



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