The Islands of Unwisdom

by Robert Graves

I did not contradict him. ‘Friend Jaume,’ I said, ‘let us say no more about black magic; to do so is to increase its power for evil.’

  He nodded and, after a pause, said casually, as though changing the subject: ‘The Chief Pilot has a wife and a child, has he not?’

  ‘And loves both of them dearly,’ I answered, rising to go. So Jaume entertained the same suspicion of Doña Ysabel as I did! When I considered the matter carefully, however, it occurred to me that Doña Mariana was, after all, no witch, and neither was her sister, though they might both be acting the part to terrify Don Alvaro. Doña Mariana’s by-play with the thimble must have been intended to attract, not to divert, my attention: had she wished to pick up the General’s nail-parings unobserved, she need merely have sent me off on an errand. She had been counting on me to spread the tale. The gossip about the Tarot-cards was surely also meant to reach Don Alvaro’s ear and depress his spirit. Now both sisters were disseminating the monstrous and irreligious tenet that he must die because it had pleased a rude pagan to change names with him.

  ‘I will tell him the truth about Doña Ysabel,’ I decided. But I learned that, when the Vicar had asked that the three other heads should be removed from public display and given Christian burial alongside their trunks, Don Alvaro though granting his plea had deliberately withheld the order to carry it into effect. As a result, the heads had been left lying about the camp and, by the morning, hungry dogs had stripped them clean of flesh. ‘Carlotta, too, had her share,’ said the sailor who brought me the news. I shuddered at such heartlessness and refrained from making my disclosure.

  The mourning for Malope lasted for a week. On the third night after his death great fires were lighted, and we doubled our sentries in expectation of an attack; however, none came. That evening Sebastian’s gaolers relented and gave him the fresh water and biscuit that was his due, but he would neither eat nor drink; and when on the seventh night the wailing suddenly ceased he was at death’s door. The Chief Pilot summoned the Vicar; Sebastian was confessed, received absolution, and died like a martyr. They buried him beside the headless bodies of the Colonel, Don Tomás and Sergeant Gallardo, none of whom had received any such consolation; he also held an advantage over Juan de Buitrago, whose trunk had been despitefully thrown to the sharks.

  Major Moran was now the senior officer ashore, but did not venture to assume command for fear of offending the Barretos. He stayed in his hut, while they did as they pleased; and presently the General, who was weakening hourly, appointed Don Lorenzo his deputy both on land and sea. That Malope’s men no longer came to help us, was made an excuse for discontinuing work on the stockade, though Doña Ysabel now gave leave for raising it around the knoll. Instead, the troops were set to complete the Residency, our only building of two storeys, with the utmost speed. When one side had been thatched and floored, Don Alvaro was carried ashore on Myn’s back and laid in his bed; the negro told us later that he weighed no more than a child.

  ***

  One evening Don Lorenzo came to the Great Cabin and asked permission to capture twenty native boys, who were to be trained as guides and interpreters; and Don Alvaro granted this. An hour before daybreak a sergeant and twenty men set out in the long-boat to the most distant of the villages where we had foraged with Malope; but though landing stealthily in the half-light, they were met by a shower of arrows. The Sergeant’s instructions were to take no fire-arms ashore, but to cajole the boys with gifts and sugared words; which explains why no officer volunteered to lead so large a party. Since surprise had failed, the troops withdrew; the Sergeant was the last to leap into the boat, and his courage was rewarded with an arrow wound through his hand, which afterwards mortified and cost him his life. Seven others were hurt, two of them severely, before the boat drew out of range. The savages pressed their pursuit in canoes until, outstripping our people and disembarking close to the jetty, they ran along the beach towards the camp gate.

  Don Lorenzo sallied out with drum beating and pendant flying, but he disdained to use fire-arms, and another seven soldiers, of whom he was one, were wounded without loss to the enemy; who would have broken into the camp, had the gunner of the galeot not fired a falconet over their heads and put them to precipitate flight, just as the long-boat hove in view. Painfully drawing the arrow out of his foot, Don Lorenzo then hailed the boat and, when the wounded had been brought ashore, sent it back again to the village under another sergeant. This time the men were ordered to burn down the canoe-houses and do whatever damage they pleased; but he sent them off in such a flurry that, though he issued them arquebuses and ball, he forgot to dole out the powder, and they returned two hours later with eight more wounded.

  These three victories, in which they had not lost a man, so elated the natives that they prowled around the camp all night under the full moon, taking cover behind bushes, and whenever a soldier came within range, they loosed an arrow or slung a stone at him. (On Santa Cruz, the use of slings was confined to chieftains and their sons, who were tawny, of larger build and of nobler appearance than the rest.) The camp-jakes being close to the picket-fence, several men were shot at as they went to untruss and two hit, one of whom was Salvador Aleman. He was found dead in the dung-trench, his gaskins pulled down to the knees and an arrow sticking in his belly; the ghost of Malope seemed to be exact in his vengeance. The other man was blinded in one eye by a sling-bolt, but is still living and keeps the Inn of the Adoration in Lima. Since the enemy did not show himself, no arquebuses were let off: partly to husband powder and lead, but mainly because unaimed shots would soon teach the savages to despise the sound of a discharge.

  That was the disastrous 14th of October, the day on which we also had first warning of the plague that was to cost us so dear. It was not a malignant fever, of the kind that has given Portobello, Panama, San Tomé and many another port so sinister a reputation: none of the sufferers died suddenly, as in those places, a few hours after the earliest signs of sickness had appeared. Some lingered for weeks and even months, according to the strength of their constitutions; others, like myself, threw off the attack after a few days. Its symptoms were dizziness, a sore throat, a high fever by night with evil dreams and delirium, by day a terrible lassitude and so feeble a stomach that even wholesome food tasted nauseous; and in most cases the infection descended from the throat to the lungs on the second night.

  Father Joaquin, who had brought with him a basket of the renowned febrifuge called Jesuit’s bark, was lost in the Santa Ysabel; with warmth, care and a decoction of this bitter physic, the fever need have proved fatal to none of us. I do not think that the site was much to blame; though it is clear that the unaccustomed diet, the sudden fall in temperature at night, the frequent showers after which the soldiers let the clothes dry on their bodies, the dampness of the ground on which they slept—disdaining to make themselves platforms as the natives did—all these were inimical to the health of any Spaniard who was not made of stone. But it came to me that while the Colonel had kept his men sternly disciplined and actively employed, none had shown the least sign of sickness; that, in effect, the plague sent upon us was what the Italians call la influenza, which they ascribe to mysterious planetary influences, rather than to bad sanitation or the proximity of putrid marshes. It is often the sequel of widespread disaffection or crime or public disaster, or a long war that neither side has the heart to continue; and I attribute my own recovery to the care I had taken not to participate directly in the wicked events that I chronicled.

  The first death occurred on the 17th of October, the vigil of Saint Luke the Evangelist, which was a sorrowful reminder that we had no physician; and the victim was none other than Father Antonio. His passing caused profound grief to all, except the Barretos, but especially to the Vicar, who had given him his viaticum. He lamented piteously over the Chaplain’s corpse and, with eyes raised to Heaven and tears streaming down his cheeks, cried out in my hearing: ‘O Lord, my God, how heavy is the punishment that Thou hast visited upon my sins!
Hast Thou left me, Lord, without a priest to whom I can make my confession? O Father Antonio de Serpa, how fortunate is your lot! How gladly would I change places with you, caught in this most miserable plight: though I am empowered to absolve the sins of every man in this island, yet none may do the like for me.’ Staggering about, his face hidden in his hands, he refused to be consoled, though Pedro Fernandez and Juan de la Isla implored him to calm himself. Presently he dragged himself to the Church and there wept uncontrollably before the altar, praying for Father Antonio’s soul and extolling his virtues; and at last went out into the Churchyard and, calling for a spade, dug a deep grave with his own feeble arms.

  That night, when the moon rose in the east, it was in full eclipse, which caused great consternation: I heard it whispered that this was an occasion when witches were at liberty to do whatever evil they desired, and that the spirit of a great personage would have quitted its body before the next moon-rise. No sentry went on duty without an amulet about his neck and a comrade to stand by him; and at daybreak a buzz spread through the camp that as a certain officer left his tent to untruss by starlight, he had seen a naked woman with a branch in her hand bewitching the Residency. I gave little credence to this rumour, but another, that Sebastian’s corpse had been disinterred during the night either by hungry dogs or by witches, Myn solemnly confirmed for me.

  The bell tolled for the Chaplain’s funeral, and its ominous sound, together with the tales of black magic that reached Don Alvaro’s ear by way of the maids and pages, struck terror in the sick man’s heart. Assured that he must die before the day was out, he summoned Don Luis to his bedside, also Captain Corzo, the Adjutant, two of the merchants and myself, and dictated to me his last Will as follows:

  At Gracious Bay, in this Christian Island of Santa Cruz, on the Feast of Saint Luke, 1595, in the presence of my secretary Andrés Serrano, and the witnesses Don Diego de Vera, Andrés del Castillo, Juan de la Isla, Don Luis Barreto and Captain Felipe Corzo, I, Alvaro de Mendaña y Castro, Marquis, Prefect, Governor, Captain-General and Lord Chief Justice of the Isles of Solomon, being now at the point of death, do herewith publish and declare my last Will and Testament.

  First: I devise and bequeath my soul to God.

  Item: I order that the public bequests required of me by law etc., etc.

  Item: I order that my body shall be buried in the Church of Saint Simeon the Just, in the said Christian Isle of Santa Cruz, and that Father Juan de la Espinosa shall officiate at my interment, and that on the same day, or failing this, on the following, a mass shall be said over my grave, for which he shall be paid the customary fee from my estate; and that twenty further masses shall be said for my soul in the same church, or failing this, elsewhere, and that the fees shall likewise be charged to my estate.

  Item: I nominate Doña Ysabel Barreto, my lawful wife, as Prefect of the Isles aforesaid. And to give effect to this my Will and Testament, I appoint as my executrix and executor the said Doña Ysabel and the Licentiate Father Juan de la Espinosa aforesaid; to whom jointly I assign whatever powers are needed for the carrying into effect of this my last Will and Testament and the disposal of all the goods which I have brought with me to these shores; of which I herewith appoint the said Doña Ysabel to be sole heiress and owner, as also of all other goods, chattels and possessions that are now, or may in due time become known and recognized as mine; together with the hereditary Marquisate, conferred on me by our gracious Sovereign Lord, King Philip II, which she shall hereafter enjoy in her own right, and the other titles and distinctions with which it has pleased His Majesty to honour me, excepting only the Captaincy-General.

  Item: I appoint and nominate as Captain-General of the forces at present under my command, Captain Don Lorenzo Barreto, my wife’s brother.

  Item: I revoke and annul all other Wills and Testaments, etc., etc.

  I closed his wasted finger around the quill, and he signed his name with the utmost exertion; the usually well-contrived rubric wavered unrecognizably. Then he sank back exhausted on the pillows, and sent for the Vicar, to whom he made a long, fervent confession, also repeating the Miserere mei and the Credo after him. Yet even when he had received absolution and the Blessed Sacrament, he still seemed troubled in his mind and begged that the room and everyone in it should be well sprinkled with holy water, and the Crucifix taken from the wall and placed in his hands. With this request Father Juan complied, but neither Doña Ysabel nor her sister shrank from the drops, as they would surely have done had they been witches, and both of them made a great show of Catholic devotion and of tender sorrow for the dying man. Nevertheless, his last words, whispered a few minutes before noon, were: ‘Set a guard over my corpse, Father; nail me firmly in my coffin; bury me deep!’ And then, with a wintry smile: ‘At least Almighty God will have my soul, not they!’

  Some may doubt that the General died for the reasons here given, or suspect that Doña Ysabel hastened his end by a slow poison, but numerous instances may be adduced of men becoming their own executioners through superstitious fear. Particularly I recall the fate of a French gentleman, my nearest neighbour at Seville who, having killed a compatriot in a duel about Saint John’s Day, was cursed by the widow in this form: that he would die when the last apple fell from the tree under which the fatal blow had been struck. This tree was within view of his bed-chamber and he took the words so deeply to heart that he fell sick and every morning counted the apples remaining on the boughs. ‘Alas, Jacques,’ he would say to his servant, ‘only five are left,’ or, ‘Only three are left,’ and grew daily weaker. The devoted servant sent into town for a china apple which, under cover of darkness, he fastened to a twig; then, though winter-gales blew and the rain poured down in torrents the apple neither fell nor rotted. My ailing neighbour was greatly encouraged by the seeming miracle of its hanging there so staunchly on the bare boughs: he recovered his appetite and strength and at Epiphany, the day being sunny and dry, he rose and walked in the garden to view the fruit that had saved his life; but becoming aware of the fraud, he suddenly put his hand to his heart and died all at once, before even a priest could be called to his soul’s aid.

  We buried Don Alvaro the same evening, with as much pomp as our reduced circumstances permitted; the coffin, swathed in black cloth, was carried to the Churchyard on the shoulders of eight officers. The soldiers followed at the slow march, in accordance with the usage prescribed for such occasions: their arms reversed, the colours trailing, muffled drums beating slowly and mournfully, and the fifes wailing loud and shrill. Myn had dug the grave next to Father Antonio’s, and there the Vicar consigned dust to dust. A farewell volley was fired, and the pall-bearers returned to the Residency, to offer their condolences and homage to our She-Governor, or Governeress, who had not thought fit to display herself at the grave-side.

  Don Alvaro had always treated me with a consideration that fell only a little short of generosity, and I should have grieved more for him if sorrow had not been crowded from my mind by anxiety for the future. Our situation, which three days before seemed hopeful enough, had suffered a catastrophic change. Now that so many officers and men were wounded or down with fever, we could not send out large foraging parties without dangerously weakening the garrison, and small ones would no longer suffice; moreover, since Malope’s tribe had turned against us, our number and dispositions had ceased to be a secret. The savages grew bolder and invested the camp even by day. Green amaranths, which the soldiers called Christian vegetables (that is to say, familiar and wholesome ones), grew in a patch not far from the gates, but whenever a small armed party marched out to cut some of them, native marksmen were lying in ambush among the tree-ferns, and several more of our people were wounded on these errands.

  With men succumbing to their injuries, and three of the settlers’ children dying of the flux—they had eaten rotten fruit—and the fever spreading swiftly, until not thirty soldiers were fit to parade, our case was bad enough; yet, I dare say, had the Colonel and Juan de Buitra
go and the Chaplain been alive, they would have contrived between them to put new heart into the men and show them that all was not lost—no, not by a great deal. But Doña Ysabel shut herself in the Residency; and Captain Lorenzo’s wound confined him to his quarters; and Major Moran was an object of scorn to all; and the Adjutant was still under suspicion; and Captain Leyva lay sick; and Captain Corzo had retired to the galeot as to a healthier place. Where then could the troops look for leadership?

  The Vicar in his pious zeal made our case look gloomier by far than it was. He perambulated the camp, with none to check him, crying: ‘Repent! Come hither and repent! Make your peace with God, my sons! He has sent this plague upon us, as upon the Israelites in the Wilderness, in just punishment for our sins; and I verily believe that not one of us will escape alive, many though we are. The islanders will triumph over us and possess themselves of our arms and all else that is ours. If for a single fault God has chastised a whole kingdom, what may he not do here?’

  Fear for his own salvation had unmanned the good Father, yet he did his utmost to save the souls of others. ‘Consider,’ he cried, ‘the case of King David who destroyed Uriah the Hittite that he might lie with his widow: how when he confessed, God gave him a choice of three penances. Here we have offended in a hundred worse ways than David, yet not repented, so that God’s wrath is kindled against us, and the naked and bloody sword of His justice swings free. Sickness, war, famine and discord stalk among these huts. O, cleanse your hearts, my sons, cleanse your hearts! I know a sergeant who has confessed but once in his life, and a drummer who cannot say whether he be Moor or Christian. Open your eyes, and perceive the filth in which you wallow!’

  I was now lodged in an upper room of the Residency and, one morning from my sick-bed, I heard Matia, who stood guard below, complaining to Jaume against the Vicar. ‘Were he not a priest, I swear I’d strangle him with my own hands. A priest should cheer his flock in sickness and in danger, not hasten them to their graves. O, that Father Galvez were with us again; never in my life shall I sail to these South Seas again unless with a Franciscan!’