The Stones of Destiny by REH
Apr 21, 2016 19:16:02 GMT -5
Post by themirrorthief on Apr 21, 2016 19:16:02 GMT -5
THE STONES OF DESTINY by Robert E. Howard
Time and again I have heard people in conversation remark on the evils of old-time slavery and express gratitude that such practices have gone out of existence. I listen, silent, and wonder what those people would say if I spoke — if I told them — My life, my frightful exper- iences are behind me, no one knows except myself — or has known up to this time. I could have kept my secret until death had I so wished and it is of my own accord that I am baring my shameful past, in the hope that my story will preserve some innocent girl from a like fate.
Not long ago, a friend of mine, just returned from the East, was telling me tales that he had heard and sights that he had seen of India and other parts of Asia and of the Barbary States of North Africa. "The slave trade is rampant," said he, "in spite of all the Brit- ish Government is doing toward stam- ping it out. It is definitely known that a secret 'slave road' runs from the interior lakes to Suez and Zanzibar, over which thousands of unfortunate natives pass every year, yoked and driven like oxen. And in Zanzibar and other East Coast towns there are secret slave mar- kets, where not only negroes are sold, but white women also. Cir- cassian girls and Jewesses that the Turks sell to wandering slave traders."
He went on to relate some of the cruelties he had seen practiced on slaves, many of which were not of a printable nature, and added, "You'd better be happy that you live in a civilized country where nothing of the sort can hap- pen." I looked straight at him and said, "Yes, 'that is what you think. But are you right? Suppose I told you that American girls are in as much danger of slavery as Asiatic women — suppose I told you that 1^ had been a slave ?" To say that he was astounded would be putting it mildly. He believed me to be joking at first. Just what prompted me to confide the shameful secret which I had so jealously guarded for years, I cannot explain. Perhaps it is the human impulse to share every- thing with one of your own kind. I do not know. However, I told him all upon a sudden impulse, as is my nature.
Obeying impulses has ruled and to an extent ruined my life. After I told him, he was thought- ful for some time and said, "Don't you think that you had better make public your experience?" I shrank at the idea. "How can you think of such a thing?" "I understand, of course," he answered. "But we must sacrifice ourselves for the general good, to some extent. The disclosure might save some child, innocent as you were at the time. Would not that be worth the humiliation? I think that it should." So, after long thought, I came to the conclusion, difficult though it was, that it would be selfish in me to hide in my bosom facts which might serve to guide other feet aright.
I am an American, not by birth, but choice. I was born in Russia, in that fierce and savage country east of the Volga River, but was brought to America by an aunt when so small that now my memories of 9 that dim other land are but a vague haze of broad, snowy steppes, beard- ed faces, shaggy small horses and high kalpaks — hats of Astrakhan fur . My aunt was not the ordinary type of European immigrant; she was comfortably situated and her removal to America was more to sat- isfy a love for travelling than anything else.
I was selected from my brothers and sisters to accompany her, and the villagers predicted that I would grow to be a fine lady in the great new country. After travelling rather exten- sively in Canada, Mexico and the United States, my aunt, on a whim, decided to settle in New Orleans, its cosmopolitan touch, its tinge of the old world, somehow suiting her rather romantic nature. We lived in an old mansion, not far off Canal Street, which she had purchased from the descendants of a once wealthy and prominent French family, and my aunt opened an an- tique shop in a genteel quarter.
My life for many years was placid and uneventful. I attended a Greek Catholic school, and grew up into a slender, handsome girl, vain and frivolous, to be sure, and quite aware that I possessed charms be- yond the average, but clean and modest, and thanks to the teachings of my aunt, the possessor of a con- science that was really Puritanical in its virtue. I went to picture shows occas- ionally with the young French and Italian youths of the neighborhood, and of course had my innocent flir- tations, many of which were broken up by the application of my aunt's slipper — for she was ‘purely old- world in regards to ideas of raising children — but up to the age of sev- enteen I had scarcely been kissed by a boy.
I tell all this in order that you who read this may be len- ient in your judgment upon me and believe that the shame that fell upon me was not because of my own depravity, but if the fault was mine, of my youth and lack of know- ledge — perhaps, if my aunt had told me more and switched me less — yet, how could she know? How could any- one know? And I — I was innocent — you must — you must believe me I I met the man who called himself Juan la Ferez at a reception at a house of a friend. He was slim, dark, handsome, gallant. I, a young girl just blossoming into womanhood, shy, eager for attention, yet easily embarrassed. He was Latin, my blood is Russian — hot, fiery. There was something in the way he glanced at me with his passionate eyes, something in his soft, caressing tones, something in the way he touched my hand, that fired my blood and turned me dizzy with my first realization of womanhood. He said, too, that he was of an old noble Spanish line of Venezuela and that gave him a still more romantic ap- pearance in my eyes.
He asked for and received permission to call at my house, which he did the fol- lowing evening. My aunt, at first suspicious of him, soon thawed to- ward him, as he insinuated himself into her good will by his old-world manners and gallantry of speech and action. After a perfect sedate evening, he took his departure, and I stayed awake long that night, recalling his every word, movement, glance, the curl of his lips. I was inexpressibly thrilled. When I fell to comparing him with the youths of my acquaintance, they dwindled out of all comparison. Those I had thought admirable now seemed boorish, childish, un- sophisticated. They shrank to in- significance beside this cultured man of the world. Vanity and de- lusions! I went with my head in the air thereafter, barely deigning to notice the existence of such humble acquaintances, who less for- tunate had to content themselves with "mere boys."
He called at my house, he took me to the theater, he took me on excursion boats up and down the river — he even sere- The Stones of Destiny / 11 naded me beneath my window at night in approved Latin style, strumming a mandolin beautifully and singing a haunting Spanish love song, while the neighboring girls nearly per- ished of envy, and I, deluded little fool, traversed the seven peaks of rapture. Naturally, I had been warned of the passionate nature of the men of the South, and had been on my guard lest his fiery nature sweep me off my feet. But never was a courtship carried on in a more decorous manner. Never a word did he say that might be construed as an insult, nor did he in his actions ever offer the slightest familiarity. And I — I was disappointed! Sometimes I thought he deemed me too much of a girl to entertain any thoughts of sex toward me. This idea I hotly resented. But at last, one beauti- ful moonlight night on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, he took my hand, touched it to his lips and asked me to marry him. I was thril- led; ecstatic.
My mind whirled dizzily. Faintly I heard myself saying, "No, no, Juan! My aunt would never consent to it — I am too young." "No, no!" He had put an arm about me now. "You must be mine, I cannot live without you! I want you, my beautiful little goddess, my lovely child of delight!" "My aunt—" I said faintly. "She need not know until after- ward! Come, my life, fly away with me, my pretty little birdling! We will be married and then return and your dear aunt will forgive us." "You promise?" I asked, pit- eously hesitant. "I swear it!" he exclaimed. "I love your aunt like a mother! We will go, the good priest shall marry us, then we will return for her blessing. After that we will all go to my estate in Venezuela. "There you shall be little queen of all you survey. Broad, fertile lands shall be yours and a wonderful hacienda, where you may reign like a princess of the blood with innum- erable servants to attend you. I am wealthy and powerful. Come, come now." I was in his arms.
He crushed me in his embrace; for a moment I lay passive, unresisting and trem- bling, then as he pressed his lips against mine ' and kissed me passion- ately again and again, my hot blood was roused and, throwing my arms about his neck, I answered his kiss- es. Then we heard my aunt, who had chaperoned us, approaching; she having lingered at one of the refreshment stands to speak to a friend while we had strolled on to the lake shore. When she reached us we were decorously discussing some trivial matter and I said noth- ing to her of the affair, neither then nor later. The very next night I got permis- sion to spend a night with a girl friend, and immediately after dark met Juan upon the wharfs.
I had expected that he would have a priest with him, but he was alone. "Are we not to be married here?" I asked in surprise. "My love, I fear your aunt would have it annulled if she knew of it immediately," he answered. "And there is another thing. There is a priest, a man of my own country, a wonderful man, who did me a great favor many years ago and I promised him he should marry me. You do not mind? He is now at Corpus Christi; just a little ways, we can take a boat now, at once, my love . " I was so infatuated with Juan that I would have sailed with him to Australia, married or unmarried, and it made no difference to me whether a Roman Catholic or a Greek priest married me. Yet I shrank, from natural modesty, at the thought of travelling with an unmarried man, even my fiance. But when he took me in his arms, and coaxed me with endearing phrases, my re- sistance melted. No woman can with- 12 / Pulp Magazine stand the man she really loves, in anything, and I did love Juan, though later I came to hate him as only Russian women can hate. Yet neither then nor later did Juan offer me undue familiarity. I passed upon shipboard as his sis- ter, and we occupied separate state- rooms.
Young as I was, I knew a little, a very little, of mankind's attitude toward women and thus it was that I saw in Juan a true knight, a man better and nobler than other men. We landed at Corpus Christi with- out event, and Juan left me at a hotel while he went forth, osten- sibly to look for the priest who was his friend. Soon he returned with word that the priest was at Brownsville, temporarily, and sug- gested that instead of waiting for him, we motor over to that town. I readily agreed, for I had found the trip exhilarating and wished to prolong it. So Juan hired an automobile and we proceeded to Brownsville.
There again he sought the imaginary priest and, coming back, told me the priest was holding a council or conference with other priests from the interior of Mexico and would not be at lei- sure for an hour or two. Juan then suggested that we cross the river, so that I might get a sight of Mex- ico. To this I joyfully agreed, and we crossed the narrow bridge that spans the yellow, muddy Rio Grande at that part. The middle of that bridge marks the boundary line; on the one end flies the Amer- ican flag, on the other the flag of the Republic of Mexico.
The guards at the Mexican end, burly, mustached fellows, heavily armed, offered a marked contrast to the clean-cut American youth of the American end. These Mexicans stop- ped us and searched the car for contraband, eyeing me insolently. And one of them said something to Juan and nudged his companion. Though Juan denied it, it seemed to me that the men knew him. The town of Matamoros lies back from the river, a bare squalid place. Since then I have seen other Mexican towns along the border, and some of them equal American cities of the same size. But Matamoros more resembles the stronghold of bandits than anything else. Everywhere I saw dirty, ragged peons, mostly barefooted; many carried rifles or pistols and many wore cartridge-belts strapped about their waists.
Before a drab barrack a few languid soldiers pretended to mount guard and here and there among the many saloons rurales with gaudy costumes drank mescal and boasted. The town is roughly built about a large square, on one side of which is a cathedral, while the rest of the square is taken up largely by saloons and gambling halls. To one of these Juan took me, though it was with much trepidation that I entered. We sat at a table and a woman brought us drinks. She was a hard- faced Mexican woman of middle age, and after taking a long glance at me, she spoke rapidly to Juan in Spanish, which I did not understand. He laughed, shook his head, and answered her, repeating the name Gomez, upon which she nodded under- standing^ and went away. I sipped nervously at the beverage brought us and threw frightened glances about at the rough, loud-spoken Mexicans that thronged the bar. Several spoke to Juan familiarly and he laughed and answered in the same manner. I did not understand and I was more perplexed when I asked to leave and he merely laughed and told me we would later.
The Mexican behind the bar would glance at me and laugh loudly.
Then a man entered, the first glance of whom inspired me with fear. He was a large Mexican of very swarthy complexion, very gau- dily dressed. To my angry aston- ishment he came across the saloon at once and seated himself at our table, sweeping off his wide som- brero to me in a manner that seemed mocking and sarcastic. Then he The Stones of Destiny / 13 and Juan engaged in a long conversa- tion, during which the man seemed much pleased, often bursting into a loud guffaw, and slapping himself on the leg. Then before my eyes — and even then I did not understand — the Mexican took a number of bank- notes and gave them to Juan, who rose, laughed, and walked out with- out another word or glance at me. The Mexican laughed, too, and said in English, "You are very pret- ty, senorita; I am Senor Gomez that you shall know better, much better." And he laughed as at a huge joke. "But where is Juan going?" I asked, frightened and perplexed. "We were waiting for a priest, to be married."
Gomez laughed louder than ever and shook a finger at me in a ro- guish manner. "Ah, that Juan, he is a mischievous fellow and one can never depend on him. You would much better forget all about that Juan, who is probably making love to some other girl right now, and regard that good Gomez." "I don't understand — " I quav- ered, rising. "Ah, but you shall," he answered blandly, and he too rose. "Come with me. You little fool, Juan will not return. He is on his way to Galveston right now." Dazed and bewildered, I followed him, hardly knowing what I was do- ing. There was a very fine auto- mobile outside the saloon, with a Mexican youth as chauffeur. Gomez opened the door persua- sively and bade me, "Enter, senor- ita." But I drew back, frightened. Then he showed his true nature for the first time.
"Curse you!" he swore. "Must I be humble to a silly wench? Do as I say!" And to my horror he caught me up in his powerful arms and tossed me into the automobile.
I strug- gled and screamed, but though there were rurales, soldiers and white men, bartenders, in sight, they merely laughed. Gomez climbed in beside me. "Scream, you little fool," he said angrily. "No one will heed you; drive to the ranchero and waste no time." Gomez scarcely had a word to say, though he often looked at me and laughed, during the whole trip which lasted t nearly all day, though the driver drove at a high rate of speed. His ranch lay many miles from the border and the road lay over a dreary expanse of sand, cac- tus, greasewood and chapparal bushes .
It was night before we emerged into slightly more fertile country, and came to his ranchero, a huddle of corrals and ' dobe peon houses, dominated by a rather pretentious hacienda, built, like most of the kind, about an inner court or patio, and set off by deep cool verandas.
For a woman who came to it of her own choice, it might have seemed fine and inviting, but to me it was a prison house for three long, shameful years. Gomez led me into the hacienda, and waving his hand, said, "Juan said you should be queen of a ha- cienda, eh? Then so you shall be! Ha ! Ha ! " "You are not going to keep me here?" I asked, unbelieving. "Keep you here!" he exclaimed. "Not keep you here? After paying that shrewd fellow Juan more pesos than any wench is worth? Faugh, don't be a fool, or think Gomez is one. Juan has brought me other girls, but none so pretty. You I shall keep." "No, no!" I exclaimed. "You can't, you can't mean it, you wouldn't be so cruel."
"No?" he asked, with an ugly lift of his lip. "Of that you shall be judge." Food was served to us in the wide dining hall by a withered crone, and afterwards Gomez led the way to a room whose furnishings showed that it had been occupied by women before.
"This shall be your chamber, senorita," he said. "You will note that the windows are barred; more- over, you will but waste your time with the door for it will be bolt- ed." Then he bowed himself out and I looked about me at the room that was to be part of my prison for long. It was handsomely fur- nished, but, as Gomez had said, the windows were heavily barred. Very little of anything I saw or heard made meaning to me, so numbed were my mind and soul at the disclosure of Juan's perfidy, which I could not now doubt, though I fiercely denied to myself.
Ah, the vileness of men! How could Juan deceive me so, I who had trust- ed him with the innocent faith of a child, I who had come to him with open arms and raised lips — Juan, wherever you are, God have mercy on your soul if we ever meet! Completely outdone, soul and mind and body, I grew sleepy in spite of torment and began to dis- robe. I thought of Juan, my girl- ish mind still too dazed to realize the full extent of his treachery.
I had taken off my dress and laid it across a chair, when to my utter horror the door opened and Gomez entered the room. Crimson-faced with shame and outraged modesty, I shrank back, vainly striving to shield myself from his lascivious gaze. "Ah, how beautiful — and how un- usually modest," he said. "Yet, my dear, your charms are still ob- scured too much. Let us adjust that." And he came forward and took me by the arm. At the touch of his hand on my bare flesh, I very nearly fainted, such was the loathing and fear he inspired in me.
I jerked away from him and shrank back until the wall stopped my further flight. He advanced, smiling in a way to make my very flesh crawl. Young though I was, I saw his intention in his eyes and my mind reeled with terror. I threw out my hands, eyes star- ing in horror, as he approached. "No, no!" I begged. "Not that, please, please!" Then as he laid his hands upon me, I slipped to the floor before him, clasping his very feet, begging and pleading with him to spare me. He merely laughed at me. He put his hands under my arms and raised me to my feet.
Then he took me in his arms and showered kisses upon me, hot, lustful kisses under which I writhed helplessly. With a strength born of despair, I resisted him and though I was a weak girl and he a strong man, my resistance seemed to enrage him. "You had better learn who is master here," he said angrily, "and I suppose you had better have your lesson now. They all require it sooner or later, and the sooner you know enough to be meek and sub- missive, the better it will be for you. " He flung me violently to the floor, and stepping to the wall took down a cruel quirt such as Mexican vaqueros use. With this in his hand, he approached me. I cannot give a detailed narrative of what followed.
I do not even like to think about it. All my life I had been used to gentle and courteous treatment; my most severe punishments had been my aunt’s span- kings. Before I left the ranch of Gomez I found more depths of more hells than most women know exist, yet I cannot say that any surpassed that in which for the first time in my life the lash de- scended upon my shrinking shoulders, leaving a long, red welt across my bare, tender skin. That first whipping was a scarlet purgatory, which other lashings equalled but never excelled. I fainted before it was over, and how long he flayed my unconscious form, I do not know, but I came to myself lying upon a couch. My first impression was of a hideous burning torture that extended over my whole body; my next, of Gomez standing over me, The Stones of Destiny / 15 swishing the whip restlessly, a cruel glitter in his eyes.
"Very good," he said, grimly. "Now are you ready to acknowledge your master or shall we continue the lesson?" And he made a motion of raising the whip. I shrieked and writhed, holding out my hands imploringly; I was wordless from fear and torture, I could only whimper and prostrate myself before him. "Very good," he said again. "Then come here to me." And in terrible fear of another lashing, reeling, half able to stand, I went to him, half insane from shame, yet over- powered by cringing fear — I came to him. Yes, I came to him, with lagging steps and head hung in shame, my face hid in my hands. There is little use to reiterate by details my life on the Gomez ranch.
The telling of it would drive me half insane and now I do not see how I lived through it. Juan la Ferez was a smooth and treacherous snake; Gomez was a beast. For three years I endured the fullest extents of his beast- liness. I was a slave, and nothing more or less, the slave of Gomez, betrayed and sold by Juan la Ferez. Then I knew why Juan had never at- tempted anything out of the way upon me. It was because he wished to present me to Gomez pure and unsullied, and thereby gain a higher price for me; for Gomez was that type of man that delights in the ruin of a virtuous girl. My inno- cence filled him with a beastly delight and he never tired of in- venting ways to outrage my modesty and decency. I have heard tales told by old slave negroes of the ways of cruel plantation men in the slave days of America, but none of those cru- elties ever surpassed those to which I was daily subjected. Gomez de- lighted in the fact that I was his slave.
He made no attempt to gain my affection. He did not want it. He wanted me to fear and cringe to him and his wish was gratified. His lust did not stop at the grati- fying of his fleshly desires. He was undoubtedly the most cruel fiend that ever existed. I have since studied psychology, and now know that Gomez missed very little being a degenerate in the utmost meaning of the word. « He was a man who de- rived pleasure from the torture of others.
The whippings he gave me afforded him as much gratifica- tion as the caresses he bestowed on me. But I knew nor cared nothing of such science then.
All I knew was that Gomez was my master, that he was a beast who stopped at noth- ing in the fulfillment of his wish- es, that if I resisted him in any way I would receive a lashing. And not merely because of disobedience did he whip me, but often as not in the way of cruel sport, for as he had said, I had my lesson and knew enough to obey him in his every word. Sometimes when intoxicated upon mescal, he would enter my room at night and torture me in various ingenious ways until sometimes his brutality would actually render me unconscious. And very often he would bind me and lash me into insensibility. He maintained all the power of a feudal lord upon his ranch, and the unhappy peons were as much his slaves as the serfs of the Middle Ages. Ignorance, poverty, serfdom, that is the curse of Mexico today, as it has been for ages.
There was a whipping post in front of the peon huts, where dis- obedient serfs were punished, both men and women; and Gomez showed the depths of his depravity when he bound me there and lashed me before the assembled peons, for not even a Kurd nor a Tatar would so publicly degrade one of his girl slaves before the eyes of inferiors. How I lived through those three years, I do not know unless it was because of the blood that is mine. I had often wished that I had been a born American, but I do not be- lieve that any American girl could have endured what I did and lived. But I come of a race whose women are used to cruelty. I was only going through what countless thou- sands of Russian women have gone through.
Though I, myself, had never had to endure abuse, yet the blood of endurance was in me. Gomez himself knew that, in a vague way, and he paid me the dubious compli- ment of telling me that while he had always soon grown tired of other women, he had never wearied of me. "But I will break you!" he used to say. "I will tame you!" I could not see how a woman could be more "tamed." I hastened to comply with his every wish, I cring- ed and fawned on him to avoid pun- ishment, and after cruel whippings I crawled to him and kissed his hands. And so I told him. "Yes," he answered, scowling, "you are wise! You are not like other women; I never saw a Russian girl before, and I never saw a woman like you. You are pliant, yielding — and the more a thing gives, the more difficult it is to break. You are my slave now, but if you should escape tonight, in a few months none could ever tell that you had been used as I have used you. Your attraction would be as great as ever; you would forget me, men would fawn upon you and you would be as happy as if you had never heard of Gomez. But I will break you yet!
When Gomez puts his stamp upon a woman, she wears it for life! She is broken! And so shall you! I will break you forever." I be- lieve that it was this strange ob- session to "break me" that kept him from killing me in his drunken furies. Sometimes there were visitors at the ranch, Caballeros from neigh- boring ranches, and then high and drunken revelry was held. Of these I will say nothing; sometimes women were brought and the licentiousness was indescribable.
I learned the language to some extent and found that a while girl captive upon a Mexican ranch was no novelty. Such things had gone on for years; the wealthy ranchers of the country were always in the market for pretty girls and such beasts as Juan la Ferez supply their demand. The position of these victims was as I have described my own. The lech- erous nature of their captors was always coupled with the feeling that they are wreaking vengeance upon their powerful and hated neigh- bors across the Rio Grande, which is merely the vengeance of barbar- ians . Sometimes, too, women were brought to the ranch by Gomez, who only stayed a few days, bold-faced Mexican women of the better class, usually. Then was added the further humiliation, that of forcing me to attend them with the duties of a maid. Some were kind, in their way, pitying me and sometimes car- essing me; some indifferent, some spiteful, wreaking on me insults and petty abuse. But I soon grew indifferent to kindness or abuse. I lived in a perpetual state of terror.
I was afraid of the peons of the ranch, of the crones that cooked for Gomez, of the women that Gomez brought there — but all this fear was dominated and overshadowed by my fear of Gomez himself. Three times I tried to kill Gomez, once with a rifle I snatched from him, twice with a stiletto secured the same way. And each time I failed and was rewarded with such a ter- rible lashing that I could never muster courage again after the third attempt. Then several times I at- tempted to escape, even starting across the desert on foot. Each time I was brought back and at last Gomez bound me to the whipping post and whipped me nearly to death. I was left hanging there for hours until the world was merely a red sea where torturing waves beat end- lessly upon my nearly lifeless form.
There it seemed that flesh and blood could stand no more and I wished to die. But I could not. Eventually the bloody fogs lifted and I came back to the world — and to Gomez. That night one of his banquets was held, and in the state I was, I was forced to attend. There I saw for the first time Juan Cabrona, a rancher whose holdings were some miles distant. I had cause to re- member Cabrona later. Then I had been with Gomez for nearly two years .
Gomez, like most wealthy Mex- icans, dabbled more or less in the politics of the country, but either he was skilled in picking the win- ning side, or remarkably lucky, for all the time I was at his ranch, there was never a raid of bandits, never an "investigation" by Federal troops. True, the country was sparsely settled and unimportant from a military standpoint. But altercations occurred among the ranchers themselves and at last Cabrona and Gomez had an open break.
That was about a year after I had seen Cabrona at the banquet. Gomez expressed his displeasure toward his former friend very often in my hearing, and I began to almost like Cabrona, simply because Gomez hated him, though I knew Cabrona was no better than my master. But one day a note was smuggled to me by some means, the manner of which I never learned, and the contents were as follows: "Doubtless you wish to escape from Gomez. If so, steal out of the hacienda just after dark, and walk straight east from the lower corral. I will meet you with horses and conduct you to the border. Cabrona."
My mind was in a whirl upon read- ing this. I half suspected Gomez of a cruel trick; half suspected that Cabrona was merely working to get me into his hands, for I could not see why he should wish to aid me. But after much thought I determined to follow the instruc- tions, come what would; nothing could be more vile than my present situation and if it were merely a change of masters, Cabrona could be no more cruel than Gomez. Then I was confronted with the problem of getting out of the house alone and unwatched. The doors were never bolted upon me, but I was always closely watched, though of late I had shown so little spirit that the vigilance was slightly relaxed, under the impression that I would not dare try to escape. But that evening, Gomez, being displeased at the wife of a peon, took her to the whipping post to give her a flogging, with the result that everyone went to watch it, leaving the house quite unguarded. I slip- ped out, just as dusk was falling, and hurried to the lower corral, unobserved. There I halted for an instant to glance back at the hacienda which I hoped I was seeing for the last time.
The great house reared dark, silent and forbidding, a shameful prison wherein
I had been despoiled of my girlhood, my innocence, my purity. Beyond it, before the huts, there was a glimmer of torches lighting up a scene such as I had seen time and time before — a scene such as I had often enacted as the chief victim. Ribald shouts and obscene jests sounded from the assembled servants and peons as Gomez carried out the flogging with his usual cruelty and indecency. It was a scene characteristic of that vile place that I carried away as a mental picture. I struck off due east, as di- rected, and after walking some dis- tance, came upon Cabrona waiting with horses.
He bade me mount and I did so, whereupon he led the way toward the river, swinging wide to avoid the Gomez possessions. We rode all night with scarcely a word between us, and dawn found us upon the bank of the Rio Grande. Cabrona briefly directed me how to avoid the quicksand in crossing, and was turning to ride away when I stopped him. "But why did you do this thing for me?" I asked. "To avenge myself upon Gomez," he answered. "I care nothing for 18 / Pulp Magazine you, or any other gringo woman. I'd have kept you myself, only Gomez would have stolen you back. Now get across the river as fast as you can and keep on riding, or the vaqueros of Gomez will come up with you and all my task will be for nothing. "
So saying, he turned and rode away. In a sudden panic, as I thought of pursuit, I urged my mount recklessly across the river, and raced the already weary horse until the Rio Grande was merely a thin line of silver in the distance be- hind me. I could hardly realize that I was free. I laughed, I sang, I waved my arras. Anyone seeing me would have thought me insane. Free! After three years, three centuries! Three eternities! Ah, no one can appreciate that freedom is the greatest of all blessings unless one has been like myself, a slave. It did not matter that I was among strangers, and without money; I was free in my own land. Some small town I came to even- tually, and sold the horse Cabrona had given me for enough money to pay my fare to New Orleans.
I was asked no questions nad I vouchsafed no explanation to anyone. The shad- ow of my fear of Gomez was on me and it rode me hard, though I knew it improbable that he would follow me. But I did not draw a free breath until the train pulled into New Orleans and the old familiar sights met my eyes. Three years? It seemed rather three hundred years.
Three years of shame and torture since I had left New Orleans, young, pure, vibrant for life and love, a child .of seventeen; I returned a woman of twenty, and far older in experience, violated, defiled, broken like a flower upon the stones of Destiny. In fear and trembling I approach- ed my aunt's house. How would she receive me? I had left without even leaving a note; she had heard no word from me in all the time. Would she drive me out again? Could it be that she would forgive me?
Three times I walked past the house, afraid to enter; the fourth time I went to a side door, by which I used to enter after school. I opened the door stealthily and en- tered. My aunt sat before the wide fireplace. She had aged a great deal. For a moment I stood there, trembling, then she saw me; her knitting tumbled from her hands, and I fell into her arms and lay upon her bosom, my face hid In her shoulder, while she caressed me, murmuring endearments over and over at me as she had when I was a child. Poor soul, she had thought me dead and not even to her, though it tore my very soul to deceive her, could I admit the full depth of my degra- dation. I lied to her, for I told her Juan la Ferez had betrayed and then deserted me. Yet I cannot blame myself overmuch, for the full truth would have unhinged her mind, I fear.
I did not stay long in New Orleans where the people knew me . My aunt gave me money to go where I wished, promising to join me wherever I went. I went east, to New York. The sight of a Mexican or even a Spaniard or South American unnerved me for years afterward. There in New York I found oppor- tunity to develop my musical tal- ents, and in a short time found myself independent, admired and sought after. Gomez spoke truly when he said I would not break. But for long afterwards, my actions must sometimes have startled people. For instance, I could not abide the touch of a man's hand and I often irritated my instructors by my insistence that they should not touch me. And the mere sight of a man with a riding crop or whip of any kind in his hand actually nauseated me. I remember at one time how startled a very good friend seemed, when for a joke he came up behind me unawares and seized my arm in a rather rude grasp. In an instant, and without any conscious volition, I was cringing and cowering dumbly before him, my eyes tight shut, and my arm rais- ed to ward off the blow my sensitive reflexes told me was forthcoming.
The poor fellow supposed he had wrenched my arm and was horribly embarrassed, and most sincerely and humbly contrite and apologetic. I did my best to make him feel at ease, but 1 could not explain, and for all the rest of the day my nerves were fairly quivering. But I suppose my friends attrib- ute my strangeness at times to art- istic temperament, together with my absolute refusal to wear low- backed evening gowns — which would reveal the lash marks that Gomez put across my shoulders for all time . Four years have passed since I rode across the Rio Grande on Cabrona's horse. My slavery no longer haunts my dreams , and the whole seems as a dim nightmare . It has cost me much to bring up those horrid memories , and I hope that I will be leniently judged. and that my tali e will aid other girls who may be menaced by like villains. Then I will be satisfied.
Time and again I have heard people in conversation remark on the evils of old-time slavery and express gratitude that such practices have gone out of existence. I listen, silent, and wonder what those people would say if I spoke — if I told them — My life, my frightful exper- iences are behind me, no one knows except myself — or has known up to this time. I could have kept my secret until death had I so wished and it is of my own accord that I am baring my shameful past, in the hope that my story will preserve some innocent girl from a like fate.
Not long ago, a friend of mine, just returned from the East, was telling me tales that he had heard and sights that he had seen of India and other parts of Asia and of the Barbary States of North Africa. "The slave trade is rampant," said he, "in spite of all the Brit- ish Government is doing toward stam- ping it out. It is definitely known that a secret 'slave road' runs from the interior lakes to Suez and Zanzibar, over which thousands of unfortunate natives pass every year, yoked and driven like oxen. And in Zanzibar and other East Coast towns there are secret slave mar- kets, where not only negroes are sold, but white women also. Cir- cassian girls and Jewesses that the Turks sell to wandering slave traders."
He went on to relate some of the cruelties he had seen practiced on slaves, many of which were not of a printable nature, and added, "You'd better be happy that you live in a civilized country where nothing of the sort can hap- pen." I looked straight at him and said, "Yes, 'that is what you think. But are you right? Suppose I told you that American girls are in as much danger of slavery as Asiatic women — suppose I told you that 1^ had been a slave ?" To say that he was astounded would be putting it mildly. He believed me to be joking at first. Just what prompted me to confide the shameful secret which I had so jealously guarded for years, I cannot explain. Perhaps it is the human impulse to share every- thing with one of your own kind. I do not know. However, I told him all upon a sudden impulse, as is my nature.
Obeying impulses has ruled and to an extent ruined my life. After I told him, he was thought- ful for some time and said, "Don't you think that you had better make public your experience?" I shrank at the idea. "How can you think of such a thing?" "I understand, of course," he answered. "But we must sacrifice ourselves for the general good, to some extent. The disclosure might save some child, innocent as you were at the time. Would not that be worth the humiliation? I think that it should." So, after long thought, I came to the conclusion, difficult though it was, that it would be selfish in me to hide in my bosom facts which might serve to guide other feet aright.
I am an American, not by birth, but choice. I was born in Russia, in that fierce and savage country east of the Volga River, but was brought to America by an aunt when so small that now my memories of 9 that dim other land are but a vague haze of broad, snowy steppes, beard- ed faces, shaggy small horses and high kalpaks — hats of Astrakhan fur . My aunt was not the ordinary type of European immigrant; she was comfortably situated and her removal to America was more to sat- isfy a love for travelling than anything else.
I was selected from my brothers and sisters to accompany her, and the villagers predicted that I would grow to be a fine lady in the great new country. After travelling rather exten- sively in Canada, Mexico and the United States, my aunt, on a whim, decided to settle in New Orleans, its cosmopolitan touch, its tinge of the old world, somehow suiting her rather romantic nature. We lived in an old mansion, not far off Canal Street, which she had purchased from the descendants of a once wealthy and prominent French family, and my aunt opened an an- tique shop in a genteel quarter.
My life for many years was placid and uneventful. I attended a Greek Catholic school, and grew up into a slender, handsome girl, vain and frivolous, to be sure, and quite aware that I possessed charms be- yond the average, but clean and modest, and thanks to the teachings of my aunt, the possessor of a con- science that was really Puritanical in its virtue. I went to picture shows occas- ionally with the young French and Italian youths of the neighborhood, and of course had my innocent flir- tations, many of which were broken up by the application of my aunt's slipper — for she was ‘purely old- world in regards to ideas of raising children — but up to the age of sev- enteen I had scarcely been kissed by a boy.
I tell all this in order that you who read this may be len- ient in your judgment upon me and believe that the shame that fell upon me was not because of my own depravity, but if the fault was mine, of my youth and lack of know- ledge — perhaps, if my aunt had told me more and switched me less — yet, how could she know? How could any- one know? And I — I was innocent — you must — you must believe me I I met the man who called himself Juan la Ferez at a reception at a house of a friend. He was slim, dark, handsome, gallant. I, a young girl just blossoming into womanhood, shy, eager for attention, yet easily embarrassed. He was Latin, my blood is Russian — hot, fiery. There was something in the way he glanced at me with his passionate eyes, something in his soft, caressing tones, something in the way he touched my hand, that fired my blood and turned me dizzy with my first realization of womanhood. He said, too, that he was of an old noble Spanish line of Venezuela and that gave him a still more romantic ap- pearance in my eyes.
He asked for and received permission to call at my house, which he did the fol- lowing evening. My aunt, at first suspicious of him, soon thawed to- ward him, as he insinuated himself into her good will by his old-world manners and gallantry of speech and action. After a perfect sedate evening, he took his departure, and I stayed awake long that night, recalling his every word, movement, glance, the curl of his lips. I was inexpressibly thrilled. When I fell to comparing him with the youths of my acquaintance, they dwindled out of all comparison. Those I had thought admirable now seemed boorish, childish, un- sophisticated. They shrank to in- significance beside this cultured man of the world. Vanity and de- lusions! I went with my head in the air thereafter, barely deigning to notice the existence of such humble acquaintances, who less for- tunate had to content themselves with "mere boys."
He called at my house, he took me to the theater, he took me on excursion boats up and down the river — he even sere- The Stones of Destiny / 11 naded me beneath my window at night in approved Latin style, strumming a mandolin beautifully and singing a haunting Spanish love song, while the neighboring girls nearly per- ished of envy, and I, deluded little fool, traversed the seven peaks of rapture. Naturally, I had been warned of the passionate nature of the men of the South, and had been on my guard lest his fiery nature sweep me off my feet. But never was a courtship carried on in a more decorous manner. Never a word did he say that might be construed as an insult, nor did he in his actions ever offer the slightest familiarity. And I — I was disappointed! Sometimes I thought he deemed me too much of a girl to entertain any thoughts of sex toward me. This idea I hotly resented. But at last, one beauti- ful moonlight night on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, he took my hand, touched it to his lips and asked me to marry him. I was thril- led; ecstatic.
My mind whirled dizzily. Faintly I heard myself saying, "No, no, Juan! My aunt would never consent to it — I am too young." "No, no!" He had put an arm about me now. "You must be mine, I cannot live without you! I want you, my beautiful little goddess, my lovely child of delight!" "My aunt—" I said faintly. "She need not know until after- ward! Come, my life, fly away with me, my pretty little birdling! We will be married and then return and your dear aunt will forgive us." "You promise?" I asked, pit- eously hesitant. "I swear it!" he exclaimed. "I love your aunt like a mother! We will go, the good priest shall marry us, then we will return for her blessing. After that we will all go to my estate in Venezuela. "There you shall be little queen of all you survey. Broad, fertile lands shall be yours and a wonderful hacienda, where you may reign like a princess of the blood with innum- erable servants to attend you. I am wealthy and powerful. Come, come now." I was in his arms.
He crushed me in his embrace; for a moment I lay passive, unresisting and trem- bling, then as he pressed his lips against mine ' and kissed me passion- ately again and again, my hot blood was roused and, throwing my arms about his neck, I answered his kiss- es. Then we heard my aunt, who had chaperoned us, approaching; she having lingered at one of the refreshment stands to speak to a friend while we had strolled on to the lake shore. When she reached us we were decorously discussing some trivial matter and I said noth- ing to her of the affair, neither then nor later. The very next night I got permis- sion to spend a night with a girl friend, and immediately after dark met Juan upon the wharfs.
I had expected that he would have a priest with him, but he was alone. "Are we not to be married here?" I asked in surprise. "My love, I fear your aunt would have it annulled if she knew of it immediately," he answered. "And there is another thing. There is a priest, a man of my own country, a wonderful man, who did me a great favor many years ago and I promised him he should marry me. You do not mind? He is now at Corpus Christi; just a little ways, we can take a boat now, at once, my love . " I was so infatuated with Juan that I would have sailed with him to Australia, married or unmarried, and it made no difference to me whether a Roman Catholic or a Greek priest married me. Yet I shrank, from natural modesty, at the thought of travelling with an unmarried man, even my fiance. But when he took me in his arms, and coaxed me with endearing phrases, my re- sistance melted. No woman can with- 12 / Pulp Magazine stand the man she really loves, in anything, and I did love Juan, though later I came to hate him as only Russian women can hate. Yet neither then nor later did Juan offer me undue familiarity. I passed upon shipboard as his sis- ter, and we occupied separate state- rooms.
Young as I was, I knew a little, a very little, of mankind's attitude toward women and thus it was that I saw in Juan a true knight, a man better and nobler than other men. We landed at Corpus Christi with- out event, and Juan left me at a hotel while he went forth, osten- sibly to look for the priest who was his friend. Soon he returned with word that the priest was at Brownsville, temporarily, and sug- gested that instead of waiting for him, we motor over to that town. I readily agreed, for I had found the trip exhilarating and wished to prolong it. So Juan hired an automobile and we proceeded to Brownsville.
There again he sought the imaginary priest and, coming back, told me the priest was holding a council or conference with other priests from the interior of Mexico and would not be at lei- sure for an hour or two. Juan then suggested that we cross the river, so that I might get a sight of Mex- ico. To this I joyfully agreed, and we crossed the narrow bridge that spans the yellow, muddy Rio Grande at that part. The middle of that bridge marks the boundary line; on the one end flies the Amer- ican flag, on the other the flag of the Republic of Mexico.
The guards at the Mexican end, burly, mustached fellows, heavily armed, offered a marked contrast to the clean-cut American youth of the American end. These Mexicans stop- ped us and searched the car for contraband, eyeing me insolently. And one of them said something to Juan and nudged his companion. Though Juan denied it, it seemed to me that the men knew him. The town of Matamoros lies back from the river, a bare squalid place. Since then I have seen other Mexican towns along the border, and some of them equal American cities of the same size. But Matamoros more resembles the stronghold of bandits than anything else. Everywhere I saw dirty, ragged peons, mostly barefooted; many carried rifles or pistols and many wore cartridge-belts strapped about their waists.
Before a drab barrack a few languid soldiers pretended to mount guard and here and there among the many saloons rurales with gaudy costumes drank mescal and boasted. The town is roughly built about a large square, on one side of which is a cathedral, while the rest of the square is taken up largely by saloons and gambling halls. To one of these Juan took me, though it was with much trepidation that I entered. We sat at a table and a woman brought us drinks. She was a hard- faced Mexican woman of middle age, and after taking a long glance at me, she spoke rapidly to Juan in Spanish, which I did not understand. He laughed, shook his head, and answered her, repeating the name Gomez, upon which she nodded under- standing^ and went away. I sipped nervously at the beverage brought us and threw frightened glances about at the rough, loud-spoken Mexicans that thronged the bar. Several spoke to Juan familiarly and he laughed and answered in the same manner. I did not understand and I was more perplexed when I asked to leave and he merely laughed and told me we would later.
The Mexican behind the bar would glance at me and laugh loudly.
Then a man entered, the first glance of whom inspired me with fear. He was a large Mexican of very swarthy complexion, very gau- dily dressed. To my angry aston- ishment he came across the saloon at once and seated himself at our table, sweeping off his wide som- brero to me in a manner that seemed mocking and sarcastic. Then he The Stones of Destiny / 13 and Juan engaged in a long conversa- tion, during which the man seemed much pleased, often bursting into a loud guffaw, and slapping himself on the leg. Then before my eyes — and even then I did not understand — the Mexican took a number of bank- notes and gave them to Juan, who rose, laughed, and walked out with- out another word or glance at me. The Mexican laughed, too, and said in English, "You are very pret- ty, senorita; I am Senor Gomez that you shall know better, much better." And he laughed as at a huge joke. "But where is Juan going?" I asked, frightened and perplexed. "We were waiting for a priest, to be married."
Gomez laughed louder than ever and shook a finger at me in a ro- guish manner. "Ah, that Juan, he is a mischievous fellow and one can never depend on him. You would much better forget all about that Juan, who is probably making love to some other girl right now, and regard that good Gomez." "I don't understand — " I quav- ered, rising. "Ah, but you shall," he answered blandly, and he too rose. "Come with me. You little fool, Juan will not return. He is on his way to Galveston right now." Dazed and bewildered, I followed him, hardly knowing what I was do- ing. There was a very fine auto- mobile outside the saloon, with a Mexican youth as chauffeur. Gomez opened the door persua- sively and bade me, "Enter, senor- ita." But I drew back, frightened. Then he showed his true nature for the first time.
"Curse you!" he swore. "Must I be humble to a silly wench? Do as I say!" And to my horror he caught me up in his powerful arms and tossed me into the automobile.
I strug- gled and screamed, but though there were rurales, soldiers and white men, bartenders, in sight, they merely laughed. Gomez climbed in beside me. "Scream, you little fool," he said angrily. "No one will heed you; drive to the ranchero and waste no time." Gomez scarcely had a word to say, though he often looked at me and laughed, during the whole trip which lasted t nearly all day, though the driver drove at a high rate of speed. His ranch lay many miles from the border and the road lay over a dreary expanse of sand, cac- tus, greasewood and chapparal bushes .
It was night before we emerged into slightly more fertile country, and came to his ranchero, a huddle of corrals and ' dobe peon houses, dominated by a rather pretentious hacienda, built, like most of the kind, about an inner court or patio, and set off by deep cool verandas.
For a woman who came to it of her own choice, it might have seemed fine and inviting, but to me it was a prison house for three long, shameful years. Gomez led me into the hacienda, and waving his hand, said, "Juan said you should be queen of a ha- cienda, eh? Then so you shall be! Ha ! Ha ! " "You are not going to keep me here?" I asked, unbelieving. "Keep you here!" he exclaimed. "Not keep you here? After paying that shrewd fellow Juan more pesos than any wench is worth? Faugh, don't be a fool, or think Gomez is one. Juan has brought me other girls, but none so pretty. You I shall keep." "No, no!" I exclaimed. "You can't, you can't mean it, you wouldn't be so cruel."
"No?" he asked, with an ugly lift of his lip. "Of that you shall be judge." Food was served to us in the wide dining hall by a withered crone, and afterwards Gomez led the way to a room whose furnishings showed that it had been occupied by women before.
"This shall be your chamber, senorita," he said. "You will note that the windows are barred; more- over, you will but waste your time with the door for it will be bolt- ed." Then he bowed himself out and I looked about me at the room that was to be part of my prison for long. It was handsomely fur- nished, but, as Gomez had said, the windows were heavily barred. Very little of anything I saw or heard made meaning to me, so numbed were my mind and soul at the disclosure of Juan's perfidy, which I could not now doubt, though I fiercely denied to myself.
Ah, the vileness of men! How could Juan deceive me so, I who had trust- ed him with the innocent faith of a child, I who had come to him with open arms and raised lips — Juan, wherever you are, God have mercy on your soul if we ever meet! Completely outdone, soul and mind and body, I grew sleepy in spite of torment and began to dis- robe. I thought of Juan, my girl- ish mind still too dazed to realize the full extent of his treachery.
I had taken off my dress and laid it across a chair, when to my utter horror the door opened and Gomez entered the room. Crimson-faced with shame and outraged modesty, I shrank back, vainly striving to shield myself from his lascivious gaze. "Ah, how beautiful — and how un- usually modest," he said. "Yet, my dear, your charms are still ob- scured too much. Let us adjust that." And he came forward and took me by the arm. At the touch of his hand on my bare flesh, I very nearly fainted, such was the loathing and fear he inspired in me.
I jerked away from him and shrank back until the wall stopped my further flight. He advanced, smiling in a way to make my very flesh crawl. Young though I was, I saw his intention in his eyes and my mind reeled with terror. I threw out my hands, eyes star- ing in horror, as he approached. "No, no!" I begged. "Not that, please, please!" Then as he laid his hands upon me, I slipped to the floor before him, clasping his very feet, begging and pleading with him to spare me. He merely laughed at me. He put his hands under my arms and raised me to my feet.
Then he took me in his arms and showered kisses upon me, hot, lustful kisses under which I writhed helplessly. With a strength born of despair, I resisted him and though I was a weak girl and he a strong man, my resistance seemed to enrage him. "You had better learn who is master here," he said angrily, "and I suppose you had better have your lesson now. They all require it sooner or later, and the sooner you know enough to be meek and sub- missive, the better it will be for you. " He flung me violently to the floor, and stepping to the wall took down a cruel quirt such as Mexican vaqueros use. With this in his hand, he approached me. I cannot give a detailed narrative of what followed.
I do not even like to think about it. All my life I had been used to gentle and courteous treatment; my most severe punishments had been my aunt’s span- kings. Before I left the ranch of Gomez I found more depths of more hells than most women know exist, yet I cannot say that any surpassed that in which for the first time in my life the lash de- scended upon my shrinking shoulders, leaving a long, red welt across my bare, tender skin. That first whipping was a scarlet purgatory, which other lashings equalled but never excelled. I fainted before it was over, and how long he flayed my unconscious form, I do not know, but I came to myself lying upon a couch. My first impression was of a hideous burning torture that extended over my whole body; my next, of Gomez standing over me, The Stones of Destiny / 15 swishing the whip restlessly, a cruel glitter in his eyes.
"Very good," he said, grimly. "Now are you ready to acknowledge your master or shall we continue the lesson?" And he made a motion of raising the whip. I shrieked and writhed, holding out my hands imploringly; I was wordless from fear and torture, I could only whimper and prostrate myself before him. "Very good," he said again. "Then come here to me." And in terrible fear of another lashing, reeling, half able to stand, I went to him, half insane from shame, yet over- powered by cringing fear — I came to him. Yes, I came to him, with lagging steps and head hung in shame, my face hid in my hands. There is little use to reiterate by details my life on the Gomez ranch.
The telling of it would drive me half insane and now I do not see how I lived through it. Juan la Ferez was a smooth and treacherous snake; Gomez was a beast. For three years I endured the fullest extents of his beast- liness. I was a slave, and nothing more or less, the slave of Gomez, betrayed and sold by Juan la Ferez. Then I knew why Juan had never at- tempted anything out of the way upon me. It was because he wished to present me to Gomez pure and unsullied, and thereby gain a higher price for me; for Gomez was that type of man that delights in the ruin of a virtuous girl. My inno- cence filled him with a beastly delight and he never tired of in- venting ways to outrage my modesty and decency. I have heard tales told by old slave negroes of the ways of cruel plantation men in the slave days of America, but none of those cru- elties ever surpassed those to which I was daily subjected. Gomez de- lighted in the fact that I was his slave.
He made no attempt to gain my affection. He did not want it. He wanted me to fear and cringe to him and his wish was gratified. His lust did not stop at the grati- fying of his fleshly desires. He was undoubtedly the most cruel fiend that ever existed. I have since studied psychology, and now know that Gomez missed very little being a degenerate in the utmost meaning of the word. « He was a man who de- rived pleasure from the torture of others.
The whippings he gave me afforded him as much gratifica- tion as the caresses he bestowed on me. But I knew nor cared nothing of such science then.
All I knew was that Gomez was my master, that he was a beast who stopped at noth- ing in the fulfillment of his wish- es, that if I resisted him in any way I would receive a lashing. And not merely because of disobedience did he whip me, but often as not in the way of cruel sport, for as he had said, I had my lesson and knew enough to obey him in his every word. Sometimes when intoxicated upon mescal, he would enter my room at night and torture me in various ingenious ways until sometimes his brutality would actually render me unconscious. And very often he would bind me and lash me into insensibility. He maintained all the power of a feudal lord upon his ranch, and the unhappy peons were as much his slaves as the serfs of the Middle Ages. Ignorance, poverty, serfdom, that is the curse of Mexico today, as it has been for ages.
There was a whipping post in front of the peon huts, where dis- obedient serfs were punished, both men and women; and Gomez showed the depths of his depravity when he bound me there and lashed me before the assembled peons, for not even a Kurd nor a Tatar would so publicly degrade one of his girl slaves before the eyes of inferiors. How I lived through those three years, I do not know unless it was because of the blood that is mine. I had often wished that I had been a born American, but I do not be- lieve that any American girl could have endured what I did and lived. But I come of a race whose women are used to cruelty. I was only going through what countless thou- sands of Russian women have gone through.
Though I, myself, had never had to endure abuse, yet the blood of endurance was in me. Gomez himself knew that, in a vague way, and he paid me the dubious compli- ment of telling me that while he had always soon grown tired of other women, he had never wearied of me. "But I will break you!" he used to say. "I will tame you!" I could not see how a woman could be more "tamed." I hastened to comply with his every wish, I cring- ed and fawned on him to avoid pun- ishment, and after cruel whippings I crawled to him and kissed his hands. And so I told him. "Yes," he answered, scowling, "you are wise! You are not like other women; I never saw a Russian girl before, and I never saw a woman like you. You are pliant, yielding — and the more a thing gives, the more difficult it is to break. You are my slave now, but if you should escape tonight, in a few months none could ever tell that you had been used as I have used you. Your attraction would be as great as ever; you would forget me, men would fawn upon you and you would be as happy as if you had never heard of Gomez. But I will break you yet!
When Gomez puts his stamp upon a woman, she wears it for life! She is broken! And so shall you! I will break you forever." I be- lieve that it was this strange ob- session to "break me" that kept him from killing me in his drunken furies. Sometimes there were visitors at the ranch, Caballeros from neigh- boring ranches, and then high and drunken revelry was held. Of these I will say nothing; sometimes women were brought and the licentiousness was indescribable.
I learned the language to some extent and found that a while girl captive upon a Mexican ranch was no novelty. Such things had gone on for years; the wealthy ranchers of the country were always in the market for pretty girls and such beasts as Juan la Ferez supply their demand. The position of these victims was as I have described my own. The lech- erous nature of their captors was always coupled with the feeling that they are wreaking vengeance upon their powerful and hated neigh- bors across the Rio Grande, which is merely the vengeance of barbar- ians . Sometimes, too, women were brought to the ranch by Gomez, who only stayed a few days, bold-faced Mexican women of the better class, usually. Then was added the further humiliation, that of forcing me to attend them with the duties of a maid. Some were kind, in their way, pitying me and sometimes car- essing me; some indifferent, some spiteful, wreaking on me insults and petty abuse. But I soon grew indifferent to kindness or abuse. I lived in a perpetual state of terror.
I was afraid of the peons of the ranch, of the crones that cooked for Gomez, of the women that Gomez brought there — but all this fear was dominated and overshadowed by my fear of Gomez himself. Three times I tried to kill Gomez, once with a rifle I snatched from him, twice with a stiletto secured the same way. And each time I failed and was rewarded with such a ter- rible lashing that I could never muster courage again after the third attempt. Then several times I at- tempted to escape, even starting across the desert on foot. Each time I was brought back and at last Gomez bound me to the whipping post and whipped me nearly to death. I was left hanging there for hours until the world was merely a red sea where torturing waves beat end- lessly upon my nearly lifeless form.
There it seemed that flesh and blood could stand no more and I wished to die. But I could not. Eventually the bloody fogs lifted and I came back to the world — and to Gomez. That night one of his banquets was held, and in the state I was, I was forced to attend. There I saw for the first time Juan Cabrona, a rancher whose holdings were some miles distant. I had cause to re- member Cabrona later. Then I had been with Gomez for nearly two years .
Gomez, like most wealthy Mex- icans, dabbled more or less in the politics of the country, but either he was skilled in picking the win- ning side, or remarkably lucky, for all the time I was at his ranch, there was never a raid of bandits, never an "investigation" by Federal troops. True, the country was sparsely settled and unimportant from a military standpoint. But altercations occurred among the ranchers themselves and at last Cabrona and Gomez had an open break.
That was about a year after I had seen Cabrona at the banquet. Gomez expressed his displeasure toward his former friend very often in my hearing, and I began to almost like Cabrona, simply because Gomez hated him, though I knew Cabrona was no better than my master. But one day a note was smuggled to me by some means, the manner of which I never learned, and the contents were as follows: "Doubtless you wish to escape from Gomez. If so, steal out of the hacienda just after dark, and walk straight east from the lower corral. I will meet you with horses and conduct you to the border. Cabrona."
My mind was in a whirl upon read- ing this. I half suspected Gomez of a cruel trick; half suspected that Cabrona was merely working to get me into his hands, for I could not see why he should wish to aid me. But after much thought I determined to follow the instruc- tions, come what would; nothing could be more vile than my present situation and if it were merely a change of masters, Cabrona could be no more cruel than Gomez. Then I was confronted with the problem of getting out of the house alone and unwatched. The doors were never bolted upon me, but I was always closely watched, though of late I had shown so little spirit that the vigilance was slightly relaxed, under the impression that I would not dare try to escape. But that evening, Gomez, being displeased at the wife of a peon, took her to the whipping post to give her a flogging, with the result that everyone went to watch it, leaving the house quite unguarded. I slip- ped out, just as dusk was falling, and hurried to the lower corral, unobserved. There I halted for an instant to glance back at the hacienda which I hoped I was seeing for the last time.
The great house reared dark, silent and forbidding, a shameful prison wherein
I had been despoiled of my girlhood, my innocence, my purity. Beyond it, before the huts, there was a glimmer of torches lighting up a scene such as I had seen time and time before — a scene such as I had often enacted as the chief victim. Ribald shouts and obscene jests sounded from the assembled servants and peons as Gomez carried out the flogging with his usual cruelty and indecency. It was a scene characteristic of that vile place that I carried away as a mental picture. I struck off due east, as di- rected, and after walking some dis- tance, came upon Cabrona waiting with horses.
He bade me mount and I did so, whereupon he led the way toward the river, swinging wide to avoid the Gomez possessions. We rode all night with scarcely a word between us, and dawn found us upon the bank of the Rio Grande. Cabrona briefly directed me how to avoid the quicksand in crossing, and was turning to ride away when I stopped him. "But why did you do this thing for me?" I asked. "To avenge myself upon Gomez," he answered. "I care nothing for 18 / Pulp Magazine you, or any other gringo woman. I'd have kept you myself, only Gomez would have stolen you back. Now get across the river as fast as you can and keep on riding, or the vaqueros of Gomez will come up with you and all my task will be for nothing. "
So saying, he turned and rode away. In a sudden panic, as I thought of pursuit, I urged my mount recklessly across the river, and raced the already weary horse until the Rio Grande was merely a thin line of silver in the distance be- hind me. I could hardly realize that I was free. I laughed, I sang, I waved my arras. Anyone seeing me would have thought me insane. Free! After three years, three centuries! Three eternities! Ah, no one can appreciate that freedom is the greatest of all blessings unless one has been like myself, a slave. It did not matter that I was among strangers, and without money; I was free in my own land. Some small town I came to even- tually, and sold the horse Cabrona had given me for enough money to pay my fare to New Orleans.
I was asked no questions nad I vouchsafed no explanation to anyone. The shad- ow of my fear of Gomez was on me and it rode me hard, though I knew it improbable that he would follow me. But I did not draw a free breath until the train pulled into New Orleans and the old familiar sights met my eyes. Three years? It seemed rather three hundred years.
Three years of shame and torture since I had left New Orleans, young, pure, vibrant for life and love, a child .of seventeen; I returned a woman of twenty, and far older in experience, violated, defiled, broken like a flower upon the stones of Destiny. In fear and trembling I approach- ed my aunt's house. How would she receive me? I had left without even leaving a note; she had heard no word from me in all the time. Would she drive me out again? Could it be that she would forgive me?
Three times I walked past the house, afraid to enter; the fourth time I went to a side door, by which I used to enter after school. I opened the door stealthily and en- tered. My aunt sat before the wide fireplace. She had aged a great deal. For a moment I stood there, trembling, then she saw me; her knitting tumbled from her hands, and I fell into her arms and lay upon her bosom, my face hid In her shoulder, while she caressed me, murmuring endearments over and over at me as she had when I was a child. Poor soul, she had thought me dead and not even to her, though it tore my very soul to deceive her, could I admit the full depth of my degra- dation. I lied to her, for I told her Juan la Ferez had betrayed and then deserted me. Yet I cannot blame myself overmuch, for the full truth would have unhinged her mind, I fear.
I did not stay long in New Orleans where the people knew me . My aunt gave me money to go where I wished, promising to join me wherever I went. I went east, to New York. The sight of a Mexican or even a Spaniard or South American unnerved me for years afterward. There in New York I found oppor- tunity to develop my musical tal- ents, and in a short time found myself independent, admired and sought after. Gomez spoke truly when he said I would not break. But for long afterwards, my actions must sometimes have startled people. For instance, I could not abide the touch of a man's hand and I often irritated my instructors by my insistence that they should not touch me. And the mere sight of a man with a riding crop or whip of any kind in his hand actually nauseated me. I remember at one time how startled a very good friend seemed, when for a joke he came up behind me unawares and seized my arm in a rather rude grasp. In an instant, and without any conscious volition, I was cringing and cowering dumbly before him, my eyes tight shut, and my arm rais- ed to ward off the blow my sensitive reflexes told me was forthcoming.
The poor fellow supposed he had wrenched my arm and was horribly embarrassed, and most sincerely and humbly contrite and apologetic. I did my best to make him feel at ease, but 1 could not explain, and for all the rest of the day my nerves were fairly quivering. But I suppose my friends attrib- ute my strangeness at times to art- istic temperament, together with my absolute refusal to wear low- backed evening gowns — which would reveal the lash marks that Gomez put across my shoulders for all time . Four years have passed since I rode across the Rio Grande on Cabrona's horse. My slavery no longer haunts my dreams , and the whole seems as a dim nightmare . It has cost me much to bring up those horrid memories , and I hope that I will be leniently judged. and that my tali e will aid other girls who may be menaced by like villains. Then I will be satisfied.