The Seven Serpents Trilogy (6 page)

“It would be better,” said the captain, “if you were to confer with the governor before the new name is en tered. The island may belong to someone else and have a different name.”

“Put it down,” said Don Luis.

That night while I was playing the gittern, rendering a tune that I thought was especially pretty, Don Luis told me to stop. Putting down the shank bone he had been sucking, he turned to Captain Roa.

“Captain, from what Guzmán says, we have a rich mine.”

“He should know. He's seen many.”

“How distant is Hispaniola,” Don Luis asked, “now that you have made your celestial calculations?”

“Two hundred leagues or less.”

“Is the
Santa Margarita
in shape to sail?”

“As much as she will ever be.”

Don Luis picked up his shank bone and sucked on it for a moment. “We leave in the morning,” he said. “I wish to talk to Governor Santacilla.”

At dawn the two of them and a crew of eight set off for the island of Hispaniola, leaving for our protection some of Don Luis's men.

No sooner had Don Luis left the harbor than Guzmán set about increasing the yield of gold. He called the women of the tribe together, gave them bolts of silk cloth to share, and, with the help of the cacique, put them to work carrying baskets of ore to the lagoon. This freed men to work in the mine.

The yield increased, but Guzmán was not satisfied. Again with the help of Ayo, he divided the men into two bands, each laboring twelve hours. A steady stream of ore came down the trail on the backs of the women.

Five days after Don Luis left for Hispaniola, Guzmán had finished building an
arrastre.
Our animals were in poor condition from the hard voyage, so in their place Guzmán selected eight old men to turn the two flat stones that crushed the ore. Working in pairs for an hour at a time, pushing against the long wooden handle that turned the stones, they managed to keep up with the ore that the women brought down the trail.

After the ore was crushed, it was taken to the stream and washed. The gold, being heavy, sank to the bottom. Mostly in pebbles and flat pieces the size of coins, it was then stored in a shed that Guzmán had had built beside the lagoon. He posted night and day guards around the shed and in addition stationed our two mastiffs beside it. The Indians feared these big gray dogs, and rightly, for the beasts had been trained to attack and kill upon command.

Before Don Luis had been gone a week, the whole village was at work. Guzmán blasted the rock. The young men dug with mattocks and their hands. The women carried the ore to the lagoon. The old men turned the heavy stones of the
arrastre.
Everyone, whether lame or halt, had something to do. The shed overflowed with treasure.

My feeble efforts to bring these people Christ's mes sage came to an end.

It had been difficult in the beginning, since I was ignorant of the language and needed to rely upon Esteban to translate what I said, to teach them things they had never dreamed of. It was now impossible. They knelt, after a long day of work, while I sang the Salve Regina. But then they rose and went off without a word.

There was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't ex pect help from Guzmán, who thought everything I did was not only a waste of time but also a hindrance to what he was doing, which was to mine as much ore as possible in the shortest time. He lived in fear that, be fore Don Luis returned, some questing Spaniard might sail into the harbor with a grant to the island. Or a band of adventurers might happen along and seize the shed filled with treasure.

I couldn't expect much help, if any, when Don Luis returned. Since the day of our arrival on Isla del Oro, he had grown more and more like the greedy Guzmán. His voyage to Hispaniola was no more than an effort to ac cumulate new lands and new Indians to work them. His ambition, I felt certain from hints he had let fall to Cap tain Roa, was to become the most powerful
encomendero
in New Spain.

 

S
IXTO
G
ONZALES, THE SHIP'S GUNNER, STATIONED AT THE NORTHERN
arm of the bay with instructions to report any thing out of the ordinary, fired a musket shortly after dawn of a mist-shrouded morning.

It was now nine days since Don Luis had left for Hispaniola. My first thought when I heard the sound of the musket was that he had returned. I was at the lagoon talking to three boys, trading Spanish words for Indian. I started at a run for the bay, some half a league distant.

I broke out of the jungle as I came to the sea and ran along the beach to where Sixto Gonzales was perched on a flat rock. I peered seaward, looking for the sails of the
Santa Margarita.
I saw nothing except a small red canoe, which belonged to an old man who fished the bay every morning for sharks, whose skins his wife and daughters used to make sandals. He had hold of some thing and was being towed along at a good rate.

A moment after I sighted the old man, Sixto Gonzales fired the big bombard. I saw the shot fall into calm water northward of the cannon smoke. Beyond the fountain it raised, I saw a swarm of painted canoes.

A large canoe, manned by dozens of paddles, led the way. It was striped yellow and blue, in the same design, the same colors, I remembered from our encounter short weeks before.

Sixto Gonzales stood beside the cannon, a spyglass to his eye. He confirmed my suspicions.

“Caribs,” he said. “The canoe that leads them has the Carib figurehead.” He turned to his helper and gave instructions about loading the bombard. “A double charge, Porfirio. We will blow them into the deepest pit.” He took hold of the lanyard, making ready to fire, and motioned me to shoulder the musket. “Do you comprehend its workings?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I have never held one in my hands.”

“You know one end from the other? Good. Now put the blunt end to your shoulder, your finger under the guard, lightly on the trigger, take a deep breath, and wait for orders, which I will give presently.”

The iron ball, a large one, had struck in front of the Caribs. As the column of water rose across their bow and the cannon roared and echoed over the bay, the swarming canoes stopped dead in the water.

Meanwhile, the musket shot had alerted Señor Guzmán. He suddenly appeared on the beach, with four men fully armed. When Sixto Gonzales saw that there were no natives among them, he shouted down to Guzmán, “The Indians. Where are they?”

In disgust, Guzmán spat upon the sand. “Hiding,” he shouted back. “All of them—men, women, and chil dren. They hide.”

“We do not need the natives,” said Sixto Gonzales.

“No, but they would not hinder us,” Guzmán replied. “Later I will try to rally them.”

I stood looking at the two men, amazed at how calm they were. A hundred savages and more paddled toward us, making ready to attack, and yet they acted as if they were on parade. In all the days I lived in the New World, my amazement never ceased at the calm way the Spaniard faced danger and death.

Part of this bravery, the certain belief that, be the en emy one or one hundred, he still was equal to the chal lenge, came from a lust for treasure. The conquistador dreamed of slaves and gold. He talked of little else.

And another part of it came from an arrogance that a Spaniard like Don Luis drank in with his mother's milk. It never left him even in defeat, for he felt that he was doing God's work, at God's command, and that in the end God would not desert him.

To be truthful, I had been as arrogant as any. I, Julián Escobar, I, too, had lusted. I had lusted for souls, dreamed and talked of little else. The difference was that I seemed to lack the sure belief that Don Luis possessed.

The Caribs had recovered from their surprise at the cannon roar and the water spout, which I presumed they had difficulty explaining to themselves, being igno rant of both. They now had formed a single file, the big canoe in the lead, and were slowly rounding the promontory, watching the beach as they came.

Three of Señor Guzmán's guard, what Don Luis had left him, appeared on muleback, dragging a cannon and a sled stacked with shot. The cannon was placed in posi tion and made ready to fire. Two bowmen and two mus keteers stood ready behind them.

Paddling for a few moments, then coasting, the Caribs skirted the beach within range, but Guzmán held his fire.

“Wait until they make up their minds,” he said to Sixto Gonzales. “By now they have made out that we are Spaniards. This is giving them thought.”

“As well it might,” Sixto answered.

The Caribs had reached the promontory that formed the southern boundary of the bay and were returning, now at a more rapid pace and closer to the beach.

The morning was hot and quiet. I could hear the savages jabbering among themselves. They began to chant, a jumble of words in a high, excited pitch. As the canoes reached the northern limits of the bay and made a wide turn that brought them closer to us, I heard a familiar voice speaking. It belonged to the fat Carib chieftain I had seen once before. As his words came clearly across the quiet water, Esteban translated them as soon as they were spoken.

“Dogs,” the cacique said, “we come to eat your arms and legs and fingers. We shall consume your flesh with sweet mango sauce.”

A chorus of insults went up from his followers. Guzmán answered by raising his hand to Sixto Gonzales. The two brass cannon roared at once. The shots struck in the midst of the swarming canoes. One sent up a spout and seemingly did no harm, but the other lifted the big canoe into the air and turned it over, end for end. At the same time, our musket fire poured down upon those struggling in the water, among them the fat cacique.

A flight of fire arrows immediately fell upon the promontory, wounding the two bowmen and setting ablaze a keg of powder.

No longer were the Caribs shouting insults. Their big canoe was sinking fast. Those in the water clambered into other canoes; then the whole fleet moved swiftly seaward. Behind them, a dozen or more bodies floated on the tide.

Sixto Gonzales wanted to send a parting shot after them, but Guzmán told him to hold his fire. “If I know them, they have not gone,” he said. “They will regroup, lick their wounds, and return.”

As he spoke, the Caribs made a quick turn, all the ca noes at once, and headed for the northern arm of the bay, where the jungle reached down to the sea.

“They'll come back,” Guzmán said. “We are at a dis advantage now, with our two bowmen wounded. And we can't count upon Don Luis arriving. We need to choose a good place to defend ourselves.”

He was fearful that the Caribs would go ashore somewhere and then creep back through the jungle and fall upon us from the rear. He also feared that on their way they might happen upon the gold he had stored away. We therefore left our place, with the wounded bowmen on the sled, the mules dragging the cannon, and re turned to the lagoon. There, Guzmán grouped us around the shed, seven of us and the two big dogs. I was still clutching the musket, about which I knew little.

 

T
HE
ARRASTRE
WAS SILENT
. T
HERE WERE NO
I
NDIANS IN SIGHT
.

Thinking to rally them, Guzmán fired one of the can non. The echoes had scarcely died away when Ayo ap peared out of the thicket of thorn bushes, followed by two of his retainers.

“We are outnumbered,” Señor Guzmán said to him. “We can defeat the Caribs, but it will take longer to do so unless you lend us a hand.”

“We trust that you are victorious,” the cacique replied, “but my people are few. Once there were many. I have lost many of my people.”

“Give me two dozen young men, armed with spears, and I will exter minate your enemy. You'll not need fear them again for many years.”

“I cannot give you two dozen men.”

“Half that number.”

“None,” said the cacique. “There is no will among my people to fight.”

Señor Guzmán stared at the cacique in disbelief. “You would rather die than fight?”

“We have learned to survive by not fighting.”

The sun poured down. Guzmán wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed the musket from my hand.

“You will now learn to survive by fighting,” he said.

“Your retainers, I see, are armed. I will arm you. Here, Sixto, give him your sword.”

Sixto unbuckled his weapon and thrust it toward the chieftain. Ayo stepped back and wouldn't take the sword.

Guzmán ran his tongue over his lips. “We fight in your behalf,” he said. “I invite you to help us in this fight.”

“It is not our fight,” Ayo said. “The Caribs did not come for us. They are tired of our flesh. They have told us so. It is your flesh they hunger for.”

“Grasp the sword you are offered,” Guzmán com manded, “and join us in the fight.”

Ayo glanced at the sword Sixto held out to him. He hesitated, as if he considered taking it. In the trees close by a child was crying. For a moment he seemed to listen to the sound; then he stepped back, refusing the sword, and turned away.

Guzmán strode to the shed where the two big mastiffs were tethered, untied one of them, and brought it back, straining on the leash.

Ayo was walking away, up the path he had come by.

In a calm voice Guzmán said, “Halt. Go no farther.”

The cacique walked on, his two retainers on either side. Whether he understood the command or even heard it, I cannot say.

Guzmán gave the order again. This time he shouted.

The cacique was nearing the jungle when Guzmán unleashed the mastiff. The dog bounded up the path in great leaps, as if it were chasing a rabbit. I don't think Ayo heard it coming, for the dog moved without a sound. Not until he had reached the thickets at the edge of the jungle did the cacique turn, perhaps to say some last defiant word, and from the distance face Guzmán. The mastiff caught Ayo in the throat and bore him to the earth, shaking him like a bundle of sticks.