Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  Time must be gained, in which luck could operate. The bold front maintained before Montezuma had been tempered at the council by the general appreciation of realities. Pedro was reminded of a dice game, in which he and his companions were casting mains against an invisible opponent who had every advantage. One could not get away from the fact that four hundred men were pitted against at least four hundred thousand, a skiff against an ocean, and that in case of storm, not only courage, not only cunning, but luck, in the ratio of a thousand-to-one chance, was needed. Thus far the company had had a miraculous winning streak; but every tide takes an ebb.

  As he walked through the compound, lighted here and there by torches, de Vargas was struck by the difference since morning. Every available cannon stood in position, commanding the gateways. Lookouts manned the walls. Redoubled sentries went their rounds between buildings. War horses were tethered outside their riders' quarters, saddle on back and bridle on peak. Now and then the call of a sentinel: "Alto! Quien vive? Consigna?" rang through the darkness.

  Not far from his quarters, Pedro met Garcia, who was standing guard, his huge shadow wheeling in the flare of a torch at one of the house comers.

  "So this was what I dreamed, eh?" he growled. "Glad I couldn't remember it! It smells like action soon, comrade. What's the news from headquarters?"

  Pedro told him about the ships.

  "Bah!" said Garcia. "We didn't scuttle our ships for the fun of building others. Can't you see the General sailing from New Spain because of Indian talk! Outfaced from a prize like this! By God, it makes me laugh! But we ought to shift camp to Tacuba on the mainland."

  "Maybe we will."

  "And I hope not at the double-quick," Garcia muttered.

  Pedro found Catana stretched out on the mat which served as their bed. According to orders, she lay completely dressed in marching gear, headpiece and arms beside her, for henceforth until the alarm died down, no one would undress at night in the Spanish quarters. The diffused radiance of the stars through the square doorway gave a faint twilight.

  She raised her head. "How late you are, sefior! I've been lonely for you. These clothes remind me of all our campfires, the mountains, the wind. I like to remember those nights."

  He placed his sword, casque, and corslet within reach, then slipped off his shoes and lay down, with his outflung arm under her head.

  "We're apt to have more of them, alma mia," he answered, and began discussing what had happened; but gradually he realized that she wasn't listening. "Tired?" he asked.

  "No. But don't let's talk about war tonight, querido. Let's just talk about ourselves, not the venture."

  He remembered that she had looked unwell, and his arm closed around her. "Vida mia! God knows I would rather talk of you and how much I love you than about anything else, let alone the whoreson Indians. What cheer, my poppet? You gave me a start today at meat, you turned so pale."

  "It was nothing. I told you that I was happy, happier than ever in my life."

  "And you wouldn't tell me why. Is it such a secret, Catana? Come now, why?"

  She was silent a long moment.

  "Do you still love her a great deal, sefior—I mean the Lady Luisa? . . . No, tell me truly. ... I want the truth."

  Coming at this moment, it was a puzzling question; a mind subtler than Pedro's might well have felt baffled by it. He had not thought of Luisa recently, and Catana's question turned his mind back to her and to Spain. How much did he really love Luisa de Carvajal, how-much, that is, in comparison with Catana? As Garcia had said, love cannot be weighed or measured. Pedro knew only that somewhere in his consciousness glimmered a shrine where Luisa stood aloof and alone. It was a place of dreams. The lust and dirt of the world, coarse realities, the concerns of daily life, did not enter there. Viewed from its doorway, the future became an enchanted vista of glory, poetry, and romance. It was fragrant with the scent of rose water, luminous with silver brocade and the flash of jewels in dark hair, haunted by a face with innocent, soft eyes, and by the echoes of a lute. At unpredictable moments, sometimes when he was alone, sometimes in the brawling and clatter of the camp, sometimes even with Catana, the thought of it would sweep over him like a nostalgia that was both pain and release. But now, faced by this question of comparative love, he was at a loss. No shrine for Catana! She stood knee-deep in the mire of everyday life. She belonged on the same plane with Garcia, Sandoval,

  and the army. Did that mean that he loved her less? Gould he love anyone more?

  "God knows!" he answered in honest doubt. "I'm no good at word-spinning. I love you in one way and her in another. All I know is that I love you more than my life, that you're my woman and that no one else could ever take your place. As to Dona Luisa, I love her as a cavalier loves his lady. I vowed on the altar cross to serve and honor her. But I can't explain, and you wouldn't understand."

  "Yes, I do." Gatana rubbed her cheek against his arm. He had told her everything she hoped to hear. His woman forever! Let the lady have his vows! Glose to reality, she did not grudge Luisa the chivalrous or even the legal title. "I understand. She'll be Sefiora de Vargas. (Yes, senor, it is right for the sake of your name. It doesn't matter, as long as I belong to you.) But I"—she pressed her face against him—"I'm going to bear your first son. That's why I'm happy. Hasn't Our Lord been good to me!"

  He crushed her to him until she ached from the pleasant pain.

  "Gatana! Gatana mia!"

  "Wasn't it a wonderful secret, senor?"

  "Por Dios. I should say it was!" His voice thrilled her like music. "Let me kiss you again! Vive Dios! But why a son? I want a girl like you."

  She half pushed him away. "Que vergiienza! You'll bring us bad luck with your talk. Of course it shall be a boy. He shall have red hair and green;eyes. He shall weigh ten pounds. A fine boy. Do not speak or think otherwise. I'll have Master Botello cast him a horoscope."

  Lying back with her head in the hollow of Pedro's arm, she stared up at the ceiling.

  "I've been a very wicked girl. Madrecita died too young to bring me up; I don't remember my father. Mother used to say that he was a brave and clever gentleman of the road. But they hanged him in Gordoba. It's hard for a poor girl without parents to be good, seiior. Maybe that's why Our Lord has not counted it against me and has been so kind. Unless—" She paused fearfully. "Unless—"

  "What?"

  "You don't think He would take it out on our baby, do you?"

  "Take what out?"

  "My sins. I have a bad and unruly temper." She struck her breast with her clenched hand. "I curse too much." (Another blow.) "I have often neglected to attend the blessed mass. Ay de mi!''

  "Bah!" said Pedro fondly. "You're an angel."

  "A very black one. Father Olmedo spoke last Sunday about the sins of the parents being visited on the children. It made me shiver. But our boy is innocent. Besides, he's the son of Pedro de Vargas."

  The latter grunted. If the salvation of the unborn child depended on his record—

  "And the grandson of Don Francisco de Vargas. Is it not beyond dreams that I should be his mother—I, Catana Perez of the Rosario!"

  She thought of the innkeeper, Sancho Lopez, of other members of the tavern household. She wished that she could overwhelm them with this great news. And her brother, Manuel. How proud he would have felt to be the uncle of Pedro's son!

  "We'll call him Francisco."

  "Let's. That is—" Pedro hesitated.

  She understood. "No, of course. I forgot. Your seiior father wouldn't want to give his name to a—to one born out of wedlock."

  She turned her head away for an instant. But her happiness was too great to be darkened by a partial shadow.

  "Let's talk about our son," she went on, turning back and drawing closer again, "I shall bring him up properly. Never fear that I shall spare the switch because of love. By God, if I catch him swearing and dicing as I did that young imp, Ochoa, the other day, won't I tan him! And, querido mio, he shall be a learn
ed man, he shall attend the college at Salamanca." She paused thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it be safer, because I've been so bad and we unmarried, to give him to God? Wouldn't it please Our Lord? I'll bear you other sons to be cahalleros; but our first— Why not a priest? Say yes. Maybe he'll become a bishop."

  "It's well thought of," Pedro agreed. "From Salamanca, he could go to our kinsmen in Italy."

  She gave a long sigh. "Think of it! Me the mother of a bishop! Maybe even a cardinal! Oh, my sweet lord, I want him to have ever)'-thing I never had. All I can give him is my love for you."

  "Don't talk such folly," he scolded. " 'Slife, with such a mother, he'll have a great heart in him, and a true heart, ojos hellos! . . . What are you doing?" He felt the pressure of her fingers, one after the other, on his thigh.

  "Counting. I waited to be sure before telling you. Seven more months. May, June, July . . . It'll be December. A long time. But maybe—seiior, what if it were at Christmas! What a blessing for him! What luck! Juan Garcia must be one of the godfathers. Won't he be pleased! Only he'll spoil our son dreadfully if we aren't careful. I'll tell Fray Bartolome de Olmedo the news tomorrow. He'll give me a spank

  and then a buss. Can't you see him at the christening, with his stubby nose and big fists! And Captain de Sandoval will be there, and the General and Captain de Alvarado, and all the captains and our good friends. What a christening! And I'll be standing beside you . . ."

  Her voice trailed off drowsily.

  "The General must be godfather too," said Pedro. "The boy must have Hernan among his names."

  But she had fallen asleep, and Pedro drew the cover tenderly about her.

  The excitement of the day was forgotten. He lay dreaming awhile, not of Spain, for once, and the enshrined Luisa, but of a manor house on the brow of a Mexican hill. He pictured the outbuildings and broad lands. He was riding home with his horsemen from an expedition, for it would be long before the vast country north and south was tamed. Catana stood waiting in the courtyard . . . iJuien vivet

  The challenge of a sentry not far off mingled with his dreams. He half-awoke.

  "Hernan Cortes."

  The unsleeping General was making his rounds.

  XL/X

  On a morning in early May, the page boy Ochoa beat even the sound of the joy shots. He dashed panting through the compound and yelled: "Ships at San Juan de Ulua! Eighteen ships! Men! Guns! Vival Vival" Then, almost at his heels, came the salvos of the cannon, tooting of trumpets, racing of men.

  The news was like the first breath of air to a becalmed vessel, the first relief in a fortnight of tension, rumors, menace, and sense of doom, the sense of huge coils tightening around the Spanish quarters. Eighteen ships. That meant perhaps a thousand men. With a thousand more Castilians, New Spain was in the bag. The luck of the expedition had once more pulled it through.

  Pedro, who was superintending the shoeing of Soldan at the hands of Santos Hernandez, the smith, grabbed Ochoa, as he ran past, and shook more news out of him.

  "Stop that yelling, limb of Satan! What ships? From Spain?"

  "I suppose so. From where else? The Great Montezuma called in our

  General and showed him picture-writing of them. Just arrived. Eighteen tall ships. Hundreds of men. Horses. Cannon. Viva! Viva! The captains are all meeting at the General's. Better hurry!" He dived under Pedro's arm and disappeared around the corner, shouting his tidings and racing to tell them to Catana. The smith, who was half-squatting with Soldan's off hind-hoof in his leather apron, straightened up and followed Pedro out into the hullabaloo of the camp.

  De Vargas took the steps of the General's terrace two at a time, hurried through a room of excited soldiers, passed a guard at the opposite door, and found himself in Cortes's council chamber, where a majority of the leading officers had already gathered.

  But once inside, he stopped at a loss. Instead of jubilation, silence; instead of smiles, anxious faces and eyes centering on the tall figure of Cortes, who stood at one end of a rough table. Self-possessed as a rule, he was now evidently disturbed, his mouth grim, his eyes smoldering.

  ". . . So Sefior Montezuma brought out one of those cotton-cloth rolls," he was saying. "You know the kind of pictures these Indians use for writing—smiled at me—faith, what a smile! 'See, Malinche, now you won't need those ships you're building at Villa Rica,' he said. 'Here are plenty of ships to take you and your friends home.' And, 'struth, there they were indeed—eighteen ships, though five had run ashore. Eighteen. The biggest armada ever seen in Western waters. And neatly pricked off, nine hundred men, eighty horses, twenty cannon, stores aplenty. They had landed some days ago, some days ago, mark you. 'Blessed be God,' I said, 'for all His mercies!' The dog should not know from me that there was anything amiss." Cortes broke off. "Will no one stop those fools out there from shooting off the guns? We'll need powder for other uses before we're through."

  Francisco de Morla strode out into the anteroom. The chatter ceased abruptly. Like an extending ripple, silence began to spread through the compound, troubled silence.

  "But what's wrong?" Pedro whispered to Andres de Tapia, who stood next to him. "Didn't we send to Spain for reinforcements?"

  "He thinks the ships aren't from Spain," Tapia shot back, "but from Cuba."

  Alvarado had asked some question. Cortes answered impatiently. "Do some thinking, man! If those ships were Spanish, would not one of them at least have put in at Villa Rica? There's our headquarters, not San Juan de Ulua, as our factors, Montejo and Puertocarrero, well know. But granting that for some reason they should all anchor at San Juan, would they not have sent a message post haste to us or at least

  to Sandoval at Villa Rica? Would we have to wait for news of them through this Indian?"

  It was a telling argument. There had been time enough since the landing of the fleet, Pedro gathered, for a message to have reached Cortes. The captains exchanged unquiet glances.

  "And here's another point," the General added. "It did not take a mind reader to see that Montezuma knows more than he tells. I'm not so dull as not to feel sarcasm, however honeyed. He kept speaking about our brothers, our brothers who came on the ships—our brothers, quotha —and smiled. Showed me the picture of the fool, Cervantes, whom we sent with the prospecting party southeast, hobnobbing with these same brothers. I'll warrant the rogue acts now as their guide and interpreter."

  He rapped the table sharply with his knuckles. "No, sirs, we must not deceive ourselves. That fleet bodes ill to this company. I'll venture a peso to a maravedi that Montejo put in to Cuba in spite of our orders. Perhaps he was caught. Perhaps the gold we sent to Spain got no further. Anyway the news of our prize here leaked out, and now we have Governor Velasquez's hornets at our ears, greedy for the stakes. Was it not enough to cope with half a million Aztecs, that we should have twice our number of white brothers to deal with also! And thus, seiiores, we face the ruin of our hopes, our labor and accomplishment." He paused a moment, glancing from one to the other. "Do we face it united?"

  "What's your meaning, Hernan?" growled Captain Marin, twisting his red beard.

  "Why, it's simple. There may be some who might find it healthier, like Senor Cervantes, to join our brothers on the coast. Perhaps he's not so much of a fool. It's the wise man who despairs of our venture now. It's the fool who stands with me. Speak out, gentlemen. Your decision."

  He knew how to strike fire from the Spanish flint. The group of adventurers about the table, each one an individualist with his eyes on the main chance, were not primarily loyal; they were gamblers. But they had the gambler's virtues: recklessness, hail-fellowship, and invincible faith in luck. To them Cortes supremely embodied these qualities. He swept men along, content to suffer, to die, or even to be mulcted of their profits, for the sake of the hotter pulse beat, the richer venture, that he offered them.

  The captains expressed their decision by an indignant growl.

  Cortes's eyes flashed pride. "Well then, cavaliers, I take it we stand toge
ther. God send that Captain Velasquez de Leon, with the hundred

  and fifty men at Coatzacoalco, may feel as you do! It would be a sad blow to us if he does not. But he's a kinsman to Governor Velasquez."

  "By God," put in Diego de Ordas, who had been a mutineer in the early days of the expedition. "I'll vouch for him. Can you see Juan sneaking off to a crowd of Cuban white-bellies and leaving us, his good comrades, in the lurch? I can't."

  Cortes turned to Olid. "Cristobal, get off a messenger at once to Captain Velasquez and one to Rodrigo Rangel in Chinantla. Give them the news and what we make of it. Let them fall back on Cholula and await developments there, lest they be cut off separately. We must reef the sails of our enterprise, gentlemen, till the storm's past." His glance fell on Tapia. "Son Andres, make ready to leave within the hour for Villa Rica. You'll bear a letter from me to Sandoval and make speed day and night. Pedro de Vargas, you'll be on duty as my aide for the time being. . . . Adios, senores, and each of you look to the spirit of your men. No long faces, no doubts. Plenty of promises. When there's little honey in the jar, have some in the mouth, as the saying goes. But above all, let each commend this company to the favor of Our Lord."

  So, with one eye on the sullen Aztecs and one on the coast, the army waited day after day, tense and on edge, while, report by report, the truth regarding the strangers at San Juan de Ulua filtered in.

  As usual, Cortes had judged correctly. It was a Cuban fleet sent to vindicate the rights of Governor Velasquez to the new lands which the expedition had occupied. Was he not the sponsor of the expedition? Had it not sailed in his name? He did not propose to be cheated of his investment. The General's surmise about the treasure ship to Spain turned out to be equally pat. Though he escaped capture, Montejo had indeed put in to Cuba for a glimpse of his estate in El Marien; and from there the news had spread like wildfire through the island. Gold, gold to the west, oceans of it! And should wealth like that fall undisputed to a pack of traitors in rebellion against His Excellency? Nine hundred gallants with hungry purses were now on the coast to debate that issue. They were commanded by the great Panfilo de Narvaez. He was there to take over New Spain in the name of the Governor, peaceably or by force. But take it over he would.