ll of satisfaction when I saw, as the Cuban
passed me, that he held a cigarette between his lips, not arrogantly nor
with bravado, but with the nonchalance of a man who meets his punishment
fearlessly, and who will let his enemies see that they can kill but
cannot frighten him.
It was very quickly finished, with rough and, but for one frightful
blunder, with merciful swiftness. The crowd fell back when it came to
the square, and the condemned man, the priests, and the firing squad of
six young volunteers passed in and the line closed behind them.
The officer who had held the cord that bound the Cuban's arms behind him
and passed across his breast, let it fall on the grass and drew his
sword, and Rodriguez dropped his cigarette from his lips and bent and
kissed the cross which the priest held up before him.
The elder of the priests moved to one side and prayed rapidly in a loud
whisper, while the other, a younger man, walked behind the firing squad
and covered his face with his hands. They had both spent the last twelve
hours with Rodriguez in the chapel of the prison.
The Cuban walked to where the officer directed him to stand, and turning
his back on the square, faced the hills and the road across them, which
led to his father's farm.
As the officer gave the first command he straightened himself as far as
the cords would allow, and held up his head and fixed his eyes immovably
on the morning light, which had just begun to show above the hills.
He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, but of such courage and
dignity, that he reminded me on the instant of that statue of Nathan Hale
which stands in the City Hall Park, above the roar of Broadway. The
Cuban's arms were bound, as are those of the statue, and he stood firmly,
with his weight resting on his heels like a soldier on parade, and with
his face held up fearlessly, as is that of the statue. But there was
this difference, that Rodriguez, while probably as willing to give six
lives for his country as was the American rebel, being only a peasant,
did not think to say so, and he will not, in consequence, live in bronze
during the lives of many men, but will be remembered only as one of
thirty Cubans, one of whom was shot at Santa Clara on each succeeding day
at sunrise.
The officer had given the order, the men had raised their pieces, and the
condemned man had heard the clicks of the triggers as they were pulled
back, and he had not moved. And
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