rate enterprise. I have
come to deliver into your hands every pirate on the Cuban coast upon one
condition; a pardon for myself." "You shall have it," replied his
excellency, "but who are you?" "I am Marti, and I rely upon the promise
you have given to me." The Governor-General repeated his assurances of
immunity upon the prescribed conditions. Marti had laid his plans well,
having appointed a place of rendezvous for the different bands before
venturing upon his perilous expedition. He acted as a guide to the force
sent in pursuit, and every pirate was captured and afterwards
"garroted." A large price had been set upon the head of Marti. This is
the story as told by his contemporaries. For these distinguished
services to the State the vile old reprobate was offered the promised
reward. In lieu of it he asked for the monopoly of the sale of fish in
Havana, which was granted to him; and the structure erected by him for a
fish market is perhaps the finest of the sort in the world. He
afterwards built the noble "Tacon" theatre, named after his
benefactor,--and died in the odor of sanctity.

We were not sorry when the day of our departure came. There was a motley
crowd of passengers on board the little steamer. "Paisanos" wearing
broad brimmed sombreroes and in picturesque costume; "Padres" in their
long gowns and shovel hats; pretty "senoritas" with hair plaited down
their backs, and officers on their way to join the army in the field in
San Domingo. But every one was amiable and disposed to be companionable.
Most of them were aware of the fact that there was a state of war
between the North and the South; and their sympathies were altogether
with our side; for no earthly reason, probably, except that they
entertained the blind hatred against the "Norte Americanos" so prevalent
among the Latin race on this continent, and supposed the people of the
South to be of different origin.[8]

We were half poisoned, and wholly saturated with garlic, while on board
the little steamer; and men, women and children smoked incessantly. Our
clever artist, Johnny T., drew a capital sketch of a portly old lady
whose habit it was, after every meal, to take from her side pocket an
oil skin bundle of huge cigars--evidently "plantations," and made to
order. Selecting one, she would strike a light with her "matchero" and
begin to puff away like a furnace. When fairly alight, she would
dispose of the smoke in some mysterious inner receptacle, whe