by Paul Clayton
Ito reached down and cupped his hands for more water. “Oh, brother alligator, have your afternoon meal now, we implore you!” He laughed again, rolling onto his side.
Calling Crow sat down on the bank in exhaustion. A beautiful blue swamp fly buzzed by and stopped to hover a few feet away. It stared at him with its big black eyes, then turned gracefully and buzzed away. Calling Crow thought how beautiful it was in its freedom. A moment later the guards were yelling at them to get up. They went back to the clearing.
Calling Crow and Ito carried a Spanish soldier with half an arrow broken off inside his chest. The man’s face was already covered in sweat from the poisons inside of him, and he kept up a low steady moaning as they walked toward the jungle.
“Do you think he will live?” said Ito.
Calling Crow shrugged, “Who can say?” His mind was on Juana. He must locate her quickly at the camp without attracting attention. There would be no moon tonight and it would be a good time to go.
Chapter 4l
A Spanish messenger arrived at the expedition’s base camp on the beach. Having run all the way from De Sole’s village headquarters, he was exhausted and had to be fed and rested before he could deliver his message. Bishop Cavago went to the largest hut, which served as a headquarters and a church. The young soldier was addressing the crowd. “Excellency De Sole wants all the Spanish women to begin boarding the boats to the ships. They will sail for the island today.”
The men and women broke into excited speculation as the Bishop thought about what an opportunity the news presented him. He couldn’t keep an eye on Juana all the time, and now that they were no longer living on the ship, he couldn’t keep her safely locked up.
“What about my husband?” cried an older woman. Her cry was echoed by others, and a new round of speculation ensued.
The messenger held up his arms. “There is not time to answer all of your questions now,” he said in a confident voice. “Most of the force is intact, and those that have been wounded are being brought back here now by Indian bearers. Do not worry. Everything is under control. Now, please pack up your things. We must begin the boarding at once.”
The Bishop walked outside and headed for the boats to talk to one of the sailors he knew who ferried supplies back and forth from the ships to the beach. As his plan took shape he felt a deep sense of satisfaction, for not only would it solve his immediate problem with Juana, but it would also set the brazen brave she fancied back on his heels.
Later in the afternoon as the offshore breeze started up, Bishop Cavago walked down the beach to where Juana and a dozen other Indian women were weaving palm thatch for the roofs of the huts. The wind whipped Cavago’s thin hair about as he waved at her to approach. Juana put down her work and walked over.
He gave her a fatherly smile as the other women looked at them. “Come with me,” he said.
They walked down the beach till they came to the main group of huts. People walked back and forth through the soft sand going from the huts to the boats with bundles of clothing and supplies.
“What is going on?” said Juana as they approached one of the boats.
“Much, I’m afraid,” said Bishop Cavago. “His Excellency, De Sole, says it is too dangerous here and we are taking the precautions that he has ordered.”
Several barefoot men surrounded one of the boats that was being loaded with people.
“What do you want of me?” said Juana.
“Just to talk for a while.” They watched the men bend down, pulling and shoving the boat when the waves lifted it slightly. A large wave rushed up and the boat floated free. Bishop Cavago waved at one of the men and he came over and scooped Juana up in his arms. He carried her toward the boat.
“Stop!” Juana cried, “Please!” She looked at the bishop. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sending you back to my house,” Cavago said. “It is too dangerous here.”
The man waded into the surf and handed Juana up to two others who leaned out of the boat to take her. Juana’s cries were lost to the wind and spray and the shouts of the men as they dug their oars into the sea. The boat moved slowly forward and a large wave struck it, thrusting its bow up. The rowers dug their oars deep, pulling hard, and the boat moved out into the gentle blue rollers. Overhead a gull cried forlornly as the surf rumbled and hissed. As Cavago watched the boat move out toward the ship, he felt a twinge of sorrow at her obvious pain, but there could be no surgery without pain. She would heal in time.
***
Calling Crow and Ito came out onto the beach at the base camp as the sun began sinking low. The Spanish had died on the litter and now Calling Crow and Ito and some bearers sat in the shade not far from the wounded. Calling Crow was surprised at the agitated activity of the Spanish. Four Spanish boats headed out to the ships, while on the shore, soldiers loaded settlers and bundles of belongings into other boats pulled up on the sand.
Ito asked a man sitting in the sand what was happening.
“De Sole has sent all the women back to Santo Domingo until it is safe here. Then they will come back to stay.”
Calling Crow’s heart leapt with apprehension. He looked down at the man, demanding, “Is he sending our women back, too?”
“No. Just the Spanish women.”
Ito pointed to a hut further down on the beach where native women worked at weaving thatch. “Maybe your woman is down there.”
Calling Crow hurried off toward the hut and Ito followed him. The women looked up at them. Calling Crow did not see Juana, but he recognized one of the women who had been washing clothes with her earlier. “Where is the woman called Juana?” he asked her.
The woman looked up from her weaving. “She went with the chief Black Robe and he put her on one of the boats going out to the ships.”
“When?”
“A while ago,” said the woman. “She is on the ship now.”
Calling Crow turned and ran to the last boat. Ito ran after him, grabbing him from behind. Calling Crow threw him to the sand. He reached the boat after the soldiers pushed it into the surf. It began moving toward the ship, the oars gleaming wetly as they curled through the air and dipped into the foaming surf. Calling Crow thought he saw Juana in the boat and shouted her name. He ran into the surf and hurried after the boat. Someone struck him on the head. Seawater filled his nose and mouth and he felt sharp claws raking his throat and lungs.
Chapter 42
Senor Francisco Mateo had not shaved in weeks and his beard was dirty and knotted. His doublet was soiled with the blood of those he had killed and those he had consoled as they lay dying. As he exited one of the huts in the abandoned Indian village, he asked two soldiers walking by if they had found any food. The men shook their heads and walked on. Mateo followed them, his stomach growling. Mateo thought they might be lying. The soldiers shared anything they found among themselves first, bringing food back to the general pot only after they had had their fill.
De Sole’s army was out of provisions. Much of the cassava bread that had been brought from the island was ruined, having been damaged by seawater during the storm. It had been three weeks since the ships had departed for Hispaniola, and resupply ships would need at least three more weeks to make the return voyage. The last good meal the soldiers had eaten was a week earlier when they had dined on the last of the horses that had been killed in the first battle. Although some food stores had been seized in the first village they had captured, those had been quickly eaten up. Now De Sole’s finely trained, disciplined fighting force was merely fighting to stay alive, raiding villages further and further inland for their food stocks.
Mateo followed the soldiers across the little square in the center of the village. Angry curses floated out of one of the huts. “Over there!” said one of the soldiers, pointing to the largest hut. They went inside and Mateo followed them. The hut had evidently once served as an Indian granary but was now empty, all the maize and other foodstuffs having been hastily cleared out
by the retreating Indians. Dried cobs of maize and maize kernels littered the floor. Mateo walked over to two soldiers who were arguing in the corner. Before them on the ground sat a covered basket which the Indians had evidently not been able to carry off in their haste.
“Have you found any food?” said Mateo.
The younger of the two soldiers looked at him. “Yes. The Indians have left you some as a present.” He pointed to the basket.
Mateo lifted the lid. It was filled about a finger’s length high with red, yellow, and purple grains of maize. Two human turds sat on the top.
The soldiers laughed loudly. Mateo eyed them coldly as he considered killing one of them. He cared not of the consequences. Every day it looked more and more as if none of them would ever go home.
***
Calling Crow awoke in the sand as the sun burned down on him. Every movement of his tired and bruised body pained him. He remembered running into the surf and the beating they gave him, and the thing that hurt the most-- the look on Juana’s face the day he had angrily sent her away. Ito sat behind Calling Crow, a chain running from the iron collar around his neck to the one around Calling Crow’s. Two other men, similarly chained, sat further back. Not far away the Bishop and the cholo who served him were putting their altar candles and other things in a large wooden box. Two soldiers with loaded crossbows waited for them to finish. The cholo called El Animal stood with them.
The Bishop put the top on the box and turned to the soldiers. “We are ready.”
El Animal walked over to Calling Crow and the others. “On your feet. Pick up the boxes.”
Anger welled in Calling Crow at the sight of the cholo. As Calling Crow hoisted the box onto his shoulder, El Animal pointed to him and called to the soldiers. “Keep an eye on this one. He ran away and they caught him trying to swim back to the island.” The soldiers laughed.
The column of soldiers and bearers entered the forest and moved quickly along a well-defined trail. Calling Crow’s pain and sadness grew as the chain swung back and forth between Ito and him. They walked in silence, the tramp of their feet and the clinking of their chains the only sounds. Finally they reached the village which served as De Sole’s headquarters. Everywhere, soldiers lay sprawled up against the huts, overcome by the heat. A few played cards, many slept. Calling Crow and the other bearers slowed their pace as they walked tiredly through the main square.
“Aiyee!” Many braves emerged from the surrounding forest, painted for war and swinging their clubs. They quickly overwhelmed the Spanish soldiers laying in the square.
The soldier at the head of Calling Crow’s column shouted, “Into the hut! Quickly!”
Arrows flew through the air like small angry birds and the two bearers behind Calling Crow fell dead. Ito tripped and fell and Calling Crow quickly helped him to his feet. They followed the soldiers and the Bishop into the nearest hut. There was only one entrance and a small opening at the opposite wall. A soldier and the Bishop and his cholo were at the opening, feverishly closing it off with baskets and boxes, while at the entrance, the other soldier and El Animal quickly built a barricade.
El Animal pointed at Calling Crow and Ito. “Get over here and help us.”
As Calling Crow and Ito began stacking boxes and baskets, the hut was assaulted by dozens of braves. They ripped the sticks and boxes away as they attempted to get inside, while others aimed their arrows through any openings they found, or jabbed their long lances through the thatch.
Ito suddenly slumped against Calling Crow. Calling Crow turned and saw the arrow protruding from his back. He slid to his knees and pitched forward. El Animal fell next with an arrow in his throat. Calling Crow took the key from the cholo’s belt and unlocked the iron ring around his neck. Standing, he saw that only he and the Bishop remained alive in the hut.
Calling Crow reached down and took the dead soldier’s sword. The Bishop saw him and grabbed his long shepherd’s crook, backing up. Calling Crow moved toward him.
“You sent Juana away!”
The Bishop shook his head. He suddenly swung the crook in a round house, but Calling Crow managed to duck out of the way. Calling Crow continued to advance, backing the Bishop up close to the wall of the hut. “Why did you send Juana away?” Calling Crow demanded.
A bit of color flashed behind the Bishop as something came through the thatch of the hut. The Bishop’s face froze in pain and he fell to his knees. A brave shrieked in victory as he withdrew his lance and ran off.
The Bishop reached his hand around and brought it back, covered in blood. He fell onto his back and coughed weakly.
Calling Crow knelt to him. “Why did you send Juana away?”
The Bishop coughed, then met Calling Crow’s eyes. “You think she wanted to live in the forest with you like an animal?”
Calling Crow stared down at him.
The Bishop shook his head. “She wanted to go back.”
Calling Crow recalled his angry words to Juana when last he’d seen her. Would she go back because of that? “You lie,” he said.
“She asked me to put her on the ship.” The Bishop smiled at Calling Crow’s pain and then his eyes glazed over in death. The man’s death gave Calling Crow no pleasure and he got to his feet. A soldier ran up and stuck his head in the entryway. Seeing the blood splattered bodies lying about, he made the sign of the cross and ran off.
Chapter 43
Rain soaked into Alonso Roldan’s hair, running down his neck and into his doublet as he followed Manuel Ortiz, who used his sword to hack their way through the branches and vines. Roldan wore a leather harquebusman’s sack, used to carry the heavy lead shot, over shoulder. It was empty, for he had another use in mind for it.
“Hold up a moment,” he called out to Ortiz.
As Ortiz looked around warily, Roldan turned once more to look back at the distant huts, like rotted haystacks or piles of debris. As the rain poured down on them he thought with disgust how they were not fitting places for Castilian men to live in. Another thought shook his sensibilities. Something which he would never have imagined to be possible had happened-- the great De Sole, the man of whom legends had been written, was now bogged down in that wretched little village. His force had been cut in half by casualties and desertions, and the remaining men were almost starving, looking more every day like the savages they were fighting, than Spanish men, He, Alonso Roldan, was determined not to be a part of this great tragedy. He still had his wits, his strength, and he had a plan. His plan was to deliver something from that miserable camp back there to the Indians, something that they would very much like to have, and would more than likely pay for handsomely. More importantly, the very least he would get out of this trade, would be safe passage overland for himself and Ortiz to Veracruz. Surely his trade was worth that much to the savages. He and Ortiz could get to Veracruz overland if they didn’t have to worry about the savages attacking them along the way. There were risks with the plan, but the miserable huts and all they represented gave him all the resolve he needed to do this thing.
Another rivulet of rain found its way down his neck and into his doublet. Cursing, he turned and nodded to Ortiz. They moved off.
They walked for hours, finally coming out of the thick bushes before a boggy clearing. Roldan looked up at the gray sky. Never had he imagined it could rain so much. Even back on the island he had never seen so much rain. He thought longingly of the dry heat of Estremadura where he had grown up, and he had to push the pictures out of his head. There were more important things to think about for now. He followed Ortiz as he descended into knee-deep water.
They waded through the bog for over an hour, and when Roldan was sure they were far enough away from any patrols De Sole might have sent out, he began calling out the word Hotea had taught him, wakara, or friend.
The steady tempo of the rain increased, the drops making coin-sized splashes in the black water as they pushed on determinedly. They walked for most of the day without seeing any Indians.
Roldan pointed out a tall pine growing from the banks of the bog. “Let us rest there under the tree.” As they sat down to rest, Roldan wondered where in Hades all the savages had gone. It was possible they had retreated, but that seemed unlikely. Perhaps he had simply been going in the wrong direction.
He looked up at the sodden gray sky and calculated that they could make it back to the village before dark if they left soon. Then tomorrow they would try again to the northwest. Roldan was about to get to his feet when Ortiz called softly to him.
“Over there, there is an Indian watching us.” Roldan looked where Ortiz pointed and saw a barely-clothed native about fifty feet away inside the bushes.
“Wakara,” Roldan called out to him.
The man said nothing, continuing to look at them quietly.
Roldan got to his feet, As he did he heard a noise behind them. Five men ran up to them. Ortiz immediately pulled his sword.
“No,” said Roldan, “don’t do anything. Leave it to me.”
The Indian men grabbed them roughly by their arms, pulling them along toward the forest. Roldan tripped on a root, falling onto his knees. The Indian men yanked him to his feet.
“Wakara,” said Roldan angrily, “wakara, damn your heathen souls!”
The Indian men made some joke in their own language and laughed.
It was growing dark when they reached the Indian village. Roldan and Ortiz were pushed into a hut. Ortiz cursed the Indian who roughly bound his hands behind him. Roldan shook his head. “Say nothing.”
They sat down with their backs to the wall as they waited. Finally three men entered the hut. One of them carried a torch. In the flickering light, Roldan recognized the big man and his heart beat faster. There was no mistake. It was the cacique, Ahopo, the one whose village Mateo had captured three years earlier.
The man holding the torch said in bad Spanish, “I learned to speak your language while a slave. Why have you come here?”
