A Set of Six | Page 5

of some French readers who volunteered the opinion
that in those hundred pages or so I had managed to render
"wonderfully" the spirit of the whole epoch. Exaggeration of kind- ness
no doubt; but even so I hug it still to my breast, because in truth that is
exactly what I was trying to cap- ture in my small net: the Spirit of the
Epoch -- never purely militarist in the long clash of arms, youthful,
almost childlike in its exaltation of sentiment -- naively heroic in its
faith.

1920. J. C.

CONTENTS
GASPAR RUIZ
THE INFORMER
THE BRUTE
AN ANARCHIST
THE DUEL
IL CONDE

A SET OF SIX

A SET OF SIX
GASPAR RUIZ
I
A REVOLUTIONARY war raises many strange charac- ters out of the
obscurity which is the common lot of humble lives in an undisturbed
state of society.
Certain individualities grow into fame through their vices and their
virtues, or simply by their actions, which may have a temporary
importance; and then they become forgotten. The names of a few
leaders alone survive the end of armed strife and are further pre- served
in history; so that, vanishing from men's active memories, they still
exist in books.
The name of General Santierra attained that cold paper-and-ink
immortality. He was a South American of good family, and the books
published in his lifetime numbered him amongst the liberators of that
continent from the oppressive rule of Spain.
That long contest, waged for independence on one side and for
dominion on the other, developed in the course of years and the
vicissitudes of changing fortune the fierceness and inhumanity of a
struggle for life. All feelings of pity and compassion disappeared in the
growth of political hatred. And, as is usual in war, the mass of the
people, who had the least to gain by the issue, suffered most in their
obscure persons and their humble fortunes.
General Santierra began his service as lieutenant in the patriot army

raised and commanded by the famous San Martin, afterwards
conqueror of Lima and liberator of Peru. A great battle had just been
fought on the banks of the river Bio-Bio. Amongst the prisoners made
upon the routed Royalist troops there was a soldier called Gaspar Ruiz.
His powerful build and his big head rendered him remarkable amongst
his fellow- captives. The personality of the man was unmistak- able.
Some months before he had been missed from the ranks of Republican
troops after one of the many skirmishes which preceded the great battle.
And now, having been captured arms in hand amongst Royalists, he
could expect no other fate but to be shot as a deserter.
Gaspar Ruiz, however, was not a deserter; his mind was hardly active
enough to take a discriminating view of the advantages or perils of
treachery. Why should he change sides? He had really been made a
prisoner, had suffered ill-usage and many privations. Neither side
showed tenderness to its adversaries. There came a day when he was
ordered, together with some other captured rebels, to march in the front
rank of the Royal troops. A musket had been thrust into his hands. He
had taken it. He had marched. He did not want to be killed with
circumstances of peculiar atrocity for refusing to march. He did not
understand heroism but it was his intention to throw his musket away at
the first opportunity. Meantime he had gone on load- ing and firing,
from fear of having his brains blown out at the first sign of
unwillingness, by some non- commissioned officer of the King of
Spain. He tried to set forth these elementary considerations before the
sergeant of the guard set over him and some twenty other such
deserters, who had been condemned sum- marily to be shot.
It was in the quadrangle of the fort at the back of the batteries which
command the roadstead of Val- paraiso. The officer who had identified
him had gone on without listening to his protestations. His doom was
sealed; his hands were tied very tightly together behind his back; his
body was sore all over from the many blows with sticks and butts of
muskets which had hurried him along on the painful road from the
place of his capture to the gate of the fort. This was the only kind of
systematic attention the prisoners had received from their escort during
a four days' journey across a scantily watered tract of country. At the
crossings of rare streams they were permitted to quench their thirst by
lapping hurriedly like dogs. In the evening a few scraps of meat were

thrown amongst them as they dropped down dead-beat upon the stony
ground of the halting-place.
As he stood in the courtyard of the castle in the