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pubOne.info present you this wonderfully illustrated edition. Adolfo Rodriguez was the only son of a Cuban farmer, who lived nine miles outside of Santa Clara, beyond the hills that surround that city to the north.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819945284
Langue	English

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NOTES OF A WAR CORRESPONDENT
by
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
illustrated

Contents:
The Cuban-Spanish War
The Death of Rodriguez
The Greek-Turkish War
The Battle of Velestinos
The Spanish-American War
I. The Rough Riders at Guasimas
II. The Battle of San Juan Hill
III. The Taking of Coamo
IV. The Passing of San Juan Hill
The South African War
I. With Buller’s Column
II. The Relief of Ladysmith
III. The Night Before the Battle
The Japanese-Russian War
Battles I did not see
A War Correspondent’s Kit
THE CUBAN-SPANISH WAR: THE DEATH OF RODRIGUEZ [1]
Adolfo Rodriguez was the only son of a Cuban farmer,who lived nine miles outside of Santa Clara, beyond the hills thatsurround that city to the north.
When the revolution in Cuba broke out youngRodriguez joined the insurgents, leaving his father and mother andtwo sisters at the farm. He was taken, in December of 1896, by aforce of the Guardia Civile, the corps d’élite of the Spanish army,and defended himself when they tried to capture him, wounding threeof them with his machete.
He was tried by a military court for bearing armsagainst the government, and sentenced to be shot by a fusilladesome morning before sunrise.
Previous to execution he was confined in themilitary prison of Santa Clara with thirty other insurgents, all ofwhom were sentenced to be shot, one after the other, on morningsfollowing the execution of Rodriguez.
His execution took place the morning of the 19th ofJanuary, 1897, at a place a half-mile distant from the city, on thegreat plain that stretches from the forts out to the hills, beyondwhich Rodriguez had lived for nineteen years. At the time of hisdeath he was twenty years old.
I witnessed his execution, and what follows is anaccount of the way he went to his death. The young man’s friendscould not be present, for it was impossible for them to showthemselves in that crowd and that place with wisdom or withoutdistress, and I like to think that, although Rodriguez could notknow it, there was one person present when he died who felt keenlyfor him, and who was a sympathetic though unwilling spectator.
There had been a full moon the night preceding theexecution, and when the squad of soldiers marched from town it wasstill shining brightly through the mists. It lighted a plain twomiles in extent, broken by ridges and gullies and covered withthick, high grass, and with bunches of cactus and palmetto. In thehollow of the ridges the mist lay like broad lakes of water, and onone side of the plain stood the walls of the old town. On the otherrose hills covered with royal palms that showed white in themoonlight, like hundreds of marble columns. A line of tinycamp-fires that the sentries had built during the night stretchedbetween the forts at regular intervals and burned clearly.
But as the light grew stronger and the moonlightfaded these were stamped out, and when the soldiers came in forcethe moon was a white ball in the sky, without radiance, the fireshad sunk to ashes, and the sun had not yet risen.
So even when the men were formed into three sides ofa hollow square, they were scarcely able to distinguish one anotherin the uncertain light of the morning.
There were about three hundred soldiers in theformation. They belonged to the volunteers, and they deployed uponthe plain with their band in front playing a jaunty quickstep,while their officers galloped from one side to the other throughthe grass, seeking a suitable place for the execution. Outside theline the band still played merrily.
A few men and boys, who had been dragged out oftheir beds by the music, moved about the ridges behind thesoldiers, half-clothed, unshaven, sleepy-eyed, yawning, stretchingthemselves nervously and shivering in the cool, damp air of themorning.
Either owing to discipline or on account of thenature of their errand, or because the men were still but halfawake, there was no talking in the ranks, and the soldiers stoodmotionless, leaning on their rifles, with their backs turned to thetown, looking out across the plain to the hills.
The men in the crowd behind them were also grimlysilent. They knew that whatever they might say would be twistedinto a word of sympathy for the condemned man or a protest againstthe government. So no one spoke; even the officers gave theirorders in gruff whispers, and the men in the crowd did not mixtogether, but looked suspiciously at one another and keptapart.
As the light increased a mass of people camehurrying from the town with two black figures leading them, and thesoldiers drew up at attention, and part of the double line fellback and left an opening in the square.
With us a condemned man walks only the shortdistance from his cell to the scaffold or the electric chair,shielded from sight by the prison walls, and it often occurs eventhen that the short journey is too much for his strength andcourage.
But the Spaniards on this morning made the prisonerwalk for over a half-mile across the broken surface of the fields.I expected to find the man, no matter what his strength at othertimes might be, stumbling and faltering on this cruel journey; butas he came nearer I saw that he led all the others, that thepriests on either side of him were taking two steps to his one, andthat they were tripping on their gowns and stumbling over thehollows in their efforts to keep pace with him as he walked, erectand soldierly, at a quick step in advance of them.
He had a handsome, gentle face of the peasant type,a light, pointed beard, great wistful eyes, and a mass of curlyblack hair. He was shockingly young for such a sacrifice, andlooked more like a Neapolitan than a Cuban. You could imagine himsitting on the quay at Naples or Genoa lolling in the sun andshowing his white teeth when he laughed. Around his neck, hangingoutside his linen blouse, he wore a new scapular.
It seems a petty thing to have been pleased with atsuch a time, but I confess to have felt a thrill of satisfactionwhen I saw, as the Cuban passed me, that he held a cigarettebetween his lips, not arrogantly nor with bravado, but with thenonchalance of a man who meets his punishment fearlessly, and whowill let his enemies see that they can kill but cannot frightenhim.
It was very quickly finished, with rough and, butfor one frightful blunder, with merciful swiftness. The crowd fellback when it came to the square, and the condemned man, thepriests, and the firing squad of six young volunteers passed in andthe line closed behind them.
The officer who had held the cord that bound theCuban’s arms behind him and passed across his breast, let it fallon the grass and drew his sword, and Rodriguez dropped hiscigarette from his lips and bent and kissed the cross which thepriest held up before him.
The elder of the priests moved to one side andprayed 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 thechapel of the prison.
The Cuban walked to where the officer directed himto stand, and turning his back on the square, faced the hills andthe road across them, which led to his father’s farm.
As the officer gave the first command hestraightened himself as far as the cords would allow, and held uphis head and fixed his eyes immovably on the morning light, whichhad just begun to show above the hills.
He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, butof such courage and dignity, that he reminded me on the instant ofthat statue of Nathan Hale which stands in the City Hall Park,above the roar of Broadway. The Cuban’s arms were bound, as arethose of the statue, and he stood firmly, with his weight restingon his heels like a soldier on parade, and with his face held upfearlessly, as is that of the statue. But there was thisdifference, that Rodriguez, while probably as willing to give sixlives for his country as was the American rebel, being only apeasant, did not think to say so, and he will not, in consequence,live in bronze during the lives of many men, but will be rememberedonly as one of thirty Cubans, one of whom was shot at Santa Claraon each succeeding day at sunrise.
The officer had given the order, the men had raisedtheir pieces, and the condemned man had heard the clicks of thetriggers as they were pulled back, and he had not moved. And thenhappened one of the most cruelly refined, though unintentional,acts of torture that one can very well imagine. As the officerslowly raised his sword, preparatory to giving the signal, one ofthe mounted officers rode up to him and pointed out silently that,as I had already observed with some satisfaction, the firing squadwere so placed that when they fired they would shoot several of thesoldiers stationed on the extreme end of the square.
Their captain motioned his men to lower theirpieces, and then walked across the grass and laid his hand on theshoulder of the waiting prisoner.
It is not pleasant to think what that shock musthave been. The man had steeled himself to receive a volley ofbullets. He believed that in the next instant he would be inanother world; he had heard the command given, had heard the clickof the Mausers as the locks caught— and then, at that suprememoment, a human hand had been laid upon his shoulder and a voicespoke in his ear.
You would expect that any man, snatched back to lifein such a fashion would start and tremble at the reprieve, or wouldbreak down altogether, but this boy turned his head steadily, andfollowed with his eyes the direction of the officer’s sword, thennodded gravely, and, with his shoulders squared, took up the newposition, straightened his back, and once more held himselferect.
As an exhibition of self-control this should surelyrank above feats of heroism performed in battle, where there arethousands of comrades to give inspiration. This man was alone, insight of the hills he knew, with only enemies abou