Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  The landscape of Jaen is varied by bleak mountains and fertile valleys. The roads aecend toward heaven and plunge down to the lushness

  of earth. Perhaps on that account its natives are apt to be sometimes among the stars, and at times in the mud, though, to be entirely fair, one doesn't have to be born in Jaen for that. By the time Pedro had crossed the first sierra and reached the trees and thickets of the valley beyond, the moral anxieties of the last hour were beginning to pale. The thought of a cup of wine dispensed by Catana Perez inspired him to sing, and he started to hupi catches of a popular romance.

  The road spiraled up to the rocks again, then down in loops that permitted glimpses of the next valley, in which the tavern was located. From this point, he heard dogs and horses in the far distance, and gathered that de Silva's party had broken up into groups, following not only the course of the Guardia, but combing the entire neighborhood. The air was so clear that at one point, looking down, he could see a narrow strip of high meadow flanked by thickets not far from the inn. Then a curve of the road gave him a view in the opposite direction.

  His ballad burst into full voice: —

  ''Rio Verde J Rio Verde Tinto vas en sangre viva ..."

  Campeador pricked up his ears and put action into his trot. They swept down into the tree line again, wound back and forth, crossed a brook, and at last came out upon the strip of meadow at which Pedro had been looking a few minutes earlier. Here Campeador, with his mind on refreshment at the tavern, broke into a gallop, which his rider did nothing to restrain.

  "Rio Verde, Rio Verde [Pedro sang], Dark with crimson blood thou flowest . . ."

  But halfway along, the horse, shying to the left, cut the ballad short.

  "Devil take you!" cursed Pedro, a little off balance. At the same time, glancing back, he drew up with a jerk. Campeador had shied at a peasant girl's black and red dress lying in the deep grass. A couple of yards farther off appeared the body of a dead hunting dog. It had been newly killed by a gaping knife cut across the throat.

  "Cdspita!'' muttered Pedro, staring.

  A faint trail of bent grass toward the thicket at one side caught his eye. Then for the first time he heard a confused sound from that direction; and, curious to know what it was, he guided his horse into the underbrush between the pine trees. As he drew closer, the sound became more distinct. All at once, as if it had been pent-up and suddenly re-

  leased, came a woman's cry, ''Socorro! Que me matan!" accompanied by an outburst of oaths.

  At this call for help, Pedro gave spur to Campeador and, regardless of whipping branches, plunged through the thicket to a small clearing beyond.

  ''Socorror

  A girl, clad in nothing but her shoes, stockings, and shift, stood knife in hand, confronting a couple of burly, hard-looking fellows, who were circling around and trying to close on her. They wore the badge of de Silva's household. One of them, evidently wounded, clutched his shoulder. He was retching out oaths, while the other, grinning but silent, waited for a chance to spring in. The girl's hair was disheveled; even her shift was torn; but she looked intent as a lynx faced by dogs.

  Then, as she turned suddenly and drew back, Pedro saw that it was Catana Perez.

  His view of the scene had taken no more than a second. With the fierce pleasure of battle, he charged in. His riding whip opened the face of one of the men. Campeador, trained to fight, reared and struck with his forefeet. The man who had been grinning went down with a shriek, but scrambled up and scuttled off into the bushes. His companion, with Pedro at his heels, raced for the opposite thicket, but did not escape a second dose of riding whip on his head.

  Pedro turned back into the clearing just in time to catch sight of the girl hurr)'ing for the covert on her side. A glimpse of disturbing contours, and the pine branches closed behind her.

  "Hola, Catana!" he called, riding over. "Are you all right?"

  An urgent, suppressed voice came out of the bushes. "Go away, senor! Go away!"

  "The devil! I call that gratitude!"

  "Do you hear? Please go away!"

  He backed off. "Don't worry. Stay where you are. I'll get your dress."'

  Returning to the meadow, he scooped up the garment and rode back.

  "Hang it on that branch in front," came the voice. "Then turn around."

  Dismounting, he obeyed instructions. There was a quick snatching movement, followed by rustling sounds. A minute later Catana emerged.

  She had put up her thick brown hair after a fashion, and was now at least covered; but she held a long rent in her skirt together with one hand, and a patch was getting dark above her cheekbone.

  At her best Catana was not beautiful, and she was certainly not

  beautiful now; but since her attraction at no time depended on good looks, it was not affected by the torn dress and the beginnings of a black eye. Indeed, if anything, these features harmonized with her peculiar personality.

  Her angular, tanned face still had the undercolor of embarrassment.

  "That was a close call, senor. You came in the nick of time."

  "Caramha que suerte. Catana! What on earth happened?"

  She explained that on her return from church she had been sent by Sancho Lopez, the innkeeper, to look for a strayed goat. While crossing the upper meadow, the two men had accosted her.

  "Do you know them?" he asked.

  "God forbid! They're strangers. I could tell that by their talk. They said they belonged to the Senor de Silva, and were after some poor sergeant. I hope he gets away."

  This was balm for Pedro's guilty conscience. He reckoned that the men had probably followed de Silva from Madrid.

  "Go on. What happened then?"

  "One of them started to get fresh. I slapped the bastard."

  The huskiness of her voice sounded hot.

  "And then?"

  She shook her head. "Believe me, there're some very bad hombres in this world! These devils set their dogs on me and laughed."

  "Diantre!" growled Pedro.

  "They didn't laugh long, I can tell you. I lost my dress, but cut the throat of one dog, and sent the other off in a hurry. I think he will howl a long time."

  She added that the men, furious about their dogs, sprang on her, wrenched her knife away, gagged her with a scarf, and then hustled her through the thicket. She pretended to faint, but watched for a chance. When it came, she snatched a dagger from the belt of one of the men, stabbed him, and in the confusion got rid of the scarf.

  "I was praying harder than ever in church. Then you and Cam-peador dropped from nowhere. It's a misery to think what they said they would do before killing me."

  "God's blood!" de Vargas muttered. "I wish I'd had a sword."

  "No, it's better this way. I'll speak to Manuel about them."

  Pedro stared. "Who's he?"

  "My brother. Don't you remember? He works in the prison. We have friends, gentlemen of the night, who will oblige us."

  She did not enlarge on the point. It was beneath Pedro's rank to carry out vengeance against two lackeys. They should be left to cut-

  throats. But for a moment de Vargas regretted it. It recalled the distance between the girl and himself. He liked Catana. She was just a wench of course—but fascinating. He would have been glad to manage this for her.

  Suddenly she raised her hand to her mouth. "Holy saints! What about Seiior de Silva!"

  "Well, what?"

  "He's a rich lord," she said in a hushed voice. "I killed one of his dogs. We wounded his men. Blessed Catherine! What will he do to us!"

  She had indeed good reason to fear; but this was more along Pedro's line. "By God," he exclaimed, "there's such a thing as the King's law! You're just as much his subject as Diego de Silva. The men and dogs attacked you. If he says a word, appeal to the Corregidor."

  She looked amused. "Ay Maria! What do you think that a girl like me can get out of the law except hard knocks? The law protects people who are born in big beds. Can't you see me
accusing Diego de Silva before the Corregidor! Me, Catana, maid of all work at the Rosario! Why, a good hunting dog is worth three of me. I only hope that Sancho Lopez doesn't catch it on my account. He's been good to me—like a father."

  On second thought, Pedro had to admit privately that she was right; but he couldn't resist showing off a little.

  "Call on me then. I'll look out for you. If de Silva wants satisfaction, he can have it."

  She smiled at him. "Thanks, cahallero."

  All at once the girl's lips seemed irresistible, and he drew her close to him,

  "No," she said, avoiding his kiss.

  "Why not, Catana? You've kissed me before."

  "Yes, but not now."

  A strange note in her voice set his blood tingling.

  "Why not?"

  "Figure it out for yourself, sir. If you can guess, I'll give you one if you want it—then."

  "Is it because you don't like me?"

  "No."

  "Because you're betrothed?"

  "No."

  "Because—" God in heaven! The curve of her lips, the feel of her body against his arm, set him on fire. "Devil take it!" he said. "I can't guess."

  He kissed her anyway, full on the mouth. She did not resist, but she did not return it.

  "Please," she said at last.

  He let her go, wondering at the ways of women. It did not occur to him to wonder at the ways of men.

  "I've got to get back," she said, "and tell Sancho Lopez what happened."

  "Then we'll ride together on Campeador."

  "Do you mean it?"

  He couldn't account for the excitement in her voice.

  "Of course."

  Mounting, he gave her his hand. Light as a cat, with one foot on the toe of his boot, she sprang up behind the saddle and held on with an arm around his waist. Campeador danced to show that riding double meant nothing to him.

  "Steady!" commanded Pedro. "Sorry, Catana!"

  "I'm all right."

  Glancing down as they rode, Pedro warmed to see her hand with a couple of fingers linked in his belt buckle. It was a strong, capable hand, but smooth and well-shaped.

  Then suddenly he remembered Luisa de Carvajal. As if from far below, he now looked up toward her, toward the heights of his experience in the church. He saw once more the ray of sunlight on her face. By contrast, what a spectacle this was! Riding double with a mountain hussy in a torn dress, whom he had just been kissing—a half-wild tavern girl, companion of rogues and boors! With her arm around him! And there on her summit stood Luisa, daughter of the Marquis de Carvajal! Sancta Trinidad! What a day! First he connives with a runaway heathen; then he gets mixed up with this. Evidently Saint Peter liked practical jokes.

  He could not see the tranced, adoring look on Catana's face. It could not possibly occur to him that this was the supreme moment of her life. She wanted to lay her cheek against his shoulders; her arm pressed tenderly around his waist, she sat with her lips half-parted in an impossible dream.

  It was a trait of hers to invent future conversations. She knew that years from then she would be telling people how once she had ridden behind Pedro de Vargas on his war horse, Campeador. . . . "You mean the great Don Pedro, Catana— maestro de campo of the King?" . . . "Surely, who else? I felt like a real lady that day. It was almost," she heard herself saying, "almost as if he were my cavalier."

  Much too soon for her, the whitewashed walls of the Rosario came in sight. They turned into the smelly courtyard with its assortment of travel-worn mules and donkeys. Pedro reined up.

  "Gracias:'

  Catana slipped back to earth.

  V

  It was a slack hour at the Rosario. The guests of the night before had pushed on, and the guests of that evening had not yet arrived. Several muleteers were drinking at one of the long tables in the cavern-like room, and a gipsy trio—a man and two women—babbled their own language in a corner. The place was dark, smoky, and had a stale stench of cooking. It served as kitchen, dining room., and sleeping quarters combined; for, though a loft upstairs provided pallets, wise travelers, valuing their sleep, preferred to stretch out on the tables. Coming in from the outside glare, it took Pedro a minute or two to distinguish anything, and to adjust his nose and lungs.

  "Seiior Pedro, at your service!" said a gruff voice from the dark. And to Catana, "It's good time you got back, long-legs. Did you find Bepe?"

  Gradually the squat figure of Sancho Lopez, who had been serving the muleteers, became visible.

  "What misery!" Catana burst out. She shook her two clenched hands above her head. "Que inmundicia!''

  Discovering her torn dress and swollen eye, Lopez stared. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

  "Pigs of men who attack girls! Except for Sefior Pedro, you would have seen me no more."

  Her voice filled the room. She gave an account of the action with spirit and pantomime. Now and then she remembered to clutch the rent in her dress that showed too much thigh.

  A growl of indignation greeted the report. Since no one could boast of possessing Catana's favors, she was a potential sweetheart to everybody, and an attack on her became an injury to all. If her two assailants had been there at that moment, their chances would have been poor, for the Rosario had a bad name for bloodletting. And yet at the mention of de Silva, silence descended upon the room. He was a rich lord with a big following. Sancho Lopez looked thoughtful.

  "Antonio," Catana went on to one of the muleteers, "when you reach Jaen, you will see Manuel and tell him what has happened."

  Antonio, a quiet, flint-eyed fellow, looked proud to be appointed. He answered with a swagger, "I will do so, Catana. But if I meet one of those cahrones first, it may not be necessary for Manuel to concern himself. . . ."

  "Bah!" interrupted Sancho Lopez. "You let well enough alone, my friend. Tell Manuel from me that sparrows don't make war on hawks."

  The innkeeper had a close-cropped, bullet head and a dark stubble of beard around his face. He was a man of clipped, but weighty words. Half-leaning against a table with his arms crossed, he dominated the group. After a pause he went on: —

  "Forget it! The girl wasn't raped, so what's the fuss? I knew de Silva when he wasn't cock-a-hoop, and he knows what I know. He'll leave Catana alone, but you and Manuel leave his men alone, d'you hear? The score's settled."

  He unfolded his arms and started to move away, then stopped. "Besides, lightning doesn't strike cabbages. But aren't you planning to travel, Senor Pedro?"

  "Not on his account."

  "Then be careful." Lopez stood fingering his rough chin a moment, as if in two minds about adding something. But he thought better of it, and said to Catana, "You've got a black eye, long-legs."

  "Does it look awful?" She appraised the swelling with her forefinger.

  "It is a very black eye," said Lopez frankly. "You can't dance for the patrons until it fades. It does not look feminine. We'll get Dolores Quintero."

  "No you don't!" flamed Catana, who was proud of her exhibitions in the evening. They were the chief attraction of the tavern and her main source of income.

  "By your leave," came a heavy voice out of the dimness in a corner, "there's nothing like raw meat for a black eye. I have often used it. Beef is best, but goat or pig will do. Bind a good hunk over your eye at once, sefiorita, and by tomorrow, with the help of God and a little flour, you will dance. Only do not delay."

  Attention now centered on the speaker, whom Pedro had not yet noticed. The bridge of his nose was extremely wide, though not at all flat. This feature, combined with the truculent squareness of his face, and bold, large eyes, gave him a bull-like cast. He had a thick neck and huge shoulders. He was clean-shaven, and had a big, purposeful mouth. His hair, bulging from under a round cloth cap, sprayed out in a mop. He might be thirty-five; and, though he spoke with the accent of Jaen, Pedro couldn't remember that he had ever seen him.

  "There is much in what the senor cavalier says," agreed Lopez. "It is a
good remedy. Cut a slice from the newly killed goat, Catana, and bind it on with a clout. I'll serve Senor Pedro. What's your pleasure, sir?"

  Pedro ordered bread, cheese, and wine, then walked out to see personally to Campeador. When he came back, the big man in the comer greeted him.

  "Do me the honor, seiior," he boomed. "Join me. Juan Garcia at your service," And after Pedro was seated, "The son of Don Francisco de Vargas?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "A great cavaHer, Don Francisco. I have seen him—I mean, I have heard of him often. As who has not? Your health!"

  He raised the cup to his mouth, but Pedro noticed with surprise that he did not drink.

  "In the Indies," Garcia went on, "I have known soldiers from the Moorish wars and several from the Italian. They liked to talk about him."

  "The Indies?" Pedro's eyes quickened. Except for Coatl, he had never happened to meet anyone from the New World, and Coatl's broken Spanish did not give a clear picture. Jaen was an inland town and off the beaten track, but rumors of the western seas filled the imagination of every boy. "The Indies?" he repeated. "You have been there, sir?"

  "Many years—sixteen, to be exact—and landed two weeks ago on St. Anthony's Day." Garcia paused to slice an onion with his case knife, laid the section on a piece of bread, and stuffed it into his mouth. It did not keep him from talking, but the words came out muffled. "I was around your age when I last sailed from Cadiz with Cristobal Colon."

  "The Admiral?"

  "Aye," nodded Garcia. "It was his last voyage—and a very unprofitable one. There was promise of gold at Veragua, but the cursed Indians drove us off. Two wasted years. We flopped around, discovering useless land, and got back to the Islands no richer than scarecrows. Thank God, I've done better since."

  Pedro leaned forward. "Tell me about him, sir—about the Admiral."

  "Don Cristobal?" With his fingernail, Garcia dislodged a morsel wedged between his teeth. "Well, sir, to be fair, he was an old man, when I knew him, and full of ailments. But from what I've heard, he had his faults at best. No hand with men, d'you see? And he had a fuzz-buzz of a brother, Don Bartolome, who got under people's skins. You can't expect Castilian cavaliers to take orders from Genoese foreigners.