To the Indies (6 page)
Authors: C. S. Forester
Tags: #Inquisition, #treasure, #Caribbean, #Indian islands, #Indians, #aristocrats, #Conquistadors, #Orinoco, #Haiti, #Spain, #natives
The crossbowman lowered his weapon and allowed him to pass, blinking in the sunshine. Someone was kneeling at the water’s edge, above the point where the men were filling their barrels. He had a flat pan in his hand, which, with a gentle rocking motion, he was holding at the surface of the water. There was gravel in the bottom of the pan, and under the influence of the current and of the man’s raking fingers it was gradually being swept away. Rich recognized the man and guessed what he was doing — it was Diego Alamo, the assayer, who had sailed in the caravel
Santa Ana
along with the expedition. Alamo had dealt in gold and precious stones; he was learned in the languages of the East and with his knowledge of Hebrew and Chaldean might be useful when they made contact with Asiatic civilization. Under suspicion of being a crypto-Jew he had thought it well to accept the appointment of Royal Assayer to escape the attention of the Holy Office.
Alamo, with a skillful jerk, flirted the remaining water from, the pan and studied the layer of sediment closely, inclining the pan to this side and to that so as to catch the faintest gleam of color. Then he shrugged his shoulders and washed the pan clean, looking up to meet Rich’s eyes upon him.
“Ha, good day, Don Narciso,” he said, white teeth showing in a smile.
“Good day,” said Rich. “Are there signs of gold?”
“Not so far. The country looks as if it might bear gold, but I’ll certify that this stream has none.”
Rich forgot any disappointment he might feel at that statement in the pleasure of this re-encounter with a friend — Alamo, and he were old acquaintances. He made the conventional inquiries as to whether Alamo had enjoyed his passage across the ocean — conventional and yet sincere. It was odd to ask those questions here, on the shores of the Indies.
“Well enough, thank you,” answered Alamo. There was a wry smile on his dark intelligent face; Rich guessed that Alamo was as much out of place among the seamen and gentlemen-adventurers of the
Santa Ana
as he himself was in the
Holy Name
.
Alamo rose to his feet, brushing his hands clean. The beach was a scene of animation now, with three boats lying in the shallows and a score of men carrying water casks. The two caravels lay beyond, black upon the blue, and farther out the
Holy Name
rode to her anchor.
“Have you been into the forest?” asked Alamo.
“Yes.”
“Did you see any minerals? Any rocks?”
“Only the pebbles and boulders of the stream bed. The forest is too thick to see more.”
Alamo was looking round the beach.
“Over there,” he said, pointing. “The rock comes down to the sea there.”
They walked over the sand to the place he had indicated, and Alamo ran his hands over the rocky ledges.
“Gold is unlikely here,” he announced. “These rocks are dead. They are smooth and lifeless — feel them for yourself, Don Narciso. It is the spirited, lively rocks which bear the noble metals.”
He climbed over the ridge and dropped onto the sand on the other side. There were more rocks beyond, running out to the water.
“Now this is strange,” announced Alamo.
He went down onto his knees to examine his find more closely. Among the brown rocks there were patches and dabs and seams of black, and he pawed at them, clearly puzzled.
“This appears to be pitch,” he said. “Bitumen. I have seen specimens brought from the Holy Land, but never before have I seen it
in situ
. Now how comes it here?”
He looked up at the forest and out at the sea.
“It is found on the shores of the Dead Sea,” he explained, “at the foot of arid cliffs. It was with fiery pitch that God overwhelmed Sodom and Gomorrah, but the Moslems believe it to be formed by the great excess of salt in the water, under the influence of a burning sun. Now, is the ocean here more salt than usual?”
“It is not dead, at least,” said Rich. “There is weed growing. And the gulls prove that there must be fish.”
“Quite right. I should have thought of that. Yet it is hard to think of any other explanation of this pitch. The Dead Sea lies in the midst of deserts. There is no life — no plants, no birds — although I am assured by credible authority that the story is incorrect that birds drop dead who fly over its mephitic surface. Two places more unlike than that and this it is hard to imagine.”
“Very hard,” agreed Rich, thinking of the lush vegetation and the teeming bird life around them.
“Has a Sodom been overwhelmed here, too?” asked Alamo.
“Not unless the name of God has penetrated here,” answered Rich, fairly sure of his theology on this point.
“Exactly. That is why I sought for a naturalistic explanation.”
Alamo walked on among the rocks of the beach, Rich straying a little apart from him along the water’s edge. It was he who made the final discovery, and his sharp cry brought Alamo hurrying back to him. There was a little stretch of smooth sand here, at which Rich was staring; in the sand was a wide, shallow groove, and around it were the half-obliterated prints of bare feet. Rich had already made the deductions from the appearances.
“No ship’s boat made that mark,” he said. “There is no sign of a keel.”
Alamo nodded agreement, stooping to peer at the footprints.
“There is little enough left to see,” he said. “But I should think the feet that made those marks were longer and narrower than any Spaniard’s.”
“Yes.”
“And how long ago were they made? An hour? Two hours?”
They looked at each other, a little helpless. Neither of them had the faintest idea.
“We can be sure of one thing at least,” said Rich. “The people here are not as eager to meet us as were those of Cuba and Española.”
A bellowing behind them made them turn; the watering party was waving arms to them in recall. They picked their way back over the rocks.
The squadron was still sailing westward, along the south coast of Trinidad, while the Admiral listened to Rich’s report. His face fell a little when he heard that Alamo had found no sign of gold, but he grew cheerful again over the undoubted evidence that the island was inhabited, and over the other details which Rich conveyed.
“Pitch?” he said. “Bitumen?”
He ran his fingers through his beard as he pondered the phenomenon.
“What did Alamo say about it?”
“He said that it was found beside the Dead Sea,” said Rich. He was a little shocked to notice an inward quaver as he said it; he was actually dreading some new theory as to the fleet’s whereabouts.
“That is so. It is found in Egypt, too, in the deserts that border the Nile.”
“There is no desert here, Your Excellency,” said Rich, stoutly.
“No.” The Admiral looked over at the luxurious green coast. “Yet it makes me more sure of the Earthly Paradise being at hand — I shall write to Their Highnesses to that effect — but perhaps I shall have more evidence still by the time I can spare a ship to return to Spain.”
“I have no doubt you will, sir,” said Rich, strangely sick at heart.
The armored men were lounging about the deck. Spallanzani had his lute, and was singing Italian love songs to the accompaniment of soft chords from it, to an audience of hidalgos. They had eaten their meal of weevily biscuits and rancid cheese with its flavor of cockroach. Rich remembered with regret the roast suckling pig on which he had dined his last day on shore, and was quite startled to note that all the same he did not wish himself home. This crushing heat, this wearisome armor, the foul food, the wild talk of Ophir and the Earthly Paradise — notwithstanding all these things he was happier where he was, here in the New World, than sitting in his furred robe in the admiralty hall in Barcelona listening to the crooked pleadings of crooked lawyers paid by crooked merchants. Seventeen years of it — the Consulate of the Sea, the Laws of Oléron, and the Code of Wisby, Justinian and the
fueros
of Barcelona. . . It was better to be able to raise his head and sniff the scented air of Trinidad.
A loud cry from a lookout brought everybody to their feet again. There was a canoe, a black speck under the glaring sun, full in sight as they rounded a headland. It was well out to sea, passage between cape and cape; they could see the flash of the paddles as the men bent to their work. With the wind right aft the squadron overhauled it fast; it turned frantically to make for the shore, but the
Santa Ana
was there, cutting it off, and it headed back. Fifty yards from the
Holy Name
the paddles ceased work, and the canoe drifted idly on the blue.
Brown and naked, with streaming black hair, the Indians stared with frightened eyes at the huge hull drifting down upon them. One of them stood up, overcome with curiosity, in the desire to see better, revealing herself as a woman, quite naked save for her necklace. A loud roar of laughter burst from the ship — a naked woman was so rare a sight as naturally to excite laughter. She sat down abruptly, with hands over her face, and in her place a man rose to his feet, balancing precariously in the rocking canoe. He set an arrow to the string of the bow he held, raised the weapon and drew it to his breast, and loosed off the shaft.
Rich saw the arrow in the air; it struck his breast-plate with a slight tap, and dropped on the deck with a faint clatter. It was an effort as feeble as a child’s — the shaft was already spent in it’s fifty yards’ flight by the time it reached him. His furred judicial robe would have been as effective protection as his steel breastplate. The arrow was merely a thin cane, crudely sharpened at one end, and with a single parrot’s feather at the other. But the gesture had excited the Spaniards. A crossbowman lifted his lumbering weapon to reply, and lowered it again at a hasty order from the Admiral.
“Put that crossbow down!” he called, in his high tenor. “We are at peace with them. Hey, Diego, there, beat your tambourine, and you boys dance to it. Show them that we mean no harm.”
It was a ludicrous scene, the ship’s boys capering on the forecastle, and the sullen Indians gazing up at them uncomprehending. The canoe was in the lee of the
Holy Name
now, and the wind was gradually drifting the big ship down upon it. The Admiral himself was up on the bulwark, jingling hawk’s-bells — hawk’s-bells had been found to be an unfailing attraction in the other Indian islands — and Alonso Perez was beside him, a red woolen cap in each hand held temptingly towards them.
“Jorge,” muttered the Admiral out of the corner of his mouth to a seaman close at hand. “Strip off your coat and make ready to upset the canoe.”
The canoe was close alongside as Jorge swung himself over the bulwark and dropped amid a wild scream from the Indians. The canoe overturned, and the occupants were flung into the sea. They were glad to clutch the ropes thrown to them and to be pulled on deck, where they stood, dripping water, with the Spaniards clustered round them. Four of them were men and two women, the women quite naked, but three of the men were wearing cloaks of coarse cotton about their shoulders — Rich examined the material. It was of poorer weave than any he had ever seen.
“Make fast the canoe!” called the Admiral over the bulwark. “Put those paddles back in her!”
The Indians made a frightened group, their arms about each other and their teeth chattering in fright, while the Spaniards pushed and elbowed to see more closely these strange humans, who felt no shame at nudity, who had never heard the name of God, who knew nothing of steel or gunpowder. Someone stretched out a hand and stroked a woman’s shoulder; she shrank from the touch at first, but when it was renewed she gradually recovered from her shyness and smiled a little over her shoulder at the man who caressed her, like a child; but a new bellow of laughter made her seek safety again beside her fellows.
The Admiral pushed through the mob, resplendent in his scarlet velvet with his glittering helmet and armor; the Spaniards falling back to make room for him revealed him and his position of authority to the Indians. He was uttering strange words learned in Cuba and Española, and they responded to his soothing tone of voice even though they clearly could not understand what he said.
“Guanahin,” said the Admiral. “Cibao. Cuba. Hayti.”
The names of these places meant nothing to them.
“
Canoa
,” said the Admiral, pointing overside.
That they understood; they nodded and smiled.
“
Canoa
,” they said, in chorus, and one of them went on to say more, in a sing-song tone.
It was the Admiral’s turn to shake his head.
“Their speech is not unlike that of Española,” he said to Rich. “But it is not the same, save for a few words, like
canoa
.”
“
Canoa
,” repeated one of the Indians, parrot-fashion.
The Admiral jingled one of his hawk’s-bells enticingly, and they eyed it with wonder. He offered it, and they shrank back a little. He took the hand of one of the men, and put the bell into it, shutting his fingers over it, and then setting the bell a-rattle again by shaking the man’s fist. An awed expression crept over the man’s face as he realized that this bell was actually to be his. He could hardly credit his good fortune, cautiously opening his hand and finally jingling the bell delightedty. All the Indians were smiling broadly now.
Rich’s eyes were on the necklace worn by the woman in the background. He stretched out his hand to examine it; she shrank away for a moment, and he tried to make soothing noises. But immediately she understood what he wanted, and stepped forward, proffering a loop of the necklace to him. He examined it closely. It was a string of pearls — two yards of pearls. The other Spaniards noticed what he was doing, and surged towards them, frightening her; a score of hands were stretched out for the necklace, when the Admiral turned fiercely upon them and they dropped back again.
