Patagonia Bookshelf
Insurrection at Magallanes (1851)
A North-American sea-captain is captured by Chilean army mutineers at Punta Arenas.
CHAPTER III.
My prison — My guards — An English hymn book — A fellow prisoner — Capture of the Eliza Cornish — Fears of the English mate — Death of Mr. Shaw — Of Captain Talbot and boy — Barbarity of their execution — The Chilean prisoners sympathize with us — Cambiaso's bravado — Captain Ávalos and others led out to view the dead bodies — Treacherous betrayal of Governor Muñoz Gamero — Execution of the traitor — My walk.
I now began to feel for a few days, some of the monotony of a prisoner's life. Shut up alone, without occupation, within hearing of the riotous conversation of my guard, but forbidden to speak to them, with hard fare, and no arrangements for my personal comfort or even cleanliness, except when I could take water enough from the guard room to wash my face, using my pocket handkerchief for a towel.
Three or four days had passed, and I had lost the fear of immediate death, but my suspense and anxiety to know what Cambiaso's intentions with regard to us were, were very great. There seemed to me no motive that he could have for keeping us prisoners, after he had satisfied himself that we had no treasure on board the Florida, except the fear that we would carry the news of his revolt back to Valparaíso; and that danger to himself, it seemed to me, could be obviated only by putting us to death. It was in vain that I applied to my guards; they were evidently under orders to hold no communication with me, and the prisoners who visited me from time to time, knew nothing of Cambiaso's plans. To my entreaties to be allowed to see Mr. Shaw, no answer was given, except that it could not be allowed, that he had been sick, and was now very unwell.
A few days after my imprisonment, an English book, containing prayers and hymns, was handed me by one of my guard, a man named Prieto, who probably could make no use of it himself. The hymns had little poetical merit, and probably at another time would scarcely have aroused my attention; but now the promises and consolations of religion which breathed through them, the spirit of Christian resignation and faith of which I was then so much in need, and which to me shone out in every part of them, were an unspeakable comfort. The first hymn to which I opened, seemed so very applicable to my situation, that it impressed itself upon my memory; and I insert it here, thinking that it may be interesting to my readers to see how the promises of Christianity are the truest consolation in all trials.
To my complaint, O Lord, my God,
Thy gracious ear incline;
Hear me, distressed and destitute
Of all relief but thine.Do thou, O God, preserve my soul
That does thy name adore;
Thy servant keep, and him whose trust
Relies on thee, restore.To me, who daily thee invoke,
Thy mercy, Lord, extend;
Refresh thy servant's soul, whose hopes
On thee alone depend.To my repeated, humble prayer,
O Lord, attentive be;
When troubled, I on thee will call,
For thou wilt answer me.
Some few days after Mr. Shaw's removal from the barracks, one evening the exact date of which has escaped me entirely, I was aroused by a great confusion in the fort, a noise of shouting, and, apparently, of rejoicing. While I was standing at my window, trying to discover the meaning of the uproar, my prison door was opened, and a man put in. He was in sailor's dress, was apparently an American, and looked terrified and bewildered.
I accosted him immediately, in English — asked who he was, saying that he was probably a prisoner, like myself. The guards in the next room were in such a state of excitement that they allowed us to converse unchecked.
He told me that he was the mate of an English brig, the Eliza Cornish, of Liverpool, bound from Valparaíso to Liverpool; that the vessel had anchored in Sandy Bay, intending to lay over for the night; that the captain, Capt. Talbot, of Liverpool, had landed in the brig's boat, with a boy, a son of his owner who was passenger on board, and one or two seamen; that they had been seized and put in irons the moment they were out of sight of the brig. The boat was then sent back to the vessel, with five or six men in her, who came on board and told the mate that the captain wanted him to come on shore; but that while he was hesitating what to do, they, seeing the small number of the crew, attacked and overpowered them, and took possession of the brig. They then demanded of him whatever money was on board, threatening him with instant death if he did not give it up at once. The brig had on board about ninety or one hundred thousand dollars, in bars of gold and silver, which they seized and brought on shore, together with the mate and crew. Some of the bars of gold were cut up before his eyes, and distributed around among the soldiers; and their exultation at the sight of their booty had raised the general shout which I had heard. This man was kept in my room during all the rest of our imprisonment. He was a well meaning fellow, but evidently not much accustomed to depend upon himself, and very much intimidated by the dread of approaching death, by these rebels. I constantly found it necessary to encourage him, and prevail upon him to show a bold face before our captors, were it only to command their respect. For myself, I was not really much afraid of them. I was afraid of dying, for my danger made me realize how unfit I was for another world; and my dread of death was such as a man might have during a dangerous illness.
At midnight, on December 2d, I was aroused from my sleep by the report of muskets, of which they seemed to me to number about ten or twelve. A short time afterwards there was another report, and our guards began to run out of the next room. The whole encampment seemed in great confusion, and I became alarmed, thinking some of our companions had been shot, and that our turn was coming next. I dared not ask any questions of the guard, some of whom I saw looking through the door of our room, which always stood open at night. The mate of the E. Cornish spoke to me, and said, "That is foul play, captain Brown; something desperate is going on. I am afraid my captain and Mr. Shaw are gone for it." Then, throwing himself upon his face, he began to cry.
His manner gave me a feeling of impatience, and I answered him pretty quickly that I did not doubt he was right, and that I supposed our turn would come next, but I did not want to hear the thing talked about; and at any rate, he might as well show as bold a face as possible, for the guard were watching us, and listening to our conversation. This roused him, and he sat up, and during the rest of the night we remained in anxious suspense. I believe I was too proud to ask any questions of my guard, nor would I allow the mate to ask any.
Soon after sunrise, some of the men who had come down with me as prisoners, came into our room and whispered to me in Spanish, "Your poor owner! poor English captain! poor English boy!" I questioned them closely and learned that Mr. Shaw and captain Talbot, with the young passenger, had been taken from their beds just before midnight, put in irons, both hands and feet, led out to a short distance from the barracks, and there tied to a tree, and shot. I afterwards gathered some particulars of their execution, which, for the sake of clearness, I will insert here.
Mr. Shaw had been very sick ever since we were separated; and I was told that on the 2d December he sent to Cambiaso, to ask if he might have some medical advice. Cambiaso's brutal reply was, "Pass him out and shoot him, for we have no time to attend to the sick!" When they were led out, captain Talbot entreated most earnestly that the boy's life might be spared, saying that he had been put under his care by his parents, that he was a mere boy, and could do no harm; but his prayers were not even listened to. He never asked once for his own life. The boy was about eighteen years old, a son of one of the owners of the E. Cornish, and had made the voyage as a pleasure excursion.
The first volley killed captain Talbot and the young man, leaving Mr. Shaw standing unharmed, not a shot having touched him. Then a whole volley was fired into him, killing him instantly. One of the soldiers was attracted by the glitter of a diamond ring on Mr. Shaw's finger, and as soon as he was shot, the soldier went up to him, trying to remove it, but finding that difficult, he cut off the finger with his cutlass. This ring I afterwards heard of, as being seen on the finger of one of the women about the fort, and on my return to Valparaíso, I offered twenty-five dollars to recover it, thinking it would be a gratification to Mr. Shaw's friends to obtain even so slight a remembrance of him, but I was not able to procure it. The bodies were afterwards taken down and hung by the neck to a tree, exposed to all the passers-by.
I never knew why Mr. Shaw was shot, hut I have every reason to suppose that what I was told of Cambiaso's reply to his request for medical advice was the truth. It would have been too much trouble to take care of a sick man. The same fear of trouble probably decided the poor boy's fate. Why captain Talbot was executed, while I was reserved, is also a mystery to me. I never saw captain Talbot, but from his mate's remarks about him, I felt that he was a man of some spirit and character. Perhaps his high spirit led him to say things that exasperated Cambiaso. He gave some expression of this spirit at the time he was seized. Two officers (Chileans) were handling him rather roughly, when he indignantly told them they need not look so surly, and at the same time drew a dirk knife from the waist of his pantaloons. But it was immediately taken from him.
Mr. Shaw's death was a great shock to me, and is still a matter of deep grief. We had been friends for some time, and I had the highest respect for him. He was indeed a young man of great promise, and his loss to his family and friends is one which cannot easily be replaced. I grieved for them, even there in my prison, while I expected each day to be my last, and while I remembered the agony of my own family, when the news of our sad fate should reach them; and now that a kind Providence has restored me to them, I grieve to remember him who met so cruel a death from such barbarous hands, on a desert and far distant shore.
I was told by one of the men who came into my cell that morning, that the bodies were to be left hanging until we had all seen them. Accordingly, about one o'clock that afternoon, three of the prisoners (I think they were captain Ávalos, with the captain of the regular troops, and Mr. Dunn) were taken from their prison, their irons knocked off, and, when they were unshackled, Cambiaso walked up to them, and with much mock politeness asked them to accompany him for a walk. They were in no situation to refuse, but accompanied him in silence, followed by a file of soldiers as guard. He led them out of the barracks, toward the vessels. As they passed under the trees on which hung the bodies of Mr. Shaw, captain Talbot, and the young lad, Cambiaso pointed to them, and laughing, said, "You see what happens to such villains when they fall into my hands; it will be your turn next." After compelling them to pass round the tree, so as to view the bodies from every side, he conducted them back to the barracks and to their crowded prison.
The mate of the E. Cornish and myself spent that morning in a state of anxiety, expecting every moment to be called for — perhaps to be led out to death, perhaps to be shown the dead bodies of our friends, and to be conscious that any emotion we might show would be watched by eyes that would interpret it into an expression of unmanly fear. My feeling was a sort of indignant pride; my own honor and the honor of my country seemed to me to depend upon my bearing before these pirates and desperate men; and I repeatedly requested the mate, whose power of self control I began to doubt, to be bold, whatever might happen to him. I remember thinking that if he did not, all around him would attribute it to a cowardly disposition. Towards three o'clock we heard the report of fire-arms, and a general hurry and bustle in the yard. At the report, the mate sprung to his feet, saying "Good God, captain! who has gone now?" We listened anxiously, but all was quiet again, and I ventured to ask our guard what the disturbance was. They answered, carelessly, "it is only a soldier who was shot; he is a traitor." In about two hours my guard called me out, saying that the mate and I were to walk in the yard. I refused, at first, telling them that I did not need a walk, I was well enough as I was, and so forth; but one of the soldiers, with an oath, exclaimed that they had the general's orders, and that I had better come, or worse might happen to me. I rose, and walked out quietly with the mate. The first thing that struck my eyes, as I reached the door of the guard room, was a temporary gallows, on which was suspended the body of a poor soldier. Near it was a tree, the bark of which was torn with bullet-holes, and the ground below, which was soaked with blood. I turned sick at the sight; but, summoning up all my all resolution, I walked quietly up to the body, and asked who it was. One of my acquaintances, a Chilean prisoner who came with us, and who was sauntering around, walked up to my side and said, "You need not feel pity for him, captain Brown; he was a traitor, not worth caring for. Our general has served him right."
I questioned the man further, and found that this was the body of one of the soldiers who had escaped from the barracks with the governor, and who, worn out by suffering and the fear of starvation, had appeared at the gate that morning, and delivered himself up, offering to give Cambiaso information of the governor's hiding place, if he would promise him safety, and the sum of five hundred dollars. Cambiaso promised, and as soon as he had gained what he wanted from him, had him ironed, and led out and shot. I felt that he had deserved his fate, but remembering the proverb, "honor among thieves," could not but think that it was not at Cambiaso's hands that he should have met it.
His story was, that after the boat in which they had left the shore on the night the Florida arrived, had drifted past our vessel, and they had found it impossible to make us understand what they wanted, they drifted on through the night, paddling as well as they could till they reached the Tierra del Fuego shore, soon after daylight. There they attempted to land, but were prevented by a party of Indians, who fired on them, and wounded one of the soldiers. The weather then being calm, they paddled to the westward, and crossed the Straits again to Port Famine, the former site of the colony. There they had concealed themselves in the bushes, and for the last week had been living on nothing but roots, and were being now in a state of starvation.
All this I gathered from my guards and visitors, after I returned to my room from my walk, in company with the mate, although we had never expected to see it again.