by Scott O'Dell
“Let us now ask for rain,” he said, and the three of us knelt while I prayed, beseeching God to hear our supplications.
After five days, when water once more ran low, our prayers were answered. It came on to rain, a steady downpour that we caught in sails and sluiced into our casks. With the ten casks we had taken from the Santa Cecilia filled to the brims, the captain was now certain that our supply would last until we made a landfall.
Easterly winds remained steady and we made good progress, logging an average of 130 Roman miles for each day of seven. On the seventh day, Captain Roa changed course and we followed a rule he had discovered somewhere in his travels: “Sail southward until the butter melts, then sail to the west.”
But despite the fine weather and our steady progress westward, the crew began to grumble. We were now some twenty-seven days from the mouth of the Gua dalquivir and eighteen days from Grand Canary. The time seemed longer to men who all their lives had trod the cobbled streets of Seville, never the deck of a bob bing caravel. There was no talk of coming to the end of the earth and falling off into a fiery chasm or coming upon monstrous sea animals that could consume a ship in one swallow. Columbus had dispelled these fears several years before. I think it was our encounter with the Santa Cecilia that unnerved them.
In any event, to quiet the crew before serious trouble arose, Captain Roa began to keep two separate logs. One was a record of the actual miles we covered each day, which he held secret from the crew. The other was a log that was given out only after it had been changed. Thus, on a day when we covered 130 miles, Roa might add twenty and post our run as 150 miles. He had learned this ruse from Columbus. It has worked for him and it worked now for Captain Roa.
Toward evening on the fourteenth day of good weather, still running with a brisk wind at our stern under sunny skies, the watch saw a gull-like bird of sooty mien circle the caravel and land high upon our mainmast. Whereupon the watch cheered, and those who were sleeping roused themselves and all to a man danced upon the deck.
I watched them from the sterncastle, waiting until they quieted down and the barber had finished curling Don Luis’s beard before I got ready to sing the Salve Regina.
“A childish lot,” Don Luis said. “A feathered visitor makes them dance. Call the captain; I want a word with him.”
Captain Roa explained that the bird was a rabo de junco. “They are often found near land. But sometimes not. Columbus spied such a bird and thought he was within twenty-five leagues of a landfall. Columbus was wrong.”
“This is not the story you’ll tell the crew,” Don Luis said.
“No, I will say that it is a happy sign. But they al ready think this.”
“Is it? Tell me, is the bird that sits there on its lofty perch an omen of good or of evil?”
“By my reckonings, should fair weather continue, we are three days’ hard sailing from the island of Hispaniola.”
In fine spirits, I sang and played, and everyone on the Santa Margarita joined in, even the cutthroat crew and Baltasar Guzmán.
CHAPTER 5
TOWARD EVENING THE NEXT DAY WE OVERTOOK A LARGE SEAGOING canoe crowded with Indians. We moved up into the wind and sat dead in the water while the dugout, which was as long as our caravel, came up beside us, propelled by what must have been three dozen men using long colored paddles.
Looking down upon them, I was struck by their thick bodies, which were painted from head to toe in swirls and stripes of violent yellow. And by their heads, which were shaven clean on one side; on the other side coarse black hair hung to their shoulders. Esteban identified them as Caribs, a savage tribe feared by all the other In dians of the Spanish islands.
He pointed to five natives, lighter in hue than the Caribs, who lay bound hand and foot in the prow of the big canoe.
“Captives,” he said. “Soon they will be roasted and eaten. The Caribs are cannibals.”
Don Luis instructed him to invite the Carib chieftain aboard our ship.
The cacique was a fat, broad-faced Indian who was sitting regally under a grass canopy. He gathered him self together with the help of several of his retainers and started up the rope ladder, followed by a half-dozen of his naked retainers. Esteban, prompted by Don Luis, held up his hand and commanded the cacique to halt and advance with only three of his servants.
The cacique brought gifts of fruit, varieties I had never seen before, and the three servants carried large gourds filled with painted objects. Don Luis examined the trinkets but, finding them made of base metal, shook his head and pointed to a gold ornament that the chieftain wore suspended from a gold chain around his neck. At the same time he held out a double handful of hawk’s bells, lively little bells fashioned for horses to wear.
The cacique, who had a strong, unpleasant smell about him, shook his head and motioned toward a brass bombard that Captain Roa had set up on the main deck, ready to fire should the Caribs decide to attack us. In turn Don Luis shook his head, and the two men stood staring at each other until Captain Roa produced a small copper pot.
This the chieftain seized and put it to his nose. We were told by Esteban that he was sniffing it to see if it was made of copper, since the Indians deemed copper more valuable than gold. He then handed over a small gold object that looked like two snakes twined together.
“Ask him,” Captain Roa said to Esteban, “how close we are to land.”
The cacique answered by pointing westward, telling Esteban that it was close. “A big island, very close.”
“Ask him,” said Don Luis, “where the gold in the necklace he wears about his neck comes from.”
The cacique pointed westward again. It was another island, he told Esteban, far bigger than the first he had spoken of. And farther away; five days’ journey away. But there we would find much gold, cities made of gold.
The cacique went on talking, making many gestures with his dimpled hands, but Esteban for some reason of his own did not translate what he said, other than to say that it was about the far-off golden cities.
There were more small trades, but being eager to make a landfall before dark descended, Captain Roa gave orders to hoist sail. The Indians trooped down the ladder and, hailing us with happy cries, disappeared un der our stern.
A sailor, Juan Sosa, a native of Arroyo, was climbing the mainmast with three of the crew when he suddenly paused. At the same moment I heard a whisper, as if a breeze had sprung up, and a flight of arrows passed over my head. Clutching himself, Juan fell backward into the sea. A command went aft to the helmsman and we began to circle back toward our fallen comrade, but the savages reached him first. They pulled him from the sea and flung his body among the pile of bound cap tives. A round of musketry from our deck did them no harm apparently, for they fast disappeared.
Near dusk we came upon a large island, presumably the one the cacique had spoken of. Captain Roa could not find it on his chart and admitted, after Don Luis had pinned him down, that he did not know exactly where we were; probably near the Caribbean island of San Salvador, which he presumed we had passed in the night.
Don Luis promptly named it Isla Arroyo and asked me to call upon God to bless the island. Captain Roa marked it down on his chart, making the area somewhat larger than it seemed to be.
Isla Arroyo was heavily wooded, with tall trees grow ing right down to the shore and a curving bay tucked in behind a jutting, rugged promontory. As he stood look ing at the calm water, Captain Roa said that when the stars came out, he’d take readings that would show him our location. No one, he said, except Christopher Co lumbus ever made accurate sightings from the deck of a bobbing caravel. And the great admiral himself always trusted his instincts more than the sightings.
Evening light fell upon the placid bay, the strip of white sand that fringed it. Cries of “ashore, ashore” from soldiers and bowmen and crew rose in a chorus as the anchors went down. But Don Luis forbade the lancha to be put in the water, and when men began to strip, making ready to set off for the
beach, he threatened them with the lash.
“We go tomorrow,” he said. “In daylight, when we have taken precautions against an ambush. Remember that we are now in the land of savages. We’re not at home on the quiet banks of the Guadalquivir.”
Esteban, standing beside Don Luis, backed up his master’s warning not by anything he said, but by the grim look on his face. I felt that even in daylight, with soldiers on guard, he would prefer to stay on the ship.
To be truthful, I felt somewhat that way myself. The sight of the Indian captives bound hand and foot and piled in the bottom of the Carib canoe was still with me. As was the sight of Juan Sosa, struck by a flight of arrows, falling from the mainmast into the sea. Before me now was a black jungle where anything might lurk.
The fear that grips the heart when you are in God’s presence, be it in the quiet of the night or upon your knees in prayer, this I know. But it was the first time in my life that I had felt the twinge of physical fear, raised as I had been in a place where one day was much like the next. Once, in a boyhood fight with the village bully, who had large hairy fists, I had received a flattened nose (signs of which, incidentally, I bear to this day). But the altercation had come about so surprisingly and the blow was so sudden that I had no time at all to be fearful.
In the dusk, with a wan moon rising over a myste rious island, I didn’t blame Esteban for his silence.
After supper that night Baltasar Guzmán fell to talk ing about the golden cities the Carib chieftain had men tioned to us. He had sailed with Captain Roa on the last voyage Columbus made, and during this time, when they anchored at a place the admiral named Costa Rica, he had heard tales about these cities, or so he claimed, and about a golden man who was the emperor of a place far to the south of Costa Rica.
“This man,” Guzmán said, “rules a large country that is very mountainous. It has a seacoast where large ca noes come and go, but mostly it is a country of high peaks and deep valleys and rushing waters. There is gold everywhere in this land. Everywhere you go you will find gold.”
Pacheco, the barber, broke in, “This country is how far away?”
“Far. Very far. My understanding is that it would take many months to arrive there. By sea, through mountains and jungles and rivers. A long time, Pacheco.”
“But worth it,” said the ship’s carpenter, Maldonado.
“Yes,” said Guzmán. “The houses have gold floors and walls of gold, those of the poor as well as the rich. The streets that lead to these houses are paved with gold, blocks so heavy that it requires four men to lift just one.”
The men sat with their mouths ajar. The armorer said, “But the golden man? What of him?”
“From the stories I have heard,” said Guzmán, “he is called Lope Luzir, which means Lord of Great Lords. He is a young man still unable to grow a beard but tall and handsome with blue eyes, which seems a singular occurrence since he is Indian by birth.
“This lord has many strange habits. He begins his day at dawn, when his attendants carry him on a golden lit ter to a small lake among the reeds. There he strips away his night clothing, and two priests cover him with sweet oils. Then two more priests come and from head to foot cover him, even his face, with gold dust.
“As dawn breaks, he stands there with his arms raised to the sun in prayer. Then he walks into the lake, and his attendants wash the gold from his body and dress him. This happens every day of the year. It happened to his father and to his grandfather. The bottom of the lake, it’s said, is paved with dust, gold dust lying deep as the golden lord is tall.”
The crew was silent. I started another tune on the gittern and was told to stop. The men pressed Señor Guzmán for more details of this fabulous land, and he supplied them, talking out of what he had heard or his imagination until the moon rose high and the watch was changed.
CHAPTER 6
LATER ON WHEN NIGHT HAD FALLEN, SMALL FIRES APPEARED ALONG the beach. The sound of voices came to us faintly across the water. But in the morning the beach was deserted, and there was no sign of life anywhere.
Don Luis had the lancha lowered and went ashore with his eight soldiers and six bowmen, leaving the rest of us aboard. He was gone for an hour or more, and I could see him moving along the edge of the jungle, appearing and disappearing among the heavy brush and tall trees.
After an hour he came back to the caravel in a hurry, sent the crew ashore, cautioned the bowmen and mus keteers to be on guard and, with me and Captain Roa in tow and a sack of hawk’s bells, returned to the island.
He led us up the sandy beach a half league to the banks of a stream that flowed through a narrow opening into the sea. Beyond this opening, masked from the sea by a forest of mangroves, was a wide lagoon. There upon the still waters of the lagoon rode more than a hundred canoes of various sizes, painted in many bright colors and moored to colored stakes.
“Those who own the canoes are hiding, but where?” Don Luis said to Esteban.
“They watch from nearby,” the slave replied.
“Call them,” Don Luis said. “Say that we come to trade. We come in peace.”
Cupping his hands, Esteban let out a piercing cry. It died away, unanswered. But presently a man with a gray beard, naked except for a circlet of shells around his waist, appeared at the edge of the clearing. He waved, and Esteban went forward to meet him. They talked for a time, mostly with their hands, while a silent group of young men came out of the shadowy forest and gathered around.
Esteban and the cacique, followed by his men, who carried short bows and a bundle of arrows, then came up to Don Luis. The cacique bowed and was about to drop to his knees when Don Luis put out his hand and gently stopped him. I noticed that at this moment his eyes took in with one swift glance the ornament the chieftain wore around his neck. It was a clump of gold, half as big as an apple, studded with small objects that looked like pearls.
Guzmán brought out a basket of trinkets and spread them on the ground in front of the cacique—green and blue beads, hawk’s bells, holland shirts, and red caps.
In return, the cacique brought ten braces of fowl, maize cakes, prickly pears, and gourds filled with plums. Then Don Luis asked Esteban to translate his words and in his most commanding voice said to the chieftain and his servants:
“We have come to this beautiful island in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ and our Royal King and Queen and of our advocate, St. Peter. We come in peace, with love in our hearts, to explain to you our holy faith.”
Here Don Luis paused and had a small image brought forth of Our Lady with Her Child in Her arms. Then he explained to them that this image was a like ness of the Blessed Mary, who dwells in the high heavens and is the Mother of Our Lord.
The cacique listened carefully, his lips moving as Esteban translated, and when the speech was finished he bowed as if he understood everything and welcomed us to his island, which was called Tecoa. Beyond him, I noticed that many of his subjects—men, women, and children—had gathered and were shyly looking out at us through the underbrush.
Don Luis had a rude cross brought, two tree limbs held together with rawhide, and had it planted in front of the cacique and again asked Esteban to translate as he explained its true meaning.
“This is like the cross,” he said, “upon which Our Lord Jesus Christ was fastened and put to death.”
He told how afterward Our Lord was buried and how He rose from the dead. When Don Luis was finished he turned to me, asking that I bless the chieftain and his people. I replied that I could not, as a seminarian, bless anyone; only a priest could do that.
Don Luis smiled. “You look like a priest, with your gray gown and pious expression.”
“I am not a priest.”
“Priest or no priest, what does it matter? No importa. It’s the spirit that counts.”
“Spirit does count.”
“Mumble, if you please. Say anything.”
His words chilled me. “I will say what I wish and not as a priest.”
It was the first time in our many years of friendship that I had stood my ground against him. Seeing that I meant to stand firm, he smiled and said, “Then sing. Sing the Salve Regina. Sing in your best voice, in your loudest and softest tones. Sing like a dove; sing like a lion. We will give the savages something to stir their hellish hearts.”
For the first time I felt that he had only contempt for the Indians he yearned to save.
“¡Venga! ” he said and pushed me forward a step.
Before I began to sing, I heard him ask Baltasar Guzmán if he thought that the objects the cacique wore on the gold ornament were pearls. And I heard Guzmán reply, “We shall find out.”
CHAPTER 7
THE WHITE OBJECTS IN THE CHIEFTAIN’S GOLD NECKLACE WERE INDEED pearls.
The Indians gathered oysters in the lagoon from rocks and the trunks of mangrove trees. It is said that these open during the night when feeding. Before they close at dawn, drops of dew fall upon the lips of the shells and thus in time pearls are formed. I do not know whether this is true or not, but I do know that the In dians were in the habit of harvesting the oysters for food and in them sometimes found pearls of great beauty, which they fashioned into ornaments.
On the day following our meeting with the cacique, Don Luis brought a sack of glass beads ashore and made a pact with him to trade it for a sack of pearls. The cacique called out all of his young men and set them to gathering oysters, which they brought by canoe to a central place at the head of the lagoon. There, they opened the shells, using knives that Guzmán furnished.
The young men took their time, however, talking and laughing, as was their wont. This displeased Don Luis, for he was eager to go in search of his island encomienda, which we had somehow missed and which Cap tain Roa, by his new calculations with the astrolabe, placed now anchored. some hundred leagues south and presumably east of where we were now anchored.