For months he lay on his bed, his
life trembling in the balance. Our enemies triumphed at last; the siege
was over, the Blanco leaders dead or driven into exile. My father had
been one of the bravest officers in the Blanco forces, and could not
hope to escape the general persecution. They only waited for his
recovery to arrest him and convey him to the capital, where, doubtless,
he would have been shot. While he lay in this precarious condition
every wrong and indignity was heaped upon us. Our horses were seized
by the commander of the department, our cattle slaughtered or driven
off and sold, while our house was searched for arms and visited every
week by an officer who came to report on my father's health. One reason
for this animosity was that Calixto, my brother, had escaped and
maintained a guerilla war against the government on the Brazilian
frontier. At length my father recovered so far from his wounds as to
be able to creep out for an hour every day leaning on someone for
support; then two armed men were sent to keep guard here to prevent
his escape. We were thus living in continual dread when one day an
officer came and produced a written order from the Comandante. He did
not read it to me, but said it was an order for every person in the
Rocha department to display a red flag on his house in token of
rejoicing at a victory won by the government troops.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293