The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  Maria meets my gaze, and as if knowing my thoughts, drops my hand, then gestures toward her door. “I think the bed will please you. Gonzalo has decorated the headboard with beautiful rose carvings.”

  I am about to enter when I hear an awful wailing coming from the Plaza behind us. I stop and glance back. The cries and shouts are so terrible it would be unthinkable to continue with Maria. “We must see what is wrong,” I say, heading for the Plaza, with Maria close behind.

  In the Plaza, two Taino men, their faces bloody, their bodies battered and bruised, stand before a group of nobles. Nooses drape their necks, the ends of which dangle down their bloody chests.

  “I tell you these are the ones who surprised our patrol yesterday and strangled three of our men,” says a noble with raised fist. Even from where I stand I can see the blood on his knuckles.

  “Beat them again! Make them confess,” someone shouts.

  Then all becomes quiet as the Governing Council approaches, Don Bartolome and Antonio among them.

  “Caonabo, the ruling chief of Maguana, is a king who also rules over eighty other chiefs,” Antonio says, stepping forward, “chiefs who are obliged to align themselves with him in time of war. Already he is forming an alliance against us.” The wind catches Antonio’s hair, making it fall across his eyes. Absently he brushes it aside, revealing an earnestness of expression. “What better way to show Caonabo we wish peace than by displaying mercy? Let these Tainos live and return to Caonabo as proof of our generosity and goodwill.”

  “And show ourselves cowards?” Don Bartolome says.

  Then everyone begins shouting at once.

  “And allow spilled Castilian blood to go unavenged?”

  “We must show these devils who is master.”

  “Hang them!”

  “Burn them at the stake!”

  When Antonio looks up and sees me, he gestures with a slight movement of his head for me to leave. It is apparent he expects the outcome to be bad. And sure enough, sometime later, after I have returned from seeing Maria’s new home and carved bed, and am kindling the firebox for the noon meal, I detect the familiar smell of burning flesh coming from the direction of the Plaza.

  Bata, Maria and I sit outside my door weaving mats for their new huts when the church bell rings. Since it rang None only a short while ago, this new ringing was surely an alert. We leave our weaving, and as we head for the church I see four ships approaching from the west. In the distance they look more like gulls skimming the water than naos or caravels. Surely they come from Castile since Columbus’s ships are all anchored in the harbor.

  Shouts and cheers go up, and pebbles skitter as men run to the edge of the large rocky promontory. We run with them, and stop only when we reach land’s end. More than one man shouts, “It is Antonio de Torres.”

  “Can it really be Torres, with so few ships?” Maria says.

  I shrug. It is hard to see any identifying flags for the vessels are still far off.

  “Torres was to return with thirteen ships filled with a year’s worth of food and goods for a thousand people. Surely this cannot be Torres,” Maria persists.

  But who else? I wonder.

  Diego and Bartolome Columbus suddenly appear on the rocky ledge. Antonio is with them, and when he sees me, he leaves the others.

  “Much needed supplies,” Antonio says, coming alongside me and gesturing with his chin toward the ships entering the harbor.

  “Some say it is Torres. But how can that be? He was to return with more than a dozen ships.”

  “It is Torres.” Antonio leans closer as though not wanting anyone to hear. “When the Admiral learned only four ships were seen on the horizon, he flew into a rage. He is certain Fray Buil and others have blackened his name by whispering falsehoods in our Queen’s ear. He sees no other explanation for the Sovereigns cutting our provisions by sending this small fleet.”

  My stomach knots. What is to become of a colony the Sovereigns no longer support with a full heart? But I hold my peace, and watch the ships throw anchor. Then watch as longboats load up with people and supplies. When they are filled, the boats are lowered and slowly rowed to shore. And suddenly I am overcome with joy, for first to arrive is a boatload of women! Ten at least, and as many children. And yes, in the next boat too. Another fifteen, and more children. The men have seen them too, and shouts and woops go up as husbands recognize their families. I break from Antonio, and run toward where the women and children are now making their way up the promontory.

  Maria and Bata have joined me, and we all stand waving and shouting our greetings as one by one the women, with their children, pass us on their way to join their husbands. When I glance at Antonio, our eyes meet. And I know what he is thinking, for my thoughts are the same.

  Perhaps this will be a civilized enough place, after all, to raise children.

  I am preparing for Twelfth Night or the eve of the Epiphany. Tomorrow, on the Epiphany or Three Kings Day, we will celebrate the baptism of Jesus as well as remember how the Magi visited the King of Kings in that humble stable and lavished Him with presents. It is a time for ending a twenty-one day fast. It is also a time for giving gifts. And I have two gifts for Antonio. One is a chicken I purchased from Admiral Columbus to make soup. It is cooking in a pot hanging on the spit of our firebox. And while I cut fresh fruit and stack it on a platter, I try to visualize the look on Antonio’s face when I share my second gift.

  Considering all our colony’s hardship and that more than half of those who recently arrived with Antonio de Torres are sick, it has been a wonderful twelve days of Christmas. It began with Christmas Eve, or “Adam and Eve Day” when Antonio and I, and the Vivars, and many of the new women with their children, decorated one of the trees in the Plaza. Having no apples, which is the customary fruit used, we used hog plums.

  Since coming to Isabela I have not seen such contentment. There has been little complaining, and though everyone is concerned about the Tainos, the usual rumor that they will massacre us in our beds has not circulated. Antonio de Torres and his fresh supply of livestock and medicines and wine and food and the thirty odd women and their children have greatly raised our spirits.

  And there is even more good news, for our Admiral has regained his eyesight. Though he is still bedridden, it is rumored he will soon leave it and mount an expedition against Guatiguara, the subchief who recently attacked the newly built fort of Magdalena, killing fifty Christians.

  More bloodshed.

  I suppose the Admiral is obliged to restore order, even if the Indian attacks are only reprisals for our own cruelty. For my peace of mind I must leave these matters to the men, and not stew endlessly over them. I am learning to turn all these burdens over to the Savior. And, oh, how willingly He takes them! It is only because He has, that I am able to take this much pleasure in Twelfth Night. Even now I sing the Pater Noster as I work.

  “What a pleasing voice you have, my love.”

  I turn toward Antonio and see his face shine with excitement. He holds one hand behind his back.

  “What are you are hiding?” I say, pretending only modest interest as I place the fruit on a platter. I am certain he is holding my gift, which I suspect—from the many times he has met with Pasculina’s husband—is a piece of jewelry.

  “It is your gift,” he blurts. “And I must give it to you now.”

  “But we agreed to exchange our gifts after the noon meal.”

  “I cannot wait.” He thrusts out his hand. In it is a folded red silk ribbon that plainly holds something, for it bulges.

  “But we agreed . . . .” Antonio’s face is so earnest and full of excitement I have not the heart to put him off, so I take the ribbon and carefully unwrap it. I gasp when I see a beautiful gold chain holding a gold medallion on which is engraved Antonio’s coat of arms.

  “Turn it over.” Antonio is grinning, hardly able to contain himself.

  When I do, I see engraved initials, side by side; his and mine, and benea
th them the words, Tonto Monta. “It is beautiful,” I say, falling into his arms. “So perfectly beautiful.”

  “For my perfectly beautiful wife.”

  We embrace, and I smell lavender and rosemary, the oils of which he now uses on his hair. “But it is hardly fair you give your gift early, and I do not.” Now it is my turn to quiver with excitement as I place his hands on my belly. Antonio smiles, but looks puzzled. “I am with child,” I finally blurt when I see he has not guessed my secret nor is likely to even if I waited until next Twelfth Night.

  And when my words sink in, Antonio laughs and dances around the room like a boy. And then he comes to me and cups my face in his hands. “No gift could make me happier.”

  The heat from the furnace forces me to step backward. I am with Pasculina and two of the women who came on Torres’s ships with their husbands—men knowledgeable in metal. I have accompanied the women to the smelting furnace, for each has brought her husband a flask of wine to wet his parched throat. “Will they finish in time?” I say to Pasculina.

  “My husband has not been home for nearly a week. He promised today all will be done.”

  It is good to be in the company of these simple women whose society is filled with talk of domestic life. They are earthy and honest, and make me feel part of a culture that is alive and real, and that will endure. Now more than ever, with my child growing inside me, I feel the need to be part of something enduring.

  “He promised all will be done today,” Pasculina repeats.

  “As if there is a choice,” says one of the other women. “For Torres sails tomorrow.”

  We watch as the men take long drinks from their leather flagons before returning to work. They have been melting lead for days. Some for shot—replacing the dwindling supply due to all the Indian trouble—but mostly for sheathing to protect Torres’s ships on the return voyage, sheathing that will keep both the torredo worms and the salt of the Ocean Sea from damaging the hulls.

  The fumes from the furnace sting my eyes and burn my throat. That, mingled with my morning sickness, which has plagued me for weeks now, drives me further from the furnace. When I can tolerate it no longer, I bid the women ‘goodbye’ and walk around the storehouse toward my hut.

  I am almost home when I hear the most awful wailing I have ever heard, more terrible even than the cries of the two Tainos who were beaten in the Plaza. And these cries come not from one throat or two, but from many.

  I rush toward the sound, and when I reach the Plaza, I stop in disbelief. The square is packed with sweating, exhausted Tainos; men and women, both. The women wail in each other’s arms, and the babies they hold wail, too. The men stand together looking dazed. Some try to bolster the courage of their companions, but most look as though it is the end of the world. Surrounding this sea of bodies are Columbus’s soldiers, and at their head, Admiral Columbus himself.

  A platoon of soldiers penetrates the crowd, causing more confusion as women cling to each other in fear, and men look alternately threatening and defeated. But oddly, no one attacks the soldiers, though they are badly outnumbered.

  One by one, the soldiers separate—as though culling a herd—the most desirable males and females, pulling them by the hair or arm, and roughly shoving them into the space they have cleared. I watch in horror as more than five hundred are culled, then shackled with chains, and forced into longboats. Cries and wails of both those on the boats and those left behind rise to a deafening pitch as the captives are rowed to Torres’s four anchored ships. It is clear husbands have been separated from wives, and wives from husbands.

  I run up and down the sides of the Plaza, frantically looking for Antonio. Surely Admiral Columbus has not sanctioned this! Then I see Columbus by the clearing, talking to his commanders as he calmly watches the longboats row away.

  Unthinkable. Our Admiral would never order this. Surely it is a mistake.

  But the horror continues when a commander loudly issues an invitation to all the populace of Isabela to take from the remaining Tainos—who number nearly a thousand—anyone they desire as slaves or concubines. Nobles and peasants alike sift through men and women, inspecting their bodies for blemishes or signs of disease, then bind their choices with ropes and lead them away. Some of the more raucous men sling Taino women over their shoulders and carry them off with no more troubled conscience than if carting away a sack of flour. And when this orgy of flesh peddling is over, nearly six hundred Tainos have been taken. The four hundred remaining in the Plaza look utterly bewildered.

  I see Bata crying and waving her hands as she heads for the edge of the promontory. “They take my sister,” she screams, pointing to the harbor where the ships are anchored. “They take my sister!”

  I go to her out of fear she will throw herself off the cliff. With great effort I lead her back to the Plaza. “Stay here,” I order when I see Antonio talking to Don Bartolome by the church. Then I dash to my husband’s side.

  When Antonio sees the look on my face he grabs my arm and pulls me far away from Don Bartolome.

  “Do something,” I say. All around us the remaining captives weep. Many have collapsed on the ground. Some stand looking up at the sky as if waiting for their deliverance. “You must do something,” I repeat.

  “You know Queen Isabel believes pagan lands are hers by right of conquest.”

  “But you said she ordered Admiral Columbus to treat the Indians kindly, and to convert them to Christ.”

  “These Tainos were taken in battle. They are hostiles. They have raised their hand against us. And Columbus was given permission to enslave all hostile Indians. In war, the conquerors have the right to make slaves of the conquered. There is no pity in this world, Isabel. You of all people should understand that. How many Jews, your relatives even, were expelled from Castile, then sold as slaves by the very people they hired to transport them to safety?” His lips form a tight line. His face is the color of ash. “If they were capable of doing that to us, their own fellow Castilians, what are they able to do in time of war and to hostile heathens? After the fall of Malaga were not Moors taken as slaves? Were not a hundred of them sent to Pope Innocent as a gift? And did not our own Queen send her cousin thirty as well?”

  I am about to answer when I hear the commander tell the remaining Tainos—the ones none of the settlers wanted—that they are free to return to their homes. And I watch in horror as many of the women, who carry babies in their arms, place them on the ground and run away, leaving the Plaza a littered field of squirming, crying infants. I turn to Antonio. “Do something.”

  “I cannot . . . I will not,” he says between clenched teeth. “Do not ask it of me.”

  And so I back away, tears flowing down my cheeks, and feeling, for the first time, angry with my husband, and disappointed, too. And I see by his eyes, which are hard as flint, that he is angry with me, also, for expecting something he is incapable of doing—namely, defying Spain’s time honored tradition of dividing the spoils of war.

  I shade my eyes from the bright sun as I watch the little fleet of four ships sail away. The spot where I stand on the promontory is deserted; a circumstance that fuels my feeling of loneliness. A wave of nausea sweeps over me—the customary morning sickness, which, according to Aunt Leonora, should pass in another month. But it adds to my feeling of misery.

  I squint at the horizon. One of the ships carries my letter to Mama. In it I have written the news that she is to be a grandmamma. I did not tell her that along with my letter the ship carries a cargo of slaves. Nor did I share any details of the difficulties of life in Isabela, or of the imminent danger of a Taino uprising. Nor did I tell her that every day more and more of our men grumble against the Columbus brothers.

  As I watch the ships become specks, I think of yesterday’s terrible scene when men and women were shackled and loaded onto longboats. And worse, I see the Plaza littered with crying babies and their mothers sprinting to freedom. Now that my own child grows within me it is hard to imagine a
mother leaving her child. Surely the Tainos are no different? Surely bond between parent and offspring knows no country or race? After only a moment’s reflection I decide there is no difference. For fear and love guide us all. When Bata and I and some Taino women carried the abandoned infants to a nearby village, I saw the love that inspired the women there to take to their breasts infants who were not their own. In this same manner conversos took in children who converted and were left by parents who were expelled from Seville because they had not.

  I feel sorry for all those who have been ripped from their homes and are being carried off to an alien land. And my sorrow is more acute since I have not been able to share these feelings with Antonio. I have not seen him since yesterday for he never came home, not even to sleep. But I know him well enough to know it was not anger that kept him away.

  When I feel a hand slip over mine, I turn. There is my husband beside me. He is rumpled and tired, and his hair wind-tossed, but to my eyes he is a delight.

  “We live in a cruel world, Isabel,” he says, without looking at me. “I am only a man, and will not always measure up to your expectations. And to me, that is a painful reality. But we must never be cruel to one another. Let there be peace between us.”

  “And I am a woman of flawed character,” I whisper, “with a rash and impetuous nature. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. But just so you know why I did not come home it is because I spent most of the night arguing with the Admiral, trying to convince him that our Queen would prefer the Tainos as converts and loyal subjects rather than slaves.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Antonio’s arm encircles my shoulder. “He said he believed that too.”

  “Then why did he make slaves of them?”

  “Because he felt compelled to defuse Fray Buil’s bad report, and to justify the Sovereigns’ faith in him as well as to compensate the Crown for their investment in his expeditions. And he could only do that by sending something of value. And since he had little gold to send, or pearls—for he has yet to find the fabled pearl beds—he sent slaves. Perhaps next time Columbus will remember our conversation.” His words work through my hair as he kisses my forehead. “Perhaps it will save the lives of other Tainos.”