Gustave Aimard
The Guide of the Desert

CHAPTER XIX
LA MONTONERA

Montonero, the feminine of which is montonera, is essentially an American word, although its root is undoubtedly Spanish. It signifies, literally, a heap, a mass, a collection. Taken in the bad acceptation of the word, a montonera means a gathering of men of the sack and cord – of bandits without faith or law – of highway robbers.

But this is not the meaning which was at first given to the word. They understood by montonera, a cuadrilla – a guerilla composed of banished politicians – of insurgents who made war as partisans at their own risk and peril, but who were brave and honest.

The Spaniards, at the commencement of the insurrection of the colonies against the government, imposed this name on them in order to lower them in public opinion – a name in which the Montoneros themselves boasted, and which they considered it an honour to bear.

But when the civil war degenerated into a fratricidal struggle among citizens – when the Spaniards were conquered and constrained to abandon the new world – the Montoneros degenerated, and suspicious men of all parties came to shelter themselves under their banners, and to seek there an impunity for their crimes. They were then nothing more than a lot of sinister bandits, resembling those bands of robbers and vagrants of the middle ages which so long desolated Europe, and the successive governments were, during more than two centuries, powerless to destroy, or even to repress them.

Appearing to have received the traditions of their progenitors of the old World, the Montoneros commenced to ravage the country, to pillage the haciendas, to put to ransom the towns too weak to oppose an energetic resistance to them; and serving any cause for pay, they adopted all parties in turn, remorselessly betraying one after the other, and only seeing in civil war one end – pillage.

At the epoch in which our history transpires, although the Montoneros had already degenerated from their original loyalty, and a number of people without any occupation had succeeded in getting into their ranks, they nevertheless preserved, at least in appearance, the principles of chivalrous patriotism which had governed their formation, and their name did not inspire, as it afterwards did, terror to the honest folk and peaceable citizens whom it was the mission of the Montoneros to protect and defend.

In a fertile valley, at the foot of a wooded hill of moderate height, on the bank of the Río Tucumán, at about fifteen leagues from the town of San Miguel, a troop of horsemen, whose number might be about three hundred, had camped in a delicious position.

The soldiers, all clothed in the costume of the gauchos of the pampa – their features expressive of energy, and their faces bronzed in the sun, but with a fierce look – were for the most part armed, not only with sabres and guns, but also with a long and strong lance, the blade of which was garnished with a bright red streamer.

Lying or sitting at the foot of the fig and orange trees, they had planted their lances in the ground, and were playing, talking, or sleeping, while their horses were freely wandering about, feeding on the green grass of the plain.

Some sentinels, scattered on the somewhat distant heights – motionless as statues of Florentine bronze, of which they had the warm and coppery tint – were watching over the common safety.

These men, whose reputation for bravery was celebrated in all the Banda Oriental, composed the Montonera of the celebrated Zeno Cabral – the same who had had, they said, some days before, a quarrel with the royal troops, and whose victory the town of San Miguel was celebrating with shouts and fireworks.

This wild and primitive encampment, which more resembled a halt of bandits than anything else, had a most picturesque appearance, and would have been the admiration of a painter of the Salvator Rosa school.

Nearly in the centre of the encampment, at the summit of a little hill of a scarcely perceptible slope, several men, whose arms and clothing were in a better position, and their appearance less fierce than those of their companions, were seated on the grass smoking their cigarettes.

These men were the officers. In the midst of them was their chief, or the general, as they called him.

This chief was a very young man, appearing, at the most, twenty-two, with fine and delicate features, and gentle and graceful manners, which, in the eyes of an indifferent spectator, would have appeared little calculated to command men like those who had voluntarily ranged themselves under his banner; but an observer would not have been deceived by the energetic expression on his calm and handsome face, by the uncommon height of his clear and well-chiselled forehead, and by the eagle glance which escaped from his full black eyes. A sad melancholy seemed settled on his features, and it was with extreme difficulty that his companions – for the most part young men of his own age, and belonging to the first families of the country – could succeed at long intervals in bringing a sad smile upon his lips.

His head supported on his right hand, thoughtlessly twirling with his left hand his long and silky black moustache, he carelessly gazed, without any apparent object, on the immense and magnificent panorama which was spread before him, only answering by monosyllables to the questions which were addressed to him, and appearing absorbed in some secret thought.

His officers, seeing all their advances repulsed by their chief, had decided to leave him to his reflections, whatever they were, since he appeared to wish to indulge them, and began to chat and laugh among themselves, when all of a sudden some forty horsemen appeared on the horizon, coming at full speed towards the spot where the Montonera was encamped.

"Eh?" said one of the officers, placing his hand as a shade over his eyes, "Who can these horsemen be?"

"They are our people, since the sentinels have allowed them to pass," answered another officer.

"Have we, then, scouts in the environs?"

"I could not be certain of it; but as the general had spoken of detailing Captain Quiroga, with some twenty soldiers, to watch the defiles of the Sierra, and as I do not see him among us, it is probable that the general has given effect to the project."

"It would be his troop, then, that is coming up?"

"I think so; for that matter, we shall not be long in knowing the real state of affairs."

The horsemen still rode towards them; they were soon sufficiently near to be recognised.

"You were not deceived, Don Juan Armero," resumed the first officer: "it is, in fact, Captain Quiroga. I can distinguish from here his long lean body, which appears to sway about in his clothes, and his angular and morose face, which makes him appear like a bird of night."

"The fact is," answered don Juan, "that the worthy captain is easy to recognise; but you should be more careful, Don Estevan; you know that the general likes him much, and perhaps it would displease him to hear him thus spoken of."

"To the devil! As if I said any ill of him! Captain Quiroga is a brave and worthy soldier, whom I love and appreciate very highly myself, but that is no reason why he should have the figure of Adonis."

"A matter about which he cares very little, without doubt, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral, mingling in the conversation; "he contents himself with being one of our bravest and most experienced officers."

"¡Caramba! General; and we also all love him – the brave old man who might be our father, and who tells us during the nights of bivouac such pleasant tales of old times."

The chief of the party smiled, without answering.

"But what is he bringing us here?" suddenly cried don Estevan Albino, the officer who had first spoken. "Why, I can see the folds of a robe and a mantilla fluttering in the wind!"

"Two robes and two mantillas, if you please, Don Estevan; and even more, if I am not deceived," sententiously remarked Don Juan Armero.

"¡Válgame Dios!" said the young officer, laughing; "The old boy is bringing us a bevy of petticoats."

The officers rose; some opened their lorgnettes, and began to examine attentively the troops which were arriving, freely commenting on the prize made by the old officer, and which he was bringing with him.

Zeno Cabral had fallen again into his reverie, apparently indifferent to what was passing around him; but the feverish flush which suffused his face, and the knitting of his eyebrows, belied the affected calm, and showed that he was inwardly a prey to strong emotion.

Meanwhile, the horsemen rapidly traversed the plain, and approached nearer and nearer, coming towards the group of officers, recognisable by the Buenos Airean flag, the staff of which was fixed in the ground, and which floated in long folds to the breeze.

On the arrival of the horsemen the Montoneros rose, looked at them curiously, and then followed them, laughing and sneering among themselves, so much that, when they reached the foot of the little hill where the officers were waiting for them, they found themselves literally enveloped by a compact crowd that Captain Quiroga was obliged to separate with a blow or two from a piece of lancewood, of which he acquitted himself with imperturbable coolness.

The officers had not calumniated the worthy captain. The difference of costume apart, he resembled, trait for trait, Don Quixote, at the time of his second sortie.

There was the same long and meagre body, the same lean and angular countenance, with a depressed forehead, sunken eyes, hooked nose like the beak of a bird, large jaws furnished with a few worn-out teeth, long grey moustaches, and high reddish cheekbones.

And yet this eccentric appearance – as they would nowadays have called it – had nothing ridiculous in it. This singular physiognomy was set off by such an expression of bravery, candour, and goodness, that at first sight one felt oneself attracted towards the old officer – for he was at least fifty – and quite disposed to love him.

The soldiers laughed convulsively on receiving the blows that the captain generously distributed to them, and it was with great difficulty that he could rid himself of them.

"Devil take these fellows!" said the captain; "They will not let me approach the general."

And, followed by a part of his soldiers, who, like himself, had alighted, he walked up the hill where the officers were gathered.

The soldiers led several prisoners in their midst; among these prisoners were some women, of whom two appeared, by their costume and manners, to belong to high society.

The Montoneros, notwithstanding the indiscreet curiosity which animated them, had not dared, out of respect for their chief, to pass the natural limit traced by the foot of the little hill. Grouped in disorder round some soldiers who were guarding the horses, they gazed anxiously on their officers.

The latter were ranged right and left of Zeno Cabral, and had given free passage to Captain Quiroga and to those whom he brought with him. Zeno Cabral had slowly risen, and, his hand supported by the handle of his sabre, his countenance cold and impassive, and his eyebrows knitted, he waited for his subordinate to speak.

The captain, having with a gesture ordered those who followed him to stop, took some steps in advance, and, after a military salute, he remained motionless without uttering a word. Amongst all his qualities, the captain did not reckon that of being an orator; his silence had become proverbial in the company.

Don Zeno knew that if he did not interrogate the captain, the latter would never make up his mind to speak first. He therefore made an effort, and affecting an indifference which was doubtless very far from his real feeling —

"You have returned, then, Captain Quiroga?" said he.

"Yes, General," laconically answered the officer.

"Have you fulfilled the mission that I confided to you?"

"I believe so, General."

"You have surprised the enemies of the country?"

"Those or others, General. I seized the people you designated when they debouched from the ravine; whether they are enemies of the country or not I do not know – that does not concern me."

"That is right," said don Zeno Cabral, who was evidently dragging out the conversation, and hesitated to attack the point of it really interesting to him.

The captain was again silent.

Don Zeno resumed, after a short pause, fidgeting his sabre knot with suppressed ill temper.

"But, in a word, what have you done?"

At this moment one of the prisoners motioned the captain on one side with a sudden gesture, and taking a step in advance —

"Do you not know, Don Zeno Cabral?" she said, in a haughty voice, throwing on her shoulders, with a gesture full of nobility, the rebozo of black lace which veiled her face.

The officers stifled a cry of admiration at the sight of the sovereign beauty of this woman.

Don Zeno Cabral took a step backward, biting his lips with vexation, while his countenance became covered with a mortal paleness.

"Madame," said he, with closed teeth, "you are a prisoner, and must only speak – do not forget that – when you are questioned."

A smile of contempt curled the lips of the lady. She slightly shrugged her shoulders, and fixed on the general a look with such an expression that, in spite of himself, he turned away his eyes.

This lady, in all the force and pride of her beauty, appeared to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age, although in reality she was about thirty-three. Her features, with extreme regularity of outline, realised the ideal of Roman beauty; her black eyes, full of fire and passion, her delicate forehead, her pretty mouth, her fine and velvet skin, her complexion very slightly bronzed by the sun, and, above all, the haughty and mockingly cruel expression of her countenance, excited a repulsion for her for which it was impossible at first to account. Her majestic figure, her noble gestures – everything about this woman, by an inexplicable contrast, repelled instead of attracting. One would have looked for the roar of a wild beast in the harmonious modulations of her voice, and the claws of a tiger under her rosy nails.

"Beware what you do, caballero," she resumed; "I am a foreigner; I am travelling peaceably; no one has a right to stop me, or even to impede my course."

"I repeat, Madame," coldly answered the general, "when I interrogate you, then, and then alone, I will permit you to answer me."

"Have I then fallen into the hands of bandits, without faith or law?" pursued she, with contempt. "Am I in the power of robbers of the desert? For that matter, the manner in which, up to the present time, I have been treated, and the sight of the man before whom I am conducted, would make me suppose so."

A murmur of anger, immediately repressed by a gesture from don Zeno Cabral, arose among the officers at this imprudent outburst.

"Where is the guide that we suspected of treason?" said the general, turning towards the captain.

"I have seized him," answered the latter.

"Have you acquired proofs of his treason?"

"Undoubted proofs, General."

"Have him brought in."

There was a movement among the soldiers. Some of them separated from the group which surrounded the prisoners, and led – treating him roughly – before their chief a half-caste of pitiful mien, with squinting eyes and thickset limbs, who, for more safety, no doubt, they had firmly bound round the neck with a lasso.

Don Zeno Cabral looked for a moment at this man – who stood humble and trembling before him – with a singular mixture of pity and disgust.

"You are convicted of treason," said he to him at last. "I have the right to hang you. I give you five minutes to commend your soul to God."

"I am innocent, noble General," murmured the wretch, falling on his knees, and hanging down his head with fear.

The general shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards the officers, with whom he began to talk in a low voice, without appearing to hear the prayers that the prisoner continued to address to him in a crying tone.

Three or four minutes passed. A funereal silence characterised the attentive crowd of the Montoneros.

It is always a serious matter, that condemnation to death, pronounced coldly, resolutely, and without appeal, even for men habituated to stake their lives on the hazard of a die, like those who were assisting at this scene; thus, in spite of themselves, they felt themselves seized with a secret fright, increased by the doleful sounds of the voice of the wretch who was writhing with fear in their midst, and imploring with sobs the pity of their chief.

The latter turned round, and making a sign to Captain Quiroga —

"It is time," said he.

"¡Caray!" said the captain; "The pícaro has been long enough seeking the gallows; he will not have cheated it, that will be at least a satisfaction for him in his last moments."

This singular speech on the part of a man who spoke so little as a rule, astonished everybody, and suddenly changing the course of ideas among the company, caused them to burst out into mocking laughter and jests directed to the condemned, who from that time lost all hope.

A soldier had mounted a tree a few paces off, and had attached his lasso to the principal branch. The captain ordered that the spy should be led under the tree, and a running knot was cast around his neck.

"Stop!" cried the lady prisoner, suddenly interposing; "That man is mine; take care what you are about to do."

There was a moment of hesitation. The wretch drew breath again; he thought he was saved.

"Take care yourself, Señora," harshly answered Zeno Cabral; "I alone command here."

"I am the Marchioness de Castelmelhor," she resumed, "the wife of General Castelmelhor; each drop of blood of that man shall cost the lives of thousands of your countrymen."

"You are a foreigner, Madame – the wife – you have said so yourself – of a Portuguese general, who has only entered our territory a few days since to ravage it. Think of yourself, and do not intercede anymore for that wretch."

"But," said she, with bitter irony, "are you not a Portuguese yourself, Señor – a Portuguese by descent at least?"

"Enough, Madame; from respect to yourself, do not insist any more. This man is guilty; he is condemned; he ought to die; he shall die."

At this moment a second woman, who, up to this time, had remained unnoticed among the other prisoners, darted quickly forward, and seizing with a nervous gesture the arm of the general, while tears ran down her face, pale with emotion —

"And mine, Don Zeno," she cried, "and mine! If I asked pardon for that man, would you refuse me?"

"Oh!" cried the general, with despair; "You here – you, Doña Eva!"

"Yes, I – I, Don Zeno, who supplicate you by all you hold most dear, to pardon him."

The general looked at her for some moments with an expression of love, of anger, and of grief, impossible to describe; whilst the young woman, panting, desolate, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clasped, almost kneeling before him, addressed him a mute prayer. Then, suddenly making a last effort over himself, and resuming his cold and impassive appearance, he regained his composure, and crossing his arms on his breast —

"It is impossible," said he; "obey, Captain."

The latter did not allow the order to be repeated. The miserable spy, seized by hands of iron, was raised into the air, and launched into eternity before even having a clear perception of this unforeseen dénouement.

The young girl – for the person who had vainly endeavoured to interpose between the justice and the clemency of the general was a young girl, almost a child, scarcely fifteen years of age – seized with fright at the sight of this hideous spectacle, terrified by the cries of brutal joy raised by the soldiers, quite gave way; her arms hanging down, her head falling on her breast, half fainting, her beautiful and gentle countenance was suffused with a mortal paleness; her long tresses fell in disorder on her shoulders, and her eyes, so mild and tender, the azure of which appeared to reflect the blue of the sky, were veiled and dimmed by grief, whilst a nervous movement agitated her whole body.

The marchioness approached her, lifted her up calmly, and directing the general's attention to her with a look of sovereign contempt —

"Stand up, my daughter," said she; "this posture only befits suppliants or criminals, and you are, thank God, neither. Did I not forewarn you that this man had a tiger's heart?"

"Oh! My mother! My mother!" cried she, hiding her face in her bosom, "How much I suffer!"

At these words, uttered with an agonising expression, the general made a sudden movement, as if to start towards the young girl.

But the marchioness, standing erect with a leonine boldness, fixed him to his place with a scornful look.

"Back, Señor," said she; "neither my daughter nor I know you. We are your prisoners. If you dare, kill us also, as you have almost threatened."

At this speech, the cruel accent of which recalled him suddenly to himself, the general resumed his coolness, and answered, with a cutting tone —

"Not you, Madame; we do not kill women; but your accomplices will be shot within an hour."

"What matters it to me?" she answered.

And supporting her daughter in her arms, she went with a firm step to mingle again with the prisoners.

This strange scene, incomprehensible to all that witnessed it, had plunged the officers and soldiers into profound astonishment.

Up to that time they had known their chief, brave – even rash – hard towards others as towards himself – of extreme severity in matters of discipline, but just, humane, and never in cold blood commanding the death of the unhappy prisoners whom the chances of war placed in his power. Thus, this sudden change in the humour of their chief, this cruelty which he had exhibited, astonished them, and filled them, unknown to themselves, with secret terror. They instinctively understood that this man, ordinarily so cold and impassive, must have very powerful motives to act as he did, and thus to give a complete denial to the mildness of character which, up to that time, he had always manifested; so, though this cruelty appeared revolting, no one dared to blame him, and those of his officers who felt disposed to accuse him could not decide to do so.

Meanwhile, don Zeno Cabral, without appearing to remark the emotion produced by this scene, strode about the place where he was, his arms behind his back, and his head leaning on his breast, seemingly a prey to great agitation.

The officers stood apart, watching him by stealth, waiting with visible anxiety the determination which doubtless he would not be long in taking – a determination on which depended the life or death of the unhappy prisoners.

Captain Quiroga at last approached him, and respectfully barred his passage at the moment when, after having terminated his promenade in one direction, he was turning to continue it in the other.

Don Zeno raised his head.

"What do you want?" said he.

"The order, General."

"What order?"

"The confirmation of that you have given me."

"I!" said he, with astonishment.

"Yes, General; I wish to know if it is necessary to shoot immediately the twelve Brazilian prisoners there."

The general started as if a serpent had stung him; he stealthily darted a look towards the beautiful young girl. She was weeping, her face hidden in her mother's bosom.

"What are these men?" said he.

"Nothing much – poor devils of servants, I believe."

"Ah! Not soldiers?"

"Not one."

"However, they defended themselves."

"Well, General, that is their right."

The general fixed his piercing eye upon the impassive face of the old soldier.

"Ah!" said he; "How many of your men have they killed?"

"Two, and wounded five, but honourably."

"I find you very tenderhearted today, Captain Quiroga," said he, in a tone of sarcasm.

"I am just, as usual, General," he answered.

The general turned pale at this hard remark, but immediately recovering himself —

"Thank you, my old friend," pursued he, holding out his hand; "thank you, for having reminded me what I owe to myself. Let them sound the signal to saddle; we leave for San Miguel, gentlemen. Captain, I leave the prisoners under your special care; let them be treated with kindness."

"Good Zeno, I am grateful to you," answered the old soldier, with a low but firm voice, taking the hand that his chief held out, and kissing it; "good, my friend."

"Come, gentlemen, to horse!" cried the general, turning aside to conceal his emotion.