“Even of the devising of names one can grow tired,” he said. “And the places must have names. To me they are each distinct enough, but in my letters to Their Highnesses I must have something by which to call them.”
At that human moment Rich felt himself to be more in sympathy with, and fonder of, the Admiral than he had ever been before. He must have been in this mood at the time when he made his famous demonstration with the egg. The Admiral showed in a far better light as a practical seaman and as a man of the world than as a theorist. But one at least of his theories — that there was a route to the Indies across the Ocean — had most certainly been proved correct.
“I could wish,” said the Admiral, “that we might see more Indians. We need to trade. And we shall need labor for the mines.”
He called a request to Carvajal, and the Holy Name headed once more towards the coast of Trinidad, a seaman at the lead to ascertain the safe limit of their approach. The land was tantalizingly just too far away for close observation.
“Might I — ” began Rich, and then he hesitated, surprised at himself, before he took the plunge. “Might I take the longboat closer in to shore?”
“I should be glad if you did,” said the Admiral. “You must take every possible opportunity to be able to report favorably to Their Highnesses on the wealth of these islands.”
Rich had no time to repent. It was a surprisingly short interval before he found himself in the stern-sheets of the longboat, indubitably invested with his first command at sea, and experiencing a tremor of fearful excitement in consequence. The old sailor Jorge sat at the tiller beside him, two more sailors were at the sheet, and forward there sat five gentlemen of coat-armor, glad of the opportunity of escaping for a while from the confinement of the ship and ready in consequence to acquiesce in the command with which the Admiral had tacitly invested him. Rodrigo Acevedo was one of them, however — there was a hint of a smile in his handsome swarthy face as he met Rich’s eye, which told Rich that Acevedo was aware of the inner doubts which were troubling him.
The wind was off the land, blowing briskly enough, and the boat lay over gaily on her side as they headed parallel to the shore, the sailors handling sheet and tiller deftly as they translated Rich’s vague directions into action. The coast curved here in a wide bay, shelving so gradually that even the longboat had to keep two hundred yards from the beach, and everywhere the monotonous green vegetation came down to the very water’s edge — green, eternally green. There were irregularly shaped hills in the background, but never a sign of a clearing, no hint of smoke to betray the habitation of man. The wind blew more briskly yet, and the sky was overcast, yet it was stifling hot. As Rich stirred uncomfortably in his seat he felt the sweat trickling in the folds of his clothes. A rainstorm changed the color of the hills from green to grey; it came drifting towards them over the grey sea. Soon it was upon them — they heard the hiss of the drops upon the water as it approached. The first drops rang sharply on the helmet which Rich wore — he had discarded his armor — but immediately the distinctive sound was blurred in his ears by the roar of the rain beating everywhere about them. Entirely exposed as they were, they could neither think nor see. The rain fell in cataracts, blotting out both ships and shore from view, soaking them and dazing them as it drove into their faces.
Rich was still conscious of Jorge moving beside him. He was still attending to his duties, presumably by touch and instinct, and his example diverted Rich from his first instinct to order the longboat to run back for shelter to the ship. Rich set his teeth; he would not be the first to give in. As captain, even though it was only of a longboat, it was his duty to make no complaint about the conditions, and the thought of Rodrigo Acevedo’s earlier amused tolerance acted as a new stimulant. It was worth suffering discomfort if the hidalgos — hijos de algo, ‘sons of somebody’ — had to share it. They might be better swordsmen than he, better horsemen; they might think of him as a pot-bellied little lawyer, but sitting in the rain was a thing anyone could do, without either practice or grandfathers. He wiped the rain out of his eyes to peer at the five gentlemen huddled in mute discomfort in the bows, and grinned to himself and settled down to endure.
For an hour they crept along through the downpour, and then, when the rain had almost killed the wind, it stopped as suddenly as it began. Within a few seconds the sun was shining in all its majesty, and the wind, hot and sticky, had almost died away. Rich stood up to wring the water from his clothes; the thwarts steamed in the glaring sunlight. There was no change in the appearance of the shore — the hills may have grown a little loftier, but they were still clothed in their eternal green. He scanned the coast carefully, and looked to seaward, where the Holy Name in all the glory of her colored sails and ensigns preceded the two caravels on her slow northerly course. Only then did he pay any attention to the group in the bows, and, even so, he waited for them to speak first.
“God, what rain!” said Bernardo de Tarpia. His hair hung lank over his cheeks, his trim beard was a mere ludicrous wisp. The water trickled out of the skirts of his coat as he stood up.
“What of the food?” asked Cristobal García. “I suppose the rain has made the bread no better than pudding?”
“No, gentlemen,” explained Jorge. “It is a tarred sack in which it is kept.”
“It is hard to decide,” said García, “whether a flavor of tar is preferable to rain water.”
“Tar or no tar,” interrupted Rich, fumbling in his pocket, “I mean to dine today on fresh fish, newly broiled.”
“Fresh fish!” exclaimed García.
“That is what I said,” said Rich, demurely. “It will be odd if we cannot catch enough for our dinners here.”
The little bundle he produced from his pocket contained lines and hooks; he felt a gratified glow as he heard the delighted exclamations of his crew. He thought of the other contents of his chest in the ’tween-decks in the Holy Name — his anxiety during the three weeks between his deciding to join the expedition and its sailing had at least stimulated him into wondering what might be of most use in the new world, and he had stocked his chest accordingly. These penniless younger sons, their heads frill of battles and gold mines, had done nothing of the sort.
He doled out lines and hooks; a biscuit from the bag was crumbled into paste for bait.
“Please God,” said García, piously, “that the fish here like the flavor of weevils.”
With shortened sail, before the faint air, the longboat crept slowly over the glassy sea. The gentlemen fished as enthusiastically as the seamen; it was amusing to note how they cheered up at the thought of fish for dinner, and how earnestly they plunged into the business. Two months of weevily biscuits, of stinking dried cod, and of boiled barley porridge and stale olives made the prospect of fresh fish ineffably attractive. But Rich could guess how they would round on him, their tempers sharpened by disappointment, if no fish were caught. He bent his head secretly and prayed earnestly to Saint Peter — he had prayed to Saint Peter for good fortune in fishing often before, on pleasant outings in the roadstead of Barcelona, but this time there was an edge to his prayer. He wanted desperately to catch fish.
Saint Peter was kind. They caught fish in plenty while the wind died away to nothing. They landed and built a fire and toasted their fish on sticks before it — not very efficiently. Rich wondered secretly to himself what comment these young men would have made if in their fathers’ houses they had been served with fish half charred and half raw, but here, stretching their legs on land for the first time in months, and in the blessed shade at the edge of the sand, they ate with gusto, and with only moderate curses for the mosquitoes which bit them. Rich could see a new light in their eyes when, full fed and comfortable, they regarded him now. There was a faint respect for him as a giver of good things; he sat with his back against a tree and his helmet on the ground beside him and felt happier than he had felt for months.
The ships still lay becalmed on the blue, blue sea under the
glaring sun.
“We can explore for a little while,” he announced. “Who’ll come with me?”
They all wanted to, seamen and gentlemen both, looking eagerly to him for orders.
“Two men must guard the boat,” decided Rich. “Will anyone volunteer? Then you must stay, Jorge. And you, Don Diego. Come on, you others.”
As they plunged into the forest Rich decided to himself, remembering the disappointment in the eyes of those left behind, that the hardest task of a man in command was the arbitrary allotting of distasteful duty. He was glad he had not hesitated, but had given his orders instantly without allowing time for argument. He was conscious that he was learning fast.
The forest was dense and nearly impenetrable; in places they had to hack a path through it with their heavy swords, for the gurgling watercourse they followed was too small to allow easy passage along it. They sweltered in the stagnant air, plunging knee-deep into slime and rotting vegetation. Gaudy birds clattered among the branches over their heads. Bernardo de Tarpia uttered a sudden sharp cry, slashing with his sword — a red-and-black snake coiled and writhed at his feet. It was a lucky blow which had taken off its head before it could strike; they had all of them heard stories of those red-and-black snakes of the Indies and the death they could inflict. A huge goggling lizard ran frantically among the branches away from them. Then they saw monkeys, scurrying among the tree-tops for all the world like mice on the floor of a barn. They laughed at their antics and the monkeys chattered down at them in reply.
“There is everything here save the Great Khan and the mines of Ophir,” said Rodrigo Acevedo in an undertone to Rich, but Rich would not allow himself to be drawn; he could not enter into a discussion of that sort while in a position of responsibility.
And at this place where they had stopped for a moment there seemed, for the first time, to be a possibility of humans near them. There might almost be a path through the undergrowth, here, nearly imperceptible, probably only a wild beast run. Rich, looked up at the sky; there was a wisp of cloud there which was quite stationary — in the absence of wind they could continue the exploration without fear of being parted from the Holy Name.
“Follow me quietly,” he said to the others, and he turned his steps up the path, his sword in his hand.
But they could not hope to move quietly in the forest. Dead wood crackled under their feet, low twigs rang on their helmets, their scabbards rattled and their accoutrements creaked. There was precious little hope, Rich realized, of ever surprising a party of Indians in this fashion, especially after he stumbled and fell full-length. As he picked himself up someone came running down the path and stopped and looked at them — it was a little Indian boy, naked and pot-bellied. He put his fingers in his mouth and stared, the sunlight through the branches making strange markings on his brown skin. His features began to work and it was clearly only a matter of seconds before he would start to cry.
“Seize hold of him!” hissed García into Rich’s ear.
“Quiet!” muttered Rich in reply over his shoulder.
He held out his hand, peacefully.
“Hullo, little one,” he said.
The little boy took his finger from his mouth and stared all the harder, postponing his tears.
“Come to me,” said Rich. “Come along, little one. Come and talk to me.”
Clearly while he spoke gently the child would not be frightened. He racked his brains for things to say, chattering ludicrously, and the little boy slowly began to sidle towards him, with many hesitations.
“There!” said Rich, squatting down on his heels to bring their two faces on a level.
The little boy piped out something incomprehensible; his eyes were fixed on Rich’s helmet, and he stretched out a small hand and touched it.
“Pretty!” said Rich. “Pretty!”
The little boy replied in his own strange language, still engrossed in the helmet. When at last his interest died away Rich cautiously straightened himself.
“There!” he said again, and pointed slowly up the path. “Mother? Father?”
He began gently to walk forward, and the little boy put his hand in his and trotted with him.
They came out into a little clearing. There was a tiny wisp of smoke rising in the center, marking the position of a small fire. On one side there were five strange houses of dead leaves, but no human stirred; as they stood grouped at the edge of the clearing they could hear no sound save that of the birds and the insects. The little boy tugged at Rich’s hand to draw him forward, and then raised his voice, calling. An Indian woman broke from the forest beyond the clearing and came running heavily towards them. She, too, was naked, and far gone in pregnancy; she caught up the little boy in her arms and stared at them, asking urgent questions of the child meanwhile.
Rich spread his left hand again in the instinctive gesture of peace, even though his right still held his drawn sword.
“We come in peace,” he said. He tried to make soothing noises; the little boy pointed at the glittering helmets and chattered shrilly to his mother.
Now there was a bustle and stir in the forest; a score of Indians came forth into the clearing, old and young, men and women and children. Rich, looking to see if any of them were armed, saw that one man carried a little cane bow — as feeble as a ten-year-old child’s — and two small cane arrows, and two others carried headless cane spears, against which ordinary clothes — leaving leather coats out of account — would be adequate protection. He took off his helmet.
“We are here,” he announced, forcing his voice down into quiet conversational tones, “in the name of Their Highnesses the King and Queen of Castile and Leon.”
The Indians smiled, with flashing white teeth, chattering to each other in their high-pitched voices.
“The woman there has pearls!” said García at Rich’s shoulder.
Round each arm above the elbow she wort a rope of pearls, each pearl larger than any they had obtained before.
“Look at them, by God!” said Tarpia.
The Indians noticed their gestures and turned to see what it was which was attracting so much attention; it was obvious enough to them that it was the pearls. They chattered and laughed to each other, the wearer of the pearls — a fine handsome woman of early middle-age — laughing as much as any of them, a little bashfully. The wrinkled old man beside her — husband or father, it was not apparent which — laughed and clapped her on the shoulder, urging her forward. She approached them modestly, eyes cast down. She stripped the pearls from her arms, stood hesitating for a moment, and then thrust one rope into García’s hand and the other into Tarpia’s, scuttling back to her companions with a laugh. The Spaniards eyed their treasures.
“We must give them something in exchange,” said Rich. The Admiral’s orders had been very strict on the point that all treasure should be bartered for and never taken.
“I know what I should give her,” said García, eyeing her nudity.
Rich tried to ignore him; he sheathed his sword — a simple art which yet caused a new outburst of piping comment from the Indians — and fumbled through his pockets. He had two silver coins and a handful of copper ones, and he walked towards the Indians and dropped a coin into each hand as long as the supply lasted. The Indians looked curiously at the money. One of them suddenly spied the Queen’s head on the coin, and pointed it out to the others. Instantly they were all laughing again. To them it appeared to be the greatest joke in the world that someone should represent human features on an inanimate object — such an idea had never occurred to them. The wrinkled man presented Rich with his spear — a mere cane with the point charred with fire — and made a gesture embracing all his fellows and the encampment. There was an inquiring look in his face; clearly he was anxious to know if there was anything else the Spaniards would like. It dawned upon Rich, remembering also the interview with the other Indian’s in the canoe, that the first instinct of these people on meeting strangers was to give them presents.
He smiled and nodded pacifically, a little embarrassed.
A fresh idea suddenly struck the wrinkled man, and he turned and cried out to the others. His suggestion was greeted with obvious acclamation. The Indians laughed again, and clapped their hands. Some ran towards the huts, some came and took the Spaniards’ hands and led them towards the space between the huts and the fire, skipping like children at the new prospect. There was a fallen log near the fire. From the huts the Indians dragged out a few more blocks of wood, and most of the Spaniards found seats in this way. To tempt the others to sit down the Indians patted the earth invitingly. The women ran in and out of the huts, all a-bustle, while the men took sticks and began to open the earth near the fire.
A girl put a big leaf on Rich’s lap; another girl brought him a flimsy basket filled with lumps of strange bread and offered it to him.
“Cassava,” she said; Rich remembered the word as occurring in the depositions of survivors returned from the Indies.
The men had by now completed their task. They had laid open a hole beside the fire, and from it arose a savory steam which smelt delicious, even to the Spaniards who had eaten only an hour ago; obviously the Spaniards had reached the clearing at a moment when the Indians were about to dine. With sticks the Indians hoisted from the hole what looked at first to be a bundle of dead leaves; and when they peeled the leaves off, the smell grew more delicious than ever. The operation was not completed with ease — two of the men contrived to burn their fingers, to the accompaniment of fresh peals of laughter — but at last the unrecognizable roast was laid bare. The wrinkled man took a leaf in each hand and began to break up the meat; the women scurried back and forth with more leaves. Rich found a savory piece on his lap; he bit cautiously into it. It was a delicious tender meat. Another woman brought him a little gourd; it was only fresh water, for, as Rich knew already, the Indians of these islands knew no other beverage.
To the Indies Page 6
