The adherents of Cespedes had by this time dwindled to a mere handful;
and, driven desperate by hunger and despair, the forlorn but still
bold-spirited band took refuge in a fastness on the Eastern coast,
whence they hoped to escape to Jamaica. A slave betrayed their
hiding-place to the Spaniards. A fierce hand-to-hand fight ensued.
Cespedes fought like a lion against overwhelming odds. His friends fell
dead or wounded at his feet; but still he battled on, slaying seven of
his opponents with his own hand, and wounding many others. At last,
seeing all hope was lost, he fought his way through the Spaniards, and,
mortally wounded as he was, flung himself over the rocks, and thus
escaped his hated captors. His mangled body was recovered, carried to
Santiago, and there secretly buried. The dead man was mourned, and is
mourned even to this day, by all true Cubans. The stage on which he
played his part was, it may be said, a little one. His life and doings
may be forgotten beyond the limits of the country he strove to serve.
But such qualities of head and heart, such fervour of self-sacrifice and
steadiness of purpose, as marked the career of Carlos Manuel Cespedes,
must surely entitle him to an honoured place on the golden roll of the
world's true heroes. May he rest in peace!
CHAPTER V.
THE HISTORY OF THE REBELLION UP-TO-DATE.
The dying Cespedes bequeathed his honours to his friend and henchman,
Don Salvador Cisneros y Bétancourt, Marquez de Santa Lucia, who was
forthwith elected President of the Republic. He displayed exceptional
ability, endeavoured to bring some discipline into the ranks of his more
or less disorderly followers, and succeeded for a time, not only in this
attempt, but also in reviving the dashed spirit of the rebels in the
Eastern Province. At length he wearied of what ultimately proved a
thankless task, and retired to make room for Don Francisco Aquelera, who
became third President of this essentially rural Republic, whose
Parliament was wont to assemble in the heart of a dense forest, or in
some mountain solitude.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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