Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  "I love only you. I'll love you always. I ask you to marry me."

  Again the light shone in her face, lingered. "Senor, wait. I'll answer you when we're back with the company."

  Finally the messenger returned from his mission to Cortes, his eyes full of what he had seen: burning cities, warriors, cannon, ships on the lagoon, captains in armor on their barbed horses, the great Malinche, who had received him as if he had been a chief for the sake of his news from Captain de Vargas.

  He touched hand to ground and then to forehead in salute, opened a featherwork pouch, and produced a bulky letter, showing a lozenge of wax stamped with blurred arms and, across it, the bold handwriting of Cortes. Pedro had not seen a letter for nearly a year. He was breaking the seal with his thumbnail, when Catana and Garcia, attracted by the stir, came out on the terrace.

  "A letter from the General!"

  They pressed against him on either side as he unfolded the paper. But, in the process, an enclosure dropped out; and when he stooped for it the handwriting of the address banished everything else in his mind.

  "Name of God!" he exclaimed. "It's from my father! . . . Almost three years without news! Three years! They seemed more like thirty. . . . From my father!"

  Since it was already unsealed, he opened it, his eyes devouring the crabbed writing. Alcalde of Jaen . . . Doiia Maria well—he got that from the first few lines. The letter must wait until he could read it in private. What mattered at first glance was that his parents were in good health, had been exonerated, re-established.

  Having thanked and dismissed the Indian messenger, he stood with his back against the wall and spread out the closely written page from the General. Catana and Garcia waited with their eyes intent on him.

  "You could read it yourself," he teased Catana.

  "Be quick, seiior."

  "Aye," rumbled Garcia, "I want to know if he still intends to hang me. Let's hear, comrade."

  "He begins 'Son Pedro' and thanks God for our safety, which he deems no less than a miracle."

  "He's right at that," said Garcia. "And then?"

  "He bids us make all speed to him, for the war's at a ticklish point, and he needs every Castilian. 'Tell Juan Garcia that his crime is forgotten. ... And bring specimens of gold from this country together with a rough map.' "

  387

  "That's Cortes all right," said Garcia. "Read straight ahead, boy, for the love of God."

  Pedro faltered a moment. "He wishes us joy on the birth of our baby."

  An empty silence fell. Pedro continued to read.

  The letter reviewed briefly the past year, the gradual dismemberment of the Mexican empire east of the mountains, the return to Mexico, the conquering march around the Valley, the blockade of Tenochtitlan itself. Its allies destroyed or faithless, its causeways held, its water supply cut, its lagoon commanded by a fleet of brigantines, which had been carried piecemeal across the mountains {"Por Dios, what a stroke that was!" growled Garcia), the queen of Mexican cities now faced the Spaniards alone.

  But think not that the war is zvon [the letter continued]. The enemy is strong and stubborn. Our Indian friends, those from Tlascala, Tetzcuco, and elsewhere, are hard to manage and fickle of mind. At a whim, they may leave us, so that we live as men on the brink of victory or disaster. Therefore, I charge you, as one desiring honor and the King's service, to rejoin us in haste. I say in haste. You shall serve near my person as an aidante de campo, for we need better liaison between the forces under my command at the end of the southern causeway and those of Alvarado based on Tacuba in the west and those again of Sandoval holding the causeway to the north at Tepeyac. I have the right horse for you, a black with two white feet, newly arrived, named El Herrero.

  It brought back the old days. They could smell the army, as Pedro read, could see the pennons of Alvarado and Sandoval, the painted faces of the Tiascalans, the burly figures of the sword-and-buckler men.

  / enclose a letter from your honored father, Don Francisco, which I opened, thinking, alas, that I should see you no more. It contains a message by another hand no doubt equally welcome, Pedro el afortunado! [What was he driving at?] And in that connection, my son, I doubt if it will disappoint you to hear that Diego de Silva has deserted our enterprise and returned to Cuba.

  De Vargas's heart sank. He paused to exchange a desolate glance with the others. De Silva not there! That had been one of the longed-for joys of the return—to meet de Silva again! Often Pedro had lain awake with the hot delight of imagining it.

  ''DiablosI'" he burst out.

  "When we had so hoped," grieved Catana, her eyes smoldering. Garcia clenched his fist. "There's justice for you! Rascal whoreson! I'd have burned him in a slow fire." Pedro read on: —

  It was politic to let him and several others depart. They had had their fill of the war and were mutinous dogs corrupting better men. But it was a hard choice, for de Silva is cousin to our enemy, the Bishop of Burgos, President of the Council of the Indies, who will lend a glad ear to his lies when the traitor reaches Spain.

  Pedro was staring at the paper. He hesitated a moment, then went on in a too casual voice: —

  At least I rejoice at the dissolution of his marriage with the noble Luisa de Carvajal, which your honored father reports. Therefore the fair hand which wrote you that other message is now free. . . . And so adios.

  Aware that Catana's eyes were on him, Pedro could not meet them. What other message? He reopened Don Francisco's letter and glanced down the page. Then at a couple of straggling lines under his father's signature and rubrica, he turned red.

  Do you remember, senor, or have you forgotten one who, praying for your glory, remembers and waits?

  "Well?" asked Catana dryly.

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  He could not help it that his cheeks burned, that the dream he had cherished so long rose from the depths. Luisa, free of the ugly enchantment which had effaced her, stood once more exquisite before him.

  He excused himself and went inside to read his father's letter more carefully, lingering over the sentences where Don Francisco expressed approval of Luisa.

  For there is no better blood in the two Castiles, and the lady is distinguished by beauty of person and goodness of mind. Now that she is quit of the rascal by whom she and her father were inveigled, marriage between you would be honorable and advantageous — all the more since you love each other. So, when the King's service permits, it is high time that you return here to enter a sweeter service . . .

  He reflected that all that was over now, and at the same time he pictured the look on his parents' faces when the letter reached them that he had married Catana Perez, a camp follower. After rereading Luisa's message, he raised it to his lips in token of farewell.

  He was so absorbed that he did not hear Catana enter the room. Perhaps she had not seen the sentimental gesture, for, when he looked up, she was appraising one of his shirts that needed mending before the march.

  "When do we leave for the army?" she asked.

  "Tomorrow at dawn." His uneasy conscience imagined that her voice was drier and more detached than usual. "The General wrote haste. As I figure it, if we make speed on the trail, we might reach camp two days after tomorrow evening."

  That night when all was quiet in the palacioj Catana got up from her mat and, stealing barefoot into Pedro's room (separate from her since Iiis proposal of marriage), drew the letter out of his doublet. Then, tiptoeing back again and lighting a small link, she set about trying to find the words from Luisa. It was not hard to distinguish the different handwriting under Don Francisco's signature; but her skill in reading was small, and she spelled painfully, her forefinger crawling £.cross the page.

  Do you remember J senor, or have you forgotten . . .

  By the time she had finished, the rush light had burned down. She crept back to Pedro's room, replaced the letter, and returning stretched cut again on her mat.

  After all, it was what she ha
d foreseen and taken for granted from tlie beginning. If Pedro married her, he would regret forever the hidalga he had not married. Staring up through the darkness with eyes too hot for tears, Catana accepted what had to be.

  LXVU

  Tee morning star still shone faintly when Pedro, Catana, and Garcia, wolfing some cornbread and gulping down a brew of chocolatl, made ready to start. Thoughts were on the journey.

  "Coatl's giving us a hundred warriors into camp," Pedro announced. "They keep rank and step. We won't make too bad a showing when we march in. By God, everybody captured by the Indians doesn't get back in that style."

  "Not to speak of the gold/' said Garcia. He had divided the intake, variously acquired by gifts and mining during the year, into three equal shares and now handed Pedro one of the bags. "That'll brighten Cortes. Remember how he told the Aztec spokesman back in San Juan de Ulua that we Castilians had a heart disease which only gold could cure?"

  His chocolate cup in one hand, Pedro weighed the bag with the other. "I'd say close to four thousand pesos' weight. Half of it'll pay for the new horse and a suit of armor. Ha, darling"—he clapped Catana on the back—"you'll ride pillion behind me when we're married. Sefiora de Vargas y Perez. With your share, we'll be well in pocket. Never thought you'd bring your husband four thousand pesos in dowry, did you?"

  Somewhere a conch was blown. A trooping of feet and a confusion of voices sounded in the street below. Stuffing a final piece of bread into his mouth and washing it down with a gulp of the chocolate, Pedro drew the back of his hand across his lips.

  "Time," he said. But getting up, he stopped at the look on Gatana's face. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Lord save us! You're not the wench to have the vapors."

  She stamped her foot and turned away. "It's nothing. Except we've been very happy here."

  A glare of torches struck along the terrace outside, and Goatl appeared at the door. He insisted on escorting his friends for a part of the journey and was dressed for the march in a traveling cloak with a simple red band around his forehead.

  "The men are ready, senores. I send carriers for your gear."

  "Then fetch my sword, Gatana," said Pedro, "and buckle it on me, will you, since you're my one lady. Remember that night in front of the Rosario?"

  Keeping her face down, she drew the buckles to the worn marks on the belt. He eased it a trifle on his hip, fingering the pommel.

  "T ahora adios!" he said with a smile at the familiar walls of the house.

  "One moment, sefior, by your leave—if you will come with me."

  "Where?"

  "To the garden."

  With a twinge of self-reproach, he understood. He could not leave without another, different farewell. Already Ninita had slipped his mind.

  "I'll be with you presently, Goatl," he said, following Gatana.

  They rounded the buildings to the lushness of trees and flowers behind the palacio. Dawn had begun, but clouds were gathering, and the slow wind brought a shiver of rain. The air lay damp and heavy with the fragrance of blossoms.

  Silently they crossed over to the little grave and, kneeling together, prayed for the soul of Nifiita, that she, who was free from sin, might live close to Our Lady. And they bade her good-by once more, as if she and the cross at the head of the grave were one.

  A march of eight hours brought the party, guided by Coatl, to the first day's stopping place, Cacahuamilpa, the last of the Zapotec pueblos. It was a mere upland hamlet, but what with rain, slippery trails, swollen streams, jungle and mountain ranges, through which they had struggled, anything under roof seemed welcome at the moment.

  After a change of clothes and a meal of hot fowl, peppers, and tortillas at the house of the local chief, Pedro sauntered out alone for a look at the weather, which had now brightened. A few rays of the declining sun, piercing the clouds, showed the country northeast that had to be covered tomorrow. He was speculating that a day's march would bring them to Cuauhnahuac and a day after that to the Spanish headquarters at Xoloc, when a shadow struck the corner of his eye, and he turned to discover Coatl beside him.

  "I follow," said the Indian. "I wait until you alone."

  "What's on your mind, Coatl?"

  "I turn back from here tomorrow. We not see each other again. Remember in that sierra in Spain, you give me a gift at parting. Now my turn."

  De Vargas shook his head. "You've paid that back a thousand times already."

  But the other, with a half-smile, laid a hand on Pedro's arm. "Still, I have gift for you alone. You go with me now and see."

  Mystified and curious as to what the thing was, Pedro walked along with the Indian; but his curiosity grew when they left the pueblo and plunged downhill into the rough country below.

  After a while, he said, "Vayaj amigo mio! I have good legs, but we've done eight hours today, remember."

  "It not far now, seiior. If it two times so far, you not sorry."

  Having reached a gorge with almost vertical walls, Coatl led the way down, pointing out footings and handholds. Opposite them, on the other side of the chasm, Pedro could see a bleak range of hills, singularly bare and grim, and he could hear from underneath a roar of cas-

  cades. In the afternoon lighting, the place made a secluded impression, which deepened with every yard down. He was glad to find himself at last on the floor of the canon.

  At this level, the gorge was lined with blossoming trees, between which the stream leaped from waterfall to waterfall. There were trees, too, having a strange golden bark and with twisted snakelike roots that made walking difficult. Occasionally birds, red, green, and blue, glanced between the sides of the valley.

  Having led the way for some distance downstream, Coatl suddenly pointed at the cafion's opposite wall, and Pedro, who had been picking his way between the matted tree roots, stood staring.

  In the opposite side of the mountain, an enormous portal yawned perhaps seventy feet high by a hundred and fifty wide. Though a natural arch, it looked as if built by hand.

  "Cuerpo de Dios!'' exclaimed de Vargas.

  "Behold," said Coatl. "House of gods. Sacred. Forbidden. I, chief of Zapotec people, I only have right to enter without fear. Speak, seiior, you fear?"

  In the confused background of Pedro's mind, romance jostled with legend. Like Amadis, he stood before the giant's castle. Gazing at the blackness behind the vast doorway, from which came a distant muttering as of voices, he knew that, if not afraid, he v/as at least shaken.

  But he steadied himself. "Why should I fear? If your devils are inside, we will go to them, and I shall call upon the name of Our Lord and San Pedro. What happens then will be according to their will. But you might have warned me to bring my sword."

  "What use swords against gods?" Coatl returned. "You not fear, so let us enter."

  Crossing the stream on a series of rocks, they reached the portal of the cavern, where Coatl, drawing out a supply of pine torches from a secret crevice in the cliff, kindled one of them with a wooden fire drill from his pouch and lighted another for Pedro. Touching hand to forehead, he uttered a few words, evidently a traditional prayer.

  Pedro said, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti"

  Then the man of the Stone Age and the man of civilized Europe advanced into the darkness.

  By the light of the torches, Pedro could see a tunnel-like corridor slanting down, and. he could feel the slope beneath his feet. Comparing great things with small, it reminded him a little of the passageway under the main tower of the Castle at Jaen. Only here a mountain was the tower, and the passageway extended five hundred feet.

  Almost at once a swarm of bats darted around the two men, fanning their cheeks with furry wings and uttering mouse-Hke pipings. Everyone knew that bats were lackeys of the devil.

  "Let them come/' thought de Vargas grimly. "They're to be expected, for this is surely the road into hell. Let them come or change themselves to demons. Though, curse me, I wish I had my sword!"

  Then suddenly, at
the foot of the decline, his heart leaped to his throat.

  He beheld, as far as the light could reach, a gigantic hall—but one so vast that the cathedral at Jaen would have been lost in a corner of it. To his dazzled vision, this infinity seemed encrusted with ice, frozen masses pendent from the roof, upsoaring from the pavement, wrought into huge forms and statues, a crystal world.

  He had never seen stalactites and stalagmites. Only half-emerged from the Middle Ages, his mind stocked with fairy tales, his courage tensed for battle with Satan, it seemed to him a thing incredible and devilish. He and Coatl were dots—fireflies—in the glittering space about them.

  Imagination soared. He saw in one mass of crystals an enormous throne, surely the high seat of Lucifer himself, but at the moment vacant. He heard, or fancied he heard, the thunderous accents of an approaching voice.

  "Rivers beneath us," said Coatl, reading his face.

  That might be true or not, de Vargas thought, but no river could make the sound he heard.

  "This worth seeing?" Coatl went on. "I waste your time, my friend, bringing you here?"

  "It is wonderful," answered Pedro gravely. "But God knows whether mortal men have the right to look at such things."

  AValking forward across the vast floor, they seemed to crawl. The torchlight fell on white trees hung with diamond moss, fountains of frozen water, crystal baths to cool the heat of devils, an amphitheater crowned by a pipe organ to make music for Beelzebub, triumphal obelisks, sheeted phantoms doomed to stone, lifelike statues of lost souls.

  All at once Pedro started so that the torch shook in his hand. An enormous white goat stood before them. A goat big as a horse, the very chairman of Witches' Sabbaths.

  "Ha!" said de Vargas, crossing himself and relieved that the animal did not move. "Satan's image."

  But at that moment something else moved. Coatl jerked Pedro back. It was a large rattlesnake, which had struck from its coil. In an instant

  Coatl, stooping, had caught the reptile by the tail and snapped its head against the flank of the goat. It stretched limp and quivering in the circle of the light.

  "Watch out," said the Indian. "Once I meet an ocelot here, but the torch scare him."