by Scott O'Dell
A large canoe, manned by dozens of paddles, led the way. It was striped yellow and blue, in the same design, the same colors, I remembered from our encounter short weeks before.
Sixto Gonzales stood beside the cannon, a spyglass to his eye. He confirmed my suspicions.
“Caribs,” he said. “The canoe that leads them has the Carib figurehead.” He turned to his helper and gave instructions about loading the bombard. “A double charge, Porfirio. We will blow them into the deepest pit.” He took hold of the lanyard, making ready to fire, and motioned me to shoulder the musket. “Do you comprehend its workings?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I have never held one in my hands.”
“You know one end from the other? Good. Now put the blunt end to your shoulder, your finger under the guard, lightly on the trigger, take a deep breath, and wait for orders, which I will give presently.”
The iron ball, a large one, had struck in front of the Caribs. As the column of water rose across their bow and the cannon roared and echoed over the bay, the swarming canoes stopped dead in the water.
Meanwhile, the musket shot had alerted Señor Guzmán. He suddenly appeared on the beach, with four men fully armed. When Sixto Gonzales saw that there were no natives among them, he shouted down to Guzmán, “The Indians. Where are they?”
In disgust, Guzmán spat upon the sand. “Hiding,” he shouted back. “All of them—men, women, and chil dren. They hide.”
“We do not need the natives,” said Sixto Gonzales.
“No, but they would not hinder us,” Guzmán replied. “Later I will try to rally them.”
I stood looking at the two men, amazed at how calm they were. A hundred savages and more paddled toward us, making ready to attack, and yet they acted as if they were on parade. In all the days I lived in the New World, my amazement never ceased at the calm way the Spaniard faced danger and death.
Part of this bravery, the certain belief that, be the en emy one or one hundred, he still was equal to the chal lenge, came from a lust for treasure. The conquistador dreamed of slaves and gold. He talked of little else.
And another part of it came from an arrogance that a Spaniard like Don Luis drank in with his mother’s milk. It never left him even in defeat, for he felt that he was doing God’s work, at God’s command, and that in the end God would not desert him.
To be truthful, I had been as arrogant as any. I, Julián Escobar, I, too, had lusted. I had lusted for souls, dreamed and talked of little else. The difference was that I seemed to lack the sure belief that Don Luis possessed.
The Caribs had recovered from their surprise at the cannon roar and the water spout, which I presumed they had difficulty explaining to themselves, being igno rant of both. They now had formed a single file, the big canoe in the lead, and were slowly rounding the promontory, watching the beach as they came.
Three of Señor Guzmán’s guard, what Don Luis had left him, appeared on muleback, dragging a cannon and a sled stacked with shot. The cannon was placed in posi tion and made ready to fire. Two bowmen and two mus keteers stood ready behind them.
Paddling for a few moments, then coasting, the Caribs skirted the beach within range, but Guzmán held his fire.
“Wait until they make up their minds,” he said to Sixto Gonzales. “By now they have made out that we are Spaniards. This is giving them thought.”
“As well it might,” Sixto answered.
The Caribs had reached the promontory that formed the southern boundary of the bay and were returning, now at a more rapid pace and closer to the beach.
The morning was hot and quiet. I could hear the savages jabbering among themselves. They began to chant, a jumble of words in a high, excited pitch. As the canoes reached the northern limits of the bay and made a wide turn that brought them closer to us, I heard a familiar voice speaking. It belonged to the fat Carib chieftain I had seen once before. As his words came clearly across the quiet water, Esteban translated them as soon as they were spoken.
“Dogs,” the cacique said, “we come to eat your arms and legs and fingers. We shall consume your flesh with sweet mango sauce.”
A chorus of insults went up from his followers. Guzmán answered by raising his hand to Sixto Gonzales. The two brass cannon roared at once. The shots struck in the midst of the swarming canoes. One sent up a spout and seemingly did no harm, but the other lifted the big canoe into the air and turned it over, end for end. At the same time, our musket fire poured down upon those struggling in the water, among them the fat cacique.
A flight of fire arrows immediately fell upon the promontory, wounding the two bowmen and setting ablaze a keg of powder.
No longer were the Caribs shouting insults. Their big canoe was sinking fast. Those in the water clambered into other canoes; then the whole fleet moved swiftly seaward. Behind them, a dozen or more bodies floated on the tide.
Sixto Gonzales wanted to send a parting shot after them, but Guzmán told him to hold his fire. “If I know them, they have not gone,” he said. “They will regroup, lick their wounds, and return.”
As he spoke, the Caribs made a quick turn, all the ca noes at once, and headed for the northern arm of the bay, where the jungle reached down to the sea.
“They’ll come back,” Guzmán said. “We are at a dis advantage now, with our two bowmen wounded. And we can’t count upon Don Luis arriving. We need to choose a good place to defend ourselves.”
He was fearful that the Caribs would go ashore somewhere and then creep back through the jungle and fall upon us from the rear. He also feared that on their way they might happen upon the gold he had stored away. We therefore left our place, with the wounded bowmen on the sled, the mules dragging the cannon, and re turned to the lagoon. There, Guzmán grouped us around the shed, seven of us and the two big dogs. I was still clutching the musket, about which I knew little.
CHAPTER 10
THE ARRASTRE WAS SILENT. THERE WERE NO INDIANS IN SIGHT.
Thinking to rally them, Guzmán fired one of the can non. The echoes had scarcely died away when Ayo ap peared out of the thicket of thorn bushes, followed by two of his retainers.
“We are outnumbered,” Señor Guzmán said to him. “We can defeat the Caribs, but it will take longer to do so unless you lend us a hand.”
“We trust that you are victorious,” the cacique replied, “but my people are few. Once there were many. I have lost many of my people.”
“Give me two dozen young men, armed with spears, and I will exter minate your enemy. You’ll not need fear them again for many years.”
“I cannot give you two dozen men.”
“Half that number.”
“None,” said the cacique. “There is no will among my people to fight.”
Señor Guzmán stared at the cacique in disbelief. “You would rather die than fight?”
“We have learned to survive by not fighting.”
The sun poured down. Guzmán wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed the musket from my hand.
“You will now learn to survive by fighting,” he said.
“Your retainers, I see, are armed. I will arm you. Here, Sixto, give him your sword.”
Sixto unbuckled his weapon and thrust it toward the chieftain. Ayo stepped back and wouldn’t take the sword.
Guzmán ran his tongue over his lips. “We fight in your behalf,” he said. “I invite you to help us in this fight.”
“It is not our fight,” Ayo said. “The Caribs did not come for us. They are tired of our flesh. They have told us so. It is your flesh they hunger for.”
“Grasp the sword you are offered,” Guzmán com manded, “and join us in the fight.”
Ayo glanced at the sword Sixto held out to him. He hesitated, as if he considered taking it. In the trees close by a child was crying. For a moment he seemed to listen to the sound; then he stepped back, refusing the sword, and turned away.
Guzmán strode to the shed where the two big mastiffs were tethered, untied one of
them, and brought it back, straining on the leash.
Ayo was walking away, up the path he had come by.
In a calm voice Guzmán said, “Halt. Go no farther.”
The cacique walked on, his two retainers on either side. Whether he understood the command or even heard it, I cannot say.
Guzmán gave the order again. This time he shouted.
The cacique was nearing the jungle when Guzmán unleashed the mastiff. The dog bounded up the path in great leaps, as if it were chasing a rabbit. I don’t think Ayo heard it coming, for the dog moved without a sound. Not until he had reached the thickets at the edge of the jungle did the cacique turn, perhaps to say some last defiant word, and from the distance face Guzmán. The mastiff caught Ayo in the throat and bore him to the earth, shaking him like a bundle of sticks.
Guzmán called to the dog. It came leaping back and sat at his side, its bloody tongue hanging out.
When the chieftain’s body was gathered up, shrill cries came from the jungle, followed as the day waned by a chorus of bitter lamentation.
My mission, I was aware, had come to an end. I would be blamed for Guzmán’s brutal act. No preach ing of mine nor stories nor songs would win back the In dians’ trust. I had much to think about that night.
CHAPTER 11
TWO DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF THE CACIQUE AYO, THE SANTA Margarita sailed in from Hispaniola. Don Luis came ashore as soon as the caravel dropped anchor, dressed in polished boots, a new red-lined cloak, and a leather hat with a long green feather. From his wide smile and jaunty walk I judged that he had been successful in his request for a grant to Isla del Oro. But such was not the case.
“We were too late by a month,” he confessed. “A Señor Olivares, brother-in-law of the governor, is now outfitting a caravel in Hispaniola and will arrive here any day to take possession of the island.”
“This means,” said Guzmán, “that we lose no time moving the gold to the ship. And work all day and by torchlight to dig as much more as we can.”
He then gave Don Luis his own bad news, an account of the Caribs’ attack, the refusal of Ayo to help at a mo ment when his help was needed, why he had been com pelled to kill Ayo, and how the whole village thereupon had fled into the jungle.
The three of us were walking toward the horses, which stood waiting on the beach. Don Luis stopped and threw up his hands.
“How do we mine gold without Indians?” he shouted.
“We find them and bring them back,” said Guzmán.
“I’ve planned things out, pending your return. We need some of the Santa Margarita’s crew and all the soldiers. We should leave today.”
“In what direction? Where did they flee, these runaways?”
“One didn’t flee in time. I have this one bound to a tree. Already I have some information.”
Guzmán paused to give his fist a meaningful turn. “Before the hour is gone I’ll extract more.”
I was silent through all of this, as I had been at Ayo’s needless death. I knew that anything I said to Guzmán would be ignored. I felt it wiser to wait until I was alone with Don Luis and had a chance of being heard, at least to vent my anger, whatever the outcome. The chance came in a few moments.
As Guzmán strode off to wring more information from the Indian he had bound to a tree, I spoke to Don Luis, saying first that I was glad he had returned. I told him I was outraged at the murder of my friend Ayo. I told him that Guzmán had done things in his absence that only a brutal man would do.
“My efforts to win over the Indians to our Christian faith,” I said, “he has undone. He has worked them so hard, night and day, that they no longer have the strength or even the desire to hear my words. I’ve lost all that I gained when you were here.”
“Yes, the Indians work hard, but don’t forget the cost of the caravel Santa Margarita. More than forty thou sand pesos. Provisions, five thousand. Not to mention thousands for captain and crew, servants, soldiers, bowmen, cannoneers, and so forth, which I’ve paid and con tinue to pay.”
The jungle steamed around us. Don Luis paused to wipe his brow.
“First,” he said, “we think of our empty coffers. It won’t be long until we are settled on our new island. I heard in Hispaniola that it’s a place of surpassing beauty. I’ll build there a chapel with many bells and erect a great golden cross for all the Indians to see and wonder at. Be patient, Julián—you’ll save many souls.”
To this moment in my life I’d had the childish habit of swallowing, like a hungry troutlet, most promises that were offered to me so long as they were seasoned with flattery.
“I’ve been patient and it has served me ill,” I said. “The chapel with many bells and a golden cross would mock me, for I am a seminarian, not a priest, as I have said before. I wish to return to the village of Arroyo and my school. I am heartsick because of what has hap pened here.”
Don Luis squinted. “Ships don’t sail every day for the village of Arroyo.”
“Then the first that does sail.”
“Patience, Julián. You’ll still live to be a bishop.” He reached in his cloak. “By the way, here’s something that I got for you in Hispaniola. It’s been blessed by the bishop, by Bishop Zurriaga himself.”
He handed me a beautiful rosary of gold beads and a cross encrusted with black pearls.
CHAPTER 12
BY NOON SEÑOR GUZMÁN HAD COLLECTED HIS BAND, SIX IN ALL, AS well as the lone Indian who knew where his tribe had hidden in the past and where they were apt to hide now, and Esteban, our translator. At the last minute, though he thoroughly mistrusted me, Guzmán decided that I should also go along.
Don Luis and I were standing at the head of the la goon, watching members of the crew empty the store house. He had decided to move the gold onto the Santa Margarita in case the camp was overrun by the Caribs. There was danger in this, because the ruffian crew could take it into their heads to sail off with the treasure while we were ashore. But it seemed to be less than the danger from marauding Caribs. There was another and more important reason as well. The encomendero who now owned the island might appear and, finding the shed overflowing with gold, rightfully claim it.
Señor Guzmán came up with his band. “We need you,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “The savages will believe what you tell them.”
“And what will that be?”
“Say that the Caribs have been vanquished, so it’s safe to return to their village.”
“The Caribs haven’t been vanquished,” I replied.
Guzmán went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Say we regret that it was necessary to do away with the cacique.”
“It was not necessary.”
“I gave him fair warning.”
“Why should you warn him? It’s his island and his people. Why should you order him to do anything? You are not a king.”
Guzmán’s mottled face grew pale.
Don Luis said, “We need the men and the women also. We can’t mine without them.”
Guzmán swallowed hard but went on, “Say that we forgive them for running away. That we’ll share the gold they mine; share and share alike.”
“You’re a friend. They’ll listen to you,” Don Luis said.
“I have nothing to tell them.”
“Say what Guzmán has told you to tell them.”
“I would have trouble speaking the words.”
“Then say that we need them.” He was growing im patient. “Go. Every moment counts.”
I did not move.
“You want the Indians back as much as I do.”
I spoke slowly so that there would be no doubt about what I was saying. “The truth is, sir, I don’t wish them back. I wish them to stay where they are. Wherever it is, they are far better off than here.”
Guzmán held in his hand the musket he had used upon the Caribs. He glanced at Don Luis, as if asking his permission to use it at that moment upon me. He had large white teeth, and his drawn-back lips sho
wed that they were clamped tight together.
The young Indian who had given him information about the tribe’s whereabouts was watching. He sat huddled on the ground. Around his neck from ear to ear I saw that he bore a thin red welt.
I listened in silence as Don Luis repeated his request.
“You are a member of this expedition,” he said. “I, Don Luis de Arroyo, Duke de Cantavara y Llorente, am its leader. I have asked you to accompany us on a mis sion of great importance. You give me evasive answers.”
“What makes you think that our Indians will return to their village if only I speak to them? They have been worked close to death. Some, close to a dozen, have died. Many more have sickened from hard work. And now their chieftain has been cruelly slain. They trust neither you nor Guzmán. They shouldn’t trust me.”
“But they do trust you.”
“That, sir, is the point. They trust me, and I will not betray them.”
Don Luis smiled, a cold twisting of his lips. “I have always found you a reasonable young man, too serious perhaps, yet upon the whole, of a temperate disposition and not a fool. But this is both intemperate and foolish. You’ll bring needless trouble upon yourself.”
“As I said and do believe, the tribe is better off in hid ing, wherever that may be.”
“This is your answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
In dismay, Don Luis removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “You shall regret this disloyalty,” he said. “You shall. You shall.”
Señor Guzmán had brought a long coil of rope from the caravel, which I presumed he planned to use to tie up the Indians, should he capture any and they proved unruly. With his sword Don Luis hacked off a length of the rope. Calling to a soldier, he had him bind my hands behind me.
“Escort this young man to the Santa Margarita,” he said. “Give him over to Captain Roa with instructions to place him in my cabin and see that he remains there.”
