To the Indies (9 page)

“Don Cristobal’s talking treason,” interjected Acevedo. He grinned as he said it, but that did not blunt the point of what he said.

“Oh, very well then,” grumbled García. He clapped the girl on the flank and pushed her from him, and the tension died away from the attitudes of the Indians. The women hastened round, offering more bread; the wrinkled man broke off more meat. There were fruits being offered, too, like pale yellow eggs, faintly aromatic when Rich smelled one, vaguely acid and pleasant when he bit into the pulp.

“Guava,” said the lad who gave it to him, explanatorily.

The shadow had passed from over the sun now; there was giggling and talking again. It dawned upon Rich that these people had given away the meal they had been about to eat themselves; he wondered if they had anything left over, and he realized that he need not let his conscience trouble him too much on the point. Their pleasure in giving was so obvious and unassumed. It was the Spaniards who were conferring the favor by accepting. He felt a sudden wave of melancholy come over him. These laughing generous people, naked from the day of their birth, with sticks for weapons and houses of leaves, and destined to the damnation awaiting the unenlightened, had no need or desire for gold or jewels. They had no more knowledge of labor than they had of property or of civilized warfare. To try to make an empire out of them, as the Admiral dreamed of doing, meant either suffering for them or weakness in the empire. They would be happier left alone — he caught himself upon the verge of heresy as well as of treason. It was the Christian man’s duty to see that their feet were set in the way of God, and it was the sensible Spaniard’s duty to seek out the treasures of this land to the increase of the wealth of Spain. Yet he still revolted from all the implications. Weakly, he tried to brush the problem from him as he brushed his hands together and rose. The shadow of the forest stretched from side to side of the clearing; it was late afternoon. Only this morning, they had dragged their anchors in the Serpent’s Mouth, and it seemed like a month ago.

“Back to the ship!” he called to the others. He was conscious of the invidiousness of his position, of uncertainty as to whether he had to request or could command; more, he knew with a qualm that he was not of the stuff to whom command came naturally. But they rose to obey him. Tarpia and García were arm in arm, muttering to each other with their eyes on the women — he could guess the sort of filth they were saying to each other.

The wrinkled man came with a new question, pointing up to the sky, repeating his question and tapping Rich on the breast and pointing upwards again. He was asking if they were going to return to their habitation in the sky.

“Oh, no, no, no!” laughed Rich.

He thought for a moment of trying to explain all the complexities of ships and sea passages and the kingdom of Spain in sign language, and gave up the notion as soon as he thought of it. Others who might follow him could tackle that task. He shook the old man’s hand, and he waved good-bye to the women. As he set his feet on the homeward path with his own flock he looked back at them, standing grouped in the clearing, each with his arm on another’s shoulder. The melancholy he had felt before flooded back within him, and he plunged without a word along the narrow path, the others trailing after him.

The journey back to the boat was not as toilsome as the upward climb. At one corner, by the brook, they caught a glimpse of the sea — the ships had drifted a league or more along the coast but were still within easy reach; from the way their bows were turned to all points of the compass it was obvious that they were quite becalmed. The brook gurgled sleepily, the parrots overhead squawked and fluttered, and all the noises of the forest engulfed them again as they went on down the hill. Far away, Rich heard the faint cry of a strange bird, high and shrill, repeated more than once.

They came out at last into the bright evening sunshine of the beach, where Don Diego Moret dozed on his back and Jorge whittled at a stick with his knife. They looked up as the party approached.

“Is all well?” asked Rich, and then, in the same moment, he knew that all was not well. Gonzalo Acevedo was close behind him. One of the seamen was a little farther back. Rodrigo Acevedo emerged from the forest as he stood and waited, and after him there came — nobody.

“Where’s Don Cristobal? Where’s Don Bernardo?” he demanded.

“I thought they were in front with you,” said Acevedo, a little surprised.

“Where’s Diego?” asked Jorge of the seaman.

“I thought he was following me.”

“Perhaps they are coming,” said Acevedo. But his eyes met Rich’s, and they both knew they were thinking the same thoughts.

“Shall I give them a call?” suggested Jorge.

He lifted up his voice in a loud seaman’s bellow. Startled birds rose from the trees; an echo came faintly from above, but no answering cry. He bellowed again, and there was still no answer.

“I shall go back for them,” announced Rich. The unaccustomed exercise in the sweltering heat had tired him out; his legs were stiff and weary already. It had been an effort to cover the last few hundred yards to the beach, and it was only the prospect of resting there which had brought him down to the sea without a halt. His heart sank as he thought of the stiff climb back through the forest.

“It’s an hour’s march to the village,” said Rodrigo Acevedo, warningly, “and not more than an hour of daylight.”

The sun was dipping towards the horizon.

“They may be coming down, another way,” suggested Gonzalo Acevedo. “You could miss them easily. Wait a few minutes.”

Rich wavered. There was a great deal in both arguments; and if what he suspected was the case, if the missing men had made their way back to the village, they must have already had an hour or more to work their will there, and would have another hour before he got back again. And what was he to do when he got there? And how was he to find his way back to the boat in darkness?

“I’ll wait,” he said, bitterly, turning his back on them to hide his feelings.

He had been flattering himself he was learning to command men, and this was the first of his achievements. He sat down on a fallen tree and gnawed at his fists.

“What’s all this about a village?” asked Moret, curiously, of the Acevedos.

They began to tell him of their experiences and discoveries; the eager babble went on unheeded by Rich, who sat with his back to them, his joints aching and his heart sick. Suddenly a new recollection came to him, one that set his heart beating fast and increased his feeling of nausea. That wild, high-pitched cry which he had heard repeated, far back in the forest, and which he had thought to be the cry of a strange bird — he knew what it was now. He could guess what bloody work it told of, back in the village. He got to his feet, and paced the sand stiffly, boiling with helpless fury. He found himself gripping his sword belt, he who had never crossed blades with an enemy in his life, and he snatched his hand away in self-contempt. He started for the forest, and turned back. The sun was setting in a wild glory of scarlet; the lower edge of its disk was almost touching the sea, and the level light strangely illuminated the beach and the boat with the little waves lapping round it.

A dull report reached his ears, and, looking towards the ships, he saw a little puff of smoke at the bows of the
Holy Name
. The great standard at her mainmast-head came slowly down, rose again, descended and rose.

“That’s a signal to us, sir,” called Jorge. “We’ll have to go back.”

“Very well,” said Rich, his mind made up. “The others will be left in the forest.”

They began to put their gear back into the boat, and they made preparations for pushing her out. Rich climbed in and sat in the stern-sheets. A shout from the forest made pause and look around.

‘”That’s García,” said Rodrigo Acevedo.

The three of them came in sight now at the edge of the trees, running over the sand towards the boat. Rich saw their faces in the light of the last of the sun, like a trio of schoolboys caught in a piece of mischief, guilty and yet impudent, meeting his eyes and looking away again.

“Where have you been?” asked Moret as they came up, panting.

“Oh, we missed our way,” said Tarpia, looking sidelong at Rich in the stern-sheets.

They followed the example of the others, throwing their weight against the boat and splashing out with her in the shallows. There was no opportunity of talking for a moment, and then they all came tumbling in over the sides. García was on the aftermost thwart beside Jorge, and face to face with Rich. He reached for an oar along with the others.

“Shall we have to use these things?” he asked, loudly, dropping the oar clumsily into the rowlock.

Rich was staring at García’s hand, and García caught sight of his expression and followed his gaze. The hand was stained with dried blood, hand and wrist, black in the light of the fast-dying sunset. Very coolly, García leaned over the side and washed clean his hands in the sea.

“It will be a long pull back to the ships,” he said, and took hold of his oar again. His teeth showed white in his swarthy face as he smiled.