Chapter 17

ON my arrival at the Havana I found that Durham, who wasstill an invalid, had taken up his quarters at Mr.

　　Crauford's, the Consul-General. Phoca, who was nearly wellagain, was at the hotel, the only one in the town. And whoshould I meet there but my old Cambridge ally, Fred, the lastLord Calthorpe. This event was a fruitful one, - itdetermined the plans of both of us for a year or more tocome.

　　Fred - as I shall henceforth call him - had just returnedfrom a hunting expedition in Texas, with another sportsmanwhom he had accidentally met there. This gentlemanultimately became of even more importance to me than my oldfriend. I purposely abstain from giving either his name orhis profession, for reasons which will become obvious enoughby-and-by; the outward man may be described. He stood wellover six feet in his socks; his frame and limbs were thoseof a gladiator; he could crush a horseshoe in one hand; hehad a small head with a bull-neck, purely Grecian features,thick curly hair with crisp beard and silky moustache. He soclosely resembled a marble Hercules that (as he must have aname) we will call him Samson.

　　Before Fred stumbled upon him, he had spent a winter campingout in the snows of Canada, bear and elk shooting. He wassix years or so older than either of us - I.E. about eight-and-twenty.

　　As to Fred Calthorpe, it would be difficult to find a more'manly' man. He was unacquainted with fear. Yet hiscourage, though sometimes reckless, was by no means of thebrute kind. He did not run risks unless he thought the gainwould compensate them; and no one was more capable ofweighing consequences than he. His temper was admirable, hisspirits excellent; and for any enterprise where danger andhardship were to be encountered few men could have beenbetter qualified. By the end of a week these two had agreedto accompany me across the Rocky Mountains.

　　Before leaving the Havana, I witnessed an event which, thoughdisgusting in itself, gives rise to serious reflections.

　　Every thoughtful reader is conversant enough with them; if,therefore, he should find them out of place or trite, apologyis needless, as he will pass them by without the asking.

　　The circumstance referred to is a public execution. Mr.

　　Sydney Smith, the vice-consul, informed me that a criminalwas to be garrotted on the following morning; and asked mewhether I cared to look over the prison and see the man inhis cell that afternoon. We went together. The poor wretchbore the stamp of innate brutality. His crime was the mostrevolting that a human being is capable of - the violationand murder of a mere child. When we were first admitted hewas sullen, merely glaring at us; but, hearing the warderdescribe his crime, he became furiously abusive, and workedhimself into such a passion that, had he not been chained tothe wall, he would certainly have attacked us.

　　At half-past six next morning I went with Mr. Smith to theCampo del Marte, the principal square. The crowd had alreadyassembled, and the tops of the houses were thronged withspectators. The women, dressed as if for a bull-fight or aball, occupied the front seats. By squeezing and pushing wecontrived to get within eight or nine yards of the machine,where I had not long been before the procession was seenmoving up the Passeo. A few mounted troops were in front toclear the road; behind them came the Host, with a number ofpriests and the prisoner on foot, dressed in white; a largeguard brought up the rear. The soldiers formed an opensquare. The executioner, the culprit, and one priestascended the steps of the platform.

　　The garrotte is a short stout post, at the top of which is aniron crook, just wide enough to admit the neck of a manseated in a chair beneath it. Through the post, parallelwith the crook, is the loop of a rope, whose ends arefastened to a bar held by the executioner. The loop, beinground the throat of the victim, is so powerfully tightenedfrom behind by half a turn of the bar, that an extra twistwould sever a man's head from his body.

　　The murderer showed no signs of fear; he quietly seatedhimself, but got up again to adjust the chair and makehimself comfortable! The executioner then arranged the roperound his neck, tied his legs and his arms, and retiredbehind the post. At a word or a look from the priest thewrench was turned. For a single instant the limbs of thevictim were convulsed, and all was over.

　　No exclamation, no whisper of horror escaped from the lookerson. Such a scene was too familiar to excite any feeling butmorbid curiosity; and, had the execution taken place at theusual spot instead of in the town, few would have giventhemselves the trouble to attend it.

　　It is impossible to see or even to think of what is heredescribed without gravely meditating on its suggestions. Iscapital punishment justifiable? This is the question Ipurpose to consider in the following chapter.