by Paul Clayton
“One is old Blue Bird who is up in the mountains, and very sick when last I heard. The other, old Red Coat, is in my village.”
Calling Crow voice grew more hopeful. “Would he make one for us?”
Juana thought for a moment. “It is very dangerous, but he might.”
“What is the danger?”
“If the Spanish catch us, they will put us all in the pits for plotting to escape.”
“Do you think Red Coat will do it?” said Calling Crow.
“He is very unhappy with the way things have become. Let us go and find him.”
***
Calling Crow and Juana followed the bowlegged old man named Red Coat through the jungle in search of a tree to be made into a sea-going canoe. Calling Crow and Red Coat each carried iron axes that Red Coat’s people had stolen from the Spanish. As they moved beneath the tall palms and trees, scores of unseen birds kept up a great chatter above. Red Coat walked purposefully, despite his lopsided gait, as if he knew exactly where to find the tree, as if the tree were calling him. They crossed a small clearing and went again into the thick growth. The old man stopped suddenly before a tall, stout tree. “Here it is,” he said. “This tree will take us across.”
Even though Calling Crow could smell the sea, it might be too far to drag such a big tree. “How far is it to the sea?” he asked Red Coat.
Without a word, the old man walked off, and Calling Crow and Juana followed. They did not have to go far. Just beyond the grove of trees, they came out onto a beautiful white beach which sloped gently down to the lapping waves.
Red Dog smiled at Calling Crow as if he were an impatient child. “When the canoe is ready, it will be much lighter. I will get some others who can be trusted to help us drag it down to the water.”
They went back to the tree, and Red Coat knelt and sang a prayer to the tree’s spirit, asking it to forgive them for cutting it down. He told the spirit how they needed the tree to cross the big water to take Calling Crow and his woman home to his village and people. When he finished, he got to his feet and turned to Calling Crow.
“You can begin.”
As Calling Crow chopped at the base of the tree in the thick jungle heat, he was soon covered with sweat. The rhythmic crack of the axe echoing into the green thickness of the jungle was the only sound, the birds having already fled. Several times Calling Crow stopped and asked Red Coat if he was making too much noise, and each time Red Coat shook his head. As Calling Crow worked he marveled at the magic of the Spanish iron axe. With it he was able to cut halfway through the tree in the time it would take to start a fire. He remembered a time long, long ago when he and two others had taken most of the day to cut through a tree much thinner than this. That part of his life seemed almost to have never happened now.
He continued chopping. Finally the tree squealed as it leaned slowly sideways and began falling. As it crashed through the branches of the surrounding trees, Calling Crow looked at the axe in his hands and marveled at how much more powerful Spanish iron was than the stone and wooden clubs and knives of his people.
The earth shook when the tree landed, and Calling Crow heard the sound as a song. It was the song of their release. It would be like the stories of the Christ rising from the dead. He and Juana would leave these people who had many things, but who lived as though they were dead. Then he and Juana would go back to his own people and live like human beings again.
Chapter 28
Alonso Roldan and Manuel Ortiz rested under a shade tree not far from the pit, the soft click and clatter of the Indians’ digging tickling their ears. A soldier named Diaz ran up to them.
“The fleet arrives from Spain!” he said.
“When?” said Roldan, sitting upright.
“Now,” shouted Diaz. "There are many sails upon the sea.”
Roldan quickly got to his feet. “Get the horses,” he said to Ortiz. He turned back to Diaz. “Tell El Animal to keep things running smoothly. We will be back when we find out what is going on.”
A short while later Roldan and Ortiz urged their horses along the road which circled, climbing higher and higher, until they reached the crest where deep blue sea met pale blue sky. They dismounted and went quickly over to where some others were sitting on some rocks, looking out.
“There,” said a young boy, pointing with a slender brown hand.
Roldan looked down. The fleet moved slowly, at least two dozen ships in all. From the heights they looked like the carved toys little boys around the island set upon ponds and streams to play with. With their sails billowing out, the little ships pushed into tiny white bow waves, leaving thin white wakes behind. As Roldan watched in silence, he marveled at it all. They came, he thought, if the winds were fair, all the way from Spain in probably a month’s time. He hoped there would be mail from his family.
A clatter of hooves sounded behind them. Roldan and the others turned to see a rider dismount, another soldier from the town.
The man ran over quickly. His face was lit with excitement.
“It is De Sole!” he exclaimed as he looked at them. “De Sole!”
“How do you know?” said Roldan.
The man’s eyes were glazed with wonder. “One of the ships docked yesterday on the other side of the island and a rider has come over to tell the governor.”
“De Sole,” said Roldan slowly and reverentially, remembering all the fantastic tales of the Conquistador’s brave deeds, the stories of the staggering amount of treasure he brought to the King, in ships so fully loaded they threatened to capsize. “Why is he coming here?”
The soldier smiled proudly, “It is a great day for the New World. The King has made De Sole governor of this island, and he is going to lead a great expedition to conquer Florida. He will be governor of all the lands he conquers there, too!” The soldier shouted to the others, “Long live the King!” He turned and raced back to his horse and rode off.
Roldan tapped Ortiz on the shoulder. “Do you realize what this means?” he said, his eyes blazing with enthusiasm.
Ortiz looked confused. “It is good, I am sure. There will be opportunities for those who want to go along to Florida.”
Roldan nodded. “Yes, yes, but that is not what I meant. Now De Sole, a true Spaniard, is governor of this island. Toledo is out! Now Mateo and his friend, Diego, are vulnerable. Soon we will have our revenge! Come, let us go into the town.”
***
Juana moved among the stalks of corn, looking for earworms and pulling them off quickly. How tall and beautiful the corn is, she thought. The rich green color was like a song and was a good omen of their coming voyage, She heard the steady chopping rhythm of Calling Crow’s Spanish axe as he worked in the thick grove of palms not far away. The smell of the coals he constantly ladled into the log’s hollow reached her nostrils. Despite these two very telling signs, she was not worried. The surrounding jungle was very marshy, and there was nothing here that the Spanish wanted. Many of the men from the reservation hunted near here and they would warn her and Calling Crow if any Spanish got too close.
As Juana pulled another worm from a stalk of corn, the sounds of Calling Crow’s axe again brushed her ear. She put her hand on her belly. She was very happy now. The baby would be born across the water in the Floridas.
A gust of wind carried the smells of the sea to her nose. If she wanted shellfish for their dinner she would have to go to the beach now while the tide was still out. She left the corn and started walking along the earthen path that wound through the marshy jungle. Soon the wind was blowing harder and the smell of the mud flats was strong. Coming out into the clearing, she saw many large Spanish ships on the water. Wider than any she had seen before, and with masts like the tallest trees, they moved slowly, their full sails decorated with red crosses and some symbols which she did not know. Slowly and soundlessly they made their way toward the harbor around the island. She watched for a few moments and then hurried back to tell Calling Crow.
Togeth
er they went back down and watched the last of the ships, which was now so close they could make out the tiny figures of men up in the rigging as the ship disappeared around the curve of the island.
“What does it mean?” said Calling Crow.
“I don’t know,” said Juana. “They always come in this way when they come from Spain, but never have I seen so many come at one time.”
“Let us go into town and find out what it means,” he said.
They carefully covered the canoe with branches, obscuring it from whoever might wander by the grove. They entered the jungle and hurried down the trail without speaking. The sun had reached its zenith. When they finally reached the dusty streets of Santo Domingo, the sun was beginning its descent to the sea.
Everyone, Indian and Spanish alike, was in a great state of agitation. Lone men on horses raced here and there as they delivered messages, while other people moved in the direction of the main road to the harbor.
Juana called out to an old man who was hobbling along in front of them. “Where have all the ships come from and what are they here for?”
The old man stopped. “The great warrior, De Sole, has arrived with many men to make war on the People Across the Waters.”
“The Floridas?” said Calling Crow.
The man nodded at Calling Crow. “They say,” he went on sadly, “that this De Sole has killed more people than there are grains of sand on the beach. With their iron swords, he and his men chopped down all the Apalachee People as easily as if they were stalks of corn.”
The old man shook his head. “Who can understand these Spanish?” He hobbled away until he was lost in the crowd.
Juana turned to Calling Crow, wondering what he thought about this, but he said nothing. For a long time they stood, thinking of the implications of what they had heard, as people walked past them, hurriedly heading for the harbor road.
Finally Calling Crow turned to Juana. “Let us go and see this De Sole.” They joined the river of people flowing along the road. After a while they spotted a man they knew from the reservation sitting up on the roof of one of the stables. Calling Crow lifted Juana up, and they he climbed up. Now they could see the masts of the ships in the harbor bristling upward like a forest of trees stripped of their leaves. Other people climbed onto the roof until there was no more room, and then the people began lining the sides of the streets, kept out of the middle by many soldiers with swords. The people spoke all at once like a flock of birds. Then came a great sound which frightened them. It was like the footsteps of a mighty giant. It came from the direction of the ships – romph, romph, romph-romph-romph. The sound grew louder and louder as the people anxiously glanced down the road and at each other. A man gave out a shout, pointing into the distance. A great column of men appeared coming up the road. At the front of the column, many men in blood red clothes angrily pounded on large white drums. The men brought their drumsticks down at the same time, making one great sound.
After the massed ranks of men passed, word spread that the Spanish who was called De Sole was coming. He appeared, riding on a great white horse, which danced proudly for all the people on the streets. Calling Crow could not take his eyes off De Sole. Covered in shining Spanish armor, he had sharp gray eyes like a hawk as he looked about him at the people in the streets. Calling Crow stood up, attempting to keep De Sole in sight, but he’d moved on. More soldiers came, led by another group of drummers beating their drums with one loud voice, and then so many soldiers came by packed tightly together in the street that they looked to Calling Crow like the river of fighting ants he and Juana had once seen passing across the floor of the jungle. There were too many Spanish for Calling Crow and Juana to count. Row after row of them passed, many of them armed with the tall thunder sticks, some of them struggling to hold on to the large, snarling, killing dogs which panted and pulled at their leads-- all of them armed with long iron swords. At one point they raised their swords suddenly, as if with one hand, and the mass of gleaming iron caught the setting sun and reflected its angry red fire into the eyes of the people, blinding them. Many cried out in fear.
Calling Crow and Juana stayed up on the roof long after the soldiers had gone. As Calling Crow thought of De Sole and his many men, he remembered the old man’s words: “De Sole has killed more people than there are grains of sand on the beach!” A terrible thought came to him. Fire Hair the Enslaver was a mere boy compared to this powerful Spanish. Could this De Sole be the Destroyer of his dream? He thought back to his dream and to his horror and sadness at the sight of his beloved village of Tumaqua, dead and abandoned. It must be so!
As Calling Crow remembered his dream, a storm began moving in from the sea. He and Juana could smell it as they sat in silence. Finally Calling Crow spoke. “This is bad. I think this De Sole is the Destroyer I saw in my dream.”
Calling Crow helped Juana down onto the street as the first drops of rain began pelting them. “You go back to the Bishop’s big house for now,” he said. “I will find Red Coat and talk to him. Now we must work on the sea canoe every night. If we do, perhaps we can finish it before De Sole and his soldiers leave for the Floridas.
Calling Crow again looked out over the sea. “Then we can warn the people over there that he is coming.”
Juana embraced him and they parted, moving quietly down the street, blending into the shadows of the gray buildings.
Chapter 29
In the darkness of the harbor, one ship was much larger than the others. It was one of a new type of construction called a galleon. Her name was the Isabella, and she was the flagship of the Conquistador, De Sole. The rain suddenly fell with large scattered drops, striking her wooden beams heavily like hammer blows. Then the heavens opened up and the sound rose to a groaning roar, as if a celestial organist had pulled out all the stops to swell a chord. After a few minutes, the drops decreased in size and velocity and the rain settled into a steady downpour.
Three figures emerged from the Isabella and approached the gangplank. The first was a soldier, Lieutenant Vasco Guzman, a veteran of De Sole’s campaign against the Apalachee Indians, and one of his most trusted lieutenants. Guzman wore a black woolen cape over his half armor and breeches, and his head was protected from the rain by a comb morion helmet, the shape of which distinguished Spanish soldiers around the globe. After quickly and easily crossing the gangplank in the dark, he turned when he realized the other two men hadn’t followed him. Silently cursing his stupidity, he quickly retraced his steps and took the older man’s arm.
“Excuse me, Holiness,” he said, “how forgetful of me. Allow me to help you across.”
Father Toribio Mendoza, one of the half dozen Inquisitors assigned to the royal court of Spain, looked at the soldier from under the hood of his black robe. Normally he would have reprimanded the soldier for his bad manners, but his mind was on much more important matters. He had just traveled halfway around the earthly orb because of a certain Father Luis’s accusations against Bishop Cavago and the encomenderos of Santo Domingo. Soon he would be confronting them personally. He recalled the particulars of the letter-- some Indians, who were not cannibals, and who had not acted hostilely against the King’s subjects, had been taken as slaves, which was illegal according to the Council of the Indies. Other Indians were ill fed, poorly clothed, and overworked, and some had been whipped to death. But, much, much worse than all of that, supposedly many of the Indians had not been baptized and properly instructed in the Faith, which was a grievous sin against God.
Father Toribio extended his hand and allowed himself to be led across the gangway as the rain quickly soaked deep into the fibers of his woolen robe, chilling him. Behind him, Father Mariano Pacheco, a young priest straight from the monastery of Santa Maria, followed along, his hand on the older priest’s elbow as if to assist in steadying him, but in reality, to help himself pass over the black abyss of the harbor below.
When all were safe on the solid stone of the quay, Lieutenant Guzman turned to Father Tor
ibio. “Holiness, it is not too far. We can walk there in a quarter of an hour.”
The old man bowed his hooded head and they moved down the street. They walked past a long row of darkened warehouses and turned onto a street lined with small houses and closed up shops. They saw two figures pass in the darkness, a rather tall native man and a handsome native woman. Lieutenant Guzman turned round to the two priests.
“A strapping big fellow, eh? I’ve never seen an Indian so big.”
The Inquisitor gave him a blank look and they continued on their way, sloshing through puddles of cold rainwater. Finally Lieutenant Guzman turned into a doorway and the priests followed him in. He pounded hard on the thick wood of the door and then turned to look with the two priests at the rain coming down on the dark street. The door was opened by an old servant, shielding the flickering flame of a candle.
“What is it?” he said.
Lieutenant Guzman reached under his cape and handed the man a piece of paper stamped with an official seal. “Father Toribio Mendoza, Assistant Special Inquisitor to the Court of King Charles, to see Bishop Cavago.”
The servant attempted to read the paper in the dim moving light. He then tried to get a look at the two hooded figures standing behind the soldier in the dark. Giving up, he nodded nervously. “Follow me, please.”
He led them through a hallway into a large parlor that was lit by a dozen candles. Paintings hung on the walls, and the rich aroma of flowers filled the room. Embers glowed dully in the fireplace beneath a crust of gray ash. The servant turned and bowed deeply, pointing to the three couches which were arranged to face the hearth. “Sit, please.” The servant knelt and threw a log onto the embers. He fanned it and a large flame sprang up, bathing the parlor in a warm glow. Getting to his feet, the servant said, “I will get the Bishop.”
***
Bishop Cavago had many candles burning in his bedchamber. There was such a heavenly vision in there that his eyes seemed not to get enough. A fifteen year old Indian girl reclined on his bed naked, inspecting the image of her face in a small silver plated mirror. She was a study in contrasts, the Bishop thought, her face cherubic with large brown eyes and just a touch of fat, her young body ripened like a fruit full of sweet syrup. It seemed like only yesterday that she had been just another snot nosed waif running wildly through the courtyard. He thought of Juana and felt a twinge of loss. Juana was more beautiful and mature, capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation with him, unlike this one. But Juana’s condition would soon be obvious. And in order to avoid a scandal, he had already made arrangements to send her south on the packet ship.
