



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 2, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 866. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

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.

"Who is that pretty little girl I saw you taking out toward the quarters
a few minutes ago?" the Señora Pickard asked of the butler through the
open window.

"A little Spanish girl, madame," replied the French butler, "who says
that her brother has just been arrested for a rebel, and who came to us
for shelter."

"Well, I say, we're not such foreigners yet but we can give shelter to a
little girl!" exclaimed the Señor Pickard, in remarkably good English
for a Cuban planter. He knew the danger of harboring the relative of a
suspected rebel.

"Bring her to me," said the Señora, calmly.

The mistress of such a plantation is a queen in her own dominions, and a
minute later Maria Nunez stood before her, telling her sad story, much
as Cristobal told it to the kind old gentleman in Morro Castle.

Perhaps it was because he was an Ohio boy, and not a real señor at all,
that the young Señor Pickard grew excited while the story was a-telling,
and walked nervously up and down the gallery. Or it might have been
because Maria was a remarkably pretty little Spaniard, with the dark
flashing eyes of her countrywoman, and their thick black hair and rich
complexion and delicate features. Her little story was soon told, and
she stood there looking doubly pretty in her excitement and grief.

"You shall stay with me, you poor child, till the times are settled,"
said the señora, still calmly, and in good Spanish. "Alphonse, call my
maid."

"Is that all?" exclaimed the young señor, in English, looking as if he
had determined to drive out the Spanish troops single-handed. "Aren't
you going to get the girl's brother out of prison? He will be sent to
the Morro, and you know what will get him out of there. Can't Pedro--"

The elder señor stamped his foot impatiently.

"Have you no more sense than to mention that name?" he exclaimed. "Keep
quiet, and leave this thing to me. For just about one York shilling I'd
hoist the stars and stripes here and fortify the place. I am growing
sicker of such doings every day. Go and tell Henry to have his horse
ready to start for Havana at eight o'clock to-night."

Ignorant of course of these things, Cristobal had to devise a way of
using his money for his liberation. One of those golden eagles, he knew,
represented four months' pay of any of the soldiers who were guarding
him. There was one young soldier in the guard, a boy of scarcely twenty,
barefoot and ragged, whom he had marked long before as a fellow Catalan.
For days this young fellow was kept at other work, but at length he
appeared on guard again before the bars of the cell.

Cristobal's heart beat fast when he saw who was pacing up and down just
outside the bars. Pressing up to the front of the cell, he leaned for
some time against the bars without speaking, and then, as the young
soldier passed, he asked, softly,

"Cataluna?"

"No," said the guard; "Asturias."

"So much the better!" Cristobal said to himself; "it is only proper that
a Catalan should buy an Asturian. He is mine, for I shall buy him with
gold."

For some minutes more he stood leaning against the bars, without saying
another word, biding his time. When a favorable moment came, he took one
of the golden eagles between his thumb and forefinger, and held it in
front of his breast, where no one in the cell could see it, and there
was no one outside but the young guard.

Up and down paced the soldier, his eyes apparently straight in front of
him. But somehow with each walk past he was a little closer to the bars.
Seeing this encouraging sign, Cristobal took out another eagle, and held
up two. By that time the young guard was so close that Cristobal might
have touched him as he passed. After several more turns the soldier
raised his eyebrows questioningly as he passed.

There were no other prisoners close up against the bars, but some were
near enough to make great caution necessary. Only a single short
sentence could be spoken at each passing of the sentinel.

"The first means through the portal," Cristobal whispered, as the
soldier went up.

There was not a sign to show that he had been heard or understood.

"The second means a boat on the beach," Cristobal whispered, as the
soldier went down.

Still the sentinel's eyes looked dead ahead; but before he was past the
bars he shifted his musket from one shoulder to the other, and in doing
so the stock struck lightly against one of the bars. Perhaps it was
accident; but Cristobal, being one of the Yankees of Spain, did not
think so. He instantly knew that it meant, "I cannot get you through
these bars." That was an objection that he was ready to meet; and when
the guard passed again he