And there would be much baggage. Don Pedro had studied all the information he could find about New Spain when his son had departed for the area. He had since talked to a number of acquaintances who had taken part in such expeditions. It was not without some background of knowledge that he began plans for this journey.
Previous expeditions had not been able to deal effectively with the savages of the plains. Don Pedro would use an entirely different approach. Where others had relied on coercion, even torture, to gain information, Don Pedro proposed to buy it with gifts. He was not necessarily opposed to force as a method, but it had been demonstrated that with these natives it had been ineffective. Therefore, reasoned the old don, why not try the other method? In his experience, there was little that could not be achieved with either force or bribery. Many situations were eased by the greasing of a palm with silver.
With this in mind, the expedition would carry trade goods. Knives, mirrors, and ornaments of metal should be acceptable, he believed. In addition, there was a small chest with bags of coin—gold and silver to be used for expenses along the route.
Sanchez did little to conceal his contempt for the idea of trading goods as gifts in exchange for information. He would have spent the money involved for more military strength. Repeatedly, Don Pedro stubbornly planted his feet and refused to listen. At least twice, he found it necessary to call the attention of his unsavory guest to the fact that it was, after all, he, Don Pedro, who was the leader and financier of the expedition.
Once this occurred with servants present, embarrassing Sanchez before those he now considered beneath him. This added to his smoldering resentment and he dreamed of the day when he might exact vengeance. He had not decided what form it might take, but when the time came, he would know.
Meanwhile, as preparations continued, Ramon Cabeza selected and proceeded with the training of his lancers. Don Pedro was pleased with the young man’s judgment, both in choice of men and of horses. His troop worked hard, becoming efficient quite rapidly. Cabeza, demonstrating that he was willing to work as hard as his men, earned immediate respect.
The young man viewed the entire project with mixed emotions. The prospect of a command in an expedition to New Spain was most enticing. It would be well financed, well equipped, and under the command of his father’s old friend Don Pedro, long respected as a great warrior.
On the other hand, there was an element of doubt as to the purpose of the expedition. He had known Juan Garcia at the Academy, although they had not been close friends. He had been somewhat younger than Garcia. Now he, Ramon, was to be involved in a venture to search for the missing son of Don Pedro. Such a search in the vastness of the unexplored continent was surely a doubtful goal at best. And when there was added the element that the party’s guide would be the insufferable Sanchez, the doubt tended to broaden.
After much soul-searching, Ramon finally mentioned his fears to the ancient Garcia family retainer who supervised the stables.
“Pablo, what do you think of this plan to search for the young Garcia?”
The old man looked keenly at his questioner for a long moment, then spread his hands in an exaggerated shrug.
“Quién sabe? Don Pedro has often been right.”
There was one slight incident during these weeks of preparation, nipped in the bud by Cabeza. He happened to overhear a couple of his lancers in conversation in the stable after practice. One was chuckling at the futility of the expedition and the other responded with a partly heard remark about the “crazy old man.”
Cabeza, furious, descended on the two like a whirlwind.
“Don Pedro,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “was a great soldier when you still wet your beds at night!”
He dismissed them both, adding a comment for the benefit of a few who overheard.
“If you take a man’s silver, you owe him allegiance, not ridicule!”
In the dark shadows of a stall, old Pablo smiled to himself. This young man would be a fitting lieutenant to serve Don Pedro.
4
BILL OF LADING
One gray mare, 5 yrs., well reined (personal mount of Don Pedro Garcia).
One brown mare, 6 yrs., 4 white feet, white face.
Three gray mares, jennet-bred.
Eleven roan or gray stone-horses.
One black stone-horse, white left rear foot (property of Ramon Cabeza).
Don Pedro Garcia, patron.
Ramon Cabeza, Lt. of lancers.
Sixteen lancers, with arms.
H. Sanchez (who states that he is the guide).
Six crossbowmen, with arms.
Seven men.
Supplies of maize and hay for the crossing.
Six boxes of trade goods.
Two chests of personal effects of Sr. Garcia and party.
Don Pedro, Ramon, and Sanchez stood at dockside and watched as the cargo was lifted or hauled aboard the Paloma. The newly fitted galleon, with snowy white sails furled on her masts, appeared most satisfactory for the journey. The horses, along with their grain and hay, had been stowed in the spacious belly of the ship.
There had been a bit of trouble about the horses. The royal decree prohibiting export of horses was still in effect and Oliviera, the Portugee who commanded the vessel, became balky. Cabeza suggested that perhaps they might take only their personal mounts and buy more for the lancer platoon in Santo Domingo.
Ultimately, the prestige and the gold of Don Pedro Garcia paved the way and he was able to present a letter signed by local port authorities to the ship’s master. The horses were quickly loaded.
Sailors scampered aloft and the Paloma spread her white wings to the sea breeze to begin the journey.
During the voyage, Don Pedro became fast friends with the ship’s captain. He and the Portugee, an aging seaman and man of the world, recognized each other for contemporaries. Each could respect the other as a professional in a slightly different realm, related indirectly to his own.
There were long talks over the excellent wine carried in the cabin of Oliviera. Don Pedro, at length, confided the exact nature of his mission.
“Ah, my friend, I too had a son.” The old seaman poured more wine and a tear glistened in his eye. “He was lost at sea off Hispaniola on his first voyage.”
They drank to the memory of Oliviera’s son and to the hope of finding Garcia’s.
“Wait!” the host suddenly exclaimed. “I have something to show you!”
He stepped unsteadily across the cabin and unlocked a lacquered box. Carefully, he drew forth a rolled parchment and spread it on the table. Don Pedro’s eyes lighted with interest. It was a map, one of great beauty and detail, executed in full color. Well-drawn sketches of caracels and galleons ornamented the oceans and a whale spouted in the southern sea.
Don Pedro knew something of maps from his long experience in the military and he recognized this as the latest in charts of the Americas. The Latin inscription modestly proclamed—A NEW WORLD, NEW DESCRIPTION.
“You see,” Oliviera was pointing, “this is the new Mercator projection. The map is done by Ortelius. The straight lines are compass courses.”
This was beyond the knowledge of Garcia, but he could see that the upper and lower portions of the map were elongated laterally. He was vaguely aware that global maps were a problem to sea navigation. A problem, representing a picture of something round on a flat surface. Oliviera was obviously impressed with this latest advance and extremely proud of his map. He warmed to the subject, but at last realized he was boring his guest.
“Ah, forgive me, my friend! This is of no matter. Here is what I wished to show you!” He poked a gnarled finger at a spot north of the area marked HISPANA NOVA. “There is where you are going!”
Don Pedro studied the chart for a long time. The ship rocked gently and a timber creaked. In the ship’s belly, a horse stamped nervously.
“But, my friend,” Garcia protested, “there is nothing there!”
“Exactly! Lit
tle is known of the area to the north.”
Along the coast of the great gulf, as yet unnamed, from the projection labeled LA FLORIDA to that on the southwest called IUCATAN, there were charted the mouths of streams. These streams wandered inland in no particular fashion and stopped.
Suddenly, Garcia understood. The coast had been largely explored by ship. Landmarks were mostly those that could be seen from the sea. Further inland, very little had been charted. There was simply a large white space representing most of the continent, made even larger by the distortion of the new map’s technique. Here and there were clusters of mountains, apparently placed at random by the artist, because nothing was known of the area. For the first time, Garcia realized with dread how fully he was dependent on the memory of the untrustworthy Sanchez.
“We will stop at Matanca on the north coast of Cuba,” Oliviera was saying. “There we take on supplies and water. Then I will put in here,” he pointed to an indentation on the coast of New Spain marked BAIA DE CULATA. “There is a good harbor and you can follow the river northward. I will return to this harbor for you a year from now.”
So it was arranged. Garcia made a rough sketch of the area in question, knowing that it would be of practically no use once they left the coast.
The Paloma dropped anchor in the deep sheltered bay on the coast of New Spain. Horses were pushed over the side to swim ashore. Supplies and men were rowed ashore in the longboat and kegs of fresh water were returned from the river for use on the ship.
Camp was established near the beach, under the whispering palms, and the expedition bedded down for the first night in New Spain. Don Pedro walked alone to the edge of the darkness to gaze northward. He observed the constellation Ursa Major pointing to the Pole Star. Strange, how their appearance seemed the same here in strange foreign skies as in the land of his birth.
And what lay ahead in the vastness of the uncharted land? Would they be able to locate his son? Why, if Juan were still alive, had he not returned to his own people?
The old man listened to the unfamiliar voices of unknown creatures of the night in the dark canebrakes along the river. For the first time, he began to doubt the practicality of his mission. How could they find any trace of a missing individual in a continent so huge as that stretching before him in the starlight? Even the map makers had very little idea of the size or shape beyond the coastal areas.
Then there was Sanchez. Don Pedro knew the man could not be trusted. He had known from the first, but had grasped at the possibility that the little man might be able to guide him to the area where his son Juan had disappeared.
Perhaps he still could. After all, they had come this far. Maybe, just maybe, Sanchez would make good on his boast to guide the expedition. Something about the warm earthy smell of the river calmed the old man and created a feeling of optimism and confidence.
Don Pedro heaved a deep sigh and turned to his blankets. Why should the venture not be successful? He had fought against greater odds and won. The fact that he was alive today was proof.
5
Early next morning, the Paloma set sail with the tide. The party on the beach watched the galleon quarter around the headland and disappear. For a time, they could see the tip of her mainsail above the protective island reef that skirted along the shore and then she was gone. They were alone in the New World.
Sanchez viewed the morning with mixed feelings. He had, before the end of his previous expedition to New Spain, been utterly disillusioned. Now, at times, he could scarcely believe that he had voluntarily returned to this godforsaken continent. Only the possibility of financial gain could have made him do so.
Just now, such possibility seemed extremely remote. Instead, he was experiencing the reality that lay ahead. Heat, dust, thirst, hunger, and danger would be their lot. To add to all this was the gnawing doubt in Sanchez’s scheming mind. Not as much doubt, actually, as a certainty. One that he dare not share with the others. The certainty was that he, Sanchez, had not the slightest idea where they were going. The previous expedition, of which he had been a part, had not come this way.
Oliviera had told them of a native village a half day’s journey up the river. Beyond that, another two days, was an outpost, the last Spanish garrison on the frontier. They would spend the first night with the presumably friendly savages. At least, thought Sanchez, this first day or two would postpone the inevitable. Sooner or later would come the moment of truth. He would be forced to fabricate a reasonably believable story about the direction of the march.
Meanwhile, he would assume a knowing air and carry on the pretense. The others need not know that he had no clear idea where he was. And, after all, what did it matter? The young Garcia was probably long dead anyway. Sanchez would lead the expedition in a random fashion out onto the plains, pretending knowledge of the area. They would ask a few questions of any wandering tribes they might encounter. Then, when the weather or the terrain or the stamina of the old man began to become a problem, Sanchez could diplomatically convince the others that the mission was a failure.
It was primarily luck that led Sanchez to spot the snake. He was riding in the lead to establish his position as guide. The trail was impossible to lose, skirting along the river, obviously well used, and plainly leading to the village they sought.
In a low area, the path swung somewhat away from the stream to avoid a thick growth of cane. There, directly in the trail, sprawled one of the thick-bodied serpents that Sanchez hated. The creature had sought out a level spot in which to sun. Speckles of shade from a scraggy tree nearby blended with the mottled skin of the snake and it became almost invisible to a casual observer. Thus, it was a sheer good fortune that Sanchez happened to notice a subtle difference in the coloration of the object in the trail. He reined the mare sharply and cried a warning, just as the big rattler of the canebrake sounded his warning buzz.
“Look out! Mother of God!”
The palms of his hands were sweaty. In fact, his whole body seemed damp and clammy in his clothes. The sight of these wretched creatures always affected him this way. He had seen a man die from the poisonous bite. An agonizing death it was, with the affected limb bloating and bleeding internally, the shiny blood-filled blisters growing by the hour.
The mare snorted and fidgeted, nervous over something unfamiliar. Sanchez sat frozen in the saddle, barely able to maintain control of the frightened horse. Slowly, the great snake, as long as a man is tall, moved from the striking position and seemed to flow smoothly toward the shelter of the canebrake. Its motion was deliberate, almost slow, yet in the space of a few seconds the travelers were staring blankly at a mottled patch of shade which no longer held any living creature. The snake was gone.
Don Pedro, riding at Sanchez’s stirrup, exhaled audibly and a murmur ran back along the column. It was their first encounter with one of the unknown hazards of the New World and all had heard tales of poisonous reptiles.
Sanchez sat for a moment, trying to regain his composure. He gulped deeply and took a deep breath. The mare instinctively moved ahead and the shaken rider allowed her to do so. Now that the incident was past, he began to worry again about appearances. Had he lost his composure too obviously? Anxiously, he glanced back down the line.
What he saw was only that the men behind him were concerned, too. Those on foot, especially, cast apprehensive looks at the dim recesses of the brake and skirted the growth by a wide margin.
Sanchez need not have worried. The net result of the encounter was to increase his prestige. It was, after all, he who had shouted the warning and stopped the column.
Slowly, he began to understand. There was respect in the way the men looked at him, in the way they spoke during the noon halt. It was very difficult for him. No one, in all his life, had ever looked at him with admiration and respect. Even those he had called his friends had not shown these emotions. Theirs had been merely a relationship of tolerance, with perhaps less mutual distrust than they held for the rest of the world. He wo
uld not have trusted them, nor would they have trusted him, beyond the price of the next glass of wine.
Sanchez began to enjoy the new experience. It was a heady thing, a lift such as one felt from the rapid consumption of good wine on an empty stomach. He relaxed, chuckling inwardly in sheer enjoyment. So this was how it felt to be respected! A resolve began to form in the dark cobwebby recesses of his devious little mind. As yet, it was beneath the level of his consciousness, but it was there.
Certainly, there was no morality or conscience involved, no sense of right and wrong. The possibility that respect was something to be earned had yet to occur to him. At this point, Sanchez had discovered only one fact. There was a better feeling when one was admired than when one was hated and despised.
Yet another opportunity was to occur that day. They reached the Caddo village of thatched dwellings and little children ran to peer wonderingly from a safe distance. A man approached, cautiously at first, and led them to a larger structure which appeared to be a council house or meeting place.
Sanchez found, rather to his surprise, that he remembered some of the sign language gestures the native was using. Experimentally, he attempted the sign for “leader” and that for “question.”
“Your leader?”
The man nodded and motioned them into the meetinghouse. It took a few moments to adjust their eyes to the dimness of the structure. There was no one to be seen, but soon a group of natives entered and a man, who appeared to be their chief, sat in a prominent position facing the visitors.
Communication was very difficult for a time, until the native chief sent for a young man who could speak some Spanish. He had, he told them haltingly, worked for the garrison two sleeps north.
Sanchez was in his glory. He squatted across from the young Caddo, made numerous meaningless gestures, and voiced monosyllables totally without significance. He had realized that the members of his own party, in their ignorance, would assume him to be conversing in the language of the savages. Meanwhile, the natives would believe the tirade of gibberish to be Spanish, which they did not understand. Sanchez would thus appear to be a masterful linguist and negotiator.
Follow the Wind Page 2
