Pastwatch

by Orson Scott Card

  “What happened here shouldn’t have happened,” said Rodrigo to Colón. “But it’s not that important, either. Like Pinzón said, let’s get back to work.”

  For a few moments, Pedro thought that the Captain-General was going to let this pass, just as he had let so many other slights and contemptuous acts go by unremarked. Keeping the peace, Pedro understood that. But this was different. The men started to disperse, heading back toward the stockade.

  “You killed a girl!” Pedro shouted.

  Chipa was heading for Pedro, but once again Rodrigo reached out his hand to catch her. I should have waited a little longer, thought Pedro. I should have held my tongue.

  “Enough,” said Pinzón. “Let’s have no more of this.”

  But Rodrigo couldn’t let the accusation go unanswered. “Nobody meant her to die,” said Rodrigo.

  “If she was a girl of Palos,” said Pedro, “you would kill the men who did this to her. The law would demand it!”

  “Girls of Palos,” said Rodrigo, “don’t go around naked.”

  “You are not civilized!” shouted Pedro. “Even now, by holding Chipa that way, you are threatening to murder again!”

  Pedro felt the Captain-General’s hand on his shoulder. “Come here, Chipa,” said Colón. “I will need you to help me explain this to Guacanagarí.”

  Chipa immediately tried to obey him. For a moment, Rodrigo restrained her. But he could see that no one was behind him on this, and he let her go. At once Chipa returned to Pedro and Colón.

  But Rodrigo could not resist a parting shot. “So, Pedro, apparently you’re the only one who gets to go rutting on Indian girls.”

  Pedro was livid. Pulling at his sword, he stepped forward. “I’ve never touched her!”

  Rodrigo immediately began to laugh. “Look, he intends to defend her honor! He thinks this little brown bitch is a lady!” Other men began to laugh.

  “Put the sword away, Pedro,” said Colón.

  Pedro obeyed, stepping back to rejoin Chipa and Colón.

  Again the men began moving toward the stockade. But Rodrigo couldn’t leave well enough alone. He was making comments, parts of them clearly audible. “Happy little family there,” he said, and other men laughed. And then, a phrase, “Probably plowing his own furrow in her, too.”

  But the Captain-General seemed to be ignoring them. Pedro knew that this was the wisest course, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the dead girl lying back there in the clearing. Was there no justice? Could white men do anything to Indians, and no-one would punish them?

  The officers were first through the stockade gate. Other men had gathered there, too. The men who had been involved in the rape—whether doing it or merely watching—were the last. And as they reached the gate and it closed behind them, Colón turned to Arana, the constable of the fleet, and said, “Arrest those men, sir. I charge Moger and Clavijo with rape and murder. I charge Triana, Vallejos, and Franco with disobedience to orders.”

  Perhaps if Arana had not hesitated, the sheer force of Colón’s voice would have carried the day. But he did hesitate, and then spent a few moments looking to see which of the men would be likely to obey his orders.

  That gave Rodrigo de Triana time enough to collect himself. “Don’t do it!” he shouted. “Don’t obey him! Pinzón already told us to go back to work. Are we going to let this Genovese flog us because of a little accident?”

  “Arrest them,” said Colón.

  “You, you, and you,” said Arana. “Put Moger and Clavijo under—”

  “Don’t do it!” shouted Rodrigo de Triana.

  “If Rodrigo de Triana advocates mutiny again,” said Colón, “I order you to shoot him dead.”

  “Wouldn’t you like that, Colón! Then there’d be nobody to argue over who saw land that night!”

  “Captain-General,” said Pinzón quietly. “There’s no need to talk of shooting people.”

  “I have given an order to arrest five seamen,” said Colón. “I am waiting for obedience.”

  “Then you’ll have a hell of a long wait!” cried Rodrigo.

  Pinzón put out a hand and touched Arana’s arm, urging him to delay. “Captain-General,” said Pinzón. “Let’s just wait until tempers cool down.”

  Pedro gasped. He could see that Segovia and Gutiérrez were just as shocked as he was. Pinzón had just mutinied, whether he meant it that way or not. He had come between the Captain-General and the Constable, and had restrained Arana from obeying Colón’s order. Now he stood there, face to face with Colón, as if daring him to do anything about it.

  Colón simply ignored him, and spoke to Arana. “I’m waiting.”

  Arana turned to the three men he had called upon before. “Do as I ordered you, men,” he said.

  But they did not move. They looked at Pinzón, waiting.

  Pedro could see that Pinzón did not know what to do. Probably didn’t know what he wanted. It was obvious now, if it had not been obvious before, that as far as the men were concerned, Pinzón was the commander of the expedition. Yet Pinzón was a good commander, and knew that discipline was vital to survival. He also knew that if he ever intended to return to Spain, he couldn’t do it with a mutiny on his record.

  At the same time, if he obeyed Colón now, he would lose the support of the men. They would feel betrayed. It would diminish him in their minds.

  So . . . what was the most important to him? The devotion of the men of Palos, or the law of the sea?

  There was no way of knowing what Pinzón would have chosen. For Colón did not wait until he finally made up his mind. Instead he spoke to Arana. “Apparently Pinzón thinks that it is for him to decide whether the orders of the Captain-General will be obeyed or not, Arana, you will arrest Martín Pinzón for insubordination and mutiny.”

  While Pinzón dithered about whether to cross the line, Colón had recognized the simple fact that he had already crossed it. Colón had law and justice on his side. Pinzón, however, had the sympathy of almost all the men. No sooner had Colón given the order than the men roared their rejection of his decision, and almost at once they became a mob, seizing Colón and the other officers and dragging them to the middle of the stockade.

  For a moment, Pedro and Chipa were forgotten—the men had apparently been thinking of mutiny for long enough to have figured out who it was that they needed to subdue. Colón himself, of course, and the royal officers. Also Jácome el Rico, the financial agent; Juan de la Cosa, because he was a Basque, not a man of Palos, and therefore couldn’t be trusted; and Alonso the physician, Lequeitio the gunner, and Domingo the cooper.

  Pedro moved as unobtrusively as possible toward the gate of the stockade. He was about thirty yards from where the officers and loyal men were being retrained, but someone would be bound to notice when he opened the gate. He took Chipa by the hand, and said to her, in halting Taino, “We will run. When gate open.”

  She squeezed his hand to show that she understood.

  Pinzón had apparently realized that it looked very bad for him, that he and his brothers had not been restrained with the other officers. Unless they killed all the royal officials, someone would testify against him in Spain. “I oppose this,” he said loudly. “You must let them go at once.”

  “Come on, Martín,” shouted Rodrigo. “He was charging you with mutiny.”

  “But Rodrigo, I am not guilty of mutiny,” said Pinzón, speaking very clearly, so that everyone could hear. “I oppose this action. I won’t allow you to continue. You will have to restrain me, too.”

  After a moment, Rodrigo finally got it. “You men,” he said, giving orders as naturally as if he had been born to it. “You’d better seize Captain Pinzón and his brothers.” From where he was standing, Pedro couldn’t see whether Rodrigo winked as he said this. But he hardly needed to. Everyone knew that the Pinzóns were only being restrained because Martín had asked for it. To protect him for a charge of mutiny.

  “Harm no one,” said Pinzón. “If you have any
hope of seeing Spain again, harm no one.”

  “He was going to flog me, the lying bastard!” cried Rodrigo. “So let’s see how he likes the lash!”

  If they dared to lay the lash to Colón, Pedro realized, then there was no hope for Chipa. She would end up like Parrot Feather, unless he got her out of the stockade and safely into the forest.

  “Sees-in-the-Dark will know what to do,” Chipa said quietly in Taino.

  “Quiet,” said Pedro. Then he gave up on Taino and continued in Spanish. “As soon as I get the gate open, run through it and head for the nearest trees.”

  He dashed for the gate, lifted the heavy crossbar, and let it drop out of the way. At once an outcry arose among the mutineers. “The gate! Pedro! Stop him! Get the girl! Don’t let her get to the village!”

  The gate was heavy and hard to move. It felt like it was taking a long time, though it was only moments. Pedro heard the discharge of a musket, but didn’t hear any bullet striking nearby—at that range, muskets weren’t very accurate. As soon as Chipa could squeeze through, she did, and a moment later Pedro was behind her. But there were men in pursuit of them, and Pedro was too frightened to dare to stop and look to see how close they were.

  Chipa ran light as a deer across the clearing and dodged into the undergrowth at the forest’s edge without so much as disturbing the leaves. By comparison, Pedro felt like an ox, clumping along, his boots pounding, sweat flowing under his heavy clothing. His sword smacked against his thigh and calf as he ran. He thought he could hear footsteps behind him, closer and closer. Finally, with a killing burst of speed he broke into the underbrush, vines tangling around his face, gripping his neck, trying to force him back out into the open.

  “Quiet,” said Chipa. “Hold still and they won’t be able to see you.”

  Her voice calmed him. He stopped thrashing at the leaves, and then discovered that by moving slowly it was easy to duck through the vines and thin branches that had been holding him. Then he followed Chipa to a tree with a low-forking branch. She lifted herself easily up onto the branch. “They’re going back into the stockade,” she said.

  “Nobody’s following us?” Pedro was a little disappointed. “They must not think we matter.”

  “We have to get Sees-in-the-Dark,” said Chipa.

  “No need,” said a woman’s voice.

  Pedro looked around frantically, but still couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. It was Chipa who spotted her. “Sees-in-the-Dark!” she cried. “You’re here already!”

  Now Pedro could see her, dark in the shadows. “Come with me,” she said. “This is a very dangerous time for Colón.”

  “Can you stop them?” asked Pedro.

  “Be quiet and follow me,” she answered.

  But he could only follow Chipa, for he lost sight of Sees-in-the-Dark from the moment she moved away. Soon he found himself at the base of a tall tree. Looking up, he could see Chipa and Sees-in-the-Dark perched on high branches. Sees-in-the-Dark had some kind of complicated musket. But how could a weapon be of any use from this far away?

  Diko watched through the scope of the tranquilizer gun. While she was busy intercepting Pedro and Chipa, the mutineers had stripped Cristoforo to the waist and tied him to the cornerpost of one of their cabins. Now Moger was preparing to lay on the lash.

  Which were the ones whose anger was driving the mob? Rodrigo de Triana, of course, and Moger and Clavijo. Anyone else?

  Behind her, clinging to another branch, Chipa spoke quietly. “If you were here, Sees-in-the-Dark, why didn’t you help Parrot Feather?”

  “I was watching the stockade,” said Diko. “I didn’t know anything was wrong until I saw Dead Fish run in and get you. You were wrong, you know. Parrot Feather isn’t dead.”

  “I couldn’t hear her heart.”

  “It was very faint. But after all the white men left, I gave her something that will help. And I sent Dead Fish to get the women of the village to help her.”

  “If I hadn’t said that Parrot Feather was dead, then all the rest of this—”

  “It was going to happen, one way or another,” said Diko. “That’s why I was here, waiting.”

  Even without the scope, Chipa could see that Colón was being flogged. “They’re whipping him,” she said.

  “Quiet,” said Diko.

  She took careful aim at Rodrigo and pulled the trigger. There was a popping sound. Rodrigo shrugged. Diko aimed again, this time at Clavijo. Another pop. Clavijo scratched his head. Aiming at Moger was harder, because he was moving so much as he laid on with the lash. But when she got the shot off, it also struck true. Moger paused and scratched his neck.

  It was the weapon of last resort for her, firing these tiny laser-guided missiles that struck and dropped off immediately, leaving behind a dart as tiny as a bee sting. It took only seconds for the drug to reach their brains, quickly damping down their aggression, making them passive and lackadaisical. It wouldn’t kill anybody, but with the leaders suddenly losing interest, the rest of the mob would cool off.

  Cristoforo had never been beaten like this before, not even as a boy. It hurt far worse than any physical pain he had ever suffered before. And yet the pain was also far less than he had feared, because he found that he could bear it. He grunted involuntarily with each blow, but the pain wasn’t enough to quell his pride. They would not see the Captain-General beg for mercy or weep under the lash. They would remember how he bore their treachery.

  To his surprise, the flogging ended after only a half dozen blows. “Oh, that’s enough,” said Moger.

  It was almost unbelievable. His rage had been so hot only a few moments before, screaming about how Colón had called him a murderer and he’d see what it felt like when Moger actually tried to hurt somebody.

  “Cut him down,” said Rodrigo. He, too, sounded more calm. Almost bored. It was as if the hate in them had suddenly spent itself.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” whispered Andrés Yévenes as he untied the knots that held his hands. “They had the guns. What could we boys have done?”

  “I know who the loyal men are,” whispered Cristoforo.

  “What are you doing, Yévenes, telling him what a good boy you are?” demanded Clavijo.

  “Yes,” said Yévenes defiantly. “I’m not with you.”

  “Not that anyone cares,” said Rodrigo.

  Cristoforo could not believe how Rodrigo had changed. He looked uninterested. For that matter, so did Moger and Clavijo, the same kind of dazed look on their faces. Clavijo kept scratching his head.

  “Moger, you keep guard on him,” said Rodrigo. “You too, Clavijo. You’ve got the most to lose if he gets away. And you men, put the rest of them into Segovia’s cabin.”

  They obeyed, but everyone was moving slower, and most of the men looked sullen or thoughtful. Without the fire of Rodrigo’s rage to drive them, many of them were obviously having second thoughts. What would happen to them when they got back to Palos?

  Only now did Cristoforo realize how much the lash had hurt him. When he tried to take a step, he discovered he was dizzy from loss of blood. He staggered. He heard several men gasp, and some murmured. I’m too old for this, thought Cristoforo. If I had to be whipped, it should have happened when I was younger.

  Inside his cabin, Cristoforo endured the pain as Master Juan laid on some nasty salve, then laid a light cloth over his back. “Try not to move much,” said Juan—as if Cristoforo needed to be told. “The cloth will keep the flies off, so leave it there.”

  Lying there, Cristoforo thought back over what had happened. They meant to kill me. They were filled with rage. And then, suddenly, they were not even interested in hurting me anymore. What could have caused that, but the Spirit of God softening their hearts? The Lord does watch over me. He does not want me to die yet.

  Moving slowly, gently, so as not to disturb the cloth or cause too much pain, Cristoforo crossed himself and prayed. Can I still fulfill the mission you gave me, Lord? Even after the rap
e of that girl? Even after this mutiny?

  The words came into his mind as clearly as if he were hearing the woman’s own voice: “One calamity after another. Until you learn that humility.”

  What humility was that? What was it he was supposed to learn?

  Late in the afternoon, several Tainos from Guacanagarí’s village made their way over the wall of the stockade—did the white men really think a bunch of sticks were going to be a barrier to men who had been climbing trees since boyhood?—and soon one of them returned to make his report. Diko was waiting for him with Guacanagarí.

  “The men who are guarding him are asleep.”

  “I gave them a little poison so they would,” said Diko.

  Guacanagarí glared at her. “I don’t see why any of this should be your concern.”

  None of the others shared their cacique’s attitude toward the black shaman-woman for the old mountain village of Ankuash. They were in awe of her, and had no doubt that she could poison anybody she wanted to, at any time.

  “Guacanagarí, I share your anger,” said Diko. “You and your village have done nothing but good for these white men, and see how they treat you. Worse than dogs. But not all the white men are like this. The white cacique tried to punish the men who raped Parrot Feather. That’s why the evil men among them have taken away his power and given him such a beating.”

  “So he wasn’t much of a cacique after all,” said Guacanagarí.

  “He is a great man,” said Diko. “Chipa and this young man, Pedro, both know him better than anyone but me.”

  “Why should I believe this white boy and this tricky lying girl?” demanded Guacanagarí.

  To Diko’s surprise, Pedro had learned enough Taino to be able to speak up and say, clearly, “Because we have seen with our eyes, and you have not.”

  All of the Taino war council, gathered in the forest within sight of the stockade, were surprised by the fact that Pedro could understand and speak their language. Diko could tell they were surprised, because they showed no expression on their faces and waited in silence until they could speak calmly. Their controlled, impassive-seeming response reminded her of Hunahpu, and for a moment she felt a terrible pang of grief at having lost him. Years ago, she told herself. It was years ago, and I’ve already done all my grieving. I am over all feelings of regret.