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Chapter XVII

The Massacre At Gautao.

A seaside Breakfast and the Cuban Flag--The Road into the Cuban Republic--How the Rebels Foraged--The Gulf and the Sharks--The First News of the Massacre--The Tale of a Volunteer who Participated--Eighteen Pacificos Killed to Two Soldiers--Marcy Reports-Adventures of Correspondents--Talk with General Weyler on the Subject--The Dismal Scene at the Palace. There were continually in Havana last winter differences of opinion as to the reliability of rumors of bloody outrages in various parts of the country. Each day brought some new tale of terror, and there was a steady current of accounts of "battles." The Spaniards, having the inner line and greater facilities for publication, as a rule got out their statements first, though at times the wires gave forth curious secrets that, after a time, seemed to refer in some degree to events that through official condescension were mentioned. The magnetic affiliations of telegraphy must have puzzled the operators ignorant of ciphers and innocent of schemes. As a matter of course, the official bulletins were discredited as to "combats." The regular affair, in which from five to seventeen insurgents were killed, and many wounded, and the ground strewn with lost hats and guns and dead horses, all showing victory for the government, while the Spaniards lost a horse or two, and had two men wounded, and closed the struggle with a bayonet charge, became a common grievance.

Occasionally there would be sings, and much matter printed, of a fight, in which some persons were hurt, and there were participants and localities named, so that when the news came by grapevine, we could formally identify the "engagements," but there was hardly ever found a show of resemblance between the respective histories of the conflicting sides. There was much wretchedness uncovered here and there, frequent hard cases of impoverished millionaires, estates visited by hostile bands, cane fields fired, houses and villages burned, machinery broken, and assassinations on the road. One of the things repeated so often that it became difficult to consent to the opinion that it had any foundation, was, that there came into a small village a troop of rebels, who helped themselves to whatever they required, or that took their fancy, especially groceries and preserved meats and articles of clothing. When the place had been ransacked the intruders would depart, and then came the Spaniards, enraged that their enemies had found supplies, and they would say: "Oh, you have had scoundrels here, have you, and you fed them; you gave them all you had, eh?" The answer was, "They took what they would; I could not help it. They carried away my property. I was robbed, that was all." Then came, "You had them come, and you did not fight. You helped them, and you are rebels, too, and cowards also; there, then;" and " bang!bang!" went the guns, and the people were killed because they had been robbed. There were four men at a plantation. The rebels came along, and took the horses and corn and cattle. Then came the Spaniards, and said, "Aha! you gave up everything to the scoundrels, so then you will not fight them," and it was "bang!bang!" again, and the four men were dead. There was an innocent American citizen, fitted with a romantic Spanish name, a gentleman, rather dark and excitable, speaking no English at all, and never known to be out of the Island, but fully equipped with naturalization papers of citizenship in Florida; and the Spaniards, finding that he had been visited by rebels, called and beat him and robbed his house and stables--and there was a case for the American consul-and there were darker stories of murders, and worse than murders, and the sincere seeker for truth was perplexed in the extreme. One thing only was certain. There was a flood of misfortune rolling over the golden Island, the torrent was sweeping away plantations, towns, families-where there had been wealth there was poverty--and the dark desolating waters reflecting fires were tinged with blood and rising higher and spreading wider were merciless as the deluge. The soldiers marched in the street, and the roll of drums told of their progress. The red and yellow flags decked the balconies and streamed from the towers, and the children danced at night to the mellow strains of a band from Andalusia, the dark eyes of beauty gazing out with anxiety, flashed at the windows guarded by bars of steel. The coming of the new captain-general was a horror. "There is no one man or woman safe in this Island with this man here--Oh! Why do not the dead of the long war rise from their graves to fight?" was the cry of a woman despairing for herself, her family, and her country.