第 三十八 章 · FATALITY

Matanglawin was the terror of Luzon. His band had as lief appear in one

province where it was least expected as make a descent upon another

that was preparing to resist it. It burned a sugar-mill in Batangas and

destroyed the crops, on the following day it murdered the Justice of

the Peace of Tiani, and on the next took possession of the town of

Cavite, carrying off the arms from the town hall. The central

provinces, from Tayabas to Pangasinan, suffered from his depredations,

and his bloody name extended from Albay in the south to Kagayan in the

north. The towns, disarmed through mistrust on the part of a weak

government, fell easy prey into his hands—at his approach the fields

were abandoned by the farmers, the herds were scattered, while a trail

of blood and fire marked his passage. Matanglawin laughed at the severe

measures ordered by the government against the tulisanes, since from

them only the people in the outlying villages suffered, being captured

and maltreated if they resisted the band, and if they made peace with

it being flogged and deported by the government, provided they

completed the journey and did not meet with a fatal accident on the

way. Thanks to these terrible alternatives many of the country folk

decided to enlist under his command.

As a result of this reign of terror, trade among the towns, already

languishing, died out completely. The rich dared not travel, and the

poor feared to be arrested by the Civil Guard, which, being under

obligation to pursue the tulisanes, often seized the first person

encountered and subjected him to unspeakable tortures. In its

impotence, the government put on a show of energy toward the persons

whom it suspected, in order that by force of cruelty the people should

not realize its weakness—the fear that prompted such measures.

A string of these hapless suspects, some six or seven, with their arms

tied behind them, bound together like a bunch of human meat, was one

afternoon marching through the excessive heat along a road that skirted

a mountain, escorted by ten or twelve guards armed with rifles. Their

bayonets gleamed in the sun, the barrels of their rifles became hot,

and even the sage-leaves in their helmets scarcely served to temper the

effect of the deadly May sun.

Deprived of the use of their arms and pressed close against one another

to save rope, the prisoners moved along almost uncovered and unshod, he

being the best off who had a handkerchief twisted around his head.

Panting, suffering, covered with dust which perspiration converted into

mud, they felt their brains melting, they saw lights dancing before

them, red spots floating in the air. Exhaustion and dejection were

pictured in their faces, desperation, wrath, something indescribable,

the look of one who dies cursing, of a man who is weary of life, who

hates himself, who blasphemes against God. The strongest lowered their

heads to rub their faces against the dusky backs of those in front of

them and thus wipe away the sweat that was blinding them. Many were

limping, but if any one of them happened to fall and thus delay the

march he would hear a curse as a soldier ran up brandishing a branch

torn from a tree and forced him to rise by striking about in all

directions. The string then started to run, dragging, rolling in the

dust, the fallen one, who howled and begged to be killed; but perchance

he succeeded in getting on his feet and then went along crying like a

child and cursing the hour he was born.

The human cluster halted at times while the guards drank, and then the

prisoners continued on their way with parched mouths, darkened brains,

and hearts full of curses. Thirst was for these wretches the least of

their troubles.

“Move on, you sons of ——!” cried a soldier, again refreshed, hurling

the insult common among the lower classes of Filipinos.

The branch whistled and fell on any shoulder whatsoever, the nearest

one, or at times upon a face to leave a welt at first white, then red,

and later dirty with the dust of the road.

“Move on, you cowards!” at times a voice yelled in Spanish, deepening

its tone.

“Cowards!” repeated the mountain echoes.

Then the cowards quickened their pace under a sky of red-hot iron, over

a burning road, lashed by the knotty branch which was worn into shreds

on their livid skins. A Siberian winter would perhaps be tenderer than

the May sun of the Philippines.

Yet, among the soldiers there was one who looked with disapproving eyes

upon so much wanton cruelty, as he marched along silently with his

brows knit in disgust. At length, seeing that the guard, not satisfied

with the branch, was kicking the prisoners that fell, he could no

longer restrain himself but cried out impatiently, “Here, Mautang, let

them alone!”

Mautang turned toward him in surprise. “What’s it to you, Carolino?” he

asked.

“To me, nothing, but it hurts me,” replied Carolino. “They’re men like

ourselves.”

“It’s plain that you’re new to the business!” retorted Mautang with a

compassionate smile. “How did you treat the prisoners in the war?”

“With more consideration, surely!” answered Carolino.

Mautang remained silent for a moment and then, apparently having

discovered the reason, calmly rejoined, “Ah, it’s because they are

enemies and fight us, while these—these are our own countrymen.”

Then drawing nearer to Carolino he whispered, “How stupid you are!

They’re treated so in order that they may attempt to resist or to

escape, and then—bang!”

Carolino made no reply.

One of the prisoners then begged that they let him stop for a moment.

“This is a dangerous place,” answered the corporal, gazing uneasily

toward the mountain. “Move on!”

“Move on!” echoed Mautang and his lash whistled.

The prisoner twisted himself around to stare at him with reproachful

eyes. “You are more cruel than the Spaniard himself,” he said.

Mautang replied with more blows, when suddenly a bullet whistled,

followed by a loud report. Mautang dropped his rifle, uttered an oath,

and clutching at his breast with both hands fell spinning into a heap.

The prisoner saw him writhing in the dust with blood spurting from his

mouth.

“Halt!” called the corporal, suddenly turning pale.

The soldiers stopped and stared about them. A wisp of smoke rose from a

thicket on the height above. Another bullet sang to its accompanying

report and the corporal, wounded in the thigh, doubled over vomiting

curses. The column was attacked by men hidden among the rocks above.

Sullen with rage the corporal motioned toward the string of prisoners

and laconically ordered, “Fire!”

The wretches fell upon their knees, filled with consternation. As they

could not lift their hands, they begged for mercy by kissing the dust

or bowing their heads—one talked of his children, another of his mother

who would be left unprotected, one promised money, another called upon

God—but the muzzles were quickly lowered and a hideous volley silenced

them all.

Then began the sharpshooting against those who were behind the rocks

above, over which a light cloud of smoke began to hover. To judge from

the scarcity of their shots, the invisible enemies could not have more

than three rifles. As they advanced firing, the guards sought cover

behind tree-trunks or crouched down as they attempted to scale the

height. Splintered rocks leaped up, broken twigs fell from trees,

patches of earth were torn up, and the first guard who attempted the

ascent rolled back with a bullet through his shoulder.

The hidden enemy had the advantage of position, but the valiant guards,

who did not know how to flee, were on the point of retiring, for they

had paused, unwilling to advance; that fight against the invisible

unnerved them. Smoke and rocks alone could be seen—not a voice was

heard, not a shadow appeared; they seemed to be fighting with the

mountain.

“Shoot, Carolino! What are you aiming at?” called the corporal.

At that instant a man appeared upon a rock, making signs with his

rifle.

“Shoot him!” ordered the corporal with a foul oath.

Three guards obeyed the order, but the man continued standing there,

calling out at the top of his voice something unintelligible.

Carolino paused, thinking that he recognized something familiar about

that figure, which stood out plainly in the sunlight. But the corporal

threatened to tie him up if he did not fire, so Carolino took aim and

the report of his rifle was heard. The man on the rock spun around and

disappeared with a cry that left Carolino horror-stricken.

Then followed a rustling in the bushes, indicating that those within

were scattering in all directions, so the soldiers boldly advanced, now

that there was no more resistance. Another man appeared upon the rock,

waving a spear, and they fired at him. He sank down slowly, catching at

the branch of a tree, but with another volley fell face downwards on

the rock.

The guards climbed on nimbly, with bayonets fixed ready for a

hand-to-hand fight. Carolino alone moved forward reluctantly, with a

wandering, gloomy look, the cry of the man struck by his bullet still

ringing in his ears. The first to reach the spot found an old man

dying, stretched out on the rock. He plunged his bayonet into the body,

but the old man did not even wink, his eyes being fixed on Carolino

with an indescribable gaze, while with his bony hand he pointed to

something behind the rock.

The soldiers turned to see Caroline frightfully pale, his mouth hanging

open, with a look in which glimmered the last spark of reason, for

Carolino, who was no other than Tano, Cabesang Tales’ son, and who had

just returned from the Carolines, recognized in the dying man his

grandfather, Tandang Selo. No longer able to speak, the old man’s dying

eyes uttered a whole poem of grief—and then a corpse, he still

continued to point to something behind the rock.