch Brothers—who are appointed to direct this work—have, however, no difficulty in providing architects qualified to undertake the fabrication required. The followers of the divine art of Apelles no doubt 'deal' in triumphal arches, and the 'job' is accordingly offered to them.

Our experience in the manufacture of triumphal arches is not wide, but our patrons are so very pressing, and their terms are, moreover, so very liberal, that we are finally induced to embark in the enterprise.

A plan of the proposed structure having been drawn and submitted for approval to Don Elijio, who is the head of the firm of Bosch Brothers, our operations begin. The order of architecture which we adopt partakes of the Norman and the early Gothic, with a 'dash,' so to speak, of the Byzantine, to give it a cheerful aspect. It might remind the learned in these matters of York Minster, Temple Bar, or a court in the Crystal Palace; but the Senores Bosch Brothers—whose acquaintance with architectural master-pieces is confined to the governor's palace of lath and plaster, and the white-washed cathedral—are easily satisfied.

Our labours are conducted in the extensive store-room of Messrs. Bosch Brothers, which, in order to facilitate our operations, is cleared of its cumbersome contents. The arch is destined to stand in that part of the street which divides the warehouse from the market-place. The latter stands at an elevation of more than forty feet above the pavement, and is reached by a wide flight of stone steps. It forms part of our plan to connect our frail edifice with the market wall, and match its local stone colour.

We have exactly a month for the completion of our task, and we make the most of our time. Cart-loads of white wood, in planks and logs, arrive at all hours of the day, together with yards upon yards of coarse canvas, pounds of nails, colours in powder, huge earthenware pots and size. In short, our requirements are akin to those of a scene painter.

Thrifty Don Elijio has periodical moments of panic; for it seems to him that our demands for wood, paint, canvas and nails, are exorbitant, and more than once he predicts the ruin of his speculation. The merchant begins to regret that he did not persuade us to 'contract' for the whole expense, instead of receiving a separate remuneration for our time and labour. Sometimes he will endeavour to show that there is something defective in our agreement.

'Look here!' says he. 'You are artists, and if I come to you to have my portrait painted, I suppose you will not expect me to pay for your colours and canvas?'

We have neither time nor ability to argue the point; but the man of many bargains is easily convinced, when we hint about relinquishing our labours!

Foiled in his effort to reduce expenses, the merchant tries to economise in another way, by questioning the propriety of adopting certain little contrivances which he cannot for the life of him follow in the original plan.

'What are those hugh firework sort of wheels for?' he asks one day. 'I don't see them in the drawing, and therefore consider them unnecessary.'

'Those wheels,' we explain, 'which you are pleased to compare with fireworks, constitute the skeleton, or framework, of four turrets, which, after having been concealed behind canvas, painted stone-colour, and relieved with imitation port-holes, will be suspended from the uppermost angles of the arch.'

'And where is that broad octagonal chimney to be placed?' inquires the merchant.

'That "chimney,"' we reply, 'represents a Gothic temple, and is destined to stand over the centre of the arch upon a graduated pedestal.'

The wood-work of our fabric is put together by a number of black and brown carpenters; but we have to superintend every part, as these gentlemen have no notion whatever of architectural devices, and our eloquence fails to convey to their intelligence our multifarious needs.

The readiest of our assistants is a young mulatto, nicknamed El Tuerto by reason of a strong cast in his left eye. He is far more industrious than his fellow-workmen, most of whom have a weakness for aguardiente, and are consequently often in what my medical friend Doctor Acero terms, 'a state of vulgar excitement.' El Tuerto easily grasps at an idea, and sometimes offers a useful suggestion or two. It is he who recommends to our notice a friend of his who, he thinks, might be serviceable in the painting department. The friend in question is a feeble old negro, occasionally afflicted with delirium tremens. We try him with the 'line' work, which consists in squaring off the imitation stones of the painted masonry: but, his hand being too unsteady for this, we employ him for the graining, which accords better with his peculiar 'touch,' as the process requires certain nervous jerks of the wrist.

At length the day arrives when the stones of the street must be uprooted, the tall scaffolding planted, and the innumerable pieces of painted canvas which form the external covering of the arch, united and raised to their respective places. When the fabric is complete, the local papers, which have already noticed its progress from time to time, thus describe its beauties:

'The triumphal arch erected in the Calle de la Marina by the merchants and planters of Santiago, is the combined work of those illustrious followers of the divine art of Apelles, Don Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu and El Caballero Ingles Don Gualterio. This imposing structure measures forty-five feet in height, thirty feet in breadth, and nine feet in depth. It is supposed to represent part of an old feudal castle with its turrets, port-holes and belfry, and is painted in imitation of granite stone, which forms a striking contrast with the intense blue of our tropical sky, against which the arch stands in bold relief.

'On either side of the facade are painted colossal figures representing Commerce, Industry, Agriculture and Justice. Above these allegories are placed the escutcheons of our illustrious Captain-General, together with the coats-of-arms belonging to Spain and to Santiago de Cuba. Near the centre of the arch are recorded in bold and fanciful letters the various triumphs of our distinguished general; such as the blockade of Zaragoza in 1843, the glorious campaign in Portugal, 1847, the Italian expedition, etc.

'Upon each of the four turrets are planted tall flag-staffs, from which coloured streamers gracefully depend, and over the centre of the arch, upon the summit of the pretty campanilla, waves majestically in the breeze the imposing banner of Spanish commerce.

'From the palms of the arch is suspended a garland of natural evergreens, in which is artistically entwined a broad red and orange-coloured ribbon bearing the following inscription:

'"To His Excellency the Captain-General: from the Merchants and Planters of Santiago de Cuba."'

His excellency arrives in due course, and is so thoroughly gratified with his reception in Santiago, that upon his return to Havana he reports favourably to his government upon the progress and prosperity of our part of the 'Ever-faithful Isle.'



CHAPTER XII.

A CORRESPONDENT IN THE WEST INDIES.

American News-agents and their Work—Local Information—The 'Glorious Campaign' of Santo Domingo—'El Canon de Montecristo'—Wounded Soldiers—Still Life again!—A Visit from the Spanish Fleet—Escape from Jail.

'Here is something in your line,' remarks Nicasio one day, handing me a letter which has just been brought to our studio by a black messenger.

The letter is from Don Elijio, of the firm of Bosch Brothers, and states that the Havana agent of the New York Trigger has commissioned the merchants to find him a person who is both qualified and willing to undertake the post of newspaper correspondent. The individual must have a thorough knowledge of the Spanish and English languages; he must be conversant with the ways of Cuba and be in a position to collect facts connected with the social and political life of the town in which he resides. His duties will also be to receive communications from the agents of the American newspaper in question, who are dispersed all over the West Indies, and after selecting the chief points of interest contained in these communications, he must dispatch them, in the form of telegrams and news-letters, to head-quarters in Havana. For these services a liberal monthly salary is offered, and Don Elijio presuming that journalism is in some way related to 'the divine art of Apelles,' and having moreover every confidence in our versatile powers, offers us the engagement.

All is fish that comes to our net in Cuban waters, so as art 'trade' is looking rather 'dull,' owing to recent monetary panics in the town, Nicasio advises me to give the correspondent business a trial. I accordingly accept the proffered post, and after some preliminary arrangements with Messrs Bosch Brothers, commence operations.

In my capacity of correspondent to the New York Trigger, I am required to follow certain directions with which the central agent in Havana supplies me. First, a telegram, containing the pith of the news I have to impart, must be dispatched with all speed to head-quarters in Havana, where it will be again transmitted to New York by means of the submarine cable between Havana and Florida. The telegram must be shortly followed by a carefully composed news-letter, of which press-copies must be taken and dispatched by two or three different routes. I am enjoined to remember that 'the first thing correspondents should acquire is news, and the second is how to give it; not forgetting that they are writing for a newspaper and not for a magazine.'

'The correspondence,' says the directions, 'should embrace all that bears upon the political, administrative, agricultural, mining, commercial and other topics of the day, including new enterprises, new railroads and telegraphs. It is important to obtain the particulars of any measure contemplated by the Spanish Government, but these must be obtained from reliable sources and before they have been made public. Local subjects should be eschewed, except they bear on politics, or on anything transcendental and of a "sensational" character likely to interest the American public.'

The shipping list, containing the names of vessels and their dates of arrival and departure to and from any port, together with a brief account of any disaster at sea, forms an important item in the agent's duties. But above all promptness in the dispatch of news 'bearing a sensational character,' is strongly recommended.

To be in advance of its contemporaries—or at least never behind them—is the end and aim of the American paper which I serve, and to attain these desirable objects, every artifice must be employed and 'no expense spared.'

The agents established in the neighbouring islands and in South America are mostly natives of the towns where they reside and, like myself, have other occupations besides those which concern a newspaper. Senor Pillo, who supplies most of my South American news, is a clerk in a sugar warehouse. Mons. Blague of Hayti is a cigar manufacturer in that colony, while Meinheer Vandercram is a sorter in the Post-office at St Thomas. Then there is Mr. Archibald Cannie, in the adjacent island of Jamaica, who furnishes me with abundant news from Colon, Panama, St. Domingo, Barbadoes, Trinidad and a family of sister isles. These persons sometimes give me a world of trouble with their conflicting statements and confused information, and their sins are invariably visited upon my shoulders. Mr. Cannie of Jamaica is, however, the best of my correspondents, though he is occasionally afflicted with what my employer in Havana styles 'Magazine on the brain;' which means that Mr. Cannie is too prolific, and adopts a diffuse, rambling mode of imparting facts in preference to those much desired virtues brevity and conciseness.

My residence—on an elevated part of the town commanding a view of the Cuban Bay—enables me to sight vessels before they have anchored in the harbour.

Every ship is announced to the authorities by means of signals. A signal post is planted on the Morro Castle overlooking the sea. Another is situated inland between the fortress and the town, while a third stands within telescope range of the Custom-house. It is this last which, on certain days, engrosses my attention; for by it I am made aware of the approach of vessels long before they are visible in the bay. The signal post is shaped like a cross, to the points of which are hoisted black and white balls and coloured banners, by means of which the description of the craft, together with her name and country, is made known.

In my employ is a young negro who, whenever a vessel is expected, squats in the shade of our broad balcony, and with a telescope placed to his left eye takes observation of the signal post. As soon as anything is hoisted, the black sentinel reports the same to me after the following fashion:

'Miamo, alerte! The signal is speaking.'

'What does it say, negrito?' I inquire from within.

'White ball in the centre, miamo.'

By this I know that a steamer is in sight. After a pause my negrito informs me that the signal has added something to its last observation.

'What does it say?'

'Blue streamer to windward under white ball.'

From these appearances I gather where the steamer hails from and what is her nationality. In the same manner I derive other information respecting the coming craft, all of which I hasten to note down.

The sound of a gun warns me that the vessel has already entered the harbour, six miles distant. Anon she appears cautiously steering through the narrow winding bay; gradually disclosing first her rig, then her colours, and lastly her name. Long before the ship has dropped anchor, I have reached the quay, where I embark in a small canoe to meet the moving steamer. Arrived within hailing distance of the vessel, I shout to the purser, the supercargo, or to anybody else who may have brought news or correspondence for me. If I succeeded in obtaining some, I land again, and before the anchorage gun is fired, I am on my way to the telegraph office. Here—with my dispatches before me—I compose and forward a brief summary of news from the port whence the steamer hails, and if there is nothing to interrupt the line of communication with America, the New York Trigger will contain my telegrams in its second edition of the following day.

I have many difficulties to contend with in my quest of local matter in Santiago. Some of my Cuban friends help me in my researches, and I also pick up fragments of 'intelligence' in the cafes, the public promenade, the warehouses, and the newspaper offices. Occasionally I hold secret audience with an intelligent native, who volunteers some extraordinary information on a local subject which is of no interest whatever to anybody except my informant. Sometimes the applicant is persuaded that I have indirect influence with the American Congress, and presses me to communicate his grievance to the authorities in Washington. I dare not close my ear against such applicants, for in the mass of valueless dross which I receive, I sometimes discover a rough diamond which, after due cutting and polishing, I dispose of to the New York Trigger.

For instance: an aged negro of my acquaintance comes to me one day, with the astounding information that he, and a number of equally decrepit and unserviceable slaves, have been killed and buried by his master. In other words, the owners of these useless helots have hoodwinked the slave emancipators by representing their decrepit human property as defunct, while they substitute fresh importations in their places. Subsequently I learn that a landing of blacks has been lately effected near Guantanamo, and, upon a closer investigation, I gather the curious particulars, which are these:—

The Capitan de Partido, or Major of the district, where the nefarious transaction took place, was naively requested by the parties interested in the landing to absent himself from the locality during a certain week; for which simple act he would receive four or five thousand dollars. During his absence, the landing of slaves is of course effected; and when the authorities hear of the transaction, and reprimand el Capitan de Partido for his want of vigilance, the latter exonerates himself by explaining how he was unfortunately absent from his post within the very date of the embarkation.

This is a topic of passing interest to the American people, while it affords the Trigger a text for a number of 'telling' articles relative to slave-emancipation, in which an appeal is made to the American Congress on the expediency of taking the colony in hand.

Many other important events transpire while I am fulfilling my duties of correspondent to the New York Trigger.

Prominent among these, is the return from Santo Domingo of the Spanish army after another unsuccessful attempt to establish a footing in that island. In order to assure the people of Cuba that the campaign has been attended with 'glorious' results, a public fiesta in honour of the return of General Gandarias and his followers is celebrated in our town. The streets are gaily decorated, and a certain cannon, which had been captured in Montecristo by the Spaniards, is wheeled on a cart through the streets, followed by a procession of soldiers and a band of music. This cannon—which is a heavy-looking, unserviceable weapon of the old-fashioned calibre—is made much of by everybody, and finally a niche is built in a wall of the cathedral, and the 'canon de Montecristo,' as it is henceforth derisively termed by the Cubans, is deposited in this niche with a railing before it, and an inscription above, in which the people of Cuba are reminded of the 'glorious campaign of Santo Domingo.'

Shortly after the appearance of the canon de Montecristo, some vessels of war from the seat of hostilities arrive with a vast cargo of sick and wounded Spaniards. 'The Loyal and Ever-faithful' inhabitants of Santiago meet them on board, and some volunteer to convey the infirm soldiers to the hospitals in town. Nicasio and I are pressed into this service by our good friend Doctor Francisco, who is the head medical officer of the garrison. Each soldier, as he is landed, is placed on a canvas stretcher, provided with a couple of stout poles, and in this manner he is borne on the shoulders of four volunteers. When all have safely disembarked, a procession is formed, and headed by a band of music, we march slowly through the streets in the direction of Santa Ana, where the military hospital is situated. The distance is about two miles, and we have to move with extreme care so as to aggravate as little as possible the sufferings of the wounded men.

The individual whom Nicasio and I, assisted by a couple of friends, have volunteered to convey, is the young Spanish officer Don Manuel, the betrothed of Don Benigno's daughter. He does not appear to be seriously wounded, for he chats pleasantly with us on the way and gives us a vivid description of his late experiences.

Arrived at the hospital, we deposit our burthens on their respective couches, where the poor fellows are, in due time, left to the tender care of Doctor Francisco and his assistant surgeons.

Don Manuel is one of the first whom the doctor visits. A ball has lodged in the young fellow's hip, but he endures his painful operation bravely. While the ball is being extracted, Don Manuel smokes cigarettes, and converses with those around him.

I gather from the communicative young officer much information respecting the late war. He tells me that the Spanish soldiers acted with their accustomed valour, and did their best to vanquish their black opponents; but that in spite of their efforts, the enemy proved more than a match for them. The guerilla mode of warfare adopted by the swarthy warriors, assisted by the bad roads and impenetrable country, together with the fatal effects of the climate, combined to defeat the assailants, and, after many fruitless attempts, attended with considerable losses to the Spanish army, the troops were ordered to withdraw from the scene of hostilities.

Always with an 'eye to business,' my partner and I improve the occasion by obtaining sundry commissions for portraits of some of the distinguished officers who had fallen in the late campaign. One of the more important works of this kind is a large historical picture, in which the illustrious commander of the expedition and his staff of officers are introduced. In order to ensure correct likenesses of the individuals who are to figure in our painted production, photographs, and military uniforms are supplied for our use. Many weary weeks are devoted to this capo d'opera, and when the picture is completed, it is handsomely framed and exhibited to an admiring crowd in one of the saloons of the governor's palace.

The war of Santo Domingo being over and forgotten, the town is again enlivened by the arrival of the Spanish fleet fresh from Peru after the unsatisfactory bombardment of Callao. The vessels are anchored in the Cuban harbour and include the iron-clad steamer 'Numancia,' commanded by Admiral Mendez Nunez; the 'Villa de Madrid' with Captain Topete on board; the 'Resolucion' and the 'Almanza.' Our illustrious visitors are lionised for nearly a week at the public expense. Banquets, balls and other entertainments are given in their honour; and in acknowledgment of these attentions, the officers of the 'Numancia,' before the fleet takes its departure, give a grand ball on board their vessel, to which the leading families of Santiago are invited. The upper deck of the iron-clad is covered with a gigantic awning, and is so disguised with flowers, tropical plants, and other adornments, that the guests can scarcely realise the fact that they are actually on board a man-of-war. A long supper table is laid between decks, and here the visitors are invited to inspect the gunnery arrangements and a certain part of the vessel which had sustained some damage during the late expedition.

From some of the officers and crew of this vessel I obtain a few particulars relative to the bombardment of Callao, and these I hasten to use for the benefit of the American newspaper which I serve.

Another interesting event is the attempted escape from the town jail of upwards of two hundred prisoners. The whole town is for many days thrown into a state of alarm, for eleven out of the number succeed in effecting their escape. These are, however, eventually captured by the police, and after being tried in the usual way by court-martial, are sentenced to be shot in public. Upon the morning of the execution, there is great excitement in town. The execution is a fearful spectacle, for the firing has to be repeated more than once before the unfortunates are pronounced dead. One of the victims is my former fellow-prisoner, the communicative Indian, who, after the first shots had been fired by the soldiers, offered to confess his sins, which he had hitherto refused to do upon the plea that the instrument of confession was 'only a piece of crossed wood.'



CHAPTER XIII.

CUBAN MUSIC.

A Soiree at Don Laureano's—An eminent Violinist and Composer—Cuban Pianos—Real Negro Minstrels—Carnival Songs—Coloured Improvisatores.

All work and no play makes even a 'follower of the divine art of Apelles' a dull caballero; so when the day's toils are over, my companion and I amuse ourselves in various ways. The theatre, the Retreta, or promenade, a ball at the Philharmonic, and masquerading during the carnival season, are among our favourite diversions. Sometimes I enjoy these amusements in company with my partner; but when his society is denied me, I avail myself of the companionship of my friend Tunicu, who is a great authority in all matters appertaining to the 'gay and festive.'

Being fond of music, Tunicu introduces me to his friend Laureano, who is a favourite musical composer and an accomplished violinist. In appearance, Don Laureano strongly resembles the renowned Paganini, and it is for this reason, together with his marvellous performances on the violin, that his admirers sometimes advise him to visit Europe and America.

Don Laureano is chiefly employed as leader of the theatrical band and as conductor of the orchestra which performs on fiestas at the cathedral. He also gives lessons in pianoforte and violin playing, and composes songs and 'zarzuelas.' Once this accomplished gentleman wrote an entire oratorio of some five hundred pages, which after being printed and gorgeously bound, was presented to Her Catholic Majesty the Queen of Spain.

Laureano gives musical matinees and soirees at his private dwelling. Everybody in the town being personally acquainted with him, no special invitations are issued, but those who are inclined to enjoy a little music, have only to enter the Don's open door, which has direct communication with his reception room. Those who can obtain neither seats nor standing-room, remain in the street, where, the huge windows of the musician's house being devoid of glass, the performances are perfectly audible. Negroes and mulattoes of all shades are among the spectators of the pavement; but with the exception of a few coloured musicians, only white people are admitted within the building.

The programme of entertainments includes popular melodies, selections from oratorios, zarzuelas and Cuban dances. Laureano is assisted by his son, Laureanito, who, notwithstanding his tender years, is a proficient on the piano. This youthful prodigy usually accompanies his parent when the latter enraptures his audience with a brilliant solo performance on his favourite instrument.