by Paul Clayton
He opened the door and called to one of the Indians hurrying by. “Bring Roberto and Juana to me. Quickly!”
The man ran off, and Father Luis closed himself back up in the comforting darkness of the cabin. He found some paper and sat down at the table. He wrote down all that the girl had told him. He was signing it when a loud pounding came at the door.
He opened it to Roberto and Juana. He handed the note to Juana. “I have written down everything you told me here, and I have signed it. When you get back to the island, keep it someplace safe.”
Juana nodded nervously.
“If the Bishop bothers you again, you tell him that others are holding this for you and they will give it to the Inquisitor if you are harmed. Do you understand?”
Juana nodded sadly. “Thank you, Father.” Roberto said nothing, his face a blank.
Father Luis gave Calling Crow a sad smile and closed the door. Father Luis knelt and continued his praying. He had long done God’s work and made many conversions, a steady stream of souls who would make their way into God’s heaven. Recently he had saved Roberto from the soldier’s mine and started him on the right path. Now there were those other Indians on the beach, all of them waiting for the ugly weight of original sin to be lifted from their shoulders.
The warmth of his love for God filled him. As he stared at the crucifix before him, the rest of the room seemed to drop out of sight. He saw only Jesus’ tortured face. He took the crucifix from the table and, holding it outstretched before him, walked outside.
Father Luis walked to the rear of the ship. Roberto suddenly stepped in front of him. A soldier grabbed Roberto roughly, but Father Luis shook his head and the man moved away.
“Father,” said Roberto, “Do not go. I fear for you.”
Luis smiled at him. “Do not be afraid. Let us have faith.”
Roberto looked at him in confusion. Father Luis smiled and blessed him before walking on. Suddenly Senor Francisco Mateo took his arm. “Father, thank you for all you did for Diego. I know you really tried to save him and I appreciate it. I am sorry for the disrespect I’ve shown you in the past. Please forgive me?”
Father Luis made the sign of the cross over Mateo and smiled. “I forgive you, Francisco, but more importantly, God forgives you. Go with the Lord.”
Mateo nodded sadly and backed away.
Father Luis walked to the rail. He held tightly as the sailors helped him climb down into the boat which bobbed gently on the sea. As his lips moved silently with the prayers he was saying, he was vaguely aware of Mateo arguing loudly with the Conquistador above. The Conquistador angrily shouted, “We do not interfere in the matters of priests.” Then the boat pushed off from the ship and began moving away,
The boatmen studied Father Luis curiously as they pulled at their oars. He prayed sincerely, feeling the love of God well up in him. The faces of the oarsmen fell away out of sight, and there was only the face of Our Lord on the cross, suffering so that all mankind, Spanish and Indian, would regain admittance to Heaven. Luis heard a shout and realized that it was time to get out of the boat. Holding the crucifix with one hand, he climbed out and into the waist high water. Sand scratched between his toes as warm sea water tugged at his robe. Up on the beach he saw the crowd of natives. He walked toward them, seeing anger on some faces, amusement on others. God is love, God is mercy, he prayed. Two men raced at him and danced threateningly before him, waving their clubs. Their eyes gleamed with wild anger, but they let him pass. As he moved into the crowd, God’s love filled him dizzyingly. He heard a rush of wind behind his ear, like the beating of the wings of the Holy Ghost, and then the Indians too fell away from view.
From the deck of the Isabella they watched the tiny black robed figure of Father Luis wade ashore. No one spoke as he approached the mob of angry Indians. He moved into the crowd. Suddenly one man ran up behind him and brought his club down squarely on the priest’s head. He dropped to his knees as if to pray and then fell forward onto his face. The others closed tightly around him, their clubs rising and falling in fury.
On the Isabella, the priests quickly made the sign of the cross and knelt on the deck to pray. Calling Crow and Juana squatted back down with the other Indians under the shade of the canvas. “Aieyee,” said Calling Crow from between clenched teeth. “Why did he go? This god has no power!”
“No,” said Juana tearfully. She put her arms around him. “You mustn’t say such things.”
Twenty feet away Bishop Cavago made the sign of the cross as he watched Juana and the big oafish Indian. Cavago’s face twisted into an angry mask. He turned and went toward his cabin.
At the rail, Mateo shouted angrily over at De Sole. “What has been gained?”
De Sole glared at him coldly. “Don’t push your luck too far, Mateo, or I’ll put you ashore next.” He turned away and shouted to one of his men. “Give the order to begin the barrage.”
Immediately the crew came to life. Soldiers, settlers, and Indians alike ran to the rails to watch, as sailors ran to their posts. A red flag moved quickly up the mast and violent explosions rippled suddenly from ship to ship. Great puffs of smoke gushed from the sides of the ships and quickly rolled toward the land in the breeze. The first volley of shots landed in the water, sending up dozens of seawater spouts as if a pod of whales had surfaced there. The natives seemed in shock, unable to move, as the next volley landed among them. Here and there paths appeared as several shots knocked through them like bowling balls through pins, and then many shots were landing among them, sending up clouds of sand. The Indians fled for the forest in a mob as great leafy green branches fell about them and brown tree trunks tumbled. A shot struck the canoe that had earlier ventured forth, shattering it and its occupants. Flotsam bobbed on the swells as the guns continued to fire, rumbling like thunder during a summer storm.
Chapter 40
In the early morning, Calling Crow sat with the others in the sand under the shade of an open sided palm thatch shelter. He and other people had built over a dozen such shelters as part of the large Spanish camp on the beach. Not far away, runners squatted out in the hot sand. Runner was the name the Spanish gave to bearers and servants who had attempted to escape. These two were chained together at the neck, and a soldier armed with a harquebus stood guard over them. Soldiers stood about in groups of four or five, armed with crossbows and harquebuses. Several Spanish had been killed by Indians who had appeared suddenly from the jungle, fired their arrows, and then disappeared back into the jungle before the Spanish could mount a counter attack.
Calling Crow watched some bearers who were carrying baskets of food from the boats over to stack them under another shelter close by. He wondered if perhaps he could sneak inside the shelter under cover of darkness to steal some food for his and Juana’s journey-- that is, if they ever got away. Juana was several shelters away up the beach, but Calling Crow could not go to her. At night there were still plenty of soldiers keeping guard, and already two bearers had been killed by the soldiers as they attempted escape.
Calling Crow’s friend, Ito, called over to him from where he was sitting with some others. “Your woman is coming.”
Calling Crow saw Juana approaching. “Is it safe to talk?” he said as she walked up to him.
Juana looked back the way she had come, then quickly sat in the sand next to him. “The Bishop wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I only managed to sneak away because he had to go into the bushes to relieve himself.”
Calling Crow looked at the sand at his feet. “Keep yourself ready. We will get out chance. You must always be ready.”
Juana nodded.
The people looked up as one of the priests walked into the shelter. “We are celebrating mass further up the beach,” he said. “We will start in a few minutes.”
Calling Crow did not move as most of the people got to their feet. Juana got to her knees and dusted the sand off the back of her gown. “Come, Calling Crow, let us go receive the mass.”
Calling Crow pointed to the runners. “Do you think they will want to receive mass, too?”
Juana looked down at the sand sadly. “I want to go and pray for us to have luck. That is all.”
“Pretend you are sick or something,” said Calling Crow angrily. “Don’t go. I don’t see why, after all that has happened, you still wish to do these Spanish things!”
Juana touched his arm. “Don’t be that way. Just because of the bad ones, that does not mean that the religion is bad. Think of Father Luis.”
Calling Crow turned to her angrily. “I have. I have thought a lot lately about what happened to him. They sent him to his death. That is why I will have no more to do with them. And neither should you!”
More of the people got to their feet and walked off to go to the mass.
Juana walked off a few feet. “I will talk to you when I return.”
Calling Crow looked up at her. “You are not Spanish. Why do you go?”
“Yes, I am not Spanish and neither are you, but we have both been with them for so long now that we share some things in common, despite the wickedness of some of them.”
Calling Crow shook his head at her. “I have no Spanish in me. And soon I will have nothing to do with them. Or any of their cholos!”
Juana flinched at the vehemence in his voice as she walked off.
Calling Crow got up and walked over to sit with his friend, Ito, and some other bearers. He said nothing as the other men looked at him. He soon fell asleep in the cool shade. Sometime later a squad of soldiers began yelling at him and the others.
The squad leader, a fat, older Spanish with a full beard, kicked Calling Crow’s foot. “On your feet!”
As Calling Crow and the others got to their feet, one of the soldiers said, “There has been a great battle. You all will be required to carry back the brave Spanish soldiers who have been wounded.”
Calling Crow and Ito and the others joined a column of bearers. They entered the jungle and began marching down a trail. Spanish soldiers armed with crossbows were spaced one to every eight or ten bearers. As they moved along the trail, Calling Crow listened to the squad leader and a young soldier discuss the battle. The boy’s face was taut with excitement. “How many dead were there?” he said.
“Dozens,” said the squad leader. He slapped at a mosquito on the back of his neck. “The Indians shoot their arrows as well as monkeys might, but there were scores of them and our soldiers were simply overwhelmed.”
The young soldier added nothing, his eyes resuming their intense scrutiny of the jungle.
“What did they say?” said Ito softly to Calling Crow.
“That many soldiers died.”
The old Spanish squad leader glared over at Calling Crow. “Stop your gibbering or I’ll have you whipped!”
Calling Crow stared straight ahead as the fat Spanish walked beside him, glaring angrily at him. Finally the man moved up to the head of the column.
The trail came to an end at a great swamp. Two Spanish consulted for a few minutes and then waded into the black water. Soon they were up to their waists and Calling Crow realized that if the guards grew careless and a man moved quickly enough, he might possibly be able to get out of range of the deadly crossbows before they reacted. But, as much as he wanted to escape, he could not leave without Juana.
The column pushed through the water, sending ripples out ahead and sideways. Occasionally one of the men tripped on a hidden root and cursed. As they crossed the swamp, leeches appeared as if out of nowhere on the necks and arms of the men, and periodically the column passed through thick clouds of flies and mosquitoes which bit hungrily. At midday, they climbed out and onto a muddy bank. The column snaked down another sandy trail at a faster pace, moving through a forest of giant ferns and bushes. Heat rose from the ground like waves from an oven and men began to stumble and weave drunkenly. Finally they emerged, sweating and exhausted into a large clearing, the sandy soil dotted with sparse bushes no higher than a man’s knees. The corpses of men and horses littered the ground and small knots of Spanish soldiers sat in the heat, resting and nursing each other’s wounds. Men on horseback moved about the clearing, relaying messages and taking stock. As the column of bearers moved across the field, Calling Crow saw that most of the bodies were Indian. Many were mutilated from the fighting. The bearers were silent as they walked along, repulsed by the grisly sight.
The column approached one of the larger groups of wounded, and Calling Crow spotted Mateo cradling the head of another Spanish that had died. Mateo did not see him, staring instead out into the distance as if in a daze. The column halted and Calling Crow and the others stood in the sun while the Spanish divided up the bearers into work parties of a dozen or more. A Spanish soldier rode past on a great horse. He paused to drink some water from his leather bota. Calling Crow and the other bearers watched him thirstily. The man spat out a stream of water and corked his bota, looping the string of the skin water bag over his shoulder. He rode off and Calling Crow and the others stared at the dark stain the water had made in the sand.
One of the men behind Calling Crow called over to the old Spanish squad leader, “I need water.”
“There is no water,” said the man.
“There will be water in the forest,” said Ito angrily.
The squad leader walked over and punched Ito in the face, knocking him down. Calling Crow helped him to his feet. The squad leader glared at them as he walked off to consult with some soldiers.
“Water!” said the bearer behind Ito. His voice was a croak.
The squad leader turned to look at them, but said nothing.
Calling Crow heard a sound. The man behind Ito dropped to his knees. He pitched forward onto his face and lay still.
Calling Crow called over to the squad leader. “Give us water!”
The man glared at him. “No water.” He turned to the men in the back. “Pick him up and let’s get moving.”
“No!” said Calling Crow. “We will not move until we get water.”
The squad leader struck Calling Crow. “Shut up!”
Calling Crow sat down and the other bearers followed his example. He looked up at the squad leader. There was no wind and the sun blazed like fire. “We will not move until we get water. We are not dogs. We are men!” Calling Crow felt dizzy and saw two suns in the sky. He shut his eyes to keep from falling over.
“Hernon!” shouted the squad leader, and the other soldier came over. “Help me get them on their feet.”
The young soldier looked surprised. “What happened?”
“Never mind. Go get one of the captains. We’ll put the dogs on them. That will get them moving.”
“Here is some water.”
The voice was familiar to Calling Crow and he looked up. It was Mateo. He handed a bota to the squad leader, and the man threw it at Calling Crow’s feet. “Take a swig and pass it back. Then get on your feet.”
Calling Crow ignored it. He looked up at Mateo. “I don’t want your water.”
Mateo frowned. “Very well.” He turned to the squad leader. “They can’t carry for you if they are not watered. There is a small pond just the other side of those trees over there.” He pointed west at the distant tree line. “They can get water there.”
Mateo walked off, and the squad leader shouted at Calling Crow. “On your feet! You’ll get your water now and a whipping later! On your feet, all of you.”
Calling Crow and Ito picked up the unconscious man. They walked slowly toward the tree line, picking their way through the corpses.
Ito said softly to Calling Crow, “Have you ever seen so many dead?”
“No,” said Calling Crow absently as he worried about Juana.
“Aieyee,” said Ito, “these Spanish! When my people were at war with the Yahhee People, we would fight all day until we were tired, and only one, or maybe two men would die. But these Spanish, they wipe out one or two villages in a day!”
“It is so,” said Calling Crow som
berly. As he looked around, he thought of what the Spanish would do to the people in his own village of Tumaqua if they ever found them.
They reached the tree line and pushed into the forest. About thirty yards in they came to a wide pond of black water. It was a cooler under the trees, and quiet. A woodpecker rapped at the decaying hulk of tree not far away and the crickets kept up a steady cadence. In the center of the pond, two men were bathing, surrounded by a dozen or so soldiers holding crossbows and harquebuses at the ready. As Calling Crow and the others came to the bank, the squad leader turned to them. “Drink all you can, for we will not stop for water till we arrive back at the beach with the wounded.”
As Calling Crow and the others fell to their knees to drink, the squad leader asked one of the soldiers who the bathers were.
“That is the great De Sole and one of his captains.” The soldier’s voice was reverential.
“He must have worked up quite a sweat slaying Indians, eh?” said the squad leader, laughing.
The soldier did not laugh. “Oh, he does not bathe here for the cleansing, but rather because this waterway might be the river Jordan which gives the power of life. The Indians say that it flows somewhere through this land and that all who bathe in its waters will never grow old.”
Calling Crow splashed the warm water over his face and neck. He looked over at Ito. “May the great De Sole get his ass bit off by an alligator!”
Ito laughed loudly and crazily. “Ah, Calling Crow, that is good, very good.”
The squad leader looked over at them angrily. “Quickly! Get your fill of water. There will be no more.”
