‘Seize hold of him!’ hissed Garcia into Rich’s ear.
‘Quiet!’ muttered Rich in reply over his shoulder.
He held out his hand, peacefully.
‘Hullo, little one,’ he said.
The little boy took his finger from his mouth and stared all the harder, postponing his tears.
‘Come to me,’ said Rich. ‘Come along, little one. Come and talk to me.’
Clearly while he spoke gently the child would not be frightened. He racked his brains for things to say, chattering ludicrously, and the little boy slowly began to sidle towards him, with many hesitations.
‘There!’ said Rich, squatting down on his heels to bring their two faces on a level.
The little boy piped out something incomprehensible; his eyes were fixed on Rich’s helmet, and he stretched out a small hand and touched it.
‘Pretty!’ said Rich. ‘Pretty!’
The little boy replied in his own strange language, still engrossed in the helmet. When at last his interest died away Rich cautiously straightened himself.
‘There!’ he said again, and pointed slowly up the path. ‘Mother? Father?’
He began gently to walk forward, and the little boy put his hand in his and trotted with him.
They came out into a little clearing. There was a tiny wisp of smoke rising in the centre, marking the position of a small fire. On one side there were five strange houses of dead leaves, but no human stirred; as they stood grouped at the edge of the clearing they could hear no sound save that of the birds and the insects. The little boy tugged at Rich’s hand to draw him forward, and then raised his voice, calling. An Indian woman broke from the forest beyond the clearing and came running heavily towards them. She, too, was naked, and far gone in pregnancy; she caught up the little boy in her arms and stared at them, asking urgent questions of the child meanwhile.
Rich spread his left hand again in the instinctive gesture of peace, even though his right still held his drawn sword.
‘We come in peace,’ he said. He tried to make soothing noises; the little boy pointed at the glittering helmets and chattered shrilly to his mother.
Now there was a bustle and stir in the forest; a score of Indians came forth into the clearing, old and young, men and women and children. Rich, looking to see if any of them were armed, saw that one man carried a little cane bow-as feeble as a ten-year-old child’s-and two small cane arrows, and two others carried headless cane spears, against which ordinary clothes--leaving leather coats out of account--would be adequate protection. He took off his helmet.
‘We are here,’ he announced, forcing his voice down into quiet conversational tones, ‘in the name of Their Highnesses the King and Queen of Castile and Leon.’
The Indians smiled, with flashing white teeth, chattering to each other in their high-pitched voices.
‘The woman there has pearls!’ said Garcia at Rich’s shoulder.
Round each arm above the elbow she wore a rope of pearls, each pearl larger than any they had obtained before.
‘Look at them, by God!’ said Tarpia.
The Indians noticed their gestures and turned to see what it was which was attracting so much attention; it was obvious enough to them that it was the pearls. They chattered and laughed to each other, the wearer of the pearls-a fine, handsome woman of early middle age-laughing as much as any of them, a little bashfully. The wrinkled old man beside her--husband or father, it was not apparent which-laughed and clapped her on the shoulder, urging her forward. She approached them modestly, eyes cast down. She stripped the pearls from her arms, stood hesitating for a moment, and then thrust one rope into Garcia’s hand and the other into Tarpia’s, scuttling back to her companions with a laugh. The Spaniards eyed their treasures.
‘We must give them something in exchange,’ said Rich. The Admiral’s orders had been very strict on the point that all treasure should be bartered for and never taken.
‘I know what I should give her,’ said Garcia, eyeing her nudity.
Rich tried to ignore him; he sheathed his sword--a simple act which yet caused a new outburst of piping comment from the Indians-and fumbled through his pockets. He had two silver coins and a handful of copper ones, and he walked towards the Indians and dropped a coin into each hand as long as the supply lasted. The Indians looked curiously at the money. One of them suddenly spied the Queen’s head on the coin and pointed it out to the others. Instantly they were all laughing again. To them it appeared to be the greatest joke in the world that someone should represent human features on an inanimate object-such an idea had never occurred to them. The wrinkled man presented Rich with his spear-a mere cane with the point charred with fire-and made a gesture embracing all his fellows and the encampment. There was an inquiring look in his face; clearly he was anxious to know if there was anything else the Spaniards would like. It dawned upon Rich, remembering also the interview with the other Indians in the canoe, that the first instinct of these people on meeting strangers was to give them presents. He smiled and nodded pacifically, a little embarrassed.
A fresh idea suddenly struck the wrinkled man, and he turned and cried out to the others. His suggestion was greeted with obvious acclamation. The Indians laughed again and clapped their hands. Some ran towards the huts, some came and took the Spaniards’ hands and led them towards the space between the huts and the fire, skipping like children at the new prospect. There was a fallen log near the fire. From the huts the Indians dragged out a few more blocks of wood, and most of the Spaniards found seats in this way. To tempt the others to sit down the Indians patted the earth invitingly. The women ran in and out of the huts, all a-bustle, while the men took sticks and began to open the earth near the fire.
A girl put a big leaf on Rich’s lap; another girl brought him a flimsy basket filled with lumps of strange bread and offered it to him.
‘Cassava,’ she said; Rich remembered the word as occurring in the depositions of survivors returned from the Indies.
The men had by now completed their task. They had laid open a hole beside the fire, and from it arose a savoury steam which smelt deliriously, even to the Spaniards who had eaten only an hour ago; obviously the Spaniards had reached the clearing at a moment when the Indians were about to dine. With sticks the Indians hoisted from the hole what looked at first to be a bundle of dead leaves, and when they peeled the leaves off the smell grew more delicious than ever. The operation was not completed with ease-two of the men contrived to burn their fingers, to the accompaniment of fresh peals of laughter-but at last the unrecognizable roast was laid bare. The wrinkled man took a leaf in each hand and began to break up the meat; the women scurried back and forth with more leaves. Rich found a savoury bit on his lap; he bit cautiously into it. It was a delicious tender meat. Another woman brought him a little gourd; it was only fresh water, for, as Rich knew already, the Indians of these islands knew no other beverage.
‘What the devil is this we’re eating?’ asked Bernardo de Tarpia. ‘It’s good.’
‘What is this?’ asked Rich of one of the women. He pointed to the meat and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
‘Iguana,’ said the woman. ‘Iguana.’
The name meant nothing to any of the Spaniards, as their expression showed. One of the Indian men came to the rescue. He pointed up into the trees, and, going down on his hands and knees, made a pretence of scurrying along a branch.
‘Monkey, by God!’ said Tarpia.
‘Monkey?’ asked Acevedo.
He made a series of gestures like a monkey, much to the amusement of everybody. The Indians clung to each other and laughed and laughed. Then one of them wiped the tears from his eyes and began a new pantomime. He went down on all fours. He turned his head this way and that. He put the edge of his hand on the base of his spine and waved it from side to side. He projected two fingers from his face beside his eyes and moved them in different directions.
‘Iguana,’ he said, rising.
It was a
graphic piece of work. There could be no doubt what he meant-he had imitated the lashing of the iguana’s tail and the goggling of its strange eyes to perfection.
‘He means a lizard,’ said Rich, trying to keep a little of the consternation out of his voice.
‘Does he?’ said Tarpia. ‘Well, lizard is good enough for me.’
‘My God, yes,’ said Garcia. ‘Look at this.’
He had drawn one of the girls to his knee, and was caressing her naked body. She stood stock-still, with eyes downcast, trembling a little. Rich looked anxiously round the ring. He saw the smile die away from the face of one of the Indian men. The merriment ceased, it was as if a shadow had come over the sun.
‘Remember the Admiral’s orders, Don Cristobal,’ said Rich, anxiously.
‘Oh, to Hell with orders,’ expostulated Garcia.
‘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 Garcia. 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 favour 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 labour 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 up on 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 condition 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 Garcia 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 nattering 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 hilt, 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 repor
t 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 sternsheets. A shout from the forest made them pause and look round.
‘That’s Garcia,’ 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 sternsheets.
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. Garcia 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 Garcia’s hand and Garcia 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, Garcia leaned over the side and washed clean his hands in the sea.
The Earthly Paradise Page 6