Around his neck, hanging outside his linen blouse,
he wore a new scapular.
It seems a petty thing to have been pleased with at such a time, but
I confess to have felt a thrill 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.
