Noli Me Tángere

e Victis!

Mi gozo en un pozo.

Guards with forbidding mien paced to and fro in front of the door of
the town hall, threatening with their rifle-butts the bold urchins who
rose on tiptoe or climbed up on one another to see through the bars.

The hall itself did not present that agreeable aspect it wore when
the program of the fiesta was under discussion--now it was gloomy
and rather ominous. The civil-guards and cuadrilleros who occupied it
scarcely spoke and then with few words in low tones. At the table the
directorcillo, two clerks, and several soldiers were rustling papers,
while the alferez strode from one side to the other, at times gazing
fiercely toward the door: prouder Themistocles could not have appeared
in the Olympic games after the battle of Salamis. Doña Consolacion
yawned in a corner, exhibiting a dirty mouth and jagged teeth, while
she fixed her cold, sinister gaze on the door of the jail, which was
covered with indecent drawings. She had succeeded in persuading her
husband, whose victory had made him amiable, to let her witness the
inquiry and perhaps the accompanying tortures. The hyena smelt the
carrion and licked herself, wearied by the delay.

The gobernadorcillo was very compunctious. His seat, that large chair
placed under his Majesty's portrait, was vacant, being apparently
intended for some one else. About nine o'clock the curate arrived,
pale and scowling.

"Well, you haven't kept yourself waiting!" the alferez greeted him.

"I should prefer not to be present," replied Padre Salvi in a low
voice, paying no heed to the bitter tone of the alferez. "I'm very
nervous."

"As no one else has come to fill the place, I judged that your
presence--You know that they leave this afternoon."

"Young Ibarra and the teniente-mayor?"

The alferez pointed toward the jail. "There are eight there," he
said. "Bruno died at midnight, but his statement is on record."

The curate saluted Doña Consolacion, who responded with a yawn, and
took his seat in the big chair under his Majesty's portrait. "Let us
begin," he announced.

"Bring out those two who are in the stocks," ordered the alferez in
a tone that he tried to make as terrible as possible. Then turning
to the curate he added with a change of tone, "They are fastened in
by skipping two holes."

For the benefit of those who are not informed about these
instruments of torture, we will say that the stocks are one of the
most harmless. The holes in which the offender's legs are placed
are a little more or less than a foot apart; by skipping two holes,
the prisoner finds himself in a rather forced position with peculiar
inconvenience to his ankles and a distance of about a yard between
his lower extremities. It does not kill instantaneously, as may well
be imagined.

The jailer, followed by four soldiers, pushed back the bolt and opened
the door. A nauseating odor and currents of thick, damp air escaped
from the darkness within at the same time that laments and sighs were
heard. A soldier struck a match, but the flame was choked in such a
foul atmosphere, and they had to wait until the air became fresher.

In the dim light of the candle several human forms became vaguely
outlined: men hugging their knees or hiding their heads between them,
some lying face downward, some standing, and some turned toward the
wall. A blow and a creak were heard, accompanied by curses--the stocks
were opened, Doña Consolacion bent forward with the muscles of her
neck swelling and her bulging eyes fixed on the half-opened door.

A wretched figure, Tarsilo, Bruno's brother, came out between two
soldiers. On his wrists were handcuffs and his clothing was in shreds,
revealing quite a muscular body. He turned his eyes insolently on
the alferez's woman.

"This is the one who defended himself with the most courage and told
his companions to run," said the alferez to Padre Salvi.

Behind him came another of miserable aspect, moaning and weeping like a
child. He limped along exposing pantaloons spotted with blood. "Mercy,
sir, mercy! I'll not go back into the yard," he whimpered.

"He's a rogue," observed the alferez to the curate. "He tried to
run, but he was wounded in the thigh. These are the only two that we
took alive."

"What's your name?" the alferez asked Tarsilo.

"Tarsilo Alasigan."

"What did Don Crisostomo promise you for attacking the barracks?"

"Don Crisostomo never had anything to do with us."

"Don't deny it! That's why you tried to surprise us."

"You're mistaken. You beat our father to death and we were avenging
him, nothing more. Look for your two associates."

The alferez gazed at the sergeant in surprise.

"They're over there in the gully where we threw them yesterday and
where they'll rot. Now kill me, you'll not learn anything more."

General surprise and silence, broken by the alferez. "You are going
to tell who your other accomplices are," he threatened, flourishing
a rattan whip.

A smile of disdain curled the prisoner's lips. The alferez consulted
with the curate in a low tone for a few moments, then turned to the
soldiers. "Take him out where the corpses are," he commanded.

On a cart in a corner of the yard were heaped five corpses, partly
covered with a filthy piece of torn matting. A soldier walked about
near them, spitting at every moment.

"Do you know them?" asked the alferez, lifting up the matting.

Tarsilo did not answer. He saw the corpse of the madwoman's husband
with two others: that of his brother, slashed with bayonet-thrusts,
and that of Lucas with the halter still around his neck. His look
became somber and a sigh seemed to escape from his breast.

"Do you know them?" he was again asked, but he still remained silent.

The air hissed and the rattan cut his shoulders. He shuddered, his
muscles contracted. The blows were redoubled, but he remained unmoved.

"Whip him until he bursts or talks!" cried the exasperated alferez.

"Talk now," the directorcillo advised him. "They'll kill you anyhow."

They led him back into the hall where the other prisoner, with
chattering teeth and quaking limbs, was calling upon the saints.

"Do you know this fellow?" asked Padre Salvi.

"This is the first time that I've ever seen him," replied Tarsilo
with a look of pity at the other.

The alferez struck him with his fist and kicked him. "Tie him to
the bench!"

Without taking off the handcuffs, which were covered with blood,
they tied him to a wooden bench. The wretched boy looked about him
as if seeking something and noticed Doña Consolacion, at sight of
whom he smiled sardonically. In surprise the bystanders followed his
glance and saw the señora, who was lightly gnawing at her lips.

"I've never seen an uglier woman!" exclaimed Tarsilo in the midst of
a general silence. "I'd rather lie down on a bench as I do now than
at her side as the alferez does."

The Muse turned pale.

"You're going to flog me to death, Señor Alferez," he went on,
"but tonight your woman will revenge me by embracing you."

"Gag him!" yelled the furious alferez, trembling with wrath.

Tarsilo seemed to have desired the gag, for after it was put in place
his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. At a signal from the alferez,
a guard armed with a rattan whip began his gruesome task. Tarsilo's
whole body contracted, and a stifled, prolonged cry escaped from
him in spite of the piece of cloth which covered his mouth. His head
drooped and his clothes became stained with blood.

Padre Salvi, pallid and with wandering looks, arose laboriously, made
a sign with his hand, and left the hall with faltering steps. In the
street he saw a young woman leaning with her shoulders against the
wall, rigid, motionless, listening attentively, staring into space,
her clenched hands stretched out along the wall. The sun beat down
upon her fiercely. She seemed to be breathlessly counting those dry,
dull strokes and those heartrending groans. It was Tarsilo's sister.

Meanwhile, the scene in the hall continued. The wretched boy, overcome
with pain, silently waited for his executioners to become weary. At
last the panting soldier let his arm fall, and the alferez, pale
with anger and astonishment, made a sign for them to untie him. Doña
Consolacion then arose and murmured a few words into the ear of her
husband, who nodded his head in understanding.

"To the well with him!" he ordered.

The Filipinos know what this means: in Tagalog they call it
timbaín. We do not know who invented this procedure, but we judge
that it must be quite ancient. Truth at the bottom of a well may
perhaps be a sarcastic interpretation.

In the center of the yard rose the picturesque curb of a well,
roughly fashioned from living rock. A rude apparatus of bamboo in
the form of a well-sweep served for drawing up the thick, slimy,
foul-smelling water. Broken pieces of pottery, manure, and other
refuse were collected there, since this well was like the jail,
being the place for what society rejected or found useless, and
any object that fell into it, however good it might have been, was
then a thing lost. Yet it was never closed up, and even at times the
prisoners were condemned to go down and deepen it, not because there
was any thought of getting anything useful out of such punishment,
but because of the difficulties the work offered. A prisoner who once
went down there would contract a fever from which he would surely die.

Tarsilo gazed upon all the preparations of the soldiers with a fixed
look. He was pale, and his lips trembled or murmured a prayer. The
haughtiness of his desperation seemed to have disappeared or, at least,
to have weakened. Several times he bent his stiff neck and fixed his
gaze on the ground as though resigned to his sufferings. They led
him to the well-curb, followed by the smiling Doña Consolacion. In
his misery he cast a glance of envy toward the heap of corpses and
a sigh escaped from his breast.

"Talk now," the directorcillo again advised him. "They'll hang you
anyhow. You'll at least die without suffering so much."

"You'll come out of this only to die," added a cuadrillero.

They took away the gag and hung him up by his feet, for he must go
down head foremost and remain some time under the water, just as
the bucket does, only that the man is left a longer time. While the
alferez was gone to look for a watch to count the minutes, Tarsilo
hung with his long hair streaming down and his eyes half closed.

"If you are Christians, if you have any heart," he begged in a low
voice, "let me down quickly or make my head strike against the sides
so that I'll die. God will reward you for this good deed--perhaps
some day you may be as I am!"

The alferez returned, watch in hand, to superintend the lowering.

"Slowly, slowly!" cried Doña Consolacion, as she kept her gaze fixed
on the wretch. "Be careful!"

The well-sweep moved gently downwards. Tarsilo rubbed against the
jutting stones and filthy weeds that grew in the crevices. Then the
sweep stopped while the alferez counted the seconds.

"Lift him up!" he ordered, at the end of a half-minute. The silvery
and harmonious tinkling of the drops of water falling back indicated
the prisoner's return to the light. Now that the sweep was heavier he
rose rapidly. Pieces of stone and pebbles torn from the walls fell
noisily. His forehead and hair smeared with filthy slime, his face
covered with cuts and bruises, his body wet and dripping, he appeared
to the eyes of the silent crowd. The wind made him shiver with cold.

"Will you talk?" he was asked.

"Take care of my sister," murmured the unhappy boy as he gazed
beseechingly toward one of the cuadrilleros.

The bamboo sweep again creaked, and the condemned boy once more
disappeared. Doña Consolacion observed that the water remained
quiet. The alferez counted a minute.

When Tarsilo again came up his features were contracted and livid. With
his bloodshot eyes wide open, he looked at the bystanders.

"Are you going to talk?" the alferez again demanded in dismay.

Tarsilo shook his head, and they again lowered him. His eyelids were
closing as the pupils continued to stare at the sky where the fleecy
clouds floated; he doubled back his neck so that he might still see
the light of day, but all too soon he had to go down into the water,
and that foul curtain shut out the sight of the world from him forever.

A minute passed. The watchful Muse saw large bubbles rise to the
surface of the water. "He's thirsty," she commented with a laugh. The
water again became still.

This time the alferez did not give the signal for a minute and
a half. Tarsilo's features were now no longer contracted. The
half-raised lids left the whites of his eyes showing, from his mouth
poured muddy water streaked with blood, but his body did not tremble
in the chill breeze.

Pale and terrified, the silent bystanders gazed at one another. The
alferez made a sign that they should take the body down, and then
moved away thoughtfully. Doña Consolation applied the lighted end of
her cigar to the bare legs, but the flesh did not twitch and the fire
was extinguished.

"He strangled himself," murmured a cuadrillero. "Look how he turned
his tongue back as if trying to swallow it."

The other prisoner, who had watched this scene, sweating and trembling,
now stared like a lunatic in all directions. The alferez ordered the
directorcillo to question him.

"Sir, sir," he groaned, "I'll tell everything you want me to."

"Good! Let's see, what's your name?"

"Andong, [144] sir!"

"Bernardo--Leonardo--Ricardo--Eduardo--Gerardo--or what?"

"Andong, sir!" repeated the imbecile.

"Put it down Bernardo, or whatever it may be," dictated the alferez.

"Surname?"

The man gazed at him in terror.

"What name have you that is added to the name Andong?"

"Ah, sir! Andong the Witless, sir!"

The bystander's could not restrain a smile. Even the alferez paused
in his pacing about.

"Occupation?"

"Pruner of coconut trees, sir, and servant of my mother-in-law."

"Who ordered you to attack the barracks?"

"No one, sir!"

"What, no one? Don't lie about it or into the well you go! Who ordered
you? Say truly!"

"Truly, sir!"

"Who?"

"Who, sir!"

"I'm asking you who ordered you to start the revolution?"

"What revolution, sir?"

"This one, for you were in the yard by the barracks last night."

"Ah, sir!" exclaimed Andong, blushing.

"Who's guilty of that?"

"My mother-in-law, sir!"

Surprise and laughter followed these words. The alferez stopped
and stared not unkindly at the wretch, who, thinking that his words
had produced a good effect, went on with more spirit: "Yes, sir, my
mother-in-law doesn't give me anything to eat but what is rotten and
unfit, so last night when I came by here with my belly aching I saw
the yard of the barracks near and I said to myself, 'It's night-time,
no one will see me.' I went in--and then many shots sounded--"

A blow from the rattan cut his speech short.

"To the jail," ordered the alferez. "This afternoon, to the capital!"