The Short Shrift of the Filibuster
“Voyons!” said Stromboli, as he caught me coming out of the gate of Lincoln’s Inn, clutched me by the arm, and drew me into the Chancery Lane Bodega. “On the proceeds of my former story I have dined—dined sumptuously—dined several times. Think of it! Several dinners for one story! It is an advantage over the plutocracy and the bourgeoisie at which my heart rejoices.”
“But how about the creditors?” I inquired, as we settled down at a small table in a corner.
Stromboli lit his large pipe meditatively.
“The creditors! Precisely. That is the weak point in my position. The great happiness of having money to spend caused me to forget them. Nevertheless, they still exist, and now that the money is gone they write, recalling themselves to my recollection. It is unfortunate. For it seems that, even in this free country of yours, the law gives them the power to make themselves unpleasant.”
I assented, and tried to explain to him the exact nature of a judgment summons, and a committal order. Then I continued—
“But you know other stories, I suppose?”
Stromboli banged the table and made the glasses ring, as he answered, half in derision, half in indignation—
“If I know other stories! He asks if I know other stories. When I tell you that I—moi qui vous parle—have lain under sentence of death in a Spanish prison at Santiago de Cuba, and escaped from it under circumstances which will not occur again——”
“That sounds all right,” I interrupted.
“You really think so?”
“I am quite sure of it.”
“Then I must make haste. The letters of the creditors begin, ‘Unless——’ There is evidently no time to be lost.”
“There is no time like the present,” I rejoined.
“Let us begin, then. And, since more money is in sight, there is no reason why I should not spend the little money that remains to me. You shall drink champagne with me, and we will smoke cigars.”
And then and there, in the corner of the Bodega, while the men about us talked of the business of the Law Courts, and of the price of shares, Stromboli wafted me, in imagination, to the shores of the Pearl of the Antilles, and told me the story which I entitled—
THE SHORT SHRIFT OF THE FILIBUSTER.
“Voyons! Filibustering is an important branch of revolution. Though your motives be of the loftiest, yet, if the other side catch you at it, they will shoot you. The danger is the greater because you are generally on the weaker side, and therefore likely to be caught. It is a quick gamble for the heaviest of stakes. I know, for I have played the game. I have been a filibuster.
“It was in Cuba in the early seventies. The island was in revolt, and help was being sent to the rebels by the brave citizens of the United States. And one day, as I sipped my absinthe in the Café de Madrid, I was handed a telegram from New York, which ran as follows—
“‘Offer you commission in Cuban Army. Start at once; begin as general. Rapid promotion if found satisfactory.’
“I thumped the table and showed the despatch to my companion.
“‘To begin as general!’ I cried. ‘Is this a pleasantry at my expense, or is it not?’
“My companion, who was a man who had travelled widely, assured me that it was not.
“‘You think,’ I asked, ‘that no Cuban would dare to venture upon a pleasantry with Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski?’
“‘I am quite sure,’ he answered, ‘that no Cuban would spend the cost of this cablegram in doing so.’
“‘Ah!’
“‘Besides, you must remember that in Central American armies there is no lower commissioned rank than that of general. You are invited to begin, like other people, at the bottom of the ladder.’
“‘In that case, my friend, it is not a pleasantry, but an affront. Or is it that they are afraid of exciting the jealousy of the other generals, I wonder? I must reflect.’
“I reflected in silence for at least two minutes. Then, having made up my mind, I asked my friend—
“‘Do you happen to know what uniform is required by a general in the Cuban service?’
“‘In the Central American armies,’ my friend answered, ‘every general wears the uniform that suits him best.’
“‘And do you know when the next boat starts for New York?’
“‘In exactly forty-eight hours from now.’
“‘In that case there is no time to be lost. I will drive to the tailor’s and select a uniform at once.’
“With such celerity did I form my plans. The uniform reached me just in time, neatly packed in a tin box, with my name painted on it. I dressed myself in it for the first time when I had crossed the Atlantic, and proceeded to report myself to the Cuban Junta at New York. It was an imposing uniform,—scarlet and gold lace, with a cocked hat and flaunting plumes. It caused no little admiration when, failing to find a more suitable conveyance, I rode to my destination on a tramcar. I doubt not that it would have made an even greater impression than it did if the Cuban Junta had not happened, at the moment of my call, to be represented by a Yankee.
“‘Great snakes alive!’ was that gentleman’s first exclamation, to which I replied with dignity—
“‘You are mistaken, sir. I am the new Cuban general—Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.’
“At this he extended his hand to me cordially, continuing in the quaint language of the United States—
“‘Glad to see you, General. Proud to make your acquaintance, sir. Reckon you’re going to knock the sawdust out of those durned Spaniards presently. But, in the meantime, if you’re in a position to put up the greenbacks, hadn’t you better buy a store suit to go on with? Your present outfit, though very striking, is better adapted for dictating terms of peace upon the field of carnage than for the requirements of everyday life in New York City—the more so as there is no purpose to be served by showing our plans under the nose of the U.S. Government.’
“He was evidently a practical man—nearly all Americans are practical men—and I agreed with him that it would be easier to keep a secret in a store suit than in a uniform. It was in my store suit, therefore, that I went down according to his directions, to secure my passage to Cuba on board the paddle-steamer Washington. And here, once again, I found myself face to face with a practical American.
“‘What is your name, sir?’ he inquired, when I asked that a cabin should be retained for me, and I told him.
“‘It is a name that you should know,’ I said. ‘I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.’
“He did not seem to know me. This time, I imagine, it was my store suit that operated to my disadvantage. He answered me in the usual vernacular—
“‘Seems, stranger, that’s more name than there is room for in the space provided. Reckon if I enter you on this ship’s books as John A. Strongboiler, that’s name enough for you to sail under. Then, in case of accidents, you can say you’re an American citizen, trading in cigars, and claim the protection of the Stars and Stripes.’
“He was evidently a thoroughly practical man. As a rule, it may be undignified for a general officer to disguise himself as a cigar merchant. But circumstances alter cases, and the circumstances were exceptional. So I consented, and the American shook me by the hand, saying—
“‘Right, General. John A. Strongboiler doesn’t need learning by heart, like the other name. And now, to show that no offence is taken, kindly name your poison.’
“So we pledged each other in a curiously concocted beverage, with plenty of powdered ice in it; and thus it was, as you see, under the strange style of John A. Strongboiler, dealer in cigars, that I sailed from New York City in the paddle-steamer Washington (Captain Jonathan K. Jenkins), to take up my position as a general in the Cuban Army. If I could only have foreseen! But I must not anticipate.
“We touched at Kingston, Jamaica, where we took aboard a cargo of various munitions of war, together with a number of fresh passengers—brave men, who, like myself, had enlisted as generals in the Cuban service. I invited them all to drink with me, and they did so, for it is the custom of the country. For the rest, the voyage was uneventful until the hour when our terrible catastrophe began.
“It was early, and I had left my berth to pace the deck and enjoy the fresh coolness of the morning air. Captain Jonathan K. Jenkins was there also. Through his telescope he was intently observing the movements of some craft which he evidently regarded with suspicion. Finally he closed the glass with a bang and said laconically—
“‘Wal, I’m durned!’
“‘What is it, Captain?’ I asked, and he replied, in the American language—
“‘That’s a Spaniard, or I’m a Dutchman. And looking out for us. And meaning mischief. Guess, if we don’t make tracks, it’ll be a bad look out for all you generals.’
“‘Would you like me to call a council of war, Captain?’ I suggested. ‘The other generals are still asleep, but——’
“He answered curtly—
“‘Council of war be durned! Reckon I’m the captain of this ship, any way, and what I say goes.’
“And with that he shouted orders right and left, and altered the ship’s course, and the long chase began.
“Shall I describe it? That, surely, is hardly necessary. One chase at sea is very like another. Only in this chase there were one or two moments that have specially branded themselves upon my memory.
“For hours our pursuer had gained upon us, but so slowly that we were hardly aware of his approach, and were confident of reaching a British port in safety. Then came the engineer with the terrible message—
“‘Sorry, Captain, but we’re just about through with the coal.’
“Never shall I forget the quick energy with which Captain Jonathan K. Jenkins confronted the emergency. He hardly seemed to be excited.
“‘Wal,’ he said. ‘Ain’t there other things that’ll burn besides coal. Ain’t there oil? Ain’t there hams and bacon? Ain’t there chairs and tables? Fling ’em in. Fling the durned ship herself into the furnaces sooner than let the engines stop.’
“We did it. I myself—Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski—worked like a common sailor, tearing up the planks and hewing down the bulwarks to supply the flames with fuel. Others, meanwhile, were busy lightening up the ship by heaving cargo overboard. Even the horses that we carried with us had to be thrown into the water. My heart bled for those poor horses as I saw their struggles; for, after all, it was a useless sacrifice. The Spaniard gained on us continually as we neared the Jamaica coast. Shots crossed our bows, warning us to surrender or be sunk.
“Then it was that a sudden uproar arose among the sailors.
“‘’Tain’t the horses the Spaniards want. It’s the Dagos. Fling them out a few Dagos and they’ll stop worriting fast enough.’
“It was one of those chances that a man gets now and then of showing the metal that he is made of. The Cubans had drawn their knives; the crew were ready to rush upon them with oars and marling-spikes and every other handy weapon; Captain Jenkins had cocked his revolver and was prepared to shoot. I saw my opportunity and stepped forward to calm the tumult.
“‘Captain,’ I said, ‘let there be no question of throwing me overboard. If you think that I can save your ship by jumping overboard, you have only to say the word and I’ll do it.’
“Still overawing the mutinous sailors with the pistol, the captain gripped me by the hand.
“‘Strongboiler,’ he said, ‘you’re a gentleman, though Dagos don’t run to it as a rule. But we don’t do these things on board American vessels. We sink or swim together.’
“And with that he gave the order to heave to, and the Spaniards boarded us. The captain greeted them with violent language.
“‘What the blazes! These are British waters, ain’t they? Jamaica three-mile limit. And this is the United States trading steamer, Washington, cleared from Kingston, Jamaica, for San Domingo. If you’ve got your doubts about it, look at the ship’s papers and be durned!’
“‘You can show your papers to the Governor, when you get to Santiago de Cuba,’ was the Spanish officer’s reply. ‘In the meantime, you are my prisoners, and it’s there that I’m going to take you.’
“He disarmed us all and put a prize crew on board; and the Spanish gunboat Tornado took the trading steamer Washington in tow, and headed straight for Santiago Harbour.
“Santiago de Cuba! To think that one of the loveliest spots upon God’s earth should be given over to the abominations of these butchers!
“It was just at sunrise, on one of the loveliest mornings that I have ever known, that we made our way slowly through the narrow entrance to the bay. On either side of us low ridges of rolling hills, crowned with dark woods and verdant meadows; the bright plumage of tropical birds glancing among the trees where we hugged the shore beside the forest; here and there in the distant uplands the white walls of some country house, with the blue smoke rising like incense, untroubled by any breath of air. A scene of greater peacefulness could hardly be, save for the blue fins of the sharks that followed us, as though aware that we were journeying to our doom.
“Yet I held my head high in spite of all. Something might always happen; some chance might always show itself to the man who gave his whole mind to watching for it. Your true gambler with Death never loses hope until the hour actually comes when he must pay the forfeit.
“It seemed, however, that that hour was very near and quite inevitable. A message was conveyed to us.
“‘A court-martial, for the trial of the prisoners, will sit at noon, in the Tornado, under the presidency of General Burriel, Governor of Santiago.’ And you know what a Spanish court-martial is! It is the modern form of the Spanish Inquisition. Its purpose is not to judge, but to condemn. So that I had little hope of justice and less of mercy when my turn came to be haled before it. Only of one thing I was resolved.’
“‘At least,’ I said to myself, ‘I will hold my head high. At least I will not beg for pity.’
“My turn came.
“Informal, but ferocious; that is how I must describe the court that sat in judgment over me. A pleasant awning was hung upon the deck. A table, with pens, ink, and paper upon it, was set for the president of the court. The other officers composing it lounged around, in a semicircle, in comfortable chairs. They drank and smoked cigarettes, and laughed gaily together, as though the sentencing of men to death were the most agreeable diversion that they knew. And I stood before them, handcuffed and guarded by marines.
“‘What do you say that your name is?’ was the first question put to me, and my answer was defiant.
“‘It is a name that you know well enough. I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.’
“For I had forgotten. The president had a list of the crew and passengers in front of him, and desired me to find my name in it. As well as my fetters would let me, I pointed, and then, when it was too late, I perceived the blunder that I had made.
“A grim and cruel smile appeared upon General Burriel’s face. From the paper in front of him he read aloud the words—
“‘John A. Strongboiler, dealer in cigars.’ Then he pointed to me, and to the tin box, with ‘Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski’ painted on it, which lay upon the deck with other pièces de conviction, ready to be used when needed. Then he spoke slowly, with a bitter ring in his lines—
“‘Untie the prisoner and let him open the box. Without doubt it is his cigar-box. If it is found to contain enough cigars to give the members of this court one hundred each, I undertake that the prisoner shall be acquitted.’
“Well, I have no surprise in store for you. You know quite well what was in the box. Under the bayonets of the marines I unpacked it defiantly; and as each article came forth—the cocked hat, the heavy boots, the scarlet tunic, the pipe-clayed breeches—the deck of the Tornado literally shook with shrieks of laughter. Yes, for the first and last time in my life, I, Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski was laughed at to my face.
“Perhaps for an instant the thought crossed my mind that these men would be merciful to me because I had afforded them amusement. If so, it was a thought that was dispelled with great rapidity. The members of the court-martial conferred aloud, with mocking laughter.
“‘A man who travels under a false name——’
“‘Talks Spanish——’
“‘Says that he is an American——’
“‘Though apparently a Pole——’
“‘And carries a uniform about with him in a box——’
“‘Which he pretends is a cigar box——’
“‘Is a very interesting scoundrel——’
“‘But none the less unfit to live!’
“And General Burriel summed the matter up and delivered formal sentence.
“‘Prisoner, the sentence of the court upon you is that you be shot at dawn. Marines, remove the prisoner.’
“They proceeded to remove me; but before I had left the ship he called me back again.
“‘Prisoner,’ he said gravely, ‘in consideration of the fact that you have amused the court, the court has decided upon a mitigation of your sentence.’ Hope flattered me again, but only for an instant. The president continued with an evil chuckle—
“‘Prisoner, the court accords you permission to put on your uniform and wear it until the hour of your execution.’
“Once more there was an outburst of uproarious merriment. My military judges held their sides in their hilarity, while the marines marched me away through jeering crowds to lodge me in the Santiago prison. They insolently made me dress myself in my uniform in their presence, and then they locked the door of my cell and left me to my reflections.
“My reflections! You may guess that these were not agreeable. Since American protection had failed me, my one hope was that, by some means or other, I might get on board the British gunboat that was lying at anchor in the harbour, and, as I had been captured in British waters, claim the protection of the Union Jack. But how to get there? That was, indeed, a problem that needed thinking out.
“Sitting for a space with my head buried in my hands, I thought it out in all its bearings. Presently I saw my way—or thought I saw it—and my courage and high spirits returned to me. Though I had to use a subterfuge, I would not be humble.
“I stood upon the stool, which was my only article of furniture, bringing my face level with the window through which my cell communicated with the passage, and called—
“‘Gaoler! Come here, gaoler! I want you, gaoler!’
“I am aware that I spoke in the same commanding tone in which I should have summoned the boots or the waiter at an hotel. I could not help it. It is a way that I have always had, and a way that I have generally found answer. It answered in this case. The man came, growling.
“‘What is the meaning of this, gaoler?’ I asked curtly.
“‘What is the meaning of what?’ he retorted roughly.
“‘Of this, gaoler—that I, a prisoner condemned to be shot at dawn, have not yet received a visit from any spiritual adviser? Even in Spain, I believe, a prisoner condemned to die has a right to spiritual consolation.’ My speech, I daresay, sounded more like a reprimand than a request; but it made none the less impression upon that account. Why should it have? In all situations in life the way to secure deference is to be peremptory. My severity compelled politeness.
“‘Of course, if his Excellency desires to see a priest——’
“‘Certainly, gaoler,’ I answered. ‘Certainly I want to see a priest. And the sooner the better. Be so good as to tell one of the priests to step this way at once.’
“He had already started, when I called him back.
“‘And, look here, gaoler, I’m very particular about priests. I can’t accept consolation from a little priest. I must have a big one.’
“The gaoler stared at me, evidently believing that I was mad. But there was method in my madness, as you will see. I added, producing some notes from a pocket which, in their merriment over my uniform, the Spaniards had quite forgotten to search—
“‘You see, my man, I’m in a position to reward you if you carry out this wish of mine.’
“He laughed an unpleasant laugh and left me. I waited with such patience as I could command, knowing that it might take some time to find a priest whose physical proportions were equal to my own. The sun had set, in fact, before the door of my cell reopened, and my gaoler, to whom I promptly handed the reward which I had promised him, ushered in a tall friar, habited in the flowing robes of the Dominican Order.
“I bowed to him with that courtesy which, I trust, has always distinguished me in dealing with my equals, even when they also happen to be my enemies.
“‘I regret, my father,’ I said, ‘having to receive you in so unworthy an apartment. Nothing but the most stern necessity compels me.’
“The speech surprised him. He had evidently expected a more abject attitude.
“‘My son, the time is short,’ he answered, ‘and as I doubt not that your sins are many, it were well to waste none of it in idle words.’
“I watched him intently while he spoke, and took his measure. It was important, since the success of the great coup that I projected depended wholly upon the nature of the man with whom I had to deal.
“He was tall, as I have said, but frail and spare of build. I read superstition in the shape of his forehead, which was high, and narrow. His thin lips, and the contour of his mouth, betokened that mixture of cruelty and weakness which has made the Spanish priest so widely hated, even in countries where there lingers no tradition of the sacred office. He was a man who would persecute if he dared. But his shifty eyes quailed before my glance, so that I felt sure that there was no real courage behind his cruelty.
“First of all, for the success of my plan, it was necessary that I should give him convincing demonstration of my superior physical powers. I made him feel the muscles of my arms.
“‘There, my father,’ I said to him. ‘What think you of the cruelty which condemns a man in the prime of a strength like mine to be killed like a rat in a hole?’
“He was already beginning to be afraid of me, which was what I wanted; but his dignity did not yet forsake him.
“‘It is the will of God,’ he answered, ‘and I am only here that you may make confession of your sins.’
“As he was speaking I had slowly advanced towards him. As a frightened man will, he had slunk back before me, so that I was almost pressing him against the walls in the corner of the cell farthest from the door. His eyes showed the vague terror that was coming over him. And then I said, sinking my voice to a whisper—
“‘No, my father, you are not here to listen to my confession. You are here to save my life.’
“He made a movement as though he would cry for help, but with a menacing gesture I frightened him into silence, so that the sound died away, unuttered, in his throat.
“‘Listen!’ I went on, still in the same subdued tone of voice. ‘I have made you see how strong I am. You know well that I can throttle you where you stand, long before any help can come to you. I shall do this if you make a single sound, and I shall still do it if you hesitate to obey the orders which I am about to give you. Now!’
“He made another movement, the faint beginning of a wriggle, as he thought that he might slip pass me like an eel. My hands approached his throat and he desisted. I went on—
“‘It is a very simple thing that I require. In the first place, you will change clothes with me. If you are willing to do this, do not speak, but nod your head.’
“He stood there, pale and motionless, trying to find the courage to defy me.
“‘My father,’ I said, ‘I can only give you while I count ten. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine——’
“He nodded.
“Undress, then,’ I said. ‘And mark me, if there is any noise, or any sign of hesitation——’
“This time he fully understood that I was in earnest and obeyed me. I hurried him, for there was always the chance that the gaoler might come back and interrupt us. In five minutes—or perhaps in less—the priest had put on my uniform, and I was attired in the black garb of the Dominican. But there was still one more little formality to be gone through.
“‘My father,’ I said, ‘I might make you swear on your crucifix that you will stay here quietly until someone comes and finds you.’
“From the shifty look in his eyes I perceived that this was the very thing that he would be glad for me to do.
“‘But,’ I continued, ‘the temptation to break your oath would be very terrible. It will be kinder not to expose you to it. So I shall gag you.’
“I improvised a gag by tearing a strip of cloth from my robes, and he submitted to have it thrust into his mouth. Then I said—
“‘Good-bye, my father. In the years to come it will, perhaps, be a grateful memory to you that you have been instrumental in saving the life of Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.’
“And with that I opened the door with the key that had been left in it for my spiritual adviser’s use, and locked it again carefully behind me, and strode silently, as though deep in meditation, down the passage. No one suspected anything, no one stopped me to ask a question. The prison gate was flung open wide for me by an obsequious attendant, and I was once more at liberty. I made straight for the hills and hid myself in the woods and waited for the dawn.
“It broke at last, with all the golden grandeur of the tropics; and I found that my hiding-place, though far away, commanded a view of the yard of the very prison in which I had been confined a few short hours before. There was a bustle and confusion there. A prisoner was being dragged, struggling violently, to the place of execution. He wore a uniform—my uniform. I understood.
“‘My God! The gag in his mouth! He can’t explain; they’ve mistaken him for me; they’re shooting him instead of me.’
“My heart sank and I was ashamed. Though all be fair in war, yet I had not meant this, and knew that it was unworthy of me. I give you my word that, if I had been near enough, I would have stepped forward to save the priest and resigned myself to the soldiers’ vengeance. I give you my word, too, that I shouted aloud with joy when the sudden firing of cannon and pealing of alarm bells told me that the Spaniards had found out their mistake in time, and that the search for me would now, at last, begin.
“‘Courage!’ I said to myself, and worked my way slowly and stealthily down the hillside, meaning to strike the bay at the point where I saw the British gunboat lying at anchor close alongside.
“Before I could get to it there was a short space of open ground to be traversed, and in that open space I saw no less a person than General Burriel himself, with armed orderlies in attendance, smoking his cigar, and enjoying the fresh morning air.
“There was nothing for it but to run the gauntlet of their fire, trusting for my safety in the inaccuracy of Spanish aim. I ran; they missed me; and a minute later, with the help of a rope that a bluejacket flung to me, I had scrambled on to the deck of the Seamew.
“The captain seemed surprised to see me; but I explained my presence in a few hot, hurried sentences.
“‘I have escaped from the Santiago prison. They took me, in the Washington, in British waters. I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.’
“The captain rose to the occasion.
“‘I don’t care a hang who you are,’ he replied politely, ‘but if they took you in British waters, you’re safe, till further notice, under the British flag.’
“And he maintained the same attitude when General Burriel himself approached and demanded my surrender, saying—
“‘I want that man. That man is my prisoner.’
“The sailors had gripped their cutlasses; the marines had fixed their bayonets; and the captain of the Seamew stepped forward and shouted with that magnificent Anglo-Saxon insolence which is the admiration of the world—
“‘Your prisoner, is he? Then, hang it, sir, let’s see you come aboard my ship and take him.’
“But this the Spaniards did not do. If they had failed to keep Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski in their prison when he was alone and friendless, still less could they recapture him when the whole might of the British Empire stood behind him.”