Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1839], The damsel of Darien, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf364v1].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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LEA AND BLANCHARD, SUCCESSORS TO CAREY AND CO. , HAVE JUST PUBLISHED A NAVAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES.
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BY J. FENIMORE COOPER, ESQ.
IN TWO HANDSOME VOLUMES, BOUND IN EMBOSSED CLOTH.
The History of the Navy of the United States from the earliest
period of its existence, in the dawn of the Revolution,
through all its discouragements, reverses, trials and glory, was
a task worthy of the author who had established a reputation as
a describer of nautical events, superior to that of any other living
writer. The task has been so performed as to leave nothing
to desire. No work of higher interest has been published in the
United States for many years. The theme is one which Mr.
Cooper seems to treat con amore and for which his early life
and education fitted him, above all other men. If we are not
mistaken, the publication of this book is calculated to heighten
the already exalted estimate in which the Navy is held, and to
render it still more, if possible, a favourite with the nation.
Whilst Mr. Cooper has, at all times, given full credit to the
officers and crews of the vessels whose victories, during the late
war, shed so much renown upon our arms, he has not been
guilty of the bad taste, which a writer of less discrimination
would scarcely have avoided, of indulging a vainglorious spirit
and a disparaging tone in reference to our great rival upon the
ocean. The glories of American victories are fully portrayed,
whilst, at the same time, care is taken, in every case, to exhibit
a fair and impartial estimate of the strength and appointments of
antagonist's vessels or fleets. In this way the work acquires the
credit due to a grave and impartial history. The book is splendidly
published by Lea and Blanchard.—Baltimore Chronicle.
If there was one man before all others, whom we could have
selected for this task, that man was Mr. Cooper. The history
of the Navy has been written con amore. Mr. Cooper in all
things relative to the Navy writes with enthusiasm. The ocean
is his element. With the glorious career of the service in
which his youth was passed, he takes a laudable pride, and he
betrays in every page the earnest desire of his heart to make its
merits known to the world. In the satisfaction with which he
dwells upon the high-toned discipline of a man-of-war, and the
extraordinary efficiency of many of our frigates during the war,
we discover the esprit de corps of the trained officer; and in
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dwelling upon the achievements of our young Navy, the pure
American fire of his genius once more blazes out as brightly as
ever.
But in all his enthusiasm for his own country, he never forgets
the claims of a gallant enemy. His fairness and impartiality
are as conspicuous as his patriotism; and in his generous appreciation
of the prowéss of the English, we find an additional compliment
to our own Navy. Mr. Cooper's talents and acquirements
particularly well qualified him for the work he had undertaken.
He has meted out justice with a cool and impartial hand. Understanding
all the feelings, prejudices, traditions and customs of
the service; being upon terms of intimate acquaintance with
most of the older officers, and having all the records that are to
be found in the libraries of the country, or in the offices of
Government, connected with the subject, at his disposal, he
enjoyed unlimited means of procuring the best and most authentic
data—and, describing every thing with the clear intelligence
of a seaman, in his work we meet with none of those errors of
detail, unseamanlike expressions, and other similar mistakes,
which in naval histories so often shock the professional reader.
In the interest which he has thrown around the cruises and
combats of our ships of war, we trace the master hand which
drew the Pilot; nor will many chapters in this work yield in
point of romantic interest to any of his sea-novels. Many of the
naval actions of the Revolution, and especially the cruisings of
Paul Jones, and the desperate fight between the Bon-Homme
Richard and the Serapis, have all the richness of romance, with
the method and accuracy of strict history.—American Traveller.
We have perused this history with no little curiosity and with
great interest. Considering the brief existence of the American
marine, its annals are more eventful, more romantic, and
more various, than any in existence. Nothing can surpass the
energy which enabled the United States to form an effective navy,
at a time when they could hardly be said to have had a political
existence, and when they were beset by greater difficulties than
any which an infant nation had ever yet to encounter. This consideration
has animated the present historian, whose enthusiasm
seems to be kindled by his office of chronicler, even more than
when he formerly sought inspiration from the same source in constructing
his famous stories of the sea. His national pride has,
however, not tempted him to be, after the manner of his countrymen,
vainglorious as regards his own nation, and abusive towards
others. His work, accordingly, is more fair and candid
than could have been expected on such a theme from an
American pen. Altogether this history is a valuable one, and
cannot fail to pass into universal circulation. The incidents
which took place in the naval war with Tripoli, are grander and
more heroic than any thing in the circle of romance, and are detailed
with all the vigour and animation of Mr. Cooper's genius.—
British Naval and Military Magazine.
Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE
DAMSEL OF DARIEN.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE YEMASSEE,” “GUY RIVERS,”
“MELLICHAMPE,” &c.
“Què te hice vil fortuna,
Porque te quieras mudar,
Y quitarme de mi silla,
En que el Rey me fue à sentar.”
El Conde Grimaltos.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
PHILADELPHIA:
LEA AND BLANCHARD,
SUCCESSORS TO CAREY AND CO.
1839.
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Acknowledgment
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169629
Entered, according to Act of Congress, by Lea and Blanchard,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
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Acknowledgment
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TO THE
HON. JAMES K. PAULDING,
As one of the earliest pioneers in the fields of American
letters, as one of the ablest and most patriotic, who,
though conscious of the few rewards and thousand discouragements
of literature in our country, has never
made any concessions to that foreign sway,—a relic of
the old colonial tyranny,—the insolent exactions of
which, seen in all our relations, social and national, will,
it is feared, never entirely cease, until, in the accumulating
and unquestionable harvests of our own soil, we
shall become as obviously independent of the mind and
money of other and hostile nations, as we have shown
ourselves to be of their political protection,—this story of
the New World—of the perils and privations of early
discovery—of its bold adventures, wondrous triumphs,
and inadequate rewards,—is most respectfully inscribed
by his fellow-labourer and friend,
THE AUTHOR.
Preliminaries
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ADVERTISEMENT.
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The proof-sheets of the first hundred pages of this work were not
read by the author. This must account to the reader, if it does not
excuse, the numberless errors which will be found within those limits.
A few of these may be referred to here, though it would be impossible,
in so small a space, to correct the greater number; most of which,
it is, perhaps, fortunate, will be sufficiently obvious to render a special
notice unnecessary. The name of the accomplished courtier, Diego
de Nicuesa, is printed “Nienesa” repeatedly in the first few chapters;
at page 22, line 16, “imaging” is printed “in caging;” at page 24,
line 25, “parted” appears “painted;” page 27, line 25, for “from
the precipice” read “to the precipice;” for “Diego Colon,” on the
next page, read “Christovallo Colon;” at 31, for “arezto” read
“areyto;” at 33, for “coaled shell” read “coated shell;” at 34, line
34, for “out the truth” read “but the truth;” at 37, for “Gomez Davila”
read “Felipe Davila;” at 49, omit the word “not” from line
18; at 50, line 5, for “unexpected” read “unexpressed;” same page,
line 23, for “hand” read “heart;” next page, in two places, read
“Christovallo” for “Diego;” at 61, make the same correction; at
67, for “departimiento” read “repartimiento;” at 68, for “Buru”
read “Azuma;” at 69, line 33, for “Buru” read “Azuma;” line 35,
for “Azuma” read “Buru,” and wherever on the same page the same
names occur, they are required to change places; so, also, on pages
70, 71, 72, 73, 74, and 77. At page 73, line 36, for “girl” read
“tribe;” same page, line 39, for “next” read “most;” at 77, line 6,
for “continued” read “contrived;” same page, line 8, for “hauled”
read “hurled;” same page, last line, for “fist” read “foot.” At 84,
for “Azuma” read “Buru;” same page, for “Hawaie” read “Zemi.”
These are sufficient samples—the rest, more numerous, if less important
than these, must be left to the keen eyes and tender charities
of the reader; who is solicited to be no less indulgent than critical,
and to ascribe to circumstances, rather than wilfulness or neglect,
the appearance in this volume of so many blunders, which are the
regret equally of publisher and author.
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CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY—THE SCENE—THE TIME—THE PERSONS.
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“Nothing,” remarks a distinguished modern writer of
our own country, “could be more chivalrous, urbane and
charitable; nothing more pregnant with noble sacrifices of
passion and interest, with magnanimous instances of forgiveness
of injuries, and noble contests of generosity, than
the transactions of the Spanish discoverers of America with
each other:—” he adds—“it was with the Indians alone
that they were vindictive, blood-thirsty, and implacable.”
In other words, when dealing with their equals—with those
who could strike hard and avenge,—they forbore offence
and injury; to the feeble and unoffending, alone, they
were cruel and unforgiving. Such being the case, according
to the writer's own showing, the eulogium upon
their chivalry, charity, and urbanity, is in very doubtful
propriety, coming from the lips of a Christian historian;
and our charity would be as singularly misplaced as his,
were we to suffer its utterance unquestioned. But the
alleged characteristics of these Spanish adventurers in regard
to their dealings with each other, are any thing but
true, according to our readings of history; and with all
deference to the urbane and usually excellent authority referred
to, we must be permitted, in this place, to record
our dissent from his conclusions. It will not diminish,
perhaps, but rather elevate the character of these discoverers,
to show that their transactions with each other were, with
a few generous exceptions, distinguished by a baseness and
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vindictiveness quite as shameless and unequivocal as marked
their treatment of the Indians:—that nearly every departure
from their usual faithlessness of conduct, was induced by
fear, by favour, or the hope of ultimate reward;—that, devouring
the Indians for their treasure, they scrupled not to
exhibit a like rapacity towards their own comrades, in its
attainment, or upon its division; and that, in short, a more
inhuman, faithless, blood-thirsty and unmitigated gang of
savages never yet dishonoured the name of man or debased
his nature. The very volume which contains the eulogy
upon which we comment—Irving's “Companions of Columbus,”—
a misnomer, by the way, since none of them
were, or could be, properly speaking, his companions—
abounds in testimonies which refute and falsify it. The
history of these “companions” is a history of crime and
perfidy from the beginning; of professions made without
sincerity, and pledges violated without scruple; of crimes
committed without hesitation, and, seemingly, without remorse;
of frauds perpetrated upon the confiding, and injuries
inflicted without number upon the defenceless; and
these, too, not in their dealings merely with the natives,
for these they only destroyed, but in their intercourse with
their own comrades; with those countrymen to whom
nature and a common interest should have bound them, to
the fullest extent of their best abilities and strongest sympathies;
but whom they did not scruple to plunder and
abuse, at the instance of motives the most mercenary and
dishonourable. With but a few, and those not very remarkable
exceptions, all the doings of this “ocean chivalry”
are obnoxious to these reproaches. It is enough, in
proof, to instance the fortunes of Cortes, Ojeda, Ponce de
Leon, Balboa, Nienesa, Pizarro, Almagro, and the “great
admiral” himself; most of them hostile to each other, and
all of them victims to the slavish, selfish hates and festering
jealousies, the base avarice, and scarcely less base ambition
of the followers whom they led to wealth, and victory,
and fame. Like most fanatics, who are generally the
creatures of vexing and variable moods, rather than of principle
and a just desire for renown, none of them, with the
single exception of Columbus, seem to have been above
the force of circumstances, which moved them hourly, as
easily to a disregard of right, as to a fearlessness of danger.
At such periods they invariably proved themselves
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indifferent to all the ties of country, to all the sentiments of
affection, to all the laws of God: a mere blood-thirsty soldiery,
drunk with the frequent indulgence of a morbid appetite,
and as utterly indifferent, in their frenzy, to their
sworn fellowships as to the common cause. Of the whole
chivalry of this period and nation, but little that is favourable
can be said. That they were brave and fearless, daring
and elastic, cannot be denied. But here eulogium must
cease. From the bigot monarch upon the throne, to the
lowest soldier serving under his banner, they seem all to
have been without faith. The sovereign had no scruple,
when interest moved him and occasion served, to break the
pledges which he might not so easily evade; and the morals
of his people furnished no reproachful commentary upon
the laxity of his own. Let us but once close our eyes
upon the bold deeds and uncalculating courage of these
warriors, and the picture of their performances becomes
one loaded with infamy and shame. The mind revolts
from the loathsome spectacle of perfidy and brute-baseness
which every where remains; and it is even a relief, though
but a momentary one, once more to look upon the scene of
strife, and forget, as we are but too apt to do, in the gallant
passage of arms, the meanness and the malice of him who
delights us with his froward valour, and astounds us with
admiration of his skill and strength. The relief is but
transient, however, and the next moment reveals to us a reenactment
of the sin and the shame, from which the bravest
and the boldest among them could not long maintain the
“whiteness of their souls.”
The tale which follows will be found to illustrate some
of these opinions. Its hero was one of the most gallant
and great among the discoverers:—a man no less thoughtful
than valorous; having all the virtues, and but very few,
and those in small degree, of the vices of his comrades:
one who led his companions to fame and victory—who
won the greatest advantages in the New World, next to
Columbus; and perished through the ingratitude of his
sovereign and the miserable baseness of his fellows. With
far greater merits, his fate was, nevertheless, the fate of all
of those who shared his companion's, and served under
the same sway. It was, and must be, the fate of all who
toil in behalf of a time which has just enough of ambition
to foster envy into rankness, and too little of gratitude to be
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even just. What should be the growth and product of
such a period? What should be the people controlled by
such dominion? What but the heartless tyranny that destroys
where it cannot enslave, until, consuming itself with
its own conquests, it lies a mere wreck upon the world's
bosom, like the mammoth relies of our own forests, the remains
of a monster which a world has failed to feed.
The reader is now requested to recall to his recollection
the history of Spanish discovery and adventure, about the
year of our Lord one thousand five hundred and nine, a
period particularly fruitful of events in the invasion and
discovery of the then but recently found continent. At this
time, dazzled with the idea of finding the Aurea Chersonesus
of the ancients, and of drawing gold from mines
which had supplied the treasures of Solomon the Magnificent,
and crowned Jerusalem with the ineffable glories of
the temple, King Ferdinand projected the conquest of the
hostile shores of Veragua. To find adventurers sufficiently
numerous and bold for such peril was not a difficult task, at
a time when so many thousand valiant men, trained to battle
in the conquest of the Moors, pined in inactivity, and
wasted for lack of employment. To discover leaders
equal to such an enterprise, was a far less easy matter.
It is not certain, indeed, that the monarch ever found them.
There were always candidates enough from whom to
choose, but real merit stands aloof on most of these occasions;
and even where it desires, under the spur of an
honourable ambition, to serve and to adventure, the lot of
the great and the brave who had gone forth on these paths
of peril had been too uniformly disastrous, and was too
universally known, not of itself, to discourage many who,
conscious of like merits, were not without their just apprehensions
of like treatment. The “admiral” was dead, and
many of the valiant and trusty men who had been trained
by him were dead likewise, or had been set aside in the
scuffle which necessarily followed every addition to the
number of those aspirants for royal favour, who thronged
around the steps of authority. The avarice and judgment
of Ferdinand were continually at issue in the selection of
those whom he designed to serve him; and it was now his
policy to find, for the proposed adventure, such as could
combine with the necessary qualities of mind and education
the credit to procure the means without drawing upon
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the resources of the crown. Ferdinand desired glory; but
the Jew clothesman predominated in his nature, and it was
no less his desire, always, to obtain it as a great bargain.
From among the numerous adventurers who clamoured for
commissions and employment, he found two who seemed
to meet his wishes in every respect. The first and most
distinguished of these warriors was Alonzo de Ojeda, a
brave, rash, headstrong cavalier, who had a faith in his
sword, which he yielded to scarcely any other influence.
He is described as small of stature, but well made; of great
strength and wonderful activity; a fearless horseman, dexterous
with every weapon, and noted in combat for extraordinary
adroitness. These martial qualities, however admirable,
were somewhat impaired by a rashness of temper which
led him into a thousand unnecessary risks, involved him in
frequent difficulties, and served to diminish the value, in
great part, of his heroic achievements.
The other warrior chosen by Ferdinand to lead in the
conquest of Veragua, was Diego de Nienesa, an accomplished
gentleman, of noble birth, and one who had been
long accustomed to high station in Spain. Like Ojeda, he
was also of small stature, and like him, equally remarkable
for the symmetry, strength, and activity of his person.
He too, was master of his weapon—of all weapons—
and had the additional merit of being skilled in all those
graceful exercises of chivalry, which, if not so absolutely
necessary to the actual business of war, certainly contribute,
in no small degree, to set off and distinguish the warrior in
the eyes of those who look only upon its pageantries. He
was noted for his vigour and address in jousts and tilting-matches,
was unsurpassed in feats of horsemanship, and—
an accomplishment not less attractive among his admirers,—
a most capital musician. With little of the rashness of
Ojeda, he, perhaps, lacked something of that tenacious and
constant resolution which, in the other, looked like obstinacy.
In most respects they were no unequal rivals, and
Ferdinand, having chosen them to represent his arms in
the savage regions of Veragua, did well to bestow upon
them equal titles, and to divide that country between them.
Their governments lay along the Isthmus of Darien, the
boundary-line passing through the Gulf of Uraba. The
eastern part extending to Cape de la Vela, was given to
Ojeda, and called New Andalusia; the western, including
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Veragua, and reaching to Cape Gracias á Dios, was assigned
to Nienesa. The island of Jamaica, as a place of
supplies, was given to them in common. Ojeda, who was
poor and without resources himself, was provided with
means by a sturdy seaman named Juan de la Cosa, who
had formed an attachment for him, and freely gave him all
his little earnings, gleaned from former voyages; besides
bestowing upon him what was far more valuable, his personal
help, for he was a good soldier and able pilot. His
fleet consisted of but three vessels, the whole of which
carried little more than two hundred men. That of
Nienesa was far more imposing. He set forth from Spain
for Santo Domingo, where both fleets were appointed to
rendezvous, with six stout vessels; and the rival governors,
helped on by mutually favouring winds, reached the island
at the same time. The reader may imagine for himself the
buz and confusion, the stir and strife, so like to follow, in
a small community, the sudden appearance of two rival
chieftains such as we have described; both highly popular,
and each seeking, by exercise of all his qualifications, to
win the favour of the multitude, and increase, thereby, the
resources in men and money of his little armament, to
which, in both cases, much was still wanting to render
them fit for the daring enterprises for which they were designed.
The little but growing city was, at this time,
crowded with people of all sorts and conditions. There
came the lounging but haughty cavalier, thirsting for strife,
to which the long wars with the Moors had but too well
accustomed him; there rolled the vaunting and swelling
seaman, whom the wondrous discoveries of the New
World had filled with hopes and fancies of discoveries still
more wonderful yet in store for the adventurous; there,
sly and insinuating, came the artful lawyer, ever following
the spoil, even as the vulture, urged by the unerring scent,
flies to the desired carrion; and there, restless ever, and
pushing through the crowd, the cunning tradesman, holding
his gaudy wares and foolish toys on high, persuading the
vain and the presumptuous to the miserable barter, in which
they give—the constant trade of vanity—the solid gold of
their possessions for false glares and useless counterfeits.
Such was the motley population of Santo Domingo, not to
speak of the thousand modifications of character, condition,
and employment, which are made of, and which follow
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these. The vices of old Spain had been among the first
of her possessions, which she gave, in exchange for its
gold, to the New World; and the pander and the pimp, the
profligate and the prostitute, were not wanting to the community,
the mass of whose population was composed of the
worn-out soldier and the wandering seaman. The natives
were also still numerous, but they were daily undergoing
diminution, and cannot well be said to have formed at any
time a portion of the people. Twenty years, the period
which had elapsed from the discovery of Columbus, and
the time when this story begins, had effected a wondrous
and melancholy change in the fortunes of Hispaniola. The
island of Bohio, or of “The Cottages,” as it was called by
the natives, was no longer what it had been ere the coming
of the Spaniards, the abode of happiness. With its nakedness
its peace had departed. Crime soon usurped the
dwelling of contentment, and the simple savages, who, in
that bland and seductive climate, where nature yields her
fruits without exacting the dues of labour, had no wants of
their own, were now fettered to destructive toils, that they
might supply the artificial wants of strangers. A thousand
task-masters were set above them, who directed the labours
of the slave, not with reference to his capacities and customs,
but with regard only to the greedy avarice which
filled their own bosoms. The gentle race which in the oppressive
noonday found shelter beneath the palm, and slept
securely in its shade, was driven from its resting-places
for ever. The symmetrical and slender limbs of the
Haytian, which gentle sports and the exercises of an innocent
play, had made graceful as erect, were now bent and
deformed beneath the weight of unwonted burdens: his
blood mingled like rain with the earth upon whose bosom
he had slept with the happy confidence of the child that
murmurs and sinks on the mother's breast; and the life
which ease had made no less delightful than liberty had
made it confident and proud, was now rendered burdensome
if not hateful, by reason of those cruel toils for which he
saw no purpose, and from which he derived no fruits. His
cottages became the possession of the Spaniard, and, in no
long time, his presence ceased to upbraid the usurper with
that grinding tyranny to which he could offer no resistance.
The conquerors strode over the graves of victims so gentle
in their nature, that they had seldom given them the
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provocation—so little needed by the Spaniard—to slay them by
the sword.
But they did not perish until they had proved to their
invaders the fatal fertility of their island. The gold which
they perished to procure, invited hourly new oppressors.
The pearls which their seas cast up, in a profusion heretofore
unnoted, upon their shores, dazzled the eyes and
warmed the enterprise daily of fresh adventurers. Bohio
groaned with the martial tread of the hidalgo, impatient of
the restraining seas, and lifting an unsheathed blade that
hourly pointed toward the undiscovered countries. Already,
too, had the less adventurous and more wise begun those
more solid labours of civilization which make her stationary.
The simple cane and rush cottages of the Indians were beginning
to give way to the massive habitation of stone;
and the clink of the mason's hammer mingled with the
many and discordant sounds that rang from morn till midnight
through the vast plain of the scattered city. Speculators
had in hand already the sale of favourite lots; public
places were laid out, hills levelled, groves planted, baths of
stone prepared for the luxurious, and the Spanish damsels,
of whom Santo Domingo by this time had her store, already
began to plan those places of delicious retreat, the
fame of which, brought home by the warriors who had conquered
the splendid city of Grenada, had run through
Spain, and wrought a change in the taste of the formal
Spaniard no less sudden than surprising. The poor Indian
looked with wonder upon the growth of a city, the dwellings
of which were cemented with his blood.
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CHAPTER II. THE KNIGHT AND THE ASTROLOGER.
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It was a quiet but cloudy morning in the beginning of
November, and the city of Santo Domingo, or as the
Admiral always preferred to call it, New Isabella, sitting at
the foot of her hills and mountains, looked forth upon the
noble river of Ozama, with an air of melancholy if not
gloomy apprehension. The season of the so much dreaded
hurricane was nearly or quite over, and many were the
wrecks lying around her on rock, valley, and headland,
distinguishing its path of devastation. But, in that world
of various phenomena and capricious climate, where a few
hours work the most surprising changes in the atmosphere
and sea, there could be no reasonable certainty that all
danger from this fruitful source of apprehension had gone
by. From the middle of the preceding August the diurnal
breezes had begun to intermit, and the atmosphere grew
dry, close, and suffocating. No genial showers came to
freshen the earth and sweeten and relieve the air. Faint
zephyrs and protracted calms succeeded to the steady and
life-giving sea-breezes of June; and in the towering clouds
of fleece, discoloured with a dun and reddish hue, that rose
with the morning, and hung high in the southern and
south-western heavens, there were manifest tokens of the
annual terrors of the approaching autumn. The blue mountains
seemed to approach the spectator, rising out, and
standing forth in unembarrassed relief, utterly unencumbered
with the vast accumulations of threatening vapour,
which yet continued to roll towards them, growling in fitful
volumes of thunder as they came, which found rever-berating
voices from all their peaks. Throughout the
whole month of October these masses of wind and vapour
had poured forth cataracts of storm upon the city, and
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three several hurricanes, of different degrees of power, but
all of them destructive, had passed over the island, rending
in its progress with equal recklessness the bohio of the
native and the proudest trees of its dense and mighty
forests. And still the clouds hung high, silent, and ominous
above the south-western mountains; the north wind
had not yet acquired sufficient force to purge and clear the
atmosphere, and though the sea upon the northern coasts
had begun that peculiar roaring which announces and prepares
the approach of the serene winter of December, it
was yet evident that the dispersion of the vapours which
were still congregating above the higher peaks of the
mountains, would bring with it other hurricanes, more terrible,
perhaps, than all the past. Gloomily, and with sufficient
reason, therefore, might the little but powerful city
look forth upon the sky and waters, incaging in her own
aspect, reflected from the dense dull vapours hanging above
her, the many anxieties which filled the bosoms of her
people. But these anxieties, though general, were yet not
sufficient to discourage that adventure and impede those
enterprises which had made her what she was, the connecting
link between two worlds; receiving and sending
forth the pioneers of the old, and transmitting back, in requital,
the wondrous and ill-gotten treasures of the new.
The lovely waters of the Ozama, now broken by short,
chopping billows, were covered with barques, whose white
sails and gaudy streamers helped to cheer a prospect otherwise
sufficiently discouraging. There, on one hand, lay
the gallant fleet of the accomplished cavalier, Nienesa,
consisting of four ships and two brigantines; and there,
within short cannon-shot distance, rode the humbler armament
of the stout Alonzo de Ojeda. The interval was
filled up by a dozen vessels of smaller description, from
the open caraval, whose sides seemed to yield to the pressure
of the waves on every hand, to the gigantic canoe of
the native, hollowed out from the towering ceiba, and
sometimes equal in burden to the largest of those consecrated
but frail vessels which had borne Columbus on his
first voyage of fame and peril. There was one vessel beside,
lying in the harbour of Santo Domingo, not less imposing
in size and equipment than the proudest of those in
the fleet of Nienesa. She lay at anchor aloof from all the
rest, and while the two fleets of the rival commanders
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exhibited the utmost animation, receiving momently on board
the supplies essential to the voyage from a hundred little
boats, but a single and small canoe was seen to ply between
her and the shore at protracted intervals throughout the
day. Yet the fortunes of one greater than either Ojeda or
Nienesa lay on board that solitary barque—one destined to
achieve exploits and acquire glory to which even their
fondest hopes, and wildest imaginings, and most daring
toils, were but faint and fleeting shadows.
But if the stir of busy life gave a cheerful aspect to the
vessels riding at anchor in that vexed and chafing bay, not
less lively and stirring was the animation which now filled
the streets of the small but swelling city. There the two
commanders—busy in beating up recruits, buying stores,
and borrowing money, the last not the least imposing necessity,
nor the one most easily overcome—had contrived
to set the people completely by the ears, and divide them
into parties with respect to their rival merits and pretensions.
The attractive and courtly accomplishments of
Nienesa, won to his side the younger portion of the citizens—
those who were most easily taken by specious externals,
and showy but unsubstantial attainments; while
the friends of Ojeda were chiefly found among the veterans
of the island—those old voyagers who had, from the first,
been the followers of Columbus and Pinzon, and well
knew the importance of something more than graceful accomplishments,
in all encounters with the Indians. These
parties had been gradually forming for some weeks previous
to the opening of this narrative. Day after day added
something to the life of the contest, which, after a while,
derived much bitterness from the hourly collision to which
in so small a community they were necessarily exposed.
This bitterness was not a little increased in consequence of
some misunderstanding among the rival leaders themselves.
The island of Jamaica which had been granted to them in
common by the king, furnished one of the grounds of contention;
the province of Darien furnished another—neither
of them being well satisfied with, or perhaps well able to
discover the limits of his jurisdiction. Their disputes on
these points filled the city, and more than once were on the
point of bringing their parties to blows.
It was on the morning in November already described,
when a man, pale in face and feeble in person, from years
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rather than disease, was seen to enter a bohio, or cottage,
on the very outskirts of the city. His person was small,
and a slight irregularity in his movements indicated an infirmity
in one of his limbs. He wore no armour, as was
the common habit of the time and the people with whom
he consorted, and his garb was rather Italian than Spanish.
A loose robe of sable enveloped his limbs, and was secured
by a belt of the same material which encompassed his waist.
The bright silver head of a small stiletto protruded from
his vest, and rested upon his bosom against a little circlet
of gold, which hung medal-like from his neck, and on
which a curious eye might detect the signs of the zodiac
in connexion with other characters, the use of which was
not so generally obvious. A foot remarkably small, and
cased in sandals of sable and red, furnished the only other
peculiarity of his costume upon which it is needful to remark.
But if his dress was thus unimposing, and his person
without command, it was not the case with those features
of his pale face, in which stronger attributes might
clearly be discerned by the most passing scrutiny. In
connexion with a certain thoughtful mildness of expression,
there was an eye full of intense anxiety, not unmixed with
the consciousness of power, that seemed to demand instant
acknowledgment and obedience. His lips were thin and
pale, almost like his cheek, slightly painted when not engaged
in speech, and showing beneath at all times a set of
teeth unimpaired and of the most beautiful whiteness.
His brow was exceedingly narrow and lofty, and covered
with thin scattered locks of hair sprinkled with gray, that
curled about his ears, and hung down in almost girlish
luxuriance behind them. His whole appearance was that
of one venerable from years and wisdom, and not less so
from the continual control of benevolent thought and the
gentlest of human sentiments. He approached the door
of the bohio—a simple structure of lath, thatched with the
broad leaves of the palm, which were overhung and protected
in turn by a gigantic ceiba or wild cotton-tree, the
lower branches of which actually grasped and rested upon
the roof of the dwelling. A wild fig or banyan-tree, itself
a forest, grew in the rear of the bohio, but did not confine
itself to the simple spot from which it arose. Spreading
its arms on every side, it completely covered with shadow
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a circumference below of near a thousand feet, which, in
the descriptive language of Milton,
“Branching so broad and long, that, in the ground,
The bearded twigs take root, and daughters grew
Above the mother tree; a pillar'd shade,
High overarch'd, and echoing walks between.”
Through one of these “overarched echoing walks,” the
path was pruned out to the door of the bohio, where the
aged man, whom we have undertaken briefly to describe,
was striving at entrance. His efforts were answered by
the deep growl of a dog from within, and then the voice of
one, seemingly his owner, commanding his subjection.
“Down, Leonchico, down; know you not the knock?
would you show teeth to friends?—dog—for shame!—
down—down!”
The door opened in the next moment and the old man
entered, closing it carefully behind him. The tenant of
the cottage, who had seemingly left his hammock which
was suspended low, and barely above the mat-covered
floor, now resumed it, while the dog, whose growl had first
answered the knock of the applicant, and which seemed quite
satisfied when he beheld him enter, sprang after his master
into the hammock, and laid himself down in sluggish repose
at his feet. The former was a man in the very prime
of life. He was tall and muscular of person, well formed,
and vigorous, with a dark, full, expressive blue eye, and
hair of a light brown, inclining to auburn. Stretched at
length upon the couch, it was yet evident that he was no
sluggard. The ready speech, the quick gesture, the keen
and searching glance, all denoted the possession of prompt
decision, and the most ready and restless life. It may be
added here, though as yet we see none of these qualities,
that he was already known as affable, frank, generous, bold,
and adventurous, a skilful swordsman and an able commander.
Qualities admired beyond all others at a time
when the conquest of a new world invited the arms of ambition,
and whetted the appetites of national and individual
avarice.
The dog which possessed so much of his master's regard
as to be suffered to partake his bed, was no unworthy
animal. In the peculiar nature of that warfare urged by
the Spanish discoverers against the natives, he had arrived
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at distinction for himself, and had acquired a reputation
peculiarly his own. He was one of those famous bloodhounds
whose unerring scent and furious onset inspired
no less terror among the Indians than the fire-arms of
their European enemies; and such was his renown, that
he has been allotted a page in history, as respectfully
worded and full of minute detail, as that of any of the
favourite warriors of the period. He is described as of
middle size, of a dusky yellow or tawny-reddish colour,
with a black muzzle, loins remarkably narrow and round,
small but sinewy legs, a neck scarcely less thick than his
shoulders, and a tail short, massive, and having a bunch of
long gray hairs at the extremity. He was covered with
the scars of innumerable arrow-wounds, and known by
name to the Indians, his very appearance on the field is
said, in some instances, to have been sufficient to put a
whole herd of them to flight. His pay, when hired, was
never less, and sometimes much more than that of an
armed soldier; and his ferocious hostility to the foe was
only surpassed by his fidelity to the master who had
trained him. Through many a field of danger, among the
cannibal tribes of the Carribbees, the most valiant of all the
natives of the New World; in nights of painful watch,
and days of protracted peril, the master at whose feet he
now lay, had known no other body-guard than himself. It
cannot be a matter of wonder, therefore, that a feeling
stronger than mere gratitude filled the bosom of the warrior
for the dog, Leonchico. The affection of a brother
would scarcely be too strong an epithet to describe his
attachment.
“You have been successful, Codro,” said the cavalier,
while something like exultation sparkled in his eyes, as he
saw the old man take his seat upon a mat, and draw forth a
packet of papers from his bosom. “You have been successful,
Codro; and our difficulties are at an end. You have
obtained the loan required, and I am at length free. But at
whose hands have you gotten the boon? What rascal
notary has befriended us? What griping commissary?
To what agent of Satan do we owe this service?”
The old man smiled benignantly as he listened to the
vehement inquiries of his companion.
“You say well,” he answered, after a moment's pause;
“there is reason in your demand. All better agencies
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
having failed us, what other than those of Satan could have
helped us at our need? I almost shame to tell you from
whom this money is borrowed; for deep was my own
humiliation when, in compliance with the solemn necessity,
I felt compelled to make application to such as he.”
“Such as he—who? You surely mean not to say that
you got money from the base-souled bachelor Enciso.”
“He! No! no!” exclaimed the old man with something
like disgust in his manner, and no little haste in his voice.
“No!—I thank God that we owe him nothing; though,
I doubt not, that, at this moment, he greatly desires to befriend
us. Know you not that he hath taken a venture
with Ojeda?—that he hath paid two thousand castillanos
in behalf of the present voyage, and hath even resolved to
fit out a barque to follow upon his course when Ojeda hath
made foothold in New Andalusia?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” was the answer of the cavalier, as he
heard this statement. “Better he had buried his castillanos
in the Ozama. He had then been more at peace
about his venture, and there were quite as much profit.
But let the madman and the knave sink together—what
boots it to us? Who is the lesser villain that hath helped
you to these moneys? Let me hear the name of the precious
fiend, that waits till the moment of extremity and
helps us from the precipice, it may be, to plunge us more
certainly down. To whom, Codro, hast thou bartered our
souls?”
“Nay, not so bad as that, Vasco. If the venture be in
souls, it is we that have bought the commodity, since
never was the soul of Felipe Davila held half so precious
in his sight as the gold which he has this day loaned to
our use.”
“Felipe Davila! Felipe Davila!” exclaimed the cavalier
with something like a tremour in his voice, and a start from
his hammock, that betrayed great hidden emotion. “You
mean not to say, Codro, that you got this help from
Davila?”
“Even so, my son. From Felipe Davila comes our
succour. But you seem not pleased that it should be so.
Wherefore? We could get this help from none else.”
“If you could get help from none else,” said the cavalier,
“there is nothing more to be said; since to us these
supplies are of the last importance, and most necessary to
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
the completion of all that was done before. But I could
have wished that this money had come from any coffer but
that of Felipe Davila.”
“And wherefore, my son? What harm can there come
from the use of this wealth, though it may have been gotten
by the evil ways of the miser? Shall we not turn it
to good account? Are not our purposes those which sanctify
even the use of evil? Do we not toil in the aim of
honourable fame, and will it not be your endeavour so to
steer your barque, as to make your labours redound to the
glory of God, and to the spread of his holy word among
the heathen? Methinks, Vasco, you are strangely scrupulous
in this reluctance, now that the hour is at hand for
which you have so long striven, to make use of the help
which has come thus unexpectedly, as to seem rather like
the gift of Providence, than the poor offering of man!”
“Nay, Codro, you do not take me with you. I scruple
not—I am free to use this help, though from such base
hands as Davila's, I almost fear there may be a curse upon
it. But, know you not, or forget you, that Davila is the
uncle of Teresa; that it is to his bohio that I wend nightly
when my purpose is to look on her? You knew that I
sought her,—that—”
He was interrupted by the gentle voice of his aged companion:—
“Nay, Vasco, of a surety I have not forgotten these
things. But how make they against the propriety and
wisdom of that which I have done? Well I knew that
Davila was a vile creature, the slave of the miserable gold
which has made him toil through so much sin, and which
has stained his hands and soul—if the story of the old
pilots of Diego Colon be true—with more blood than that
of the saints can well wash out.”
“Not that—not that—that is nothing, Codro; but
Teresa—Teresa!—She will know all—she will know my
necessity—my want. She—”
“Be it so, my son, and what the evil? Surely, I did
not forget that you had in your heart a strange fondness for
that maiden, who, to speak the smallest truth, is most
lovely to the eye—”
“And pure, Codro,—pure—and not less wise than
pure!” was the brief but emphatic interruption of the
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
lover, as if he dreaded, or seemed to expect some qualifying
speech on the part of his companion.
“Of this we need not speak,” replied the old man
evasively. “There is no reason that you should grieve
that this help comes from Davila, because of your regard
for his niece. What is there of shame in this loan? You
have not put on false shows of fortune in approaching her.
She knows you, as all know you in Santo Domingo, as a
brave and noble cavalier, to whom fortune hath been less
bounteous than heaven, and who hath done more service
to the king, his master, than the king hath ever been
pleased to repay. You are known, Vasco, by good deeds
and not by goods—by the stanch virtues of courage and
courtesy, rather than by castellanos. It cannot be that
Teresa looks upon you as a cavalier of fortune, though
she shall some day know you as one born to it.”
“No, no! she cannot—she knows me for what I am,
Codro, if she knows me at all—a matter on which I have
but little certainty. But it was my fear that, seeking her
uncle's coffers, it would seem that I had founded a claim to
his credit upon the assurance of my regard for her.”
“Not a whit, Vasco; the fear is idle, though natural
enough to one who loves, and who is ever not less jealous
of his own carriage towards the maiden than he is watchful
and suspicious of hers in respect to all other persons.
But this loan, though your name be joined with mine in
the security to Davila, is a loan to me and not to you. He
knows you only as the friend that shares my risk in order
to promote my benefit. You appear not before him in any
wise as a supplicant, and scarcely in any form as a debtor.
I have cared for that.”
“Ah, trusty and kind Codro, I owe you much—much
that I fear me I shall never be well able to repay. Your
own venture in this goodly barque is large—”
“All that I possess, Vasco; the fruits of a long life of
toil and no little peril. But wherefore speak of this?”
“Should it be lost, Codro; should the waters which, in
these treacherous seas, have swallowed up so many lofty
ships, and rent asunder so many noble armaments; should
they swallow ours, then thy loss—”
“Is all, Vasco—all; and yet, how worthless in comparison
with thine, for thy life is thy venture with my
goods, and I say to thee again, as I have said to thee many
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
times before, that I hold thy life to be among the most
precious of all the things which Spain has sent to these
Indias. But I fear neither the loss of these goods nor of
thy life, which is too precious to be computed among the
mere miserable things in human traffic. Night after night
have I read thy progress on earth in the bright mysterious
eyes which look forth, and direct my studies, from the
heavens. Thou art born for great achievement, my son,
and most surely the hour is at hand. Thou wilt come to
greatness, and the world will glory in thy name. The
rich spoils of the new ocean to the south, of which thou
speakest to me, even when thou sleepest, will not fail, I
am blest to think, to repay thee for the toils, which it is no
less certain must be thine;—and even were it not so,
Vasco,—even should it be that thy conquests yield thee
but barren greatness, as, under cold requital of our
monarch, is but too much the peril of those who serve
him with all their soul and with all their strength, yet will
I so rejoice in thy honours, and in the bright fulfilment of
the promise which the stars have made me in thy behalf,
that I will freely give my treasure to the engulfing seas,
and rejoice in the thought, when it is buried, that it was
lost in serving thee.”
The aged man had risen as he seemed to warm with
his own predictions, and approaching the hammock where
his younger companion still partially reclined, he placed
his hand with the warm pressure of a father's, upon his
brow; the latter caught the hand and carried it to his lips.
“Noble, generous old man,” he exclaimed, “sooner
will I perish ere thou shouldst lose one maravidi of that
wealth which is to secure thee in comfort through thy old
age. Believe me, father, I will think not less of thee, and
of what I owe thee, in the adventures I pursue, than of
my own selfish fortunes.”
“Think of thy own fame—think only of the greatness
which the stars promise thee, my son, and the heart of
Micer Codro will be happy.”
“And yet, father,” said the cavalier, “I would that
from thy skill in that science of the stars, of which it is
my sorrow that I know so little, thou wouldst give me to
see what fortune awaits me in another path than that
of glory.”
The speaker paused. The answer of the astrologer, for
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such he was, scarcely satisfied him, and was evasive and
abrupt.
“Thou wouldst speak of thy love for the damsel Teresa;
but of this I can tell thee nothing. The stars tell me
nothing. I have strove to read them on thy behalf, but
they veil themselves when I would do so; and a thick
mist gathers before my sight. Methinks, Vasco, they
smile not on the passion which may keep thee from thy
nobler purposes.”
“Nay, Codro, let not thy zeal in behalf of my fame,
make thee jealous of my affections. Thou dost, methinks,
greatly mistake the nature of the noble love, which helps
the rather, and stimulates to great achievement. Love is
no blinded passion such as the minstrels fable; but a flame
that lifts the purpose, and ennobles the endeavour, and
seeks to make the creature worthy, in whose bosom it has
made its dwelling-place and altar. Think'st thou because
I love Teresa, that I am less heedful of the fame which
my fond imaginings—my thoughts by day, my dreams by
night,—have, no less than thy friendly voice, promised to
my endeavour? Think'st thou, because I have suffered in
my heart the gentle dominion of the affections, that I am
less mindful of the high ambition that strives against every
rival, and permits no venturous footstep to advance before
its own? No, Codro—no! Thou hast not found me a
sluggard when any performance was needful, and I need
not ask thee to look upon our barque for the proofs of a
toil which has not been intermitted because the labourer
sometimes stole away from his employment to warble a
light arezto beneath the lattice of his mistress. Love has
taken nothing from the vigour of my soul, but has rather
strengthened it, Codro.—Teresa, if she loves me, will
scarce keep me back from a path of venture, which is to
make me famous and a leader among men; she will rather
urge me forward with reproving language, and chide me
forth upon the seas, should it be—as I believe not—that,
forgetful of all things but the bliss within my enjoyment,
I yield up, to unwitting repose, the hours which are due
to fame and fortune.”
The old man shook his head doubtfully. The earnest
speech of his companion failed to convince him.
“I am not sure, Vasco,” he answered, after the interval
of a moment—“I am not sure that Teresa thinks of thee
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
as thou fondly imaginest—I am not sure that she loves
thee;—still less, my son, am I certain that she is worthy
of a love like thine.”
“Nay, Codro—thou dost wrong her much. Thou
know'st her not, my father—it is clear that thou dost not
know Teresa.”
This was said in a tone of emphasis clearly intended to
be conclusive. The old man saw that the topic was now
growing irksome to the cavalier.
“It may be, my son: Teresa Davila may suffer wrong
in my thoughts, and for this I were sorry, for, believe me,
it is no purpose with me to do wrong by word or thought
to the most worthless of human beings. It is for thee that
I am watchful—it is thy great and promised glory that
makes me suspicious of all things and persons that may
stand betwixt thee and thy becoming achievements; and
it is, perhaps, because I deem thy love for Teresa unrequited,
that I am unwilling to esteem her as worthy of it
and of thee.”
“But wherefore shouldst thou think thus, Codro?”
replied the other hastily, and leaving the couch as he did
so. “What hast thou seen in her carriage—what hast
thou heard from her lips, to lead thee to this thought?”
“Much, many things, Vasco. She has a smile for thee
which is too ready—her laughter for thy jest is too prompt
and unmeasured. There is little heart in the smile which
is for ever on the lips—there is little of earnest and sincere
thought in the mind, which is so soon yielded up to merriment.
Could I see that she beheld thy coming, and
shrunk to behold thee, with a timid spirit that yet lingered
while it fled—could I see that she listened to thee, as if
she too devotedly listened to have freedom even for speech
or smile in return—for thine;—did she who trembled to
see thee approach, look sad and silent to see thee depart—
I were better persuaded of her affection, and her sensibility
to thine own. But I cannot yield faith to this fancy
of thine; when I see not these signs, which a long experience
of the world and the world's ways, persuade me
are tokens of the true affection only. Teresa has thoughts
which are too light and capricious for a heart which is
devoted and earnest like thine own. She sees thee as
thou approachest, with eyes like those which the cunning
fisherman sets upon the fish which is to be his prey. The
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pearl diver of the gulf looks not with keener vision for the
gray coalid shell beneath the water which treasures up his
prize, than Teresa Davila looks for the thoughtless lover,
who, blind to the cruel iron which she would infix within
his heart, rushes with devouring haste to the tempting lure
of her beauty, which, as a banquet, she spreads before
him. She would wear him as a spoil, if the spoil be a
rich one and a great. Nay,—when I tell thee that I think
she loves thee not, I mean not to say that she would refuse
to wed thee. Let Vasco Nunez go forth upon his mission,
which—I read it in the stars—is to bring him to wealth
and greatest glory, and Teresa Davila will place her slender
white hand within his, and there shall be no words
from her lips which shall not breathe to him of love.”
“Ha! say'st thou, Codro; and yet thou tell'st me that
she loves me not?” said the other exultingly.
“Even so!—even so, my son! The lips which tell
thee that she loves thee, will tell thee what I believe not.
It may be that they will tell thee nothing but the truth—
and yet, there is in my thought a solemn conviction that
she will play thee false—that there is no true affection for
thee in her heart—that she is one, steeped to the very lips
in selfishness—that she cannot forget, in her vanities and
weaknesses of mind, what the true love should ever refuse
to remember—the dominion which it gains over the fellow
soul which it has won, and the singleness of purpose and
of hope which in that very moment such soul foregoes
for ever. She will yield nothing—she will forego nothing
of the individual purpose of her mind, to the tie which
links her with another nature than her own, and binds her
to an existence where nothing can be exclusive. Be the
maiden whom thou lovest, my son, one, willing—nay,
glad to know thee for her law, not less than for her love.
Be she one to find pleasure in her service before thee—to
look for thy coming with an expectance which can be satisfied
with nothing less—and note thy departure with a sorrow
which knows no true soothing until thy return. I fear
me Teresa is no such woman: she hath a pride which
would vex to know that her heart paid such high homage
to another, though that other were the choice of her heart,
and stood before her the embodied perfection of the noblest
virtues.”
Many times during this speech had the companion of
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the astrologer striven to arrest his words, which, though
uttered in the gentlest manner, and in tones of the truest
regard, were no less cruel to the lover than they seemed
unjust to his mistress. When, at length, the old man
paused, Vasco Nunez waived his hand impatiently, and
though a faint smile, the result of visible effort, was upon
his lips, there was yet a gloomy frown upon his forehead,
and his tones were cold, and marked by a dissatisfaction
which he vainly strove to hide.
“No more—no more of this, Micer Codro;—no more,
I pray thee. Thou know'st little of Teresa—nothing—
I see thou dost not; and hence I forgive thee thy error—
thy injustice. Thou art very ignorant of Teresa—I marvel
greatly thereat, for thou hast spoken with her, and seen
her often, and dwelt beside her, when the voices in the
bohio of her uncle, were heard audibly in thy own. Thou
know'st her uncle—that is clear,—for thou hast persuaded
him to yield that which he cherished with a care he had
not given to his own worthless life. But Teresa is beyond
thee. The stars which thou watchest blind thee to her
eyes, and thou seest not their beauty, nor the lore—lore
dearer to me than all of thine—which I read in them
nightly. Go to the stars, my father—I will not pass
between thee and the smallest twinkler whose ray thou
affectest; but pass not thou between me and mine. Leave
to me the study of Teresa's—I joy to think I read them
no less ably than thou dost those of heaven.”
“Would thou didst, my son; but I fear”—
“Fear nothing, my father. Hast thou not said that the
hour of my triumph was at hand. Thou hast read it in
the stars;” cried Vasco Nunez, interrupting him with an
air of pleasant triumph, while laying his hand upon the
old man's shoulder.
“Yea, my son,—I have told thee out the truth—thou
wilt triumph—thou wilt achieve conquest and fame; yet,
in the same blessed volume which showed me thy success,
did I also behold a danger which threatened thee and a
fearful trial of all thy strength!”
“Ha! but I fear not the danger—I am ready for the
trial.”
“And the danger came to thee from the temptations of
a woman, and the trial grew because of her. There were
dangers—many dangers and strifes in thy path beside,
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but I tell thee, Vasco Nunez de Balboa, there were none
of them all that bore so perilous an aspect to thy fortunes
as these. Dost thou wonder that I should tremble for
thee, my son? Art thou angry that I should give thee
timely warning of thy danger?”
The old man grasped his companion's hand as he uttered
himself with equal affection and solemnity.
“Not angry—no! not angry, my father,” was the reply
of the cavalier, who was evidently impressed by the manner
of the speaker. Ere he could say more, voices were
heard at the entrance of the cottage, and its powerful
guardian, Leonchico, aroused from his drowsy repose by
their approach, sprang up with a warning growl, and put
himself in readiness at the entrance of the cottage.
-- 036 --
CHAPTER III. NEW PARTIES—PROPOSALS AND REJECTIONS.
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The voices of the persons approaching were now distinguishable
by those within, and some surprise was apparent
in consequence, upon their faces.
“That, surely, is the voice of the bachelor Enciso!”
was the exclamation of the cavalier, his look changing as
he spoke to sternness with the conviction.
“You are right, it is Enciso.”
“Now, what seeks he here,—what brings him! He
hath for me no feeling of the friend, and the thought that he
should find the soul to seek me as an enemy, were a mere
folly. There is something strange in this.”
“Wherefore should it trouble thee, Vasco,” demanded
the astrologer, with expostulating earnestness, as he beheld
the visible harshness growing upon the features of his companion.
“No matter what brings him, my son; there is
no need that such as he should move thee to anger, still less
is there any need that he should see that thou hatest him.
Smooth thy brow, he cannot greatly help, and can but little
harm thee; and didst thou hold him to be baser even than
the worm that crawls, it is not wise to chafe angrily when
the worm comes forth into thy sight.”
“No! but when it crawls upon my path, Codro, when
it leaves its slime before my eyes, then do I trample it beneath
my feet, or thrust it from my presence. I care not
that Enciso should feed and fatten at the expense of better
men in Santo Domingo; but, why comes he here? What
brings him to the dwelling of a man, who hath neither favour
nor feeling in common with him? But, let him have
care while he stands before me. Let him but look awry,
or chafe me with a word, and I will set my foot upon his
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neck, with as little scruple, as upon the vilest reptile that
ever crawled upon my path.”
“He will not chafe thee with either look or word,” was
the reply of the astrologer; “he knows thee quite too well
for that; and, trust me, he comes for other objects. He
comes now to find favour in thy sight; to win thee, perchance,
to some common purpose with Ojeda in his proposed
venture, in which, I told you, he had taken part. If
this be his aim, he will spare no toil to propitiate thee. It
may be well for thee to listen patiently, my son—there
may be profit from his service, since there are none so
base and worthless, of whom the wise and deliberate may
not make fitting use. Let us see—let us hear him, without
anger. Smooth thy brow, Vasco; look not on him
with scorn, and beyond all things, preserve thy temper.
The man hath some power to foil in part, if he may in nothing
help our enterprise. If we cannot favour his desire,
at least, there is but little need to offend him.”
“We need him not, Codro, and where should be his
power to hurt our enterprise. Be the barque but ready,
Codro, as with thy present moneys, thou wilt soon have
it, and I will plant my feet in that southern sea, my father,
even as the stars have promised, and we shall laugh to
scorn the whole swarm of legal reptiles that find so thriving
a nest here in Santo Domingo. But, be it as thou
sayest, however little reason there be for keeping countenance
with one so little worthy as Enciso. I will say nothing
to vex the creature; not that I fear his venom, but
that I may not feel his slaver, which, to my thinking, is
far the worst evil of the two.”
“No more, my son, he comes,” said the astrologer;
“take the dog in thy hands: Leonchico loves him even
less than thou, and, following thy looks, would fasten upon
his throat the first moment that he appeared in sight.”
“A wise dog, a brave dog, and a just,” replied the cavalier,
with an approving laugh, “but what other voice is
that which answers to Enciso? By my faith, it is sure,
old Gomez Davila that comes with him. His loan to thee,
Codro, gives him license. I trust he comes not for new
conditions. But open, open!”
The old man unfastened the door at this moment, and
the lawyer, Hernando de Enciso, appeared at the entrance,
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followed close by the decrepit miser, whose timely assistance
had enabled the astrologer to complete the equipment
of his friend for the great enterprise which he had in view.
The ready grasp and sudden word of Vasco Nunez, alone
prevented Leonchico from springing upon the first named
visiter with a ferocious vigour, scarcely less than that to
which he was commonly aroused by the studious provocations
of the trainer, on the eve of Indian combat.
“Ah, Señor Vasco: I thank thee. The dog is a brave
dog—a terrible dog—but for thy timely hand he had
clutched me,—he had given me trouble, I think,” was the
rather tremulous and insinuating speech of the bachelor.
“He had cut thy throat, señor,” was the cool reply.
“Thou hadst never got from beneath his hair, but with
the loss of all thy own, and thy own hands, even then, had
never helped thee. Enter señores, he is now subdued;
as tame and harmless, as, but a moment ago, he was wild
and vengeful. Enter—ye are both safe.”
“Truly, Señor Vasco, thy control over him is wonderful,”
said Enciso. “He sleeps at thy bidding.”
“Wonderful indeed my masters,” echoed old Davila,
with a grin of affected admiration. “But, truly, it should
be so, else were it no less evil to the hand that prompts
him into combat, than to the savage he is taught to seek.
Thou canst depute thy power upon him to another, Señor
Vasco; for so I have heard it said of thee.”
“Ay, if it pleases him to serve that other, Felipe Davila;
but the dog is choice no less than strong, señores,
and he hath taste and wisdom, not a whit less because of
his fierceness. There were some cavaliers in Santo Domingo,
that even my word could not make him follow,
save to rend. He loves thee not, Enciso; he loves not
thy looks; I marvel much where he found this prejudice!
but he hath it, and small provocation would move him to
so close a freedom with thy throat, that thou would'st
think the hangman far more merciful, should he once take
hold upon it.”
The bachelor forebore any near approach to an animal of
whom he had such awkward information; and muttering
some unmeaning words of congratulation to the owner of
so terrible an agent, he crossed over to the mat to which
the hands of the astrologer motioned him, and took a seat
-- 039 --
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beside him. Felipe Davila followed his example, and
seeing them thus disposed, Vasco Nunez made his way
towards the entrance, as if to depart.
“You would be private with my friend Codro, señores;
I will leave you,” he said, as he laid his hand upon the
door.
“No, no!” replied Felipe Davila hastily, “not so, sweet
Señor Vasco; it is no such private matter; indeed, we
would also have speech of you, Señor Vasco; the bachelor
Enciso, hath something for your ears.”
“Ah! if that be the case, Señor, I am ready,” replied
the cavalier, turning with cold dignity to the hesitating
bachelor. The latter felt himself in the presence of his
superior; but there was an additional consciousness which
was not less annoying than this, to one of the ambitious,
yet small, pretensions of the lawyer. He had been long
taught to know that Vasco Nunez held him in contempt.
There had been dealings between the two in former days,
when the cavalier was a rash royster in the New World, to
whom adventure was always attractive, even when it was
not always legitimate. Such was the sort of persons from
whose errors the griping hands of the pettifoggers had derived
those profits which he was now about to launch
upon the deceitful seas, in sustaining the pretensions of
Ojeda. The knowledge which the former had acquired in
these early days, of the practices of the latter, had inspired
him with that hostile feeling of dislike, which his prudence
had not always been sufficient to conceal. The lawyer
felt the contempt which he had not the courage to resent;
and at the moment of the present interview, it may be farther
said, that with his primary object of gain before his
eyes, he was not unwilling to forgive the injury, and forget
the contempt, provided he could persuade his enemy
to assist in the prosecution of his schemes. The gold for
which he toiled, would, in his eyes, sanction any contact,
as well of the hate that spurned, as of the pollution that
defiles. The ice once broken by his companion, the miser,
the eyes of Enciso brightened, and a pleasant and conciliating
smirk of the lips prefaced the opening of his business.
“Yes, Señor Vasco; it is even as my friend Davila
hath said. There is a matter in my thought to which I
-- 040 --
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would crave your ear, and for which I would implore your
favouring attention.”
The person addressed, slowly returned to the centre of
the apartment, seated himself upon a mat distinct from the
rest, and signified his willingness to listen to the promised
communication. Felipe Davila, in the meantime, drew to
himself the regards of the astrologer, with whom he conversed
in under tones apart. Enciso, with a hesitancy of
manner that somewhat belied the confident smirk upon his
lips, then proceeded, with sufficient directness, to the business
on which he came.
“It is bruited, Señor Vasco, throughout the city of Santo
Domingo—nay, I have heard it said by many very worthy
men,—that the voyage thou hast resolved to make for the
southern sea, in the goodly barque, called the `Maranon,'
will bring thee to the province of Veragua, and most probably
into the immediate government of my patron and
very good friend, the gallant cavalier, Alonzo de Ojeda.”
The lawyer paused, as if waiting for an answer. The
keen, cold eye of the person he addressed met his own,
but his lips for some moments were closed. The warning
glance of the astrologer, however, reminded the cavalier of
the policy which had been agreed on between them, prior
to the entrance of their visiters, and the muscles of his
face relaxed into something like a smile. Speaking with
ominous deliberateness and few words, he thus replied:—
“Well, Señor Hernandez, what more of this. Methinks
thou hast more to offer.”
“Of a truth, I have, Señor Vasco,” answered the lawyer,
“but thou hast not yet given me to know if the rumour
of the town be right. I would hear from thy own lips,
whether they that speak of thee in this wise do thee not
great injustice.”
“Perhaps, but of this I make no heed. I tell thee,
Señor Hernandez, it is not my wont to hearken to that
busy idleness which makes free disposition of my thoughts
and purposes, having none of its own. I were no less
profligately idle than the town, did I toil in the correction
of its errors.”
“Then, these are errors, Señor Vasco,” replied the
other, with some eagerness, “and it is not thy purpose to
seek for thy southern ocean in the government of the noble
Ojeda.”
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“Nay, thou dost vex thy curiosity without profit, Señor
Hernandez,” replied the other with cool contempt, “thou
wilt scarcely take what thou camest for. Thinkest thou,
that I, who have kept so secret all my purposes of discovery
for so many months in Santo Domingo, will reveal
them to other voyagers, even now setting forth upon the
same ocean. I were scarcely wise to do this, and thou
mightest well leave me with laughter, and exult over the
miserable folly of one, upon whose weakness in this respect
thou hast made bold calculations. Go to, Señor—
go to. I have had experience of the seas, and of the cavaliers
that go upon them. Do thou, and the valiant captain,
Alonzo de Ojeda, sail for the province of New Andalusia;
unfurl thy sails, and be the winds obedient that bear
ye to your port. Be your foothold sure, and your bucklers
thick, that the Caribs drive ye not into the sea, and
pierce ye not through with their lances. And, chiefly to
thyself, Señor Hernandez, would I impart sober counsel.
Thou hast not tried the valour of the Indian; let thy hand
be well practised in thy sword, and be heedful that the
temper of thy armour be proof against his shaft; for so
sure as I shall follow thee soon, wilt thou find thy strifes
in the battles to which Ojeda will bring thee, no such
strifes as thou hast known in thy pleading, and perchance,
even less profitable to thy fame and fortune. I trust thou
wilt have as little cause of complaint with the Carib, as thy
noble patron. Ojeda, will have with me.”
“But, Señor Vasco, it may be that, as thou unfoldest
not to us thy own route for this great southern sea, of
which thou hast spoken so confidently, the Señor Alonzo,
whose purpose it is to explore all the country in the neighbourhood
of his government, shall, without so designing,
happen upon it, and thus unwittingly deprive thee of the
fame and profit of so noble a discovery.”
“Let Alonzo de Ojeda find it if he may, Señor Hernandez,
or do thou find it, if it be thy wish, and good fortune
so to do,—it matters not. I fear not that either of you will
do me evil, or greatly stand in the path of my adventure.
There are wide dominions that these seas unfold, and wide
are the lands and waters lying open, yet still withheld from
us. It is not for you, or for me, señor, to exclude other
cavaliers from the greatness and the wealth which they offer
to the bold spirit which is willing to seek and do battle
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
for them under God's own eye. Take ye your course, and
push your prows wherever they may go. Ye have the
start of me, ye can sail, I doubt not, to-morrow. It will yet
be weeks before I can follow ye, and so far, ye have the
advantage. Scruple not, for my sake, to employ it as ye
may, I ask from ye no favours. I crave not your forbearance.
As for this Indian Sea, I hold it locked up from your
grasp. I defy ye to find its holy and untravelled waters.
Brave though your captain prove himself, I know well that
he may not find it—wealthy and cautious though you be,
Martin Hernandez de Enciso, I am bold to think it cannot
be your luck to find it. The prize is for men of another
make than yours. Ye would toil for it in vain.”
“And wherefore dost thou fancy this, Señor Vasco?”
replied the lawyer quickly, and with an air of pique;
“wherefore dost thou think this achievement denied to
our adventures? Thou dost not impugn the valour of
Alonzo de Ojeda? Methinks, valorous and skilful though
thou art, Señor Vasco, it were scarcely wise in thee to do
this, and—”
“No more, Señor Hernandez; thou dost waste thyself,”
replied the cavalier, resuming the cold tones and deliberate
manner with which he had begun, and from which, more
than once during the progress of the dialogue, his warm
temperament had moved him to depart. “Alonzo de Ojeda
is a brave cavalier and a daring; but it asks something more
than valour to achieve the purpose which I have in view.
Thou, too, mayst have thy virtues, but thou wilt not hold
it my purpose to disparage them, when I say that they are
not the virtues which can give thee success in this adventure.
Yet, though I speak thus coldly, let not my words
discourage thee. The great sea of the south will await
both of us—find it if thou mayst.”
“But, Señor Vasco, there is yet a matter. It is thought
by those having knowledge of Darien, that this great sea of
the south, should such a one exist, lies within the province
which the king, our royal master, has given exclusively to
the government of Alonzo de Ojeda. Now, Señor, if this
be the case, then wilt thou see that it cannot be suffered
thee to pursue thy search of it, save with the permission
of the governor, or of myself, as the alcalde mayor
thereof—”
“This is too much, Señor Martin de Enciso. Let us
-- 043 --
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have no more of this. Enough for thee to know that
Vasco Nunez de Balboa knows well what is permitted
him, is able to determine his own limits by the royal commission,
and has the weapon, Señor Martin, ay, and the
spirit too, to assert and maintain his rights, whether it be
against a royal governor or his alcalde mayor. Methinks,
you have finished your commission.”
“Nay, señor; you are hasty; you would be angry;
you would do us injustice, and mayhap wrong yourself.
Hear now what farther I have to say, and judge whether
our purpose be not friendly.”
The manner of Enciso was, studiously, even more conciliatory
than his words. The cavalier, Vasco Nunez,
whose blood was already in commotion, found it difficult,
however, to subdue himself to the required degree of patience;
but with a visible effort he did so, and while amusing
himself with stroking with his hands the shaggy neck
of Leonchico, he bade the other proceed.
“I have an offer to make thee, Señor Vasco, which, I
trust, will please thee, and prevent all future difficulty.”
Vasco Nunez looked up, but said nothing.
“The armament deemed needful to the voyage and
government of Ojeda, is yet incomplete. It lacks one good
vessel such as the `Maranon.”'
“Ha! The `Maranon!' Well,—well, go on.”
“We learn from Señor Felipe that he hath provided thy
friend, Micer Codro, with the needful sum towards the
completion of thy stores and crew.”
“It is the truth, señor,” interposed the miser; “seven
hundred and fifty castellanos—a great sum—its loss to me
were beggary. I have lent it on the faith of that good fortune
which the wisdom of Micer Codro hath assured me
awaits the brave Señor Vasco. The blessed Virgin smile
upon the venture, and give success to the good ship.”
“The money which helps thee, Señor Vasco, is, I may
say, so much taken from us,” continued Enciso.
“Thou wouldst not have us yield it thee, wouldst thou?”
demanded Vasco Nunez impatiently.
“No! It is thy good luck, Señor Vasco, to have found
it ere we searched; but we would have thee share thy adventure
with us, and take in return a full third of our spoils,
whatever they may be, the royal fifth being first excepted.
Thy vessel is needful to our armament, but she shall
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
remain within thy command. Ojeda and thyself will counsel
on equal terms together touching thy adventures, and
only claim the exclusive dominion which hath been granted
him by the king, when he shall have reached his province
of New Andalusia. If then it please thee to part company
with him, be it so. The power and the right are thine.
What say'st thou, Señor Vasco, doth not our proffer find
favour in thy sight?”
The lawyer paused, and the two old men looked up
with something of kindred anxiety in their faces, to learn
the determination of the cavalier. In that of the miser
might be seen a degree of earnestness, which, while it
spoke for the interest of one whose castillanos were at
hazard, at the same time clearly enough conveyed his approval—
even if his coming in company with Enciso had
not shown it—of the proposed change of plan which the
latter had suggested. This expression could not be mistaken
by the cavalier, and it was, perhaps, because he beheld
something like a similar approval in the face of his
friend the astrologer, that the answer of Vasco Nunez was
uttered in almost impatient accents, and with a harsh haste
in its tone which indicated a latent sentiment of anger.
“You have spoken, you have made your proposals,
Señor Hernandez, which, I doubt not, you hold to be gracious
and generous. Now hearken you my answer. I
will have none of your venture. I ask none of your
shares. Be the good fortune of your armament your own.
Not even for the fifth of Veragua itself will I take shares
with you. You may hold me selfish—it may be so. But
let the penalty of such selfishness rest with me. I need
no fleet of ships to find the sea of the south of which I
am in quest. One good ship, the `Maranon,' whose
equipment you estimate so highly, will be sufficient for
such discovery.”
“But she may sink, Señor Vasco; the broma may eat
into her sides among these unknown waters; the currents
of strange shores may suck her down into their devouring
abysses. You may lose, having but one barque, the fruits
of all your toil, of all your courage, of all your speculations
and foresight.”
The astrologer and miser looked with increasing anxiety
to the cavalier, as Enciso uttered these words, in which
they both fancied lay no little wisdom. But the prompt
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answer of Vasco Nunez showed them that far other were
his thoughts, and that he suffered from no such apprehensions.
“And if the seas suck the `Maranon' down into their
deep jaws, Señor Hernandez, they suck down Vasco
Nunez along with her, and thus ends the struggle of one
man along with the many hopes that now warm and wake
within his bosom. Still, would the profit of his toils be
yours, and it would be a marvel, indeed, if, when the good
captain, Alonzo de Ojeda, or his worthy alcalde mayor,
went back to Spain, they should say, `Lo! this conquest
is due to the unfortunate cavalier, Vasco Nunez; it was
his prow that guided us to the great sea of the south; it
was his venturous skill that found these sunny shores, and
gathered up these golden and pearly treasures.' Methinks
it were too much to look for such generosity from the
Spanish voyager now; and I look for none, and I ask for
none of it. No, señor, we must steer separate barques.
Seek your province, and may the treasures of New Andalusia
be such as you hope to find them. I give you back
your offer, with many thanks.”
A deep sigh escaped the miser, who had no doubt been
promised a liberal reward if he could succeed in any manner
in changing the direction of his castillanos. There
was also some disappointment visible in the eye of the
astrologer, but neither of them uttered the dissatisfaction
which was clearly felt by both. The disappointment of
the lawyer, however, was not so quietly expressed. It
spoke in his contracted brow, in his kindling eye, in the
impatient movement of his lips. His voice, too, was
somewhat raised when he spoke again, and there was an
air of the official about him which was not less premature
than indiscreet.
“Señor Vasco,” he said, “you have rejected a most
liberal offer. Time will show if you have done wisely.
But, let me warn you, should it be, as some think, that the
great southern sea lies within the province—”
The short, quick, and somewhat hoarse accents of Vasco
Nunez interrupted the speaker.
“Beware, Señor Hernandez, that your warning takes not
the shape of a threat. I tell thee, I am in no mood to suffer
thee to speak, as from thy present looks thou seemest
free to do. Enough for Alonzo de Ojeda when he gets his
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province to protect his rights. In this bohio, or in the
good ship `Maranon,' or on the waters of the southern sea,
I tell thee that Vasco Nunez is resolved to maintain his.
What more wouldst thou say, señor?”
The lawyer muttered some regrets that the other was so
impatient, professed the best feelings, denied any disposition
to hostility or threats, and finally, finding that nothing
was to be effected with one equally jealous and resolved,
he took his departure followed by Felipe Davila.
The latter plucked the sleeve of the astrologer, who had
gone with him to the door, and drawing him a few paces
beyond the entrance, whispered in some anxiety—
“And thou thinkest, worthy Micer Codro, that the fortune
of the brave youth is good, albeit he doth reject the
offer of Enciso. Will the stars keep faith with him that
is so obstinate. Doth his good planet rise yet,—will he
swim? It were beggary to me, worthy Micer, should the
castillanos—seven hundred and fifty—”
“Fear thou nothing,” replied the astrologer, interrupting
him, “thy money is safe to thee, and at profitable risk.
The stars have Vasco Nunez in keeping; and though it
was my thought that he should have taken the venture
with Ojeda, it is my faith now that his fortune is the better
counsellor. Fear nothing for thy treasure.”
“Of a truth I fear nothing. He is a brave youth, and
will conquer the savages. I glad me he gave no knowledge
to the Bachelor touching the route to the southern
sea. He is a close youth—he hath a knowledge of his
fellow that shall make him fortunate. I have faith, Micer
Codro, in his star.”
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CHAPTER IV. HOPES AND FEAR. —HATE AND RIVALRY.
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
The astrologer returned to the bohio. He, too, had
faith in the star of Vasco Nunez, and yet he almost wished
that the latter had closed with an offer so seemingly advantageous
as that of Enciso.
“Wherefore didst thou refuse the bachelor, my son?”
he asked of the cavalier, when he had resumed his seat
upon the mat before him.
“Ask me rather, wherefore I refused my ruin—my
utter ruin! What should I have done with Alonzo de
Ojeda—he, rash, reckless, ready always for fight, and as
blind to reason as the bull whose ferocity he emulates?
What should I have done with him—what could he have
done with me? We could not have kept our hands three
days from each other's throats; and what had been my
fate, surrounded by his creatures, and within his government?
Surely, I were worse than a fool, being my own
master, to have gone, of my own head, into the guidance
and the bonds of another, and that other so fierce a fool as
Alonzo de Ojeda, seconded by so sly a villain as his alcalde
mayor.”
“And yet, my son, the connexion is not without its
advantages,” said the astrologer.
“Ay, true!—there are lures, the preachers tell us, that
lie like fruits, even about the mouth of hell. Baits for the
blind only—for the selfish and the timid. There are no
advantages to me in the proposed connexion with Ojeda.
One ship can discover the south sea, and one hundred soldiers
were, under my guidance, of more price and value in
the new lands, than one thousand under Ojeda. The bull
would drive his and their heads against the rocks, which
I should train them to walk over. I know the leader of
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this armament, Micer Codro, as well as thou know'st his
base emissary, the Bachelor Enciso; we are the better for
their absence,—believe me—ay,—almost the better for
their hostility.”
“Nay, I think not that; but it may be—it must be—
as thou sayest, in respect to the connexion. Ojeda would
certainly seek to restrain thee, and that were fatal to thy
purpose. But let us go forth to the Great Place. There
are purchases which thou must make, necessary to the
completion of thy equipment, ere thy rivals get the start
of thee. Here are the castellanos of Davila. They are
thine. Greatly did I fear that the grasping miser sought
us out to regain them.”
“Evil got!” exclaimed Vasco Nunez, as he received the
treasure, “how many damnable spots have these bright
pieces fastened on his soul. I trust they will bring neither
sin nor sorrow upon ours.”
“Amen!” responded the astrologer, whose veneration
had not suffered any diminution from his study of the
stars. “Let us,” he continued, “go forth and rid ourselves
of the burden, and, if possible, the sin. Thou wilt
need seamen, and the strifes of Nienesa and Ojeda will
leave thee little choice, if thou dost not speak for them
quickly. They have both criers in the Great Square, and
this is market-day, Vasco. There will be a gathering of
the people, and thy castellanos, not to say thy presence,
will do for thee, what neither of them find it easy to do at
this moment. Thou hast money and wilt need no crier.”
A few moments sufficed to put the cavalier in readiness.
Throwing aside the robe of stuffed cotton, which had enveloped
him during the interview, he appeared in the ordinary
garments of the time, without ornament of any kind,
if we except a gorget of plain gold, having a small pendant
medallion, in which an image of Saint John was set. Over
his shoulders he threw a light body cloak, of a dark saffron
colour, and his habit thus complete, he girded on his
sword, and taking in his hand the steeple-crowned Spanish
hat, slightly looped at the brim, declared his readiness to
depart. He led the way for his venerable companion,
himself preceded by the watchful Leonchico. Casting
his eye down upon his feet as he emerged from the shade
of the mighty banyan whose branches formed an arched
avenue to his bohio, he stopped, and with something of the
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precision of a lover, he readjusted the roses of his shoes,
which were somewhat frayed and discomposed. This excepted,
his movements were all marked by the dignified
and manly ease of one born to the high station which he
subsequently reached. His dark blue eye, full as it was of
fire and expression, yet teemed no less with frankness and
good humour; his high and white forehead was marked by
mingled benevolence and command; and the almost perfect
oval of his face, distinguished by a corresponding perfectness
in every feature, denoted an even and majestic mood
of mind, seldom moved to any but the highest purposes,
undeviating in his devotion to noble sentiments, and as
resolute, in their prosecution, as he was unchangeable in
his estimation of their value. Perhaps, it was only necessary
for Micer Codro to look into the face of his companion,
to find authority for his predictions, not less credible
and imposing, than that which he gathered from the benign
aspect of a favouring star. He did not look in that face
with an admiration inspired as much by personal regard,
as by his professional faith. For years had the two taken
their venture through the world together, in the new world
as in the old, amidst the intrigues of courts, and the strifes
of camps. To the astrologer, devoted to the mysteries of
that wild and wondrous study, then so much affected, and
so much confided in by all classes, Vasco Nunez supplied
the absence of other ties and nearer kindred. Though
otherwise alone in life, the fond superstition which the
former professed, had failed to wean him utterly from those
affections which belonged equally to his nature and early
associations; and it was no less grateful to his heart, than
it was creditable to his skill, to behold the rapid rise to prosperity
and fame, of one still so youthful, who had set out
at first with but few, if any, of those wordly advantages
which are generally assumed to be so necessary to eventual
success. The eye of the astrologer lighted up with renewed
confidence in his own predictions as he surveyed
the port, and marked the expression, of his companion.
“That form of majesty,” he thought silently, “hath a promise
no less proud than the star which rules its destiny;
that face is full of a language writ in characters so like to
those of heaven, I may not doubt that the same eternal
hand hath traced them both. All things speak for the fulfilment
of the truth of that lofty prophecy which my lips
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have been forced to speak. Fame and fortune hang upon
his steps, and, a blessing no less bountiful to me, it is permitted
that I shall behold his adventure, and rejoice in his
success.”
The frame of the old man trembled with unexpected delight,
and big tears, of a holy and unselfish satisfaction, gathered
in his eyes.
“Thou weepest, Micer Codro,” said his companion,
who now discovered his emotion, and turned to him with
the earnest solicitude of a son; “thou weepest—thou art
sad—what is the grief that troubles thee?”
“A joy, my son—the fulness of a rejoicing soul that
asks relief. These tears lessen its abundant heats, as the
big drops fall from the burning clouds, giving vent to the
accumulated vapour that else might burst in storm. They
are the thunder-drops of the heart, and they tell of the renewed
freshness, which is there a hope. I see the hour
so long promised thee, approaching; and I glory in thy
coming honours, even as the aged father, whose foot is in
the grave, rejoices in the bloom and manhood of the child,
whose vigour must repair his own, and renew and perpetuate
his existence. As the father lives in his child, Vasco
Nunez, the withered hand of Micer Codro lives in thee.
When my step is no longer beside thee, when my voice
has perished from thy ears, when the green rushes of
shores, as yet unknown to the Spaniard, shall grow above
my bosom—for there am I assured shall I sleep at last—
then do I know that thy fame shall live, and thy name
shall be known above the proudest and the purest of all
the mighty warriors whom Spain hath sent forth on this
great service. Of this, thy triumph, am I sure! Would
that the one shadow which hangs before my sight, could
fall away, that I might speak for thy happiness—thy life,
my son!”
“And does not the prophecy of which thou hast declared
thyself so sure,—does not this speak for my life and
happiness? Hast thou not spoken of the greatness which
I shall achieve,—of the fame which I shall secure,—of the
triumphs which are to procure me acknowledgments from
fame, putting my name among the greatest of our thrice-favoured
nation?”
“And does the assurance of fame speak for happiness,
my son—does it even speak for life. Even thou, in thy
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secret soul, wouldst not be satisfied with the one, nor
could I, though I be so certain of thy greatness, be equally
certain of thy life. Thou wilt be great, yet thou wilt encounter
enemies who will quarrel with thy greatness, and
embitter all its rewards. Thou mayst command the
brightest treasures in the scope of fortune, yet who will
secure thee in their enjoyment? Art thou blind to the
base jealousies that move our warriors, valiant though they
be beyond all others, and worthy and generous beside in
so many respects, to abuse their trusts, to violate pledged
faith to their comrades, to plunder and to slay, to secretly
stab, and basely forswear themselves, when it seems needful
to remove a rival from their progress, or to destroy, in
their viper hate, a more successful comrade? Thou hast
not forgotten the fortunes of that noble gentleman of my
own land, Diego Colon—his bold triumphs, his unselfish
zeal for his king and his religion—his trials, his chains,
his death! The seas yielded to his footsteps—the stones
relaxed from his path—the island rocks opened their sealed
harbours for his prows—the wild heathen bowed before
him in homage—God and nature gave him succour and
sunshine where he went—all things favoured his greatness,
but the fellow for whom he had done so much—the
monarch to whom he gave a world—the base soldiers
whom he led to fortune, and for whose prows he removed
the thick seal which had been set for five thousand years
upon the ocean waters of the west. Dost thou dream of a
better fortune than Diego Colon?—Alas! my son, I can
promise thee a glory only less great than his; but for thy
happiness—I can tell thee nothing! There is yet a veil
above thy star, and I can only pray for thee that thou mayst
live for thy greatness, and not be too great for those blessings
of life which fame has seldom yet secured to the possessor.”
The cavalier turned from the enthusiastic speaker. He
strove to speak, but there was a thickness in his voice
which he was not willing that his companion should perceive.
He too keenly felt that there was truth in the
melancholy picture which had been drawn before his mind.
He felt, however much he might desire fame, that fame
was not enough. There was a rival passion in his heart,
and love would not be set aside even for glory. Freely, at
that moment, had the alternative been proposed him, would
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he have given up the promise of that star which led to
fame, for the humbler cottage-light of the softer deity.
He was just then passing the bohio of Teresa. A cluster
of palms spread their thick leaves before the lattice, but
his quick eye could see the white arm which was extended
to close it. His feet bounded forward, as the hand met
his pursuing glance, but the white drapery that floated for
an instant through the closing window, was all that rewarded
the eagerness of his gaze. The involuntary sigh
escaped him, as, turning to his companion, he allowed the
latter to recover the brief space which his increased speed
of movement at the time had made between them. She
had not seen him—she was unconscious of the fond eyes
then gazing upon the lattice which she had just closed upon
them. Was she as indifferent to his regards as she was
then unconscious of his presence? Could the suspicion
of his companion be true? Was she, indeed, the selfish
spirit which he had described her? Was that tenderness
of glance, which had made his own proud heart tender to
behold, the mere artifice of the skilful caprice, the lure of
a bosom heedful of triumphs only, and incapable of a just
appreciation of the treasures it might win? It seemed
sinful to indulge such fancies, and the cavalier turned to
the astrologer with something of diminished reverence, as
he came to this conclusion. The latter had seen, but with
the wisdom of experience he suffered not his companion
to know that he was aware of his emotions. The fondest
lover is conscious of some weakness in the passion which
he yet indulges, and does not often forgive the eyes which
are too ready to discover a secret, that seems more grateful
from its being such. The worship of the primitive Christian
was of the complexion of this love, and was never so
dear to his soul, as when forbidden or reviled by men, he
stole away to the tombs and caverns, and felt that what
was wanting of dignity to his worship, was more than
compensated to him in the intensity of those feelings
which arose from its constraint and concentration. The
vain man, on the contrary, is ostentatious of his devotions,
and seeks the altar quite as frequently with a regard to the
public curiosity, as for the satisfaction of his own zeal.
When such is the case, the temple is required always to
be of marble, and the deity who presides at the altar,
must be enshrined in quite as much of the wealth of the
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world as the worth of heaven. Such was not the object
of devotion in the case of Vasco Nunez. The idol of his
affections was the daughter of a poor knight of Calatrava,
who, though a favourite of King Ferdinand, and for some
time an officer of the royal household, had yet reaped little
beyond the simple distinction in reward for his loyal services
in that economical court. Though gallant and accomplished,
he was not so wealthy as to be independent of
the limited reward which came from his present appointment,
and it was not, therefore, with any strong reluctance
that he yielded to the solicitations of his brother, Felipe
Davila, a man of more circumspect economy, and less
scrupulous character, who, having no family of his own,
desired to adopt his niece, Teresa, and had pledged himself
to provide for her as his own child. He had taken her
from her parents when about to leave old Spain for the
commencement of that career of speculation in the New
World, which, for a time, and until he had been seduced
by the seeming successes of others, to risk his gains upon
novel and wild enterprises, had resulted in procuring for
him the foundation of a noble fortune. In the pursuit of
gain he had proved himself no less successful than unscrupulous;
and, though the extent of his successes was
unknown—for, with the usual policy of the miser, he still,
even to his own brother, pretended the utmost poverty—it
was yet shrewdly conjectured by many, that Teresa Davila
was already the heiress of a noble fortune. But such was
neither a thought in the mind, nor a desire in the heart of
Vasco Nunez. Though a man familiar with the modes of
thinking and feeling in the world, and one who had suffered
from its most humiliating necessities, he was yet one
of those persons who never acquire that narrow wisdom
which makes cold considerations of worldly comfort a
gauge for the affections. The mere desire of gain, the
treasures of the mine, and the jewels from the deep, which
absorb the desires of so many hearts, were as nothing to
the high spirit whose ambition was striving perpetually
with the keenest longing for the pathway over unbroken
waters, and the key to hidden worlds. He could live, as he
had lived, on the bitter roots, the strange vegetables, and
the unripe fruits of the wilderness, when in the same wilderness
he found the pathway which he desired to honourable
conquest and elevated fame. To this passion, so
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
happily styled, the “infirmity of noble minds,” there was but
one rival in his; and to win Teresa Davila, without a
single jewel beyond that, richest of all, which he believed
to be enshrined in her own purity and affections,
was to complete the triumph, over which, there were moments,
when his heart seemed to have no desire, and his
mind no inclination. Though unfavourable to this latter
passion, as believing it to be at variance with what he esteemed
the more noble and just direction of his companion's
mind, the astrologer yet forbore, on the present
occasion, speaking to a subject which he clearly perceived
betrayed the cavalier into a departure from his wonted
equanimity and judgment. He was not unwilling, with
that sagacity which leaves something to time and fortune,
to forbear a theme the discussion of which could embitter
only, and could not convince.
“Let us hasten,” he said, “the loss of time now were a
greater loss than if we were to lose our castellanos. Enciso will be the busier for thy rejection of his prayer, and who
knows but there may be other sums in the coffers of Felipe
Davila, to be loaned on usury if the security be good.
There goes a man, my son, who, if the gold were aside,
would stand more in the way of thy success with the
mariners than any other. He is worth to Ojeda more
than the Bachelor and all his cunning; and yet this man
hath none.”
“None, or he would not risk himself and money on a
head so crazy as Ojeda's. La Cosa is a good seaman, but
what of that? It will but stiffen the conceit of Ojeda to
know that men think it will take all his pilot's wisdom to
ballast his folly, and all his prudence and skill to steer clear
of the rocks and quicksands to which the rashness of his
leader will for ever drive their prows. Be sure Ojeda will
quarrel with his counsel when it is best, and hearken only
when it comes too late. I believe La Cosa to stand well
with the seamen, but not to our detriment, I trust.”
“They love him much, and have a faith in his pilotage
which they yield not freely to any other. But for him,
Ojeda had not the credit to command a single ship. The
money of La Cosa hath helped him to his armament thus
far, and his goodly reputation will do much to get him the
best seamen, if we speed not. He hath a love for Ojeda,
which stops not at any sacrifice; and which is strange
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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
enough when we remember the rash and headstrong forwardness
of the one, and the cool, considerate circumspection
of the other. It may be that he will temper Ojeda in
his rashness, and, perchance, subdue his valour to a profitable
use.”
“Ay, if any thing, or person, may achieve so much,
which I greatly question. Ojeda hath had experience
enough, years ago, to serve any but a fool or madman;
and he hath never yet been without old heads to counsel,
and good pilots to guide. But old heads and good pilots
are thrown away upon insolent self-conceit and blind passion;
and with the single exception of La Cosa, they have
all been but too happy to escape from connexion with him.
La Cosa will do well to get clear of him with life. His
gold I look upon as but lost to himself, and of little service
to Ojeda. As for this government of Veragua, which the
king hath granted between him and Nienesa, and which
they are seeking for blindfold, they will neither of them,
perchance, behold it; and if they do, it will only be to
quarrel among themselves, and fight for those treasures
which will then be as so much molten gold poured down
their throats. You will see, Codro: I know them both,
and know them well, though I have but little knowledge of
the stars; yet am I not the less confident in my prediction
than thou in thine. But, what is here?—Ah! the carriers
bringing the ripe fruits to market. What a train! The
fruits hang around them as if they grew about their arms
and necks. The yellow fig glitters upon the numerous
branches, and the golden orange and the lime send their
fragrance even thus far to our nostrils. But the poor Indians!—
how they bend beneath their burdens—how they
droop—how they yield, until the knee sinks to the earth,
and the slender frame scarce rises again for its journey.
By the blessed Virgin, Micer Codro, but my heart bleeds
for this abused people, even though we win such great
profit from their wrongs; and sometimes I feel that I
could join hands with the poor savages, and grapple in
deadly strife in their behalf, with these worse savages whom
I shame to call my countrymen.”
“Be prudent, my son,” replied the astrologer, in tones
subdued to a whisper, and marked by some little trepidation;
“thou speakest only too freely for thine own safety:
there is one, even now coming behind us, who loves thee
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
not; and would not be slow to do thee an ill office with the
governor. Let Nicholas Obando but hear of such speech
from thy lips, and it were thy ruin in Hispaniola while his
government shall last. Let Jorge Garabito but hear thee,
and Nicholas Obando will not long lack knowledge of thy
imprudence.”
“Jorge Garabito!” exclaimed the cavalier, in tones
which clearly manifested the uncontrolled disgust which
he felt for the person named; “doth that base creature—
that crow with the feathers of the flamingo—doth he walk
behind us?”
“He doth, but not near at hand as yet. He comes from
the palm grove of Davila.”
“Ha!” was the sudden exclamation of the cavalier, as
he now turned his eyes upon the backward path, a movement
which he had felt some shame to make but a single
moment before. A heavy frown hung like a thunder-cloud
above his brows, as he saw the person named emerging
slowly from the thick grove of royal palmettoes, whose
slender shafts, rising like chiselled columns for more than
a hundred feet in air, without branch or stem to spoil
their symmetrical smoothness, expanded broadly at the
top, and formed a verdant canopy over the bohio of
Teresa, which, without impeding the passage of the air,
utterly excluded the hot glare of the sun from its green
verandas. But Vasco Nunez had no eye for these, the
most majestic and graceful trees of the whole vegetable
world. His eye was fixed in bitterness and scorn upon
Garabito, while his words, simple and few, sought to convey
a different impression to the mind of his companion
from that which filled his own. “He hath business with
Felipe Davila—perchance, he hath occasion for castellanos
like ourselves.”
“They say that he affects Teresa—that he loves the
maiden, and would seek her in marriage.”
“They say—who say?” responded the impetuous
lover. “Hast thou heard one who might know, or is it
only the talk of those withered damsels, who, having
survived their own hopes, if not their own passions, spend
their days in the mischievous employ of coupling fools
with wenches? I would not hearken to the say of one
such as these, in any matter which affects Teresa. Hast
thou heard this fancy from less busy tongues?”
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“It is a frequent speech in Santo Domingo; and some
go even further, and reproach him with giving little heed
to his repartimiento, because of his frequent attendance at
the bohio of Teresa.”
“Yet, if this be true, why have I not met him there.”
“Perhaps, he is willing to avoid the meeting.”
“He is wise in that,” returned the cavalier with a bitter
laugh. The astrologer, who did not now seem unwilling
to dwell upon a topic, which, but a little while before, he
was scrupulous to avoid, continued thus:
“Thou seest that he has but now left her dwelling, my
son; and it is not unlike that he seeks her by day only,
while thou hast chiefly sought her at evening. By night,
he returns to the hills where he has rule, and he may not,
by the late decree of Obando, depart from his repartimiento
when the night has set. It is my belief that he seeks
the maiden.”
“And he will win Teresa, think you? He is my rival,
and his star, which hath encouragement from his gaudy
cloak, will outshine mine in the eyes of the maiden? Is
that thy thought, Micer Codro? Tell me:—thou hast fine
words touching the conjunction of Mars and Venus; what
dost thou think of our rival fortunes? This is no Mars, I
am bold to say; and yet, if what thou hast spoken of
Teresa Davila, be true;—if she be the heartless thing that
thou thinkest her—then may this thing of patches and perfume,
be the more honoured in his pursuit than the poor
cavalier, who borrows castellanos from her uncle. I would
to God, Micer Codro, that thou hadst gotten this gold from
Satanos sooner than from Felipe Davila; should it sink in
the sea, he would as soon let the devil have his niece—
ay, and sooner,—than the poor devil who had lost it.”
“It will not sink—it cannot be lost,—and let not, I pray
thee, son Vasco, let not this matter give thee more concern.
If Teresa loves thee, then will she heed nothing of
her uncle's loan in thy behalf; and as little will thy loss
of these miserable moneys, move her to any lessening of
her regards in thy behalf. If she loves thee not, of what
matter is it to thee what is her thought, whether of the
loan or of the loss of it. Heeding not thee, my son, what
shouldst thou care, what she heeds?”
“True, true; what should I care? and yet, Codro, to
think that a creature such as this Garabito, who dreams not
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that there is any difference between a spangle and a soul,
and has no more heart than the rind of a milk-nut, should
win favour—nay, should hope to win favour,—with such
a woman as Teresa Davila, passes the limit of nature.”
The old man smiled as he replied:
“Men think there is something strange in this, but
women never.”
“Thou hast quarrelled with the sex, Micer Codro; they
have been hard upon thee.”
The old man smiled again, but this time the smile was
a faint and sickly one.
“I have seen them perish my son,—the loved and the
beautiful,—and they have perished in pain and various sufferings,
but the little follies and vanities which they loved in
life, have not been forgotten in the moment of death. Teresa
Davila—if she differ not greatly from the rest—objects
not to the smallest riband on the leg of Garabito.”
“Let us speak no more of him,” replied Vasco Nunez
with some haste; “they tell me that he is a wretch, no
less cruel than foolish. It is said that he hath tortured the
poor savages, that he might gather sport from their miserable
contortions, and feast his ears upon their unhappy
clamours. How may this be? Shall a creature that hath
no valour; no affection for strife, even at a season when
war is the word in every mouth, and seems the desire in
every heart, shall such as he, in the mere humour of his
appetite, as I may say, take merriment from the piteous
suffering of these most timid of all the creatures of heaven?
Loose me this knot, Micer Codro, if it be in thy power.
I wonder not that this creature should dance after the
fashion of the Frenchman, and that he should pride himself
in the plumes that make him strut like the vain bird
whose glory lies in its tail; but that he should look with
pleasure on blood spilling, and the taking of life; and
hearken to the groans of the feeble and unoffending, even
while he most encourageth their foolish fancies, passeth
my study, and,—but that it is said by truest gentlemen,—
almost passeth my belief.”
“And yet, Vasco, marvellous as it may seem, there is
this double nature ever in the men of certain nations. Thus,
still, hath it been with the Frenchman, who will mingle
the playful sports of the kitten, with the glutless ferocity
of the tiger. The hot extremes of character, like the
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
intense action of opposing climates, have still been found to
meet in the same person; and nothing is more frequent in
the experience of the wise, than to behold sudden changes
of temper, which seem hostile to each other, in the same
man, from heat to cold; from storm to calm; from the full
burst of delighted enthusiasm, which is all merriment and
life, to the gloomy, stern mood, which looks as if all nature
were but a vast sepulchre, and it the unquiet and
sleepless ghost, doomed for ever to watch and shriek above
it. The frivolous nature hath ever a sanguinary mood,
and the sanguinary mood hath its rest in the indulgence of
that which is frivolous. Women, who are very foolish,
are apt to be very cruel. I have seen many of this sort.
There was a man who ruled in Rome that had a feminine
frivolity at one moment, and the rage for blood at another,
which seemed rather like that of the wild beast, than one
born among men; yet he fought not, and was but a sorry
coward after all. But of such monsters in the ancient
times, it is not needful that we should speak, if we hearken
to the good Las Casas, touching the cruel doings of the
Spaniard, and among ourselves—here, in Hispaniola,—
doings, which, if the truth be known, are not ended even
to this day. Did he not with his own eyes behold five
cacicoes roasted before a slow fire!”
“Thou sayst not!” exclaimed Vasco Nunez.
“Ay,—and when their cries came to the ears of the
commander, and kept him from his slumbers, and he sent
word to the officer on duty to strangle them at once, that
they might no longer disturb his rest; did not the other
obey his commands only so far as to gag the unhappy
wretches, while he continued his tortures as before, himself
stirring the fire until they felt pain no longer, and
ceased to yield him sport.”
“I believe it not—it is not possible!” exclaimed the
cavalier, with a very natural expression, at once of horror
and incredulity.
“It is true, Vasco Nunez,” responded the astrologer,
with half-suppressed but solemn accents, “the martyrdom
of the blessed Saint Sebastian not more true than that of
these harmless savages; and, hearken to me—more than
this, my son,”—here his voice was subdued into a whisper,
and, approaching more closely to his companion, he
looked backward as he spoke—“more than this, my son,
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it is the word that this Jorge Garabito, who now comes
behind us, is the very man of Seville, having command at
the time over the repartimiento of Alameda, in the iron
mountains, where this cruel deed was done. It is thought
that it is he of whom Las Casas hath made this cruel record.”
The cavalier clutched his weapon convulsively.
“By the Holy Virgin, Micer Codro, could I believe this
true, which I cannot, I should slay this monster on the
instant. But it is not true. It is not possible; worthless
though this wretch may be, I look back upon his plumage,
and my sense revolts at such belief. But, if it were true
of any man, why hath not Las Casas named the name?
What had he to fear?”
“Of what use to name the name?”
“That man might curse him—that, having his name,
we might have one more fit than all to express the perfect
monster, should he again spring to life in ages yet to come.
But there had been a present use in this knowledge, if it
were for punishment only.”
“And who would punish?”
“The power was in Alameda.”
“Ay, the power, but not the will. When Jorge Garabito
filled the coffers of his employer with pesos that
made him rich, it had been but an idle question to ask,—
`Where are my labourers?—What tale is this they bring
me of thy massacres before breakfast to whet thy appetite?—
to keep thy hands in practice?—to yield thee sport
when the sun has driven thee beneath the palm-tree into
shade?—to prove thy strength with the sword?—and the
thousand ways beside which thou hast chosen to murder
the people which were given thee in trust?' Believe me,
son Vasco, Alameda looked to nothing but his three-fifths;
and asked for no accountability from his officer, but of the
golden pesos which he told before him weekly. While
the treasury filled, he took no heed of the blood which
Garabito, it is said, made to flow like water.”
“But such massacre were infinite loss to the master.
What hand would supply the coffers of Alameda, when
those that gathered him his treasure, were cut away by his
officer? Methinks his own loss were enough to teach
him lessons of humanity.”
“He had no loss! Well he knew that he must acquire
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his wealth quickly or never; for what servant hath long
held favour in the jealous sight of Ferdinand, or in that of
the no less jealous Obando? Had he been sure of a permanent
dominion over the poor Indians, he had spared
their lives—he had portioned out their labours, each according
to his strength—he had counted them at morning,
he had been bountiful of the food he gave them at night.
But such was no policy with the master whose sway was
limited—whose hours were numbered—who saw his successor
at the porch! The toils of the Indian were unremitting,
and the value of his life small, because the time of
his owner was short. If this be not the truth, and the
true reason, wherefore is it that the Indians, which numbered
one million when Diego Colon first came to Hispaniola,
do not now reach eighty thousand? That is a
marvel far greater than this of the cruelty of Garabito,
unless ye believe in this cruelty to explain it.”
“'Tis monstrous! I am resolute to refuse belief, though
I deem this creature Garabito base enough for any thing.
We will speak of him no more.”
“It is well,—he approaches us.”
“See him not, if thou canst. I will have eyes only for
other objects.”
This was said by the cavalier in tones like those which
his companion had preserved throughout the dialogue. In
a louder voice he continued thus,—pointing as he spoke to
the carrier Indians, whose appearance had given occasion
to the previous dialogue:
“See where they descend from the heights—what a
train—and how they toil. These fruits which they bring
must be for the armament; the cotton sacks contain mahez
and cassavis, and are in quantity too great for the markets
here. Nienesa will soon depart.”
“He hath need, if he can,” said the old man in a whisper;
“his creditors find too much employment in his annoyance
to let him leave them without notice. We shall
hear of Nienesa when he sails.”
Garabito approached them by this time, and put a
momentary stop to their conversation. He saluted them
civilly but foppishly, with a swagger of importance, which
added to the distaste already expressed for him by Vasco
Nunez. He was a slender and good-looking person
enough, had he been content to let himself alone. But
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his dress was that of the ultra fops of the time, and faced
and flanked as he was on all hands by ribands and knots,
there was enough in his mere outside to provoke disgust
in the mind of one like the cavalier, whose own habits,
though neat, were simple, and whose manners were too
direct and frank to tolerate any form of affectation. The
mincing gait, and no less mincing accents of Garabito, as
sidling by them, he whispered the passing salutation, were
of a piece with his costume; and the cold response of
Vasco Nunez, and the reluctant down-looking air of the
astrologer, had nothing in them to encourage him to linger.
The two shortened their pace as he went forward, obviously
to avoid the necessity of farther communication.
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CHAPTER V. THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
There was no love lost between the parties. If Vasco
Nunez felt scorn for Garabito, the latter requited it with a
hatred equally unqualified, though less fearlessly expressed.
“An insolent upstart—a proud ruffian!” he muttered to
himself when he had passed the two, and was fairly out of
hearing; “one who thinks, because he comes of Los Caballeros,
and has learned the use of his weapon under the
Lord of Moguer, that he is something better than all other
men. He shall learn truer things some day—he shall—
that he shall. I am not slack in the weapon myself; and
in practice with Alameda, he was wont to say I was good
at the thrust, and would become so at the foil. He marked
that I had a keen eye for mischief, and a shrewd stroke. I
trow that I am even better in hand now than when we
played among the iron mountains. Well, there are days
yet, and the hour is to come. If I were in the iron mountains
now, I would practise a stroke or two upon the hardest
skull in the mine: I would that this Vasco Nunez could
behold me strike a blow. Methinks he were more civil
thereafter. There is a day yet—he shall see—he shall
feel me too, perchance. They say he has hope of Teresa—
but he is a fool there—the true hope is mine. She hath
looked as much, and I believe her eyes. Then, she hath
spoken, and great was her admiration at the disposition of
my purple cap. The tassel depending to the left ear, the
loop and diamond button in front, did move her to the freest
language of praise. This Vasco Nunez affects not even
the fashion of the curb and chain; nor doth he wear the
frill! He would work wonders with big speech and
wearisome voyages;—he goes far, and toils hard to suffer
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loss. He hath little knowledge of a damsel's heart, I trow,
but will grow wiser when he hath lost Teresa.”
Muttering in this sort to himself, and looking down,
with no little complacency as he went forward, to such
portions of his garb, as, in the fashionable nomenclature of
that day had called for his special consideration; and upon
those symmetrical limbs, at the same time, in whose attractions
he equally confided, to work the necessary conquest
over the heart of the damsel in dispute, Garabito
proceeded towards the train of natives, whose descent from
the hills to the great plain of the city, had occasioned the
long dialogue between the cavalier and the astrologer, portions
of which we have thought it not unadvisable to repeat
and record. Burdened with the fruits and provisions
of the country, these poor wretches—a melancholy band,
consisting of both sexes, and of every degree of age, size
and strength—were wending their way to the great market-place,
which was at once the place of traffic, of arms, and
of assemblage for public purposes. They were probably
fifty in number, generally tall and slender of person, with
skins of a clear brown, or rather olive complexion; and of
hue scarcely much darker, and frequently much lighter
and clearer, than that of their conquerors. Their hair,
uniformly black, hung in thick masses about their shoulders,
but among the women was often gathered up and
bound behind the neck by a fillet of yellow grass. This
arrangement was, in some cases, absolutely necessary, from
its excessive length and volume, to protect their eyes and
the free movement of their limbs against its frequent interruptions.
They were all decently clad in loose garments
of cotton—the manufacture of which was known to them
long prior to the arrival of Columbus. This garment descended
from the neck to the knee, and among the women,
a little below it, where it was met by the high tops of their
sandals,—something like the leggin of the North American
savage,—made sometimes of the skins of wild animals, but
more frequently of plaited grasses of mixed colours, green,
purple and yellow. The children, as well male as female,
numbers of whom accompanied their parents, and did little
offices for them as they proceeded,—were entirely naked.
Overloaded with an unmeasured burden, which their cruel
tyrants had accumulated upon their limbs, their frames,
usually slight as they were erect and symmetrical, now
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tottered feebly in their wearisome progress; nor were the
cruel toils under which their limbs were sinking, without
an effect even more distressing upon their wretched faces.
A gloomy despondency, heartless as hopeless, had settled
down, like a continual cloud, upon features that were once
expressive of sunshine and rapture only. Their eyes,
which were said to have streamed with innocent joy and
the most generous good nature, at the first coming of the
Spaniards, were now cast down in gloom, and seldom lifted
from that earth, into the bowels of which they were forced
to grope for those treasures, of which they knew no value,
as they knew no use. Their hearts, which had melted
with compassion, or bounded with pleasant rapture, at the
suggestion of the simplest contrivances of sport, were now
crushed and fettered by the consciousness of a chilling and
merciless tyranny which denied them every indulgence.
The crowding events of strife and conquest, crowned with
wealth, which had filled the land of their conquerors with
joy,—the progress of twenty years,—had been of crushing
consequence to them. Inhabitants of a country which
spontaneously yielded its fruits to supply the wants of life,—
beneath a climate whose benign influences made cold an
utter stranger, their inclinations were gratified without their
own efforts; and the indolence of habit which followed
such allotment, left them open to all the tenderest influences
of the soul. Their sympathies were sudden as the light,
spontaneous in their offerings as the soil with its fruits;
love was the constant employment of their lives, as it was
the chief blessing of their heart. Unlike the savages of
the continent, they knew little or nothing of war. The
dance by moonlight; the areyto, or song of romantic history;
their games of sport, which made their limbs lithe
and active, and taught them an eminent gracefulness and
ease; these were their only employments. It was their
custom, says Herrera, to dance from evening till the dawn,
and sometimes, fifty thousand men and women could assemble
together for this object, keeping, as by a common
impulse, exact time and maintaining responsive motions,
with their heads, feet and person, with the most wonderful
minuteness and felicity. What must have been the effect
of a transition from such a life, to that forced upon
them by their cruel invaders? How dreadful the change!
how destructive to life itself, without regard to its innocent
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freedoms, and the infantile joys to which their former condition
had accustomed them! No wonder that they perished
soon beneath the dominion of the Spaniards; the
only wonder is, that they could do so much for their tyrants
before death came to their relief. They had soon
enough melted away from those fiery warriors, without
making necessary the use of the smiting sword, the wanton
immolation, the bigoted and brutal sacrifice!
“And yet these people have their pleasures still,” remarked
the cavalier, in reply to the stern reflections of the
astrologer. “See where they draw nigh to Garabito.
One of the women takes steps as if for the voluptuous
dance which they so much love, and though the burden be
still upon her head, yet how graceful are all her movements.
Some of them clap their hands to cheer her; and look
where the little urchin advances with his decorated monkey.
He hath garbed the sportive creature in a fashion not unlike
that of Garabito himself, and the animal hath his
vanity also, that is far more graceful than that of the man.
They can dance and laugh still as before, Codro; they are
not utterly unhappy.”
“They can dance and laugh, but not as before, my son,”
replied the other, “and see you not that they dance and
laugh because of their fears, and not because they have the
desire to do so. They would disarm the wrath of their
rulers; they would soften the moods which destroy them.
I look with no heart upon their merriment, if merriment it
be; their smile is distortion, their movement is all that
they have to show of the sports which they once loved
when they were happy; but it is now a movement of the
limbs and not of the soul. Vasco Nunez, my son, when
thou hast trodden the green shores of that southern sea,
beware what thou doest to the innocent people thereof.
Of a truth thou hast need to bring them to the tasks of
labour, for without this, they can never learn the performance
of those high and holy duties, taught by our religion;
but task them not so that the limbs ache, and the heart
desponds. Give them no tasks beyond their strength
which shall impair their strength; but such only as shall
increase it. Punish them, when thou hast need to do so,
but never in thy passion; and never let thy punishments
go to the taking of life, for life is of all things the most
precious, among the gifts of God to man.”
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The grave exordium of the astrologer was arrested by
the progress of events in the quarter to which Garabito
had proceeded; which, for the time, were of a character
quite too lively to permit any spectator, however devoutly
inclined, to enlarge in abstract censure and wise homily.
Garabito, as we have already seen, had approached so
nearly to the train of Indian carriers as to speak to them
and command their attention. It so happened that their
duties were under his present regulation, and that he was,
in fact, the agent for providing the ships with supplies
through their medium. They belonged to the departimiento,
or division of territory, in which he possessed a
sub-authority, not unlike that of the overseer in our own
country; and, it may be well imagined, that knowing him
as the poor Indians must have done, by the terrors of his
wanton practice, such as was well described by the astrologer,
he found instant obedience to his commands. They
were now not far distant from the cluster of palm-covered
huts which formed the place of gathering, or “Plaza de
Armas,” as it was more proudly styled; and just beyond
where it stood, might be seen the tall masts of the ships
which were to receive the provisions which they carried.
But, though thus nigh, and in sight of the spot where their
morning journey was to end, the poor Indians, wearied
with the toils which they had taken, were too glad to rest
themselves after their descent from the hills, upon the first
level which presented itself; and as they reached a little
spot which seemed to form the last of the successive ridges
over which they had come, each in turn put down his
basket, and addressed himself to the momentary rest
which the chance afforded. Some of the more fatigued
and desponding threw themselves down in the shadow of
the little hillock around which they had halted, and closed
the eyes, that could behold, when open, nothing but burdens.
Others might be seen eating their scanty provision
of cassavi bread, while more than one, hidden from the
sight of the passing spectator by the studious interposition
of his companions, swallowed from his long-necked gourd
an unstinted measure of the intoxicating pulque—a beverage
made from mahez, cassavi, or other plants of native
production, and which the Aborigines of all America,
North and South, were accustomed to prepare long before
the coming of the Europeans. While such were the stolen
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enjoyments of some, others, chiefly the women and children,
laying aside their burdens, advanced with more boldness
towards the highway. The object of these was to
display their frail and fleeting, but still persuasive charms
to the spectator; and by appeals to his humour or his
lusts, obtain from him the boon which his charity might
have withheld. These poor creatures had learned the
word—the one of all others which they least knew when
Columbus first came among them,—which denotes the
mendicant; and in lieu of that which the early voyagers
represent them as having had continually in their mouths,
namely, “take, take,” they now cried aloud in Spanish, at
every evolution which brought them to face the spectator,
“give, give!”
“Give Buru, give Buru—give the girl that dances—give
the girl that sings and dances—dances high and sings so
sweetly—give the poor Buru that dances,” &c.
Such was the address, half sung, half spoken, which
one of these frail figurantes made to the rude sailor, Juan
de la Cosa, as she threw herself directly in his path. The
worthy seaman gave her little heed and bade her stand aside,
and not trouble him with her follies. But though she
stopped the dance, the hand was still extended, and her
voice still piteously implored him for charity.
“Give the girl that sings and dances—the poor girl that
has no cassavi—give the girl some bread, my master—the
poor girl that sings and dances.”
The rough seaman, though he had repulsed her at the
first, was not without his share of humanity; and muttering
something about her spending the money which he
gave her upon pulque rather than bread—a suspicion very
like to be well-founded—he threw her a silver coin of little
value, and stopped for an instant to behold the graceful
dance with which, even before she stopped to raise the
money from the earth, she thought it fitting to express her
gratitude. This form of begging, not unlike that which the
wandering Italians and Swiss exhibit daily in our own
times, and country, was one common enough in Santo
Domingo; and was indeed the only privilege which was
left the poor natives by their grave and inflexible tyrants.
They employed it whenever they came into the cities,
though their success was not always the same. Some,
like the rough, frank sailor, rewarded them with a trifle,
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which amply met their expectations; some with a kindly
smile, which was, perhaps, scarcely less grateful; but
there were many that yielded them no notice, and a few of
the more brutal sort from whom they received a wanton
cuff or kick, rather than a copper. To this variety of treatment
they were quite too well accustomed even for complaint;
nor did it often discourage them from continuing
an exercise which made them liable to the caprices of the
most wanton and worthless among their masters. Scorned
and beaten by one wayfarer, they turned to another, with a
seemingly callous unconsciousness; and if, in a second
trial, they met with better treatment than at first, it was
only one of those turns of the die that make the successful
player forgetful of all the past.
The girl having concluded her dance, in requital of the
gift received from the seaman, the latter was about to turn
away, when the voice of Garabito reached his ears.
“Whither so fast, Señor Juan?—thou hast seen nothing—
by my faith nothing. Stay but a moment while I
choose thee a dancer—one who shall swim in air—who
shall dazzle thine eyes to follow where she goes, and make
thee giddy but to look. Await me, I pray thee, that I may
show thee a dancer.”
“Nay, Señor Jorge, it may not be. I am waited even
now by Don Alonzo, and have no time for these hoppings
which thou speakest of, nor do I desire to be made giddy
when I gaze. Thou shalt tell me of these things, and my
share in them shall be sufficient.”
“Well, as thou wilt, for a surly knave as thou art,” said
Garabito, when the seaman had departed. “I were but a
fool to ask the presence of such as thou to such rare matters;
they were only wasted upon thy peccary head; it is
enough that I look on them myself. Hark ye, Buru,” addressing
the girl who was stealing back in silence to her
company—“where is Azuma? Is she not among you?”
The trembling woman replied in the affirmative, retreating,
as she spoke, backward to the little hill where her
companions were at rest. Her example was soon followed
by all those who had in like manner scattered themselves
abroad with a like object.
“It is well,” said Garabito, as he followed in the same
direction. “Buru is well enough, but who shall dance
against Azuma? I am in the mood to see her now—I
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would that Teresa were with me—I have spoken of this
woman in her ears—it would chafe this ruffian Vasco
Nunez, to behold us. Would I had thought of it—I had
vexed him with a sight—I had—that I had!”
With these words he approached the train of Indians
where they were now grouped together about the hills,—
but though willing enough to make sport for their oppressors,
without scruple, and almost without discrimination,
their sports of every description ceased suddenly as the
Spaniard drew nigh. If the story of Las Casas, as related
by the astrologer, lacked other evidence, there was yet a
tacit proof in the terror which his approach inspired, which
gave it partial confirmation. The change was as universal
as it was sudden, among the Indians. Timid and startled,
like their women, the men rose to their feet, and seized
hurriedly upon their several burdens. The children, with
a movement equally prompt, handled their little wicker
baskets; and one little urchin, whose companion was a
marmoset—one of the little sportive monkeys whose tricks
were among the marvels of Hispaniola—laboured diligently
to curb the eccentricities and antics of the animal, which
might seem, in the mind of such a person as Garabito, to
denote a condition of too much enjoyment for such wretched
creatures as themselves. The whole cavalcade exhibited
the confusion and fear of a gang of unruly schoolboys,
caught in the very attitude of insubordination. Not a word
escaped their lips, but silently and hastily resuming their
burdens, they prepared to shorten, with all speed, the few
brief moments of rest which they had promised themselves.
“Now, wherefore do ye take up your baskets as I
come?” demanded Garabito, with that tone of harsh authority
which the petty mind ever loves to display. “Set
them down as I bid ye—it is my pleasure that ye should
not move awhile. Think ye I have no mind for your
sports, like other cavaliers?—Ye should know better—ye
shall resume them, and quickly, lest I teach ye another
dance that you wot of, and have not found so pleasant as
the areyto. Hear you me!—where is Azuma? She is
among ye—let her come forth, and begin. I will see none
but her!”
The trembling group instantly laid down their burdens,
while Azuma, the woman Garabito had called upon,
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advanced from the rear. She was a tall, rather slender, but
exquisitely-made person, with a face marked with lineaments
of sorrow, even deeper than the rest. But so gentle
seemed her features in their grief—so sweet withal—that
the harshness of affection was subdued in its expression,
and nothing left but its purity—as if the trials through
which she had passed, like the fire which refines the
metal, had only served to purify and to temper, and not debase
or destroy. Her step, though slow, was light and
graceful, and with her hands meekly folded upon her
breast, she stood immovable as a statue before the Spaniard.
Her sad, expressive silence, and wo-begone features promised
but little for the wild antics which her limbs were
required to perform.
“I would have you dance, Azuma,” said Garabito in
harsh accents; “you are slow when I command. To it,
woman—to it, and do your best; let air feel you, and beat
quickly with your hands.”
Without a word she threw herself into a posture of the
most voluptuous grace and loveliness, such as the Haytien
maiden was wont to assume when she begun the areyto,
and such as would make the fortune of an artiste at any of
the fashionable theatres of our time.
“That will do—that is something like, Azuma,” cried
Garabito with a commendatory chuckle; “keep thy place
for an instant!—I would that Teresa could see thee now:—
ay, it were something to show—it were something to
brag on. By the blessed image! I would that I were one
of those painters now, that give a life upon cloth and paper—
I would carry thee to Spain even as thou standest now,
Azuma, and show thee there to certain eyes, that fancy
there is little grace or charm in these wild countries. The
fools! would I not show them! But begin thy dance,
Azuma,—the people gather—let them see what thou canst
do, woman, and ere thou beginnest, let the shadows fall
from thy face, till it looks free as the light movement of thy
limbs. Let thine eyes show the brightness which melts
and dazzles, while thine arms twine about the air, and thy
foot shrinks from the earth at a touch, as if the element
only were its fitting place of rest. Away, woman, let the
people behold thee.”
Garabito had something of the taste of the artiste, and
might have made an admirable leader of the ballét de corps;
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but though the poor woman began the dance, there were
some of his requisitions with which she had neither the
heart nor the power to comply. How could she smile;
how dispel the cloud from her face, and the big tear from
her eye? She made no effort at these objects. Her feet
did, indeed, spurn the earth from which they bounded; and
never yet did form more completely or more lusciously
seem to swim in the air, which her outstretched and fast
waving arms appeared toiling to embrace. The crowd
began to gather and to murmur in their half-suppressed delight.
The idle sailors clustered about, with a pliant mood
always ready for enjoyment, while the busy tradesman
lingered on his way, looked back, halted, and forgot his
purpose in the contemplation of powers which the poor
Azuma, unlike her companions, did not now exhibit, but
in compliance with the commands of one whom she did
not dare to disobey. He, meanwhile,—the tyrant who
commanded,—delighted with any audience, as it flattered
his mean spirit with an exhibition of his power, kept up
a running commentary on every movement:—
“Now, my friends, behold; she hath gone through the
grand querija; she is about to balaz,”—employing phrases
picked up among the Indians, by which they designated
certain movements of their wild dances—“you will see
her, yielding and sinking, till she seems about to fall away,
even into the arms of death himself; but anon, when
she is at the worst—when the earth is about to receive
her,—she will swim you into the very stars, until your
eye blinks, and the water gathers in it. Look!—there!—
ha! ha!—said I not?—well done, Azuma, well done; but
look thy brightest, woman, when thou swimmest the
querija; let the shadow fall from thy countenance, and
smile, as thou shouldst, in coming to the pass: Ha! well—
that was well done, my masters—to it again, Azuma, as
thou didst but now.”
The rapture of Garabito was shared by the gathering
auditory. But, though dancing with all that wonderful
grace and freedom, which the Spanish chroniclers describe
as almost peculiar to the people of the country, and among
whom she was conspicuously known as excelling in the
glowing exercise, it was evident that the movements of the
poor woman were those of the human machine only, and
that there was neither heart nor hope in her various and
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beautiful action. There was nothing in it of that lightsouled
spirit, which accustomed only to the benign influences
of their southern clime—a region of fruits and
flowers, and balmy airs and blossoms,—regarded even the
presence of the Spaniards as, at first, a blessing like the
rest. Yet the dance lacked nothing of its animation. On
the contrary, it soon put on an aspect of fearful excitement,
as, wrought upon by the intense physical action which the
commands of Garabito continued to stimulate, Azuma repeated
her efforts, which combined great muscular flexibility
with the most nice and wonderful adroitness. At
one moment every muscle would seem corded to the utmost
point of tension; at the next, relaxing them as by magic,
she would seem to sink away into exhaustion, which, in
the case of a European must have soon followed such exertions.
But, practised as they were from infancy, the capacity
of indulgence among these people in exercises of
this sort, was utterly beyond the belief of those not familiar
with the spectacle. In the present instance, the fear of
Garabito, whose persecutions of the Indians were not only
well known to those before him, but had been felt by many
if not most among themselves, prompted Azuma to unwonted
efforts in her desire to avoid offence. In a little
while her features became convulsed—her eyes glared
wildly, and seemed starting from their sockets; her long
black hair becoming loosed from the grassy string which
bound it, now descended to her heels and floated wildly on
the air; the thick drops gathered and stood upon her
brows, where the veins swelled momently into ridgy lines,
deeply blue and colouring the almost fair skin around them;
and in the swimming and voluptuous whirl which produced
these effects, the blood of the spectator bounded in like
heat and sympathy. Warmed by the exciting beauty of
her movements, their rapidity and grace, and not less by
the remembrances of their own past amusements of the
girl, her companions set down their burdens, half forgot
their cares, and beating time with their hands in air and
upon their sides, crowded around her, muttering at forgetful
moments, little snatches of their next favourite areytos.
The enthusiasm of the elder savages extended to their children,
who, accustomed to fewer restraints than their parents,
soon began to lose their fear of the stern Spaniard, to skip
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and shout with unmitigated delight as they beheld the wonderful
performances of Azuma.
It happened most unluckily, that the leader of the little
urchins on this occasion, had been entrusted with the decorated
marmoset already spoken of; who, taught to take
a part in all such performances, broke suddenly away from
his restraints, and made his first appearance, running
among the Indians from shoulder to shoulder, and playing
a thousand comic tricks as he ran. The mirth of the poor
savages grew contagious, and Garabito himself was unable
to resist it. With hearty clamour he urged the mischievous
little animal on, and helped, in no small degree, by
his words and cries of cheer, to increase his natural sauciness.
The spectators shouted aloud their admiration, and
clapped their hands, and danced after the little creature
with a delight that threw aside all constraint from their
own deportment, and diminished in some measure that
of the Indians. But the merriment of the latter was arrested
by a little incident that soon changed the whole
aspect of affairs. The monkey, tired of making free
with the heads and shoulders of the poor savages with
whom he was in the constant habit of taking such liberties,
and encouraged by the open applauses of the sailors,
bounced suddenly in among them; and, leaping from head
to head, now pulling off their caps, and now twitching
the hair beneath with no measured fingers, proved himself
quite as much at home among his new acquaintance,
as he ever did among the old. The good-natured sailors,
with few exceptions, took this intrusion in kind part; and
what with their awkward scramblings after the urchin, and
their play at cross purposes with each other, in the unavoidable
collisions which the sudden movements of the
agile creature necessarily occasioned, they found the sport
far greater than before. Nobody enjoyed the scene more
than Garabito while his own person remained sacred; but
what was the consternation of the Indians when they beheld
the monkey dart off in a tangent from the crowd, and
suddenly emerge into conspicuous station, perched on the
very apex of the high steeple-crowned hat which the dandy
wore. There he commenced a dance not dissimilar to that
which Azuma had just finished. The merriment of the
savages was ended in an instant. They had experience of
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the danger of trifling with the dignity of such a creature
as Garabito. But the sailors had no such fear or thought;
and regarding the matter as a continuance of the sport,
they were pleased to increase those playful clamours which
had provoked so greatly the natural sauciness of the monkey.
The laughter of Garabito was changed to sudden
fury, particularly as the quickness of the monkey, leaping
from shoulder to shoulder, and to and fro, between back,
shoulder and head, contrived to elude all the efforts of the
bedevilled Spaniard to relieve himself. The Indian boys,
accustomed to manage the creature, came to his assistance;
but the whoops, halloos, and commands which he had been
taught to obey heretofore, now failed to move him in the
slightest manner. He had been, unfortunately, too much
encouraged, by Garabito no less than the rest, beyond his
usual privileges; and was just in that state of intoxication
which, in a man, prompts him to run the full length of his
line, though he well knows there is a halter at the end of
it. The threat of punishment which he well understood,
occasioned not the slightest heed on his part, and he jigged
and bounded aloft upon Garabito's head and shoulders, in
spite of all his struggles, which, indeed, were not very direct
ones, for having some dread that his fingers might be
bitten, he was at no pain to make a hasty use of them.
Taking advantage of this fear, which the cunning animal
very soon understood, he finally plucked off the hat, upon
which he had practised so many gambols, and waved it
aloft with one paw. At times the other was permitted to
amuse itself familiarly with the well disposed locks beneath
him, which he twitched with the most shocking unconcern,
bidding defiance the while to all the efforts of the
dandy, who, stamping on the earth with fury, shouting and
swearing, and throwing up his hands, and leaping from
side to side, succeeded only in compelling his tormentor to
change his position, but never in expelling him from his
perch. The laughter of the crowd added to his fury, which
was not a little heightened by the consciousness that the
whole scene was witnessed by Vasco Nunez, whom he
knew to be approaching. That cavalier, as may be imagined,
was excessively amused by the spectacle.
“A brave monkey!” he exclaimed to the astrologer, as
they paused in their course to survey the scene. “He hath
found his kin, he knows his claim of brotherhood. They
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are garbed alike, and there is little difference, save in size
between them. Garabito is but the greater ape of the two,
let them play awhile together—it is rare sport, the affinity
is good.”
And in the heart of the speaker there was an unexpressed
wish that Teresa Davila might also behold it. His unmeasured
laughter reached the ears of Garabito, and increased
his frenzy.
“I will hang you up, ye villains! one and all—I will
hang ye! the red fires shall seize upon ye, dogs, if ye take
not this foul creature from my shoulders.”
A torrent of oaths accompanied this outbreak, and threats
which the Indians well knew were not idly expressed,
prompted several of them to come forward, though slowly,
and with trembling, to his assistance. The boy by whose
neglect the monkey had been suffered to manifest his impertinence,
having armed himself with a whip, succeeded
better than the rest, in driving him finally from his place of
eminence. But the urchin bore off with him the hat of Garabito,
as a sort of trophy of his achievement; while the
latter, whose very reason seemed to be utterly disordered
by the torments and the taunts he had undergone, and having
the jeers and laughter of his own countrymen still
sounding in his ears, drew his sword and made after the
criminal, who now stood upon a little point of rock and
still seemed disposed to chuckle and rejoice in his impudence,
though half conscious of the danger which he had
incurred. But for his agility, he had paid for his insolence
with life; leaping from point to point of the rocks around
him, as Garabito approached, the little wretch, still bearing
the hat in triumph, mocked at the hostility which he was
so easily able to elude, and stretching out his long paws in
the manner of a wicked schoolboy, taunted the infuriated
dandy to renewed efforts at overtaking him. Meanwhile,
the sailors, to whom the whole scene afforded nothing but
delight, urged its continuance after their own fashion.
“All sail, Señor Garabito, you shall overhaul the enemy
soon. You have but to weather the cape and the game is
certain. The chase slackens sail and you shall have him
at short quarters, close in shore.” Such was the language
of one. The encouragement of a second was bestowed
upon the monkey; while a third lent his counsels to the
Indian boy, who, scarcely less active than the marmoset,
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was pursuing him with the best prospect of success. He
sprang up the heights in pursuit—put in practise sundry
well known tricks to persuade him to terms—leaped as
daringly from ledge to ledge of the declivity as himself,
and at length succeeded in compelling him to restore the
hat which he had continued with awkward efforts to confine
upon his own head. Finding he could no longer baffle
his sturdy pursuer with such an incumbrance, he hauled
it to the feet of Garabito who, exhausted with his efforts,
and rendered mad by the ridicule of those around him,
stood red and panting, looking emotions which the Indians
too well understood to venture to approach him, while under
their distracting influence. The hat still lay at his feet,
as the boy, whip in hand, leaped down from the little
height from which he had chased the monkey. Without
speaking a word, Garabito fixed his furious gaze upon the
trembling child, and simply pointed with his finger to the
hat. The sign was understood, and with slow steps, that
seemed to denote a lurking apprehension of danger, the
boy approached, and stooping down as to raise the desired
object from the earth, was seized by the hair by the vengeful
Spaniard; swinging him from his feet with one hand,
Garabito lifted his sword in the same instant with the other.
The act was sufficiently startling and threatening in the
eyes of all who remembered the atrocious notoriety which
his former savage deeds had secured to his name. The
astrologer was the first to cry aloud to his companion.
“God of the martyrs, Vasco Nunez, strike in and stay
his hand; he will slay the child if thou dost not.”
Such also was the fear of Azuma, who was the mother
of the boy. She bounded forward with a shriek, and with
that animation in her fine features now, which she had not
worn during the whole of her picturesque performance,
threw herself before the Spaniard, grasping with one hand
the child, and with the other seconding the piteous prayer,
with which she implored his mercy.
“He will not—he dare not strike!” said Vasco Nunez,
in hoarse accents, but hurrying forward as he spoke, with
a degree of haste which belied his confident speech. “He
will not use weapon upon the child—impossible! He is
not base enough for that—he dare not, before our eyes!”
But the action of Garabito looked full of the direst purpose.
With his fist he spurned the mother from before
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him, with one hand held the child at the full length of his
arm, while throwing back the hand that held the sword, he
waved the instrument aloft, in order to give force to its descending
sweep.
“Hold, Señor Garabito—hold, Spaniard! wretch, base,
cowardly villain, hold back thine arm. Beware, lest I do to
thee whatever thou dost to the child.”
The words of Vasco Nunez were too late, or only served
to provoke and goad the vindictive monster to the commission
of the deed. The fatal blow was given at the instant.
The keen steel aimed too unerringly, and with all the bitter
force of rage, went through the tender neck of the boy, severing
flesh, gristle, bones, and life. The body of the victim
fell quivering upon the shoulders of the mother, who
still lay, and grovelled at the feet of the murderer; while
the head, hurled from his bloody hands, rolled among the
devoted savages, who, apprehensive of like cruel treatment,
ready to fly, were huddled together in fear and trembling,
at the edge of the rocks.
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CHAPTER VI. THE AVENGER—NEW PLOTS AND PARTIES.
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
A wild shriek of mingled horror and hostility burst from
the lips of the approaching cavalier, as he beheld the bloody
and unexpected deed. The trembling grasp of the astrologer
now laboured vainly to restrain him. He broke through
all impediment, dashed aside the gaping crowd who seemed
all too much stunned by the deed, and awed by the authority
which it was well known Garabito possessed, to take
any part in its punishment; and with a fury in his look and
manner which could not be mistaken, and which fully declared
his purpose, even had his threat been unspoken, he
rushed upon the murderous wretch, where he stood, half
exulting in the slight of arm which he had shown, and altogether
heedless of the poor mother's agony; and dashing
aside the weapon which the villain opposed to his approach,
in his precipitation, his own being still undrawn, he hurled
Garabito to the earth and planted his heavy foot upon his
neck. This was all the work of an instant—of a single impulse,
which was acknowledged by the crowd, so speechless
hitherto, with a shout of unanimous approval. He did
not in that moment of desperate excitement feel the slight
wound which the murderer had inflicted upon his side, nor
till he had him down beneath his foot, did he seem conscious
that his own sword remained still in its scabbard.
Another instant repaired his error, as he remembered that
justice was yet unexecuted. He drew the keen steel forth,
and the pale cheeks of the criminal attested his dread of a
fate that promised to be scarcely less sudden and terrible
than that which he had inflicted upon the unoffending boy,
as he saw the bright blade sweep in air, with its point
bearing down upon his bosom. The timely hand of the astrologer
arrested the blow.
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“What wouldst thou, Vasco Nunez—what wouldst
thou, my son, by this violence.”
“Slay the black-hearted villain—the bloody murderer,
even as he slew the child.”
The groans of the mother, who clung to the bleeding victim
till her long black tresses were dyed red and matted
with his gore, increased the rage of the cavalier, as it seemed
to implore the doom which he threatened, and flinging
himself loose from the astrologer, he again prepared to
strike. But Micer Codro who knew the danger which he
must necessarily incur, even by an act of such sacred justice,
clung to him again, while he cried to the bystanders
for help in his attempt.
“Stay thy hand, brave Vasco, dear son, stay thy hand,
strike not the blow, remember the decree of Nicholas
Obando. It is death to him in Santo Domingo, who shall
take life of a Spaniard. Remember, I pray thee, thou hast
no friend in Obando; thou wilt find no favour at his hands,
though God himself looked on and approved the deed.
Break the law, in however small a measure, and he will
mete out to thee its harshest penalties. Be patient, spare
this man—thou hast no matter in his doings.”
“Ay, but I have, Micer Codro, and so hast thou, and so
hath Obando, and all men not absolutely brutified by the
damning power of Satan and his angels. All men who look
on such crime unmoved, are partakers, unless they show
themselves willing to avenge.”
“Thou hast already shown thyself willing to avenge. It
is enough.”
“Stand aside, Micer Codro, I bid thee; and stay me not
in the course of justice.”
“I dare not, Vasco—for thy own sake, I dare not.” The
astrologer covered the prostrate body of Garabito with his
own, as he spake these words:
“Move me not to do thee harm,” replied the cavalier,
hoarsely; and while the astrologer began to repeat his
warning touching Obando and his decree, with no gentle
hand he grasped him by his cloak, and lifting him from his
feet with the ease of one who lifts an infant, he threw him
fairly behind him, while he exclaimed,
“Let Nicholas Obando come; I fear not that he will
censure. His own sword should do this justice, if mine
did not. And he dare not, in the face of Heaven and of
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Spain, do me wrong for the performance of this duty to
our king and country, not to say to God and man. Yet will
I give this wretch a chance for his life; no man shall say
I took him at 'vantage. Rise, villain,” spurning the murderer
with his foot, while withdrawing it from his body;
“Rise, villain, and take thy weapon. Thou art ready and
valiant enough to use it upon the feeble savage, and the
feebler child; try it on the man, sirrah—try it on the
Spaniard. Rise, dog, ere I strike my heel into thy teeth.”
The murderer availed himself of the permission to rise,
as promptly as the stunning fall which he had received
would permit. But, though he resumed the grasp upon his
weapon, and took his place fairly before his antagonist, he
did not show that forward disposition to the encounter,
which the injury he had received, and the sanguinary mood
of which he had shown himself capable, would have seemed
to justify.
“Thou art ready?” demanded the impatient warrior,
with a quick sudden tone, looking as he spoke into the very
eyes of Garabito, with a withering, sharp glance, that promised
to penetrate only less deeply than his sword. The
other was disposed to expostulate. Vasco merely stamped
with his feet, and simply pointed to the murdered child.
“But, Señor Vasco, wherefore? It is but a heathen
boy—an Indian—a lad born for perdition. Wouldst thou
have me answer with life for such as he?”
Such language need not surprise the reader, when he
remembers that it was forty years after the period of these
events, when it became necessary for the pope (Paul III.)
to issue his famous bull, declaring the Indians to be men,
and entitled, therefore, to all such consideration as was due
to humanity.
A stroke upon the cheek with the flat part of his sword
was the only answer which the cavalier deigned the murderer
to this speech. A murmur ran through the crowd,
which, without sympathizing greatly with the Indians,
always sympathizes with courage, and were now indignant
to behold the tameness, under such an indignity, of one
wearing a weapon, and who had just proved himself so indifferent
to bloodshed. Garabito could no longer evade the
requisition. The blood mounted into his face with the suddenness
of a torrent. Though entirely devoid of real valour,
he was yet not without that conventional courage
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
which must always comply with the requisitions of the
community, and to fight now was absolutely necessary to
save caste.
This consideration came to his aid, and he was strengthened
by the free murmurs of those around him. He raised
his eye to that of his enemy, set his feet firmly, took an
attitude at once manly and graceful, and the swords clashed
and crossed. The murmur of the crowd, changing to that
of applause and pleased anticipation, was still encouraging;
and a faint smile rose upon the lips of Garabito, which was
strangely contrasted with the bitter joy which glared out
from the eye of his opponent. Twice, thrice, the weapons
clashed and clung to each other, their points bearing down
to the earth, under the mutual pressure of the well sinewed
arms that bore them. Like most of the Spaniards of that
day, Garabito had some knowledge of his weapon; he had
played with a skilful swordsman, as he had boasted, in the
person of Alameda, and had learned some of the nice practice
with which the ready fencer sometimes manages to
elude the strength with which he could not equally contend.
Driven to the wall, he became collected, and assumed
the show of a confidence which he did not possess. But
his knowledge of his weapon, his art, and practice, were
nothing to the ability of Vasco Nunez, in the same noble
art. He, in the language of history, had received, par excellence,
from his cotemporaries, the appellation of “Egregius
Digladiator,” or “master of fence,” and a very few
passes between them soon convinced the crowd, and the
feeble Garabito among them, that he was in the custody of
his fate. He grew pale with the conviction—his efforts
became hurried and confused; and, with a wandering of his
mind, came a wandering of his glance, which is always
fatal in such a conflict. His eye lost that of his opponent,
and in the next passage the finger joints of his sword hand
experienced a shock and numbness which instantly relaxed
them. The weapon flew from his grasp, and the point of
Vasco Nunez was lunged with deadly force and exactness
towards his heart. He saw no more—a death-like paleness
covered his cheek—a mist shrouded his sight—a miserable
sickness filled his heart, and he sunk without an effort to
the earth. He fell without a wound! The arm of his
enemy had been arrested ere the blow was given, and the
miserable tyrant, whose reckless and blood-thirsty nature
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had doomed hundreds to the most cruel form of punishment
and death, was deficient in the courage to look boldly on
his own. He had fainted from the fear of death, and he
now lay a spectacle of shame, exposed to the wonder of the
poor savages whom he had tortured, and the unqualified
scorn of his own people.
“Who checks me? who stays my arm?” were the
fierce words of Vasco Nunez, looking around him. His
eye rested upon a small but noble-looking gentleman, who
had just reached the spot in time to arrest a weapon that
would not otherwise have spared the wretch, whom its very
aspect may be said to have overcome. A conciliating smile
rested upon the fine features of the stranger, and his words
were gently spoken, and of a character to disarm, in part,
the anger of the cavalier.
“Nay, señor, you cannot now strike this person without
shame. His blood would do dishonour to your weapon;
the very fear of it hath sufficiently slain him.”
The suggestion was enough. An artificial sentiment of
chivalry taught Vasco Nunez to spare, where a natural
sense of justice might have moved him to destroy.
“You are right, Señor Diego,” replied the cavalier—
“you are right, and I thank you for your timely counsel.
The blood of such as he would indeed dishonour the sword
of an honourable man; yet, señor, did you but know—”
The stranger interrupted him:
“Put up your sword, Señor Vasco—the Señora Teresa
approaches. Let us put ourselves before the miserable
spectacle that it be hidden from her eyes.”
There was a tremor in the heart of Vasco Nunez as he
hearkened to these words, which the conflict with Garabito
had not occasioned. Meanwhile the proud lady of
his love drew nigh, borne in a cushioned chair upon the
shoulders of four Indian slaves, her dark eye flashing as she
met the obeisance of the cavalier, with a fire all its own,
and languishing at other moments as if softened by some
dream of love, and overcome in its enjoyment. Gracious
was the smile which she bestowed upon her lover—so
gracious as almost seemed to assure him of that regard
which the astrologer held to be so doubtful. She passed
on, leaving as she went a softness in the soul of Vasco
Nunez which made him turn away from the scene of strife
and of bloodshed with a sentiment of horror and disgust
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His eyes followed her vanishing form until the stranger
reminded him that the duties of humanity were yet to be
performed.
“This miserable spectacle must be taken from the thoroughfare;
the body must be removed.”
Addressing the trembling Indians, who had shrunk into
the back-ground, and to this moment had not offered to
touch the carcass of the murdered boy or lend the slightest
assistance to the mother, Vasco Nunez bade them take
up the child;—but the words were not well uttered, before
they were answered by the miserable mother.
“No, no, no!” she cried, in broken Spanish, grasping
closer to her bosom the headless trunk over which she had
been bending in a grief almost as silent as it was fruitless
during the whole progress of the combat: “he is mine—
he is the child of Azuma; and Caonabo, his father, who is
a free man of the mountains, will come to seek him in the
night. Touch him not! take him not!—the fire will not
hurt him now—nor the sword.” And she lifted her hand
imploringly towards the Spaniards, who were grouped in
front of her, as if dreading their approach; but when she
saw her own people draw nigh, she started to her feet and
in the language of Hayti, she spoke to them vehemently
for a few seconds, and in tones of imperative command.
“What says she?” asked the cavalier, advancing towards
them as he spoke.
“Ah! it is you!” she resumed, in broken Spanish,
sinking again upon her knee before Vasco Nunez and
placing one hand upon the headless trunk: “you will not
take the boy from Azuma—the poor boy, the son of Caonabo—
the poor Hawaie, that only played with the monkey—
that will not play with the monkey any more—the
poor Hawaie!”
And she threw herself at length upon the senseless
corpse, in all the abandonment of consciousness to surrounding
objects, which marks the genuine sorrow of the
soul.
“Poor wretch—look! this is a dreadful spectacle!” exclaimed
the cavalier to his companions.
“Let us leave her!” was the reply of the stranger.
“We can do nothing for her; and while we remain here
she can do nothing or will do nothing for herself. In our
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presence, too, the Indians are afraid to act. They will
better help her when we are gone.”
The opinions of the stranger were evidently correct, and
Vasco Nunez, as he felt their truth, in spite of the seeming
inhumanity, was about to turn away, when, starting
from her trance of grief as she heard his movement, she
crawled suddenly forward, and clasping with both her
arms the knees of the cavalier, rested her head against them
and muttered a few words in her own language, which,
from the tone of her utterance, might be deemed a blessing.
Vasco Nunez gently strove to disengage himself
from her grasp, while he spoke in accents subdued to a
sympathizing kindness:
“I can do nothing for you, my poor woman—nothing!”
She lifted her eyes, streaming with tears, and looked her
gratitude in his face. Then, convulsively sobbing, while
releasing him from her grasp, she replied in imperfect
Spanish:
“But if you could, master—but if you could!”
She said no more—the rest was implied. The confidence
in his humanity to do for her whatever lay in his
power, which the broken sentence seemed to convey, was,
perhaps, the highest acknowledgment which the Indian of
Hayti could give to any individual of the Spanish race.
“Let us go,” said Vasco Nunez, as he dropped unnoticed
a piece of money at her feet; “let us go, señor.”
The miserable murderer, Garabito, by this time had
shown some signs of consciousness, but he had not risen
from the spot. He was partially concealed from the cavalier
by the persons of two men in humble condition, whom
the stranger recognized as his followers.
“Take your master from sight,” he said to them while
turning away — “he will thank you for it.”
They made him no reply, but proceeded to obey his
suggestion. They had little need for this. The Spaniards
were no sooner out of sight than Garabito recovered,
and rose without assistance to his feet. But his cheeks
were deadly pale, and there was a gleam from his eyes
like the very last from those of despairing and departing
sanity. His glance rested upon the person of the woman
who crouched within a few steps of him, busied in wiping
with her hair the blood and dust from the face of the
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sundered head which she now held tenderly in her hands. The
sight of the dreadful spectacle chilled the bosom of the
wretched murderer. The eyes fixed in the glaze of death,
were yet riveted upon his own; the jaws were spasmodically
parted, and the tongue, dropping blood and slaver,
lolled out upon the cheek. The murderer gave his victim
no second look. He turned hurriedly away, motioning
his men to follow, and it was only when his form was entirely
lost to sight behind a rising ground that the trembling
natives came forward to the assistance of the poor woman
and her child.
Garabito did not follow his assailant who, with the
crowd, had taken his way towards the place of public assemblage.
His course was from the town and towards the
hills that seemed to promise him a shelter in their iron
fastnesses, from the shame which he felt when among his
people. His mind brooded only upon its degradation and
the hope of revenge. He had no word for his followers,
who communed to themselves in language which he was
not suffered to hear.
“The Señor Jorge,” said one, “will have no stomach
for his cassavi to-day. He hath swallowed of food more
bitter than the poison mandioc.”
“By the blessed Virgin, though we be his followers,
holding his service and taking his pay, Pedro, it did my
heart good to see Vasco Nunez cross weapon with him.
Jorge Garabito had such conceit of his sword that there
was need to cure him. He hath a lesson this day, that he
will not soon forget.”
“Yet, what a hot-brained fool that Vasco Nunez, to
draw sword in such a matter! What was the woman or
the boy to him or to any body? A pretty coil, in God's
name, about an Indian—a little cub of a heathen, not much
bigger than the monkey and not half so active; and for this
a free-born Spaniard must take buffets o' the cheek, and
bide strokes of keen toledo. Look you, now, the Señor
Vasco, to my mind, lifts a hand quite too high, now that
he hath a vessel ready for the ocean seas, and since Micer
Codro hath found for him that fortunate star. He makes
equal count of the heathen and of our own people, and
there will be other swords in this quarrel, do you mark
me? of better edge than that of Jorge Garabito. It is well
for us that the Señor Jorge hath had no such love for these
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heathens, for then our pesos had been fewer, and there had
been but dull sport in the iron mountain. For my own
part, Sanchez, I could tell thee—”
“Ay, Pedro, of some of thy own valiant deeds of this
sort among the heathen,” replied his companion interrupting
him; “but if this practice of Vasco Nunez grows to
be universal in Santo Domingo, then wilt thou curse the
long tongue that couldn't keep its own secret. Hear now
to something better even than thy own bravery—something
that will pay thee well if thou canst prove that thou hast
some of it left, and art willing to put it into quick exercise
when I bid thee.”
“What mean you, Sanchez? Speak.”
“Didst hearken to the speech of the woman, Azuma?”
“What speech?”
“To Vasco Nunez!—Ah! I see thou hast too long a
tongue to have good ears. Hearken! When Vasco Nunez
bade them take the child away, she refused, if you remember?”
“Surely I do.”
“Well, that were nothing, but for certain words which
she let fall in her speech.”
“I heard them not—I heard no words that I cared to
hear, Sanchez.”
“I warrant thee—I could have sworn it! But thou shalt
know these words upon conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“To share with me the adventure—the reward—first
having sworn to keep the secret which I shall tell thee.
Wilt thou do this?”
“Nay, but let me know the venture—the reward—
wouldst have me thy dudgeon?”
“Thou shalt be, or thou shalt have no part in this matter.
Thou shalt swear by the Virgin to keep the secret I tell
thee, and give heart and hand to the enterprise; or I swear
by our blessed Lady at Compostella, thou shalt have no
knowledge of this business. What! shall I trust thee with
a good two thousand pesos, and have no security from thee
for thy truth? No, no, good Pedro, I know thee too well;
I have sailed with thee too long. Thou shalt swear, Pedro,
swear, or thou sleepest without my secret, and without a
peso of the whole two thousand.”
“Two thousand pesos, two thousand! By the Holy
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Virgin, if thou wilt have it, Sanchez — by the Holy Virgin, and
Saint Sebastian into the bargain! Didst thou think me an
infidel to refuse thee in so small a matter? I will swear to
thee after any form, to keep any secret, and help thee to
any service, so that thou swearest in like manner to share
with me these two thousand pesos.”
“That will I, and now swear—thou shalt smack the
image, so that I hear and see thee.”
A silver cross was taken from the bosom of one of the
parties, and pressed to their mutual lips.
“And now, Sanchez, for thy secret.”
“Dost thou remember, Caonabo the Carib chief, who
had dominion over the kingdom of Maguana? He it is for
whom the Governor, Obando, offers his reward—two thousand
pesos.”
“Ay, do I; he fled from the mines of Cibao—a big Indian
and bold of heart. There will be blows when he is
taken. Did he not defeat Valverde with great loss?”
“Ay, did he,” said the other; “as thou sayst, there will
be blows when he is taken; but there will be pesos, too,
Pedro—two thousand pesos.”
“Nay, nay, Sanchez, I shrink not back though I speak
of blows. I will join thee in this danger. Say, hast thou
knowledge where to seek Caonabo?”
“Ay, that have I; my ears are keener far than thine,
though my voice be not half so good. The Virgin be praised
that it is not, for then, like thee, I should listen to no music
but mine own.”
“Stay thy prating, and give forth thy secret. Thou
hast tongue enough now, I trow, beyond any necessity.
What is thy knowledge?”
“Thou art right. I feel loath to resemble thee too closely
in my speech, and will come at once to the business.
This woman, in her grief, declared the boy whom Garabito
slew to be the son of Caonabo.”
“Well! what then? how does that help thee?”
“He comes nightly to her cabin.”
“Ha, and she dwells—”
“In the repartimiento of Pedro de Aguilar, in the little
valley of Los Fleches, over which Garabito has rule, and
where we, blind boobies that we were, have seen nothing.”
“And thou proposest—”
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“To follow the footsteps of this woman and to seek him
there, said Sanchez.
“By the blessed Virgin, I am with thee,” responded
his companion, “I am with thee; but what is thy plan?”
“Enough,” said the other. “Garabito pauses and looks
toward the hills. He will scarce seek the Señora Teresa
again to-day. He hath no loving mood to move him now.
His eyes are on San Juan. He will seek Ribiero, and
drive out his shame with a calabash of wine; and we shall
have no service but to lay him in the hammock, and let him
sleep off the drunkenness which he will scarce do before
the morrow. This will give us time. But thou must see
to thy weapons. As thou lookst for close strife with Caonabo,
who is what thou hast spoken him, though his people
are not, both strong and fearless,—there will be need for
keen stroke and close strife; but the pesos, my brother,
the pesos, Pedro—does not the thought of them make thee
valiant?”
“For any mischief! have I not sworn to thee, Sanchez?
Give me thy cross once more if thou doubtest me.”
“Enough, I believe thee. Not a word, remember; and
look not too wise when the eye of Jorge Garabito is upon
thee. See, he beckons us. He takes his way for the hills,
and will be drunk with Ribiero before sunset. The Virgin
strengthen the good wine of the calabash, that it fail not of
its work in season!”
“Amen!” was the devout response of Pedro, as the
two hurried after their employer.
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CHAPTER VII. NICUESA—NEW OFFERS—THE PREDICTION.
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“I was about to have sought you, my dear Vasco, at
your bohio,” was the familiar and somewhat affectionate
speech of the cavalier, whose fortunate appearance at the
very moment so perilous to Garabito, in all probability
saved his life. “I was about to have sought you on matters
of much moment to myself, and thank the fortune that
helped me to this meeting by the way. Go you to the
Plaza?”
He was answered in the affirmative.
Diego di Nicuesa—for it was he—was an accomplished
gentleman: something more of a cavalier than soldier:
who had filled several posts of honour in Spain, and having
the advantage of noble connexions in the old country,
was well taught in all those little graces of manner, which,
if they do not always indicate sincerity and earnestness of
character, are more apt to conciliate, and have been usually
found to commend the owner to a consideration much more
favouring than is often bestowed upon real merit, however
elevated and worthy. He was, as we have already briefly
described him, small but handsome of person, exceedingly
graceful, and equally remarkable for his accomplishment in
tilt and tourney. An intimacy, formed in the new world,
and strengthened by mutual services, justified Nicuesa in
the freedom of his approach to Vasco Nunez, and gave a
sanction to those hopes of success in the object which he
had in view, which, if disappointed in the end, were yet
not so utterly unfounded, and consequently obtrusive, as
those of a like kind which had been already urged by the
Bachelor Enciso. But, were this not the case, the gentle
and unexacting address of Nicuesa, must of itself have disarmed
his freedom of manner of all offensiveness.
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“Vasco,” he continued, “I have some proposals to
make you, which, if your friend, Micer Codro, will be sufficiently
mine to help me persuade you to accept them,
I am just as willing that he should hear as yourself.”
These words spoken, Nicuesa gave his hand to the astrologer
who accompanied them, and Vasco Nunez declared
his readiness to hear the communications of the cavalier.
Thus encouraged, the latter proceeded thus, while the three
kept their way to the Plaza de Armas.
“There is too little money to be had at this time in
Santo Domingo, Vasco, to make it difficult to number the
fortunate. The story is that you are among them; that, by
the aid of art magic, and our friend Micer Codro, you have
found the secret abiding place of the soul and substance of
the old usurer, Felipe Davila; that you have lightened
him of ten or twenty thousand castellanos, and the promise
of as much more; and that you are now able to fit up in
readiness for sea within the next two days.”
“A little truth, and the rest as usual,” was the laughing
reply. “Micer Codro has succeeded in persuading Davila
out of some few hundred castellanos, which will help me
to complete my preparations; but I believe the old rogue
already repents his confidence, since he brought the Bachelor
Enciso to us this morning, in hope to change somewhat
the direction of his trust.”
“Ha! but you yielded not—you did not disgorge?”
was the hasty demand of Nicuesa.
“Not a peso!” was the reply. “We had been fools,
indeed, to have done so; and to have shared with Enciso,
were a folly no less great. I have pleasure in telling you
that the two went back as they came.”
“By Saint John!—we, who cry in the wilderness may
well implore his special service and succour—but thou
wast right to send them back as thou didst, for coming on
so insolent a mission. It were a most heathen and infidel
demand, to claim from a cavalier that which they had freely
given; and to seek to make him a shareholder with such a
sharper as Enciso. But on what terms made they this
proffer to thee? What were the great advantages which
the Bachelor held forth?”
“Nay, I know not; something of joint fleet, and joint
command, and joint profit, with Ojeda in Veragua. I gave
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little heed to his glozing promises, being resolved before-hand
to have no dealing either with him or his captain.”
“Thou didst right,—thou hast the wisdom on't; for
what had been his promise and pledge to thee, when he
had thee among his creatures in that wild land? He had
laughed at thy remembrance of an engagement, which, from
the beginning of thy trust, he had only studied to forget.
He would have had thy ship, too, no less than thy castellanos,
I reckon.”
“His demand was for no less, I tell thee. Modesty is
not the commodity of the courts, or if it were, Enciso were
not a professor in them; but to thy own matters, Diego;
thou hast not forgotten the business which thou wast in
such haste to settle but a while ago.”
“No, no!” said the other, hesitatingly, and with an expression
of good-humoured confusion in his countenance;
“but of a truth, Vasco, my business being not altogether
unlike that of Enciso, it is my fear that I have somewhat
too freely spoken of the insolence of his. I begin to think,
now that my own matters rise up to my recollection, that,
after all, Enciso was something less insolent than he seemed
at first. He was bold, perhaps, but it was only in his necessity,
and the necessity may well serve to excuse somewhat,
if it may not altogether justify.”
“I fear this money of Davila's will do me little good,”
said Vasco Nunez, gravely. “It is even so with every
spoil for which many are striving. If the treasure be gold,
they cross weapons ere its safe division; if it be a captive
damsel, they murder her, that none shall have what each
so much desires. I say to thee, Nicuesa, I am almost persuaded
to let thee have these castellanos without terms, for
I am in the faith that they will serve me little; and to confess
a truth, it is almost sufficient cause to persuade me to
such a resolve, when I know that they come from the hands
of Davila.”
“Wherefore is that an objection with thee?” demanded
Nicuesa, with some astonishment. Himself somewhat unscrupulous
in money matters—and this was one of the failings
of his character—he had not that nice sense of
honour, the reservation of which operated at this moment
on the mind of Vasco Nunez. To his unrestrained expression
of astonishment and inquiry, the latter answered with
increased gravity.
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“There are reasons for it, señor.”
“Ah! I see—I understand,” said the other; “you would
owe nothing to the uncle of Teresa; it would fetter you,
you would say; but, my dear Vasco, these scruples are
very idle. You will grow less nice, and, pardon me that
I say so, more wise as you grow older, than you are now.
By the blessed Conception, and that I hold a most fitting
oath for men who deal in love-matters, it should be no
scruple with me, though the damsel's uncle were twenty
times her uncle, and father, to boot, to take all the money
that he should offer. What says the saw? `The gold is
blessed in spite of the blood;' and the woman whom I honour
with my hand should be grateful that I relieve her
kindred of the distressing charge of that, which the reverend
fathers of the church, (who take it whenever they
can lay hands upon it, and probably for the like reason,
to remove it from those it might harm,) tell us is the root
of all evil. For my poor part, it is a moderate, but constant
prayer with me, that I may have it in my power to plant
out a few more of these evil roots; for, as I deem myself
something of an adept in making them grow when I have
them, it is my faith in no remote season, that I should be
an extensive farmer. Did you ever hear of my spoils on
my way out, Vasco? Did you hear, Micer Codro?”
“No—what spoils?” was the response of both.
“One hundred of the Anthropophagi from the Charaibee
Island, which we now call Santa Cruz. They sold well
in San Domingo, and helped me to as many seamen, and
to provision for two months. These are ventures good as
gold, Vasco, since these feeble Indians of Hispaniola sink
so fast beneath their burdens: and the beauty is, that you
gather them with the weapon of the warrior and not that
of the slave.”
“None of these for me, Nicuesa. I should deem my
spoil worthless if not something worse, if I do not better
than this in the great southern sea.”
“Ah! that great southern sea, Vasco—do you ever think
to find it.”
“As surely as I live!” was the solemn answer.
“You will waste your best days, my dear Vasco, in
the search, and, I fear me, after all find nothing. I could
give you better counsel.”
“Perhaps! perhaps!” said Vasco Nunez, quietly.
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“I have a better plan; and, by the way, to my own
business. You know, Vasco, that my armament is almost
ready, and I lack but little to its completion, and something,
not so little, to pay off creditors that might not else
be so willing to see me sail. Now, where I am to get
this money, unless by your help, the saints only know.”
“My help! These castellanos afflict you then,
Diego?”
“Give me these castellanos, Vasco, and take part in my
adventure.”
Vasco Nunez shook his head. The other continued:
“Hear me, Vasco, before you answer. I have, as you
know, the royal grant for one half of Darien to the west,
including Veragua and reaching Gracios à Dios. The
island of Jamaica is given to Ojeda and myself in common.
You shall share my profits in proportion to the castellanos
you lend me, and I will give you command of one of my
fortresses in Veragua—sole command—the freedom of Jamaica
for supplies; and one-fifth of the profits of all the
mines which may be discovered in your district.”
Vasco Nunez laid his hand on the arm of the knight.
“Nicuesa, you forget: the Bachelor Enciso, on behalf of
Alonzo de Ojeda, hath but this morning made me an offer
of like advantage.”
“But I am neither Enciso nor Ojeda, Vasco.”
“No! God forbid, for your own safety, that you should
be, Nicuesa. But though I couple ye not, I see no especial
reason why your answer should not be the same as
theirs; the condition of the promise being the same in
both cases; and, assuming it to be complied with, being
still of no force to persuade me.”
“Then you will not let me have any of these castellanos!”
“By Hercules, no! Not a maravedi, Nicuesa. I thank
you for your offer, which, if I had not some other purposes
in view, I should count most liberal; but it does not
suit me. I have hopes of better fortune than you can
promise.”
“You will make less money, Vasco. The southern
sea, my friend, is one of your dreams, bright and beautiful
but illusive. It will swamp your fortune, Vasco, but
scarcely swim your bark.”
“Be it so, Nicuesa; but I hope otherwise. We shall
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see. I will not let you have my money, but, by the
blessed Mother, señor, you have all my prayers.”
“Enough, Vasco,” replied the cavalier, whose disappointment
did not seem for an instant to disturb his equanimity.
“I thank you, and hold myself not the less ready
to serve you, Vasco, as a noble cavalier and honourable
friend, because of your refusal to stead me in this matter.
Let us say no more, but enter the Plaza. Surely, among
the many brave gentlemen in this crowd, I shall find one,
having a warm heart under his doublet, and a full purse of
castellanos at his girdle. The golden fortune perch upon
my shoulder now, that I may see such a person.”
“Amen!” said both of his companions, as they followed
him into the public market-place, “may you find a thousand.”
“Thanks, thanks; one friend and a thousand castellanos;
the more money, the fewer creditors! Stead me,
good Codro, with a fortunate star, and I may have some
hope even of Felipe Davila.”
The astrologer shook his head, and there was a grave
significance in his eye as he listened to the cheerful Nicuesa,
which promised for him any but a happy augury.
“What! it will not shine out—it burns dim—it is not
fortunate! say no more, Codro—let not these money-bags
see thy face when I challenge their credit, and promise
them bold profits. If thou canst smile too, as thou dost on
Vasco, it will be a matter of a thousand pesos to me, and,
perchance, if I am successful, a something to thyself. But
a truce now! These harpies of Santo Domingo, will think
as they behold me smile, that it is because of thy prediction;
and I trust thou will not shake thy head again with
that speaking gravity, to let them see that thy faith in my
fortune is other than my own. Let us in, for the crier is
at work already, and it is a castellano's value to show to
the stout mariner that the captain who seeks his service
hath a hearty smile and an open hand. They will find
both, I trust, in Diego de Nicuesa.”
“That we may both say, Diego, without looking at thy
star,” was the response of Vasco Nunez as the lively cavalier
entered the area before them.
“It were well,” said the astrologer with a mournful
countenance, as the former passed from hearing—“it were
well if hearty smile and open hand, were all that is needed
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in his adventure. I can tell Diego de Nicuesa, that they
will do him small service in Darien, however much they
may stead him here.”
“Ha!—thou hast looked upon his fortunes, Codro,” said
Vasco Nunez, stepping back and listening to the astrologer
with an air of anxiety which showed how much importance
was annexed, in that day, even by the most intelligent
persons, to the opinions of that visionary tribe of
whom it is difficult to determine whether they most commonly
impose upon themselves or others. The answer
was immediate.
“What saith the scripture, my son? It is written—`no
man knoweth his own sepulchre'—I tell thee that no man
will find the sepulchre of Nicuesa. There are hollows of
the Charaibean Sea that shall have more knowledge of his
fortune, my son, than any living Spaniard.”
“Alas! father, can this be so? And Nicuesa is so noble
a gentleman, so graceful and so gallant.”
“Noble and base will go down into the weedy waters
together, and there will be none left to choose out the
grave for the pure of lineage.”
“Let not thy look show forth these gloomy tidings, Micer
Codro—let him win what favour he may from the misers
of Santo Domingo. If the sea sucks down their treasure
it will be of little count the loss, when the same sea
swallows the brave spirit and the gentle heart. Let us in,
Codro—let us befriend him; methinks, I could yield him
these castellanos of Davila to keep him from the perilous
waters.”
“They would not keep him, even if thou wouldst; for
there is that in the stubborn vanities of men—strong in
their own conceits and hopes, which makes inevitable all
the registered decrees of fate. Nor, even did he keep from
these seas, would he elude his doom. There is a providence
that shall move its completion, though the victim
stirs no single limb. Not more truly does the pointed steel
yield to the grasp of the northern tooth, than does the selected
victim obey his fate, though, like the conscious bird
before the wounding eye of the green serpent of Cayuba,
he shrieks to behold it, and spreads a feeble wing to fly.
He will rush into its jaws at the very moment when he
fondly deems himself most secure from any danger.”
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“And thou thinkest truly that such will be the fate of
Nicuesa?”
“I have seen it—it is written, my son; but of what
avail to reveal it unto him. He will sneer and doubt as
does the blind man ever; and he will die even in his blindness,
not believing, but hoping, even against reason, to the
last. Let him die, since we may not stead him by our
warning. Perhaps it were quite as well that he should
die blindly.”
“Perhaps! But truly, Codro, it is fearful to be hurried
thus from life—from the height to which we have toiled
with a perilous labour, and a sleepless hope—to be hurled
suddenly from the steeps of triumph, and feel the deep
seas rolling over purposes and pride, alike—destroying the
goodly life that had in store a thousand achievements of
greatness, each mightier than all the past!”
The astrologer did not say what he felt and thought
while listening to this reflection of his companion. But
a secret voice was whispering in his heart the while.
“And such too will be thy fate, noble, and generous,
and valiant, as thou art. Full of hope, and the love of
greatness, thou too, like the cavalier thou deplorest—thou
too wilt be hurled from the utmost height of thy dominion,
when thy triumph is most seemingly secure, and when the
assembled world is looking up to do thee homage. Such
is the written promise of thy star—but it is also written,
that, unlike Diego de Nicuesa, thou wilt first triumph!
Thy greatness is secure!”
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CHAPTER VIII. THE PLAZA—THE NOTARIES—THE LADY TERESA.
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The Plaza de Armas, or Place of Arms, in Santo Domingo,
to which the steps of our company were directed,
was a place of much more use than importance. It was
not, as we have already said, simply an area for military
assemblage, but, combining the advantages of a market-place
with that of the parade, it offered equal facilities to
the tradesman selling his wares, the seaman seeking engagements
for new voyages, and the citizens gathering together
for the consideration of public business. Here sometimes
presided the governor and the alcalde; and here, too,
at this period might still be seen the rude seat raised by
Columbus, and honoured to all future governors by its first
reception of his person. As a market-place, it was seldom
without some occupants, either in the persons of the wostricken
Indians, their women and children, sitting beside
their little piles of plantain and cassavi; or of their lordly
customers, who sauntered through the passages, peeling
“the fig while the fruit is fresh;” or, reclining upon rude
benches at the several corners, quaffing the intoxicating
juice, which the natives bad taught them to prepare, called
pulque, and which the Spaniards soon learned to drink with
as much delight, and scarcely more moderation than the
savages themselves. The structure employed in these various
uses was a simple framework of poles, elevated some
twelve or fifteen feet from the earth, thatched with caneshafts
and palm leaves intertwined, and otherwise entirely
open to the weather. It formed an oblong square, and covered
a quarter of an acre of ground. A knowledge of the
genial temperature of the climate, not less than of the sudden
and terrible hurricanes to which the island was subjected,
which the Spaniards soon acquired, taught them to
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adopt, to a large extent, the customs of the natives in building,
and to avoid, up to this period, every more solid form of
habitation, which could not, any more than the frail bohio,
withstand the tempest, and which must only expose the
inhabitant to a greater risk, from the tearing asunder and
the falling apart of the heavy timbers, which its erection
must necessarily require. Like the Indians, their dwellings,
until they began to work in stone, were low to the ground,
and constructed of materials which, when scattered about
them in sudden ruin, could inflict but little injury upon their
occupants. Perhaps, too, a desire for repose, the natural
consequence of the relaxing influences of a climate so insidious
and seductive, led the grim warriors, whose whole
life previously had been one continued battle, to avoid all
labours not necessary to their various plans of conquest.
The luxury of idleness forbade the erection of massive
dwellings, the toil of building which, seemed superior to
the gratification of living in them; and to ascend the lofty
flights leading to an upper story, soon became too great an
exertion for those who saw no sort of necessity for the
building itself. Arguments are never wanting to convince
the understanding, when the blood has already taken part
in the controversy; and with the exception of those rovers
who were continually arriving from the old country, and
to whom the island of Hispaniola—already occupied by
thousands of unglutted adventurers—offered no farther rewards
for avarice and enterprise, there were few among the
Spaniards not overcome by the intoxicating influences of
success and sloth. They were no longer the bold and but
half civilized warriors, who, from battle to battle, and from
mountain to mountain, had marched through Morisco blood,
and in despite of the fierce valour of the Moriscan chivalry,
under whom they learned most of their accomplishments
in arts and arms, from the sterile passes of Arragon and
Castile to the green plains and purple towers of Grenada.
The gold of New Spain, like the molten metal poured
down the throat of Valdivia by the fierce Indians whom
he had so long hunted for it, through every sort of crime,
and who at length bestowed it upon him in a form no less
terrible than full of retributive justice, seems to have been
a moral and physical death to the mother country; and in
the prostration of her greatness, in the seeming annihilation
of her national valour, in the decay of her enterprise, in
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the degradation of her people, seems not unaptly to have
revenged the sufferings of the miserable savages, who perished
in uncounted thousands to procure it. Those of her
sons who set forth upon their journey for adventures in the
wildernesses of the new world, soon found their hearts
hardened to all the sensibilities which, even in the fierce
wars with the Moors of Grenada, then just ended, it had
been equally their pride and pleasure to encourage. A stern
and avaricious bent of purpose, upon the single object, produced
a degree of morbid misdirection in the mind, which
utterly subverted every thing like principle, and rendered
their humanity entirely dependent upon the caprices of
moods naturally changing with every impulse of a proud,
successful, and hence an intoxicated, race. Endowed on a
sudden with resources of wealth, which were unexpected,
and to which they were unfamiliar, they became even more
haughty than before; and as the necessity for exertion lessened
in their eyes, they relaxed from the hardy discipline
which the moral energies of Isabella the Catholic, appear
to have taught to the several nations which her queenly
policy had incorporated into one; and gave themselves up
to a luxurious disregard of all the severer duties which,
among a heathen people, should have followed hard upon
their path of conquest. Adopting from the savage that desire
for repose, which, in the bland climates of Cuba and
Hispaniola, seems almost to have assumed the air of a sentiment,
and to have thrown around voluptuousness the virtue
of a grace, they surpassed him in its indulgence, while
subjecting him to toils under which the most iron-sinewed
manhood must have shrunk and perished. The rush floor
of the Haytian soon satisfied the torpid conqueror whose
eves had wandered with delight over the rich carpets of
Morocco, upon which he trod in the Grenadian palaces;
and the proud towers and the variegated marble of the
haughty dwellings which had been the reward of his valour
after the conquest of Malaga, and Baza, and Guadix, lifted
as they were upon sterile and gloomy hills, were considered
well exchanged for the humble cane bohio of the Cuban,
swept by the balmy winds of those foreign seas, sheltered
by the shade of towering forests, and yielding, without
culture, to his wish, fruits more luscious than he had
ever fancied in his wildest dreams before.
But, however humble to the eye accustomed to the
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triumphs of Moorish architecture, may have been the Plaza
de Armas of San Domingo, it could boast of having sent
forth many a noble armament. Its shipping, already numerous,
were beginning to pierce the rivers of the continent
then recently discovered, to bear away in search of conjectured
fountains, whose waters were those of youth and immortality,
and daily to make the conquest of new shores and
empires, that were boldly and not extravagantly entitled
the very regions of the sun. Its commanders already began
to look down from eagle eminences upon the golden
empires of Montezuma and the Incas; its seamen were already
panting for the glory—how equivocal and insecure
in its rewards!—of being discoverers of new worlds, and
the possessors of unopened oceans. Not a day passed
without yielding some new name to the column of renown,
which Spanish valour and avarice had raised in the eye of
the wondering world; and every returning barque brought
tidings of pearly shores, and waters that trickled over sands
more golden than Pactolus. Let not the swelling imaginings
of those assembled in the rude structure to which we
now turn our eyes, seem unjustly ascribed to them. It may
be asserted with safety that, in that day of feverish anticipation,
when the acquisition of so much that is wonderful,
necessarily provoked the imagination to a faith in resources
of wonder yet in reserve, infinitely beyond the known and
even the conjectured; no story however strange, or conjecture
however fanciful, was found too marvellous for the
credulity of some one of the hundred classes of hungering
expectants with which the island was filled. The atmosphere
of the time, if we may so speak, not less than of the
region, was one of marvels; and we find accordingly that
the most staid and sober of the discoverers were imbued
with fancies, to which the vision of the poet could discern
no parallel. Even the truth-loving Columbus, rigidly tenacious
as he appears ever to have been to say no more than
he could say with safety, rose constantly into a form of
utterance which left but little to the embellishments of fiction.
In those days men believed in mermaids whom they
frequently beheld on fragments of rock, or diving down
into the transparent waters of the Bahamas. A nation was
supposed to exist, upon the authority of Sir Walter Raleigh,
who were born without heads, and had their eyes in their
shoulders. A misty veil, such as seems to overhang the
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spiritual, and to impair if it cannot obscure, the emerging
truth, seems to have rested upon most objects at
this period in the physical world; and the land and the
sea, which daily developed objects utterly unknown to the
European, might very well be supposed to contain other
objects equally unknown, and far more marvellous. To
the Spanish cavalier, solemn and superstitious in his feelings,
and haughty and swelling in his thoughts, every variation
in nature from the accustomed objects of his sight,
savoured of an especial miracle in his behalf. The flyingfish
that leapt into his caravel in the moment of his despondency,
was a messenger from heaven; the firefly that rose
from the marsh, and revealed its dangers to his sight, was
a spiritual guide. He lived in a realm of wonders, which
his pride assured him were peculiarly designed for himself,
till in time he grew, in his own estimation, as one so favoured
of heaven, the crowning wonder of the whole. It
can scarcely be surprising to us, if he ceased to regard himself
as human, and if, in consequence, forgetting most of the
apprehensions of humanity, he soon learned to forget all
its charities. But let us enter the place of gathering, in
which we shall find assembled, at this moment, a goodly
portion of the inhabitants of the city.
The area of the building, and the greater portion of the
seats were already in possession of a mixed assembly of
captains, citizens and seamen. These formed little groups
which were parted on different sides, as if by tacit consent,
according to the prejudices prevailing among them in behalf
of leading individuals. At present, the community was
filled with the disputes of the rival knights to whom King
Ferdinand had made such magnificent, and, in some respects,
inconsistent grants. On one side were those who
formed the party of Ojeda—on the opposite were the
friends of Nicuesa. Scattered promiscuously among the
two might be found many persons not yet determined in
behalf of either, though perhaps inclining to the side on
which they sat; while, in the centre of the apartment, and
in small groups at the extremities, were others as yet entirely
uninfluenced by a bias of any kind. Many of these
were lawyers—a class of people in which the colony was
already stocked to overflowing—whom the frequent litigation
of the adventurers arising from their uncertain and
conflicting titles, their unjustly divided spoils, and the
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strifes engendered as well by personal dislike as by the
right of property—had called into early and constant requisition.
Others were citizens, perhaps creditors of
Ojeda and Nicuesa, or of those engaged by them for the
voyage—watchful of the moment when to press their
claims, and having the man of law in readiness for its assertion
even to the final steps of arrest and incarceration.
Groups of seamen might be seen, sitting, lying and lounging
in various portions of the spacious hall; sometimes
drowsily yielding to the exhaustion produced by a late debauch,
but in every situation, wearing the indifferent, goodhumoured
carelessness of countenance, which so eminently
distinguishes that sturdy class of adventurers, to whom their
repeated risks of life and fortune seemed to have taught
an almost total disregard of both. Huddled together on
the outer verge of the hall, though still beneath the long
drooping eaves which depended from it on every side, and
completed its shelter from the sun, squatted little parties
of the natives, whom the presence of the Spaniards in the
centre of the building, had driven thence, with their fruits
and vegetables, to the limits. These sat or stood around,
wondering if not pleased spectators of proceedings which
they could only partially understand—seemingly unconscious
of object or aim in life, unless when summoned by
some one or other of their tyrants to lift for him the desired
fruit or refill with liquor the presented calabash; and
this done, sinking back into that apathy of demeanour,
which, if it speaks not entirely for the absence of life, is the
most certain indication of that deficiency of trust and hope
without which humanity has never yet found existence desirable.
Nor did these several groups entirely complete
the assembly. There might be seen at the upper part of
the hall, and on either side of the seat, known as that of
the “Admiral,” two elevated scaffolds, of a better finish than
the other portions of the structure, though still rude, which
sustained a triple row of benches, rising as they receded,
one above the other in the manner of those of a theatre.
A temporary canopy overhung them, made of the native
cotton, but stained by the Indians—an art which they possessed
before the coming of the Spaniards—with many
colours most of which were of a glowing and intense
brightness. It will easily be divined that the seats so conspicuously
placed and decorated were intended for the
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gentler portions of creation, to whom in Hispaniola, the
Bato, or Ball Play of the Indian, their Areyto or Historic
dance and song, the decision of justice and the execution
of the criminal, alike offered attractions not easily to be
foregone and seldom overlooked. The gathering of the
men on any occasion to the “Plaza,” was sure to bring
forth the most lovely and the most curious of the sex. In
the seats which the grave gallantry of the Spaniard had
provided for them, but which his jealousy had half shrouded
with the heavy and gorgeous drapery already described,
they watched the progress of business, hearkened greedily
to the disputes of rival warriors, sometimes encouraging
them with occasional words and smiles, and not unfrequently,
whenever a sly opportunity offered for such a
proceeding, pelting them with the skins of the luscious
anana which they ate with industrious eagerness as the
business proceeded. A third scaffolding not so lofty as
those assigned the ladies, but raised considerably above the
level of the seats with which the area was covered, was
intended for a purpose more in unison with the general objects
of the structure. This was the stand for the crier—
the agent or attorney for the party seeking a market—for
the auctioneer disposing of articles which it was necessary
to exhibit to the spectator's eye, and for the ocean-adventurer
aiming to recruit the seamen for his ships. It
was now occupied for this latter object, by an agent of each
of the rival knights, who, seated at the opposite extremities
of their little provinces, maintained all that courteous
distance, and nice observance towards each other, of the
smallest forms, which denote the jealousy and distrust so
natural to persons placed in such immediate competition.
A little table before each of them served to sustain their papers,
pens and ink, and certain unopened caskets, the contents
of which, only conjectured by the assembly, were
nevertheless supposed to be not among the feeblest of those
arguments which were meant to persuade the thoughtless
seamen to new perils and toils, in the search after unknown
worlds. Behind each of these persons waved a little pennoncele
or flag, bearing upon it certain emblematic forms and
figures, significant of the objects of the voyagers and the
rewards which they held out to adventure. On that of
Ojeda, which was a white ground of silk with a deep purple
border, might be seen a rude representation of a conflict
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with the Indians, such as he really had on one occasion at
Cumana, the circumstances of which were well known to
the Spaniards, and had won for him the most golden opinions
from the common people. The back ground showed
an Indian village in flames, while the whites and savages
were mingled in furious melée. In the foreground Ojeda
himself might be seen—a tolerable portrait—having just
overthrown a gigantic warrior, and being about to complete
his victory by the death of his victim. The point of his weapon
was already described as entering the neck of the savage;
the black blood was spouting from the orifice, and
the last writhing expression of agony in the face of the dying
man, was sufficiently horrible to produce all the effect
of a fine picture among the spectators of that period, who
only needed to be reminded of an event which all of them
had seen but too frequently to render necessary any more
felicitous touch of the artist. The scene was one too
grateful to the sanguinary temperament of Ojeda, to leave
it at all doubtful in his mind that it must be not less so to
the people whose services he sought; and yet it is more
than likely that the flag of Nicuesa, designed in less bloody
taste, was far more captivating to the fancies of the spectators.
It represented on a pale blue ground the approach of
a ship to the towering heights of an island which was
readily recognized as that of Hispaniola. An Indian girl
stood upon the shore, and with extended hand, and smiling
eyes beckoned the approach of the voyagers. Strings of
pearl hung around her neck, and were fastened in profuse
quantities to the gay painted cotton garments which she
wore. Her black hair was literally starred with bits of the
gold called guanin, and she wore bracelets and anklets of
the same attractive metal. The eminence upon which she
stood just above the waves which beat at her feet, had its
attractions also. It was a pile of the oyster which yielded
the precious pearls of the south, and the artist had judiciously
painted some with their lips parted, and showing
within the large precious fruit in the attainment of which
Spanish cupidity had already proved itself capable of every
peril as well as every crime. The intention of this artist
was of much more merit than his execution. At once
true and poetical, no comment could have been more severe
upon the national character than that conveyed in this
slight design. There needed but another scene to show
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what had been the return of the voyager for that confiding
innocence, and lovely hospitality which had welcomed him
to a shore, where he found happiness, but where he left
not even hope.
But it is time that we return to the narrative from which
our description has too long beguiled us. Let the reader
imagine now that he beholds the scene and the assembly
into which we have ventured to introduce him, on a sudden
moved to life and animation. A gay burst of music,
solemn and sweet, such as Charles the Fifth was wont to
say, with an audacity of fancy not more becoming than the
taste was just which induced it, “spoke directly to God,”
announced the arrival of some of the more conspicuous
persons of San Domingo, escorting and ushering in a band
of stately damsels, whose quick, vivacious black eyes,
peering from beneath mantillas adjusted nicely to produce
their proper effect, denoted a very different sentiment from
their stateliness of demeanour, and the slow and measured
pace to which the constraints of their education had habituated
them. A shrill, lively clamour from the gongs and
cymbals of the ships, which were generally provided with
these instruments of Moorish music, followed the more decorous
strains of the Spanish band, and during the brief
performance of the latter, the Plaza was rapidly filled with
people of all qualities and professions. The drowsy mariners
began to bestir themselves, the lawyers to adjust their
papers, the criers to look around them, and clear their
throats for the business of the day, and, even the poor Indians,
leaving for a moment their little piles of fruits, would
steal as closely to the circle as they dared, looking towards
the musicians with faces that gradually put on a more
cheerful cast, as the strange, sweet, foreign tones, beguiled
them into momentary forgetfulness of their own condition.
Ojeda was already in the Plaza bustling about among the
seamen, and promising to do wonders for those already
enlisted. The Bachelor Enciso was at his side to supply
those arguments which the less acute mind of Ojeda might
not so readily perceive, or which his headstrong quickness
of temper might readily lead him to forget. Though as
brave a man as ever lived, Ojeda was no little of a boaster;
and, perhaps, among a swelling and ostentatious people like
the Spaniards, accustomed as they were in that day to
achievements upon which the rest of Europe looked with
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amazement and delight, it became essential for the leader
who hoped to win their suffrages, to promise largely for
his own performances. Among the lower orders of all nations
boasting has ever been a prevailing accomplishment;
and the basest soldier in the Spanish ranks seldom wanted
one voice at least, to testify to his own prowess. The
rival of Ojeda, to whom the reader has already undergone
introduction, had not as yet made his appearance; and
when we are told that the agent who had charge of his
interests, was one of the most acute notaries in San Domingo,
the presence of the principal may not, perhaps, be
esteemed so very essential. That person at length rose to
open the business of the day. He was a tall, slender personage,
with a nose almost as sharp as the pen he carried
behind his ear, and though it might be hyperbole to describe
it as nearly the same length, we are nevertheless
bold to assert, that it made greater approaches to a parallel
than incredulous persons, not spectators, might be willing
to admit. The mind of Antonio Guerro was scarcely less
sharp than his nose. His features generally denoted the
hard, calculating, diplomatic and subtle character of one
entirely without kindred of any description, and whom a long
and intimate acquaintance with the world, its strifes and
vicissitudes, had rendered indifferent to all considerations,
those excepted, which go to the attainment of wealth and
the security of power over the multitude. Like this class
of men generally, he had never been positively prosperous.
He had made money it is true, but he had never found it
possible to retain it. There were always some adverse influences—
some opposing winds, that assailed his barque
and made it necessary that he should throw his treasure
overboard, for the preservation of his life. Providence seldom
appears to afford any very permanent triumphs to the
cold of heart and those indifferent to humanity; and though
it may not be moral to teach, and, perhaps, is not often true,
that merit finds its rewards in this narrow term of life, yet
it may almost always be asserted with safety, that the punishments
of evil begin long before it is ended. The humble
station of Antonio Guerro as crier for the expedition of
Nicuesa, furnished an odd contrast to that which he held
but a year before, when the supposed possessor of immense
resources, he beheld his ship go down, and was indebted
for his life to the services of one of the meanest of his
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crew. It was, perhaps, no small merit for one cold and
selfish as himself, that he yielded nothing to adversity, but
addressing himself to a renewal of his toils, was not reluctant
to take an office which gave but little profit and was
held in too little esteem to offer any inducements to ambition.
The faculty by which he had always succeeded hitherto,
was one which he did not omit to employ in behalf
of Nicuesa. He gave his whole energies to the task he
had undertaken; and served his employer with a closeness
and zeal which deserved the success, which more elevated
purposes in life and a purer moral, might have enabled
him, and made him worthy, to retain. He entered upon his
work with a glibness, a cool composure, and all that vulgar
and blunt sort of eloquence which is so desirable in the
auctioneer of modern times, whose business that of Antonio
Guerro might be said to resemble. Rising to his full height,
which, on the scaffolding where he stood made him eminently
conspicuous among and above the crowd, he rang a
little silver bell vehemently, as if commanding the attention
of the multitude. A buz went through the audience at this
signal, and indicated that pleasurable expectation which testifies
to the presence of a well known favourite. More
than one approving speech was audible to the crier, but
without producing upon his pale, thin, inflexible features,
the slightest change of expression. With the elevation of
his person, the notary of Ojeda began also to exhibit signs
of life. His arms and legs simultaneously bestirred themselves,
and his whole person began to show tokens of disquiet
and disturbance. He was a short, fat, fidgety sort
of person, seemingly the very opposite of Guerro, but not
without a certain share of those talents which his rival possessed,
and which his present occupation was supposed
pre-eminently to require. Though lacking the reputation
of his rival, the notary of Ojeda whose name was Medina,
familiarly styled the Padre Medina in San Domingo, and
who boasted a lineal relationship to a noble Spanish family
of the same name, was not without a decent degree of assurance
which might, in time, impress a higher estimate of
his claims upon the popular mind than he had at present.
He too rang his bell with a vehemence equal to that of
Guerro, who turned upon him a quiet look of contempt—
then, rising in his place, and looking confidently round upon
the audience, he seemed to wait the key-note which it
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appeared was expected from the lips of his rival. The audience
had not long to wait. Antonio Guerro was a man
of too much good sense to baffle the public expectation by
delay, and he answered their clamours by proceeding to
laud their valour, their patriotism, and that passion for adventure
in foreign parts which had given to the Spanish
nation such a vast precedence over all others at this period,
that of Portugal, perhaps, excepted. This exordium over,
he proceeded to one of those audacious frauds, which,
whether the result of cupidity or the diseased imagination
which deceives itself along with others, would be, perhaps,
in our day, considered quite too extravagant for serious
censure. He exhibited to his audience, a map regularly
drawn, coloured, and in every part distinguished by names
of places and persons, seas, bays, and inlets of regions utterly
unknown, and existing only as subsequent discovery
has taught, in the crude or cunning fancies of the artist. In
this map all the visions of Columbus, about Cathay, the
Spice Islands of the Orient, the Golden Chersonesus, the
Great Khan, and those wondrous sources of wealth and
splendour from which Solomon drew the materials for his
temple, were laid down with marvellous precision, and for
the first time found their names and habitations in the
savage wilderness of the western continent. Broad rivers
wound their way through golden mountains; cities rose
proudly among towering hills; while fleets of nations whose
flags were yet to be seen by Europe, were boldly drawn
upon this specious presentment, dignified with euphonious
titles from old Spain, and defined with an accuracy of
measurement under a scale of Spanish leagues, which left
nothing more to be desired. Seamen—sturdy rogues—were
already nigh to testify to the correctness of the map—to
describe its shores and cities—its fruits and inhabitants—
the largeness and beauty of its pearls, and the teeming fulness
of its precious mines. They had tales of valour to
relate, which had been achieved in its partial conquest;
incidents of wonder to quicken the narrative, and even
wounds to show in proof of their story. That such fabrications
should be resorted to with partial and even perfect
success, by those who sought in this manner to seduce the
credulous, need occasion no surprise at a time when truth
and falsehood had no such facilities for circulation, as are
afforded by the modern newspaper. The oral relation was
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then generally relied on for intelligence, and it became a
matter of serious responsibility, to dispute the testimony of
men who were ready to maintain their every assertion by
an appeal to the sword. The tale grew and gathered as it
went, and when all ears were open to the most wild extravagancies
of assertion, the creation of a new world was,
perhaps, a matter of only less difficulty than the finding of
persons condescending enough to occupy it.
“Madre de Dios! can it be, señor—can this be true? a
mountain of solid gold, gold hewn out with instruments of
steel—solid masses rolled down into the valley, and gathered
up and put in carriages, and carried off even as we
carry marble in blocks for building! can such be true? Is
the precious metal, which the wealthiest nations knew only
in thin veins—difficult to find—hard to gather—is it in
truth, bestowed in such lavishness upon the ignorant
heathen, who knoweth not the value of the thing upon
which he treads, and maketh of it familiar vessels for the
most lowly and base uses. What is thy thought, Señor
Vasco—say worthy Master Codro, what ear may be given
to this marvel.”
“Such ear as wise men yield to most marvels, señor;”
was the reply of Vasco Nunez to the citizen, who, grasping
his arm with looks that savored of alarm quite as much
as astonishment, challenged his opinion of a portion of the
testimony which Antonio Guerro had quoted in support of
the map which he displayed. It may be said that there
were sceptics in San Domingo, and that, by this time, the
little area was filled with a buz of disputation; words ran
high, and from conversing among themselves upon the
story which they had listened to, questions were at length
directly propounded to the narrator.
“We would see some of the guanin which comes
from these mountains, Señor Antonio—methinks thou
shouldst have some of these fine pearls which the seas of
those regions void upon the shores.”
“Ah, it were good for eyes that water!” sneered the
rival notary of Ojeda, who chuckled and rubbed his hands
with great delight, and snapped his little gray eyes with
exultation in the direction of his opponent. “A question
somewhat hard to answer, Señor Antonio, but a reasonable
demand, señor, unless Diego de Nicuesa hath forborne
to touch the treasure till he hath first had counsel and
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permission of Holy Church. Ah! my masters, press ye not
too closely upon the heels of my brother. See you not
that the gold is even now but gathering, and ye give not
space for it to be seen. He hath fear, that as ye press
upon him, the block which he hath hewn from the mountains
of Cipango will suffer hurts and losses from your
daggers. Press him not to show these pearls, my masters;
or ye might suffer much harm from the blinding brightness
in your eyes.”
The laugh was against Antonio, but without seeming to
give him much annoyance. He waited patiently until
each had expended his pennyworth of wit, then glancing
coolly and contemptuously toward the still chuckling Padre
Medina, he replied as follows:
“The man hath spoken, however strangely, my masters,
with some wisdom; though how such quality might find its
way into his brain, it passes mine to satisfy you. The gold
shall be shown in season, and the pearls, and other gems
of which I have not spoken, but which may all be had for
the gathering in certain regions of Veragua, into which
the noble Señor Nicuesa stands now ready to conduct you.
But if it be wisdom in the Padre to require to look upon
our treasure, and to feel it with his hands, it were sorry
wisdom in us to suffer it. Alas! my masters, how few
are there among us, at all times prepared to resist the temptations
with which the Evil One lies in waiting to insnare
our souls. Shall it be visited upon the head of the worthy
Padre as a sin too great to be forgiven, that he is not one
to bid the tempter depart from him. It were a hard judgment,
my masters, if this were so. We will not vex our
brother with free speech upon his weakness, and we trust
that he will not complain that we keep our treasures on the
far side of our table. The flesh is weak, my masters, and
the Padre Medina hath much of it.”
“Thou withered atomy, thou skeleton! would'st thou
speak against mine honesty,” cried the Padre, with a sudden
change of manner from the good humoured chuckle
to the fierce and angry gesture of the brawler ready for
combat.
“Nay, not so,” cried Antonio coolly—“The Virgin
forbid that I should speak against the dead, or waste breath
upon that of which none hath yet beheld certain signs of
life. But I have business, my masters,” continued
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Antonio, turning from the furious Padre who seemed almost
ready to turn the assembly into a gladiatorial ring—“I
have business—your business—my masters—to attend to,
and will waste no more words with my worthy brother,
who seems not to have provided himself with fitting knowledge
of what he came for, and knows not therefore what
to say. For my part—”
“I know what to say—I will say what will confound
you, Antonio Guerro,” was the furious interruption of Medina.
“I say that the Señor Diego hath made no such discoveries
as these you boast of—that he hath seen no such
mountains—that he hath gathered no pearls from Cipango—
and hath brought no slaves from the great Southern Sea.
Nay more, my masters, I say that he hath not only not
found these places, but that they have been found, if found
at all, by my most honourable Lord, the Señor Alonzo
de Ojeda. I will show you that it is he that hath found
Cipango—ay, Cipango, my masters—that Cathay already
lies at the foot of his discoveries, some of the mountains of
which look over into the territories of the Great Khan.”
The voluble Padre was interrupted in his bold declarations
by a sturdy sailor who had already entered in the armament
of Nicuesa.
“By San Jeronymo, Padre Medina, but these are new
discoveries of thine. When I met with thee this morning
thou told'st me nothing of these things, else perchance I
had taken thy offer, and been a partaker of these rich treasures
which thou hast at command. Wherefore didst thou
keep back these tidings. By the Holy Father, thou hast
done me wrong. Had I not equal right with the rest to
look into the territories of the Great Khan—was I not worthy
to share in the treasures of Cathay.”
“Nay, who denies thee, Gutierrez,” replied the unabashed
notary—“thou mayst do this now—the papers
are before me—thou hast need to give me thy name only,
and thou sharest in all the spoils of the brave cavalier,
Alonzo de Ojeda.”
“And how may I do this when I have already taken
part with Señor Diego? This I should not perchance
have done, hadst thou made thy discoveries in season.”
“Nor I—nor I—nor I,” was the echo of a dozen
voices.
“Methinks, thou hast thy answer, Padre,” remarked
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Antonio Guerro, re-commencing his proceedings. The
other was not silenced, but continued to mutter and interrupt
his rival by occasional suggestions of falsehood, and
numberless sarcasms such as may very well be looked for
in a controversy so carried on before a mixed multitude, by
persons lacking in any very nice restraints of morals or
society. But the ears of Vasco Nunez ceased to hear, and
his eyes to behold the rival notaries, upon the arrival of a
group of damsels among whom the keen glance of the lover
soon discerned the lovely person of Teresa Davila. This
stately maiden, who maintained the carriage of an Amazon,
and who could have looked the maid of Orleans to admiration,
entered the Plaza, without seeming conscious of that
observation to which she was in no wise indifferent. Her
dress was composed of a gown of the purest white, surmounted
by a symar of pale blue silk, which, closely fitting
her bust, displayed its full and exquisite proportions
to the nicest advantage. A string of pearl intertwined with
her ebon tresses offered a pleasing contrast to their glossy
hues, which shone darkly bright through the transparent
veil of nicest Moorish workmanship, which, secured by a
splendid carbuncle to her brow, was also bound by another
gem of equal value to her shoulders, and from them fell
nearly to the ground. But the grace of her carriage, and
the nice taste which had adjusted every part of her costume,
were not sufficient to satisfy the spectator, and long
retain his glance after it had once caught a glimpse of the
proud, bright face, the dark and fiery eye, and the imperial
sweetness of that mouth, which conferred upon it what
a painter seldom might, the life of expression. Her head
was distinguished by that noble contour which has been
for so many ages remarked as the distinguishing and most
admirable trait of the Spanish women; and resting upon a
neck of chiselled smoothness and swanlike movement, it
mingled an air of grace with its aspect of command, and
united with the general majesty of her demeanour, a serenity
of carriage which conciliated even when it impressed,
and invited when most it awed. Perhaps, a something too
much of fire in her eye made it doubtful whether her heart
could ever yield to any great degree of feminine weakness.
There were those, and the astrologer Micer Codro was
among them, who esteemed her, chiefly, perhaps, from the
gay and reckless radiance of her eyes, a creature insensible
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to all the softer influences of love, and only moved in her
attachments by that narrow selfishness which fills the bosom
given up entirely to its own vanities. But these were
the harsh judgments of those who did not themselves love.
It was the hope and faith of Vasco Nunez that his more
favouring judgment would be sustained by his own fortunate
experience. Time will show which of these was
right
“She would wed thee now, Vasco,” whispered the
astrologer to his companion, as he caught the glance of the
maiden's eye turned towards him; “if, on the instant, thou
couldst claim her hand, this instant would she bestow it.”
“Would it were so,” was the emphatic reply; “but
why sayest thou this instant; why not hereafter.”
“Thou art now triumphant, my son, and her pride is
satisfied with thee. I could not be surety for her love if
thy fortune suffered change.”
The cavalier turned from his grave companion, with
a stern countenance of dissatisfaction. But no such countenance
was shown to the fair Teresa. He beheld her
with a very different aspect. Putting aside the crowd
which stood between him and the maiden, he hurried forward
to the entrance and had the joy of assisting and attending
her to the raised and curtained seats, where had already
assembled a goodly number of the fair damsels of
the city. He stood beside her where she sat, and in the
indulgence of those dreams of the heart which for a season
will even blind the ambitious soul to its high purposes of
fame, Vasco Nunez grew not only forgetful of his own
purpose in the assembly, but almost unconscious of what
was going on around him. The increasing clamour of the
crowd, provoked by the play at cross purposes between
the rival notaries, and at length, of their leaders, soon obtruded
itself upon a sense, but too well satisfied not to find
annoyance in every change.
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CHAPTER IX. THE RIVAL CHIEFTAINS.
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The movement of Vasco Nunez which led him to the
side of Teresa Davila, was followed by a corresponding
movement of the astrologer. With difficulty, the faithful
old man struggled through the crowd, ascended the steps,
and plucked the cavalier by the sleeve in the midst of an
address to the maiden, in which he spoke much more of
love than compliment.
“What now?” demanded Vasco Nunez, hastily.
“Thou hast forgotten all, my son. The damsel fills
the brain with lethe that fills the heart with love. These
seamen must be secured even now or never. In a few
moments they will have taken part with one or other of
these knights, and the refuse only will be left thee. Suffer
me to do this business for thee, and secure thy fitting complement,
if thou wilt not thyself.”
The cavalier, secretly pleased with the offer, yet made
some show of hesitation.
“It will trouble thee too greatly to press through this
crowd, Micer Codro!—”
“Not a whit! Velasquez, thy lieutenant, is at hand,
and shall bring chosen men to me at the porch. I will
put an argument into their hands which shall better convince
them of thy superior claims than those which the
notaries yield only to their ears. It will take me but little
time and even less labour, to secure thee thy men; and if
thou wilt, I will give moneys to Velasquez to get thee
stores and provisions. Mendez Pacheco I behold in the
crowd—perchance, he will seek thee for that which thou
owest him.”
“Pay him then, in God's name,” replied the cavalier,
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precipitately, but in a close whisper, “but suffer him not
to come near me.”
“This will leave but little in the casket,” said the other.
“Well—it matters not; we have all then that we shall
need. Let it take all; but let not Pacheco come to me
with his vile murmurs in this presence. Not here—not
now! let me be free of him.”
To the great relief of Vasco Nunez, the astrologer departed
on his various purposes, and he was suffered once
more to give his whole attention to the proud maiden by
whose side he stood. The controversy, meanwhile, had
not only waxed warm between the two notaries, but the
audience had naturally enough begun to grow interested
in it. Sides were soon taken by the bluff seamen; and as
the several criers nttered their sharp speeches at the expense
of one another, a hearty hurra from either portion of
the assembly rewarded them for their rudeness or their
wit. But the sharp-shooting was not confined to the subordinates
entirely. It was not long before it extended to
their superiors, who soon found themselves unable altogether
to resist those influences which moved the assembly,
and in which they had such weighty interests. They had
not listened to the jeers of their respective agents without
feeling that they too sometimes suffered from the sarcasms
and sneers so freely bestowed upon their representatives.
Gradually they had been brought to say something aloud
in the course of the proceedings, and as this could not
well be the case without something being uttered calculated,
however indirectly, to provoke the opponent, or disparage
his claims in the support of their own, the feeling
of rivalry between them, previously existing, which had
not been altogether without its bitterness before, was not a
little increased by the actual personal collision to which
they were proximating fast. The hot-headed little warrior,
Ojeda, was heated doubly by the obvious necessity
of restraining his temper at a moment when any ebullition
of it might defeat his purposes; and, moving now to the
foot of the scaffold on which his crier sat, now mounting
up behind and whispering in his ear, and anon shooting
off into the open air, as if for a breathing space, betrayed
to all the excitement under which he laboured, and which
compelled him to maintain, to the great amusement of the
party of Nicuesa, a sort of perpetual motion. His rival,
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on the contrary, preserved much more effectually the dignity
and ease of his usual winning manner. Without exhibiting
any impatience, or acknowledging, by word or
action, any annoyance, he yet busied himself with quite
as much industry as Ojeda, and a far better prospect of
success in raising his claims among the seamen, and commending
himself to the favour of all persons who might
serve him in his purposes. With a gay speech to one, and
a pleasant smile to another; now a whisper of compliment,
and now a sudden and friendly grasp of the hand,
he made his way through the crowd in all directions, winning
golden opinions as he went. But golden opinions
were of far less value in Santo Domingo than golden treasures,
and something more was essential to success than
the felicitous condescensions of the gentleman or the boastful
promises of the warrior. The seamen had acquired no
little knowledge of their leaders in the hundred voyages
made by as many adventurers, which every season sent
forth from the mother country; and they had now learned
to place a high value upon services which, amidst the
strife with Indians, and among themselves—not to speak of
the dangers of the seas—were not often paid for according
to promise or desert. Conscious, too, that they were absolutely
necessary to the rivals for the completion of their armaments,
they were resolved to hold out to the last moment,
and then to make the very best terms which they could
extort from the necessity, or which lay within the capabilities,
of their captains. Their reluctance or slowness to engage,
necessarily led to increased exertions on the part of
the notaries. They stimulated the latter to a degree of
earnestness in their efforts, which finally terminated in
short-chopping contradictions of each other's testimony—a
sort of warfare, which, as it displayed the angry passions
of those who were not yet willing to come to blows; and
as it had the still further effect of provoking, almost to
madness, the petulant Ojeda, while gradually warming
into irritability the more gentle and better graced Nicuesa,
afforded just that sort of excitement to all ranks of spectators
which is derived from a contemplation of those brutal
sports, misnamed of “The Fancy,” in which the vulgar
of Great Britain and America are supposed to take so
much more delight than that of all other nations. The
Spaniards of Santo Domingo were not wanting, however,
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in due efforts to encourage the combatants to the ultima
ratio implied in these exhibitions.
“Ha! by Saint Dominie, Padre, but you cannot answer
that. There he hath you, as one may say, between wind
and water. To the pumps, man, it will need all your
breath.” And the cheers went up for Antonio, but not to
the annihilation of his stubborn rival.
“Were I here to speak for myself only, my good masters,
he were not long without his answer—an answer to
put his nose into the dust and out of sight, immeasurably
long as it is; but the business of the Señor Ojeda is at a
stand, my masters, while I waste the precious hours; and
I should be forgetful of his merits, were I simply striving
here to show my own. Let me dwell for a moment upon
his well-known prowess in battle, his great skill, of which
you had proofs, when in his first voyage to the coast of
Paria, he—”
“Ay! what were his profits in that voyage? Let him
tell that, my masters. What brought he away from Cumana,
and Maracapana, and the Islands of the Charaibee, but
wounds? It were a sorry reward to hold forth to us now,
to tell of the profits of that voyage to Paria.”
Such was indeed the history of Ojeda's first adventure as
a leader in American discovery. The speech of Antonio
Guerro was not without its effect upon his audience. This
was perceptible to Ojeda, as well as to his notary, and the
former was seen, with a face bloated with fiery anger, to
ascend behind his agent, and whisper in his ear, with tremulous
eagerness and haste.
“That is true, my masters; Antonio Guerro sometimes
speaks the truth. The brave Señor Alonzo de Ojeda did
bring little from Paria, in that first voyage, beside wounds;
but those wounds were all taken for his people, whom he
never yet deserted; and they were wounds from which I
trow that Antonio Guerro would have fled with shame, and
so, perhaps, his betters. It is no shame to have made one
unprofitable voyage, my masters, since good fortune smiles
not always, even upon the greatest merit.”
“But it is scarcely a sign of the greatest merit to have
never made one profitable voyage,” was the reasonable and
ready response of the other. “Where are the proofs of the
Señor Ojeda's success? Where are his pearls, his gold, his
slaves? Methinks I have heard the questions asked by the
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alcalde, and certain men learned in the law, quite too frequently
to make it matter of wonder. It were no great
wisdom in him to produce these treasures, if indeed it were
in his power so to do. There be such officials known to
the law, as lay forcible hands on such matters, in requital
of certain vulgar responsibilities, which are called debts. It
were a blessing to the Señor Vergara, whom I see beyond
the music, and to many others whom I could name in Santo
Domingo, though I behold them not all present, could they
but look upon some of these proofs of the Señor Alonzo's
successes. They were creditors by far too generous to take
from him the honourable wounds which he got on the shores
of Paria—the only profits of that first voyage which he ever
brought home with him to Santo Domingo.”
The fiery little captain shook his fist, and looked unutterable
vengeance at the speaker; but he was saved from
any rashness by the direct retort of his emissary, who, by
carrying the war into his enemy's country, did much to
silence if not soothe his anger.
“It is new, my masters,” said he, “to reproach a brave
captain with his wounds, and make his misfortunes a subject
of idle merriment; but, we will admit that the Señor
Alonzo hath all the wounds, and that the Señor Diego hath
most wisely gone only where he could get none. That he
hath not escaped every where in like manner is no less certain;
for I have either dreamed it, or it is true, that he hath
had misfortunes also. I will not speak, as from my own
knowledge, but will humbly ask of himself, he being here
present, if he hath no debts?—if he owes no creditor?”
Ojeda clapped his hands at this sally, and every eye in
the assembly was turned upon the spot where the handsome
Nicuesa stood. Laughing good-humouredly as the
notary concluded, the cavalier responded promptly to the
impertinent question, and in a manner that showed him as
prompt in converting seeming evil into benefit, as his unhappy
rival, Ojeda, was in converting the good into unmixed
evil.
“That he does, thou knave!—he owes more debts and
hath more creditors than he will ever pay, unless he gets
help from the gold mines of Chersonesus, which he hopes
soon to do with the aid of this good assembly. It is such
noisy knaves as thou, that will not suffer my attorney to
show the proofs upon which I found my claim to borrow
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more moneys, and find newer creditors. I have no fear of
what I owe, if they will only suffer me to owe enough. I
have no fear to pay my creditors, as I trust ever to keep
unwounded and free from harm. It is my pleasure to think,
that when I return to Santo Domingo, I will bring with me
every seaman that I carry hence; and none of them without
his proofs, not of my valour and his own danger, but
of my prudence and his own great profits therefrom. I
have no ambition of wounds, my friends, infinitely preferring
a whole skin and a heavy pouch. I trust, my masters—
those who go with me, I mean—that we shall never
lack the first, and soon fill the other.”
A loud cheering from all parts of the Plaza rewarded this
frank speech of the cavalier. The good nature of his reply—
in such complete contrast to the angry deportment of
Ojeda, shown at every stage of the controversy, and
whom such attacks from the rival notary only drove to
greater disquiet—did more, perhaps, than any thing besides
to help the object of Nicuesa. The solid considerations of
interest, however naturally imposing to most men, are not
unfrequently set aside and disregarded by the rough citizen
of the sea, when opposed by influences which touch his
humour, or provoke his enthusiasm. The agent of Nicuesa
beholding the effect of what he had said upon his audience,
took up the cue, and proceeded upon the same hint.
“The Señor Diego owes money, it is true, my masters,—
he hath no occasion to deny it; but his creditors doubt
nothing of his ability and willingness to repay them in
due season.”
This, perhaps, was not altogether true. There was
more than one testy creditor present who could not so
easily be persuaded of the stability of Nicuesa any more
than that of Ojeda, and who did give him some considerable
anxiety and trouble before he set sail for his government.
But at this moment there was no need, and no one
willing to gainsay the assertion, unless it were the rival
notary; and, to his words—his vocation being known—
none of these, not more familiar with the fact, gave any
sort of credence.
“And what less can be said, señor, of the credit of the
gallant Alonzo de Ojeda. That he hath debts, he does not
deny.”
“He cannot!” was the cry of more than one voice in
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the assembly. The little warrior grew more restless than
ever and mounted behind his notary.
“He hath no wish to deny,” said the notary.
“Would he had wish to pay!” were the distinct words
of one from among the crowd.
“Who dares doubt it!” was the fierce demand of Ojeda
himself. “Let him come forth that does, and I will make
him eat my sword handle this instant.”
“That were no payment,” said the voice. “I stipulated
to be paid in silver and gold and not in steel.”
The laugh was universal against the little warrior. He
became furious in consequence. Leaping down from the
scaffolding of the notary where he had been standing
at the utterance of the jibe, he darted into the thickest of
the crowd, pursuing the direction from which the impertinent
sounds had arisen; but the voice was now silent, and
the speaker was evidently concealed by those around him,
whose ill-suppressed chucklings, as he drew nigh, in no
small degree heightened the anger of his disappointment.
The incident told very much against Ojeda, who had
shown himself so sensible to a taunt, which had only provoked
the good humour of his rival. The notary of Nicuesa
did not fail to improve the impressions of the audience
on this subject.
“It is easy, after this fashion,” he said, “to pay one's
creditors. By'r lady, if the Señor Diego could be persuaded
to adopt this mode of stopping the mouths of those
who trust him, there should be free discharge for him in
Santo Domingo. He should want neither men nor money
for his venture; but he wastes his valour not upon his
friends—only upon his foes;—not upon confiding creditors
and generous Spaniards, but upon the Anthropophagi, the
foes of man and our blessed religion. His valour—”
“Speakest thou of the valour of Diego de Nicuesa,”
cried the rival notary, “in the same day with that of Alonzo
de Ojeda?”
“Ay, in the same hour, and in the hour before it. I
speak of the valour of Nicuesa as a refined and Christian
valour, that strikes with judgment and skill, not less than
with force; that shuts not the eye in seeking out the
enemy, rushing with down-head, like the bull upon the
barrier; but with the keen sight and graceful advance of the
cavalier, who has learned to joust after the manner of the
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Moresco—so as to surpass even him in the tilting match—
who goes towards his foe like one sent from heaven with
commission to overcome. Know you not, my masters,
that he can send his horse into battle to the music of the
viol; that he hath taught him to caracol to sweetest music
while he flings his heel into the face of his enemy? You
have many of you seen this horsemanship of the Señor
Nicuesa.”
“Ay, and the heels of the horse hath also more than
once saved the head of the rider,” said the notary of Ojeda.
“He hath never shown his back to the Indians as the
Señor Alonzo did at Cumana.”
“Nay, there thou liest, slave!” was the fierce apostrophe
of Ojeda, coming forward as he spoke; “thou liest,
and I should this moment chastise thee—but that thou
standest in the place of another, who shall be accountable
for thee. Ho! Señor Diego, dost thou hear thy notary;
thou shalt render to me for his lying insolence. If thou
art the man and the soldier he hath declared thee to be, I
look to find thee instantly ready.”
The fierce little warrior was happy to seize an occasion
to expend some of the rising choler which had been
accumulating in his breast for the previous hour; and it
was no less grateful to him, though by a strained construction
of his rights, to single out his rival as the most
conspicuous medium for his relief in this respect. The
taunts of the notary, echoed as they had been by more
than one in the assembly, had goaded him to a pitch of
feverish rage that baffled and banished every restraint of
reason, and without regarding the possible evil effect which
his course might have upon his objects, he uttered his demand
to Nicuesa in such a manner that it seemed to place
it beyond the power of the latter to evade the issue. The
reply of Nicuesa was sufficiently prompt.
“As thou wilt, Señor Alonzo—as thou wilt. I trust
ever to be sufficiently ready for all who seek me, whether
in love or anger—unless it chance to be one of these same
creditors of whom we spoke but now; I am sometimes
exceedingly loath to encounter such as these.”
“It is well—I rejoice me that thou hast spirit to maintain
the false assertion of this knave of thine. I will be
with thee on the instant.”
This was spoken by Ojeda while at some little distance
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from, and while the crowd stood, a solid mass, between
him and his rival. Without the deliberation of a moment,
he began pushing his forward progress, and the idea of
such a conflict, at once appealing to the desire of many,
and, perhaps, to the tastes of most, in the assembly, the
crowd readily gave free passage to the small but restless
body of the fiery warrior.
“You will not—it will ruin you with all your creditors!”
was the expostulation of Juan de la Cosa, the lieutenant of
Ojeda, a cool, experienced veteran, whose calm good sense,
was required continually to be in requisition, to keep his
captain out of mischief. But his words were unavailing
now. He rejected the expostulation of La Cosa with scorn,
and pressed on his way to the spot where Nicuesa stood,
perfectly quiet, at the foot of the ladies' scaffolding, regarding
the scene with as much seeming composure, as if he
had no sort of interest therein.
“I care not if it ruin me with all the world, I will submit
to no insolence like this; I will suffer no wrong from
man. Nicuesa shall answer me for this insult, though I
perish the instant after.”
“Thou wilt not fight with him on such a quarrel,” was
the expostulation of Vasco Nunez to Nicuesa.
“Give the matter no heed; I will trouble him with conditions,”
was the smiling answer.
“Ho! Señor, thou art not ready! Why dost thou not
breathe thy weapon,” demanded Ojeda, confronting Nicuesa.
“Give it air, I wait thee at the entrance.”
“All in good time, Señor Alonzo,” calmly responded the
party addressed. “If I fight with you according to your
desire, there must be terms between us—there must be
some composition.”
“What terms—what composition?” demanded the other
impatiently.
“I owe certain moneys in San Domingo, Señor Ojeda,
and until these are paid, I have no right to risk my life,
save in the labour necessary to promote the interests of
those who have so far honoured me with their confidence.
It would be a serious risk of life, were I to engage in fight
with one of thy known excellence in the use of thy weapon.”
“Of a truth would it,” was the somewhat exulting
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reply. “Thou wilt not fight me—thou fearest me, Señor
Diego?”
“I have not said so, Señor Ojeda,—thou art but too precipitate
in thy valour. I will fight thee, for though I acknowledge
thee brave as any in San Domingo, be sure that Diego
de Nicuesa holds thee in no sort of apprehension.”
“Draw then, I pray thee—I grow impatient; if thou
wilt fight, fight!” cried the fierce Ojeda, with increasing
anger.
“Ay, but as my life is fairly the right of my creditors,
I dare not risk it unless with some hope of profit. Stake
thou then five thousand castellanos, Señor, Alonzo, and I will
place a like sum at issue, and whoso shall survive our combat,
he shall possess the ten. Five thousand castellanos
will compound with those I owe, and leave me free to play
at hazard with a life, which is now rather their property
than mine own.”
An offer of this sort, while it confounded the hasty Ojeda,
filled the whole assembly with merriment. All persons
knew the strait for money in which Ojeda stood, and as
they as well knew how such an overture would work upon
his fiery temper, they received it with shouts of applause.
“Lay down thy castellanos, Señor Ojeda,” cried one;
“let not the combat wait because of thy slackness.”
“He hath to make the voyage first to Paria,” cried another,
“and then it may be that the vexed waters of the
gulf will suffer none of his divers to go down.”
“But can it be that so worthy a captain should lack a
loan in San Domingo to so small an amount? Thou wilt
lend him, Señor Davila,” cried another.
“Not a maravedi;” cried the miser hastily, in reply to
this suggestion. “By'r Lady, I have but too much already
at risk in the hands of these captains of the ocean sea.”
“I thank you, I thank you friend—worthy friend!”
cried Ojeda, when he could recover breath, and trying all
the while to suppress those outpourings of his wrath in
words which he manfully resolved should find their sufficient
utterance in deeds. “I thank you, but it needs not.
The Señor Diego is a man of honour, and will not shrink
from combat on so poor a pretence. He must know that he
cannot now avoid the combat, which as an honourable cavalier
of Spain, I do most earnestly insist upon.”
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“Ay, but I do, save upon composition, as I before said,
Señor Alonzo,” calmly replied Nicuesa.
“You shall not evade me on any such pretence,
Señor —”
What more Ojeda would have urged to press the combat,
or whether he would have confined himself to words only,
cannot be said, as he was at this moment stopped by one
who laid a resolute grasp upon his shoulder, and whispered
in his ear the following words:—
“Press this matter, Señor Alonzo, and I compel the alcalde
to do his duty in the affair between us. The Señor
Diego is my debtor as well as thou, and he hath rightly
judged of my rights. Nor he nor thou shalt cast away life,
if the power be with me to arrest the folly. Pay the castellanos
which thou owest me, and thou mayst fight any
who owe me nothing. Offer again at this strife, and by the
Holy Mother, I cast thee into prison, and thou shalt never
set forth upon this voyage, for which thou art so prompt to
quarrel.”
There is something proverbially humiliating in debt, and
the fiery spirit of Ojeda, which neither the poisoned darts
of the savage, nor the keen thrust of the Spanish sword,—
no, nor chains could subdue—was at once spelled into quiet
by these few but impressive words uttered in a whisper,
the import of which the audience might have guessed, but
did not hear. He turned upon the speaker, who was a
withered, but a stern old man, and looked at him with an
eye that seemed to shoot forth shafts of fire to wound and
to consume; but he was prudent enough to resist the impulse,
which, in his soul he entertained, of defiance to the
last. But the angry reply subsided in his throat, in a hoarse
murmur, and he turned his wrath upon his lieutenant, De
la Cosa, who stood at a little distance behind him, looking
exceedingly well pleased at the arrest of the brawl, even
by such humiliating means.
“It is thou that hast done this, Juan,” he said, in hoarse
accents, to the sturdy mariner, upon whom he seemed for
the moment disposed to wreak the fury which had been so
suddenly restrained in other quarters.
“Thou hast said rightly, señor,” was the reply. “I saw
thee madding, to the detriment of all of us, and knew no
course to stop thee save by threat of alcalde and griping officer.
The broil is now fairly over, and, let me tell thee,
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thou hast no cause of quarrel with the Señor Diego. By'r
Lady, if ye were both bound to answer for such rogues as
ye have to speak for ye, there were neither credit nor character
left for either of ye in San Domingo. Let us go
aside, I have something for your ear; and you, Antonio
Guerro, go on with your business—ye have made but little
speed to-day, in the matter which you have in hand. You,
Padre Medina, have need to do likewise; and, hark ye,
when you speak forth your own follies, mingle them not up
with the names and words of the honourable cavaliers who
employ you; they have follies of their own enough to answer
for, without drawing weapon for such idle words as
yours.”
“Juan de la Cosa! Juan de la Cosa!” was the cry of
the multitude.
“Thou hast rightly enough spoken, Juan de la Cosa,”
replied Antonio Guerro, “yet not with thy usual wisdom.
Thy master had no need to move in the matter of which I
spoke; and if my speech could make a fool of him, it were
no foolish speech. But he puts on his own bells, and I but
ring them. Let him keep his cap under his arm, when he
comes next into the Plaza, and no one will then see with
what it is laden, nor hear the jingle of the bells thereof.
Art thou answered?”
The tetchy Ojeda was on the eve of breaking forth anew,
at this renewal of the attack, which seemed to be very well
received by the vulgar part of the audience; when he was
anticipated by his more cool and impenetrable lieutenant.
“Thou hast said sensibly enough, for that calf's head
of thine. It were better if our captains left this business
to us altogether, since they seem only fit to lead when the
savage heathen is ready with his dart. It is a fault with
such men as the Señor Ojeda, that they are only too valiant,
and the valour which makes them overcome the Indian,
makes them but too heedless of quiet among those who
would be at peace. But the fault is a good one with those
who seek for pearls at Cumana. That same fault, my masters,
saved the life of many a good Catholic, who, but for
the valour of Señor Ojeda, which would seem rashness
here, had been sent to purgatory before their time, and with
great peril to their Christian souls. Come, señor, let us
leave the business to the notaries.”
There was much in this speech to mollify Ojeda, and
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conciliate the seamen lacking service; there was much in
it besides of truth. The valour of the captain had more
than once been the shield of his men; and those who listened
to the eulogium, and felt that it was deserved, did not,
at the moment, remember that the dangers of his followers
had more than once been ascribed to the fatal rashness of
that same valour. The popular mind is essentially generous,
and its impulses are most apt to find a generous direction.
You could hear on all sides little recollections of this
and that individual, of particular instances of Ojeda's prowess.
One could tell of a saving blow struck for himself, in
Maracapana, when, but for Ojeda, a fierce savage would
have slain him. Another had been actually saved from the
cannibal repast of the Charaibees, to whom he had fallen
prisoner in a previous expedition, and who were fattening
him for that horrible feast, in which, like Polonius, he was
not to eat but to be eaten. These little recollections made
it needful that the agent of Nicuesa should bestir himself.
The tide seemed to be setting against him. But a few minutes
before, the gallant cavalier seemed to be carrying all
suffrages, by his frank, fearless and noble manner. The
little clue to their sympathies, to which the rough skill of
the veteran pilot had guided their thoughts, seemed,
however, to effect a marvellous diversion in behalf of Ojeda,
and it was with some anxiety that Antonio Guerro prepared
to renew the controversy. This he did in a manner as adroit
as unexpected. It will scarcely be believed, that, in order
to recruit seamen for a voyage of peril, he should insist
upon the commander's excellence in playing the guitar;
yet such was the case; he not only dilated in the most enthusiastic
language upon his ability in this respect, but he
avowed the readiness of his principal to give them proof
of it.
“Now, what would the fellow?” exclaimed Nicuesa.
“Does he mean that I should take the instrument and play
for this company?”
“Of a certainty he does, Señor Diego,” said the beautiful
Teresa Davila, to whom his observation had been made.
“And we, who know thy excellence in this gentle art, will
not suffer thee to refuse performance.”
Her words were seconded by all the ladies. It was their
turn to become parties to the proceedings. They had not
scrupled to express themselves before, in all matters that
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were going forward, but their voices now assumed a voluminous
fulness, which fairly gave them the ascendency,
and made them heard, in spite of the buz and confused
sounds which arose from all quarters of the Plaza.
“Thou wilt have to play, Diego,” said Vasco Nunez,
handing him the instrument, which had been passed from
hand to hand over fifty heads.
The knight took the guitar, with an air of inexpressible
dismay in his countenance, which was no doubt assumed
for the occasion. Nicuesa knew his own ability too well
to entertain any real reluctance. He took the instrument,
which he tuned in the course of a few prelusive notes, and
then began a little Indian air, the beauty of which had already
inspired the Castilian muse, and had been linked, by
a Spanish poet of some repute, to words of his own language.
The poem was of the ballad kind, and founded as
it was upon one of the frequent superstitions of the time,
and more particularly of that class of reckless adventurers
whom it was more especially his policy to secure, it commanded
a degree of attentive consideration, which, perhaps,
would have been withheld from performances of far greater
merit.
INDIAN SERENADE.
'Mong Lucayo's isles and waters,
Leaping to the evening light,
Dance the moonlight's silver daughters,
Tresses streaming, glances gleaming,
Ever beautiful and bright.
And their wild and mellow voices,
Still to hear along the deep,
Every brooding star rejoices,
While the billow, on its pillow,
Lull'd to silence, seems to sleep.
Yet they wake a song of sorrow,
Those sweet voices of the night—
Still from grief a gift they borrow,
And hearts shiver, as they quiver,
With a wild and sad delight.
'Tis the wail for life they waken,
By Samana's yielding shore—
With the tempest it is shaken;
The wide ocean, is in motion,
And the song is heard no more.
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But the gallant bark comes sailing,
At her prow the chieftain stands,
He hath heard the tender wailing;—
It delights him—it invites him,
To the joys of other lands.
Bright the moonlight's round and o'er him,
And O! see, a picture lies,
In the gentle waves before him—
Woman smiling, still beguiling,
With her dark and lovely eyes.
White arms toss above the waters,
Pleading murmurs fill his ears,
And the gem of ocean's daughters,
Love assuring, still alluring,
Wins him down with tears.
On, the good ship speeds without him,
By Samana's silver shore—
They have twined their arms about him,
Ocean's daughters, in the waters,
Sadly singing as before,
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CHAPTER X. THE HURRICANE—LOST HOPES.
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The ballad was admirably performed. Nicuesa did not
disparage the judgment of his notary, who, knowing the
taste of the audience, not less than the excellent skill of his
master, had relied confidently on the success of this last
effort as the crowning achievement, and as certain to propitiate
the mood and secure the favour of the multitude.
Nor did he mistake the nature of those who had listened to
the strains. Never was the motif or sentiment of the performance
more suddenly and soon caught up by the sense
of the hearers. While the strain was in progress they had
expressed their satisfaction by such occasional ejaculations
of pleasure and applause, as were permitted by its brief intervals;
and these unbiassed expressions of delight necessarily
stimulated the accomplished cavalier—as they stimulate
even the veteran stage-player—to new and surpassing
efforts. The murmured applauses of beauty, also, were
freely yielded from the bright, eye-glistening, circle by
which he was surrounded, and these went more deeply
into his romantic heart, than even the declared satisfaction
of those sturdy adventurers, for whom alone the performance
was undertaken; and an assembly, which, but a few
moments before, was distracted by clamours of a strife
which promised to end only in a regular combat, à outrance,
was now melted even to tears, while every heart
sympathized with the dreaming cavalier, described by the
ballad, as won from reason and to death by the beguiling
and bright-haired sirens of the Bahamian archipelago.
The tradition which the song embodied was not less
grateful to the marvel-loving spirit of the age, and that
“ocean chivalry” from which it derived so much of its
conspicuousness, because it had already, long before, been
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made frequent in their narratives of adventure. They had
a faith, generally, in those days, in the existence of these
half human beguilers, of which they were scarcely less assured
than of the veracity of holy church—and the wild,
spiritual Indian music to which the words had been allied,
was yielded from the voice and instrument of Nicuesa with
such felicity as to leave nothing wanting to the complete
realization of one of those fairy pictures of the mind, which
have been so seldom well embodied save in the eye of the
dreamer. The scene grew up, as the cavalier sung, before
the eyes of the wandering seaman. He could behold
the prow of his bark gliding with noiseless rapidity into the
insidious vortex of those dangerous currents, that lie between
the thousand isles of the Bahamas. Then the music
melted away to such exquisite softness that it seemed
to demand an effort of the ear to detect its connecting murmurs,
while it assumed the accents of that seducing song,
with which, from afar, the cunning siren first touched the
ear of the wanderer, and made him turn aside from his
true path to her destructive embraces. The waters, though
the whirlpool lay beneath them, seemed subdued to a
breathless silence—a gentle zephyr, alone, stole fitfully
over their bosom, bringing the luring voices to the victim.
Soft, in little seams and crisped lines of silver, the faint
light of the waning moon, lay in the track of the vessel,
and the spirit of the scene, no less than of the circumstances,
appeared complete and well chosen, in the fancy
of the hearer, to give vitality to the mournful event recorded
in the ditty.
The murmured delight of all around the musician, suppressed
with difficulty while the strain was in progress,
now rose into loud peals of pleasure and applause when it
was fairly over. Those who stood nighest to the cavalier,
grasped his hands or the skirts of his cloak, while others
to whom he handed the guitar, kissed the instrument to
which they declared the pleasure which it gave them,
and with reluctance passed it on to others, from whom it
received like tributes of acknowldgement.
“Nicuesa, Nicuesa—the brave cavalier, the noble señor;
we will go with him to Cathay—write us down in your
books, Antonio Guerro, we will join the noble Señor
Diego—he shall lead us against the savages of Veragua.”
Such were the frequent cries among the auditors, and the
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successful cavalier had already enlisted nearly his full complement
of seamen; but for the sudden occurrence of an
event, in the path of which man's achievement becomes an
absurdity, and his courage the vain effort of the feeblest
bird that ever opposed its little pinions to the weight of the
ungovernable wind. The crowd within the enclosed parts
of the Plaza, now became conscious of confused murmurs
from without. The occasional cries of the Indians, who,
neglecting their piles of fruit, darted away from them and
from the building, first commanded the attention of those
among the Spaniards who were near enough to the entrance
to behold these things with tolerable distinctness.
The whole audience had become conscious long before the
strain was ended, of an increasing warmth and weight in the
atmosphere; and a difficulty of breathing freely was more
than once declared; but this was ascribed to the crowded
condition of the apartment; and so great was the interest
of every mind in the sweet song and the sad story of Nicuesa,
that every minor inconvenience was readily borne,
that the performer should suffer no interruption. But the
change in the temperature of the weather was as singular
as it was extreme. The day, rather cool at first, had
grown as sultry as it was ever known in the oppressive
noon of August; and while the crowd, beginning to be
conscious of some strange and sudden change at hand, were
looking around in that state of indecision which usually
follows the first surprise of most persons by unlooked for
events of terror, a simultaneous calling of the Indians without,
one to the other, in accents of apprehension which
could not be mistaken, aroused them to a common movement
which added to the difficulties of their position. The
more restless portion of the assembly, made a sudden
rush at the same moment for the several places of egress
from the Plaza; which, filled as they had been before, with
benches, tables and fruit piles, were soon completely
choked under the conflicting pressure of their bodies. This
increased the vague terrors of those who strove in flight;
and mingling entreaties and execrations soon prepared the
way for the more brutal strife of blows and violence. Men,
comrades in adventure, and brothers in arms where the positive
danger was equally before them in the array of savage
battle, now took each other by the throat with all the unscrupulous
ferocity of long rankling hate. Manhood forgot
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all manliness and trampled down age and imbecility under
his flying feet;—and the screams of savages without, and
the oaths and strife of equal savages within the building,
soon filled the area with sounds which strangely contrasted
with the winning melody to which all ears had just before
listened with such sympathizing delight. But the cries of
the Indians and the fierce clamours of the Spaniards, were
in a single instant, silenced by the more terrible cry of a
power beyond any of theirs. On a sudden, the sea sent up its
voice, with a peculiarity and distinctness, which, though
it revealed the true source of all the commotion, did not
help, in the slightest degree, to allay it. Its deep roar, like
that of a thousand wild bulls, playing on the plains of the
Pampas, or flying from the hunter, already goaded by his
spear, too truly denoted the coming danger which the more
experienced savages had already foreseen. The crowd was
stunned into silence, and for a moment all exertion ceased.
“What cry—what strange sound is that, Señor Vasco?”
demanded Teresa Davila with a trembling voice, which
expressed her fear of a danger of which as yet, she knew
nothing. With the first clear signal of a real danger his
arm had encircled her waist.
“Fear nothing, dearest Teresa, I will save you with my
life,” he murmured fervently, drawing her close in his embrace,
while his keen eye flew over the assembly, to detect
the point most favourable for egress.
“But what means it, Señor?” inquired the trembling
maiden as she yielded for the first time to his embrace,
and suffered him to bear her from the place where she had
been sitting.
“Cling to me—resist me not!” was all he answered, as
he bore her firmly forward.
“Tell me, Señor Vasco, what is the danger?” she whispered
as she clung closer to his arm. “Have the Indians
risen?—is it Caonabo, the rebel?”
“No Caonabo—no rebel, Teresa,” cried the cavalier,
hoarsely, as he bore her forward—“it is the sea—the sea
sends forth that roar as of two meeting thunders. Sink
not now, but cling to me while I lift you here. My neck,
Teresa—let your arm clasp my neck. Be not coy now,
this is no season for your fear of me.”
“Mary-mother! the sea! said you the sea, Señor Vasco?”
and her arms clasped his neck closely, and with all the
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conscious dependence of her sex, she prepared to obey all
the requisitions of the strong man who sustained her.
“Ay, it is the sea that roars, Teresa; but it speaks of a
worse danger than itself. It tells that the hurricane is at
hand! See how dark it grows—it is the hurricane that is
now blackening all the sky. We must be forth from this
frail fabric before it is down upon us. We must gain the
open grounds—the square.”
The words of Vasco Nunez, heard by all around, gave
volume to the desultory and vague apprehensions of the
multitude, who knew not what to fear till then. The single
word—“the hurricane!” brought with it the most overpowering
alarm to all.
“The hurricane! the hurricane!” was the cry from
every tongue; and the shouts of the striving men, and the
shrieks of feeble and fainting women, imploring for assistance
from their friends and others, mingled with strange
congeniality with the now louder roaring of the sea as it
plunged headlong against the rock on which the city stood,
sending its white foam even up into its streets from
abysses that seemed a hundred feet below them.
“Save me, save me, dear Señor Vasco!” cried the terrified
woman, close clinging to his neck as he lifted her in
his arms, and pressed forward among the crowd. Even in
that moment of terror and of danger, the strife of the elements
momentarily increasing, and the thickening darkness
only relieved by intensest flashes of lightning, the heart of
Vasco Nunez grew softened with the sweetest sensations
of pleasure, as his ears drank in for the first time a word
of corresponding endearment from the lips of the beloved
one.
“Will I not save you, Teresa! Ay—fear nothing—
you are safe already. Let me think that I am dear to you,
and you are then too dear for me to lose. I cannot lose
you.”
She moaned only in terror, but clung close to him the
while. He was one of the few who still retained their
composure amid the confusion; and with a resolved mind,
which the pressure of necessity only aroused into confidence
and strength, he paused briefly, while, looking
round the crowded area, he strove to detect with his eye
some one single point of egress, upon which he might,
with the best hope of success, concentrate all his efforts.
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His glance was momentary only, and, as if satisfied, he
confirmed by a renewed grasp his hold upon his lovely
burden, and went forward with a step equally firm and
fast. To an indecisive man, the task which he had undertaken
would have been impracticable; to him—to the man
of resolution—it was comparatively easy. He put aside
from his pathway with an unscrupulous hand, the illdirected
fugitives who groped and struggled about him,
and whom, in a moment of such alarm, a breath might divert
and a judicious word readily control; and, feeling the
way along the scaffold, to the steps, with his feet, he soon
descended into the level of the space below. Here his
progress became less easy. The numbers were too great
and the material too rude and obstreperous to be as readily
set aside as those who occupied the high places above.
For a moment the progress of the cavalier was arrested.
A space of twenty feet only remained to be overcome between
him and the outlet which he proposed to gain; yet
that space was occupied by a mass of pressing forms, who,
resisted in their own outward progress, had, with the natural
incertitude of terror, turned their faces within, and were
now striving in a course directly opposite to that which
was their true one. The unmeasured and immitigable terrors
of the struggling wretches had left them restless but without
judgment, and utterly incapable of resolving, they were
yet as utterly incapable of quiet. Swaying to and fro,
with fruitless endeavour, they bore aside or along with
them all better directed energies, making no forward progress
as they were utterly ungoverned by any single rule
of action. But, it was here in chief that the superior mind
of Vasco Nunez displayed itself.
“Hark! hear you not the timbers falling behind us?”
he cried to a group that annoyed him on one hand, and
whom he was anxious to send forward. With an impulse
which was contagious they recoiled, and bounding with
headlong terror upon the backward pressing bodies they
drove them forward with the sheer pressure of their forms.
One of those purposeless and powerless animals, having
the shape of manhood only—a huge creature, whose limbs
seemed sufficiently massive to have breasted the full force
of the hurricane itself, stood with wide mouth and stupid
incapacity immediately in his way. It was not a moment
for indecision,—nor was Vasco Nunez the man—not then,
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certainly, when the life of one so precious to his heart,
was in danger, and while she lay almost fainting upon his
arm. With outstretched hand—the only one that was free
for his purpose—he grasped the imbecile by his throat, and,
with all his strength suddenly put forth, he hurled him
forward upon the struggling mass in front. The blundering
giant, unable to arrest the impetus so suddenly given
to his limbs, fell precipitously among the crowd, bearing
down with him to the ground, in his outstretched arms, all
those whom he could grasp in his vain efforts to stop his
fall. These in turn, agitated the farther groups, which,
separating in confused forms, left little openings in front
which gave him glimpses of the sky. How cheering were
these glimpses to his sight! They stimulated his exertions.
Availing himself of the opening, he strode over the
body of the man whom he had thrown down, and who
vainly strove to rise under the pressure of all those who
followed the lead of the cavalier; and striking another
from his way, he pressed forward, and with a bound, into
which all the energies of his elastic and vigorous form
were compressed, he gained the entrance which he had
sought, at the very moment when a terrific thunderbolt
burst at his feet. In the broad red sheet of light which
wrapped every thing around him, he saw nothing but the
annihilation of the lovely being whose entire weight, pressing
on his bosom, seemed that of one already a victim to
the dangers which he had striven so hard to fly. She had
fainted, but he had a worse fear than this. He believed her
to be stricken by the bolt, and in the first moments when
that apprehension seized upon his mind, he laid her insensible
body upon the earth and sunk down beside her,
having no farther purpose or thought of flight. But the
reflection of another instant reproached him for this unmanliness,
and the hope that she might have only fainted
from terror or exhaustion, stimulated him to new exertions.
He raised her again from the earth, and amidst the cries
of the confused multitude flying in all directions over the
plain, some calling for missing relatives and companions,
others imploring succour, and more in sheer terror, asking
protection from the saints, he heard, with pleasurable surprise,
a voice at his right hand—the voice of the venerable
astrologer, who alone, of all the gay company that filled
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that day the Plaza de Armas, seemed to have kept a cool,
untrembling mind.
“Straight forward, son Vasco, straight forward. The
little rocks lie before thee, and yield the best shelter for the
maiden in such an hour as this.”
“Take my skirt in thy hand, Micer Codro, if thou
lovest me—the glare blinds me—I see nothing of the rocks—
lie they far from us now?”
“They are at hand, my son, and thy course was rightly
for them when I spake to thee, though when I saw thee
first, I trembled for thy life and that of the maiden, and
called to thee aloud, for thy feet were hurrying towards the
Ozama.”
“The holy angels have guided me, for I saw nothing—
my eyes swim in a sort of light which blinds them. But
how dost thou see thus, Codro?”
“I know not—but I see!” replied the astrologer, who
now paused. “We are safe in this shelter, Vasco—set the
maiden down—here are the rocks.”
The moment was seasonable when they reached the
shelter—a little pile of rocks, part of those links among
which the Indian woman danced at the command of Garabito.
The hot breath of the approaching hurricane had
half suffocated the cavalier in crossing the plain, and it
was with the feeling of a strange faintness that he laid
the pliable form of the maiden in safety, and sank down
beneath the rock beside her.
“Where wouldst thou go, Micer Codro?” he demanded,
as he saw the astrologer about to leave them.
“I will but ascend this hill, my son. I would look
closely at the face of this fearful tempest.”
Vasco scarcely seemed to hear the reply. There was a
wild ringing in his head, a sickness at his heart, and it required
him several seconds of repose beneath the rocks, his
lips pressed closely to the earth, ere he found himself free
of the suffocating vapour which had so nearly stifled him.
When his eyes recovered sufficient strength to resist the
glare which had so blinded them at first, he beheld the
white head of the astrologer bare to the storm, upon which
he gazed with the dreamer's enthusiasm and the prophetic
spirit, having seemingly no fear, though he stood conspicuous
on one of the highest crags of the long chain of rocks
that stretched into the city from the northwestern mountains.
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A dozen Indians or more, whom before he had not seen, lay
crouching among the rocks around him in silent terror.
Pointing to the form of Teresa, who still lay without sign
of life, he bade one of them bring water for her restoration.
But the Indian heard him with a stupid stare of indifference,
and, without leaving his place or changing the direction of
his eye, which was turned from the inquirer, and fixed upon
the distant mountains in the northwest, he lifted his finger,
and pointed simply in the same direction. The eyes of
Vasco Nunez followed the guidance of the finger to the spot
from whence the continued and increasing roar assured him
that the desolation was to come; and brave and fearless as
all men acknowledged him to be, a silent awe seized upon
his soul as he surveyed the blackening outlines of that vague
and bodiless form, whose rapidity outshot the speed of the
lightning, and whose power seemed potent for the convulsion
and destruction of all bodies;—under whose pressure
the mountains were split asunder, whose march made the
earth heave and quiver as with a fear like that which fell in
the same time on its frail inhabitants, and whose flight,
driving against the seas, divided their mighty waves asunder
and threw them up into mountains, or sunk them deep down
into their own abysses. On the upper edge of the town,
and advancing from the piled mountains of the north, from
whose brown sides its gigantic and sable limbs seemed to
emerge, a vast, indefinable mass of bulging clouds stretched
forth a hundred distinct and threatening arms towards the
city. Such was the general outline of the hurricane when
first beheld by the eye of Vasco Nunez. But its shapes
were continually changing, as it acquired force from its
own progress, or volume from the accumulating masses of
vapour and wind, which, by a natural attraction, it drew towards
it in its flight. Soon, these hundred arms linked
themselves together, took upon them a spiral form, and had
for awhile the appearance of the horn of some monstrous animal;
a similitude greatly strengthened by the rolling, plunging
and wheeling mass from which it was protruded.
From this projection, or horn, a yellow vapour was shot
forth along the path which the hurricane was directed to
take—a hot and sulphureous blast, that might well have
been the breath of some long suppressed and pent up volcano.
The spiral extremity soon became a beam,—an immense
but straight shaft—thrust forward like a weighty
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wedge to force its own way under the pressure of the
monstrous mass behind. But the shaft was soon swallowed
up and submerged by the crowding volume which travelled
after it with a headlong haste beyond its own. Little jets of
cloud, now of a discoloured white, and now of a tawny
yellow, shot incessantly from its sides, and wreaths of a
like complexion hung about its sable skirts, at times wholly
encircling their extremities,—at other times dissipating in
airy flakes, which hung suspended in the untroubled atmosphere,
as the rushing flight of the gigantic body from which
they were ejected, hurried it away beyond their reach.
The vapour which gave them vitality, in great part exhausted,
they hung along the track which the hurricane had
made, in a sullen state of rest, reflecting in gloomy
and lurid hues the dim rays of the sun, whose fiercest
beams could only penetrate in part their dense and turbid
folds. On, on, meanwhile, came the immense and momently
accumulating mass. Its form was now that of a
monstrous serpent, while its plunging motion, as it rushed
through thinner fields of air, seemed that of the wild
beast, leaping down the sides of the mountain to the blood
feast on the plain. The eye of Vasco Nunez was fascinated
and fixed by the awful shadow which was approaching
him; and though his lips were parched as he gazed, and
the hot sand from the mountains which was whirled along
by the tempest, fell like rain upon his cheek, mingled with
big drops of water, scarcely less hot, that oozed out at partial
moments from the cloud;—and though his breathing was
checked, and his blood thickening in his veins, and his
heart faint, he rose to his feet, moved with a wild desire to
procure succour for Teresa who still lay in a state of insensibility,
which had been so long protracted as to make
him apprehensive for her life. But a friendly hand grasped
his arm and would have drawn him back to his place of
shelter. He turned and saw the astrologer, who had descended
unobserved from the eminence where he had
watched the coming of the hurricane.
“Move not now, Vasco, my son: sink down again, I
pray you, for the danger is at hand. It comes not so fast
yet, as it will come a moment hence, when its windy
masses are all free from the mountains, where they have
been gathering for months. But, in a little while, and it is
upon us, with a power beyond any which we have yet
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beheld. Look! how it grows and gathers. See you not,
even while I speak, how its flight increases,—and now it
speaks! Down, down, Vasco, lie close as these Indians, or
it will suffocate thee. We are just beneath its track.”
“But Teresa—my poor Teresa!” cried the cavalier;
“she will die, Codro, she will surely die.”
“Nay,” said the astrologer, “fear nothing, this will relieve
her for a space;” and snatching a palm leaf from the
basket of an Indian woman who crouched but a few paces
distant, he himself bent down over the maiden and fanned
her so as to disperse the smoky and sulphureous vapour,
that by this time was circumfused throughout the atmosphere.
“This will help her, my son, and if not, we can
do nothing for her now. The hurricane is above our
heads.”
The gentle agitation of the settling atmosphere, produced
by the leaf, had its effect, as the astrologer had said. Teresa
showed signs of consciousness, and made a feeble effort to
rise as her eyes opened upon the strange aspects of the
savages around her. But the arm of her lover, pleased
with such employ, still held her down in the shelter by his
side.
“Not yet, Teresa,—it is not over. Fear nothing, I am
beside thee.”
He would have said more as she still struggled to rise,
but his voice and her efforts were alike arrested, as the entire
weight of the hurricane, with its terrific roar, passed
above them in the smoky heavens. Plunging from the
mountain passes where it had been for months gathering
in silence, the hot and hurrying volume came rushing
downward with the velocity of an arrow in its pathway to
the sea. The serpentine shape it still preserved, but the
lighter shadows had all fallen from it, or were left behind
in the still atmosphere which it no longer troubled; and
nothing now remained, relieving its excessive blackness, but
a lurid and sulphuric stripe of cloud that hung from and beneath
it, like a train. Though waving to and fro, in a serpentine
direction, chiefly because of the swaying currents
of air set in motion by its own headlong progress, no line
could have been more directly onward than that which it
pursued. Yet it bore along with it bodies of rock, trees
of stupendous size, and fragments of many a bohio, the
miserable tenants of which had escaped with difficulty.
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Lengthening itself as it flew, and losing some of its bulk
accordingly, its threatening brow overhung the city, while
its terminating folds were still undeveloped among the
mountain gorges where it had been conceived.
“We are in its very path, Micer Codro,” cried Vasco
Nunez, with accents of alarm, that sprang rather from a belief
of Teresa's danger than from any apprehensions of his
own.
“Close, lie close, dear Vasco; if there be danger here,
there is death elsewhere. Move not now—there is no time
for change, and these rocks will, I trust, give us all protection.
Behold these Indians, they lie flat; they look not
up—they will not stir, till the last train of yellow melts
from off yonder mountains.”
Teresa, restored to full consciousness, clung to her lover
with all the tenacity of life, under the still exciting apprehensions
of its loss, until he quite forgot, in the intoxicating
pleasure of the moment, all of those gloomy terrors to which
he owed his situation. But the feelings of Teresa were not
his feelings. She simply confessed her fears, not her love,
while thus clinging to his bosom. Her words, however
soft and tender, were words of fear, and not of tenderness;
and these, and his warm and encouraging responses, were
alike swallowed up and lost in the howling of the hurricane,
as seeming now to detach itself into parts, its heavy
masses began successively plunging from the steeps into the
sea. The earth shook, the rocks quivered and trembled where
they lay; and it required all the strength of the cavalier, now
convinced of the truth of what the astrologer had assured him,
to keep the terrified Teresa, almost utterly frantic, from rushing
away from those very hills which were their only protection,
but which she dreaded would momently fall upon her.
An Indian woman, terrified in like manner, but with no such
fond and restraining arm to preserve her from her own panic,
fled from the trembling pile which sheltered her, and in
the attempt to fly, was seized upon by the whirling column,
which wrapped itself around her like a shroud, and bore her
twenty feet aloft into the air. Wild shrieks from her companions
followed her, but her own shrieks were unheard—
stifled in the hot embrace of that storm-torrent which bore
her on. A succeeding limb of the same mighty power
wrested her from the weakened hold of the former, and
threw her out from its pathway, as if, satisfied with having
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extinguished life, it cared not for the possession of the carcass.
The body fell to the earth, lifeless, but without a
wound. The breath of life was stifled within her nostrils,
and, saving a black line around her neck, she bore no outward
mark of injury. She fell among hundreds of scattered
wretches, amply warned by her swift and sudden fate, to
cower and tremble in their prostrate places of security.
Mass after mass of the dreadful besom of the winds swept
its way to the great deep, and plunging from the heights
into the ocean, laid bare its depths, and turned up its yellow
sands. A wall of waters stood up on each hand, boiling
and fretting to seek their wonted channel, but kept apart
until the march of all the flying legions was thoroughly
complete.
“It is off,—it is over now, dearest Teresa, and thou art
safe. The saints have been merciful to thee, and the mother
of protection has looked on thee with a smile. Thou
canst now look up, Teresa; behold where the black column
is rushing through the seas! Hark, the roaring of the strife
they keep; and look to the Plaza, from which our flight
was of such doubt and difficulty. There is scarce one fragment
left standing beside another.”
While the maiden turned to the spot denoted by her lover,
and by an involuntary shudder attested her recollection
of the difficulty with which her escape was effected from
it, the astrologer called the attention of Vasco Nunez to an
event, the misfortune of which, Teresa being saved, and by
his arm, he did not so much feel at that otherwise happy
moment.
“Ay, Vasco, we are safe—the danger has gone by, and
our lives are spared to us; but next to the loss of life, my
son, we have lost every thing. Look out upon the bay,
and tell me if thou seest at her moorings in the Ozama,
the good ship the `Maragnon?”'
The cavalier looked instinctively as he was bidden to
the spot where his ship had lain at the morning; he passed
his hands above his eyes as if to relieve his sight, and then
replied:
“Indeed, I see her not. There is the fleet of Nicuesa,
and there are the vessels of Ojeda. But the `Maragnon,'
I see not! Can it be that she is whelmed and sunken?
The spot is vacant where she lay.”
“Ay, it hath been ploughed even to its deepest hollows
by the keel of the hurricane. Look where it goes afar
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into the broad ocean, and thine eyes may yet see the fragments
of thy goodly ship which it flings out at every
plunge upon the billow.”
“Holy mother, can this be true! can it be, Micer
Codro, as thou say'st, and are all our wearisome toils to
be fruitless and our hopes vain. Jesu be merciful to the
poor fellows that were in her. They are in his hands only.
For us—for thee, Micer Codro—thou hast lost thy all—in
thy old age thou hast lost thy all!”
“Ay, Vasco, but thou livest, my son!” exclaimed the
venerable man turning fondly to the cavalier and throwing
his arms affectionately about his neck—“While thou art
safe I have but little loss, and while thou livest I despair
not of thy star!”
The other was unmoved by his enthusiasm, but deeply
touched by the affectionate devotedness which the old man
displayed towards him in the hour of his evil fortune. He
shook his head mournfully but made him no reply. Turning
from the dismal prospect, he fixed his eyes on the face
of one in whose warm and sunny glance of love he hoped
to read the presage of better fortune.
“Thy ship is then lost, Señor Vasco—do I hear the
tale aright?”
“Señor!” was the involuntary exclamation of the cavalier,
as he repeated the formal address of the maiden. As
if doubting whether he had rightly heard, his eye was
searchingly fixed upon her, as if anxious to trace in her features
something more of warmth and interest than her
words expressed. But the gaze of the maiden, who had
recovered all her composure in the conviction of her safety,
was quiet and impracticable.
“It is lost, Teresa—the good ship, and I fear me all of
the poor people who were in her. But my loss were little
and of little value held by me, could I be sure of thy gain—
could I feel that, losing all things else, I were yet favoured
of fortune in securing thee.”
The speech was spoken in suppressed language, and
not in the hearing of the astrologer, though he readily divined
what passed between them. She bent her eyes upon
the earth, but, save in this respect, gave no sign of emotion
as she l istened to his language, and when he had
finished, how coolly were her requests made, that he should
seek and summon her attendants.
“Can this woman love at all?” demanded the sage,
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Micer Codro of himself; but Vasco Nunez, with the blindness
of one who sees only through the desires of his heart,
saw nothing of this coldness and would not acknowledge
its existence.
“It is the bashfulness of the young heart,” said he, to
the astrologer.
“A bashfulness that is ever firm,” replied the other—
“that never trembles, nor pales a cheek, nor suffers a
quivering drop upon her eye-lashes. Oh, Vasco, I would
that thou couldst wean thyself from the love of woman, in
which I see all thy danger, and give thyself to glory and
great achievement only. Thy star!—”
“No more of that Micer Codro—I tell thee, let Teresa
Davila but say that she loves me and I ask for no glory—I
seek not for great achievement.”
“She will never tell thee that, Vasco Nunez; and thou
canst no more defeat the promise of thy star than I can
make it. The woman may baffle thee in thy labour for a
while, and delay thee in thy performance, and destroy thee
after its attainment. But the achievement is most surely
thine. I would spare thee the waste of days, and the waste
of affections upon one, whom thou pursuest without profit,
and can win only to thy loss.”
“Let me win her only, and the loss be mine!” replied
the cavalier closing the dialogue abruptly.
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CHAPTER XI. THE GIFT OF THE WOMAN.
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The hurricane, which lasted several hours, had brought
the people of Santo Domingo to the close of the day. The
disaster which had struck so deeply at the resources of
Vasco Nunez, had not, as we have seen, impressed him
with so much sorrow at his loss while Teresa Davila
stood beside him. It is probable, indeed, that he would have
smiled with scorn upon his misfortunes, and held them in
slight regard, had it been, as he whispered in her ear, that
there was a sweet hope of his success with her. But she
spoke no more those tender words which had fallen from
her unconscious lips while his arm protected her from the
destroying blast. With the assurance which she felt of
safety when the hurricane had gone by, returned all that
capricious coldness of manner, which the fond cavalier ascribed
only to maidenly reserve and a proper dignity. The
astrologer was the wiser man in this respect. He well understood
the selfish nature of the woman whom Vasco Nunez
loved. He saw it in the sudden change in her deportment
when the services of the cavalier were needed no longer;
he saw it in the cold, indifferent tones with which she demanded
to know if his fortunes were, indeed, entirely dissipated
by the storm; he had seen it long before, in the
nice selfishness of character which enabled her to maintain
in doubt, and consequently in hope, a dozen lovers, each
of whom was made, at times, quite as happy and confident
as the most favoured of her train. He also knew, and this
conviction was of more force than any other in his mind,
that she had no feeling of veneration for that noble and high-reaching
ambition which filled the soul of Vasco Nunez.
She could only admire greatness, as it was the subject of
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admiration among the little world around her; she knew
nothing of, and cared little for, its intrinsic excellencies.
The greatness of Vasco Nunez was of a sort which was
quite too towering for the really vulgar spirits who were
the habitual adventurers of the time, and whose pursuits
were chiefly those of avarice and murder. His finer ambition
having for its object great discoveries of unknown
realms, like those which Colon had given to Castile, he
was regarded by a great number as a mere dreamer who
was wasting a precious life, with his small resources, upon
the most empty illusions. This, too, had necessarily become
somewhat the faith of Teresa Davila—a faith only
qualified in her mind when she discovered the singular degree
of confidence which had been given by her miserly
uncle to his soaring schemes; and which, now that the
seas had swallowed up the very means by which he was
to effect his objects, returned with all its force to her bosom,
and taught her to resume her former habits of capricious
coldness, with the resumption of her former incredulity in
relation to his visions. The astrologer sighed when he
saw how completely the noble heart of the brave and accomplished
cavalier lay at the mercy of a creature, who, bright
and beautiful as she confessedly was, lacked all that nobleness
of aim which alone could make her brightness perfect,
and that confiding simplicity of soul, which could make
her beauty sweet. He turned away from the contemplation
of the two, as they walked on from the scene of devastation
to the bohio where she dwelt.
But when they were separated—when she no longer
stood beside the cavalier, looking on him with eyes whose
brightness seldom failed to occasion a happy confusion in
his thoughts and feelings—it was then that he could calmly
consider and estimate the prevailing extent of his loss. He
was, in fact, literally destitute. His own little accumulations
for years—those of his friend, the astrologer—were
all buried in the unrestoring waters. Never was wreck
more complete than that of the good ship, `The Maragnon.'
Goods and stores, and arms and men, were all swallowed
up in the storm; and the loan from Felipe Davila, as it had
been hurriedly paid away to the seamen at the opening of
the business in the Plaza de Armas, in order to forestal
the persuasions of Ojeda and Nicuesa, necessarily
shared the same fate with the poor fellows whom it
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purchased. The hopes of Vasco Nunez, in one great leading
respect, were broken up and scattered abroad with the dismembered
fragments of his vessel. The morning found
him, as it were, triumphant over fortune—exulting in the
assurances of fate, exulting in the possession of means,
by which inevitably to secure success. A single hour had
sufficed to dissipate his hopes, and a single blast had defeated
all the promises of fortune. The evening found him
destitute of all those resources which it had been the toil
of years—his own toil and that of others—to accumulate
and preserve. He had lost not merely the means of adventure
and of greatness, but the means of life. The last
gold in his possession had been given in the casket of castellanos
to the hands of the astrologer, who regarding the
wants of Vasco Nunez as all satisfied in Santo Domingo
with the completion of his means for departure, had appropriated
all its contents in making his preparations as perfect
and extensive as he could. But a few pieces remained
in the keeping of the cavalier, and these were inadequate
to the need of a single week. He was not merely
destitute of means, but, in their loss, he was left destitute
of hopes. Where was he to find the material which was
to replace the good ship—to refit her for the meditated
voyage—to provide her with stores and men anew. His
past experience of the difficulties in supplying these wants,
taught him to regard as illusory now, any hope which he
might yet entertain of the future in Santo Domingo. The
hope of better fortune in Old Spain was no less illusory.
What had he, a single and destitute adventurer, to hope
for in competition and conflict with the thousands which
were sent forth daily from thence, having their own fortunes
in numberless instances, and strongly sustained by
active and able connexions? With the conviction of his
own hopelessness, came a momentary forgetfulness even
of Teresa and her charms, and the pang of his disaster
and the probable defeat of all his plans, can be conceived
only by those who have known the misery of losing, in a
single moment, the treasured object of a life—the darling
schemes of an intense ambition—and all the thousand anticipations
of honour and reward from man, which have
been the dream of the warm imagination, for ever grasping
at the things which are beyond it.
A new annoyance awaited him when he returned to the
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sea side where he had left the astrologer. There he encountered
the miser Felipe Davila, whom he found pouring
forth a thousand reproaches and as many threats in the
ears of Micer Codro, for having beguiled from him his money
to risk upon so unlucky a person. These reproaches
were all transferred to himself when he drew nigh.
“Old man,” said the cavalier with dignity—“you speak
as if I should have stayed the hurricane with my arm or
voice. You speak like a madman. I am sorry for your
loss, though it be much less great than mine own; yet thy
loss gives thee no license for insult and reproach. Why
dost thou upbraid Micer Codro, or myself.”
“He lied to me about thy star—thy star—a murrain on
thy star! He lied daily through all San Domingo of thy
star, and of the gold that grew beneath it. Why did I fall
into the deceit? why did I believe this folly? What right
hadst thou with such a star, thou a poor cavalier under
Moguer—thou hadst better been planting thy cabbages at
Salvatierra. But I will punish him and thee alike, for this
treachery. The alcalde shall give me judgment against
you as swindlers both—I will have ye in a prison where,
if ye incline to lie farther of your stars, ye shall yet see
none.—Ye base cheats and deceivers, that have spoiled me
of seven hundred castellanos.”
“You shall be paid, I tell you, Señor Felipe,” cried
the astrologer.
“Tell me nothing—pay me the castellanos and I will
then give ear to your promises. But now I will proclaim
ye as born swindlers through Santo Domingo. There
shall be a drum with the proclamation, though I lose the
cost of it with my other losses. I could have had the best
security—fool that I was—from the Bachelor Enciso; and
yet to think that I should be so blind, so deaf, so dumb, so
mad and blind as to believe in this story of his star. But
I tell you, Micer Codro, the alcalde shall give me judgment
against you, and hark you, Vasco Nunez—this fraud of
thine—”
The cavalier interrupted the insolent speech of the miser
in a voice and manner no less dignified than stern.
The indignation of a noble mind, nobly shown, is seldom
utterly without its effect upon the vulgar, and the soul of
Felipe Davila actually quailed within him, as the cold, but
resolute eye of Vasco Nunez looked upon him.
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“Hark you, old man!” said he, “I have borne with
you, for the sake of one, to speak of whom in the same
breath with you, I feel compunction and dislike. But know
that even the feeling which I have for Teresa Davila, shall
not protect the base wretch who dares couple fraud with
the name of Vasco Nunez. Anger me not, therefore, with
thy foul language, lest neither thy age nor thy connexion
with one I love, shall protect thee from the chastisement
which thy insolence provokes.”
“I fear you not!” was the reply of the miser, but he
retreated as he spoke, and placed himself among the bystanders
whom his high words had brought nigh to hear
the conference. “I fear thee not; and as for the love thou
hast professed for Teresa Davila, know from me that she
looks on thee with scorn. She were a greater fool than
I who lent money to a knave, to bestow love upon a
beggar.”
“Ha, dog!” The sudden grasp of Vasco Nunez upon
the throat of the abusive wretch made him cry out in other
language, as he implored mercy in one breath from his assailant,
and assistance in another from the crowd. Micer
Codro interposed, but the better nature of Vasco Nunez
himself spared him the necessity of farther interposition.
“Away!” he cried, flinging the old man from him as
he spoke, and turning away from the group at the same
moment. “Thou art mad for thy losses, old man, and
knowst not what thou sayest. Thou blasphemest in thy
present mood, either to speak of thy niece or of the love I
bear her. Thy money shall be paid thee, and with usury,
in reasonable time!”
“The alcalde shall give me better assurance of payment
than I will take from thee,” was the reply of the miser, as
the cavalier departed.
“The alcalde!—why talkest thou of the alcalde, Felipe
Davila?” said the astrologer, “and wherefore wouldst
thou vex a noble gentleman in the moment of his distress?
Can it do thee good or give thee pleasure to put one into
prison who can only pay thee when he has privilege of
limb and liberty. Go to!—why errest thou in this
fashion.”
“Then wherefore is he so proud! Wherefore bears he
so loftily. I tell thee, Micer Codro, it is my will that my
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debtor shall be humble and solicit me, else I will cast him
into prison.”
“This will do for the base debtor, who means not payment
and would meet usury with fraud. But thou canst
not obtain such miserable concession from the high-souled
and accomplished cavalier. I tell thee, man, that wert
thou to bind the limbs of Vasco Nunez upon the cross,
and flay him with rods and pierce him with darts, he would
spit upon thee and scorn thee to the last. There is a nature
in him which thou canst not understand, and which all
the powers of alguazil and executioner could never move
from his resolved purpose.”
“We shall see—there shall be judgment ere another
sunset upon this matter —”
“Pshaw, Felipe Davila, thou art but an ass after all, if
thou talkest thus in this matter. Let thy passion mislead
thee thus, and thou art a loser of all thy castellanos,
which thou art most sure with a moderate patience to recover.
Wert thou wise now, thou wouldst make this
cavalier thy favourite, thou wouldest bestow thy niece upon
him if he seeks her, and devote all thy treasures to the
facilitation of his greatness; for I tell thee now, here, even
where we stand, with all the evidence of his late great loss
before our eyes, that the fates design this same Vasco Nunez
for an achievement before which all the successes of
all these gaudy cavaliers will be as nothing. Next to
Christovallo Colon, I tell thee that the name of Balboa
shall rank first among the great men of this new empire of
Spain. Come with me, that I may better advise thee of
these things.”
Growling his apprehension and anger as he went, the
miser yet followed the conduct of the astrologer, as they
drew off to a secret place of conference. The cavalier to
whom their conference had chief reference, meanwhile,
took his way along the more broken ledges of the rock
which overhung the bay, still vexed and chafing with the
tempest which had so lately stirred and ploughed it even
in its hollowest recesses. He took his seat upon a cliff
which looked forth upon those waters which had buried
his gallant vessel, and bitterly did he brood in silence upon
a misfortune, which the coarse and vulgar insolence of his
creditor had taught him almost to feel as a crime—a lesson
which the creditor but too often teaches to those who are
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less erring than unfortunate. So deeply did he feel this
annoyance to which he had been exposed, that, manly as
was his real character, he felt that it would be but a small
pang were he then to perish. He had reached that stage of
disappointment, when he only did not despair. For it
must be remembered that for years had he laboured with
the unstifled idea in his bosom of achieving that great object
for which his vessel had been prepared; and all his
little gains and labours in that space of time had been preserved
and continued sedulously for the same object. The
catastrophe which had happened to his bark seemed to him
to falsify all the fond predictions of the astrologer, and if he
did not utterly despair, it may be said confidently that he also
did not know how to hope. The idle people who traversed
the town in contemplation of the ruins, respected his
sorrows. They kept aloof from the lonely crag upon which
he had seated himself. The sun was going down clear and
unclouded to his rest. A bright shaft of rosy light played
over the arch of heaven, shifting into thousand shapes,
each as bright and as sudden in its transitions as any of the
dreams of youth. The golden and bushy locks of the day-star,
seemed tossing above the sable waters in the distance,
the fainter rays stretching in a direct line toward him, as if
in promise and encouragement. But Vasco Nunez, wretched
and morbid, saw nothing but a humiliating mockery in the
lovely image. He turned his eye from that glance which
looked upon him so fondly, and gazed upon the sombre
masses of mountain in the north from which the hurricane had
descended. They too were now touched with the loveliest
lights of evening, and so soft was the crimson vapour that
encircled their brows, that even he who had but a little before
witnessed the whole passage of the hurricane, could
scarce believe a region so heavenly-hued to have been its
birth-place.
“Ah, treacherous mountains! ye mock me now with
your lovely and delusive aspects. Those folding wreaths
of crimson that lie around you have conceived of the storm
and their only birth shall be the whirlwind. Gather as ye
may, your vapours and your winds, they can harm me no
farther. Ye have taken from me all, and the triumph
which should have crowned my bark, must now be shared
among those of the rash Ojeda, or the no less rash but
more accomplished and noble Nicuesa. Could you not
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have taken one from them. They have both many—they
had scarcely noted the loss of one. I owned but the one,
and that ye have taken; and now, ye may gather your
storms—I apprehend ye not! Ye can do me no more
harm!”
Night fell, and the cavalier was still a watcher among
the cliffs. The sullen murmurs of the seas, still groaning
from their recent lashings, were more grateful to his moody
mind than had been the sweetest music. The gathering
shadows of evening, which, in that lovely climate, are seldom
gloom, were yet less offensive to his soul than the
gold and crimson glories which they succeeded and dispersed.
The saffron and the purple, melted into dun; and a
bright star rose above the sun's pathway, as it seemed, even
from the deep, and stood over against the place where he
sat, looking as it were, into his very eyes. He could scarce
resist, under its pure and blessed aspect, the conviction of
a hope. Just then he heard the tread of a light footstep
behind him. He turned not to look upon the intruder, for
his soul was too sorrowful for curiosity, but a light, trembling
voice reached his ears:
“Master,” it said, humbly and low, as if fearing to offend—
“Master!”
He turned, as he recognized the accents; and the mother
of the boy whom Garabito had murdered stood before him.
She sank at his feet as she met his glance.
“Be not vexed, master, with the woman—it is the poor
Buru, master—only Buru.”
The heart of Vasco Nunez melted within him to behold
her, and his eyes filled with tears. He forgot his own afflictions
as he remembered that terrible one to which she
had been subjected. “Of a truth,” said he to himself,
when he reflected upon that most harrowing and heart-rending
privation which she had been doomed to endure,
and without reason or redress—“of a truth, I shame to
brood over this loss of mine when I look upon this poor
woman and think upon her boy! She hath lost the blossom
of her love—the life of her hope—the very fruit of her
heart's best affections—in whose life she was long to live,
even when the heavy sod lay upon her unconscious bones,
I have lost little but the labours of my own and the hands of
others—wood and iron—canvass, and the green spars which
these forests yield in inexhaustible abundance. Should the
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strings of my heart be strained for such a loss as this.
Should I give myself up to the boy's agony who hath lost
the plaything on which his childish fancies have been set.
Surely, I should not become this weak and yielding creature.
I have gone through stripes and perils—I have not
shrunk from death. I am ready even now for any danger,—
then, wherefore, should I show this weight of wo to the
crowd, who will behold it but to deride. They will rejoice
to see my weakness, and the suffering which I have
for this miserable loss of timber and canvass. I have lost
nothing beside—nothing! Yes! the triumph—the great
triumph—the conquest of that Southern Sea! And yet—
what is even this loss to that of the poor woman! The
softening tears of the blessed Mother of God fall upon her
heart, and bring it healing!”
These musings passed through the mind of the cavalier
with the wonted rapidity of thought. Hope was already
beginning to assert itself anew within his bosom, as a
natural consequence of the just exercise of his intellect;
and, however he might come to the natural conclusion,
that, in all probability, the glory of his great discovery was
taken from his grasp, and the bright fame which he had
promised himself was now destined to adorn and perpetuate
some other more fortunate name, yet this, he well reasoned,
was not a just cause why the strong man should
forego his strength, and yield up his soul to the voluntary
impotence of despair. The worse affliction of the bereaved
mother at his side, taught him to estimate his own
more lightly.
“The world hath every where more misery than is mine!”
said he, with a natural exclamation. “What would you,
my poor woman—why do you seek me? I can do nothing
for you—nothing—I have nothing to give you. I have
lost all—every thing.”
“Buru wants nothing from the master. Can the master
give the boy to his mother—no, no! Buru comes for
nothing.”
“True, true, my poor woman, were the good ship mine
again, with all her stores, what could I do for you? what
could I give to the mother which would replace her child?”
The woman advanced, lifted his hand which she put
upon her head, then stooping to earth she placed her head
between his knees, and while thick-coming sobs made her
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voice almost inarticulate, she replied in broken Spanish
as follows:
“But the master would have struck for the mother—the
master would have saved the boy. Had the master been
nigh to Garabito, he had put by the sharp sword, and
the poor Zemi would walk beside Buru to-night when she
goes by the path of arrows up the hills. Buru will walk
and hear no Zemi as she goes: but the master would
have saved the boy,—Buru loves the good master who
struck the Spaniard for her child.”
“Alas! my poor woman, it is my sorrow that I struck
for thee in vain. Had I been less slow—had I deemed it
possible for the base creature to have touched the boy with
his weapon, I had been prompt to save—I had saved him!
But I believed not that he would strike the child—I could
not think that any Spaniard would have done so monstrous
a crime!”
“Ah! master, that you had been soon—that you had
struck the sword of Garabito from his hand. The boy was
good and had many words for his mother when the poor
Buru digs in the gray mountains for gold for the Spaniard.
He will have no more words again for his mother. But
the master would have saved, and Buru will love him.
See master—here is guanin—guanin from the hills. It
is all for you. Buru brings it for the good master who
would have struck for Zemi.”
While speaking these words she untwisted a single but
thick fold of her long black hair which was secured to the
cone of her head with considerable skill, in which was cunningly
concealed several bits of the mixed gold called guanin
which the Indians had been accustomed to work even
before the coming of the Spaniard, with a peculiar process
of their own. Remembering to have seen her, while in the
dance, with her hair seemingly unbound and flying in
all directions, Vasco Nunez was interested in observing
the neat and highly artificial manner in which a single
tress of the streaming volume might still be made to secure
from sight upon the head, a treasure, which, as she
unfolded it before his eyes, was far from inconsiderable.
“Buru saw the hurricane, master, when it fell on the
big canoe. It was all broken, and the thin pieces are gone
out on the waters. Buru hath heard them say that the good
master hath lost every thing—that he hath no ship, no
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pearls, no guanin. But Buru has brought guanin. It is
all for the master—take it, good master—the night is around
us, the Spaniard sleeps in the bohio—there are none to see.
Buru will bring more guanin when she goes back into the
mountains. The mountains have gold for Buru, when the
Spaniard gathers none. Buru will save it from the Spaniard,
and bring it all to the good master who would have
struck for her child.”
The heartfelt and devoted manner in which the poor Indian
gave up her treasures, in the grateful impulse of her
heart, to console the cavalier who had lost every thing,
touched his very soul. The big drops, gathered fast beneath
his eyelashes. Tears had been for long years before
strangers to his eyes, but they now gushed forth
freely and he did not seek to restrain them.
“The master hath a heart—he weeps—he is no Spaniard!”
were the exulting exclamations of the woman, as
she laid the gold at his feet. The earnest gratitude of the
poor savage saddened while it pleased him. A like proffer
from one of his own countrymen, in that moment of
moody despondency would, possibly, have only angered
him. His claim was better upon the one than the other,
yet how little reason had he to expect such a tribute
to his misfortunes from any Spaniard. But such a
proffer from the degraded Indian—from one of a people as
yet unacknowledged as human, and but too commonly the
victim of a licensed and legalized brutality filled his soul
with mortification. What a commentary upon the conduct
of his countrymen was this noble and unexpected
show of gratitude in the poor woman, whose best and
dearest affections had been so wantonly and cruclly outraged.
He felt that he could not receive her gold—he put
it away from his sight.
“Keep your gold, Buru—you will need it to buy cassavi
when you are hungry; and perhaps, it may help you
to procure some indulgences from your taskmaster. It
can do me little service and it may do you much. You
may share it with your people—it will procure pleasures
for you all.”
“Does my lord speak this?” said the woman mournfully—
“does the master speak of pleasures for the poor
Buru, when the boy is dead? Has the Spaniard any good
physic to make him to live? If he has, then there is
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pleasure for Buru. She will go back to the mountains and she
will feel none of the blows upon her back. The boy shall
play with the brown monkey beside her, and her heart
will jump when she hears him laugh light and sees him
running among the hills.”
“Alas! Buru, I tell thee with sorrow as I have already
told thee, that I cannot help thee. The Spaniard has no
physic which can bring back life. But, by the Holy Mother,
Buru, if I could help thee to thy living son, I would
not shrink to peril my own limbs—nay, my own life—in
the blessed purpose. I feel for thee, Buru—in my heart
I feel for thee.”
“Ah, master—when the lash fell upon the shoulders of
Buru, she smiled, for Zemi was there. When the heart
of the woman sank from the labour of her limbs, the heart
of the mother grew strong, for was not her child beside
her. There is no Zemi—there is no child now. She
would have bought the boy's life with the guanin—she
would have brought more guanin from the hills, had not
the bad master struck so soon. So soon he struck that
my good lord could not help me, and now that the guanin
cannot bring back life, let the good master take the guanin.
It is nothing to the mother who hath no child.”
“It will buy you clothes to wear, Buru. It will get
you food when you are hungry and sweet drink when you
thirst,” said the Spaniard, still refusing her proffer. But
the grateful but wretched creature was not to be baffled
thus. Her reply was ready.
“Buru has no thirst and no hunger now. The water
that runs out of the hill is a good drink for the woman. The
manioc is a good root even when it brings death; and
Buru would not sorrow to eat of that. There is much
cotton in Cibao, and that is clothes for the Indian. Oh,
master, will you not take the guanin from the poor Buru,
so that her heart shall be glad within her. The gold is
not good for the woman. She cannot buy with it, neither
she nor her people. The bad master of the Spaniard will
seize it from her hand, and with his knotted whip he will
scourge her that she brought it not before. Take it, master,
and buy with it a big canoe; and think not of the
black hurricane that came down from the mountains to
make thee sad. It will make the poor Buru too sorry
if the master takes not the guanin.”
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She gathered it again as she was speaking, and once
more laid it at the feet of the cavalier. To refuse her any
longer would have been an unkindness of which Vasco
Nunez was incapable.
“I will take your gold, Buru, and do with it what I
can.”
“I thank thee, I thank thee, good master—I will bring
thee more,” she exclaimed, interrupting him in the fulness
of her joy.
“I will take it, and it will doubtless be of help to me,
though it will not buy me the canoe.”
“I will bring thee more, dear master,” she cried, again
interrupting him—“There is much gold in Cibao, and it
is good. The sister of Buru shall also bring gold for the
good master which she will hide from the Spaniard in her
hair. Look, my lord,—after so many suns,”—here she
counted on her fingers before his eyes—“so many suns,
and Buru will come with her sister, and bring good guania
in her hair. Her hair is thick like the hair of Buru—it
will hide the gold so that the Spaniard shall never find it.
It shall come for my good master, and he shall get with it
a bigger canoe than he lost by the black hurricane before.
Buru blesses the good master, and will love to serve him.”
“Nay, Buru, but this thou shalt not. I do not want
your gold, and you must bring me no more of it—bring
me nothing. It will do you harm with your master should
he detect you, and he might even take your life.”
“Ah! would he!” exclaimed the woman quickly—
“Buru were very glad if the sword of Garabito, which slew
the boy, would slay the poor mother. Ah, master, I tremble
to go back to the mountains. There will be one to say
to me—`where is Zemi?' and when he asks, what shall
Buru answer? She will fall down upon her face, and bury
the truth in the sand.”
“Thy husband!” said Vasco Nunez.
“Ah! yes! But thou knowest him not, master. Tell
me thou dost not know his name.”
“How should I, Buru?—thou hast never told me.”
“He has no name—I have no husband, and there is no
child.” These words were uttered wildly, and the miserable
mother seemed to be more agitated now that at any
previous moment in their interview.
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“The master will take the guanin?” she said as she
prepared to depart.
“This!—but no more; and I take this, Buru, not because,
I desire it, but as I would not give thee pain by
refusing thee. Risk not your life by bringing to me any
more, for I will not receive it from thee. I will buy no
more ships, but go back to my farm at Salvatierra—give
up these dreams of glory—these fancies of discovery, and
think of greatness no longer. The fates work against me.”
These words were rather the fruit of Vasco's own melancholy
musings than as intending any answer to the
woman—and, but for the melancholy defiance in his manner
when he spoke of the hostility of the fates, she might
have found much in what he said that was greatly beyond
her comprehension. She understood, however,—and that
was the purpose of her visit—that she was at length permitted
in her own way to express her gratitude—that the
man who had striven to befriend her was not unwilling to
accept her humble acknowledgments. Satisfied with this
much, her features put on a smile of melancholy pleasure,
and bending once more upon her knee before him, she took
his hand in hers and placed it upon her head in token of
veneration. At this moment a slight whistle from a neighbouring
bush reached her ears. She caught his hand hurriedly,
carried it to her lips, rose from her suppliant posture
and, ere he could speak, without farther word, she darted
away, and disappeared in another moment behind the rock
on which he rested.
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CHAPTER XII. THE STAR—NEW HOPES.
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Her place was supplied by the astrologer. Micer Codro
had not been forgetful nor unobservant of his friend.
He well enough understood how grievously Vasco Nunez
must feel the sudden annihilation of his hopes; and if he
suffered any time to elapse, after the hurricane, before he
came forward as a consoler, it was simply because he also
knew how idle in the first gush of one's sorrow must be
any attempt at consolation or encouragement. In loneliness
may the sad heart best find counsel. Quiet thought
is perhaps the best minister to real affliction. The brooding
contemplation which looks into itself, will find the deity
more frequently within, than among the crowd and in the
high places. And even now, when he approached the
gloomy adventurer, he sat down beside him in silence
upon the crag. Their mutual eyes were bent sorrowfully
upon those muttering waters in which their fortunes were
swallowed up. Yet, though in one sense a greater loser
than Vasco Nunez, the astrologer was any thing but despondent;
and if afflicted, only so on account of his friend.
He had an elasticity of mind, the consequence of tempered
desires and long experience of life's vicissitudes, which
was yet to be attained by his companion. Perhaps, too,
he had hopes, which did not encourage Vasco Nunez, and
of which the latter did not dream. Full of these, and confident
in the promises with which they allured him, the
astrologer sat down in patience beside his friend, who suffered
him to take his place without speech or notice. He
resolved to wait the moment when grief itself must become
tired of its musing monotony, and manhood, impatient of
inaction, feel trial and loss as even preferable, in a choice
of evils, to that apathetic prostration of life, which is a pain
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always to the sanguine and adventurous mind. The astrologer
knew the nature of the warrior, and waited, without
sign of irksomeness, upon that morbid mood, which he
knew must finally relieve itself in speech, even though its
utterance be still in the language of complaint. He, meanwhile,
was not unoccupied. The contemplation of the
visible world and its various glories was to him a rich enjoyment,
far beyond the thousand others for which the
warring races of men struggle in the soil and strive together
in severest combat. The voices of the elements
were, to him, the voices of benignant, or, at least, of powerful
gods. That lovely and fantastic superstition which,
in the earlier period of civilization, expended life harmlessly
in hearkening to songs and stories of the stars, and
having a confident faith that they exercised a predestined
influence upon the hopes and fortunes of the earth, yielded
him a wealth, which had this blessing beyond all others,
that it provoked no man's envy and took from no man's
heritage. The storms of ocean and of air deprived him of
them but momentarily, and with the dissipation of the
clouds, his treasures came forth to his sight with tenfold
profusion, and with a brightness duly enhanced by their late
casual obscuration.
Such was the case at this very moment. The hurricane
which had swept over the city from the hanging mountains
of Cibao, had cleared the skies of every defacing
cloud. The accumulated vapours of autumn had departed;
and in the pure and singularly blue expanse around, the
people of Española found a certain assurance that the
dangers of the current year, arising from a source so fruitful
of danger, were all, at length, over. Never was night
so lustrous. To the dweller in the cold regions of the
north, the myriad eyes looking down upon him from their
southern mansions, would alone have almost realized to
him the idea of the omniscience of the Deity. Their lights
seemed linked in one pearly galaxy all over the central heavens,
so close, thick and transparent, that the lonely spots of
blue which lay here and there between them, became objects
of distinction from their very isolateness and infrequency.
Yet, crowded as they were, their inequality of
size and brightness was no less a beauty to the beholder.
The keen eye of the astrologer, whom a long contemplation
of their beautiful forms had taught to know and to
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distinguish between them well, dwelt with momently increasing
pleasure upon their novel aspects, as, troop by troop, the
wheeling lustres rose into sight, and took their assigned
places in the dark blue fields in the distance. He had
learned to distinguish between them by reason of their
shapes, not less than by their size and brightness; and
many were the occult significations which their cruciform,
circular, oval, or dartlike aspects, presented to his thoughts,
as, beheld through the creative lens of a most etherial imagination,
he called them, each by its name, and examined
it for its mysteries. And how natural, in an age so
fanciful, to believe that the stars and starry groups beheld
in the new world for the first time by the native of the
old, were especially assigned for its government and protection!
How much easier for the self-adoring and complacent
man to arrogate to himself the countenance and
patronage of one, at least, of a host so numerous, and to
grow confident in the sweet and flattering fancy which
assured him that the bright eye which his own loved to
single out in the heavens, turned ever with the interest of
a kindred life, to meet the intense gaze of its admirer.
And the night deepened as the sage and warrior gazed.
The lonely rock on which they sat had no voices to break
the dream of the imploring silence which hovered breathlessly
around them. The scene was too sweet and soothing
to the two, moved, as they respectively were, by differing,
though not conflicting emotions, to leave them any
desire, of themselves, to disturb it. Gradually the contemplations
of the astrologer deepened with the deepening
night, and the wonders of a grasping thought lay before
his vision. He even ceased to be conscious of the companion
by his side. He mused upon the past which he
had known—he remembered old predictions, and his soul
grew kindled with the gathering aspects of the new. He
groaned in the intensity of his thought, until Vasco Nunez,
wounded in spirit and sick at soul as he was, forgot, for
the time, his own afflictions, as he heard the utterance of a
sound so unwonted from the lips of the aged man. His
eyes were involuntarily but slowly turned from the waters,
and rested upon the pale cheek, the glistening eyes, the
white and flowing beard of the astrologer. The latter saw
not the gaze of his companion. His own was busy among
the crowding orbs that seemed momently to blaze out and
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to thicken in the southern horizon. His hands were
clasped upon his breast, his lips were parted, and to the
eye of Vasco Nunez, he wore the aspect of one whose
soul was afar, seeking fellowship in worlds of better and
more enduring promise. For a long time did Vasco Nunez
watch the sage in admiration and silence.
“This old man,” he said to himself—“What lives he
for? His worldly wealth did he bestow upon me, and I
have lost it. He hath nothing now in the whole wide
world, and I am his debtor without the means of payment.
Accursed! that I am, that such should be the case—that I
should take from the treasury which should keep him in
comfort through the years of his decline. He knows all—
he knows that he can hope for nothing at my hands—that
I have nothing, either to repay him or others. Yet he
utters no complaint; and if he sorrows at all, his sorrows
are for my loss, not for any of his own. Wretch! that I
am—to look upon him in a pang, and to speak to him little
less than torture. Yet I must do both—Micer Codro!”
The last words were uttered aloud. The old man,
turned his eyes upon his companion with a sad, sweet
smile, and his reply was uttered in tones of the warmest
affection.
“My son! Thou hast summoned my thought from a
far distance. What wouldst thou?”
“Wherefore didst thou seek me out at Salvatierra, to
thy own ruin and mine? Why didst thou come to me with
thy delusions of the stars, and take me from my little farm
that enabled me to behold the sea without confiding to it
my treasures? Thou foundest me prosperous because I was
secure—having a fancy in my heart of greatness, which
thou hast blown into a flame which could not be quieted—
till I threw by the iron with which I dug, and grew sick
and ashamed of the toils which gave me bread. Thou
wouldst persuade me that the stars were toiling for me to
nobler ends, and I believed thee. Well! what now of
thy predictions?—thine own eyes saw the hurricane which
belied thy promises—which laughed at my credulity—
which has wrecked thy property and mine. I tell thee,
Micer Codro, I have this day seen thy three thousand
pieces sucked down into the greedy deep. Where were
thy stars to help thee and to save thee?—it was only last
night that thou broughtest me the brightest promises
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gathered from their false assurances. My star, too!—that bitter
mocking planet upon which, more than all beside, thou
didst build thy faith—What says it to thee now? Does it
look upon thee with smiles? Dost thou yet behold and
believe it? Methinks, it should be buried deep as the treasure
which it has lost for us, in the depths of that engulphing
sea.”
The reply of the venerable man to this burst of reproach
was calm and gentle as before.
“Complain not of me, my son, and, above all, complain
not of the stars which are as friendly to thee in their aspects
as ever. Look with me, my son, upon thy own
bright guardian. Follow the guidance of my finger and
behold where it now gleams forth with a blaze like that
of the unclouded moon. Its shadow rests in a bright
silvery line along the bosom of the very waters, which,
as thou sayst, have swallowed up our treasure. It saddens
not because of our loss—wherefore should we? It tells us
that there is hope and triumph for us still—it reproves us
for our despondency.”
The astrologer had the most perfect confidence in his
own predictions, and in the assurances which the star still
carried to his mind; but it was not so easy for him to impress
the same ready conviction on that of his companion.
Though not superior to the superstitions which affected
the wisest of his age, Vasco Nunez was stubborn against
any beguiling hope in the face of his late disaster. He
smiled almost scornfully as he heard the words, and remarked
the earnest simplicity of expression in the face of
the astrologer.
“And thou believest it still! Oh, Micer Codro, friend
of mine as I think thee, and wise among men, as in truth
I do regard thee, how is it that thou canst hope to impose
upon me with this vain argument, and dost so thoroughly
impose upon thyself? My star tells thee at night that I
am on the very threshold of success, and, at morning, the
storm sweeps me into the abyss.”
“Not thee—not thee, my son,” was the instantaneous
reply of the other—“thy treasure—thy wordly treasure
and mine, indeed, it sweeps into the sea, but thou livest—
thou shalt still live, and still triumph over the storms and
the seas until thou art in possession of the glory which I
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have long since promised thee. Sure, I deny not, that
these seeming disasters—”
“Seeming disasters!” exclaimed the other, almost
fiercely interrupting the speaker. “The loss of ship, and
stores, and arms, men and money, which for two long profitless
years we have striven to raise, is a loss in seeming
only! It is no disaster in reality—no loss—thou feelest
none—I have seen none! We are not now destitute, who
have lost every thing in that treacherous tempest. Thy
loss is in seeming only, Micer Codro? I glad me that
such is thy persuasion, since then I may persuade myself
thou wilt hold my debt to thee a debt in seeming also.”
“And as I look upon thee, and sit beside thee, and take
thy hand in mine, my son, with the feeling of the father
for his first-born, I do hold thee no debtor of mine unless
it be in seeming. If it be thy debt to me that makes thee
unhappy, my son, let thy cause for sorrow cease. Thy
debt is paid to me—and now, set thy heart at rest, so that
thou mayst learn to rejoice with me at the promise which
is still before thee.”
The bosom of the warrior was touched with the generous
expressions of the astrologer.
“Ah, father,” he exclaimed in broken accents—“Thou
art only too kind, too fond, too indulgent, and I am too
rash of speech, and deserve but little of the indulgence
which thou givest me. Believe me, Micer Codro, it is thy
loss that troubles me greatly, though I deny not that my
own disappointments are also great. I cannot suffer thee
to lose—I will not, if power of mine can ever amend it—
this large amount which we have seen go down this day
into the bosom of the Ozama. I will owe thee service,
and toil for thee until thou art paid these moneys, though
by the blood of the blessed Saviour, I see not how I shall
toil unless as a follower of one or other of these men, to
whom, in my day of better fortune, I denied all companionship.”
“Thou shalt not do this—thou art born for rule, not
obedience—to lead the triumph, not follow tamely the path
of another. Thou hadst no days of better fortune, Vasco
Nunez, than thou hast now—now, when thou seemest to
have suffered the loss of all. Thy star never looked
brighter to mine eye, or fuller in its form than it does now,
and though I see not how its promise will grow unto
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fulfilment, yet, nevertheless, do I nothing question but that
such must be the case. I have called thy disaster one in
seeming only, for truly I believe it so; nor will there be
any thing marvellous if it should prove so. The ways of
heaven are inscrutable to the blind and thoughtless beings
whom they move; and man, erring ever and self-willed,
flies hourly from the real blessing, esteeming it, through
the medium of his blinding self-conceit, a curse and a bitterness.
Better that the tempest should sink the Maragnon
in the quiet waters of the Ozama, than that she should sink
with thee on the verge of that Southern sea, upon which,
my soul tells me within, you bright star of thy destiny is
looking even now with a fixedness and fervour such as
thine must be, my son, when, standing upon the mountain
top, thou seest for the first time spread out before thy feet,
and yielding to thy power, its sacred and sealed up waters.
Look! Vasco—fix thy glance upon yon lovely image.
Seems it not in thy sight to wear the face of some wondrous
meaning. Shines it not forth with an expression as
if, even now, looking forth upon that hidden ocean, it knew
the object of thy quest, and longed for the hour when thou,
following its gaze, shalt trace out the wild mountain
paths and make thyself the heritor of the glory to which
it would guide thy steps. Fear nothing, my son—it will
be thy guide. Give not way to despondency, for its
blessed promise shall sustain thee. Stand not in hostility
to thy good fortune, for, of a truth, it is thy destiny to
grow great in the eyes of Spain, and to achieve the conquest
of a world which shall give thee a name like that of
Cristovallo Colon, and an immortal memory among men,
only less great than his. Adonai and Saddai—I call thee,
father, by thy names of greatest power—I ask thee if this
promise be not true?”
The eye of Vasco Nunez involuntarily turned with the
finger of his enthusiastic companion, until it rested upon
the pale bright planet that, occupying the centre of a cloud
of stars, irradiated them with a foreign lustre while obscuring
their native beams.
“Believe me, my son, and doubt nothing of the fortune
which awaits thee,” continued the old man, as he saw how
earnestly the glance of Vasco Nunez rested upon the orb—
“give thyself to the tide, and, as it bears thee, resist not,
though it may seem for a time to sweep thee along to the
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deep abysses of destruction. There is an arm to save
thee when thine own is nerveless—there is an eye to
guide thee when the cloud obscures thine own. What
were the aim of man—his petty hopes and frail endeavours,
if this were not the case? What achievement could
he accomplish by his own unassisted strength of mind or
body, of courage or of conduct? None. His toils were
those of one who strove to impel his barge against the
driving winds, and craved of the waters to forbear his riven
planks. The path is shaped for thee and for all, my son,
and thou mightest as well refuse to take the fortune that is
assigned thee, as I to forbear that toil in thy behalf which is
not less grateful to my heart because I feel it to be allotted
to my destiny.”
“And doth the same star move our fortunes, my father?”
demanded Vasco Nunez, curious to hear more upon a subject
upon which his companion had never been explicit.
“Another, yet the same! The star which governs the
fate of Micer Codro follows in the path of thine, though
at a long distance; and thus will it, until—”
The old man paused, leaving the sentence unfinished.
His features became agitated—his lip quivered, and an unbidden
tear started into his eye.
“Until when—until what?” was the inquiry of Vasco
Nunez, who was curious to learn the cause of his emotion.
“Until we separate, my son.”
“But wherefore should we separate, my father,” said
the warrior kindly—“there is no reason for it—there could
never be strife between us.”
“Never!” was the deep response.
“Then wherefore separate?” said Vasco, repeating the
question—“I would not have it so; though in truth my
connexion with thee hath brought thee nothing but evil.”
“It is the fate, my son—there is no other reason. But
let this concern neither of us now. There will be a time
for our grief at parting in its own hour. Man never wants
a time for grief. Let this console us, that before that hour
shall arrive, the southern sea, on which you bright eye
looks with its golden fires, will lie at thy feet, and its waters,
trembling and hiding among its reeds, shall murmur
thy triumph to thy own ears. Not till then shall we separate,
and, after that, what should either of us care to
know?”
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“Yet thou dost know, Micer Codro.”
“Ay! I know my fate, my son—but of thine I am yet
ignorant. Did I not tell thee that thy peril came from a
woman—this is all I know.”
“A woman! It may be so—thou hast often dwelt upon
this theme, and yet my ears give thee little heed. My
heart feels not the truth of thy predictions. How should
it. Since the beginning of my manhood I have found my
joys in woman only. She has been my sunshine when
the day was dark—a star to my eyes when my own star
was under a heavy cloud. Wounded and weak, she has
nursed and comforted me; and I have no thought of her,
no memory that is not grateful and soothing. Even at
this moment, when I feel most ready to yield the strife to
fate and forego the struggle after greatness, she has brought
me the first gleam of hope—the first tidings of encouragement.”
“What mean you, my son? can it be—has Teresa—”
“Teresa,—no! Yet, even there, my heart tells me I
shall meet with hope. I have had a woman comforter already,
and yet not Teresa. The poor Indian mother,
Buru, whose son was slain by Garabito—she has been
with me within the hour, and see what she has brought
me.”
“Gold,—guanin,—these are large bits, and of value,
my son.”
“The pagan has a soul of gratitude. She would give
me all. Yes! she told me of more, and promised, with
her sister, to bring me stores of it from the mountain where
she dwells, in which she tells me she has yet greater
quantities.”
“And thou wilt go and seek her out, my son? This is
truly a bounty of God. Said I not that thy star promised
thee every thing. Adonai, the powerful! thy name be
praised!”
“Ay, Micer Codro, but thou saidst also that the woman
should be my fate—my danger! What sayst thou now?”
“Truly, I say not less now, Vasco—such is the written
word. I do not say that woman shall not help thee, nor
console thee, nor bring thee treasure. I say only that she
will bring thee sorrow if not shame. But that is only
the better reason why thou shouldst take the good which
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she also provides thee. Why wilt thou not seek the spot
which she has named to thee.”
“And take from the poor savage the treasure which she
has hidden, and which may buy her the favour of a stern
master. No! No! Let the miserable woman keep her
gold—it will serve her—it will yield but little help to
me.”
“Saints and angels, Vasco Nunez, but thou growest
wilful,” cried the astrologer with something more of impatience
in his speech than he had ever before suffered to
appear in his intercourse with his companion. “What!
wilt thou refuse the help which comes to thee at the moment
of thy greatest need, as if it were a boon from the
blessed Virgin herself. Why, my son, thou forgettest—
this help may restore thee, perchance—may rebuild and
refit thy shattered barque; and, by its timely succour, with
a prompt action, thou mayst yet get the start of these thy
rivals, and with the better skill which thou hast over Ojeda
and Nicuesa, and thy equal valour, find out the Southern
Sea, and conquer its shores, ere their impatient eyes will
gaze upon it. There are ships at Cuba vacant to be bought,
and thou art not unfavoured by Diego Colon—let us seek
the woman and take the gold which thou canst repay her
at another season. It will be of little use to her, since, if
she but shows it in sight of the greedy master whom she
serves, it were a lost treasure for ever. Take her guanin,
and cross to Cubanacan, where thou wilt find, perchance,
some goodly vessel ready for the sea. Shut not thine eyes
to that good fortune which speaks so truly the promise of
thy star.”
“Let the stars that promise provide, Micer Codro,”
replied the cavalier perempterily to the earnest exhortations
of the old man—“I will not take this money of the
woman; but I will see Teresa, my father—I will now, in
the hour of my desperation, speak that love which my heart
had not courage to avow when my fortune looked triumphant.
I can now speak to her with lips that shall not
falter. Thou hast warned me that she loved me not—that
she—thou hast even hinted, and I have forgiven it thee—
that she was one of a base and selfish nature that lived only
for its own worldly desires and small vanities. Thou hast
done her a wrong, methinks, and I will show it thee. She
shall know me as one utterly destitute, and as it would
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seem, unloved of fortune. Her faith and thine, and it may
be said that of Santo Domingo, also, has been far otherwise!
I will inform her truly of my poverty, and teach
her, farther, that I have come to esteem myself as one on
whom the fates frown with a special hostility.”
“And canst thou believe thus, Vasco?” demanded the
astrologer—“Have I not told thee?”
“Ay, my father, though thy every word said otherwise!
Can I else than think so? Hath not this been my fortune
from the very hour of my birth? My childhood was destitute,
hopeless, unfriended.”
“Yet thou didst not perish!”
“No! nor would the cuffed dog, though he lived only
on the blows that helped him to an appetite which they did
not satisfy.”
“Thou hast grown strong under them—thou hast even
grown famous.”
“Thou shalt count the value of this fame in maravedies,
when thou wouldst take a loan upon my name from
any notary in Española.”
“Yet, though, in the narrow selfishness of their hearts,
they deny thee their money—let them speak of valiant
achievement or gallant deed to be done, and their eyes turn
upon Vasco Nunez, and their lips say—this is the man.”
“I will read to thee the meaning of that which in thy
ear sounds like applause. It runs thus: There is danger
at hand—there is a fool among us, who counts his own
life as little, having little to live for. He hath a passion
for blows, and a passion scarcely less strong for the idle
words of praise. We will give him these soothing words,
and he will seek our enemy and take those blows, which
would else fall upon our cheeks. We have but to say,
this is our dog—a fine dog, a famous dog—the best dog in
the world at fighting;—and the blind fool becomes so! Read
I not their meaning aright, Micer Codro? Is not this the
measure of my fame, and will it yield me a maravedi in
Santo Domingo?”
“Thou art chafed, Vasco, my son! thou chafest because
the Spaniard lends thee not, and yet thou refusest
the money which the infidel woman gives. Wilt thou
not seek the woman?”
“Teresa, only! I will seek her.”
“I would I might persuade thee otherwise, Vasco.”
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“Thou canst not—it were breath wasted, Micer Codro.
I hope not that Teresa will wed me—I have scarcely a
clear thought upon it; and yet—yet, my father, I trust
me she will prove thee guilty of a false and cruel judgment.”
“Amen! may it be so, Vasco: thou wilt see—we shall
both see—I will do her no more wrong by farther conjecture;
and I will pray earnestly that the step thou takest
shall be ever a nearer one to thy favouring fortune. I will
but implore thee not to seek Teresa until I have returned
from a brief absence?”
“What! Dost thou leave Santo Domingo—now—now
that I am wretched?” was the answer of the querulous
warrior whom every thing at this moment seemed to
annoy.
“It must be so, my son; yet I leave thee not. In spirit
and in action I am still with thee. I will be absent from
thee but a single day. Wilt thou promise me not to seek
Teresa until I return? Say, the night following the morrow?”
The warrior laid his hand in that of the astrologer, and
the latter, as if impatient for the prosecution of some new
purpose just then risen in his mind, hurried away from the
spot, leaving his companion still to muse over his vicissitude
of fortune, and meditate the various doubts and hopes
of its restoration.
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CHAPTER XIII. CONSPIRACY—THE MATADOR.
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The astrologer, who knew the place of labour assigned
to the tribe to which the woman Buru belonged, had conceived
the determination of following her to the mountains
in order to secure for Vasco Nunez the proffered liberality
which he had so unscrupulously rejected at her hands. He
reasoned with more coolness and less of youthful feeling
on this subject than the cavalier. With this gold in quantity,
he well knew that it could avail the Indians nothing,
since the only persons to whom the ore was of value, were
those who would seize it, on exposure, from their possession,
as a proper spoil, without offering any equivalent,
and probably bestowing upon them additional blows for
the concealment which kept it from their grasp so long.
To the adventurous Vasco Nunez, however, it was every
thing, and the old man judged from the samples which
the woman had already given that she had in store sufficient
resources to enable him to cross to Cuba, and provide
himself with a new equipment. He regarded the circumstance
as only one of the many modes by which the destinies
who had spoken through the star of Vasco Nunez
would fulfil all their promises; and exulting with this
quickening fancy, he set off on his journey without the
delay of an hour after his separation from his friend. With
singular powers of body for one whose years were those
of ordinary man's decay, he possessed a courage no less
singular—a courage which is, perhaps, the almost invariable
result of a faith such as Micer Codro really entertained.
Hardy and elastic, the length of the way was not a thought
with him at starting, nor did the darkness or the danger
discourage him with their obtrusive suggestions of fear.
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He had already departed on his journey when the Cavalier—
who did not conjecture his object—returned to the
bohio.
Let us now repair to Garabito. Maddened and humbled
equally by the defeat and consequent degradation to which
the superior skill of Vasco Nunez had subjected him, we
have seen him making his way for the hills, where he
sought the country house of one Joseph de Ribiero, the
chief of an encomienda, who dwelt among the mountains
about two leagues from the city. Ribiero was a man after
his own heart—a man well calculated to feel his degradation
with him, and, if need be, to help him in avenging
it. But their consultation produced no definite determination
until they were joined at night by the bachelor, Hernando
de Enciso. He brought them the first intelligence
of the loss which their common enemy had sustained by
reason of the hurricane, the wing of which had passed
lightly over the region in which the encomienda lay. The
misfortune of Vasco Nunez, while it rejoiced the mean
spirit of Garabito, tended in no degree to moderate his hostility.
His heart was set upon revenge, and nothing short
of the blood of his foe, drawn in fatal sluices from his
heart, could satisfy his hatred. But there was still some
difficulty in his way ere he could procure this satisfaction.
The blood of the timid Haytien, or the humbled Indian,
might be much more easily drawn than that of the proud
and fighting Spaniard; and the difficulty was increased
when the destined victim was one like Vasco Nunez.
What mode of vengeance was he to employ against a man
who had already foiled his weapon with such superior ease,
and whose exquisite swordsmanship was so universally
acknowledged by the best masters of fence in Santo Domingo?
This was a difficulty which they all felt equally,
and for which, it was equally evident to all, that there was
but a single remedy—and that—assassination! Yet, though
this thought pervaded the mind of the three conspirators
with equal strength, they had neither of them acquired
sufficient hardihood in the more audacious character of the
villain, nor had they yet arrived at that degree of confidence
in each other, to declare their sentiments at first
with open boldness; and it was only after the discussion
of a dozen expedients—expedients of which none of them
thought seriously even while they made them—that
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Enciso, having probed more keenly into their souls than they
had yet done themselves, ventured to declare himself:
“Señores, you will talk here all night and be no nearer
than before to your business. Let me give you my conclusion
now. Obando will do nothing for us, till blood be
drawn. Had you suffered Vasco Nunez to puncture you
in the arm or side, you had had your revenge ere this.
Now, there is but one way—you must get a matador to
your help, and do the business without witnesses. There
is a fellow here, one Lope Ortoba who hath been employed
in these offices before. For twenty pesos you engage his
soul, and for five pieces more, you have what is of more
value, his arm. He will strike for you, but you must see
him do it. He requires that you should look on and point
out the victim, else he will do nothing. He is a bold fellow
and strong enough, single handed, to hold his ground
with any wrestler in San Domingo; but he hath no skill
with his weapon, and what he does he must do without
word or warning. Take this man, and get in waiting for
Vasco Nunez. Ortado knows well enough how to hide
himself for this purpose, and you can be nigh to help with
a lunge or a stroke should the struggle be a close one,
which it is scarce like to be if the matador do not bungle.
What better would you have than this? I can advise no
better!”
In the secret minds of the two the plan of Enciso met with
their ready concurrence, but the same pretence of virtue,
arising from the natural caution of imbecility, which had
kept them before from suggesting this remedy, now
prompted them to a hesitating and feeble opposition to the
scheme. But the cunning lawyer knew his men, and long
accustomed to the study of the human brute, he had already
divined the true thoughts of the two before him. He
knew that their objections were no less insincere than
he esteemed them untenable. Assured, therefore, that
they would dismiss them in the end, he forebore pressing
his views, and with a composure which took something
of the air of indifference, proceeded thus:
“As you please, Señor Garabito—the business is entirely
your own. It must be for you, therefore, to say
what will be your course of justice. It is your concern
only, not mine. Yet, truth to speak, I am at my wit's end.
I see not what you will do. You cannot meet Vasco
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Nunez with the sword—that is idle. You are a good swordsman,
but he is something more; and he has strength, with
his slight, which is superior to thine, mine, and Ribiero's.
You were but a dead man to cross with him a second time,
and such measure I advise not.”
The thoughts of Ribiero soon became those of Enciso,
while Garabito, still unassured, or rather undetermined,
paced the apartment in gloomy and speechless incertitude.
Enciso put his hand upon his shoulder and arrested his
progress.
“You are but trifling with your honour, Garabito, not
to say, your safety. There is no choice before you. Nobody
in Española looks to see you meet Vasco Nunez on
equal terms—yet they all expect that you should avenge
your wrong. You must wash out your dishonour in his
blood. There is no help—nor should you desire to avoid
it.”
“Nor do I,” exclaimed the other ferociously. “It is
his blood only that I seek. Show me the way to strike
him, give me but to know, and I will risk all peril, I care
not of what kind, to procure me the vengeance which I
seek. Do this, Ribiero—Enciso—and I will call you
friends indeed.”
“But have we not done so?” replied Enciso. “Following
my counsel, you cannot fail. The deed is soon done,
and the stain washed out.”
“What! by this murderer, Ortado,” replied Garabito
with a shuddering sensation which must not be ascribed to
reluctance so much as fear.
“Ay, the mutador, who is always a respectable person
when employed by men of honour. He is the agent of
their honour, and necessary to it, when, in such cases as
yours, a strong man and skilful swordsman presumes upon
his superiority to inflict disgrace and injury. In such cases,
there is no dishonour in employing such agents as will
bring you the desired equality. As well might it be counted
dishonourable and cowardly, that the Spaniards, numbering
but few men opposed to the savages, should employ
the arts of Spanish warfare and clothe themselves in
escaupil, to protect them from their numerous arrows.
You must dismiss these idle scruples, Garabito, if you
meditate this revenge, for, in truth, it were as vain for you
to cross weapon with Balboa as with the Cid Campeador
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himself. If you really seek revenge for this wrong, your
help is in Ortado.”
“If I really seek revenge!” exclaimed the still indecisive
Garabito.
“Ay!” retorted the other, “and truly, Señor Garabito,
for a man who hath suffered a wrong so grievous, methinks
you are mighty slow in urging your resentment.”
“I would be certain only—I hesitate but that I may do
nothing idly and with ineffectual purpose. I would see
all my movements, and note every step heedfully that I
may not miss my blow when I strike. That is all my
cause of thought—it is not that I lack resolve, for I have
sworn by the holy mother of God that Vasco Nunez shall
die.”
“A good resolution, and one, let me tell you, Garabito,
that is most necessary to your station in Santo Domingo.
The people look for it, and even the monkish and the
drivelling, though they might blame thee for shedding
blood, yet, if thou didst not, would cry aloud, `that is he
who lay under the feet of Vasco Nunez and offered no resistance.”
'
“They shall not say this, Enciso.”
“They will if thou dost not take thy redress. Can any
thing be more easy? Thou hast only to place thyself and
Ortado among the palm trees by the cottage of the Señora
Teresa. She loves him, it is said—”
“It is said falsely!” cried the other, whose vanity was
in arms at this suggestion.
“I know not that,” said Enciso, who very well knew
how to provoke his frown. “I know not that, and I believe
it not, Garabito; and had you seen the two as this
day I beheld them in the Plaza!—hadst thou seen the
fiery eyes of Vasco Nunez, and the confident glance which
he gave her!—hadst thou, again, beheld the free smile
which she returned him, and seen how she hung upon his
arm!—besides, they do say, it was his arm that saved her
from the hurricane!”
“Would it had blasted both!” was the fierce exclamation
of Garabito. “Hell's curse be upon them, Hernando,
if this be true. But it is not true—it cannot be as thou
sayest. It was only this morning that I spoke with Teresa.
I came from her when I encountered with the woman,
and drew this quarrel upon me by the provocation of
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the accursed boy—and I tell thee, Enciso, that Teresa Davila
spoke slightingly of Vasco Nunez, and I could not
mistake the sneer of her lips when his name was spoken.
I well recollect her question—“Was he not fencing-master
at Xeres de los Caballeros, and what should make him
thus great in Santo Domingo?' Said she thus, and could
she favour him as thou thinkest?”
“If she said thus, she did Vasco Nunez wrong. He is,
it is true, a native of Xeres de los Caballeros, but he is of
noble family, and brought up as page to Don Pedro, Lord
of Moguer. He is master of fence, but yet no fencing-mas'er.”
“Thou seemst to favour him in thy speech, Hernando,”
was the petulant reply of Garabito.
“I do, and I counsel thee to slay him,” said the other
with composure. “I so far favour him that I would give
him the distinction of dying at thy hands, or under thy direction.
Trust not the sneer or the speech of Teresa Davila—
she is but a woman like the rest, and she will lip, like
a wanton, the very man whom she seems least of all to
favour. This is but one of the thousand arts among the
sex. Thou shouldst be wise by this time beyond such
deception. She will laugh at thy credulity, as, shouldst
thou let this matter rest, will all Santo Domingo scorn thy
cowardice.”
“It shall not rest!” said the other hoarsely. “I do but
seek the means to make my vengeance certain.”
“And I give thee these means. What should hinder.
Take thy fellows with thee at midnight, or take Ortado,
who is far better for business of this sort than any of thy
fellows—and when he leaves the bohio of Teresa deal
with him at a blow. For, I tell thee, Garabito, sneer as
she may, he seeks her nightly; and she yields him strains
of love from her guitar, and sits with him beneath the
banyan in the starlight; and their mutual voices melt into
murmurs, so that no ear but their own shall make out their
language, though, to all men, the meaning of such speech
should be clear enough. Nay, I will not swear that his
arm clips not her waist when the murmur needs to be enforced
by a proper action.”
“I will stab him in her arms!” was the choking speech
of the auditor, whom the words of Enciso, intended for this
purpose, had almost goaded into madness—“I will stab
them both.”
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“Nay, nay! that were too much. But thou mayst stab
him—thou must, or lose the favour—nay, lose the very
countenance of every man in Santo Domingo. Thou shalt
lie in wait for him as he comes from his mistress warm
from her arms—perchance with her kiss yet warm upon
his lips.”
“No more—thou maddest me, Enciso. Thou hast a
trick of the fiend in thy speech, methinks, which gives
thee a strange power upon me. I will do it as thou sayst.
I will slay him with her kiss upon his lips; I will show
no mercy—none. And for Teresa—”
“Be not angry with her.”
“What! not angry with her, when she deceives me?”
“Hath she deceived thee, Garabito?”
“Nay, I may not say that! There have been no words
of love between us; but there have been shows of regard,
and she hath seemed to incline to me while she spoke
slightingly of Vasco Nunez.”
“Thou art young yet, Garabito! Thou shalt forgive
Teresa, and count not these shows of love against her.
For a woman she is well enough. It is the vice of the
sex which vexes thee, and not of the person. Thou wilt
have no occasion for complaint when thou hast slain thy
enemy. Teresa Davila, if I rightly know her, is too wise
a damsel to think for an instant of a dead lover who is of
little use, when there are so many living ones to be had.
I warrant thee against all such folly on the part of Teresa.”
The treachery was resolved upon, and the farther conversation
of the conspirators was devoted to the mode
which should be adopted, for the more effectual prosecution
of his crime. The suggestion of Enciso, which counselled
the assassin to perform the deed when his victim
was leaving the dwelling of the damsel, was congenial to
the jealous rage of Garabito. Enciso gratified his own
mean hostility to his noble enemy, by thus moving Garabito.
His soul festered within him at the unmeasured and
unmitigated scorn which Vasco Nunez had never forborne
to bestow upon himself.
“And thou tell'st me that this fellow, Ortado, is even
now within thy encomienda?” demanded Garabito.
The person addressed summoned a servant, to whom in
few words he gave his commands. Within an hour the
matador was in attendance—a broad-shouldered, bull-necked,
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round-headed person, with black bushy brows, a thick
matted shock of hair, small keen dark eyes, that looked
only through half-opened lids, a mouth large and thicklipped,
and limbs short, well and closely set, indicative
alike of strength and activity. A prevailing sluggishness,
however, seemed to hang upon and to impede his movements,
and the half-doubting Garabito, who now looked
upon the assassin for the first time, found it difficult to believe
that one so seemingly apathetic should even venture
upon a work requiring readiness and activity, or if he did,
to believe that he could possibly succeed in its execution.
“Is this the man, Enciso?” demanded Garabito. Before
the person addressed could answer, the matador spoke.
“Ah, ha! Señor Hernando, is it thou? Well, I have
ever been glad to serve thee, and will write deep letters for
you now. There is game somewhere, señor, but whose
mark goes upon it? I must know for whom I kill.”
“I thank thee, Lope;” replied Enciso—“I have no use
for thee at this moment myself, but I have counselled my
friend, the Señor Garabito, to crave help at thy hands.
There is game of his upon which thy mark must be set.
He will give thee the `conscience money'—then tell thee
where the game lies.”
“Thirty pesos, señor, for conscience, and ten for the
blood,” exclaimed the assassin, turning to Garabito and extending
his hand for that retaining fee in murder, which, as
it was supposed to bind the faith of the professional
murderer, was called the `conscience money'—the second
sum named was the reward of the actual stroke of death.
“Thou hast raised thy prices, Lope,” said Enciso.
“Not to thee, señor—I am ready to serve thee as before;
but the Señor Garabito is a young beginner and must
pay for his inexperience. Shall I go with thee aside, se
ñor, and hear of thee thy business?”
“Nay, it needs not,” answered Garabito, giving him the
fee as he spoke—“these are all my friends, and know my
whole purpose.”
“That as thou wilt, señor,” replied the assassin, “but
ours is a business in which there are few friends; and there
is no need that one should have knowledge of the business
upon which he is not bold to go. But that I also have
knowledge of the Señor Ribiero, and the bachelor, enough
to make me easy that they should know our purpose, I
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were very loth to take thy game in hand. The success of
the matador is from his secresy, and a false friend might
betray him to the knife of that enemy, for whom he has
his own in waiting. But the Señor Lope is my friend,
and so is the bachelor, and if they only know thy business
and none else, I am ready. Who is it that lives too long
for the Señor's happiness?”
“Vasco Nunez de Balboa?”
“Ha! Vasco Nunez! When does the Senor Garabito
command that he shall cease to live.”
“Thou hast two days to slay him.”
“Enough, Señor, I will make up the accounts with thy
debtor and he shall pay forfeit. Thou wilt be with me,
and see the business.”
“Canst thou not do it without witness?” demanded
Garabito with an emotion which he could not altogether
conceal.
“I can, but will not,” responded the fellow bluntly—“I
have never done otherwise, and see no reason to depart
from wholesome practice. The Señor cannot fear to look
on what he is not afraid to command and what I am not
afraid to execute.”
“It is not fear!” replied Garabito quickly, and his contradiction
alone would have furnished sufficient occasion to
justify a doubt of its truth.
“Thy shame is the same thing with thy fear, Señor. I
take no labour which my employer must not look upon
when it is done. Thou shalt not say that I botched thy
business when it is over, and it is part of my engagement,
which I hold due to my conscience, that my employer do
not seem to disapprove, by his absence, the thing that I do
for him.”
“He will be with thee, Lope;” said Enciso—“it was
only a doubtful point of honour in the mind of Señor Garabito,
whether he should look on and withhold his own
hands from the business.”
“On that head let me assure the Señor,” replied the
matador with perfect confidence—“the point of honour is
that he should withhold his hand unless I ask his aid,
else would the business be none of mine, and I would be
receiving his wages without executing his work—a thing
utterly against my conscience. Has the Señor a desire
that his enemy should die in one or more strokes. A
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tender conscience sometimes prefers that the victim should
first be disabled and permitted a prayer or two before he
receives the stroke of mercy.”
“No prayers—no time—no mercy!” replied Garabito,
“and if thou canst slay him with a single stroke,
then, in God's name, let it be done.”
“It is done!” replied the matador, and they proceeded
to make those minor arrangements for the execution of their
bloody purposes, which, at this time, we need pursue no
farther. Enough, that they laid their plans to their own
satisfaction, and the result was that another day only was
allotted to the life of Vasco Nunez.
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CHAPTER XIV. THE REBEL IN THE MOUNTAINS.
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The consultation of the conspirators terminated in their
resort to the wine flagon, and their debauch lasted the better
part of the night. Garabito, to the surprise of his attendants,
who had formed their plans for capturing the rebellious
chief Caonabo with a reference to the habits of
indulgence of their master on such occasions, continued
tolerably sober through the night, and gave them no opportunity
of leaving him for their contemplated expedition.
The reader will remember their conference on this subject.
The outlawed cassique, whom it was their purpose to entrap,
was a man no less wary than valorous. He was a
Carib by birth, and, with all the inflexible valour of his people,
he contrived to infuse a sufficient portion of it into the
bosoms of his subjects of Maguana—the territory over
which he ruled in the Island of Hayti when the Spaniards
first appeared—to enable them for a long while to make
head against their invaders, to baffle them in frequent enterprises
and conflicts, and, though defeated and destroyed
at last, to protract the period of their independence long after
the rest of the island had been subjected to their inhuman
invaders. His followers were either annihilated or in
chains, his wife was a captive and a labourer; and his son,
as we have seen, the victim of a most wanton cruelty; but
the chief, himself, had baffled all the arts if not the arms
of the Spaniard, and now wandered under the doom of
outlawry, a convict, but still free! The price which had
been set upon his head had tempted many in his pursuit,
but he escaped all their arts, and, sometimes, even hurled
death in a Parthian arrow, among his most forward pursuers.
If it be asked why his wife had not shared the
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flight of her husband with the young boy, whose timeless
fate has occupied so much of our story, it may be sufficient
to revert to the perilous and midnight wanderings which
Caonabo was compelled to take in his flight from his enemies—
of the difficulties of his own escape from a tyranny
which hunted him with bloodhounds, and scrupled at no
crime, no artifice, in the completion of its cruel conquests.
The bald chances for escape of a warrior like Caonabo,
who was strong of limb, swift of foot, fearless of heart and
subtle in contrivance, opposed to such a systematic and
superior power as that of the Spaniard, would have been
utterly lost had he been encumbered with the care of the
feeble woman and still feebler child. Their presence in
the moment of danger would have served only to baffle his
own speed and bring him more completely within the
power of his foe; and, however much the proud spirit of
the Carib might chafe within him at the necessity of leaving
them behind him, he preferred to endure his own privations
patiently, and to shut his eyes to the daily degradation
and cruelty to which they were subjected in the
encomienda of the Spaniard, rather than expose to certain
ruin and the most inhuman death, both them and himself,
by taking them with him in a premature flight. Little did
the noble savage dream that the tender age of his child
would be inadequate to the protection of his life from the
brutal and bloody nature of that tyranny from which he
himself fled in safety, but in fear.
But he had made his preparations for their final flight,
not less than his own, and the hour was approaching fast
when it was his hope to rescue them from bondage.
With that passion of unrestraint—it might not be safe to
describe it as a love of liberty, which implies a fine moral
sense and a just regard to those duties which the
desultory Indian never did perform—he had resolved
rather to fly to the homes of other and unknown savages,
than abide in his own, subject to the monstrous tyranny
which now pervaded it. With this resolution he had wandered
to the rocky parts of the seashore of Santo Domingo,
over paths almost inaccessible to the Spaniard. Here,
with his instruments of stone, he had contrived with
great, and unwearying assiduity, to cut down a gigantic
tree, one of the spongy kind called the Jaruma, which he
proceeded to hollow out in the shape of a canoe. Oars he
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made of harder wood, and by gradual and scarcely perceptible
degrees, he had provided supplies of mandioc, maize,
and water, in order to sustain himself and companion in
the perilous voyage which he proposed to undertake in
pursuit of his wild liberty in foreign lands. These arrangements
were completed, and launching his boat from
the crevice among the rocks in which his labour for many
tedious weeks had been patiently carried on, he at length
beheld it glide into the deep water, with a rapture only to
be guessed by those who, for the first time, realize an
achievement on which, while hope has doubted, the heart
has been set with a resolute enthusiasm that seemed to
declare it a portion of the very life of the labourer. Lingering
for a moment upon the rock to which he had fastened
the green wythes that secured it, his eye was
stretched across the waste of waters in his gaze, as if to
penetrate the distant worlds in which he had resolved to
pierce—his soul seemed to freshen with the breeze that
blew from the ocean, and flattering himself with a trust
that has proved illusory to all his race, he stretched his
hands in rapture towards the dim regions upon which
he strove to look, as if the security was already found
for which he was prepared to perish. He little dreamed
of the new trial which awaited him.
Night set in—the day of storm was over—the last hurricane
had passed—and the mountains, for the first time in
many months, seemed entirely free from the dim vapours
that had covered them. The starlight guided the steps of
the rebel as, springing from crag to crag, and over cleft
and chasm, with a fearlessness that came from habit, he
ascended from the shore to the hills which lined it, and
proceeded on his way to the habitation of his wife and
child. His were the past hopes of one about, as it were,
to begin his life and fortune anew. He felt the utter hopelessness
of striving against the Spaniard, whose superior
arms, science, and habitual warfare, rendered it obvious
enough even to the most fervent patriotism that nothing
could be done by a people feeble like the Haytiens, in opposition
to their power. Yet this had not been left unattempted
by the hero. He had headed no less than three
several insurrections; more than once had his efforts
been attended by partial success, and with the support of
men not utterly enfeebled by inaction and the seductive
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apathies that follow a life only spent in peace, such a chief
as Caonabo might have prolonged the war for an indefinite
period, even if he had not brought it to a successful termination.
There were hundreds of fastnesses among the
mountains of Hispaniola, which the feet of the invaders
had never yet explored, and into the recesses of which,
no opponent could be found sufficiently courageous to
follow a fearless band who valued liberty more than life.
But the warrior had no hope that looked to his own people.
Yet he was not utterly without hope of vengeance,
at least for the wrongs which they had suffered. In flying
from Santo Domingo, he did not propose to fly from the
Spaniard. He well knew that go where he would, their
rapacious appetites would follow him. His comprehensive
mind readily saw that, like the swarming locusts whom
sterility at home has driven into foreign regions, and who
must make the devastation which they fly from in all
places to which they come, they would overspread the
vast surface of the new country. His purpose was to
meet them on fresh ground, and with new opponents. The
Charaibees, his own people, the fiercest of all the tribes
of the new world, and the perpetual terror of the Haytien,
offered to the sagacious Caonabo the material for
bold resistance. To throw himself into their country, to
guide their battles, or to follow efficient warriors in their
conflict with the pale invaders, was the pregnant feeling
of his soul. But this feeling was the secret of his own
mind. The wife of his bosom, the beloved Buru, knew
nothing of his purpose, except that he was to bear herself
and boy to a shore of peace, where the Spaniard brought
neither scourge nor shackle, and where the fruits planted
by nature, and growing to their hands, were not denied
to their enjoyment. Miserable woman! what were all
these hopes, as she gazed upon the bloody spectacle
before her,—the headless child who lay on the straw matting
in her hovel! What cared she in that moment for
flight, what fear had she then of servitude, what desire for
that liberty, which, only the day before, appeared to be the
blessing beyond all beside,—the boon dearer than life,
and love, and youth—dearer than her own dreams of happiness
in that hour of her morning when she first grew
to the bosom of the chief and yielded him the young
pledge of her true affection whom the tyrant had so
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mercilessly slain. She had but one fear as she gazed upon
the bloody spectacle,—she feared the presence of her husband!
The hour for his coming was at hand, and she went
forth to meet him at an appointed spot. The moon, round
and transparent, was rising brightly above the brown
mountains, and the pale light lay like trembling water
along their edges. She saw not the light that helped her
progress as she stole from the valley in which stood the
bohios of her tribe,—the little leafy mansions lay scattered
like green dots of verdure in the distance, their miserable
occupants either moaning over their condition of
pain, or sunk in that sleep of the animal, which is produced
in spite of pain, by exhaustion. Her own wigwam,
as she looked backward, was within sight, and, though
she did not see, she well knew what was its terrible possession.
The image of her murdered child gleamed upon
her fancy as she gazed, and covering her eyes with her
hands, she hastened up the hill, and stood hidden among
the slanted firs that crowned its summits. To her ears
came the hoarse murmur of the ocean. The rocks seemed
to vibrate and tremble under its chafing waters. She
hearkened for a brief space, yet heard no other sound.
But she remained not long a watcher. Detaching a small
rock from the spot on which she stood, she whirled it with
a practised hand over the precipice beyond, and a few
seconds gave her back the token of its fall, seemingly, by
the plashing sound which followed, into some deep lake or
water-course below. A whistle reached her ears a moment
after, and she advanced in the direction whence it
came. The signal was followed by the appearance of a
man on a projecting crag beneath, whose voice a moment
after proved him to be her husband.
“Buru!” said the rebel, with a gentle utterance.
“Caonabo!” was the answer of the woman, but her
lips faltered, and her heart grew faint, to speak only the
single word. Well did she know what would be the next
speech of the chief.
“The boy, Buru—Zemi!—where is he?”
To this there was no answer. The woman advanced
a pace in silence, then remained stationary, and Caonabo
drew nigh, and put his arm upon her shoulder.
“It is done, Buru!” he said in his own language, and
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with that air of exultation and triumph which the success
of his labour was so well calculated to inspire.
“The canoe is ready, and this very night frees us from
the tyranny of the accursed Spaniard. Where is the
boy—where is Zemi? He should be with thee, Buru.
We should be even now upon the waters, sailing for the
blue islands of the Charaibee. Go, bid him waken—bring
him forth from the bohio, and cumber not thyself with
any thing beside. I have provided the maize and manoca
already, and there is little time for loss. Every
instant of delay under the scourge of these bloody tyrants
is a pang to the free spirit. Go—bring the boy—I
will await thee here.”
But the woman was motionless, and for the first time
the chief beheld the tear that glistened in her eyes, and
noted the speechless agony in her face. With a new
anxiety he repeated his demand; clutching her wrist with
a sudden grasp as he did so.
“Where is he—Zemi—the boy?”
“The boy!—the boy! Caonabo, is it the boy?” Such
was the unmeaning and unconscious answer of the
wretched woman.
“Ay, Buru, the boy! Hear you not?—know you not?
Zemi, our boy! You should have brought him. Is he
not here?—is he not in the bohio?—He should be. Go,
then and bring him forth—bring nothing beside, I tell
thee—leave the accursed guanin in the earth. Zemi
only,—away! while I await ye upon the crag.”
“Alas! for me—for the poor Buru—Caonabo—father—
chief! Be pitiful! be merciful!—curse me not with thy
tongue!—spurn me not with thy feet! I am but a woman
under thee, but I love thee, and I would live.”
She sank upon the ground as she spoke; she clung to
his knees—she buried her lips in the earth beneath his
feet, and grovelled before him, as he receded from her in
astonishment.
“Spurn thee!—Curse thee, Buru! When has Caonabo
done thee this wrong, that thou speakest thus strangely
in his ears? Wherefore shouldst thou fear the anger of
Caonabo? What hast thou done, woman?—Speak!—
What of the boy?—what of Zemi, the son of Caonabo?”
“Thou wilt slay me—the poor Buru,—thou wilt
strike!” she muttered as she lay.
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The voice of the chief grew hoarse—the tones thick
and husky—it trembled—his whole frame trembled.
“I fear me, Buru—I have great fear—harm has come
to the boy!—What harm—where is he? Why hast thou
left him behind? Lives he, woman?—Speak!”
“Alas! alas! ask me not, Caonabo, but kill me.”
“The Spaniard!—Ha!—The Spaniard! Wilt thou not
speak, Buru? What harm has happened to the boy?”
“Alas, alas!” was her only answer, as crawling to his
receding feet, she buried her face in the earth between
them, while her arms clasped his legs.
“I will curse thee, woman—I will slay thee, of a truth,
if thou speakest not. Thy fear comes like the arrow of
the Charaibee into the heart of the chief. Speak, woman!
What of the boy? Went he forth with thee to-day to
the city of bohios—didst thou not take him with thee to
the big canoes of the Spaniard?”
“It was thy word, Caonabo, that I should not leave the
boy when I went forth at the bidding of the Spaniard.”
“Thou sayest truth! That was the word of Caonabo;—
and thou leftest him behind thee, and the barking dog of
the Spaniard has found him in the mountains!—Ha! is it
this, Buru?”
“Alas! no. The boy went forth with Buru. Buru
was heavy laden, for the Spaniard, Ribiero—”
“The curses of a long death be on him! What of
him? He hath not scourged the boy with whips, nor put
the red iron on his cheek! The boy, woman!—he hath
not perished under the lash?—thou darest not tell me
that!”
“No, no! oh, no!—but—”
“Speak then! speak out!” cried the fierce chief, with
something more of calmness in his tones. “If the boy has
not perished beneath the lash nor the brand—if he
lives—”
“Alas! alas!” Her exclamation silenced him for an
instant; when he recovered himself his speech was more
firm and slow.
“Buru, woman! is the son of Caonabo dead—that thou
criest aloud in this manner?”
“Slay not the wife—slay not the mother, Caonabo!—
Oh! master, thou hast said!”
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A sudden shiver shook the frame of the strong man;
his hands covered his face which was lifted towards heaven.
The woman moaned at his feet, to which she had
again crawled, and which she clasped with despairing and
convulsive emotion. The iron spirit of the warrior was
dissolved within him; but he uttered no word, and,
save by the frozen and statue-like position which he kept,
of an agony that stiffened the frame, he gave no sign of
that sorrow beneath which his inmost soul was convulsed
and writhing.
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CHAPTER XV. THE LAST VOW OF THE CARIB.
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“Well! There is no son of Caonabo! there is no
Zemi, and I have no loss!”
Such were the first words of the outlaw, after the fearful
revelation which the mother had made him.
“And now, Buru, thou canst speak! I would know.
The boy went forth with thee at morning to the bohio of
the Spaniard. He fell among the rocks, perchance?—the
hurricane smote him with its sudden wings?—”
He paused: there was something left unspoken:—he
evidently felt that there were other sources of apprehension
equally if not more serious than those indicated.
“He fell not from the rocks!—not the hurricane!”
shrieked the woman; “no, no! it was the sword of the
Spaniard—of the Lord Garabito!—”
“Is he lord of thine, woman, or of mine? Has the leg
of Caonabo an iron around it,—is there a heavy chain
upon his wrists! Shrinks the chief from the sword that
slew the boy, Zemi? and shalt thou, that art the wife of
Caonabo, call the Spaniard thy lord? I hear thee!—The
sword of Garabito slew the son of Caonabo!—Well! I
ask thee not wherefore—it was the mood of the Spaniard—
he would have the boy to bring him water when he
thirsts in the heaven which he slays for. May he be
ready for it when the teeth of Caonabo are in his shoulder.
Where lies the boy?”
“In the bohio of Buru.”
“And shall the chief go to thy dwelling, woman, when
the Spaniard hath put his dogs upon the track of a free
warrior, and hunts him day and night to slay? Art sure
that the murderer looks not for the father of the boy?—
Comes he not among the hills with his bloodhounds?”
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“The peace is on the hills—the peace of death is in the
bohio of the woman, and our people come not forth because
of her sorrow. The rocks were silent as I came.
The bay of the bloodhound is not to-night. The Spaniard
keeps in his city, for the hurricane hath been over
his great bohio, and the big canoe—”
“No more,—I will see the boy. Let us to the bohio,
Buru; I would look upon his face for the last time. We
will not leave the boy to be food for the dog that barks.
He shall go with us, though he knows nothing of the
journey. His head shall rest in thy arms while my hand
plies the oar.”
“Alas! alas! The keen sword of the Spaniard smote
the neck of Zemi.”
“Ha! the neck, sayst thou?—Well, it matters not,
neck, or head, or heart—the life is gone—there is no life in
the boy, and there is no more sorrow. The sword of
Garabito smote the neck, thou sayst?”
“And the head of the poor Zemi fell down among the
rocks.”
The outlaw stopped, pushed the woman from him to
the full length of his arm, and gazed on her with looks of
mingled horror and aversion. The bearer of sad tidings
seems, in the moment of our suffering, very like their
cause.
“Kill not the woman with thy look, Caonabo! Would
not the mother have perished for the boy? Lo, you,
father-chief—Buru's neck lay thus for the keen sword of
the Spaniard, when his arm was raised to smite the boy.”
She threw herself once more at her husband's feet in
the same position which she kept at the feet of Garabito
in the moment of his dreadful crime. The look which
she had deprecated passed from the features of the chief
as he raised her tenderly from the ground.
“No more, Buru. There is no death for thee in the
hands of Caonabo! Thou hast done well, and the fault
is in the chief. He should have taken the boy from thee,
but that he feared pursuit, and dreaded to bring the
Spaniard upon thy steps. Yet, even thou mightst have
found safety in these wild places, and my arms should
have borne thee among the water crags lying by the sea,
where the scent of the hungry dog could not have followed
thee.”
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“Thou couldst not, Caonabo. Thou hast not erred.
The Spaniard would have overtaken and overcome thee,
with the woman and the boy upon thy arm.”
“That were not easy; and yet it might have been as
thou sayst. But wherefore thy speech? Let us go forward
to the boy. I tell thee, Buru, thou shalt bear him
in thy arms until the water grows around us. Better that
he should sleep in the reedy sea, than fatten the fierce
hound of the Spaniard. Come!”
They proceeded together towards the cottage of the
woman, and, while they went, she related, in language
broken by her unsuppressed sorrows, the events of the
day, and supplied those particulars in the narrative of
her son's murder which her agitation had caused her to
omit before. Caonabo silenced his anguish, whatever it
might have been, as he listened to her story. The feelings
of the man had already found all the utterance that the
warrior deigned to bestow upon those sufferings, which
he felt not the less because he was able so completely to
restrain them. He was now the stern rebel only and
self-devoted to revenge.
When they reached the top of the rock which overlooked
the habitations of the tribe and from which the
woman had descended on hearing the signal, they paused
and prepared to advance with greater caution. The
hunted Caonabo had long since felt the necessity of the
utmost watchfulness and circumspection, and he now
bent his straining eyes along the valley, which might be
faintly scanned for a great distance beneath the soft,
bright lustre of the moon. No human object was visible,
no sound came up to his ears but the now faint murmur
of the chafing waters of the sea beneath the freshening
breeze of night. The cottages of the Indians, which dotted,
at long intervals, the entire circuit of the plain, were
all as silent as the grave. Their leafy roofs almost swinging
in the wind, and half obscured by the shadowy gigantic
trees which sometimes answered to the Haytian
all the purposes of a dwelling made with hands, seemed,
in the soft loveliness of that balmy atmosphere, as perfectly
the abodes of innocence, as they had been assuredly
the abodes of peace. Satisfied, from his narrow survey, that
he might go forward in safety, Caonabo at once proceeded
in the direction of his own cottage, to which as yet he
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had scarcely ventured to look. It stood perched upon
a little eminence, and beside the rim of a chasm, made by
some throes of nature, and by which the rock seemed
partially divided. The aperture was inconsiderable, and
might be leapt readily by a vigorous man from side to
side; but the depth was beyond the reach of plummet,
and the eye vainly strained to penetrate to its bottom. It
was in a spot so lonely and so high, that the proud Caonabo,
the cassique of one of the most valorous of all the
Haytian tribes, under the dominion of the great Behechio,
who, at the landing of Columbus, was the supreme chief
of the island, had made, eagle-like, his cave among the
rocks, and for a long time found security from the incursions
of the Spaniards. But the use of the bloodhound
rendering escape more difficult, had made greater caution
necessary to his safety, and he deserted his habitation
when the encomienda of Ribiero, sustained by an armed
force, was established among his native mountains and
his people were partitioned off as slaves. Himself still
free, it had been his unrelaxing toil to rescue his wife
and child from the galling dominion from which he fled;
and, as we have seen, his progress had been such as to
enable him to make his preparations for departure on the
night of the very day when the wanton sword of Garabito
had deprived him of one of the beloved objects for
whom his toil was taken. But this event did not lessen
the necessity nor the desire of flight. He only lingered
now to look but the last upon the boy, and, with one of
those instincts in his heart for which the phlegmatic reasoner
would in vain discover some apology which it does
not need, to bear him away, unconscious as he was of
all future harm, from the destroying and defiling hands
of his murderer.
In silence as complete as that which prevailed over the
valley, the rebel and his wife descended to her desolate
habitation. Caonabo first entered, the woman following
slowly behind with a grief renewed as she approached its
object, and now expressing itself in quick broken sobs,
which became hysterical as the corpse appeared once
more before her eyes. But the father was silent in his
sorrows. Drawing nigh to the bloody remains which
were neatly laid out upon a sheet of bleached matting, the
work of the mother's hands, he lifted one of the arms
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which had been thrown out from the body, and placed it
close by the side. His eyes calmly surveyed the features,
which were dreadfully distorted, and then, after a pause
of a few moments, he sat down beside the corpse upon
the matting, and covered his eyes with his hands. The
woman stretched herself upon the floor, with her face to
the feet of the murdered boy, and her moaning alone disturbed
the otherwise painful silence which filled the
apartment. But when reflection succeeded to sorrow in
the mind of Caonabo, the Carib spirit was awakened
within him in all its majesty and fire.
“It becomes you to weep, Buru, for you are the mother
of the boy, but it is for the father to avenge him. Keep
you here till I return. I tell thee, woman, when next you
look on Caonabo, the blood of Garabito shall be thick
upon his hands.”
“Whither go you, father—Caonabo?” she cried, seizing
him by his garment, as he was about to depart.
“Away, woman, and watch thy child; this is not thy
business. I go to the bohio of the Spaniard.”
“He will hunt thee with his barking dog—he will
slay thee with his thunder.”
“I fear him not, neither his thunder nor his dog. My
heart leaps and struggles within me, and calls upon me
for his blood. They look not to see me among them, and
sleep securely in their bohios. Sleeping or waking, I will
drink the blood of Garabito, and make my hands red
within his heart. Look to see me thus, Buru, when I
come to thee again. The ghost of the Spaniard shall
follow the son of the Charaibee to the smoky valleys of
his sleep.”
Thus saying, and without farther speech, the bold rebel
darted from the dwelling, leaving the afflicted woman to
new sorrows, arising from a natural apprehension for his
safety, in the daring enterprise which he meditated of revenge.
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CHAPTER XVI. THE HOPE IN RESERVE—THRESHOLD OF EVENTS.
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The night passed away, and the conspirators were each
busy with his particular design. The matador employed
by Garabito, to avenge his wrongs upon Vasco Nunez,
though he joined the debauch with his employer, in the
encomienda of Ribiero, gave not greatly away to its excesses;
and, before morning, he had summoned before
him a trusty villain, whom he used as a spy in all such
affairs as that now upon his hands. This creature was
an Italian by birth; a deformed, insignificant-looking imp—
crawling, silent, watchful; the quick sight in whom,
would never suggest itself to one unsuspicious of mankind,
who looked but passingly upon the unintelligible,
dead blank of stare, that made the prevailing expression
of his countenance. But there was no keener-witted or
sharper-eyed villain in all San Domingo; and for years
the same murderous employment which had proved profitable
to the matador, Ortado, had found, in Pavini, a convenient
and unscrupulous assistant. The only drawback
to his value, in the estimation of Ortado, was his utter
want of courage. He loved to be at the shedding of
blood—he seemed to find a strange pleasure even in the
strife, when it did not involve himself; but a moment of
peril was with him, instinctively, the signal for flight; and
the demand for help at his hands which, in some instances,
Ortado had been compelled to make, had ever
found him incapable of giving it. This defect, however,
did not materially impair his value in the regard of the
matador. “I ask him not to strike for me,” was the remark
of Ortado, whenever the imbecility of his assistant
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was the subject—“that is my business, which I receive
pay to do, and my conscience commands that I leave it to
no other person; but Pavini is the eye of my dagger, and
he never fails to guide it to the right place. The sabueso
has no keener scent for his victim, and loves not better
to snuff up the thick blood with his nostrils. It is his
eye that I hire, not his arm.”
The spy appeared at the desire of Enciso—who seemed
to be familiar with the mode of proceeding of the matador—
before the company, to receive the commands of his
master.
“The Señor Garabito,” said Ortado, making at the same
time a motion with his head, which indicated the designated
person to the eyes of his assistant, “hath need of thee,
Pavini. He will give thee a token of service.”
The Italian stretched forth his open hand to receive the
reward, and the fee which custom had established, was
put into it by the docile Garabito, to whom the bachelor
proved an all-sufficient prompter.
“Thou knowest the Señor Vasco Nunez de Balboa?”
demanded Ortado.
“The Knight of the Dog—that hath Leonchico?” was
the answer.
“The same. Thou knowest his bohio?”
“Ay,—as I do my own.”
“Away, then, and know if he be in it. If he be, take
heed when he comes forth, and follow him whithersoever
he goes. When thou hast lodged him, come to me at the
casa of Gil Perez. Away.”
“Should the dog follow his master?” demanded Pavini.
“It is well thought on; Leonchico is an enemy that
should be cared for, if he come upon the ground. But
this will hardly be, if Vasco Nunez seeks the Señora Teresa.
He will leave him fast in the bohio.”
“It may be; but—”
“Thou art at thy old fears, Pavini,” interrupted the
other, “with thy `buts' and precautions. What wouldst
thou further?”
“Should the dog come forth?” said the other, repeating
the apprehension against which his employer had provided
no remedy.
“Well, should it be as thou sayst, speed thee then to
the slaughter-farm;—give him three more pesos, Senor
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Garabito, that thy work be not half finished;—go to the
slaughter-farm of Bolaze, on the Jayna, which is nearest
to thy need, and get from him a gallon of warm blood,
and as much carrion as will gorge the hound; let him
scent of it from the blood, so that he may find the meat
at a good distance from his master. But beware that thy
hands reek not of the taint, nor thy garments, for then, of
a surety, Leonchico will not go beyond thy own throat to
satisfy his rage. Thou wert but a lost man to bring the
beast upon thee, and good though thy heels may be, they
will not carry thee where thy heart would have them.
Wouldst thou more?”
“Nothing; at the casa of Gil Perez, thou sayst?”
“Ay,—what wouldst thou say?”
“Thou hast a debt to him, of which the knave speaks
something freely.”
“Have I not the means of payment, thou infidel? He
is thy friend—tell him I have blood-money, and laugh at
all his clamours; but forget not thy better business;
away.”
Let us at the same time leave these precious villains,
and seek the cavalier in his bohio. His thoughts kept
him awake all that night, and at home all the ensuing
day. He had no wish to go abroad into the thoroughfare.
He had now but little or no business in the market-place,
and his pride revolted at the idea of meeting with the sneer
of those who had so lately envied him, and the mocking
pity of those whom he despised; the obtrusive sympathies
of his rivals, and the suppressed but exulting spirit of triumph
among his foes. The absence of the astrologer left
him without any companion but his faithful dog, and he,
as if conscious of his master's sufferings, crouched close
at his feet, and looked up with a keen, earnest glance into
his countenance, as if to ask in what way he could help
to alleviate them. The cavalier well understood the mute
appeal of his shaggy friend, and his heart warmed with
new hopes, as he felt the unspoken fidelity of his brave
companion.
“Thou at least art true, Leonchico. The man falters
in his duty, and betrays his trust. The tempter wins him
with gold, and he weighs the blood-drops of the heart's
best affections in a light scale when set off against the
yellow tribute of the mountains. The woman, on whom
he leans with love, glides away from the heart which
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breaks when she leaves it, and betrays the strong man,
even as the harlot of Sorek, into the hands of his enemies.
But thou hast never betrayed thy master, neither in peace
nor in peril. Thou hast stood beside me, and gone before
me, in the hour of danger; and when thou couldst not
help, thou hast yet soothed my sorrow with a sorrow like
my own. Ah, Leonchico, shall there be a time for us yet?
Shall we have more battles—shall we win more victories
together?”
The dog rose and shook his bristling mane, and gnashed
his teeth, and lifted his paw to the knee of his master, as
if in assurance that such a period must yet come when
they should again triumph together.
“But thou shalt serve no other master, my brave
friend. If the day comes of our relief, and I may command,
then shalt thou partake with me my perils as before;
but never again will I hire thee, whatever be my
necessity, to serve in battle for the profit of another. I
will not sell thy life, when I scorn to sell my own. No!
no! I must be precious of thee, as of myself, for I have
no other friend but thee!”
A few moments' reflection brought a feeling of self-reproach
to the mind of the speaker. The manifest injustice
of his soliloquy was apparent to himself.
“I do Micer Codro wrong. What friend hath been
truer or kinder than he? Hath he not given me all, and,
when the seas swallowed up his treasure, had he any
reproaches? It were a shame and a sin to forget his
love, which has not grown jealous in my prosperity, and
which sinks not away in the hour of my misfortune.
Even now, though I marvel much where he can wander,
yet I well believe he is working in my behalf. God help
him, but he hath little need. I am one of those whom
the fates mark for their sport and merriment, and this
mockery of my star, in which he so much trusts, I know
not whether to answer in scorn or in bitterness, when he
fills my ear with the idle promises which have been
already baffled so long.”
The reference to the astrologer necessarily reminded
him of the promise which he had given him not to seek
Teresa till his return, and the restraint which had been
thus imposed upon him grew more and more irksome as
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the day advanced, and when night came on was to be
endured no longer.
“He hath said to me that she loved me not; nay, he
hath striven to make her seem in mine eyes one of
whose love no heart can be secure. Bright and beautiful
as he confesses her to be, he yet—what shame!—esteems
her heartless; as if it were in nature that such monstrous
contradiction should exist—as if the blessed mother of
God should suffer the venomous temper of the gay,
shining and glossy snake, to fill the bosom of one so
shaped after a dream of heaven, and with a face in whose
beauty only, the most hopeful of heaven might find sufficient
charm. It cannot be; and as for this doubt which
presses upon me still, spite of my hope, that she loves
me not, even as he declares,—there is no better season
for assurance than this, when the storm has gone over
my fortunes, and there is no temptation, or in my greatness
or in my wealth, to persuade her into a yielding
which she had not otherwise resolved. Now, if she loves
me not, will she forbear the capricious paltering of the
vain-minded woman, and deprive me of my idle hope
and unprofitable dream for ever. But if she love—if the
poor cavalier, strong in himself only, and his unquestioned
truth, shall have won upon her secret regards,
even now, at this moment of my utmost destitution, will
she joy to speak, and the very poverty which I profess
will make her heart only rejoice the more that she has
any thing to bestow. What triumph to show this to
Micer Codro when he comes—to tell him,—`Thou hast
done her wrong, and thy knowledge of the woman's
heart is no less vain and erring than that which thou
hast gathered from the stars.”'
With such hopes and fancies as these, it was impossible
that the cavalier should refrain from the interview in
which he promised himself so much. He sallied forth,
and took his way towards the bohio of the maiden; the
spy, Pavini, following his footsteps to the dwelling, at a
cautious distance; then, when he had seen him lodged,
hastening away to his superior at the casa of Gil Perez.
“Now, Señor Garabito, thou shalt say where thy
enemy shall lie to-night;” said the matador to his employer
as he beheld the entrance of Pavini. “If I rightly
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caught thy desire, thou wouldst have him die at a blow—
thou wouldst not have him account to thee, nor speak—”
“Nay, give him not a word—a single blow, my good
Ortado—deep, fatal death, at a stroke;” was the reply.
“Ah, well, that is soon over; but there are many
cavaliers who engage me in branding their cattle, who
have a strange pleasure to listen to their last words, their
very groans, thinking them sweetest music. I glad me
thou art not one of these. To my mind, such a desire
hath a look of malice and bad feeling in it, which I could
not love. Thou art the better gentleman as thou dealest
with thy foe so that he hath little pain. It is enough for
the satisfaction of one's honour that he knife his enemy;
there is a baseness to hack the goodly person with unnecessary
wounds. But thou wilt dip thy finger or thy napkin
in his blood?”
“Ay, the whole hand!” was the fierce reply. “His
blood upon my hands only can efface the dishonour of
my soul.”
“Amen!” exclaimed the matador decisively; “let us
away. Thy hand to the mug, Pavini, and thine eyes may
sleep when thou wilt.”
“An easier work than is thine,” responded the leering
Italian, now licensed to debauch. “So, Gil Perez, bring
me a flagon of thy best, and let me hear no voices. I
drink best in a corner, and when no one afflicts me with
speech or observation. As thou wouldst have it, Señor
Garabito, and the blood soon upon thy hands.”
The matador left the casa, followed slowly by Garabito.
The condition which made him a looker on, if not a partaker
in the deed, was more irksome to his spirit, than altogether
comported with the idea of true courage which filled
the mind of Ortado. He looked behind, and muttered as
he went,—
“Truly, there is nothing so noble after all, in striking a
fair blow at a stout heart, when the blow is to be given
for one who is neither stout of heart nor strong of hand.
This Señor Garabito—but, what matter? I have his
thirty pieces, and the gold is good, however base be the
hand from which it comes. Diablo! the moon is almost
too bright for business; I will have to blacken my dagger.
Thou loiterest, Sir Caballero; and yet, if thou look before
thee, the bohio, that holds thy foeman is at hand.”
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The tall groves that encircled the cottage of Teresa
Davila were before them, and the moon, faintly shedding
her scattered drops of silver through the thick foliage of
the plantain and the palm, gave them glimpses of the white
dwelling itself, as it nestled close in the deepest shadow
of the wood. The heart of Garabito sank within him,
not with a feeling of compunction or reproach, but one
of absolute fear. The very idea of contact with Vasco
Nunez—with one by whom he had been so easily overcome—
was productive of the keenest terror in his mind;
and it was with difficulty that he could preserve the look
of confidence which his pride demanded he should wear
at such a time, as the matador bade him remain behind
for a space, while he went forward to reconnoitre. He
shrunk behind a gigantic ceiba, whose trunk would have
concealed a dozen, while Ortado, stealing from shade to
shade, in the direction of the bohio, soon disappeared
from his sight.
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CHAPTER XVII. DANGERS IN THE PATH—OMENS IN THE SKY.
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The departure of Garabito with the matador, had necessarily
released his men from their attendance upon
him. Ortado asked for no witnesses but the one most interested,
to assist and to conceal his crime. These fellows,
who, as we may remember, had also their schemes
of treachery, as well as their master, were free, in consequence,
to put them into exercise; and filled with glowing
anticipations of the vast reward which had been offered
by the governor Obando, for the capture, dead or alive,
of the outlawed rebel Caonabo, they commenced their
journey when night had set in fairly, for the bohio of the
woman, his wife, among the mountains. To prevent suspicion
of their object, they took a circuitous route which
somewhat delayed their progress; and plied their way
with infinite labour, but equal industry and patience, up
the broken piles and abrupt ledges of rock which lay between,
and led them to, the abiding places of the emasculated
tribe in the encomienda of Ribiero. They were
both properly armed to the teeth with sword and dagger,
and whatever doubts they might have had of finding the
rebel cassique in the cottage of his wife, they had little or
no fears of success if they did so. Confident in their own
strength, and no less so in the notorious imbecility of the
timid and unsinewed tribes over whom their people had
triumphed with such infinite ease, they did injustice to
the man whom they sought, when they assumed, presumptuously,
that the daring and intractable rebel was to
be overcome with the same ease with the feeble and submissive
slave. The cupidity which prompted the scheme
of the conspirators was also the parent of that audacity
which led them upon the adventure with so small a force.
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Sanchez alone had some doubts as to their capacity, but
these were soon silenced by his companion.
“What!—thou fearest, Sanchez? Thou smell'st the danger,
and hast a misgiving of thy own strength, joined to
mine, in the encounter with Caonabo. It is too late for
thee to fear, nor is there a reason for it. The outlaw is
one to fight, yet not with us. He is good at bow and arrow,
yet we shall give him little chance to use them, if
we hold to our purpose, and shorten the strife to the close
business of knife and dagger. Even if he were match for
either of us singly, he were no match for both. We are
all that is needful, and help that we need not would only
lessen the reward, the whole of which we need. If the
fight be a hard one, the reward is good. Wouldst thou
have the victory easier and get nothing for it?”
“But the slaves of the encomienda,—there are some
twenty-five men of this village! Should they hear the
summons of Caonabo whom they love, or his cry, they
would rise upon us.”
“Not they—not they! the sight of Spanish steel would
send them howling to their fig trees. Were they all like
the outlaw, the case were otherwise. He hath fought with
D'Aguilar, and once got advantage upon him, which had
been fatal, only for the timely coming in of the dog Leonchico,
which belongs to the Senor Vasco Nunez. The
dog had taken Caonabo himself by the throat, but that the
fearless rebel leapt headlong into the sea, and disappeared
among the broken rocks that fence the shore in this region.
The most serious wound of Leonchico came from
the arrow of this same Caonabo.”
“Would the dog were with us now,” muttered the
more timid Sanchez; “there were less doubt of our success?”
“Of a truth, that were the very thing to make it doubtful.
What! to tell the rebel of our coming, and leave him
to flight. Truly, mi amigo, thou knowest not thy own
necessity, and left to thyself, wouldst play but a sorry
game, even with the help of a fool's fortune. Art thou yet
to learn the plan which I have striven to make clear to
thee already? Must I tell it in thy dull ears once more?”
“Nay, I know that, but it does seem to me that a
third companion were not amiss. Thou hast not spoken
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to the danger from the other savages,—the slaves of the
encomienda. What if they come out upon us?”
“Nay, thou hast not heeded me. I have answered thee
on this head more than once. I will once more inform
thee, and I pray thee to give ear at this time, for the hour
approaches when thou wilt need to have thy wits about
thee. Pass we through this gorge upon which we are now
entering, and we ascend a little hill which rises at the
mouth of it above; when we shall have reached that hill,
the bohios of the infidel are in sight.”
“Thou knowest thy path, Pedro, I trust.”
“Have no fear, I have trodden it an hundred times,
when Garabito was chief lieutenant of the repartimiento,
and the infidels that inhabit here have a lasting
and seemly recollection of my person. All that I ask of
thee is to keep a still tongue in thy head—a task which I
well know is among the most difficult that I could set
thee—a ready knife in thy hand, and a keen eye to
counsel thee the fit moment when to use it—a labour
which, I trust, is far less difficult than all the rest.”
“I thank thee for so much,” said the other; “of a truth,
I believe that I can use dagger with the best when the
strife is needful, and if my speech be something free when
there is no need of better weapon, I am still in hope that
it may rest when the other is wanted. But still thou sayst
nothing of thy plan to keep these heathen slaves from
coming out upon us. How dost thou propose to do
this?”
“By going in to them. Thou wilt see that all the bohios
are far apart, each under its own fig tree. We have but
to seek these dwellings singly, and give warning to those
within. Let them but see thy face and mine, and behold
our bared weapons, and hear our commands, and there
needs no more. We shall then move towards the bohio
of Buru, the mother of the boy whom Garabito slew today
and the wife of Caonabo. He will be there, I doubt
not then only will our strife begin.”
“But what are the commands which thou wilt give, to
make these slaves keep within while we strive with Caonabo?”
“None, save only that they shall do so, on pain of
death.”
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“They will hear his cry,—they will give ear to his summons,
rather than to thy commands.”
“Amigo, thou knowest not the infidel of San Domingo.
It were pain enough for him to rise only from his sleep,
after a day of toil; but when thou tell'st him of the peril,
he sleeps the sounder. I will say to him, look on my dagger,
thou shalt eat it, if thou com'st forth before morning.
He likes not such food, he will see the day peep through
the leaves of his banyan ere he presumes to peep out
upon it.”
“But should Caonabo be in some of the bohios which
we first seek—should we meet him?”
“Then our strife begins, with all its difficulties, in that
instant, unless it be that we discover him within, ere we
show ourselves, when we must only wait his coming
forth. But, he knows their cowardice, and hath fears of
their treachery; and it is my thought, that he suffers
them not to know of his visits to the woman. We shall
find him this night, in his own cabin, if any where;—and
now keep thine eyes about thee, for the gorge opens upon
the hill. Seize upon the tufts before thee, and let the
bush conceal thee as thou ascendest. Do as thou seest
me, and show nothing of thy person until I bid thee—the
bohios are in sight.”
“Seest thou aught, Pedro?”
“The dwellings of the infidels only. The slaves sleep,
methinks; but it will need that we look into each. Keep
thyself within shadow, and let there be no more speech.
Hast thou risen?”
“Behind thee—I am close. Go forward, I see as well
as thou.”
“Take then thy dagger in thy teeth, while thou crawlest
after me: it will stop thy speech—but of that we have
no need. The keen steel must be our best speech until
the business be ended.”
The conspirators maintained excellent watch as they
advanced toward the bohios, and on the broken path
before them; but they looked not once behind, and knew
not that as sharp, although not so hostile an eye, was
maintained upon their own movements, as that which
they kept upon the dwelling of Caonabo. The person
who followed them was no other than the venerable
astrologer, Micer Codro, whom we may remember as
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having left his friend and companion, Vasco Nunez, on
learning his rejection of the offer of the Indian woman.
With that devoted zeal which he had ever manifested in
behalf of the fortunes of the cavalier, from the first hour
of his acquaintance with him, he resolved that, however
the latter might disregard the resources of the woman, he
was not to be suffered to scorn the gifts of fortune; for,
in this light alone,—as an intimation of the stars—did he
regard the offer of her gold which Buru had made him.
“The gold is of no use to the woman,”—so he soliloquized—
“and it may retrieve his fortune—may procure
him a ship from Cuba; and help him on to the pearly ocean
of the south, which is even now awaiting his progress. It
is but a sickly feeling of Vasco Nunez, that which makes
him deny to receive the gift of the woman. It is well that
I know the path to the encomienda of Ribiero—there is no
danger, since the guards of the repartimiento are strong.
I will go to her as the friend of Vasco, and, doubtless
she will yield to me the treasure for his use which she
would have bestowed upon him.”
We have seen his progress with this object. Ignorant
of that of the two Spaniards before him, whom he beheld
for the first time as they ascended the plain, he yet
reasonably argued that it must be characteristic of those
which so commonly and so brutally distinguished the
greater number of the conquerors in all their intercourse
with the natives. It was now the fear of the astrologer
that their presence would be hostile to his success. Perhaps,
they too had been apprised of the hoard of gold which
the woman had proffered Vasco Nunez; and which, in
the extremity of her grief, she might unconsciously have
disclosed to others. This thought afflicted him. Gradually
his curiosity became enlisted, as he followed the conspirators,
and he pressed onward after them with a
vigorous perseverance, that might not have been expected
from his years. At the foot of the gorge he saw them
ascend it, and he redoubled his speed, as, rising above
the hill at its mouth, they suddenly disappeared from his
sight, in the neighbourhood of the Indian settlement.
At that moment a mountainous mass of cloud, expanding
from the smallest speck rolled over the surface of the
moon, and from the deep, well-like ravine, through which
he was moving, he saw the stars suddenly start out
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before his sight, and look down upon him with their most
perfect radiance.
“Adonai!” exclaimed the astrologer while his heart
trembled within him, and his knees shook, “what is it that
I see?”
The star which he had assigned to his companion was
now in the seventh mansion of the moon. His fears increased
as he looked upon its varying aspects. His lips
opened to utter broken exclamations—fragments of
speech, which, though significant enough of the apprehensions
in his bosom, were yet imperfect of themselves, and
deficient in every other signification.
“He hath surely left the dwelling—there is confusion
in his thoughts, and fear! Fear in the heart of Vasco
Nunez? No! no!—it cannot be. But the aspect changes—
Ha! it is the fear of woman! The edges of the star
grow dim—the points break and bend! The waters
fill my eye—I see not—I see nothing. Oh, Vasco Nunez—
my son—wherefore hast thou left the bohio—thou
hast left it for evil—there is treachery in waiting—there
is danger on thy path—I look again—an evil planet crosses
the centre of the star—it shapes itself into a dagger, and
lo! as I look, thy star moulds itself around it even as a
grasping heart. Saddai the Celestial—Methuellon of the
seraphim—Razael of the cherubim, leave not thy charge
to the evil demon of the west—to the mighty Paymon,
who hath power under this sign. Stand before his presence,
oh, Michael, that keepest the virtues from harm—
strengthen the shield before his bosom, so that the dagger
reacheth it not!”
The old man sank upon his knees; and never was prayer
more fervently uttered than that which mingled, in the
wild and superstitious forms of that half benighted period,
the gibberish of the dreamer and the impostor with the
pure and intelligent supplication of the Christian and the
man. Tears were in his eyes while he prayed, and the
thick drops stood out upon his forehead. His eyes meanwhile
were never for a moment taken from those aspects
in the heavens which had wrought so deeply upon his
fears, and awakened in him the most intense apprehensions.
His fears and feelings broke forth in fragments
from his lips.
“The forms move not. There is no change, which
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shows that the treachery still works, and is in waiting—
now doth humility clothe the face of the star of Vasco
Nunez—is it shame—is it sorrow? He bows—he kneels—
wherefore! Can it be that he prays for life from the
hand which holds the dagger? It relents not—the sign
of death still reigns in the house of life. There is no relenting—
there is no mercy! And yet there is a change.
Thy star is pale no longer. It burns red. There is anger
in the heart of Vasco Nunez—there is anger, and
there is pride and strength. He bends no longer—he
rises—now the points lengthen and ray out; and the
bright edges are no longer dim. But that bloody dagger
under the sign of Paymon keeps its place. My heart
trembles. The malice works, and the keen point is at
the centre of the heart. It hath no handle—it is all blade.
That should seem as if it were a death from accident,
since there is no hand to guide the dagger. Ah! I can
see no more—there is nothing but confusion in my eyes.”
The astrologer sank prostrate with his face to the
earth as he turned from those aspects which so awakened
his fears and feelings. But his anxieties were too great
to suffer him to remain long in this state of apathy. Once
more he looked up, and shrieked aloud.
“The blow is given—there is hand and dagger both—
the blow is given—I see it, and the blood-drops gather
on my sight. I see nothing beside—the lights are gone—
the stars are all swallowed up in blood. Oh, Vasco
Nunez, Vasco Nunez—son of my soul—light of my eye—
child that I have followed and watched from the time
thou wert a silent page in the castle of Moguer, even to
the present hour—wherefore did I leave thee? why didst
thou go forth against my prayer? Have they slain thee
in truth—is it from thy heart that these drops trickle?
Alas! I may not know—the cloud goes from the moon—
thy star and the hateful planet that assails thee, all have
departed. I may not press this journey. I must back to
Santo Domingo. There is no gold for Micer Codro, if
that bright star be set in blood.”
Let us return, also, to the city and resume the narrative
of those transactions which we left in as great doubt
to the reader, as to the astrologer, who seeks his information
from a more sublimated source of intelligence.
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CHAPTER XVIII. WEAKNESS OF THE STRONG MAN—SUIT AND SCORN.
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The appearance of Vasco Nunez in the bohio of Teresa
Davila did not discompose or disquiet the maiden. She
received him with a quiet unconscious indifference of manner,
which, to one a mere looker-on, and not interested to
blindness by his own passionate emotions, as was the case
with the cavalier, would have been at once conclusive
against his suit. But the manner of Teresa was not a
thing in his eye or a thought in his mind, while he gazed
upon her superb and majestic beauty. The glance of her
dark, keen, flashing eye, disordered and confused his own;
her glossy and streaming ringlets, half-confined and half-freed
among the twisted pearls that were folded in orient
wreaths among the luxuriant tresses of her raven hair,
seemed to mislead his thoughts into intricate and wandering
mazes like their own; while her tall, and finely rounded
figure, flowing with grace and dignity, imposed upon
him a feeling of inferiority that almost prompted him to
fall before her where he stood, and worship afar without
aiming at any nearer approach. The heart of Teresa Davila,
though without any sympathy with that of Vasco
Nunez, was yet fond of admiration, and the expressive
hesitancy of the cavalier as he came into her presence,
was a tacit tribute to her charms which at once brought all
the smiles into her cheek. She graciously motioned him
to approach, and addressed him in language, which, though
customary in that season of unmeasured compliment and
strained courtesy, was readily enough construed by the
hopeful heart of the cavalier into a more decided expression
of encouragement.
“What, you have come at last, Señor Vasco! Methinks
you have waited for the last clouds of the hurricane to
disappear, before looking after the poor damsel who owes
you thanks for helping her through it. I looked for your
presence last night; Don Diego should have been here
also and the Señor Garabito. But though Ninetta tuned
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the guitar, none came to hear the song. I grew angry with
you all from sheer weariness of myself.”
“Even as the rich man wearies of his own treasure for
which all other men thirst. Ah! Teresa, thou shouldst
not weary of thyself, if thou wouldst find other keeper
for thy charms. Why shouldst thou be burdened with so
weighty a trust? Thou shouldst have a treasurer, lady;
one with heart so loyal, that there were no fear that he
should desert his charge or defraud it of any gem, the
smallest in thy present possession—one, who, to the pious
fondness of the holy priest, serving at the altar, should
add the uxorious passion of the miser, which would ever
prompt him to lock up his sacred trust so closely that the
spoiler should sooner penetrate his heart than the invaluable
casket in its keeping.”
“Ah! it is well to speak thus, Señor Vasco,” responded
the maiden with something of a sigh, “and there were no
damsel in all Spain but would listen to such grateful counsel;
but where, think you, could I find treasurer so to
value such poor charms as mine, and if found, how am I
sure that he would prove the loyal and devoted person
whom thou describest?”
“There are sure tokens, sweet lady, by which to distinguish
such person. Is there one to whom thy presence
is a continual pleasure, and thy absence a continual pain—
to whom thy smile is as a beam of blessed light from
heaven, springing suddenly out when the prevailing cloud
before, has hung black and heavily over all the skies—to
whom thy frown is like the aspect of that black despair which
tells the desolate that he is hopeless of all the things most desired
of his heart? Nay, dearest Teresa, why should I speak
to thee in these vain fancies. The time is come when my
words should be those of the man—when my heart must
be as resolute in its tenderness—in its love—as it should
ever be in strife and danger. It knows no greater danger
than it fears at this moment—it has never struggled with a
greater strife. Hear me, dearest Teresa, while I speak to
thee of such a man—of one who will treasure thy charms
for thee, deep in the warmest cells of his bosom, with
such jealous watch, that none shall steal, none shall assail,
none shall desecrate, and he himself shall not only keep
watch but worship while he watches.”
He sank before her upon his knee, and clasped her hand
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fervently as he bowed. The position in which he knelt,
distinguished by a natural grace which made even humility
a dignified and pleasing object, was eminently grateful to
the vain heart of the maiden, and though she strove to disengage
her hand, her efforts were feeble, and the faint smile
upon her lips amply testified that the annoyance of his addresses
to her sense of propriety was not so great as the
tribute was pleasing to the vanity of her capricious mind.
“Rise, Señor Vasco, do not thus, I pray thee—we shall
be seen,—the curtains of the bohio are withdrawn. I will
call Ninetta.”
“Nay, nay, call not—rise not—I will not suffer thee,
Teresa; and I care not though the whole world looked on
and listened to the fond truths which my lips would murmur
to thee now. Hear me, Teresa, there is that within
my heart which commands me to speak, and the blessed
Virgin grant that there be a something in thine which shall
incline thee to hear. A day past, and I had not spoken
thus—I had not dared. But now that I am destitute, defrauded
of fortune, and almost hopeless in respect of wealth—
nay, of that which is more dear to me than any of the
world's wealth save thee, almost hopeless of fame,—I am
become bold to speak. I come to speak to thee of the
love I bear thee, and have borne thee, from the first moment
that my eyes were kindled by a beam from thine,
when thou didst first come with thy uncle to Española. I
love thee, Teresa, with a passionate love, which, methinks,
would find death in thy denial; and—nay, rise not—look
not thus, dearest Teresa.”
“Oh, señor, this is most strange; why wilt thou speak
thus, and do thus: leave me, I pray thee, I had not looked
for this. I must call my damsel.”
“Thou must not—thou shalt not, till I am answered.
Hear me, Teresa,—day after day for many months have I
followed thy steps, and hung about thy form even as its
shadow, until men whispered, `the bold spirit of Vasco
Nunez hath utterly gone from him—he is a warrior no
longer.' Glorious visions of greatness were mine, and
hopes strengthened by study and experience, promised me
triumphs beyond those of any among the thousand cavaliers
going forth from Spain to the new countries. Why did I
forbear to press these hopes to their confirmation? why
did I fail to prosecute the triumphs which they promised
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me? Thou wert the cause, Teresa, the blessed cause, and
for thee I became a sluggard, and for thee I suffered days
and weeks to pass, preferring rather to look upon thy surpassing
beauties, than to gather the rich gems and the yellow
gold that lies in waiting for the eye of the European
on the shores of that Cathaian sea. In a sudden and single
moment, as thou sawest, the tempest swept the seas
and the waves sucked down into their recesses, the good
ship which was to bear me to this conquest, and all the
long gathering aids by which my greatness was to be
achieved. In my destitution I have grown free to speak,
and I speak to thee with the boldness of a heart that is
confident as it is loyal, and fears not to declare its truth
when that truth speaks only in love. My heart is thine,
Teresa; it hath been thine, as thou must have seen, for a
long season. Give me thine, I pray thee, and the storm
shall be forgotten, and the loss of this treasure will be as
nothing in my eyes, to the greater treasure which I shall
then possess in thee.”
The cavalier paused. His rapid speech, which poured
forth the voluminous and long accumulating feelings of his
heart in a torrent that would not be stayed, as it could not
be stifled, forbade every attempt at interruption on the part
of the maiden. But she did not seek to interrupt him.
The homage was too grateful to her pride. While he
spoke in accents, which, though rapid as thought, yet
trembled with his almost convulsive emotion, the bright
fires blazed from her eye more keenly, her glance was uplifted,
her head slightly thrown back upon her shoulder,
and the upper lip, gradually curling into an expression of
beautiful scorn, truly indicated the cold selfishness and
morbid vanity of a heart that knew not how to feel a single
sentiment in common with that nobleness of spirit,
which proffered itself so completely to her love. While
he gazed on her his heart by degrees became conscious,
though in part only, of the true expression of those proud
and lovely features. He could not mistake, without being
duller “than the fat weed that hugs itself at ease at Lethe's
wharf;” the collected indifference, not to say the cold pitiless
contempt, conveyed in that inflexible eye and utterly unchanging
cheek. “Surely Micer Codro hath spoken rightly,”
was the thought, the palsying thought, that rushed
through his brain as he looked upon her. “This woman hath
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no heart; she regards the passion which shakes me as with
an ague, with the cold indifference of stone; nay, it would
almost seem that scorn was settled on her lip.”
He started to his feet as this conviction entered his mind.
“Thou hast not spoken, señora—I have not heard thee!
Speak to me, Teresa; let me not mistake thine eyes, and
do injustice to a heart which I so much worship. Tell me
that thou lovest me,—that I do not live in vain.”
Teresa answered this appeal, but the cold dignity and
the measured utterance of her lips betrayed the speech to
have been carefully studied, and as much intended to
wound the cavalier as to convey an answer to his prayer.
“Thou hast done me great service, Señor Vasco,—nay,
wherefore should I spare the confession? thou hast saved
my life.”
“Saved thy life, señora!” replied the astonished lover;
“saved thy life, Teresa!—ay, and I am happy and proud
that it was thy life, and that it was saved by me;—but I
have spoken, nay, I have thought, nothing of this. Oh,
wherefore shouldst thou?”
“And should I not be grateful to thee for this service?”
replied the maiden; “of a truth, I am, and I would have
thee believe it, Señor Vasco; it were a sad injustice to thee
if I were not grateful, for I believe thou didst put thy own
life in peril for the safety of mine. But, truly, thou shalt
not persuade me that the consideration of thy service to me
in this respect did not move thee to thy prayer but now.”
“Can it be, that thou think'st me thus base, Teresa?—
dost thou hold me the lowly clown, to demand a reward
for that service which the noble gentleman is every where
sworn to render unto the weak—to woman, to childhood,
to age. Oh, Teresa, thou hast not surely dwelt on this?
thou hast spoken it without thought, without deliberation.
In truth, thou dost not think that I have found courage to
claim thy affections, only because it has been my good fortune
to have saved thy life?”
“But I see not the baseness or the shame, Señor Vasco,”
replied the maiden, “even if it be as I have said.”
“There is both shame and baseness, Teresa, and I pray
thee to acquit me of it. I were no gentleman to make demand
of such reward for any service, save that of the heart.
The love which I proffer thee, dearest Teresa, in return for
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thine, is the only claim which I have upon thee. Speak to
that—to that only—and say that thou requitest the claim.”
The cavalier resumed his devoted posture at her feet,
and would have resumed possession of her hand, but she
withheld it with greater resolution than before, and rose in
turn from the cushions on which she had heretofore kept
her seat.
“This must not be, Señor Vasco—thou dost too much
press upon me; I have not thought upon these matters. I
am but a young maiden to think of love; and I fear me,
that were I to speak now, it would give great vexation to
my uncle, and to my father, who is in Spain. Leave thy
quest, I pray thee, to some other season; meanwhile, I do
not deny that thou shalt see me as before.”
“It must not be, señora—my heart is too much in it for
delay. I could not again seek thee as before. I could not
brook to see other cavaliers basking in those smiles, which
are as dear to me as life. It is in desperation that I speak;
and coming to thee as I do, as one short of fortune, and I
may say almost frowned upon by fate, it cannot be, if thou
hast a feeling for me in thy heart, that thou canst forbear
to unfold it in a moment so precious and so perilous to all
my hope. I ask thee not to wed me now—I ask thee but
for thy love—thy promise to wed me, when I may claim
thee, even at the hands of thy father and thy uncle.”
“Alas! señor, thou knowest not the pride and haughty
spirit of Don Pedrarias Davila. He hath been too long the
favourite of the Court, where they call him El Galan, to
brook easily that his daughter should wed without his
knowledge, or pledge her troth to one of whom he will
make no count, if he be not of the nobility. He hath no
terms with his pride, and he is haughty, even to a saying,
among the royal household. It were not wise, it were not
well, with me, to do or say aught which should move him
to anger against me.”
There was much in this reply to disquiet and annoy the
cavalier. But he answered with a greater degree of calmness
than he felt, and it was only by a strong effort, that
he put such restraint upon his excited feelings.
“And if he be proud, Teresa, I am proud also; and if
he be noble, I am not less so, though the fortunes of my
family be poor. But I tell thee, señora, that if thou wed
me, then will I make his pride do me homage, and his
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nobility shall vail to mine, for then will I achieve a name and
a triumph, which shall go through Spain like the sound of
a mighty bell, smitten by the hand of a god, on the pinnacle
of a high mountain. I am bold in this promise—I feel
its truth striving within me, and upon thy answer doth it
hang, whether this thing be soon or late in the performance.
I say to thee, dearest Teresa, that thy father's pride
shall grow loftier by means of my performance, and he
shall look to thee as the spring of a greatness, to which he
has never yet dared lift his own eye.”
The lofty form of the cavalier seemed to rise and expand
with the kindred feeling in his soul, as he gave utterance to
these glowing promises, not of vanity, but of the confident
and conscious greatness within him. But the weak mind,
and the inferior spirit of the woman whom he sought, failed
to rise to a due appreciation of the noble being before her.
A feeling of petty pride, to which she had been familiarized
from infancy, was outraged by his speech, and this offence,
alone, occupied all her thoughts.
“Thou speakest but slightly of Don Pedrarias, Señor
Vasco—but I forgive thee, for how shouldst thou know
aught of one who hath ever been a chief and favoured noble
in the court of the royal Ferdinand. It will be time
enough when thou hast achieved the greatness which is
now thy brag, that thou shouldst speak scornfully of my
father's pride and station; but thou wilt forgive me, if I
desire not to hear such speech till then, and then—”
“Thou wrong'st me—thou art angry, dearest Teresa—
I meant not to scorn thy father, or speak with slight of his
pride and station, which, alike, I honour. I would only
assure thee of an equal pride, and of a station which I shall
secure, and which shall justify thee to him, and to all
others, for the heart which thou wouldst bestow on me.
Wilt thou not hear me, Teresa?”
“Not now, Señor Vasco—I honour thy worth, and owe
thee many thanks for the succour which thou gavest me
but a day past, but I am not permitted to give myself. I
am but a young and thoughtless maiden, and to such it is
forbidden rashly to bind themselves with vows, which are
sometimes but irksome fetters, not the less heavy because
put on with their own hands. I have said, thou mayst see
and seek me as before, but—”
“It cannot be, señora!” replied the cavalier, in slow
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and solemn accents. “The boy may trifle thus, and delay
the day of his strength, and suffer himself to be baffled
with specious words that have little signification to the
man. I am now thirty years old, senora, and I begin to
feel all the seriousness of life. The duties of my own
mind, my thoughts, feelings, my ambition, all press upon
me; and I feel that to leave thee in doubt, will have no
other effect than to keep me still the loiterer that I have
been for a long season—won to linger by a smile or a sigh,
and flattered into a forgetfulness of the realities of life by a
blandishing look, or a kind word, at the moment when the
heart is most soft and pliant for seduction. Thou hast
known me long, and canst as well determine at this moment
as at another, whether it be possible for thee to give
thy heart to my keeping. Once more, dearest Teresa, I
put mine own before thee—once more I implore thee to
receive my vow—to yield to my prayer, and, giving me
thy full and free pledge of affection, send me forth, with a
glad heart and fearless spirit, to the conquest of the mighty
ocean of the south.”
“Thou art too serious, señor—too solemn in what thou
sayst; and there must be time given me to grow grave
with the thoughts of this matter. Now, señor, the brightness
of the moon, which sprinkles her silver drops among
the leaves of yonder fig, invites me to gayer moods. Come,
I will give thee thy favourite ballad of El Marques. Here,
Ninetta.”
She struck the little gong beside her, as she said these
words, to summon her Indian female attendant, and while
her eye seemed to sport with, and find pleasure in, the
fixed and mournful gaze of his, she sang, from the ballad
of the Marquess of Mantua, a passage or two, that the cavalier
could scarcely fail to appropriate to himself.
“Lo que dice el caballero,
Razon es de lo contar,
Donde estàs, señora mia,
Que no te pena mi mal?”
“Teresa!” was the mournful expostulation of the cavalier—
“Is it thus, Teresa?”
She laughed, but continued:—
“O no la sabes, señora,
O eres falsa, ò desleal!”
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He fixed his eye intently upon her—his lips were pressed
together with energy and resolve, and the agitation which
had made him tremble at every moment of utterance before,
now passed entirely from his features.
“Teresa,” he exclaimed, “farewell—we see each other
for the last time.”
“Nay, señor, you are angry—”
“No, Teresa, sad, sorrowful, full of pity and regret, but
no anger. Farewell, we part for ever.”
He rushed from the apartment as he said these words,
and disappeared among the trees.
“Ah, well!” exclaimed the maiden, throwing herself
among the cushions,—“give me the guitar, Ninetta, the
man has almost made me as dull as himself; and to think
that I believe his threat or care for it. For ever, Ninetta—
said he not for ever?”
“Yes, `part for ever,' senora—`part for ever,' replied the
Indian, her white teeth gleaming through the dark lips
which shrouded them closely the moment ere she spoke.
“For ever, indeed! the man means three nights, and the
beginning of next week will be sure to bring him. Well—
`O mi primo Montesinos!
O Infante Merian!'
There will be many others to supply his place, though
where the Señor Jorge could have been the while—and Don
Diego?—
`Donde estais todos vosotros,
No veneis à me ayudar?'
Though, to be sure, I care as little for them as him. Love
indeed! and yet it is something strange that I have never
yet loved—is it not, Ninetta? You have loved, have you
not—your people used to love, did they not?”
“Ah, yes, my lady, till the Spaniard came, we had nothing
else but love.”
“It must be pretty employment certainly, if it did not
grow tedious sometimes. Señor Vasco is in a very dreadful
passion. I fancy I see him now rushing against the
trees, and stretching out his hand and swearing by Sant
Iago, and striking as if the Charaibee was in his path.
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`Caballero con tal fuerza,
Pienso no se puede hallar!' ”
The song of the maiden was interrupted by a thrilling
shriek from without, which rang through the apartment,
and utterly swallowed up the sounds of the guitar.
“Madre de Dios! what a cry is that! Oh, Ninetta, what
can it be. Again—it comes again. It is the shriek of one
in pain—the pang of death! Again! again! Saints and
angels be with us! Would the Señor Vasco were here!
We alone, Ninetta,—my uncle!—it may be his voice—
his scream—he is in danger and there is no help for us.
Should it be the rebel Caonabo! Ah, Ninetta, do not leave
me—do not desert me in this danger. If it be Caonabo—
he is one of thy people—thou wilt save me. Let him not
do me harm, for I have been ever kind to thee.”
The proud woman was utterly prostrate. She clung to
the Indian, and acknowledging her woman dependence all
the while, she prayed for the return of Vasco Nunez. In
that moment of fear, she would freely have given her love
to be secure of his protection.
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The dreadful scream which she heard was one of agony
indeed, and of a thrilling danger, but it threatened Teresa
Davila with none. Let us leave her, therefore, and return
to the place where we left the treacherous and cowardly
Garabito, waiting, in equal terror and impatience, for the
coming of the matador who had gone to reconnoitre the
dwelling where his destined victim, like the moth about
the flame, still lingered in unprofitable pursuit, losing time
and risking life. After remaining some time absent, Ortado
returned in some hurry to his employer, having, in the
meanwhile, succeeded in obtaining a glance at the greater
part of the scene between Vasco Nunez and the woman
whom he sought, which we have just described.
“Dispose yourself, señor, he will be here anon,” were
the words of the professional assassin.
“You have seen him, Ortado?” demanded Garabito.
“Ah, that I have, and seen him too, nearly as low to
earth as my cross shall bring him.”
“How! what mean you?”
“He knelt to the proud señora, and got her foot instead
of her hand. Were the man not blind as all your silly lovers
are who run after women, he must have seen the scorn
in her eyes, even if the words of her mouth did not fill his
ears. Were a cavalier wise this business of love making
would always fall on the señoras; they need us more than
we need them, and it is against nature and reason that the
strong should bow to and supplicate the weak. The thing
will be changed some day, and, indeed, I know not that
it is not already changing, señor. I know some damsels
who do nothing from night to morning, but look after the
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men; and, diablo, had they strength enough, would seize,
in spite of one's teeth, upon every good-looking fellow they
met. I have been in some danger more than once myself
from these man-devourers.”
“And the senora hath refused Vasco Nunez, thou sayest—
but I knew that well enough before. I thought as
much from the speech which she made to me when we
spoke together last.”
“What! thou thinkest thy own chance better with this
harpy?” replied the plain-spoken matador, as he inferred
from the self-complacent manner of the other's remark, that
his vanity was growing higher than his head, according to
the Indian proverb. “But thou blindest thyself, senor,
even like Vasco Nunez. This woman hath no care for one
man more than another, only so far as he may help to give
her place above the other man-devourers of her sex. She
is one of a kind, senor, and would freely marry your poor
matador, Ortado, to-morrow, if he could show her that the
power was in him to give her place in the ceremonial
higher than Donna Inez or the Senora Margarita, or any
other damsel who hath cocked her nose against the heavens
when the brag was the common business. A toss of a
castellano with thee, senor, that thou gettest an answer from
this proud woman like that of the Senor Vasco.”
The vanity of Garabito was annoyed by the bluntness
of the matador, but the moment was not one for controversy.
“We must be away and prepare ourselves, senor, for
this man, and send him to the devil as we best may. We
need give ourselves no trouble about the women—they
will find their way to him as Eve did, without any assistance.
Keep you here beneath this tree—I will advance
to the short banyan that stands within the path, and my
dagger shall pick his teeth ere he gets round it. From this
place you can see the whole, for the moonlight will shine
upon my back. You will know the proper moment to look,
when the light streams from the bohio as he comes out.
It will not be long to that time if I might judge from the
senora's answers and the senor's looks. And now, see
with both eyes, senor, for a better brand was never made
by matador than I shall make for you.”
“But should you fail at the first stroke, Ortado?” was
the timid suggestion of the coward.
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“Try a second,” coolly responded the assassin.
“He will grapple with you?”
“Then comes your turn; set in while I cling to him,
and make your own mark. Cut the sinews if you can't
get at his vitals easily—hamstring him.”
Garabito could say no more, but a cold sweat stood upon
his forehead, clammy and thick, as the matador left him to
take the place determined on. His knees shook beneath
him, his pulse bounded with a flickering irregularity, and
as the moments passed rapidly to the completion of the
interval between the preparation and the deed, the nerves of
the base creature grew more and more unsteady and unstrung.
The delay was not great. The door of the bohio
opened, and the ruddy gleams of the light from within fell
among the leaves and upon the path along which a moment
after he beheld his hurrying victim. A thousand darting
lights gathered before his eyes at the same instant, and he
felt that any struggle between the murderer and Vasco Nunez
would find him utterly incapable of giving the least
help to his emissary. His strength failed him with his
sight, the point of his sword sunk in the sand at his feet,
and he sank forward with a stifled respiration, for support
upon the tree behind which he had been concealed.
Meanwhile, the same light streaming from the cottage
which had warned Garabito of the approach of his enemy,
announced to the matador to put himself in readiness for
his victim. This warning had no such effect upon the
assassin as upon his principal. It was with him a slight
matter of business, and frequent employment, and a mental
constitution of natural hardihood, had steeled him to a cool,
deliberate indifference of mood, which preserved him
from every exciting emotion, whether of hostility or fear.
When he saw the figure of Vasco Nunez along the path,
he passed one arm entirely round the trunk of the tree behind
which he stood, thus making it not only an impenetrable
shield for the protection of his breast, but a sort of
pivot upon which his body might revolve at pleasure. His
right hand, grasping the dagger, was free to act upon any
part of the narrow passage which remained between the
banyan and the grove opposite, which a thick undergrowth
of shrubs and pruned palmettoes rendered almost impenetrable,
and made it almost absolutely necessary that the
little pathway should be pursued by the footman under any
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circumstances. No spot could have been better chosen
for the work of the assassin; and the matador regarded
the affair with as little doubt of the result, as he would
have had touching the most ordinary and unimportant occurrences
of daily life.
Defeated, disappointed, denied—angry with himself and
with all the world, and hopeless alike of both, the noble,
but down spirited, cavalier drew nigh, unconscious of danger,
and perhaps, in that moment of despondency, as utterly
indifferent to the death which threatened him, as he could
be in the thick of battle, with all his blood bounding in tumultuous
sympathy with its storms and terrors. His sword
hung unnoticed in its sheath—his hands were clasped together
and thrust out before him—his eyes upon the
ground, and his whole person as utterly unguarded, as if
he had studiously made himself bare to the murderer. The
arm of the matador was drawn back as he approached, that
the blow might have due force in descending; and already
the person of the victim had half mingled in shadow with
the tree which hid from him the danger, when a sudden
and terrific shriek—a shriek of agony and a bloody sweat—
the same cry of horror and of pain which inspired Teresa
Davila with such overwhelming dread—startled the
dreary and deep silence of the scene, and, in an instant,
drove from the musing and morbid mind of Vasco Nunez,
the enfeebling incertitude of thought and despondency of
feeling which had made him nerveless as he went, and
heedless of his way. He recoiled in the first moment of
his surprise, and thus avoided the blow, when another forward
step would have planted the dagger in his bosom. The
cry which continued to ring through the woods was no less
surprising to the matador, and his eyes were averted from
his victim, instinctively, to the spot where Garabito stood,
and whence the alarm proceeded. That instant was fortunately
employed by Vasco Nunez to rush forward, and the
murderer failing in his first plan—which depended upon
the use of a single instant—like the lurking tiger baffled in
his spring, slunk back into the thicker woods, and hurried,
with a caution that looked very much like cowardice, as
well from the man whom he had pledged himself to slay,
as from the miserable creature who had employed him.
But his flight was not the result of cowardice, but of a
calm, deliberate prudence, which was habitual. He had
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seen enough, in that single backward glance, to justify him
in shrinking from a conflict which promised to be too unequal
to leave him any hope from its result. He beheld the
base-souled and mean-spirited Garabito crouching upon his
knee, imploring mercy from one who stood over him, with
a steel already reeking with his blood. The assailant was
of gigantic size, and in the imperfect light of the moon,
flickering among the trees, he seemed to dilate supernaturally
to the eyes of Vasco Nunez, as well as to those of the
matador. The broken words of Garabito, imploring his
life, reached the ears of the former, and he hurried forward
with mixed feelings of scorn and pity. But the words of
the coward were silenced by the repeated blows of his antagonist,
who, striking him beneath his feet, buried his
weapon in three rapid but unnecessary thrusts in his bosom;
then, crying aloud to Vasco Nunez as he came forward,
but without waiting his approach, he apprised him of the
true murderer.
“It is Caonabo, the rebel! It is thus that he laughs at
his enemies—it is thus that he drinks the blood of the
Spaniard. Would you follow on his footsteps?—Come!
He flings the blood of your brother in your face—he laughs
at your thunder, and your barking dogs! Ha! ha! ha!”
Thus, howling to Vasco Nunez, whom he regarded in
common with all the Spaniards, as a foe, he fled among
the trees, and as the cavalier advanced into the plain of the
city, he beheld him darting up the little eminences by which
it was environed to the north. Standing on one of these
eminences, the fierce Charaibee looked down upon the
city, and his hand was stretched over it, as if in maledictions.
But his words came not to the ears of Vasco Nunez,
whom a sentiment of respect, if not awe, fixed to the spot,
in mute survey of the bold savage, who had baffled so
many of the Spanish captains, and had dared at last to descend
from his secret mountain passes, to wreak his private
vengeance in the blood of his foe, even in the streets
of the guarded city. His fine, lofty figure, raised in the
moonlight—his daring valour, and the imposing and not
ungraceful attitude in which he stood, commanded the admiration
of one, who, like Vasco Nunez, was much more
of the cavalier than soldier; and was too deeply imbued
with the sentiment of romance, peculiar to the time, not
to feel admiration for the hardy virtue of the Indian, whose
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patriotism had survived his people, and whose courage had
never faltered, though death, for many seasons, had dogged
his footsteps, and for ever hung upon his path in blood.
While he gazed, the rebel sunk from sight, melting as it
were into that pale hazy atmosphere, against which he had
seemed but a moment before to lean. Vasco Nunez returned
to the spot where he had seen the struggle, to recognise
his own cowardly foe in the victim, and to find
that he was dead. In a moment, the recollection of the
woman's wrong, and her murdered son, rushed upon his
mind, and though he knew not the connexion of Caonabo
and the victim, he yet found it easy to conceive that the
rebel came as the avenger of the boy.
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CHAPTER XX. CAPTIVITY.
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By short but difficult paths, only known to himself, the
rebel soon regained his hills. Once more he entered the
bohio, where the remains of his murdered child still lay,
in the charge of the humbled and wretched mother. She
was stretched at length, even as when he left her; her lips
at the feet of the corpse, and pressing upon the rushes
which strewed the cold earthy floor of the hovel. She rose
to her feet respectfully at his entrance, but his attitude and
appearance filled her with affright. His eyes glared with
the tiger's ferocity—his lips were half opened, and the
white teeth looked threatening and gleaming from below;
while his hands, stretched over the mangled head of the
boy, seemed to drop with the blood with which they were
completely dyed. His wild laugh of rage and satisfaction
was her first, and, for a few moments, her only salutation.
“Get thee in readiness,” he cried to her, after a brief
space, in the language of the Charaibee—“get thee ready
to depart. Let the cotton garments shroud the limbs of the
boy. He knows not,—but he shall share our flight. Better
that the seas swallow him, than that these accursed
Spaniards give him to feed the dog that barks.”
“Oh, Caonabo, father, chief!” cried the woman, in the
same language, “what hast thou done?”
“Dost thou ask?” he answered fiercely. “What should
I have done, woman, but dig deep with my knife into the
heart of the pale wretch who slew the boy? Should I
have slept ere this was done, or couldst thou? And the
spirit which his murderous hands made escape to the green
islands, should he have gone without a dog to follow, or
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a pale slave to give him tendance? Peace, and bring forth
the garments—let his limbs be shrouded in the white
cotton.”
Thus saying, he sat down by the side of the boy, and
his bloody hand rested upon the mangled head of the innocent
victim, whom he had so soon and certainly avenged.
That he grieved, could only be known by the intense earnestness
of his gaze, fixed the while on vacancy; he shed
no tears, and uttered no lamentations. In the mean time, the
woman busied herself in drawing forth from some secret
hiding-place a few yards of the cotton cloth which was
manufactured in the island long before the coming of Columbus.
A portion of this she cut off, and was about to
restore the residue to the hiding-place, when the stern voice
of the cacique commanded her to bring it all.
“Would you lay up store for the Spaniard, Buru?—let
the boy have all the garment—he will ask no more at thy
hands.”
These words awakened her lamentations anew, and
while she lifted the stiffened limbs, and swathed them in
the stuff, her tears, accompanied by close, thick-crowding
sobs, literally streamed down upon the unconscious boy,
for whose untimely fate they fell. For a while her sorrows
were expressed without interruption from the chief, but
the keen ears of the rebel, quickened by the continual pursuit
of the bloodhound and the foe, were suddenly struck
with other sounds than those of his woman's lamentation.
“Stay, Buru,” he cried, while he thrust his ear to the
earth—“hearest thou nothing?”
“Nothing, father, chief, it was a bird that flew—it was
the little mona that jumped in the fig tree.”
In another instant the rebel had started to his feet. His
eye glared with fury upon her.
“Woman, thou liest! it is no bird, it is no mona,—it is
the Spaniard and the hound that are on the path of the chief;
it is thy forked tongue that has betrayed me to the hands
of my enemies. Thou!”
These dreadful words, which were uttered in low and
suppressed accents, sank deeply into the heart of the now
doubly wretched woman. She fell at the feet of the rebel,
who had naturally become suspicious of every thing and
every body, in the perils and the flights to which he had
been for so long a term subjected; and with upraised hands
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clasped before her face, solemnly assured him of her fidelity
and truth. But he spurned her from his feet with indignation,
while he replied to her in words of accusation beneath
which she seemed to wither upon the ground.
“I see it now, Buru; it is by thy art that I am in this
strait. The Spaniard who has bought so many of my
people, has also bought the wife that lay upon my bosom
in the long night. Well didst thou know that to see the
boy Zemi, alone, would I have come into thy habitation;
and thou hadst him slain that I should not fail, like an
unwary beast when he hears the scream of the young one,
to go headlong into the same trap of the hunter. I will
not slay thee, though thou liest in my path and the sharp
knife is in my hand; but the blood of Caonabo be upon
thy head, woman, if he escape not now from the Spaniard.”
Her supplicating and assuring words were unheard and
lost to his ears by his own movement. Grasping his
knife firmly in his hand he threw open the door of the
hovel, in the hope that time might still be left him for
escape. To find himself out upon the hills was to find
himself, he well knew, in perfect safety. But his hope
was baffled when the door was unclosed. The two Spaniards
stood ready at the entrance, and the moment that he
made his appearance became the signal for strife. They
threw themselves at once with concentrated energy upon
him, and their united force precipitated him to the ground.
The dagger was wrested from his grasp in another instant
and he lay at the mercy of his enemies, and under
their persons, before Buru had arisen from the ground
where she had prostrated herself in deprecating the anger
and suspicions of her husband. When she recovered
from her surprise, she rushed upon the Spaniards with a
reckless disregard to her own safety and with all the fury
of a tigress. But the commands of Caonabo arrested her
rashness which, most probably, would otherwise have ended
only with her life. He bade her forbear all provocation,
and while the daggers of the two Spaniards were at his
throat, he calmly asked her one or two questions, which
as they were expressed in the language of the Charaibee,
were incomprehensible to his enemies.
“What does the infidel say, Pedro,” demanded his
companion, “in his heathen language. Should we not slit
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his pipe and put a stop to such abominable sounds, as I
doubt whether it be altogether right for Christian ears to
hear. What do you stop for—why not put an end to the
business? Dead or alive, it is all the same to us, and the
head of a dead rebel is easier to carry than the heels of a
living one.”
“But there is the triumph, Sanchez,” replied the other,
with a deliberative air. “There is the grand entrance into
Santo Domingo, and the people turning out to look on the
rebel; and then comes the execution, and the display of
the troops, and the salute. I doubt not that his excellency
the Governor will give us a speech and public thanks before
the people, when we shall have taken by our own
strength of arm a rebel so powerful, and brought him without
hurt to the place of public execution.”
“And what does all that come to, Pedro. A fig for the
troops and the display; and, to speak truth, I do not care
so much for the execution either, since I have seen enough
of that sort of business to make it no strange thing. As
for the thanks of his Excellency, let them be words of the
purse, and I am satisfied.”
“We shall have both, Sanchez, both words of the purse
and of the lips; but as thou wilt. I see thou hast a fear
of so troublesome a charge as of a living infidel, and, though
I see not the danger, and but very little increase of trouble
in taking him to Santo Domingo, it shall be even as thou
sayest; so run thy poniard into his throat, which it already
threatens, while mine makes acquaintance with his ribs.
It is a business soon over.”
These cool resolutions which were well enough understood
both by Caonabo and his wife, renewed the desperate
fury of the latter, who threw herself upon one of the Spaniards
with a force which nearly cast him from his firm seat
upon the breast of the rebel, and clung to his weaponed
arm with a tenacity from which he could not set himself
free, without losing his advantage over Caonabo. But the
words of the latter, who fortunately maintained his coolness
all the while, again operated to compel the forbearance
of the woman.
“Stay!” he exclaimed in Spanish, and this word seemed
quite as much intended for his conquerors as for his
wife. A sentence addressed to her, however, made her
release her grasp upon the Spaniard, while the two enemies
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seemed not unwilling to hear what he might have to say
to them. Caonabo had soon discovered from the brief
dialogue which they held together that their aim was money,
and knowing the price that had been set upon his head, he
conceived a hope of escape by practising upon that cupidity
which he perceived to be stronger than any hope of praise
or distinction in their minds.
“Hear me,” he said, in imperfect Spanish—“would you
not have gold—gold which shall make you chiefs and
lords like the governor Obando. You shall have it. You
shall have ten times the amount in gold which Obando hath
offered for my head, if you will only set me free. Give
my limbs freedom upon these hills and turn back your eyes
when I fly, that you may not see my course, and I will
seven times fill your hats with the best gold upon the
mountains.”
“Thou art but a shallow infidel if thou thinkest to beguile
us with such a cheat as this,” was the reply of Pedro.
“What should we see of thee, or of the gold which thou
promisest, if we were to suffer thee to have this start.
Thou wouldst dive down into thy sea-side hollows or
crawl up to thy bird-nest heights among the cliffs, and
laugh at us vainly trudging after thee from below.”
“The gold shall be in thy hands before I ask of thee
to set me free. Thou shalt put thy cords upon my limbs
while I guide thee to the secret hollow where it sleeps.”
“Ha! but that is a better story!” exclaimed the Spaniard
looking significantly upon his companion as he spake.
Their eyes met, and in the scornful and contemptuous
smile which settled upon the noble features of the rebel, it
could be seen that he had divined their mutual but unexpressed
thoughts of deceit, and readily understood their
plan of treachery and final murder. The poor singlehearted
woman, Buru, did not lack for understanding on the
subject also, but without marking the sinister expression of
their faces, she cried aloud to her husband in his native
tongue—
“Oh, father, chief, Caonabo, they will take from thee
thy gold, and slay thee after.”
“Peace, woman, do I not know it. Canst thou tell me
of a Spaniard, and of a Spaniard's promise, without telling
me of a traitor and a treachery. I know that they will do
this, and, I fear me, thou wouldst help them; but is
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there other hope? It will be something gained, woman,
to be out upon the hills, where, though my hands be tied,
my feet are free, and one bound will place me in hollows,
and upon crags, where these dastard creatures dare not
come, or would fall and falter at each step. Trouble me
no more with thy artful speech, for I doubt, woman, that
thou playest me false, like all the rest.”
“Alas, father, Caonabo—thou dost me a cruel wrong.”
“Let me see this, as I will to-night, and by the bloody
head of the boy, Zemi, I will do thee right,” was the
reply.
“He speaks of his son,” said Pedro to his companion,
hearing him name the child—“What sayst thou, Sanchez?
the offer is fair enough. We bind his arms—thou hast
cords in thy pocket—thou wert always well provided—we
bind him, and he leads us to his gold. We set him not
free till it be sure in our grasp. Seven hat-fulls—thy hat
is the largest, Sanchez—there is more good in having a
large head than I was wont to think before—seven of thy
hat-fulls, Sanchez—why, man, the reward of his excellency
is a fool to it.”
“Ay, and we can have that also,” replied the other, in a
whisper.
“Humph,” said Pedro, also in a whisper, “but of that
say nothing yet. It is agreed that we take the offer of the
infidel.”
“Ay! canst thou scruple? It is our fortune, Pedro—
seven hat-fulls,—and I will take the nose of Señor Garabito
in my fingers to-morrow. The man's man shall be his
own master after that.”
“Keep thy exultation for the morrow,” replied the
other. “Hark ye, Caonabo, we take thy offer. Thou
shalt give us thy seven hat-fulls of gold, and as much more
as thou wilt, and we will set thee free. But we will bind
thy hands until the gold is before our eyes, and set thee
free when we have it measured, and in possession.”
“Will I be sure that thou wilt free me then?” demanded
the rebel, who could ill conceal the scornful tone of his
voice, and could not altogether hide the bitter smile of hatred
and contempt which gathered about his lips.
“Dost thou doubt what I tell thee, infidel? Dost thou
think I have no conscience? Have I not told thee?
Wouldst thou have me swear this thing?”
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“The Spaniard will swear to Caonabo,” replied the rebel
quietly in Spanish—then looking to Buru, he said in the
tongue of the Charaibée—
“I will belie him to his own gods—he shall swear;”
and he watched with keen eyes and contemptuous scorn,
while the two Spaniards lifted the cross to their lips, but
by a mean and vulgar artifice interposing their thumbs between,
swore solemnly to free their prisoner when he
should have complied with his golden promise.
“It is well,” exclaimed the savage—“Now place your
cords upon my arms, and light torches, while I lead ye forth
to the spot where the gold lies hidden.”
This was soon done. The cords were placed securely
upon his limbs,—torches were lighted, each of the Spaniards
providing himself with one, and in a few moments
more, the chieftain stood erect upon his native hills, with a
heart growing more confident with every tread of his firm
feet upon the earth. A voice of hope and of a strong reliance
in his own good fortune, whispered in his bosom as
he went forward.
“I feel that I must be free. It cannot be, that I, who
have baffled the bands of the Spaniard and his dogs so long,
shall fall at last under the knives of such base creatures as
these. With the movement of my feet I feel my freedom—
to the right and to the left there are gorges—some deep—
deeper than the sea. Better that I should leap headlong
into these, than be tied to their stakes of fire. Ho! Spaniards—
my lords—the gold is on the path before us. Follow
me close—I will lead you to the spot. Fear nothing.
I have no weapons,—and see you not my hands are bound
with your cords—I cannot fly.”
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CHAPTER XXI. THE SPANIARDS WITH THEIR GOD.
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It was with something of a submissive feeling that the
Spaniards followed their savage captive along the hills.
The native command of a superior spirit, and a mind ennobled
by the mountain walks of liberty, asserted itself
pre-eminently over them, from the moment when they
emerged from the cabin in which they had made the rebel
chief their prisoner; and though without a thought in their
minds of the danger of entrusting so great a degree of freedom
to their captive, they were yet oppressed in spirit
with a conviction, which they declared not to each other,
that he was now far less under their control than before.
Had it become, on a sudden, a resolution with them to despatch
him, though it might not have proved an impossible,
they would yet have found it a more difficult thing than
they could have imagined it at the moment when they had
him actually in their grasp and beneath their daggers.
With a quick superior mind, this consideration would have
been the first, before the prisoner had been released from
his captivity. It is the vulgar mind only which has no
foresight, and never dreams of preparation.
Caonabo was no less conscious of the advantages of his
new position than were his enemies. Indeed, his consciousness
had preceded the proposition by which he had
contrived to persuade his captors into the concession,
through which alone it could be duly felt. Yet he studiously
forbore giving to his enemies any occasion for fear
or suspicion. He walked before them slowly, and with
sufficient humility—paused when they commanded, and in
all respects strove to impress them with the belief that he
himself was utterly hopeless of any escape, except through
their indulgence. In this way he led them towards the
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rocks that lay in many places jutting above the sea. At
moments, the torches gave back to the Spaniards the aspect
of grim and gloomy crevices—huge shadows rose suddenly
in the air above them, and they could hear, at places
that seemed almost beneath their feet, the roar and rush
of waters, that were driven in by the swelling tides of the
ocean. The rocks trembled as they went forward, and
without being awakened to any fear of their captive, they
began to be conscious of apprehensions necessarily arising
from the remote, the gloomy, and desolate recesses into
which he led them still deeper at every step. The more
timid Sanchez drew nigh to his companion as he felt this
growing conviction, and communicated his fears in a voice
subdued to a whisper.
“Demonios! But this fellow will lead us into pitfalls,
Pedro, that will carry us down even into the sea, which I
can hear now rushing under the very rock on which we
tread. This promise which he makes us of gold by hatfulls,
he can never perform. He only desires time—he
would lead us into danger, and escape us when we need
him to help us out. Better that we should content ourselves
with the offer of Obando, than lose it all by rashly
trusting to this cunning rebel. Do we not already know
his art? how he baffled Colon, the admiral, and D' Aguilar?
we must not trust him farther.”
“By St. Anthony of the fishes, Sanchez, but thou hast
my very thought. I had but now this notion myself.
There is danger to us, as thou say'st. Look, when I wave
my torch—see what an infernal chasm lies beside me, upon
the very brink of which this savage leads us, and he carries
no light, and his hands are tied, yet he walks as if he never
felt a fear. It were easy for him, practised as he is in
these mountain wanderings, to leap the chasm which we
fall into. Hark ye,—get thy dagger ready while I bid
him await us.”
The waving of the torch displayed a yawning gulf on
the right hand of the speaker, along the edge of which his
companion had been walking ignorantly for several minutes.
The timid Sanchez started back and almost exclaimed
aloud with horror, as the flaring light displayed the black
depths and fragmented jaws of the cavernous abyss, and
his hand trembled with his nervous apprehensions, even
while he grasped his dagger, and put himself in readiness
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to use it at the bidding of his comrade. Pedro was about
to call the name of the rebel chief, and to command that he
should halt, when the latter, as if by instinct comprehending
the nature of the whispered dialogue which the two
had just finished, anticipated his speech, and thus addressed
them in broken Spanish:
“Now, my good lords, Spaniards, the place where the
gold lies is close at hand.”
“Ay, that is good news enough; but the way is a rough
one we must travel for it. Is the worst over, or have we
any more of these infernal pits to scramble through? If we
have—”
The speaker concluded what he had to say in a whisper
in the ears of his comrade. The reply of the avaricious
Sanchez betrayed a change of mood and resolution in his
mind.
“Why, as he tells us that the gold is nigh at hand, we
may as well make sure of it first. We can use the steel
when we have got what we came for. I am for going forward.”
“Well—lead on, infidel, but let thy pace be something
slower. I have not been sure of my feet for the last ten
minutes—these are ugly rocks, and you tread quite too
closely upon the hollows that are thick around us, and
seem to lead down into the very bottom of the sea.”
The rebel detached a stone from a precipice on which he
stood, and the sullen plunge which immediately followed,
as, bounding from rock to rock, it found its way at length
into the waters, confirmed the apprehensive conjecture of
the Spaniard.
“The sea lies under the rock, and Caonabo has lived
upon the two. His gold is hidden among the crevices
which lead down to the waters. Your eyes shall behold it
now. Wave your torches before the path, lords Spaniards—
you shall have gold which the governor Obando cannot
win.”
The words of the rebel, still uttered in broken Spanish,
filled the hearts of the adventurers with enthusiasm. They
drew nigh to where the Indian stood, and did as he directed.
The blaze of the torches revealed to them a narrow
fissure, which seemed formed by a rent in the rock, the
consequence, most probably, of some volcanic eruption.
Two ridges of the rock on which they stood, rising in juxta
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position, revealed to them a sort of mouth, sufficiently
wide for the entrance of one man, or perhaps two, and might
have been the sheltering place for long seasons of the rebel
himself, not less than of his treasure.
“I see nothing but what seems the jaws of some bottomless
pit,” exclaimed the greedy Sanchez. “Beware
how thou triflest with us, savage, or the burning pincers
shall tear thy quivering flesh, and the wild horses shall
draw thy limbs asunder. I see no gold. I see nothing but
the barren rock.”
“Wouldst thou have me hide my gold on the top of the
rock, where the chief of the encomienda may turn it over
with his feet?” was the calm reply of the rebel, in the tones
of whose voice might have been perceived a degree of contemptuous
serenity, which the words themselves failed to
express. “What thou seest,” he continued, “is, indeed,
but the mouth of a cavern only, but in that cavern the gold
lies hidden in greater amount even than I have promised
thee. Suffer me to descend and I will yield it to thee from
below.”
“By the Blessed Virgin, no!” exclaimed Pedro;—
“that were but a fool's act, were we to do this, Caonabo.
Thou shalt not overreach us in this fashion. Do thou stay
where thou art until I descend, Sanchez; keep an excellent
watch over the infidel, and let him taste thy dagger with
the first movement which he strives to make beyond thy
control. I will enter the cavern, and lift the treasure to the
surface. It is not deep, Caonabo?”
“Not twice thy length, my lord.”
“Is the place easy of descent?”
The reply was affirmative, and taking his dagger between
his teeth, and waving his torch before him as he
went, Pedro commenced his downward progress, and was
soon lost to the sight of his comrade from above. But his
occasional inquiries and remarks found their way upward,
and apprised the two of his progress. After a few moments
spent in search, his joyful exclamation announced to his
companion the success of his pursuit, and every succeeding
moment brought new intelligence of the treasure and its probable
value, which led the greedy Sanchez into the most
extravagant antics and expressions of joy. He pressed forward
to the jaws of the cavern—waved the torch before
him, and stooping, strained his avaricious eyes in the
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vain hope of piercing the solid earth, and seeing into
the dim recesses through which his comrade had gone.
Meanwhile the keen eyes of the rebel watched his movements,
and his stealthy footstep followed close behind him.
“Canst thou not bring the gold forward, Pedro—let me
look upon it as well as thyself,” was the cry of Sanchez,
whose heart beat, and whose limbs trembled, with an almost
spasmodic anxiety. “Look to the infidel, Sanchez,” was
the counsel of Pedro from below, and for a moment it
commanded the attention of the former so far as to move
him to resume his position and aspect of watchfulness.
Caonabo, with the first movement of Sanchez, sank back
into the inflexible stiffness of the statue, seeming, in eye,
joint, and muscle, to possess as little consciousness or life.
It was not long that the watchfulness of the greedy Spaniard
could be preserved, and the placidity of the Indian
arose from a perfect knowledge of the nature of the race
which he dealt with. His apparent quietude and resignation
soon lulled the suspicions of Sanchez into sleep, and
when his comrade from below brought forward a heap of
gold—for the treasures of a tribe had been stored away in this
place by command of the cassique,—and placed it on a ledge
of rock which formed one of the steps of the descent, he
again stooped over the prize, watching it with a gloating
gaze that betrayed the most intoxicating delight, when every
returning movement of his companion increased the treasure.
By rapid degrees he finally passed into the entrance,
and sinking down on one of the steps, began to handle the
yellow heaps which had seduced him into an utter forgetfulness
of his charge. To attain more perfect freedom in
this new employment, he laid his torch beside him at the
entrance, the blaze illuminating the recess below, and reflected
back from the glittering heaps, almost dazzling his
own and the eyes of his companion. The latter again renewed
his warning, but it came too late. The rebel was
prompt to use the advantage which the indiscretion of Sanchez
had given him. Lifting his foot above the neck of
the stooping Spaniard, he thrust him forward with a single
shove, then, almost in the same instant, placing his corded
hands above the blaze of the torch, he held them inflexibly
in the flame, and though the flesh seethed and scorched,
did not shrink from the torture until his bands were burnt
asunder. This was all the work of an instant. The cry
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of Sanchez as he went headlong down into the pit, warned
his comrade of the danger which threatened them both.
He rushed upwards to the light, but the body of the latter,
floundering in his path, obstructed his way, and just then
the torch from above was extinguished by the rebel.
“Ha! thou infidel—beware, I tell thee,” cried Pedro
from below, in accents in which rage and apprehension
might be equally discernible. “Beware what thou doest,
lest I have thee bound to the stake, and make the faggots
feed upon thy flesh.”
“Dog of a Spaniard,—beast and reptile—base and worthless
as thou art!—I defy thee and I spit upon thee. Thyself
and thy companion are now my prisoners, and by the
Horned God of the Charaibée thou shalt perish where thou
art. Didst thou think I had faith in thee to lead thee to
my treasure and think to be set free by thy hand? No!
In your secret souls I saw your resolve. I knew your
falsehood and your baseness, and even when ye whispered
together the fate which ye meant for me—even then had I
resolved upon your own. Ye are in the dwelling with the
only god ye serve—he is around ye,—bright and yellow,
and in abundance! Let him save ye—let him show ye another
pathway out, for never do ye emerge into the light of
heaven by that which carried ye down. I send after ye a
door of rock, through which neither your strength nor your
daggers shall ever force a way.”
With words that were shrieks, the two Spaniards poured
forth threats and entreaties, while they strove together in
their mutual endeavours to reach the entrance before the
rebel could effect the purpose which he declared. In their
efforts, they grappled with each other—their hands were
upon each other's throats.
“Back, Sanchez, ere I strike thee with my dagger.”
“Nay,—back thou, lest I use mine. Am I not before
thee? wherefore should I give thee way?”
The Indian meanwhile had placed his shoulders to the
massive rock that lay on one side of the eavern's mouth,
and which had probably been before employed for the purpose
of securing the entrance. Already it hung upon the
verge, and a moderate force was all that was necessary to
heave it into the yawning chasm. A light hand was laid
upon the shoulder of the chief.
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“Ha! what art thou?” he demanded of the intruder.
The voice which answered him was that of Buru, and the
language was that of the Charaibée.
“Spare them, father, chief, let us leave them and fly.
Their torches are gone out—they cannot find the path to
follow us. Spare them!”
“Out hag—traitress,—dost thou speak to me to spare—
spare the Spaniard—spare the bloodhound which has preyed
upon my people, and with a tooth yet dripping with the
blood of thy own child! Back from me, woman, lest I
fling ye after them, and set the rock upon ye all. Back, I
say—thy prayer has proved thy treachery—thou art sold
to the accursed race! Tempt me not further, lest I spare not
even thee.”
The words of anger reached the Spaniards below, and,
though they did not comprehend the language, they yet
found some hope in the circumstance.
“What fools are we to be striving together here,” said
Pedro, “when we stand under a common danger. Go forward,
Sanchez, in God's name, and I will follow thee, but
rise quickly or this infidel will do as he has threatened.
Here, to the left, thou art groping against the rock.”
The reply of Sanchez was silenced by the heaving of the
rock from above, and the mountain shook to its base as
the massy wedge rushed into the mouth of the cavern, completely
sealing up the entrance, and shutting them, in a living
grave, for ever from the sight of day.
Their hollow cries and clamours reached the fierce
cassique, and his wild laugh rose pre-eminently loud over
the plaintive entreaties of his Christian-hearted wife. She
still implored him to spare his enemies—even when his
vengeful act had placed it beyond his own power to do so—
for no single-handed mortal could withdraw the huge
mass which had now become firmly socketed in the yawning
jaws of the cavern.
“Away, fool, if not worse than fool. Away, woman,
I trust thee no longer! Why hast thou betrayed me—why
hast thou sympathies for such as these? Their hands are
even now wet with the blood of thy child.”
“Not these—not these—said I not it was Garabito?”
“They are all Garabitos—they are all Spaniards. Ha! ha!
ha!—hearken to their howling. They plead for mercy, who
have never been known to show mercy. Now, Spaniards,
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I tread down your prayers as I tread upon your heads.
Look to your yellow god that is with you—let him help
ye to freedom if he can. I leave ye the gold ye love and
the death ye fear.”
Speaking these words he leapt upon the mass which
he had hurled above their heads, and stamped upon it with
savage intoxication, as if he might thereby more effectually
secure the fastening, already far beyond their power, even
when united with his own, to remove. Then, while their
shrieks and curses rose fast and furiously to his ears, he
bounded away with a light step, which the woman vainly
sought to overtake, in the direction of his cheerless cottage.
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CHAPTER XXII. THE FLIGHT TO FREEDOM.
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He fled: heedless of the piteous cries of the woman which
pursued him, imploring mercy no less for the Spaniards
than for herself, he fled with a speed which enabled him to
overpass in a few minutes the painful surface of rock and
gully, which it had been the toil of a goodly hour for the
three to traverse but a little while before. Regarding her
as a traitress to his trusts,—as one who had betrayed him
through those miserable weaknesses which he well knew
were too common to her people, and had been the chief
cause of their degradation, he gave no ear to her entreaties,
and if he answered her at all, it was only to reply with accusation
and bitterness to her alternate language of pleading
and endearment. Her feeble limbs and less perfect knowledge
of the way soon placed her far behind him, and he
had penetrated his cottage, gathered up the mangled form
of his boy within the shroud of cotton which she had provided,
and was coming forth from the hut when she encountered
him at the entrance. She fell at his feet, she clasped
his knees with her arms, and bedewed the earth with her
tears.
“Slay me,” she cried, in her own language—“slay me
with thy keen knife, my father, but cast me not from thee
while I live—while I now see thine eyes and hear thy
voice, and know thee to be the father of the boy whose
bloody form thou bearest of the sea. Let me look on him
to the last, ere the waters swallow him. Let me bear him
on the bosom which has suckled him—let the arms clasp
him which clasped him nightly while he lived, and should
be suffered to clasp him still, even when neither of us live.
Oh, father—oh, chief, wherefore shouldst thou deny me
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this?—wherefore shouldst thou think me false to thee?—
now, now, when thou art all that the cruel sword of the
Spaniard has left to me. I am at thy feet, Caonabo, and I
pray for death at thy hands. If I am false to thee, I am
not fit to live—if thou believest me so, whether I be false
or true, I do not wish to live. Let thy knife go quickly
into my heart, or sink the stone into my head, that I may
not see thee depart in anger, or hear thy bitter voice of injustice
and reproach.”
For a moment the strong man seemed moved. He
paused, and though he lifted the child high on his shoulder,
and above her reach, he yet looked down upon her with a
countenance, in which it was difficult to say whether anger
or sorrow was most predominant.
“Oh, woman, how hast thou deceived me! I believed
in thee over all thy people. When the bloodhound was on
my path, and his deep-mouthed bay went after me along
the narrow ledges of the mountain—with the Spaniard
goading him on with his spear, while the blood, dripping
from my own side, told him where to follow,—when all
my tribe fled from me, and some, the more base and timid,
led the foe to the cavern where I slept—and would have
sold me, for their own safety, to the tyrant whom they
should have torn asunder, even as the tiger rends the carcass
in his jungle—even then did I come to thee with confidence
and love, and had no fear that thou too wouldst
play me false!”
“I did not—father, chief, Caonabo—by the God of the
blessed Islands of the Charaibée, I swear I have been always
true to thee—I have kept the secret in my heart, and no
Spaniard ever plucked it thence. I am true to thee as ever,
and though thou slayest me with thy steel, which shall
seem to me less cruel than thy bitter words, even in the
last speech of death, I will declare to thee my truth. Believe
me, Caonabo, as thou art the father of the boy, I have
spoken nothing but the truth.”
“Peace, woman! if thou speakest thus, I will even fear
that this too is a falsehood, and cast the boy—doubtful of
its father—from the shoulders which maintain him now.”
The woman groaned and grovelled at his feet, burying
her broken words in the earth with which her lips now
mingled. He continued:
“I cannot doubt that thou hast betrayed me. None but
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thou hast known that I came to thee by night. Thou hast
gone to the city of the Spaniard, and the son of a chief—
thy son—my son—is slain by his wanton sword. Then
thou comest to me and whisperest with the cunning of a
serpent but with the voice of a dove—there is peace on the
hills,—the peace of death! There is no enemy—no Spaniard—
he sleeps in his bohio, and his soldiers sleep around
him. When I enter thy cabin, lo! the murderer of the son
is there with a keen knife ready for the father. Away from
my foot, woman, lest I trample upon thee!”
“Let thy foot be heavy on my neck, Caonabo—heavy
to kill, but I will not leave thee—I will cling to thee though
thou slayest me. Nay—spare me not. I ask thee to slay—
I beg for death at thy hands. If thou slayest me, thou
givest me back the boy, though I lose all in thee;—but if
thou leavest me life, thou takest him from me with thyself,
and all the thoughts and things which might lift the heart
and lighten the burden of the slave. Thou wilt drive me
to beg death from the Spaniard, and deem it a lighter hurt
than that which my heart has had from thee.”
“Let him give thee what I deny. I will not slay thee.
If the Spaniard strikes thee, let it be a blow for me, and thy
treachery is fitly paid. Away from my feet!”
With a sudden grasp of the hand, he lifted her aside, and
with just sufficient violence to free himself from her grasp.
But the mountain fawn never leapt more lightly after the
footsteps of its bounding dam, than did the poor Indian
after the cassique. Once more she grasped his knees,—
once more she sank at his feet, and renewed her entreaties.
But now he yielded her no word. Breaking away with the
haste of one who flies from the embrace of a foe, the fierce
rebel hurled her down upon the path over which he fled,
and her face lay prone among the rough rocks, while
the blood gushed from her nostrils with the blow. Still
she cried as he went from sight—
“Go not, Caonabo—go not till thou hast given me
death. I have lived for thee and for the boy only, and if
these be gone, I would not live. Go not—go not!”
He heard not her supplications. He gave them no heed.
He was gone. The swift tread of his departing footsteps
touched her ears no longer; and then, starting from the
earth with a shriek that pierced the drowsy ears of night,
and awakened a thousand mournful echoes, she rushed after
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him down the rocks. But the way grew difficult, and a
sudden conviction forced itself upon her, that it was now
impossible to overtake him ere he reached the boat toward
which he flew. With this conviction came a new determination
to her mind—a determination that he should still
accord to her the death for which she had prayed, since
she might not be suffered to accompany his flight. Changing
her course, she ascended the hills down which her steps
had hitherto tended. She kept on a course which led to
heights hanging directly above the ocean. There was
one beetling rock under whose cavernous base the seas
chafed in constant violence—its sides rose up like a
mighty wall above the waters, and its top was crowned
with a peak that jutted out like a huge misshapen demon,
crouching, as if ready to spring, and keeping a perpetual
and far-piercing watch over the vast oceanstretch
of gray that lay before it. Bare and bleak, this
narrow eminence, sharp and irregular, without barrier to
guard and scarce foothold to sustain, had probably never
been touched by any human footstep. But the danger of
such a pinnacle had no discouragement to one sick of life,
and hopeful only of its loss. A single bound placed the
broken-hearted but still agile woman upon its narrow edges,
and with a hand shading her eyes, she gazed down along
the huge dark sides of the rock, until her glance mingled
with the white foam that rose momently, fresh and curling
aloft among the crags, from the constant strife between the
billows and the steep. The night was bright with many
stars that made the now unvexed surface of the sea a perfect
mirror, and looked into it with faces of a tender brightness
that seemed to purify its turbulence, and, as it were,
aimed to impress its ever-restless bosom with a hallowed
calm like that which the romantic worshipper cannot but
believe the lasting possession of their own. Even where the
shadows of the rock darkened the surface of the ocean, their
chastened points of light were still visible; and, darting
among them, after a little space, the keen glances of the
woman beheld the frail bark of her husband, hollowed
out with his own hands from the spongy trunk of the
jarruma, glide from under the shelving mass where it
had lain concealed, in readiness for the moment when he
should be prepared to start upon his precarious voyage
in pursuit of liberty. The light dip of the paddle
was lost in the murmur of the waves that dashed up
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among the rocks beside him, and the narrow and frail
fabric stole forth like a thing of fairy from the frowning embrasures
of the mountain. Already had the vigorous arm
of the rebel impelled his vessel from the shore. He had
parted from his Haytian home for ever. Its soft lights and
balmy skies, and golden fruits, were forsworn, and the
home or the grave before him was such only as the implacable
god of the Charaibée was willing to vouchsafe to one
who had defied the superior deities of the Christian, in defying
himself. He shook its dust from his feet in holy
indignation, and with the corpse of his son before him—to
be given to the sea, when he should have lost sight of the
scene of his murder—the proud and desolate rebel turned
his back from the mountain which had so long afforded
him a refuge, when all Hayti had denied him a home. A
sudden scream from the heights above him warned him
that his separation was not yet complete. Well did he
know the tones of that mournful voice, and the appealing
terror of that single shriek came to his soul in a language
of reproach, which it had failed to possess before. He
turned with involuntary haste as he heard it, and his eyes
were lifted with the earnestness of a sympathizing spirit to
the brooding eminence from which it came. He saw in
the dim starlight the slight and symmetrical outline of that
form which had borne the unconscious child at his feet.
Her hands were stretched forth at once to himself and heaven.
He heard the broken accents—the pleading prayer
that asked for pity—the bold assurance that insisted upon
her truth; but, of a sudden, his heart that had begun to
yield, grew hardened within him. He waved his hand
impatiently, as he cried aloud in answer to her prayer—
“To the Spaniards and their yellow god in the rock,—
I cannot believe thee, woman. Thou speakest with the
tongue of the serpent—the truth is not in thee!”
The action of his hands, the dip of his oar, and the forward
shooting of his boat, rather than the words he uttered,
too perfectly declared her doom. She saw that he consigned
her to forgetfulness, and to those foes who were quite
as much feared by her as they were hated by him. With a
single glance behind her to the shore, her hands naturally
lifted all the while to those heavens where the gods of
heathen and Christian are alike supposed to dwell, a single
involuntary prayer to the natural principle of good, in which
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all human nature confides as by a natural instinct, for that
mercy which her husband had denied, and she bounded
from the steep—far as her light limbs could bear her—
forward—in the course of the little bark which had refused
to receive her. Involuntarily, with the sudden plash of
her descending body into the water, the motion of the
strong man's heart seemed almost utterly to cease—the oar
trembled in his hand above the billow which it failed to
reach, and, as if convulsively and without a thought, with
his next movement he brought the boat round from its
course, and his eye beheld, but a few paces before him, the
unstruggling form,—sustained briefly by her garments,—
her hands outstretched, still imploring for that indulgence
which he had so frequently denied.
“Father,—chief—let me clasp the boy once more!”
These were her only words. The fierce, proud, suspicious
savage was overcome. Her last act had convinced
him of his injustice. A single stroke of the oar brought
his bark beside her, and his arms lifted her into the frail
vessel which now carried all his fortunes. She sank down
beside the corpse of the child in a happy stupor which
knew nothing but that she was once more the trusted wife—
sharing the hopes and the perils of her lord, and not denied
that last look upon the dead and that last embrace to
the beloved one, which are, perhaps, the chief earthly consolations
which death suffers to the surviving. Without
chart or pilot—without guide, or book, or compass—with
nothing but those observing instincts which made the Caribbeans
the terror of the sea in that early period and
region, let us leave the rebel to his fate, assured as we are,
that his present danger, though involving the fear of storm
and shipwreck, were as nothing to those which had hunted
him for weary seasons with ferocity and hate, and threatened
him with the most savage forms of death, in the wanton
tortures of the auto da fe, the common agent of Spanish
bigotry and crime.
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CHAPTER XXIII. PRECAUTIONS AGAINST PERIL—NEW PROMISES FOR THE FUTURE.
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That night of strife and perilous events was not yet
over, and it will be fitting that we return to Santo Domingo,
leaving the flying rebel to his fortunes on the sea,
and look into the progress of such other parties to our story
as have a claim to our regards. We left Vasco Nunez after
his brief pursuit of the cassique, a wondering spectator
of the scene in which the assassination of Garabito had
taken place. The dead body of that miscreant lay before
him beneath the tree where he had harboured himself for
the prosecution of his meditated crime, but which had
been fated to behold his own sudden and deserved punishment.
The noble enemy whom his scheme had threatened,
stooped down and inspected his wounds, and carefully felt
his heart to ascertain if help could yet be made available to
life. His own generous and unsuspecting nature never
for a moment conjectured the motive of Garabito's presence
in such a place, for any dishonourable object; and
could he have found any sign of life in the bosom of the
victim, his succour would have been bestowed as readily
as if demanded by his most precious friend. But though
obviously beyond all help of man, and skill of art, the
generous cavalier found no little difficulty in resolving
whether to leave the body where it was, or to convey it
for the remainder of the night to the shelter of his own
bohio; and his irresolution increased duly with the degree
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of deliberation which he bestowed upon the subject. To
retire in silence leaving the body of a Christian man without
watch or tendance, and to the possible attack of the
mountain wolf, was scarcely justifiable to his own mind,
particularly when he remembered that that man had been
his bitter foe. To bear him away, and to be found with
his blood upon his hands or his carcass upon his shoulder,
was to subject himself to those suspicions of his murder,
which would have been natural enough when the conflict
was remembered which had taken place between the two
only the day just past. While he stood musing and yet bewildered,
the tread of a light footstep reached his ears, and
before he could place himself within the shadow of the fig
to which he retired, a third person came upon the scene
whom he at once recognised as the astrologer.
“Micer Codro,” said the cavalier in a low tone while
he re-advanced to the place of blood—“thou art come in
season to resolve me.”
“Thou livest! Jesu be praised—God is merciful—he
hath heard the prayer of a sinner. Oh, my son, bitter
have been my thoughts—great my fears—wonderful and
many the troublous doubts which I have had of thy fate
to-night. I dreaded that the uplifted dagger was in thy
heart; nay—did I not see the stroke? did not the blood
stream before and darken up all my sight? Tell me, my
son, by what holy help didst thou escape the danger?
Who turned aside the dagger? who came to thy succour
in the dreaded time? Speak! name the good being that I
may put another Christian name in the prayers of a hopeful
sinner.”
“Thy words are strange, Micer Codro; what danger is
this of which thou speakest? I have had no peril—I have
had no strife; and seest thou not, this is the body of mine
enemy—of Garabito.”
“Then he hath been in watch for thee, and thou hast
slain him!”
“Nay—arm of mine hath not been put forth in anger
since thou left'st me. I am guiltless of his blood.”
“Hah! can it be—and this? How is this—Wherefore?”
“I know not. I heard the shriek of one in sudden pain
as I left the cottage of Teresa.”
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“Thou hast sought her—thou hast seen her, then, and
she—”
“Is nothing to the poor cavalier of fortune!” was the
bitter interruption. “We will say nothing more of her.
Let it be enough that, in justice to thee, I declare thy knowledge
of the woman's nature to be better than my own.”
“Yet I would, my son, thou hadst not sought one so
vain and insensible. I would—”
“Spare her thy reproaches—we will speak not of her
henceforward. As I have said, when I left the bohio, I
heard the cries of one in a sudden agony, and hurried to
the spot. There I saw this man upon the earth, and another
flying from him. I pursued the murderer but he
gained the hills ere I could compass the space between,
and failing in his pursuit I returned to the victim, whom,
until now, I knew not to be Garabito. Ere thou camest, I
was in doubt whether to bear the body with me.”
“Touch it not!” was the sudden exclamation of the
astrologer. “Wouldst thou be questioned for the deed,
as assuredly even now thou wilt if thou fliest not. Thou
must fly, Vasco Nunez—the hills must hide thee until
thou canst shake the dust of Española from thy feet; for,
of a surety, will the officers of Obando be upon thee, and
that selfish tyrant will gladly find fault in thee to wreak
his bitter hate upon thy head. They will fix this deed
upon thee.”
“Nay, I defy their malice. I have used no weapon
this night.”
“And what will thy bare assurance avail thee? Be sure
there has been a scheme set here for thy destruction. He
who slew Garabito was, perchance, thy friend. Why was
Garabito here—had he sought the Señora would he not
have gone to the bohio? But he sought thee—he sought
thee to slay thee in the dark as thou camest unheeding
from her habitation;—and look, is not this the drawn sword
of the assassin? Look, my son, does not this speak for the
murderous purposes of the villain, set on, perchance, by
murderous vain, cruel woman herself?”
“Peace, Micer Codro—thou speakest like a madman,
when thou speakest of her.”
“Do I not know her, my son?”
“No! even now thou dost not know her, if such is thy
knowledge. But I pray thee, speak of other persons and
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things. It is true, this, which I saw not before, is the
sword of Garabito; but he seems not to have struck a
stroke with it against his enemy. It hath no fresh tokens
upon its blade.”
“He hath been taken from behind,” replied the astrologer,
who was busy inspecting the body. “See, the knife hath
gone down—a death, itself—between the neck and shoulder.
The assassin hath marked out special places for his strokes.
There are three, and any one of them were beyond the
succour of the leech. Be sure, his weapon hath done thee
service—Garabito hath lain in wait for thy coming.”
“I had not feared the coward were it so, but it cannot
be—a creature so worthless had not spirit even for the
secret business of the matador. His nerves had yielded at
the sound of my footstep—he had never lifted weapon to
my heart. No! no! He hath had no such purpose—an
enemy hath overtaken him as he drew nigh to the bohio—
and—but how idle is all this conjecture. Shall we not
take the body with us or give notice to his friends of the
place to find it?”
“Neither, my son. Let it lie, even where it was left
by the murderer—and do thou speed with me to the rocks
where I can put thee in secret till the truth be known and
thy safety made secure. There is a mystery in this matter,
and I fear me, a secret purpose among thy enemies to
entrap and to destroy thee. They will place this deed
against thee even couldst thou show thy hands white, and
thy blade undarkened by blood. Get thee in secret and I
will glean intelligence for thee of what they do, and what
may be done for thee. If thou hast many enemies, as the
lofty have ever, thou hast also friends among those to
whom the noble soul and the high purpose is dear, and
they shall be busy in thy behalf. But in flight alone canst
thou find safety now.”
“They will assume the flight as countenance for the
suspicion. 'Tis the guilty alone that fly,” said Vasco
Nunez.
“Alas! would this were true, but the world's history
proves against it. 'Tis the good that most fly from the
guilty, who are always bold in numbers, and by their
clamours strengthen themselves in evil while they drive
the few, the timid and the good, from the field which they
thence cover with blood, and make loathsome with the
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licentiousness of their crime. It is no shame to fly from
these when it is not in thy power to contend with them.
The friends of Garabito, and Obando himself is a close
one, are thy foes already; and his death in the close
neighbourhood of the bohio of Davila, which thou art
known to seek nightly, and which many eyes may have
beheld thee seek to-night, will, when thy strife with him is
remembered, be strong presumption against thee. Fly,
then, if it be for the rest of the night and the morrow only,
until it be known what is said of the deed, and if thy name
be spoken when it is hinted among the people; I, meanwhile,
will go abroad and bring thee tidings, it may be of
good, which shall enable thee to come forth in safety.”
The arguments of the astrologer were those of plain
sense; and though for a long time resisted by the cavalier,
who felt some shame at a flight which argued guilt and
savoured of timidity, he yet yielded at last to the solicitations
of his companion, and prepared to fly while the night
lasted, to the secret places in the neighbouring mountains,
with which a war with the cassiques had already made
him familiar.
“I will but take Leonchico with me,” said Vasco Nunez,
as he moved from the spot, followed by his companion, in
the direction of his own dwelling. “They shall not make
the dog answer for the flight of the master, and if they follow
hard upon our footsteps in anger, there shall be two
foes to encounter instead of one; but thou spokest of signs
that affrighted thee, Micer Codro—and wherefore didst
thou think that I stood in danger from mine enemies?
What didst thou see in the heavens—in the aspect of that
star which thou hast so fondly assumed to be mine own?
Speak, my father, and if thou canst find for me a present
promise of good in its ever-changing aspects, then declare
it quickly to my ears, for never, since the day when my
feet first pressed the deck of the caravel which was to bear
me to the strange lands and waters, hath my heart sank
in sadness more grievous than is that which afflicts it now.
Never did I more perfectly need the consolation of a
friend, and the promise of the future than in this dim and
troublous hour.”
“And never yet hath thy star shot forth more favouring
glances than I gather from its aspects now. Strange and
sudden are its changing glories. But a little while, and it
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spoke of the dagger of the assassin, hanging upon thy
path, and pointed at thy breast. Now—let us forward my
son, for crossing lights dazzle my eyes, and sudden malignant
fires start up and shoot along the path of thy fortune,
betokening still pressing danger, though the aspect of thy
own star would seem to declare that a heavy burden of
evil had already fallen from thy wing. I see dangers, but
thou shalt escape them—troubles conflict with thee—the
strifes of men who hate and men who fear, and men who
have not yet learned to follow and obey thee. But the day
springs suddenly up with a new joy, even from the
deepest and darkest caverns of the night; and, strange as
it may seem, now that thou art helpless and beset—with
friends that fear to serve, and enemies prompt to pursue—
yet wert thou never nigher to the bright fulfilment of thy
hopes, even when the Maragnon lay ready to thy command
on the quiet bosom of the Ozama. But let us onward, my
son. I would look at the blessed faces above from the
mountain peaks to which thou fliest. I would read more
closely this chronicle of thy life, to which my own desire
no less than my own life, is inseparably linked for ever.”
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CHAPTER XXIV. REPININGS OF AMBITION IN FETTERS.
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Meanwhile, the matador Ortado sped in silence and
swiftness towards the encomienda of Ribiero, from the bohio
of whom he had issued but a few hours before with the
most sanguine assurances of success given and entertained
by all parties. It was neither his wish nor policy to fly,
leaving his employer without succour in his danger. But
a moment's reflection convinced him that he had no alternative—
that his show of help would lead only to his own
exposure and consequent risk, and could be of no sort of
avail in behalf of the wounded man. The necessity was
indeed pressing, or so seemed to him at that moment, for
his own escape. At the first fearful shriek of the victim,
which drew his eyes away from the approaching cavalier
to fix them on his employer, he beheld the latter, already
down upon his knees, severely wounded, and completely
at the mercy of an enemy who yielded none, and who appeared,
and was himself, entirely unhurt. He saw that
Garabito offered no defence, and was only praying for his
life. Even his approach must have failed to stop the unscrupulous
blow—the second, and, perhaps, the third,—
which he saw descending; while the probability was, that,
in the very first, the dagger of Caonabo had already drawn
the life-blood from the bosom of the victim. The instant
conviction of Ortado persuaded him that the assailant from
behind was in the employ of Vasco Nunez who was rapidly
advancing in front—that the plans of Garabito and
himself for the assassination of the cavalier had been betrayed
or otherwise discovered; and that the blows which
had levelled his employer to the earth, were the result of a
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counter-ambuscade which their destined victim had prepared
for themselves. Nothing, indeed, could have scemed
more reasonable to the professional assassin than thoughts
like these. The simultaneous coming of Vasco Nunez
with that of the unknown assailant in his rear, seemed to
denote a co-operation of party which was utterly conclusive
of this conviction. He stood, under these circumstances,
between two enemies—both utterly unharmed—both strong
powerful men—one of them the most expert swordsman
beyond all odds in all San Domingo, and the other, most
probably, a chosen soldier—he, without any weapon but
his dagger, and without any inducement to a desperate
fight, excepting the engagement with his employer which
implied no struggle; and which, now that the latter was
most probably beyond all power of reproach, seemed to
the cool murderer a matter as foolish as gratuitous. Having
lost, in the single moment in which his eyes had been
averted from the approach of Vasco Nunez to the spot
where Garabito cried for mercy, the opportunity for striking
the cavalier; and as the latter had hurried, in that brief
space, beyond him, and in the direction of the strife going
on in front, leaving him unseen,—the cunning assassin, congratulating
himself on a degree of good fortune as unlooked
for as undeserved, quietly sunk back into the adjoining
thicket, and made his way out from the grounds in a direction
as far as possible from that where the danger seemed
to await him. Taking for granted the death of Garabito,
he did not loiter in the neighbourhood with any desire to
obtain assurance of the fact, but sped at once towards the
place where he well knew the friends of his employer were
still assembled,—as anxious, he well knew, as Garabito had
been himself, for those tidings of the death of a hated enemy
which they had little doubt that the murderer would bring
them. They heard his story with looks of stupid consternation,
and, for awhile, surprise and horror had complete
mastery over all their faculties. The Bachelor Enciso was
the first to recover himself.
“Had Jorge Garabito been but half a man,” he said,
“this never would have happened—if he had kept with you
or beside you, Ortado, and made good play for the one
while you did the business of the other. But he was in
truth no less a coward than a fool, and we should not
lament him for an instant, but that his death baffles the plan
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to ensure that of Vasco Nunez. You do not hold yourself
bound, Ortado, by your pledge to Garabito, to make good
the stroke against his enemy?”
The question which Enciso only insinuated was quickly
answered by the matador.
“Jesu! No! How know I that the Señor Garabito hath
not forgiven all his enemies, and the Señor Vasco among
them?” replied the devout assassin.
“He had scarcely time for that, if your own account of
the affair be true,” returned the lawyer.
“And this may be his great sorrow now—even at this
very moment, my masters—in the world to which he hath
gone. If it were in pity for his soul only I should be
bound to take no life in his behalf. But this shall be a
question for the father Francisco; and the money which I
have taken from the Señor Garabito, for that part of our
business which is left undone shall be paid honestly into
the coffers of Holy Church. Besides, thou knowest,
Señor Hernando, that I strike no blow unless the party who
desires it look also on the performance. Now, if the
Señor Garabito will but signify by his presence such a desire—”
“Pshaw, man, no more of this. Thou shouldst have
been a lawyer, and I doubt not will yet be a shaven monk,
preparing heathen savages for the stake by fifties. It is
understood that the pledge is taken from thy dagger and,
so far as thou art willed, Vasco Nunez must go free.”
“Even so, señor,” was the reply. “I like not to seek
a second time when my first blow is baffled, and such a
penalty taken for the attempt as hath followed this venture.
Besides, I never strike men on my own account. That
were but a profligate squandering of my resource. If thou
wouldst have me try this cavalier a second time, thou shalt
pay the reckoning, señor. I say not that I will not do
what thou devisest for the customary charge.”
“Thou art but a sorry Jew, after all,” replied the Bachelor,
“and thou gettest not thirty pieces of mine for a matter
which the Governor Obando shall execute at cost of the
King.”
“How! the Governor?” demanded Ribiero.
“Ay, the Governor. Dost thou not hold Garabito to be
a dead man—a man slain by the stroke of the assassin?”
“Nay,—of this there can be little question.”
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“And who hath slain him but Vasco Nunez of Balboa?
Is not that thy faith, Señor Ortado, thou of the Christian
conscience and the tender hand?”
“That he hath had it done, Señor Hernando I cannot
even doubt,” replied the assassin,—“but if the question be
asked of me, did Vasco Nunez strike the blow, I were
bound, as a lover of the truth, to answer nay.”
“Thou art over-scrupulous, Ortado, but thy distinction
availeth thee but little. The dagger reaches the heart, but
who thinks to make the keen steel liable for the blood it
draws? What alcalde mayor decrees the gallows to the
unconscious knife. It is he who sends the dagger home
to the heart—it is he who hath willed the deed, that the
law esteemeth guilty of its performance, and dost thou not
believe that this deed came of the will and the order of
Vasco Nunez, and was performed under his own countenance
and direction? Dost thou not think that if Vasco
Nunez had encountered with Jorge Garabito in the spot
where his emissary found him, that his own hand had
struck the blow which was given to the hand of another?
Speak, if such be not thy thought—nay, thy solemn conviction,
Ortado—I defy thee as a man of sense and of truth
to hold any other.”
“This surely is my thought, señor, and my solemn conviction.
I gainsay it not. Said I not this when I first
brought ye the tidings of this affair?”
“It is enough for thee to say, and enough to finish all
the business of this insolent pretender. This star of Vasco
Nunez shall sooner shine above his gory head upon the
block than behold him master of that fabled sea of the south
of which this dreamer Micer Codro points daily to the
money-lenders of Santo Domingo. Thou shalt say these
things to the alcalde mayor, and by noon to-morrow, the
alguazil shall be on the track of this flaunting cavalier. He
shall weep that he ever left his cabbage-garden at Salvatierra.”
The resolution of the conspirators, thus made at the suggestion
of Enciso, was proceeded in without delay; and,
as the astrologer had predicted to his friend, while persuading
him to a seasonable flight, with the announcement
of the business of the ensuing day, there was a hue and
cry in Santo Domingo after the supposed offender, and nothing
but his premature escape could possibly have saved
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him from the harpies of the law. Obando, the Governor,
by whom he had always been disliked, as well because of
his sterling independence of character, which forbade that
he should truckle to power when unallied to native superiority
of mind and spirit, as because of his greater reputation
and popularity,—was glad of an opportunity, by
exercise of his legal station to degrade and bring to
punishment if he could, a person over whom he could
obtain advantage in no other manner. To the ordinary
process of the law in criminal cases, he added new terrors
and powers by construing the offence of Vasco Nunez—
even supposing him to have committed the murder—into
something of a treasonable character—resting this charge
on the strained assumption, that, as Garabito held an inferior
office directly from the appointment of a king's officer,
he had been slain while actually in the service of the sovereign,
and consequently in resistance to the crown. Special
agents drawn from the established military of the
place, were despatched in various quarters in his pursuit,
and for some nine days or more, the chief topic of interest
among all classes, was derived from the thousand rumours
of his flight and escape, which the garrulous always invent
for the wonder of the gossiping. But the interest gradually
died away as each new story proved unture, and other
circumstances of greater public importance soon superseded
the stirring business of the present. The two fleets of
Ojeda and Nicuesa set sail for the respective divisions
of that—to them—terra incognita,—which they had divided
without having seen, and to which they had attached boundaries,
when they yet lacked all knowledge of its character
and limits. The unfortunate cavalier, Vasco Nunez,
saw the tops of their distant vessels from a lonely cavern
that looked out upon the sea, and bitterly did he upbraid
his fortune as he felt those misgivings of their success in
his own projects, which even his knowledge of the deficiencies
of the two governors could not wholly overcome.
“Some favouring wind,—some happy accident!” he
murmured to the chafing billows at his feet, “will bring
them to that hidden sea. They will gather the spoils of
that unknown ocean which I gaze on even in the dreams
of night—their prows will break the stillness of those secret
waters and penetrate to that empire of the sun beyond,
which, I well know, touched by his latest smiles, must
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teem with a wealth of gold and gems, to which the tidings
of Marco Polo and Cathay were burdens of slightest profit.
The fierce, headlong, and rude-minded Ojeda will stumble
upon treasures of which he had no thought! The vain,
womanly Nicuesa—a gentler spirit, and a nobler man—will
glide into rivers that open on his sight when his heart
sinks in weariness, and when he lacks all purpose and design.
He will ascend with unconscious prows the deep
avenues that lead to worlds which I have long since traversed
with the wings of my thought; and the fortune
which strives to baffle the persevering effort and the bold
design, will, with a like hostility to desert, bestow her
crowns and her treasures upon those incapable, who yield
all the labour unto her and do nothing and are nothing of
themselves. What need have I of concealment? wherefore
should I fear the threatened death and the tortures of
Obando? I have nothing now to live for, and I should not
fear to die. Better, indeed, that the heart should cease to
beat with the anxious hope and the fine aspirings, when
the limbs are shackled by their own impotence, and the
arm may not be stretched for the proud conquest which
the eye beholds in the distance, which the mind only can
overcome. I would, Micer Codro, that thou hadst not
persuaded me to flight. It might have been that I had
found passage in the fleet of one or other of these captains,
and though I lacked all lead and command in their armament,
I had yet been suffered to look upon the empire
which it had been my thought to conquer and to sway.”
The promise of the astrologer, at such moments of despondency,
scarcely sufficed to console or soothe even for a
moment, the spirit which hope deferred had at length so
sickened of life.
“Thou tellest me that I shall conquer and shall sway
them yet. Alas! my father,—I can believe nothing now
but what promises new sorrow and disappointment. Canst
thou tell me of flight from these lonely rocks, and this accursed
city in which my heart has been crushed, and my
mind has been baffled, and all my purposes have been set
at naught? Help me to flight, I care not whither it tends,
so that I may rid me of the weight of wo and of despondency
with which the very air of Espanola seems oppressed
and burdened.”
“Be not impatient, my son. Know we not, that as
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there are no two leaves entirely alike, even upon the
same tree, so there are no two hours the same, even in
the same day. The successive minutes grow with successive
changes, and the cloud which darkens the watery sky
at morning, becomes a glorious canopy under the glances
of the scorching sun at noon.”
“Ah, Micer Codro, these pictures of thy fancy move me
not. These ships of Ojeda, and of Nicuesa—their tall
masts are fading fast in the blue world of distance—their
passage fills my heart with bitterness. They glide to the
ocean and the realm which should have been mine—the
favouring breeze wraps itself in their bellying canvass, and
makes itself a home within them, as it impels them to that
which they seek in Veragua. The sun smiles on their progress
and guides them on their path. They go to renown
and conquest,—while I—I who have told them of the empire
which lay under that golden light, and have grown
confident of its achievement as my own—I grope among
the rocks, and howl at their departure, and curse the fortune
which has defrauded me of my right—bestowing it
upon a stranger. Look upon the stars, Micer Codro, and
say if thou canst tell me of worse fate than mine, in all
their capricious chronicles?”
“Ay—theirs!—the very leaders whose fate thou hast
but now envied, even theirs is a worse destiny than thine.
True, the favouring wind swells their canvass, and the sun
smiles along their path, and the applauding calmours of the
blind multitude follow them, with admiration little short of
that homage which is due only to Heaven. But the wind
will fall out of their sails, and strive against them—the sun
shall withdraw his light from their path—the fierce tornado
will strive with them in unknown waters, and this applauding
multitude shall hear of their disasters with groans and
hisses, and feel the pleasure of a base heart in the downfall
of the daring and the great. Cease thy complainings, Vasco
Nunez, they do thee harm, and take from thy otherwise
perfect nobleness. It is not for the resolute man to chafe
like the weak woman at the sudden storm which drives
him back from his course, or leaves him shipwrecked on
the shores of a heathen empire. He must buckle on his
armour, and awaken all his spirit, and gird up his loins for
an enduring struggle to the last, even though he be overcome
and lose the triumph. But other shall be thy fortune,
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Vasco Nunez. The promise which I have made thee so
often before, I repeat to thee again. The cloud which
shows thee now but a face of gloom and threatening, will
turn upon thee its edges of golden light to-morrow. Fear
nothing, but give thyself to the hours which are yet to
come.”
“Look, Micer Codro—dost thou behold Leonchico?
how, perched on yonder rock, he too is watching the departing
vessels. Methinks, he regards them with an anxiety
not unlike that which fills the breast of his master. He,
too, has his dreams of strife, or at least employment. He
chafes at the inaction which eats like rust into the soul,
and leaves it worthless and without strength or motion.
Go forth, my father, and bring me tidings, if thou canst, of
better things. Help me to fly from this dreary dwelling,
lest, in my disquiet and despair, I fling myself into the
waters, glad to escape, even by death, from an existence
without life and maintained without desire.”
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CHAPTER XXV. THE PROGRESS OF THE RIVALS—VASCO NUNEZ ON THE WATERS.
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In such manner, day after day, and week after week, did
the impatient spirit of Vasco Nunez repine at his confinement.
To the generous spirit there is nothing so painful
and oppressive, as the lack of stirring and manly employment;
and to one, having such hopes as the cavalier in
question, and plans of such vast extent, and purposes of
such daring achievement, his present state of inglorious restraint
fretted his soul into fever, and made him querulous
and unjust to himself, and to the friends who were still
striving, though secretly, in his behalf. No one laboured
for him more assiduously than the venerable astrologer, to
whose watchful care he was indebted for provisions no less
than wholesome counsel, and warming promises of better
times. The old man never once relaxed in his kindnesses,
and his confidence in his own glowing predictions in the
cavalier's favour, seemed, indeed, to gather new strength
and ardour at those very moments when the fickle fortune
appeared most inclined to baffle them. But it needed
something more than fair promises and friendly words to
restore the buoyant spirit of hope to the warrior who had
been so lately and so severely tried by fortune. He listened
without reply to the enthusiastic fancies of the aged man,
whose words scarcely penetrated his ears, and failed utterly
to sink into his heart as formerly. Stretched at length,
among the low crags that rose beside the sea, and were
sometimes half-buried in its waters, he maintained a mournful
watch along the gloomy waste, his eyes peering far
into those obscure realms into which his fancy had already
gone with the eagle-speed of a conqueror. When he replied
to the venerable man who sought to soothe and
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strengthen him, he averted not his eyes from the mournful
watch which they maintained, and his words were few,
and his thoughts, such as those of a mind which was far
away in other realms, and filled with occupations foreign
to the dull inaction of the miserable life he led. Nor did
the sluggish necessity under which he groaned fail to impress
itself upon his personal aspect. His eyes grew
sunken and dim—his cheeks sallow, and the thick beard,
activity and unheeded, spread itself over his face, making
wild and frightful those noble features, which had been
esteemed no less beautiful than manly. The same indifference
of mood to the ordinary matters of his appearance,
extended itself to his garments, and but few could have recognised
the once courtly cavalier in the savage and seemingly
unconscious figure that sometimes crouched like a
hungry vulture along the steeps that hung above the sea,
and sometimes lay out-stretched, heedless of its rising waters,
along the narrow ledges that encountered and broke
the first rude assaults of the swelling surges. With a
seemly similarity of mood, the devoted hound, who had
so long followed the fortunes of his master in days of more
activity and better reward to both, crouched with him on
the steeps, or lay beside him on the ledges, or with an instinct
that is sometimes of more avail than any human reason,
watched the sinuous and secluded pathway which led
to his place of refuge, ready, as it were, to warn him of
danger, and meet death in his defence. But the pursuers
never reached him in the shelter to which he fled, though
strife and overthrow itself at times seemed far preferable to
the impatient spirit, pining with its constrained inactivity;
and weary weeks and months finally went by, until the
prisoner among the rocks, as effectually a prisoner as if he
had been the tenant of the dungeons of Obando, began to
apprehend that he had been utterly forgotten, both by
friends and fortune—that the day of his release was gone
by for ever, and the dreadful decree of stagnation had gone
forth against him, leaving him to a life of such apathy as
that of the weed, that sinks and rises only with the heavings
of the sluggish sea, on the green edges of which it
sleeps and festers for ever.
But the hour of change was at hand; that change which
is alone constant, among all the things and thoughts of life.
One day, when he least looked for better hopes, the
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venerable friend who had clung to him without regret, and
toiled in his behalf without faltering, brought him joyful
tidings which promised him relief. News had reached
San Domingo of the armament of Ojeda and of Nicuesa;
and the desponding spirit of Vasco Nunez, which no word
of his companion hitherto seemed able to awaken or enkindle,
now leapt with the keenest emotions as he hearkened
to the narration of his rivals' fortunes. His impatience to
hear the tidings scarcely suffered the old man to proceed.
“But thou hast not said, Micer Codro, who hath brought
this intelligence. Can it be that Ojeda hath returned from
his enterprise? He hath not surely made discoveries of
such profit in such little space.”
“No! he hath done little, if the truth be told, either to
profit his fortune or his fame. He hath been rash and
headstrong, as thou saidst he would be, and hath been in
grievous peril and suffering, from which nothing had saved
him but the timely succour of the Señor Diego. Juan
de la Cosa, whose sober counsel he scorned to take, hath
been slain by the Caribs, and though the ship which Ojeda
sends brings many captives, and much gold, it will count as
nothing against his losses, which have been great, and his
sufferings, which are marvellous to hear.”
“Let me hear them. But first, give me to know what
hath been the course of Ojeda. What point did he first
make after departure from San Domingo?”
“Cartagena—thou knowest the place.”
“Ay—I sailed with Bastides when it was first discovered
by the Spaniards in 1501. La Cosa was his pilot
then. The people are Caribs, with swords of palm-wood,
and poison their arrows. The women fight with a lance.
He had need to keep close watch among these savages,
who are no such timid wretches as these Haytien islanders.”
“They soon taught him this, for though la Cosa counselled
Ojeda to leave Cartagena for the shores of Uraba,
the headstrong captain landed with his troops, and demanded
the instant submission of the savages.”
“They answered him with darts and defiance, and the
battle soon followed, as one may swear who knows the
fiery temper of Ojeda. Well—”
“The Indians were routed and fled—the Spaniards pursued,
taking gold and prisoners at every step, till when
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their hands were fullest, they came to a stronghold of the
enemy. This they overcame, slew many, scattered the
rest, and dispersed themselves in pursuit.”
“The madmen! what followed then—an ambuscade?”
“As thou say'st, thousands of savages suddenly rushed
out in troops from all parts of the forest, and the scattered
bands of the Spaniards vainly strove to come together.
But they were overwhelmed by numbers, and sank on
every side beneath clubs and poisoned arrows.”
“And Ojeda—he fell not?” demanded the impatient
Vasco Nunez, his blood rising into heat at the narration.
“He did not perish, nor could he fly at such a moment!
what then, what did he?”
“With the danger, he drew those immediately around
him to the shelter of a small enclosure. Here the savages
beleaguered him. It was here that La Cosa perished and all,
marvellous to relate, but Ojeda himself.”
“How escaped he?”
“By sallying forth amidst the enemy like one whom
they could not harm, and disarming the danger by seeking
it in its home. The Indians terrified by his deeds, his
skill and fleetness, left him an open pathway for escape.
But of seventy Spaniards that followed Ojeda in this mad
incursion, but one escaped, to bear the last words of La
Cosa to his captain.”
“What of him—what of Ojeda then? Did the savages
fail to pursue him?”
“Days after, the people from the ships found him, after
close search, half dead among a thicket of mangroves,
growing on the sea-side. He was lying among the rocks,
and though speechless from cold and hunger, he yet bore
his sword in his stiffened hand and his buckler on his
shoulder.”
“A most headstrong, but a gallant fool. I rejoice me
that he lives. It were a pity so brave a man should perish
by such miserable folly. Were he wise and more temperate
he were well fitted for great things. But thou hast
not spoken of Nicuesa—it does not seem that he gave
succour to Ojeda in his peril.”
“His perils are not yet over. They brought him, feeble
and spiritless, to the sea-shore, and while they were yet
administering to his wants with food and wine, the squadron
of Nicuesa came in sight. This troubled Ojeda, when
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he remembered the challenge he had given, and the harsh
threats which he had so freely spoken against his rival—
and hiding himself again within the woods, he bade his
people conceal from Nicuesa the place of his retreat. But
the Señor Diego, like a noble gentleman, forgave his follies,
bade them bring Ojeda to his vessel, and joined arms with
him to revenge his losses upon the savages who had occasioned
them. This done, the spoil was shared evenly between
them, and they separated, the Señor Diego taking
his course for Veragua, while Ojeda steered for the gulf of
Uraba, as he had been counselled by La Cosa from the first.
Here he hath chosen a place for his town, and hath built a
wooden fortress, and houses for his people. The place he
calls San Sebastian, because of the arrows by which the
Caribs hath given him such lessons to remember. It is
to this place he hath summoned the Bachelor Enciso, as to
his seat of government, the Bachelor having already the
appointment of his alcalde mayor.”
“The encouragement is small for one better skilled in
argument than strife, and Enciso will soon discover that
the toil were more profitable, even if burdened with less
honour, to glean the spoils of the infidel at second-hand,
from the adventurer who hath risked his life to procure
them, than to peril his own person against the Caribs—
what saith he at these tidings of Ojeda, and the summons
to his judicial dignity?”
“The captives and the gold have reconciled him to his
fortune. He is a person possessed—already he speaks in
the tone of one having power over thrones and principalities.
He hath employed all the criers to gather recruits
for Ojeda, and with the profits from the sale of captives
and the gold sent by Ojeda, he hath begun to lay in large
stores and munitions of war in compliance with the demands
of his governor. Ere long he will be fit for sea,
having a stout vessel already at his command, half manned,
and needing but little farther preparation to hoist sail and
anchor for the voyage.”
“And how am I to be served by all this?” was the abrupt
quession of the cavalier when the excitement in his
mind, occasioned by the narrative of the astrologer, had so
far subsided as to leave him in a fit mood for reflection.
“Fortune favours even the headstrong fool, and the
greedy, avaricious pettifoger, while she defeats my
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purpose, and denies my hope. I would thou hadst not told
me of these things, Micer Codro; if I am to perish here,
as little useful or active as the rock I sleep on, yet with a
burning impatience within me like that which sometimes
heaves the rock into the heavens in storm and thunder,
better that I should know nothing of these strifes and
triumphs of men more blessed by fortune. Better that
Ojeda should find the southern sea, and Nicuesa glean the
treasure from the regions of the sun beyond, yet no tidings
of their triumph reach my ears, than that thou shouldst
goad me with my own loss in the story of their mighty
gain.”
And he turned once more to the sullen and dark ocean
that lay shadowed before him under the frown of the overhanging
mountain, with the sullen mood rising anew in his
bosom which it had before possessed, and a spirit doubly
desponding because of these tidings of the partial successes,
or at least, the freedom for enterprise of others, for
which his own heart so earnestly repined. The devoted
astrologer, with the indulgent affection of a parent, laid
his hand upon the arm of the down-hearted man, as he replied—
“But thou art not to perish on these weary rocks, nor,
my son, art thou destined by the blessed fortune, to waste
more precious hours in this constraint, which seems to me
not less than to thee, like a consuming bondage. The tidings
which I have brought thee, have a meaning for thy
ears, and an interest in thy fate beyond what I have yet
spoken. What sayst thou to a flight from Hispaniola
where death only awaits thee, to the very region of Uraba
where Ojeda hath placed his government? What sayst
thou to a flight in the ship which Enciso is preparing for
those golden regions?”
“But can this be done?” cried Vasco Nunez, leaping to
his feet with a new vigour in his limbs, a new light in his
eyes, a fresh spirit in his soul—“do not mock me, Micer
Codro, with false hopes; I tell thee, if thou dost—”
“I do not mock thee, Vasco Nunez—this can be done.”
“Hath Enciso said—”
“He hath said nothing. He shall know nothing of thee
or of our purpose—not at least, until we are far from San
Domingo, and there is little prospect of our soon return.
Hear me—we have friends engaged in this armament, who
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look to thy skill as greatly important to the success of any
expedition in Veragua. They will uphold thee even against
Enciso, should he, when at sea, attempt to do thee injury.
With their assistance we have secured the favour of Valdivia
who will proceed as second in command to Enciso,
and by whom, when his chief is absent, thou shalt be admitted
to a secret place in the vessel where thou shalt be
secure.”
“I like not this stealth—this secrecy:—and to be within
the power of a creature like Enciso, alone with his creatures,
and without power to contend with them,—it is a
humbling necessity alone that can bring me to yield to
this,” replied the proud-spirited cavalier.
“And is there more humbling necessity than that which
keeps thee here,—a fugitive threatened with death, if taken,
for a crime of which thou art innocent? Can there be a
more humbling necessity than that which deprives thee of
thy strength and thy courage, and thy conduct and thy
spirit, and fetters thee to inaction, and the loss of fame and
fortune? While thou sleepest all day on these rocks, thy
rivals are striding with the wind to the southern seas and
mountains which they inhabit—while thou scruplest to
avail thyself of the only chance which fortune hath offered
thee for months, the daring Ojeda is rushing through the
savage tribes that border the gulf of Uraba; and, crossing his
province of Veragua, even the delicate Diego de Nicuesa is
winning his way to that hidden sea—”
“No more, no more, Micer Codro,” cried the cavalier,
interrupting him—“thou madd'st me with thy fancies, and
the very dog growls with a fury which he cannot otherwise
speak, as if he also knew the goading power of thy language.
Do with me as thou wilt,—though were it the
vessel of the foul fiend himself, it would move me with no
more disquiet to enter it, than it now moves me to enter
that of Hernando de Enciso.”
“And God himself works—we have it from undoubted
lips—by the powers of evil. Shall it be that one of his
creatures should refuse the help which comes to us from
an agent of sin? Let us use the evil for good, my son, and
the evil is good; but know we not that it is in man's power
so to toil as to make sinful of sacred things, curses of
blessing,—nay, Satan hath the very forms and attributes of
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Heaven. The good is in the hands that touch, not the
thing that is touched—in the purpose of the mind, not in
the deed of limb or weapon; and when thou knowest that
the steps which thou takest on board this vessel of the
base Enciso, is a step described for thee by the stars—by
the hand of Heaven itself—then is there nothing in thy
employment of his agency which can do thee hurt or dishonour.”
Such were the arguments by which the astrologer strove
to reconcile Vasco Nunez to the necessity which was before
him, of escaping from his peril and restraint, by employing,
in secrecy and stealth, the means of another and
an enemy. The necessity itself was a stronger argument
than any offered by the old man's philosophy, and sorely
troubled to the last at the humiliation which he naturally
felt in resorting to such an expedient, Vasco Nunez, availing
himself of the cover of the night, descended to the city
of San Domingo, and was received by friends who awaited
him, on board the vessel of Enciso. There he remained
hidden from the searching eyes of the Bachelor, until after
his sailing, and when they had gone too far to admit of his
being brought back to San Domingo. Two days after the dialogue
just narrated, our hero was far upon the seas, making
his way to that land of promise, as a fugitive, which he
once hoped to penetrate as a conqueror. And who, misguided
by present aspects, shall say he comes not as a conqueror
even now? Who shall pierce the future, and describe
that capricious Fortune, unstable as the waves, uncertain
as the winds which had so long baffled his barque
of hope, and which now bore him on his course rather as a
convict than a favourite? The coming hours grow with
events which the past hath never promised; and the vessel
which, laden with golden treasures, sinks to the deepest
hollows of the sea, still rises to the surface, when lightened
of the burden for which it was built by the cunning hand
of man. Well had the astrologer spoken to the cavalier,
when, in allusion to the security which attends the destitute,
he said—“By reason of thy lightness shalt thou fly, my
son, and as thou art buoyant in thy spirit, shalt thou float.
Cast from thee these clouds of thought and of apprehension
that weigh thee down when thou shouldst fly, and yield thee
to any breeze, blow from whence it listeth, which will bear
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thee onward. He who hath naught to lose, can fling bubbles
into the jaw of fortune, and the very defiance of such
a spirit, like that of the careless cavalier to the capricious
dame, will sooner bend her to thy purpose, than thy
prayers or thy repinings. Hadst thou made this thy rule
in approaching Teresa Davila—”
“Name her not to me, Micer Codro,” replied the cavalier,
in cold, stern accents—“I would hear of her no
more!”
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CHAPTER XXVI. ARRIVAL AT TERRA FIRMA—LAST DAYS OF OJEDA.
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When he had been some days at sea, the fugitive Vasco
Nunez, impatient to behold once more the waters over
which he sped, and feel the sense of that freedom which
he had been so long denied, emerged from his place of
concealment in the hold of the vessel. The surprise of
the Bachelor Enciso at beholding this unlooked-for apparition
was only exceeded by his rage at being thus outwitted.
But even his anger gave way to a sentiment of
exultation as he reflected that he now had in his power
the man whom he most detested, one whose flight from
justice had put him fairly without the pale and protection
of the laws, and whom he might therefore subject to any
fate without himself incurring either the charge or the consequences
of cruelty. Bending his eyes, therefore, on the
placid countenance of the cavalier, with a smile of bitter
meaning, he addressed him in language which at once apprised
the latter of the cause of his hostility, and prepared
him to expect all the vengeance of a mind capable of harbouring
a hatred which, at another time and under other
circumstances, he had never had the boldness to express.
“This, truly, is an unexpected honour, Señor Vasco.
It is not now as when I first sought you with fair proffers
to unite our fortunes. You are no longer the great captain,
with a noble vessel and a gallant armament. Since
that time you have lost ship and crew, and have become a
fugitive from justice. Think you I am ready now to help
you in your flight from Santo Domingo, when you received
my proffer with scorn, and met all my advances with a
haughty indifference. Shall I, remembering the proud
contumely of your carriage to me in times past, give you
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aid now to avoid the stroke of justice which awaits you in
Española.”
The insolent language of the Bachelor aroused nothing
but indignation in the bosom of the cavalier, and though
Micer Codro, Valdivia and his few other friends on board
the vessel drew nigh in anxiety and apprehension, and
prayed him to yield to the press of circumstances and
speak fairly to one who had him so completely in his
power, they failed to produce in his mind that conviction
of the necessity of any such course, which, to a less excitable
temper, would have seemed obvious enough. He
answered the haughty speech of the bachelor with equal
haughtiness, and advancing a pace while he spoke, he
showed by his carriage a disposition to make any issue
with his enemy rather than bow to one whom he had long
since learned only to despise.
“And my words and carriage are like to be no less
scornful to you now, Hernando de Enciso—now that I am
a fugitive and threatened by the laws, than when I had
ship and seamen at command. It is the base spirit only
that crouches to the storm, and swaggers and swells in the
day of its prosperity. I am still the same Vasco Nunez
now that you found me when you made me your pitiful
offers of which you speak, and which I should again scorn
as I then did, considering not so much the value of your
proposal, as the worthless source from which it came.
Were you a noble cavalier, I should give you other language—
I should have asked your own privity to my flight
at first, confident to have obtained without pause, from a
soldier and a man, that favour, which, it is well known by
all, had never been accorded without price in gold, by a
slavish, trading spirit, such as thine. Thou thinkest, that,
as I am in thy vessel, I am at thy mercy; but thou
hast yet to learn, that a brave man with arms in his hands,
and confident of his soul's honesty, can match weapons
with a dozen of the base slaves who may strive against
him at thy command. Nor do I doubt that there are many
in thy bark—many brave soldiers and generous seamen,
who would feel shame to behold a noble gentleman beset
by numbers. If thou hast the soul of manhood in thee,
revenge thy own quarrel. We are both armed—take to
thy weapon, and St. John of Jerusalem look down upon
the fight.”
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The face of the bachelor grew absolutely livid as he
listened to this scornful language. The foam gathered
upon his lips, his frame trembled, his arms were stretched
forth, and his hands shaken in fruitless rage, at the
fearless cavalier who stood in calm defiance before him.
Sudden he strode away from the spot, and paced twice or
thrice to and fro, in the forward part of the vessel. At
length he returned to the place of quarrel, and with features
which, though they had lost their turbulence, were
perhaps, from this very cause, more entirely those of malignity
and dire hate, he again gazed upon the fugitive.
“Look!” he exclaimed after a brief pause in which his
eyes had striven, though vainly, to daunt those of his fearless
enemy. His finger pointed to a bald, black speck—a
solitary island that rose along their path, one of the hundred
that stud the entrance of the Caribbean Sea.
“I will not slay thee, Vasco Nunez—I will shed no
blood of thine, though thy insolence might well justify me
in such use of my power upon thee, and thy cruel murder
of Jorge Garabito might well deserve it. But, thou shalt
neither offend my person with thy audacious presence, nor
cumber my vessel with thy bloody fortunes. On that rock
will I leave thee—there, it shall be seen what destiny
heaven appoints to thy sins, for to its winds and waves will
I surrender thee, and thus rid me of all charge or trouble
of one, whose boast it is that no misfortune can humble,
and no dangers make him afraid. Thy wits and valour will
avail thee against the sea-bird and the shark, and that bright
star which Micer Codro hath chosen for thee from among
the rest, it will guide thee, I trust, to richer treasures of the
deep than any that ever I may hope to gather on the
shores of Veragua. Ho! there—man a boat for the Senor
Vasco.”
The cavalier drew his sword, and at the glitter of its
polished blade the brave dog Leonchico started to his side.
The bachelor also drew his weapon, but he sank back a
pace, so as to place his person within the protection of a
group of his officers.
“Thou shalt find it somewhat to thy cost, Senor Hernando,
what thou doest, for by the blessed Saint John of
the wilderness, I will not suffer hand upon my person that
is not lifted in amity.”
“Ho! there!” cried the now furious bachelor to his
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soldiers, some of whom were gathering about the capstan;
“get your matches lighted.”
With the utterance of this command, springing forward
like a vulture upon his prey, Vasco Nunez, at a single
bound, threw himself upon his enemy and before he could
lift weapon, or issue a second order, drew him apart from
his men, he, struggling with a feeble fury all the while,
but unable to escape from the vigorous and unyielding
grasp which his threatened victim had set upon him. This
sudden and resolute movement produced a startling sensation
on board the ship. The friends of the two parties at
once placed themselves in readiness for a regular fight à
outrance, and a few of the more forward followers of the
bachelor prepared to advance upon the cavalier. But a
timely warning from the latter made them pause, as, receding
from the centre of the ship, he placed his back
against the bulwark and drawing after him the still struggling
Enciso, as if he had been an infant in his grasp, he
bade them beware, that another hostile movement would
ensure the death of their commander. It was in this state
of things that some of the less heated minds on board of
the vessel interposed to prevent the fatal mischiefs that
were threatened by the affair. They remembered the great
valour and experience of Vasco Nunez, and looked upon
his appearance on board, however equivocally obtained,
as an event too fortunate to be disregarded, and as a happy
augury of success for their enterprise.
“It were a pity,” said they among themselves, “if Hernando
de Enciso be suffered to work his will upon so noble
a cavalier; and even though he succeed in his desire to
destroy him, yet, armed as he is, and brave to desperation,
could not this be done without great peril to many others.
Besides, who so well acquainted as Vasco Nunez with all
the shores of Terra Firma, which he traversed with Rodrigo
de Bastides, from Cape de la Vela even to Nombre
de Dios. It were a blind casting away of God's blessed
providence, if we reject the counsel and service of such a
man.”
Armed with these considerations, which, to the selfish
mind of the bachelor, they well knew would not require
any great or persuasive argument to make of due force and
efficacy, they interposed in the affray at the very moment
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when the conflict seemed inevitable, and by dint of promise
and entreaty effected an amnesty. Enciso gave a sullen
consent to an arrangement by which Vasco Nunez became
a sort of recruit in his service—though it galled the
proud spirit of the latter to concede as much—with the full
permission, however, should it please him better, to pursue
that course, to leave the armament of Enciso for that
of Nicuesa, or any other cavalier whom fortune might send
upon his path. The friends of Vasco Nunez congratulated
themselves on having achieved so much, but he himself
looked upon the service as one calculated rather to do him
hurt than benefit, and, perhaps, to restrain his own progress,
by an engagement to which he could not himself
incline, and which he greatly feared might defeat other
more hopeful purposes. He well knew that his only hope
had lain in the momentary command which he had obtained
perforce of the person of his enemy; and did not
cease to fear that availing himself of a more convenient
season, the base-spirited commander would not fail to employ
his emissaries to destroy a person who had exposed
him to such shame and peril. But, though sullen and unfriendly,
Enciso made no farther attempts to do his enemy
harm, and the armament reached the port of Carthagena,
where Ojeda had had his first encounter with the natives,
without farther subject of difference between the parties.
Here, the intelligence which awaited them, soon superseded,
by its pressing and painful importance, the farther
consideration of their quarrel in the minds of all parties.
The story of Ojeda was nearly at an end. He himself had
departed, desperate in fortune and despairing of the future,
on his perilous return to Santo Domingo; and from the
lips of the afterwards renowned Pizarro, the conqueror of
Peru, whom he had left in charge of his government, the
bachelor Enciso listened to a narrative which made him
forget for a while that he had any worse foe than the fortune
which had so far beguiled him from the peaceful, if
inglorious, occupations of the law. It appeared that the
restless Alonzo de Ojeda, after he had founded his capital,
proceeded to invade the surrounding country in search of
gold, but he fell into frequent ambuscades, his followers
were slain in numbers around him with poisoned arrows,
and he himself wounded by the same envenomed weapons.
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Borne back to his fortress in equal anguish of mind and
body, he had now only to contemplate his approaching
fate, by the horrible death of agony under which his companions
had perished in raving torments. But the courageous
warrior was capable of a degree of endurance, to
which he himself would never have subjected them; and
one of the peculiar symptoms of this poison from which
he suffered—a cold shooting thrill that passed at moments
through the wounded part—suggested to him a remedy
which seemed scarcely less desperate than his hurts. He
caused two plates of iron to be made red-hot, and applied
in that state to the wound. This terrible application he
endured without murmuring or shrinking, having refused
to be tied down under the operation. The desperate remedy
succeeded—“the cold poison, in the language of
Las Casas, being consumed by the vivid fire.” Incapable
of farther enterprises, until he was recovered from his
wound, he resolved to return to Santo Domingo, to procure
supplies and assistance for his colony. It will not be
necessary to our purpose to trace farther the history of
this rash but courageous adventurer. It is enough to say
that he reached Española, after a series of vicissitudes and
dangers which savour of romance, and under which most
persons would have perished. He had failed to realize
his own expectations or confirm the glowing promises to
his creditors and the public, with which he set forth from
Santo Domingo. A cloud rested on his fortunes which
never dispersed, and he died finally, in utter obscurity, of
a broken heart. Such was the humility, in his last moments,
of one who in his day of prosperity was the most
imperious of men, that his latest prayer is said to have
been that his body might be buried in the very portal of
the monastery of San Franciso, so “that all who entered
might tread upon his grave.” It is to be hoped, for his
soul's sake, that the humility which came too late for the
succour of his early fortunes, and which, coupled with his
noble courage, great skill, and singular hardihood alike of
mind and body, might have distinguished his adventures
by a success worthy of these noble qualities—was yet in
season for that final struggle in which, though death be
the victor, he is yet only the agent of a greater, with whom
to conquer is to reward, and to take prisoner and secure,
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is to bind with cords of love, and enthral only in a realm
the very atmosphere of which is spiritual and intellectual
freedom. Happy had it been for Alonzo de Ojeda, if this
humility, which only came with baffled fortunes, long disease,
and the world's scorn and contumely, had but filled his
mind a few years before it was unavailing for his earthly
prosperity. Then had the lives of hundreds, whom his
rash and headstrong enthusiasm led to an untimely and
horrid death, been spared, perhaps for more useful and
successful labours, and a calmer and better end.
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CHAPTER XXVII. CHANGES OF FORTUNE.
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The miserable remnant of that proud armament with
which Ojeda set forth from San Domingo, scarce thirty
men, with the single brigantine commanded by Pizarro,
was before the Bachelor. The melancholy review of this
little band might have discouraged a much stouter spirit
than that of Enciso, from a farther prosecution of his enterprises
in a region where such cruel fortunes had awaited
them. But the vanity of his heart got the better of his
understanding, and the desire to put in exercise his judicial
authority in the government which had been assigned to
Ojeda, from whom came his appointment, resolved him to
prosecute his voyage. It was not without great difficulty,
and only by a peremptory assertion of his authority, that he
prevailed upon the suffering crew of Pizarro to return with
him to the town of San Sebastian from which they had
departed, as they believed for ever. But his own misfortunes
began with his arrival at the port which had been so
fatal to the fortunes of his superior. His vessel struck a
rock on entering the harbour, and was soon torn to pieces
by the waves and currents. The crew escaped with great
difficulty, and but little was saved from the waters, out of
the stores of plenty, the arms, the horses and swine, with
which he had chartered his vessel for the supply of the
colony. The “Bachelor beheld the profits of years of
prosperous litigation swallowed up in an instant.” When
he landed upon the shores, the prospect that met his eye
added to his other discouragements. The Indians had
hung close upon the departing steps of Pizarro, and had destroyed
by fire the fortress and all the houses built by
Ojeda. Their supplies soon began to fail, and Enciso, a
better lawyer than soldier, sallying forth into the country,
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was waylaid by the savages, who hunted them at every
step, wounded many of the Spaniards, and by their fleetness
of foot defied the pursuit of an enemy who could only
hope to contend with them in close conflict, and removed
from the shelter of their forest fastnesses. He returned to
the harbour in dismay, and his own consternation and irresoluteness,
soon declared to the Spaniards more emphatically
than words could have done, the utter incapacity of
their leader for their direction and relief. In this moment
of emergency and doubt, all eyes were turned, as by a
common impulse, upon the desolate adventurer whom the
bitter malice of the Bachelor would have consigned to a
lonely island of the sea. His name, muttered in murmurs
at first, was at length openly pronounced, and Enciso, conscious
of his own incapacity to relieve them in their present
straits, was easily persuaded to turn for counsel to the
only man of all his company by whom it could be given.
Nor did Vasco Nunez in this moment of distress, remember
the hostile spirit which Enciso had displayed towards
him. With that noble magnanimity which, since his manhood,
might almost have been deemed habitual, he seemed
to forget their strifes, and cordially gave his honest counsel
as to the best course which lay before them.
“When I sailed with Bastides along this coast,” said he,
“it was closely explored from cape de la Vela, even beyond
the miserable spot on which we now stand. In
particular, we gave a close examination to the gulf of
Uraba. It is thither I would counsel ye to go. There is,
I well remember, an Indian people on the western side of
the gulf that dwell along the banks of a river which they
call Darien. The people, though warlike, use no poison
to their weapons, and the country is fertile, and there is
gold said to grow in the mountains. There you may get
supplies of provision and found your colony if it so pleases
you.”
“In the name of God, Señor Vasco, guide us if thou
canst to this river of Darien,” was the exclamation of the
Bachelor, and his words were echoed by all his followers,
glad of any retreat which would enable them to leave a
spot so full of evil fortune and worse promise.
“Shall I be obeyed in what I command necessary to
bring ye to the spot, and secure you in its possession? It
were of little avail to say, here is the village, and the gold
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is in the bowels of yonder mountain, unless there be one
who shall also tell ye in what manner to circumvent the
savage and explore the mountain.”
The Bachelor was reluctant to yield up so large an authority
to one whom he had been so anxious to destroy,
and whom he still continued to fear and hate; but the necessity
was pressing. The haughty cavalier was resolute
not to take upon himself a half authority which was liable
to be marred or baffled at any moment, at the caprice of
his commander; and the clamours of his followers, who
saw every instant the unfitness of Enciso for the command,
compelled him to close with the terms of Vasco Nunez.
In another instant and all was life and activity, courage and
confidence, among a people who were sick before with apprehension
and utterly down-hearted from their late defeat.
Still Vasco Nunez did not supersede the Bachelor, but it was
enough that the soldiers well knew that the orders came
from him though uttered by the lips of the latter. Already
they began to say to themselves—“this Vasco Nunez is
the proper man for such enterprise—Martin Hernandez de
Enciso will help us little forward.” As yet these opinions
were unexpressed to each other; but where men are equal,
the mind of one will soon be in the possession of his
neighbour, and it will be found always that every man's
conviction is the common law.
In a few hours after this deliberation took place, the colony
of San Sebastian was abandoned. Guided and counselled
by Vasco Nunez, the Bachelor set sail for the proposed
settlement on the river of Darien. When he reached
the spot, Vasco Nunez, from a previous knowledge of its
situation, took on himself the preparations, and having
divided his force under proper commands, and put them in
martial array, he landed at some distance from the town
and advanced along the banks toward it. But their approach
was soon discovered by the inhabitants; the women
and children were sent to a place of safety into the interior,
while their cassique, a valiant chief named Zemaco, stationed
himself on a little eminence with five hundred men, to
receive the invaders. Vasco Nunez had already made all
the arrangements which he deemed necessary for the combat;
but on a sudden his orders for attack were arrested by
the Bachelor, who had legal and pious scruples which were
yet to be overcome. Apprehensive that the terrors which
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his men entertained of poisoned arrows might impair their
courage, he required them to swear upon the holy volume,
that, however the savages might fight, and with whatever
weapons, they should not turn their backs upon the foe.
They were to conquer or die. Then, having made certain
liberal vows of spoils yet to be won, to “our lady of Antigua”
in the event of his success, he professed himself
ready for the conflict, which he had delayed to the annoyance
of Vasco Nunez and other warriors, whose practice
made them far less scrupulous than the circumspect attorney.
Vasco Nunez, when Enciso gave the signal, led the
right division which had been given him to command,
directly up the hill, and in the very teeth of the Indian
warriors. He was quickly followed and well sustained by
the Bachelor in the centre, and Valdivia on the left, and
so warm was their valour, that Zemaco, though a brave
savage, was soon made to fly, leaving many of his warriors
slain behind him. The Spaniards then made their way to
the village, which yielded them not only great supplies of
provisions, but gold in every form of ornament, anklets,
plates and bracelets, to an immense amount. Greatly was
the heart of the Bachelor uplifted by this achievement. He
forgot all past misfortunes, and every disaster and doubt in
the moment of this unexpected success. He instantly resolved
to establish the seat of government in the village he
had taken. He was anxious to begin the sway for which
his spirit had yearned so long. His neck grew stiff with
his triumph, the merit of which he took entirely to himself—
and he who, but a day before, had taken counsel from
Vasco Nunez as from a superior, now scarcely bestowed
upon the latter the countenance due even to a slave. Nor,
in the plentitude of his authority and greatness, did he limit
its austere aspects alone to the man whom he so hated.
Having established his government, he was anxious to exhibit
its terrors, and availing himself of the royal command,
he passed an edict forbidding his men to traffic with the
natives on private account, under penalties of death.
This law was little agreeable to men who considered all
their perils as taken in vain, if denied the profits of the free
wild trade to which they naturally looked forward at the
beginning of their adventure. They murmured among
themselves at the stern interdiction, and did not hesitate to
say to one another, that the Bachelor aimed to
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appropriate the common gains to himself. Many of them turned
their eyes, even at this early period, upon Vasco Nunez,
whose courage, skill, and excellent knowledge of the country,
seemed at once to designate him as the person best
fitted for the command; but he kept aloof from them in
their discontent, and seemed only to brood secretly and
sorrowfully upon that lack of resources which alone appeared
to be wanting, by which he might pass to those
conquests for which he had striven so vainly and so long.
While the murmurs and discontents of the people continued
to rise under the unwonted strictness of the lawyer's
enactments, the dispute was suddenly silenced for a brief
space by an unlooked-for occurrence. The thunder of
cannon reached their ears one day from the opposite side
of the gulf. Rejoicing no less than surprised at these
unexpected signs of European life in that heathen neighbourhood,
they replied in the same manner to such grateful
signals, and in a short time two Spanish vessels were seen
standing in for their little harbour. They proved to belong
to the armament of Nicuesa, and were under the command
of one Rodrigo de Colmenares, who was seeking his superior
with supplies. When Colmenares came to speak
with Enciso, he reproached him for having dared to establish
his government within the jurisdiction of Nicuesa.
This reproach troubled the Bachelor exceedingly, and was
productive of infinite mischief to his authority among his
people, particularly at a time when his severe laws had
almost entirely diverted from him their regards. Nor was
Colmenares idle among them as soon as he discovered how
they inclined. He gained their hearts by a free supply of
provisions. He represented to them the legitimate right of
Diego de Nicuesa, under the king's especial grant, to all
that part of the gulf in which he found them, and turned
confidently to Vasco Nunez as unquestionable authority
on such a subject, to sustain him in what he advanced.
To him also the Bachelor turned in this moment of his
precarious command, and confidently hoped to be sustained
by our cavalier, as it was by his counsel that he had made
his way to the river of Darien. But his appeal to this authority,
though made with a degree of humility strangely
at variance with the scornful deportment he had so lately
carried towards the same individual, failed of the effect
which he had hoped it might produce.
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“Colmenares is right;” he replied. “The boundary
line between the separate jurisdictions of Ojeda and Nicuesa
passes through the centre of the gulf of Uraba. The
village of Darien lies, as we all may see, on the western
side of the gulf which is allotted to the Senor Diego. We
are, therefore, under the authority of Nicuesa, if any body
hath authority in this heathen land. Certainly, that of
Alonzo de Ojeda, as governor, and of Hernando de Enciso,
as his alcalde mayor, is utterly worthless here, as the
Senor Hernando, being a man of the law, and exceedingly
fond of its exercise, should have known from the beginning.”
Colmenares loudly exulted at this decision, but the Bachelor
bitterly reproached Vasco Nunez with what he
styled the treachery of his conduct; the cold sarcastic remark
with which the cavalier concluded his opinion was
to the opinionated Bachelor, like the sting under the wing
of the hornet.
“And wherefore,” he exclaimed, “did you counsel me
to come within the province of another—wherefore but as
a man false hearted and having a purpose of evil within his
mind?”
“I counselled ye, that your people might be saved from
starvation, or a worse death from the poisoned arrows of
the savages. I thought nothing of your authority when I
looked on their desperation; had it been the question how
shall the fortune of the Bachelor Enciso be made,—or
where shall we go that he may enjoy the dignity of
alcalde mayor, Vasco Nunez had given you no answer
to the prayer which you made him for relief. He had
left you to your own precious wisdom, and the bitter fruits
thereof.”
“And for this I spared you when I found you a fugitive
from the law, an unbidden guest within my vessel? For
this I yielded to the prayer of my officers when my own
justice would have consigned thee to the bald rock within
the seas.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the cavalier, striking his weapon by
his side till the well tempered steel rattled like silver in its
sheath. “By St. John of the wilderness, Enciso, the signal
which would have sent me to the bald rock in the
ocean, would have sent thee to a darker place. The good
weapon which I carry gave me life—not thy mercy, nor
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thy wisdom, nor thy courage! Go to!—thou chafest me
with thy speech, till my hand can scarce refrain from
making thee now bite of the steel.”
Vasco Nunez turned away from the crowd as these
words were spoken, and the Bachelor was not unwilling that
the controversy should cease between them; but enough
had been already said to render his authority doubtful, and
his followers, whom his stern legal edicts had offended,
were glad of the argument to shake off a rule which promised
to limit their own fortunes, and deprive them of all
the advantages which had been held out to them as lures
for the adventure they had engaged in. The indiscreet
vanity of the Bachelor precipitated his overthrow—an illjudged
attempt to browbeat and compel his opponents,
resulted in a popular commotion, in which, with a true recognition
of the democratic doctrines of a more modern
period, they withdrew their allegiance from him; and the
man of law found himself, at the moment of his highest
expectations, suddenly reduced to the condition and the
fortunes of a follower, in the very armament he set forth
from Santo Domingo to command.
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CHAPTER XXVIII. THE FATE OF DIEGO DE NICUESA.
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The overthrow of Enciso was the signal for new commotions
in the colony. Colmenares insisted upon their
recognition of Nicuesa, as they were within his jurisdiction;
but, though this argument had been the pretence for
withholding allegiance from the Bachelor, and for denying
his authority, there was yet a strong party, to whom the
lofty character, generous sentiment, and great skill and valour
of Vasco Nunez, appeared conclusive reasons in favour
of appointing him to the chief command. His own
friends were active in promoting this end; and the fond
predictions of the astrologer, who dwelt learnedly upon the
certain prosperity which dwelt beneath his star—now certainly
rising, more and more bright, from beneath the
clouds which had so long obscured it—added force to those
suggestions which accorded with the common prepossession
in his favour. They succeeded in their purpose, in
spite of the efforts of Colmenares, and appointed Vasco
Nunez, in conjunction with one Zamudio, their chief magistrate.
But when they waited upon the cavalier, who had
kept aloof from their controversies, with the annunciation
of his appointment, to their great surprise they were received
with a positive rejection of the power which they
had thus conferred upon him; nor could all the arguments
and entreaties of his friends dissuade him from a resolution
that seemed no less suicidal than strange. But the cavalier
had good reasons for his rejection of an authority which
had no promise of stability.
“The fruit is not ripe,” he said to the astrologer, in private,
when the other, more warmly than his wont,
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reproached him for a decision which denied himself the very
power which he had seemed so long to desire above all
things else.
“The fruit is not ripe. These people know not yet
what they want, and are just in that condition of mental
insobriety, when they would quarrel with any authority,
and obey none long. They need to be schooled by new
dangers and troubles, and nothing but a sheer conviction of
their own incapability—which will come in time—would
bring them to that state of docility, without which, in the
labours I propose, nothing could be done. Were I to accept
this offer which they make me now, I should have
them in rebellion the moment Nicuesa makes his appearance.
His name would be for ever sounded in my ears, as
much as a warning as a model, and no law that I should
enact, calculated to restrain their passions, and make them
subordinate to service, but would make them greedy for
any change, particularly if one was at hand, like Nicuesa,
armed with legal powers, and not less armed with the weapons
of war, and ships filled with artillery. Were I to be
tempted to-day with this green fruit, Micer Codro, it would
stick in my throat, and strangle me before the morrow
were well over. I am not impatient, and the fruit must
ripen.”
With such cool reflections the ambitious cavalier calmly
beheld the people who had proffered him so great a trust,
despatch a deputation in the vessel of Colmenares in search
of the Señor Diego de Nicuesa, inviting him to return with
them, and to assume the government of Darien. As we
have given a brief summary of the fortunes of Ojeda,
though not absolutely essential to our narrative, it may be
only proper to bestow a like notice upon the progress
hitherto of his more accomplished rival; in which it will
be found that, however unlike he may have been in character
to the hapless Ojeda, the fate which attended his adventures
was scarcely more indulgent; and leaves us to the
conviction that mere valour, grace of deportment, or accomplishment
in any of the arts, whether of the court or camp,
are of little avail in the day of peril, without that calm,
overruling, and reflective judgment, which sees, as from an
eminence, far above the passions, the hopes and the fears
which are for ever skirmishing below, and with a prescience,—
the strict result of its own forbearance to take part
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in the conflict, but which seems like a divine instinct,—
deliberately chooses its course, by which to avoid all the
dangers of the melée, and reach the haven which yet lies
along the direct route where the strife is carried on. It
was the lack of this divine quality of mind, and not of any
deficiency of valour or of fortitude, that destroyed the seductive
superstructure of hope which Ojeda had raised up, not
less in the imaginations of his followers than of his own;
and a like defeat, it will be seen, had, up to the period of
our story, almost brought the fortunes of Nicuesa to the
same ruinous condition. The reader will no doubt remember
the timely rescue which the courteous cavalier brought
to his rival, and the prompt vengeance taken by the two
warriors in conjunction upon the savages of Carthagena.
Leaving Alonzo de Ojeda after this event, Nicuesa proceeded
on his voyage to the coast of Veragua. The weather
grew stormy; and, apprehensive of the dangers from the
coast, the commander stood out to sea with his squadron,
which was separated in the night by tempests. At the
dawn of day, not one of his companions was in sight.
Fearing that some accident had befallen his brigantines,
commanded by one Lope de Olano, his lieutenant, Nicuesa
stood in for the land, until he came to the mouth of a large
river, which he entered and came to anchor. Here his
evil luck still attended him—his vessel grounded by the
sudden subsiding of the stream, which had been swollen by
freshets, and himself and crew had scarcely left it and
gained the shore, before it went to pieces. Their situation
was almost desperate. Without provisions or arms and
half naked, they found themselves on the shores of a remote
and savage nation. With a heavy heart, dreading the
desertion of his lieutenant, of whom evil things of the same
sort had been already spoken, the hapless cavalier, with
many forebodings, took his way westward along the seashore
in search of the seat of his intended government.
They had been able to save a boat from the wreck of their
vessel, with which four of their number kept beside them
in their weary progress along the coast, the perils, pains,
and privations of which journey were utterly beyond expression,
as they would be found utterly beyond the conception
of the reader.
Many of them were without shoes and almost naked—
their route lay through unbroken forests, interlaced with
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thorns and beset with brambles. Sometimes they were
compelled to wade through fen and morass, swim deep
and rapid rivers, and clamber over sharp and rugged rocks.
Their food, gleaned in their progress, consisting of herbs
and roots and shell fish, scarcely pacified hunger, and did
not supply the required strength for their toilsome march.
At length they reached a bay that ran far inland, and were
taken by the boat, in small numbers, to the opposite shore,
which, when they had traversed, to their great consternation,
they discovered to be an island separated from the
main by a great arm of the sea. Their boat with the
mariners had disappeared and they were left to the horrible
dread of utter desertion by those who could have relieved
them, and of final starvation in the desolate island where
they were left. It was in vain that they toiled in the construction
of rafts with which to cross the main. The currents
swept their rafts, one after another to the sea, and
the effort was given up in despair. Meanwhile their only
food consisted of the scant herbs, the meagre product of
the soil, and the supply of shell fish, the precarious tribute
of the surrounding sea. Days and weeks elapsed in this
manner, each day thinning the number of this miserable
company; the survivors were reduced to such debility,
that they could no longer procure the wretched food that
sustained life, but by crawling in search of it on hands and
knees. But relief came to them at last in the shape of one
of the lost brigantines of Lope de Olano. The boat that
put off to their relief contained the four seamen who had
so cruelly deserted them. When the fleet was again
brought together it appeared that each division had its own
equal tale of misery to relate—a tale that no fiction could
well exaggerate, since of seven hundred effective men with
which the armament had sailed from Santo Domingo, four
hundred had already perished. Sailing eastward after
some delay, Nicuesa proceeded to Puerto Bello, a spot to
which he was guided by an old sailor who had made a
voyage with Columbus; but here his men were encountered
by the savages and defeated with considerable
slaughter. This determined Nicuesa to continue his voyage
yet farther, which he did until he reached another port
to which Columbus had given the name of Puerto de Bastimientos,
or Port of Provisions. “Here,” said he, “let
us rest, en el nombre de Dios.” The phrase by the
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superstitious sailors was immediately adopted as the name of the
place—a name which to this day it retains. But the good
omen which they had fancied to find in the name thus
given, was soon renounced for others in better accordance
with its real characteristics. The aspect of fortune
remained inflexible and without corresponding change with
that of their habitation. They were beset with Indians, and
obtained no provisions except at the price of blood. Labour
and pain and death seemed their only allotment, and
while his men daily perished around him, the survivors did
little else than invoke imprecations upon the head of their
miserable commander. Famine so rapidly lessened his
discontents, that when he mustered his forces, there were
found, of the once brilliant armament of the noble Hidalgo,
whose strains of syren music had beguiled so many ears
in San Domingo, not one hundred dejected and emaciated
men.
It was in this condition, and on this spot, so full of disheartening
and painful associations, that Nicuesa was
found by the deputation sent with Colmenares from the
colony at Darien. The highest point of misery had been
reached before their arrival, and they could scarce recognise
in the dejected and squalid man before them the once
accomplished cavalier. His followers were reduced to
sixty, and looked like men who had taken their last farewell
not only of hope but life. But the intelligence brought
by Colmenares, and the presence of the deputation from
Darien, was like an exhilarating draught from heaven to
these despairing men. The buoyant spirit of the cavalier
recovered all its elasticity at this grateful intelligence, and
he commanded a banquet for the ambassador from the
stores of the ship, in the indulgences of which he gave
free vent to the joy with which their tidings had inspired
him.
“And you tell me, Señor Albitez,” he said, as he
quaffed his wine, to one of the envoys—“you tell me that
you have already collected gold in quantities—what then
are the sums which you deem to be at this time within the
treasury of the Government.”
The question somewhat confounded the person addressed,
and it was after the fashion of one who would
rather be excused from making any answer at all, that he at
length replied.
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“Of any sum within the treasury I can say nothing, for
of this I know nothing; but there are many individuals
whose spoils were great at the sacking of Darien. There
was Valdivia, who had seven anklets of massive gold,
and as many medals, and the Bachelor Enciso, himself—”
“Ha! How! What is this that I hear, Señor Albitez?
Dost thou tell me of the servants of the king presuming to
sack towns within the government of Veragua, and carry
the treasure which they take into their own coffers. This
is a flagrant trespass upon the monopolies of the crown,
and must be looked into. These men must refund what
they have taken, and it will go hard with me, but I shall
punish them severely for this most audacious practice
against all law and authority. Give me to know the
names of these persons, that I may proceed against them
without unnecessary delay.”
The envoys did as they were bidden, but manifested no
little reluctance in doing so. The high tone of Nicuesa,
and the threats which he had so freely uttered, alarmed
them for themselves no less than for the rest, and their
feelings towards him underwent a most singular and rapid
change from the moment that his imprudence had suffered
him to disclose the policy by which he proposed to govern.
He had committed the very error which, more than his
lack of legal right, had unseated the Bachelor Enciso in
his rule, and the envoys were now cautious of all that they
themselves would utter, and as narrowly watchful of the
speech and deportment of Nicuesa. They adopted a sudden
policy the first moment they could compare their views
in secret—hurried their departure for the return to Darien
before Nicuesa—and, when arrived, they did not
soften, in their narrative of the interview with that Cavalier,
any of the harsh threats which he had thrown out, of punishment
against individuals, or the vigorous laws by which
he intended to prevent such abuses of the laws in future.
The people of Darien were confounded as they heard this
intelligence.
“Truly,” said they, “this is calling in King Stork to
devour us. What are we to do?”
The Bachelor Corral—a subtle lawyer who had been the
associate of Albitez in his mission to Nicuesa, answered
the question.
“Do! we must undo what we have done, and that is
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an easy matter. You have been simple enough to send
for king stork, but there is no good reason why you should
be so simple as to receive him when he comes. I, for one,
say, set him adrift, and let him go back to `Nombre de
Dios,' en el nombre de Dios.”
The remedy was instantly resolved upon, and when the
unconscious Nicuesa approached his supposed government,
with a spirit which had forgotten all its past sufferings
in the proud prespect which he conceived to lie before
him, what was his surprise to hear himself warned from
the shore, and commanded peremptorily by the public
procurator not to disembark. The cavalier was utterly
confounded.
“What can this mean, my friends? I came here at your
own request.”
“Ay, but we have thought better of the matter, Senor
Diego,” cried a swaggering, noisy fellow, named Benitez,
“and now you may go back. We cannot think of troubling
you to govern for us.”
His words were promptly echoed by the multitude, and
their clamours drowned every attempt which the unhappy
cavalier made to entreat their pity, or to affect their sense
of justice.
“At least,” he cried, in despair, “suffer me to land for
the night, that we may come to a fitting explanation.”
Even this was denied him. Night coming on, he was
obliged to stand out to sea, but he re-appeared with the
morning and renewed his entreaties and arguments. He
was suffered to land, but this indulgence was the result of
a plan among the more active of the conspirators to
get him in their power. No sooner did he set foot on
shore than a troop of them set forward to seize him. Fleet
of foot to a proverb, the unhappy cavalier was compelled
to resort to a most undignified flight, and running along the
shore, closely pursued by the rabble, he soon distanced his
pursuers, and found shelter in the neighbouring woods. It
was at this stage of the affair that Vasco Nunez, who had
been blamed by some who have not done full justice to his
position, for remaining so long quiescent, threw off the
lethargy which seemed to hang about his actions, and interposed
to protect the fugitive. It pained him to the soul
to behold a highbred cavalier subjected to the rude treatment
of such a base rabble, and suddenly throwing himself
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upon the path of the pursuit, he seized the most active and
noisy of the crew, the fellow Benitez—already remarked for
the insolence of his reply to Nicuesa the evening before—
and availing himself of a stout stick which was at hand,
he inflicted upon him without a word, a smart and deserved
chastisement. This sudden and summary interposition had
the effect of bringing the rest to a stand; and sternly rebuking
them for the brutality of their conduct, he advanced
to the spot where the fugitive had taken refuge, bade him
come forth, and pledged his own life for his protection.
This gallant conduct was not without its effect upon the
rabble; and, without relaxing in their resolve to admit Nicuesa
to no authority among them, they at least forbore
any farther physical display of hostility. It was now that
the unfortunate Nicuesa put in exercise all of his former
grace and courtesy of manner, and all of his most persuasive
forms of eloquence, in order to produce some change
in the disposition of the multitude. Through the medium
of Vasco Nunez,—for they would not suffer him to approach
them in person, and, indeed, in spite of the countenance of
that cavalier, it might not have been safe for him to have
done so,—he strove to impress upon them the numerous
claims which he had to be their leader. He reminded
them that he had come at their own supplication, that he
was by royal appointment the governor over the country of
which they occupied a portion, and that they were, in fact,
in direct treason in thus opposing his authority. But he
pleaded in vain. They were too strongly impressed with
the imprudent threats which he had uttered to the envoys,
and were too generally obnoxious to punishment by the
vigorous enactments which he had sworn to make, to suffer
them to give ear to any arguments, however sweetly expressed,
and however strong in themselves. They had
toiled too strenuously, and through too great peril, for the
gold which they had won, to be willing, while they had
the power to withhold it, to refund it to any treasurer of
the king. They rejected with noise and uproar the pretensions
which he had not the power to enforce, and when
he threatened them with the royal indignation, they commended
him with bitter jeers to the king and council of
Castile. Finding argument and expostulation vain, the
hopeless cavalier assumed the language of entreaty, and
baffled and driven about by fortune as he had been, and
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looking with a sentiment of horror which was ominous, at
the prospect of being compelled to return to Nombre de
Dios, he prayed them that they would suffer him to come
among them as a companion, if not as a commander. This
also was denied by the ruthless rabble.
“Let me be a prisoner among them—let them put me
in irons, Vasco Nunez—plead to them even for this fate—
which would be far preferable in my eyes to the necessity
which would drive me back to the shores which I have
left, the famine and the poisoned arrows which await me
there.”
In this wise did the unfortunate Hidalgo plead for the
meanest boon which it was in their power to grant; and no
art or argument of Vasco Nunez was withheld to persuade
them to the required concession. They received his arguments
with scorn, and answered his prayers by contemptuous
clamours; and the struggle closed with the final expulsion
of the wretched cavalier in a miserable vessel, the
worst in their harbour, which they allotted, and in which,
with a heart bowed down, if not broken by his repeated
misfortunes, he proceeded to sea, attended by only seventeen
followers, chiefly his personal attendants and fast
friends. But the crazy vessel never reached her port. She
steered across the Caribbean sea for the island of Hispaniola,
and was never heard of more. But the grave of her
hapless captain was found many years after upon the shores
of Cuba, which the vessel may have reached or a surviving
boat with the baffled cavalier. A band of wandering Spaniards
found the spot, above which stood a tree, containing
a carved inscription informing them of his fate—
“Aqui fenccio el desdicado Nicuesa.”
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CHAPTER XXIX. DEMOCRACY IN DARIEN—THE CARIBBEAN REBEL.
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When the vessel which bore the ill-fated Nicuesa, had
disappeared from the shores of Darien, the community,
now without any head, relapsed into its former factions as
to who should have authority over them. One party insisted
upon the claims of the Bachelor Enciso, as better
founded than those of any other, he having the appointment
of Alonzo de Ojeda, who had been specially deputed
by the king himself to the command of one half of Veragua.
Another party, and by far the most numerous, ridiculed
this claim as being of force only within the limits of
that half of the country which had been given to Ojeda;
but their ridicule was perhaps better placed when it was
aimed at the legal scrupulosity of those who took such
ground, and who had just joined, tooth and nail, in expelling
the undoubted governor of the soil, also claiming under
direct appointment of the king.
“But what to us,” continued the latter party, “what to
us in the wilderness are the appointments of Ferdinand, or
rather of Fonseca. How can they know the sort of man
who is best calculated to promote our conquest of the
country. They give us Ojeda, who is mad with his own
ungovernable temper; and Nicuesa, who is no less mad
with his own ungovernable self-conceit—both of them
leading us into danger, having no skill to relieve us when
they do so. Our lives are to us of more value than they
can be to king or bishop, and these give us the right to
choose for ourselves the sort of captain who shall the better
preserve them in pushing the conquests we intend.
We will choose our own officers, as it is fitting we should;
we only being required to obey them, and it being to our
loss and misfortune only, if they prove not to be good ones.
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Our claim to choose them for ourselves is better founded
for another reason. We have experience of their abilities,
we have seen the most famous exploits of Ojeda, and of
Nicuesa, and of many others; and it cannot but prove the
truest policy, when the greatest number of our voices unite in
favour of one man, if we choose that man to be our leader.”
This was wholesome democratic doctrine, and was
urged with all the vehemence natural to men who were
removed thousands of miles from the accustomed restraints
of the law. But the ambition of the Bachelor Enciso and
the great interest which he had in the expedition from the
first, awakened all his loyalty and legal acumen, and being
a better pleader than a soldier, he stoutly declaimed against
the treasonable countenance which they maintained to the
royal authority. They heard him with some patience for
awhile, as one of their companions, but when the worthy
Bachelor, who, if talented, was any thing but discreet or
wise—deceived by their indulgence, and thinking he had
gained some ground in the argument, proceeded to denounce
individuals, and threaten them all with royal indignation
and punishment—they routed him as rudely as they
had done Nicuesa, and in their fury, invested as they assumed
themselves to be with a sovereign power which was
utterly new to Enciso, but which, according to our modes
of thinking, and their arguments, was quite as legitimate as
any other, they thrust the ambitious Bachelor into prison,
and confiscated all his effects to the common use. This
done, they proceeded almost in the same moment to declare
Vasco Nunez their leader, and to confer upon him
that power of which they had just before made so unscrupulous
and violent a use.
“The fruit is now ripe, my son.”
These were the words of Micer Codro, as he bore to the
cavalier the first intelligence of the proceedings of the people.
Vasco Nunez, from the moment when he found that
all his entreaties had failed to produce any change in their
resolves with regard to Nicuesa, had studiously, and with a
sad heart and vexed spirit, withdrawn himself from among
them, and was now wandering along the shores of the sea,
contemplating the backward route taken by the unhappyadventurer,
and conjuring up, with a mournful prescience,
those aspects of evil to himself, which seemed so naturally
to follow the fortunes of the adventurous and brave.
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“Micer Codro,” said the cavalier, “it is but a few
months, thou rememberest, when the accomplished Señor
Diego sailed with a noble fleet and a brave and numerous
crew from the port of Santo Domingo. The fruit was
ripe for him—yet where is he? The same people who
offer me command were too happy to serve under his banner.
They took his gold, they swore to follow his fortunes,
yet, in a sudden mood of anger or caprice, they forget
the solemn faith they swore, and pursue him with a
malice which would seem to call for the sanction of some
surpassing crime or cruelty of his commission; and yet,
my life on it, the Señor Diego hath been only too indulgent
to their wishes—too blind to their faults and excesses—
too liberal to their vain follies and impatient desires.”
“My son!” replied the astrologer, “the part which
thou hast taken in behalf of the unfortunate Señor Diego,
is becoming the generous rival and the noble gentleman;
yet dost thou think that, had he been suffered to remain at
Darien, he could have kept the command?”
“He freely offered to renounce it—he prayed only to
be admitted as a companion.”
“True, but this was only at the moment of his utter
desperation. Dost thou think that, had he been suffered to
remain as a companion, he would have been content with
such a position, in the very armament he himself had
fitted out. Dost thou not believe that, when the first feelings
of his apprehension had disappeared, and he had
learned to forget, in the better fortunes of the people, the
miseries of Nombre de Dios, he would have stirred up a
faction against the leader, and if he did not succeed in casting
him down and setting himself up in his stead, would
have withdrawn his faction, and by a separate command
have divided the people to the destruction of both parties.”
The cavalier was silent. The astrologer continued.
“It would have been ordinary human nature to have
done so, and such certainly would have been the case had
the Señor Diego been suffered to remain in any capacity.
He was a man easily cast down by bad fortune, and as
easily lifted into forgetfulness by good. He lacked equally
the firmness to bear patiently under evil, and the humility,
which is the noblest wisdom, to maintain an equal patience
when success smiled upon him. Misfortune made him
base—a slave, impotent, feeble and complaining; while
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success changed him to a tyrant—rash, insolent, and overbearing.
That he could not have remained at Darien without
striving to command, I have already shown thee, and, indeed,
thou knowest this truth already, from what thou
knowest of Nicuesa. That he could not have commanded
successfully any more than Ojeda, there is sufficient proof
in his melancholy progress, as it is already known to us.
The very picture thou hast drawn of the noble fleet and
numerous crew with which he set sail a few months ago
from Santo Domingo, when contrasted with their present
condition, and the miserable remnant which is left at Darien,
is the very best justification of the people. Their
very lives—I speak not now of their fortunes—depended
upon their driving away Nicuesa and Ojeda, and all those
assuming and insolent, but incompetent commanders,
who have already brought them from misery to misery,
until they tremble now upon the very verge of ruin.
Without provisions, few in number, vexed by their striving
factions, and confused and agitated by the possession of
their own powers, unless thou takest the rule upon thee
as it is offered thee, they must fall a prey to the fierce
cassique Zemaco, who hangs over, watching them like a
bird of prey from the hills. Thy own safety and mine,
Vasco Nunez, not less than theirs, commands thee to take
this rule upon thee. But there is yet a stronger argument,
my son, in the blessed chance which this election gives
thee of carrying out the promise of thy star. Nay more,
in all this business—in the toils and misfortunes—the defeat
and banishment of Nicuesa and Ojeda—the finger of
thy destiny hath been at work. Look back, my son, to
the day when the hurricane seemed to have swallowed up
thy fortunes, when it swallowed up thy barque. Then thou
stoodst, the most hapless man of all the three whose proud
vessels covered the bosom of the Ozama. Now, where
art thou? The proud fleets of Ojeda and Nicuesa—where
are they? These captains, where are they? Thou seest
them all here, at Darien—all that remains of the proud
armaments of thy rivals—they are broken in spirit and fortunes—
gone from thy path for ever, and their troops, of
their own head, pronounce thee with unanimous voice
their captain. Truly the hand of heaven is in this business.
Thy star hath guided thee aright, and the force that
is left to thee, if small, is hardy, and hath been taught
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lessons of endurance and courage which, of all others, are the
most necessary for the men to know, who aim to explore
these mountains of Darien, and overcome the fierce tribes
that inhabit them. The hour of thy glory and thy triumph
is at hand, my son;—let not, I pray thee, the golden
chance pass by. Now is the time—the fruit is ripe and
ready for thy lips.”
“Stay! seest thou nothing? there, in the little bay,
scarce a mile above us, into which the waves glide softly
and without surf—seest thou not a boat, Micer Codro?
Seest thou not a long narrow canoe, such as the natives of
the islands make. There, beyond the point, Micer Codro?”
“Mine eyes are older than thine, my son—I see nothing.”
replied the other.
“It is gone—it is hidden by the rushes that skirt the
bay. Let us move towards it, Micer Codro, it may matter
something to our fortunes. Zemaco rests on the hills
below—wherefore should this canoe, if it comes to him,
find its way so far above. Let us look to it, Micer Codro—
thou hast a weapon, and mine is ready—besides, here is
Leonchico—himself a host. Ha! ha! Leon! Ha! ha!
Set on, Set on!”
The dog, obeying the well-known command, sprang forward,
and was followed by the two. They proceeded
with all haste towards the spot where Vasco Nunez had
seen the boat disappear, which they found to be an indentation
of the shore, having the appearance on three sides of
a capacious basin, but without receiving the tribute waters
of any river. The land was so low, however, that the
tides covered a long stretch of it at high water, and thick
beds of reeds and a high grass grew so luxuriantly over the
surface, as to form an almost impassable barrier to the direct
approach from either side. For a time they saw
nothing of the canoe. The waters of the basin flowed
smoothly in almost without a ripple, and seemed never to
have borne the burden of a vessel or the dip of an oar.
But a patient watch for a while longer enabled them to detect
a movement among the thick reeds upon the opposite
shore, and following the motion of their slender forms,
they beheld the stern of the canoe protruding slightly from
beneath the stems which it divided in its passage, and
which vibrated fitfully in accordance with its upward
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progress. It was soon swallowed up from their gaze; but
while they stood watching and wondering at the appearance
in that quarter of such a vessel, they beheld two persons
emerging from the rushes in which they had lost
sight of the canoe, and after leisurely surveying them with
a gaze seemingly as curious as their own, ascending the
hills which bounded the view on the southwest. They
were both Indians, one of them a man, evidently from his
form and carriage of the Caribbean race. He was tall,
straight, and strongly made. He carried a bow in his
hand and a well-filled quiver on his shoulder, and walked
with the ease and haughty erectness of one accustomed to
command. His companion was a woman; she followed
closely behind him with an air of respectful deference that
was perceptible to the Spaniards even at the great distance
from which they watched. The man, after the first survey
which he made of them, turned his eyes away and went
toward the hills without bestowing upon them a second
glance. Not so with the woman. Though following her
conductor closely with unfaltering footsteps, she stole a
frequent look behind her, and then, as if fear followed her
survey, her speed would be increased until she again drew
nigh to her companion. In this way they soon passed
from sight among the rising hills that deepened in the distance.
The appearance of these Indians on that part of
the coast, so far from that where Zemaco maintained his
forces, in a canoe of such unusual magnitude, and which
had evidently just come from the sea, was necessarily a
subject fruitful of conjecture in a mind so earnest and
inquiring as Vasco Nunez; though, little did the cavalier
imagine among his many speculations, the vast voyage
which that frail vessel had made, and the character of her
inmates. Little did he think that, favoured by a Providence
whose ways are no less wondrous than inscrutable,
that strange barque, borne by the capricious winds from
point to point, and island to island, had at length crossed
the Caribbean seas in safety, and that too at a season
when the returning brigantines of Ojeda and Nicuesa had
met with nothing but tempest and disaster. For five hundred
miles of ocean had the Indian adventurer, whose fortunes
lay in that small vessel, preferring any fate to the tyranny
which had hunted him like a beast of prey from mountain
to mountain, given himself up to the mercy of the winds
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and waters—and they had spared him. Proud thoughts
and triumphant hopes filled his mind and heart, when his
eyes at length surveyed the native regions from which he
had been torn in youth; but, when he beheld, the first moment
of his arrival, the aspects of a race from which there
seemed no hope of flight, a withering doubt arose in his
bosom whether he had not braved the perils of the seas in
vain. For a moment, while he gazed, his heart sank
within him at the idea that he had fled from the tyranny of
Hayti only to find it under renewed forms of terror in full
activity at Darien. But the proud spirit of the warrior
grew predominant as he turned away for the hills.
“At least,” he exclaimed, “here dwells the Caribbee.
It is no weak and timid Haytian, to bow down to the
Spaniard and dig for him in the earth, and plead for life
when he should strike for liberty. The Caribbee is a
man, Spaniards—a brave warrior. He may die, but he will
die like a strong man, and brave must be the foe who
overthrows him.” These words, only half spoken aloud,
reached no other ears than those of the woman who followed
him, nor did the Spaniards behold the fierce gesture
which accompanied them.
He sank from sight, and the circumstance of his appearance
was soon banished from the thoughts, as well of
Vasco Nunez as of his companion, when the latter renewed
to him the subject upon which they had already spoken
so long. The astrologer was still apprehensive that the
cavalier, who was sometimes more prone to follow the
dictates of a lofty and romantic generosity than those of
deliberate prudence and a judicious policy, now proceeded
to array before his mind such other arguments as he
esteemed likely to effect his purpose; but Vasco Nunez
briefly cut short his pleading by declaring his resolution to
accept the appointment of the people.
“I will become their leader, Micer Codro, though I well
know that a single mishap would distroy their confidence
in my ability—or fortune, which is worse—and the arrival
of any fresh feathered popinjay from Spain or San Domingo,
will be the signal for the formation of a new faction,
hostile to my authority. My hope is, however, before
that time, to have crossed those mountains which rise,
stretching away, heaven knows how far, between our
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present footsteps and the broad ocean of the south which lies
beyond them. That conquest made, what matters it if
Ferdinand bestows my power upon some gaudy courtier
more fit to tread a measure than direct a march? Nay,
what were the loss of life itself, when the objects which
life has lived and struggled for to its own constant peril,
are all achieved? That ocean at my feet—that empire
surveyed and won, and the life of Vasco Nunez can never
be lost, though his blood flows upon the scaffold as a
traitor to his sovereign!”
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CHAPTER XXX. VASCO NUNEZ IN POWER—ZEMACO PREPARES FOR BATTLE.
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“Behold now,” says a venerable historian of that period,
“the surprising changes of that fortune which befel
Vasco Nunez. Behold him now, so late an outcast from
all favour, and an outlaw under fear of punishment, lifted
on a sudden into the high places of authority, and transformed,
from a rash soldier of fortune, into the captain of as
brave a troop as ever followed leader in the paths of Spanish
conquest. Truly, it would seem that Micer Codro had
not idly spoken in the matter of that star!”
With the first possession of his new authority, Vasco
Nunez proceeded to make such regulations and enactments
as seemed most necessary for the promotion of order in the
colony. He subjected his followers at once to active employments,
under different heads, that they might the more
quickly forget the temporary authority which they had
themselves exercised with so hasty a hand. His next step
was to despatch a vessel to the shores of Nombre de Dios,
to bring away the miserable remnant of Nicuesa's colony
in that place; which, he rightly judged, wanting their commander
and destitute of provisions, such only excepted as
they could wrest in bloody conflict from the natives, must
be in a still more deplorable condition than when Nicuesa
left them. With a degree of generosity which was equally
a matter of surprise to all, the person not excepted whom
it most concerned, he released his mortal enemy, the Bachelor
Enciso, from the prison to which the violent judgment
of the people had consigned him. With a cringing
aspect, the Bachelor came before him to acknowledge his
generosity, and emboldened to implore some further
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extension of it. His farther prayer was for permission to leave
the colony and return to Spain, and this he urged with
words smoothly chosen to flatter the man he once would
have destroyed, but whom he failed utterly to deceive.
Vasco Nunez smiled scornfully as he hearkened to the insidious
prayer of his enemy, but he showed no other token
of his suspicion. Well knowing the insincerity of the
Bachelor, the friends of Vasco Nunez counselled him to
refuse his application.
“He will appear before the Court of Castile with evil
report of your doings, my son,” said the astrologer—“he
will do you hurt with the sovereign.”
“Nay, I will strive to guard against his devices. Zamudio
shall accompany him in the same vessel, who shall
bear my own despatches to our sovereign, and make of
himself true reports of all particulars, by which this cunning
villain shall be defeated. Better that he should be
made to confess that I freely gave him permission to depart
for Spain, than that it should be said I held him in
bondage in Darien, fearing his ill report of my injustice.”
Governed by this policy, the most liberal and noble, if
not the most shrewd and cautious, the cavalier assented to
the prayer of the Bachelor, who, in his heart, all the while
meditated a bitter revenge upon Vasco Nunez, for all the
injustice of his companions. To him he ascribed the falling
off from him of the regards of his followers, and he resolved
that his single head should feel the whole weight of
that bitter revenge which lurked within his bosom, the natural
progeny of all his defeats, shame, and disappointment.
But, though Vasco Nunez well conceived the feeling in the
mind of the Bachelor, he saw him depart without apprehension,
or, indeed, any feeling but scornful indifference.
He had provided, as he thought, against any evil result
which might be feared from the revelations of his enemy.
He had instructed Zamudio in all the particulars of his
own connexion with the colony—particularly in having
conducted it to Darien, and led the attack on the cassique
Zemaco. These and other facts were written down for
the guidance of his representative in answering the
charges of the Bachelor; and a more imposing argument
still was put into his hand, in the gold and pearls
gathered at Darien,—a large portion out of which had been
set aside as customary for the treasury of the Crown. To
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the Royal Treasurer at Hispaniola, whom he knew to be
invested with the extraordinary power of commissioning,
he sent a liberal present in gold by the hands of the Regidor
Valdivia—a politic gift, which, we may say in this
place, had the desired effect of bringing him, some time
after, the appointment of Captain-General of the Colony.
With these precautions, Vasco Nunez saw the departure of
Enciso with unconcern, and proceeded with the calm deliberation
of a mind entirely at ease, to commence those
toils of conquest, from which he promised himself an
eternal fame. The hope of Vasco Nunez, superior to the
miserable love of gold by which the ordinary leaders of the
time were wholly governed, imparted to his air, manner,
and address, a loftiness and dignity which impressed his
followers with something of that feeling of veneration
which the Spanish seamen, even at that early day, entertained
for Christovallo Colon. It is not improbable, indeed,
that the high purpose and holy resolve of the latter, had
not been without its due weight in forming the present character
of the former. The overthrow of the miserable savages,
with whom battle, in ordinary cases, was a sort of
sport among the Spaniards, gave him little pleasure, as he
felt that it could yield him little fame; and in the struggle
to win, and the eagerness to divide, the golden spoils, for
which nearly all Spanish adventure was undertaken, he
took little part, save when it subserved that great interest
which was the leading object of his aim. While, therefore,
he sent forth small detachments in various quarters to
explore the country, he ever kept in view and in secret the
one sole and singular purpose of his mind. To the astrotrologer
alone he poured forth his hidden soul, and gave
vent to those bright dreams of his imagination, which had
for so long a season cheered him amidst suffering, and sustained
him under disappointment. Nor did his fancy lack
aid and sustenance in this vision of greatest glory, from the
dreamy temper of the astrologer. His predictions hourly
grew more fruitful of great results—the star to which his faith
was given looked down with an effulgence nightly increasing;
and those strange chances by which the cavalier,
from being a miserable fugitive, at the mercy of so base a
creature as Enciso, became the leader of a fearless band of
warriors on the very shores which he had so long desired
to obtain, was of itself a circumstance which seemed to
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promise the fullest confirmation of any dream, however
wild and extravagant.
But events did not allow Vasco Nunez to remain idle,
indulging in the vain hope that he should be suffered without
obstacle to win the secret path of his high ambition.
Shortly after his elevation, and ere he had so far subdued
the disorders of his colony as to permit of his own departure
from it, a detachment which he sent forth under
Francisco Pizarro—afterwards the conqueror of that golden
region to which Vasco Nunez pointed out the way—was
defeated by the implacable cassique Zemaco, and Pizarro
himself, sorely bruised and wounded, made his escape with
difficulty, leaving one of his followers, not slain, but disabled,
on the field. The anger of Vasco Nunez was
awakened by this latter circumstance. “Go back,” he
exclaimed to Pizarro—“it were to thy eternal dishonour
if thou leavest one of thy followers in the hands of the
savage!” The lieutenant obeyed, and was successful in
rescuing the disabled man; but the ready and watchful
hostility of Zemaco, thus promptly manifesting itself, made
the necessity obvious to all for his instant overthrow or removal.
Addressing himself, therefore, to the present necessity,
Vasco Nunez at once proceeded to put his people in
readiness to march. The hills, at the foot of which the
colony had entrenched itself, were, he now discovered,
filled with enemies, bold, resolute, and distinguished by an
obstinate courage which made them a very different sort of
foes from those to whom the Spaniards had been accustomed
among the Antilles. They were capable of great
endurance, long privation and fatigue, and in battle shrunk
from no exposure of their persons, and had no fear of death.
Under a cassique like Zemaco, whom they loved as a man,
and obeyed with a full confidence in his skill and prowess
as a leader, they felt themselves capable of great achievements,
and realized, from the confidence in themselves and
chief, an addition to their habitual courage which made
them anxious for the moment when their leader should
give them the signal for descending upon their enemies in
the plain. It was while Vasco Nunez was making his
preparations to anticipate them in their attack, and at the
moment when the warriors of Zemaco, having tasted already
of Spanish blood, were growing impatient of the cautious
but inactive policy of their chief, that the latter
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received an accession to his councils if not to his strength,
which was calculated, in many particulars, to affect the
mode of warfare which he pursued.
On the evening of that day when the colonists appointed
Vasco Nunez to the chief command over them, there came
within the circle of the cassique's encampment, the two
strange Indians whom the cavalier had discovered as they
disembarked from the sea. The reader has already seen
who they were. The appearance of Caonabo among the
people from whose race he sprung was productive of as
much surprise to them as would have been his presence
to the Spaniards. When arrested by the watchful spies of
Zemaco, and closely questioned as to his objects and origin,
he haughtily threw wide the cotton garment which
covered his breast, and revealed thsoe peculiar marks of his
nation and their own, made in childhood, which satisfied them
of a common paternity. Then, in their own language, he
bade them conduct him to their chief.
It were needless to go through those minor details by
which Caonabo convinced Zemaco that his counsel was of
the utmost importance to his kingdom in carrying on the
conflict with the Spaniards. He described to him the capacities
and the character of that feared and hated race, in
the succinct and clear narrative which he gave him of the
miserable fate which had befallen the unhappy people of
Hayti. His own history formed no small portion of a
story, crowded with details of blood and persecution, of a
character so brutal as to startle and confound his savage
auditory, to whom the sprinkling of a parent's blood upon
their heads in infancy,—according to the custom of the
Charaibee—would seem calculated as the precursor of a life
in which no atrocity could be found too outrageous for indulgence.
The arms of the Spaniards, their skill in warfare—
their horses, and above all, the cruel bloodhound,
whose unerring nostril no vigilance, unless divided from
him by the running water, could well elude—all these were
described to the listening cassique by one whose intimate
experience of the enemy whom they feared, enabled to
speak with effect and certainty. Caonabo concluded by
counselling Zemaco to retreat before the invaders, laying
the country waste as they advanced, and leaving them destitute
in this manner of all sources of supply. But the
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proud chief of Darien, with a smile of exultation replied
thus to the cautious counsellor.
“Does my brother know the power of Zemaco? Let
him look upon these hills. They hide a thousand warriors.
They have a thousand brothers. The hills behind
them have their thousands. I cannot see the end of my
people, though I stand on the highest mountain of Darien.”
“The heart of Caonabo was once proud like thine, my
brother,” was the reply. “On the hills of Hayti I too
had my thousand warriors. But they perished even with
the coming of the Spaniards. They carry a swift lightning
which strikes down the brave man, though he outrun
the swiftest and overthrow the strongest, by reason of his
greater strength.”
“Does my brother speak of the warriors of Hayti—they
were women,” was the reply. “Had they been men like
thyself, they had also lived like thee. My young men fear
not the lightning of these bearded people. They cry aloud
that I should command them to devour their enemies.
Their teeth gnash for prey.”
“Heed not the young men, my brother. They know
not the strength of the Spaniard—they only know their
own. They are swift of foot—let the Spaniard hunt them
among the mountains and the thick woods till he grows
weary by the wayside. When he is weary let the young
warriors strike.”
“The young men of Darien fear not death. They will
go down to the valley to-morrow and shoot their arrows
into the dwellings of the Spaniards. They are numerous
as the trees, and they promise me a thousand white teeth
of the enemy to hang in the great temple of Dobayda.
Thou shalt see them to-morrow, my brother, when they
strike the Spaniard—thou shouldst have had such warriors
with thee in Hayti!”
Caonabo saw that the moment had not arrived when,
sobered by misfortune and frequent defeat, the proud cassique
would hearken to those counsels of caution which
could secure him success in conflict with the Spaniards.
He strove no farther, particularly too when his own blood
grew warmed with the clamorous valour of the warriors
who gathered around him. The strength of their bodies,
the courage of their souls, the dexterity with which they
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used their weapons delighted him, and deceived him with
the hope that much might be done towards victory in the
proposed onset of the morrow. To Buru, that night when
they were alone together, he betrayed more of the exultation
of spirit which he felt than he suffered Zemaco to behold.
“These are men of war, Buru—men of strength—and
they will make their enemies tremble. They will fly from
the Spaniard, but they will shoot as they fly—they will
perish, but they will perish like men. Zemaco hath given
me a lead among them—an hundred warriors will hearken
to the cry of Caonabo. Then, as thou lookest from the
heights when the battle is going on, thou shalt see the
valour of the Carib. In thy heart, when thou beholdest
the fall of a Spaniard, thou shalt rejoice and say, Caonabo
will avenge the blood of Zemi, our boy.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the woman, “but there is no rejoicing
for Buru. The blood of the Spaniard brings not
back the boy that is perished. He sleeps under the reedy
waters of the gulf, and the fat turtle makes his bed beside
him where the green weeds are softest. Ah, father, chief—
must there be more fighting and blood? May we not fly
as thou saidst, to a far mountain in Darien, to which the
Spaniard can never come?”
“As well hope to fly from death, woman, as to fly from
tyranny. You cannot fly from the tyrant. He must be
met with a hatred keen like his own—he must be overcome
and slain. But should Caonabo fly when Zemaco
stands up for the fight. Shall the chief run back into the
mountains skulking in fear, when the young warriors go
down into the valley with sounding conchs, and clashing
their spears for battle. It is time that thou shouldst sleep,
Buru—go to thy rest. These things are not for the Haytian
women. Let her trim the buskin of a chief for battle,
or bind his hurts when he is wounded, or feather the long
arrow, or give it to the hardening fire—it is all that the
trembling woman of Hayti may do for the warrior. But
when the strife comes close to the bohios of the tribe, then
shalt thou see the woman of the Carib do braver deeds
than were ever done by the Haytian man. Thou shalt
see her fling the javelin like a warrior and cling to the
legs of the enemy, even when he strikes her down to his
feet.”
“Alas, for Buru, she will die for Caonabo, but she
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cannot do battle like the Carib woman. Her heart fails her
when the stroke is given. She grows weak at the clashing
of battle—she faints when the blood streams from the
stricken man. Let not Caonabo hate the poor Buru for
that she is of Hayti, and weak like the people of the
sunny island.”
The prayer of Buru fell like a reproach upon the ears of
the awakened warrior.
“Said Caonabo that he loved not Buru, because she
fought not like the Carib warrior? When did he need the
arm of Buru in battle? Go! Go! When that day comes,
Caonabo will be glad to die. Wherefore should he live
when he must say to the mother of his boy, `take up thy
arrow, woman, and keep thy husband from harm—go forth
and meet mine enemy so that he slays me not.' When
did Caonabo speak these words in the ear of Buru. Go!
Go! Thou wilt sleep safely, for Caonabo walks the hills
that lie between thee and the Spaniard.”
Thus saying, the Carib chief went forth in the transparent
starlight, and with light and fearless footsteps, stole
down the heights that led to the encampment of the Spaniard.
This he surveyed with the keen eye of thought no
less than valour. He looked upon the method of the temporary
wooden fortress, the palisades, the ditches and the
dwellings, so incorporate that they answered all the common
purposes of defence. From the point at which he
gazed he could behold the distinct form of the soldier,
rising into sight at intervals, his bright weapon glittering in
the starlight as he trod his rounds with the regularity of an
assigned duty. Then came to his ears sudden voices of
command and answers of obedience, followed by the heavy
ring upon the ground of the arquebus—the clash of steel,
the clink of the hammer upon armour, and occasionally the
deep bay of the unerring hound, whose sudden tongue sent
a chilling sensation even into the bosom of the fierce warrior
who listened. All things betrayed an order, compactness,
and guarded care, which, while they impressed the
Carib with admiration, were no less calculated to move him
with many apprehensions touching the result of the conflict.
He had a sufficient knowledge of the Spaniards, to know
how idle would be the prowess of the naked warriors of
Zemaco, though fifty times their number, against their mail
clad and measured order; and when he remarked the
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condition of preparedness in which they stood upon the plain,
where their horses might move with freedom, and the baldness
of vegetation which left the Indians without the cover
under which they were wont to fight, and by which alone
they could hope, in some little measure, to neutralize the
advantages which their foes possessed, he could not but
feel increasing apprehensions with regard to the approaching
issue. But the immense numbers which Zemaco commanded
reconciled him to the conflict, which, indeed, was
beyond his power to control. The Spaniards were few,
and Caonabo deemed it not improbable that the native
valour of the Carib, stimulated by the excited temper of
their minds under the restraints to which they had been
for some time subjected, would prompt them to a degree
of fury, which, above the fear of death, would overcome
their enemies by the sheer exhaustion following the continued
press of numbers, and a long protracted conflict
with newly arriving warriors. His close survey of all
objects upon the plain, its inequalities, places of retreat and
shelter, together with the few covering points which it
possessed, enabled him to form some general plan as to
the mode by which to conduct his own share in the coming
battle. This achieved, he returned to the heights on
which no watch was maintained. The warriors slept in
scattered groups along the hills, and none of them beheld
his departure or return. But the eye of Buru was watchful,
and her mind filled with sorrowful and trembling
thoughts, allowed her no sleep till the return of the chief;
and even then, when more assured she lay upon his arm
and slumbered through the night, his ears still caught the
deep moaning of her lips, at moments, which told him that
the sleep of the sorrowful is itself a sorrow. Then, with
the gathering and cruel fancies which precede the strife in
the bosom of the warrior, and though panting for that vengeance
which is holy when it is the only condition by which
liberty can be won or rendered secure, the chief yet felt
deep pity for the timid, the gentle, the suffering woman at
his side.
“Would it were,” he muttered to himself, as he listened
to her unconscious moanings—“would it were, if for thy
sake only, that I could bear thee to some far mountain, or
some lonely island, such as the valour of the Carib once
made sacred against every foe. But where is the
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mountain which the barking dog of the Spaniard may not climb,
or where is the island that his mighty ships may not find
in the open paths of the ocean. The valour which made
the home of the Carib sacred before, whether upon the
mountain or amid the sea, can alone preserve it now; and if
we blind not ourselves—if we look calmly where to strike
between the armour, and rush not madly into the arms of
defeat and death, it may be that we may preserve it now.
But thou, at least,” he continued, looking down upon the
melancholy face of the sleeper, “thou, at least, shalt never
again bear the burdens of the Spaniard. I will save thee
from him while I have life to strike, and the dagger which
cannot destroy the tyrant, shall at least deprive him of his
slave.”
He kissed the weapon which he had drawn from his
bosom while speaking these words, then throwing the
hand which grasped it over the neck of the unconscious
sleeper, he resigned himself to a like repose.
END OF VOL. I.
Back matter
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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1839], The damsel of Darien, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf364v1].
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