Harper's Round Table, June 2, 1896

CRISTOBAL THE CATALAN.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.

A cell in the great Morro Castle of Havana was a strange place for a boy of fourteen; but there sat young Cristobal Nunez on the cold stone floor, his face hidden in his hands, and bitter tears trickling between his fingers. He was a small boy for fourteen, and not dark, like the Cubans, but fair as any sunburnt American boy.

He was not alone in the cell, for it was a great damp vault twenty feet wide by a hundred feet long, with an arched roof of stone, the lower part of a storehouse standing just within the outer wall of the fortress. He was only one of the 108 political prisoners confined in that unhealthy vault, where was not a cot for them to lie upon, nor a chair or bench to sit upon.

"Cheer up, my son," said a well-dressed elderly gentleman, one of his fellow-prisoners, stooping beside him, and laying his hand kindly on Cristobal's shoulder; "these dark days must have an end; and tears, at any rate, will do no good. You are young to be engaged in this business."

"I am not engaged in this business, señor," Cristobal quickly answered, brushing his hand across his eyes and looking up. "I am no insurgent; I am a Spaniard, a Catalan, and know nothing about rebellions. And it is not for myself that I shed tears, but for my young sister, who is alone on this strange island, with no one to take care of her."

As he spoke of his sister the young Catalan again buried his face in his hands, and his little frame shook.

"This is strange," said the gentleman; and he seated himself on the floor beside Cristobal, and kindly drew the young Spaniard's smooth cheek against his shoulder. "If you are a Catalan, and no insurgent, how do you come to be here?"

Though the cell was crowded with prisoners, there was no danger of interruption, for each was amusing himself in his own way. Some played games with strange Spanish cards, on which were pictures of swords and men and horses; some read books, for no newspapers were allowed them; some sang brave songs to keep their spirits up; and others, sickened by the bad air and bad food, lay stretched upon the stones, groaning.

"They have made a mistake," Cristobal answered, as soon as he was able to speak. "I am only a poor boy from Barcelona, trying to take my young sister to our uncle in Cienfuegos. But they have arrested me for an insurgent, and what is to become of my poor sister? We were in a cane-field only twenty-five miles from Cienfuegos, when they tore me away from her; and there I had to leave her, without a friend on the island, unless she finds our uncle. Oh, señor, what is to become of her?"

"They have made many mistakes," the kindly old gentleman replied, ignoring Cristobal's last question. "Here in this miserable cell are old men and young--merchants, professional men, clerks, laborers, and what not--at least half of whom are entirely innocent. It is one of the misfortunes of war that the innocent must suffer with the guilty. But if you are a Catalan from Barcelona, tell me how you come to be in Cuba, and at such a time."

"My mother knew nothing about the troubles in Cuba," Cristobal answered. "She died in Barcelona four months ago, telling us to come to her brother, our uncle, in Cienfuegos. There was barely enough money left to bring us in a sailing vessel to Havana, and from here I wrote and wrote to our uncle, but received no answer, so I am afraid he must be in the field. We started to walk--"

"To walk to Cienfuegos!" the gentleman exclaimed; "a hundred and twenty miles! How old is your sister?"

"She is only twelve," Cristobal answered, sadly; "but she has the sense of a grown woman--a great deal more than I have."

"And then?" the old man said, encouragingly.

"We walked as far as Ysabel," Cristobal went on, "seventy-five miles from here, and there, by accident, I got a situation in a small store. For nearly three months I was able to take care of my sister; but then my employer was arrested for a rebel, and we started on for Cienfuegos."

"Poor little chaps!" exclaimed the old gentleman; "fourteen and twelve; in a strange country; no money or friends! Well?"

"There is not much more," the young Catalan answered. "We were within twenty-five miles of Cienfuegos, and at noon we went into a small patch of cane for our dinner, for sugar-cane was almost our only food. It was part of a great field, but all the cane had been burned but one little corner. We made a spark of fire to boil our coffee, and while it boiled there came along a squad of Spanish troops. They saw the smoke, and accused me of firing the field, and in a minute they had handcuffs on me and tore me away. They took me to Sagua la Grande, and in a few days I was brought here in a steamer. But what they did with me is nothing. What can have become of my poor sister?"

"My son," said the old gentleman, devoutly making the sign of the cross upon his forehead, "your sister is in stronger hands than yours. The Friend of the Fatherless will take care of her. And mark my words, my poor boy, it will be through your sister that you will be released from this unjust imprisonment. For yourself you can do nothing, nor can I aid you in any way. But she is your sister, and at liberty. She will go on foot to the Governor-General, perhaps; perhaps she will besiege every public office in Havana. I cannot say what course she will take; but if she has the wisdom you give her credit for, she will never rest till she sets you free. You Catalans are called 'the Yankees of Spain,' and a Catalonian girl will never desert her brother."

"Every Sunday and Wednesday," he continued, "the friends of prisoners are permitted to visit them here. It may not be next Sunday or next Wednesday, but on some Sunday or some Wednesday you will hear from your sister."

As he arose from his uncomfortable seat the old gentleman laid his hand upon the young prisoner's forehead, and muttered a few words that led Cristobal to believe him a priest in disguise, as in fact he was.

But Wednesdays and Sundays came and went, and Cristobal heard no tidings of his sister. The coming of the visitors, however, made an agreeable break in the terrible monotony. On visiting-days the prisoners' friends were carried across the harbor from Havana in row-boats, and after landing on the pebble-paved road at the base of the fortress, went up through the great portal, where a hundred Spanish soldiers were constantly on guard. There they were formed in line, only one at a time being allowed to approach the barred front of the vault.

Cristobal had spent three weeks of misery in his dismal cell, and one Wednesday afternoon he lay half stretched out on the cold floor watching the visitors and listening to their conversation. They brought all the comforts to their friends that the guards would allow--baskets of food, blankets to lie upon, books, clean linen, medicines--and every package was carefully examined by the guard before it was passed into the cell. He saw a well-dressed young Cuban step up in turn behind the bar with nothing in his hands but three long stalks of sugar-cane tied together. He could hardly believe his ears when the guard called,

"Cristobal Nunez!"

Cristobal sprang to his feet, and made his way up to the front. He was sure that he had never seen his visitor before, and he could not understand why the Cuban, instead of speaking to him at once, stood looking him straight in the eyes, as if he would look through him, and then looked intently at the sugar-canes--at the top cane, Cristobal thought, the one that was gnarled and bent.

"Your sister sends you these," the young Cuban said at length, handing the bundle to the guard for examination. "And be careful of your teeth, Cristobal. Our Cuban cane is tough and hard to bite in March."

The guard twirled the bundle of canes in his hand, and laughed derisively at the meanness of the gift as he passed it through the bars to the prisoner. Even some of the other prisoners laughed to think that one of their number was so poor that his friends could send him nothing but a few canes.

Being one of "the Yankees of Spain," Cristobal knew on the moment that his sister had not sent him sugar-canes merely for the sake of the sweet.

"Be careful of my teeth!" he repeated to himself, with the canes lying across his lap. "That means something, for Maria knows my teeth are all right, and able to chew most anything. And it was this top cane the Cuban looked at so hard--the crooked one."

After a few moments' thought he took out his knife and cut a piece about a foot long from the larger end of the crooked cane, intending, at any rate, to eat it, or to solve the mystery if there was a mystery.

At almost the first bite the cane cracked like a hollow reed, showing that the interior had been cut out--for sugar-cane in its natural state is very hard and solid.

Watching his chance when no one was observing him, he split the hollowed cane open with his hands, and saw in the cavity a small packet wrapped in paper. Quick as a flash he slipped the bit of cane into his pocket, and worked with his fingers to release the packet. It was heavy when he got it loose, and was evidently a roll of coins--gold coins, the weight told him. He was afraid to take them out to look, but he hurriedly removed the wrapping, sure of finding a message upon it. And he was not disappointed, for upon the inner side of the little paper he found this note:

"DEAR KIT,--Here are five American gold eagles to help you out of prison.

"I am with kind friends--Americanos--on the Buena Vista plantation, near La Flora, district de Cienfuegos. They have furnished the money. Our uncle has been shot.

"When you get out go to Numero 19, Calle O'Reilly, Havana, and ask for Pedro. He will help get you here.

"YOUR LOVING SISTER."

Cristobal could hardly help shouting when he finished reading the note; his sister safe, money to help him, and a friend in Havana to help him through the lines! For many days after the arrival of the sugar-cane it was a mystery to Cristobal how his sister had found friends so quickly in a strange country; but now it is a mystery no longer.

When her brother was dragged away and she was left alone in the cane-field, little Maria Nunez first shed tears, and then stamped her feet with rage. Then she took counsel with herself. She could not stay there alone in the cane-field; she could not travel alone in roads filled with soldiers and lawless men. Surely there must be some good Christian on that island who would give her shelter; and she dropped down upon her knees in the muddy field and fingered the cheap beads that hung about her neck, and made many signs of the cross upon her little chest and forehead.

Far away across the blackened fields she saw a roof of red tiles. There must be a house, she knew, under the roof, and she started in that direction.

On the broad front gallery of the house sat Señor Walter Pickard, of Ohio, the owner of the seven thousand acres of land comprising the Buena Vista plantation, which, in times of peace, produces its fifteen thousand hogsheads of sugar every year. There is one larger sugar plantation in the world, and only one. On one side of him sat the Señora Pickard, also of Ohio, and on the other was the young Señor Pickard, aged seventeen. The three were looking across the lane at the great "works" that should have been alive with men and the hum of machinery, but which stood deserted and silent, its walls riddled with bullets; looking over the seven thousand acres of land that should have been rich with cane, but which lay charred with fire and trampled by troops, ruined for many years to come.