For three days I remain a prisoner in my own hut, with two armed soldiers continually guarding my door. Aside from the guards, I see no one, not even Enrique. And not even Maria or the other Vivars, though many times I expected Maria to come bounding in and tell me it was all a mistake; that she had spoken to Enrique and made him see reason. And the fact that she did not has broken my heart.
On the fourth day, Enrique enters, looking weary and disheveled. His eyes are red from too much wine, and he possesses an air of one who has satiated all his appetites.
“Come!” he barks.
“Where are we going?” I finger my linen bodice where the dagger lies hidden.
“Roldan is finished here. We have taken all we desire. Now we go to the interior.”
Quickly, I pick up my small sack of cassava bread and papayas and stockfish which I have kept packed all this while, and follow. And before I am out the door I already know that at the first opportunity I must make my escape.
La Isabela to Santo Domingo, Española
I follow two soldiers to the Plaza. Enrique walks behind, carrying his crossbow and a bundle, which I suppose contains food and clothing and whatever else he has found to steal. Though I keep pace with those in front, every few steps Enrique places his hand on my back and shoves me forward. This is, no doubt, meant to show his contempt, as well as to humiliate. It is all I can do to keep my balance. More than once I have stumbled against one of the men in front of me.
By the blazing sun I know it is well past Sext. I find this late start curious. We will hardly travel ten leagues before dark. And that suggests Roldan is not worried about being followed.
Have Diego Columbus and all his men been killed?
The Plaza swarms with rebels, who, I suppose, are meeting here before leaving Isabela in force. But otherwise, the town appears deserted. The smell of wine mingles with the smell of unwashed bodies. And as I pass these soiled, worn men they appear surprised to see a Castilian woman among their number. Some smile politely. Others look away, especially when Enrique shoves me so roughly.
Suddenly, Roldan appears at my elbow, and by the look on his face I think perhaps I am saved.
“What is the meaning of this outrage!” Roldan glares at Enrique. “Do you not know this is Señora Villarreal? How dare you treat her with such contempt? Unhand her at once.”
“She is my prisoner. A spoil of war. She will fetch a generous ransom.”
“You dare hold her for ransom? And insult our Sovereigns? Would you make us the contempt of Castile? A byword for rogues and cutthroats?” Roldan’s hand moves toward the hilt of his sword. “Release her!”
Enrique responds by raising his crossbow, and several soldiers press in as though making ready to defend Roldan. The air is brittle with tension, and Enrique would surely have been killed had he not dropped his arm.
“She is a converso, an ‘offspring of perversion’ and the wife of a con-verso,” Enrique says, smiling sheepishly. “Have you not told us conversos are to be held in contempt? Not deserving of loyalty? And that only by deceit and treachery have they gained their wealth and titles?”
Streaks of red claw Roldan’s neck. Enrique not only dares to defy him, but dares to use his own words against him. My heart sinks, for after speaking ill of conversos for so long, indeed, after using imaginary deficiencies and malfeasances of conversos as an excuse for rebellion, how can Roldan come to my aid now? His men watch with interest.
“Converso or not, Don Antonio is highly favored by the Crown. I have no wish to make an enemy of our Sovereigns in order to satisfy your greed.”
“Then let it be known this is my doing, not yours. And let it be on my head.”
Roldan pulls on his sword, revealing blood-smeared steel. For a second my hope revives, but when Roldan jams the blade back into its sheath I know I am lost. “Then it shall be on your head. If they come for you, I will not lift a finger in your defense.”
Enrique laughs, and for the first time it occurs to me he might be mad. “So be it,” he says with such arrogance I am certain its offensive nature will once again arouse Roldan’s wrath. But Roldan merely turns on his heels, then barks orders to his commanders to vacate Isabela. And when one of them asks if the men surrounding Casa de Columbus should not hang back, I know Diego Columbus and many of his men have survived.
We form a ragged line, with Enrique and me somewhere in the middle, and begin our trek. I keep pace with the men in front, holding tightly to my sack of food. Inside my bodice, I feel the bulky sheath of the dagger rub against my skin. It is one of two consolations. The other is that Enrique no longer feels compelled to humiliate me, and allows me to walk unmolested. His victory over Roldan seems, for the present, to satisfy his need to prove himself superior.
As we walk, I see no signs of life. Where is everyone? Do they all cower inside their huts? Or behind the walls of Casa de Columbus?
Is there none to rescue me?
We pass the church, heading toward Poblado South, where I spot Doctor Spinoza with two men carrying a shrouded body, obviously on their way to the cemetery. His jaw drops when he sees me, and as the realization that I am a prisoner slowly dawns, his face takes on a forlorn expression. It is as if he has placed upon himself the full responsibility for my plight, and I feel pity.
“Please. You cannot do this,” he says, leaving the shrouded body and coming alongside us.
The grief in his voice pricks my heart. Can I be so stingy in love that I leave him conscience stricken? I must forgive him his misdeed. Surely he never intended for his action to have such dire consequence. “Be at peace, Doctor Spinoza,” I shout, trying to convey forgiveness in my voice. “All will be well.”
And then I feel the familiar prodding of Enrique’s hand. “Quiet!”
And quiet I remain until we near the edge of the settlement and I see Bata. Her glistening arms and forehead tell me she has been running. “Isbell! Isbell!” she shouts, coming so close I could touch her. She slows, and paces Enrique. “No take Isbell! No take Isbell!”
“Get out of here,” Enrique growls. “Go home.”
“No take Isbell,” she repeats, reaching for me but Enrique knocks her hand away. Around us, soldiers snicker. Some utter obscenities, others proposition her as if she were a whore. One tries to grope her, and suddenly I am afraid.
“Go home, Bata. Please. Go home now!” And I think she understands my fear, for she suddenly stops and nods, and stands quietly by the road before dropping her head and walking away.
As we continue our march, my eyes dart here and there, looking for Maria. Surely she will come. If Bata knows my plight, Maria knows too. And up until the very moment we step into the tangled fringe of the interior I expect to see Maria come racing to my rescue. And when at last I understand she is not, I feel as forlorn as the day I sailed from Cadiz.
Sweat drips down my face, and my wet bodice clings so tightly I fear Enrique will see the dagger I have hidden there. This fear causes me to walk with hunched shoulders and head tilted towards the ground. And after walking this way so long, my body aches. But that is nothing compared to my thirst. My lips feel like dried twigs, my tongue like leather. Over and over, I have chided myself for failing to bring a calabash of water. How could I have been so careless?
When I first hear the gurgle of water, I think thirst has impaired my senses. But then, between the trees, I see a large, glistening stream! It takes all my willpower to keep from breaking rank and racing toward it. Someone shouts, “Halt,” and I think that some of the men have done what I wish to do, but no, I quickly realize the order means we will be allowed to stop and refresh ourselves. We have been marching for hours.
Another order is given, and men scurry to the stream. It is a mass of noise and confusion as some leap into the water, while others drop to the ground and plunge in faces, heads, hands. I see an empty spot along the bank, and am about to run towards it when a large hand jerks me backward.
“Not so fast. Where do you think
you are going?”
I turn, and see Enrique’s scowling face. “To the stream.”
“You will not contaminate this water, converso. You will drink when all our men have had their fill.”
So I am forced to stand near the bank and listen to the water lap the shore, and watch men splash about and drink. Finally, when the throng of soldiers thins, Enrique orders two men to guard me while he takes his turn. In slow motion, he dips his hands, pours water over his head, splashes some on his face, then drinks and drinks and drinks.
Tears fill my eyes. I brush them away with the back of my hand, feeling angry for displaying such weakness. Plainly, Enrique delights in exposing my helplessness and his power over me.
He scrambles to his feet when the order to march is given, then gestures for me to come and drink.
“Be quick about it,” he barks.
And I only swallow two mouthfuls of water before he yanks me away.
“Enough! We go now.”
And then I am on my feet, stumbling forward as he shoves me along, my mouth so dry it feels like a sand dune, my thirst greater than ever. But I have learned a valuable lesson. Never again will I show Enrique any weakness.
It is the second day of our journey. We have been marching since sunrise, heading for Concepcion, which Roldan plans to attack. My body aches from sleeping on the hard ground, and my tongue is still like leather. Last night I ate an entire papaya, just for the juice, before I took my first bite of cassava bread.
But I force myself to look at the blessings, too. Oh, how I praise the Holy One for the sturdy pair of leather boots I wear! Any other shoes would be shredded by now. The terrain is so dense and inhospitable that soldiers must hack pathways for us with their swords. But such overgrowth will make it easier for me to hide when I make my escape, another blessing for which to give thanks. In addition to my praising God for these blessings, I have begun watching Enrique; studying his habits, looking for signs of carelessness. Sooner or later, an opportunity will present itself, and I must be ready.
We have been following the same river since yesterday. And when the order is given to stop and refresh ourselves, I refrain from running toward the bank like the others. Instead, I stand in place, showing little interest.
“You do not wish to drink?” Enrique says, surprise in his voice.
“I believe our Andalusian summers have conditioned me. I find I lack the need or desire to drink often. Perhaps when we stop again I will take some refreshment.”
Enrique’s eyebrows knot. “Are you mad, woman? Surely the bowels of hell can be no hotter. Would you cheat me of my ransom? Can I expect my full price if you are shriveled to half your size, or stand near the edge of death? Go at once and drink!” Enrique’s hand shakes with rage as he points to the stream.
“If you wish,” I say, walking to the bank.
I just finish drinking my fill, and am about to cool myself by wetting my neck and hair when I hear Enrique’s angry voice. I turn, expecting to see him shouting at me. Instead, he is off to one side shouting at someone I cannot see. I quickly splash myself, then rise and go to where Enrique stands. He has discovered a young Taino boy—about eight or nine by the look of him—crouching behind the large leaves of a stubby palm. Beside him lies a woman, unconscious, and who, I assume, is his mother.
“Come boy, you will carry my bundle and crossbow.”
The boy does not move.
“I said, come!” Enrique’s voice rises, causing soldiers to gather. “Come!” Enrique shouts again, and when the boy neither moves nor answers, Enrique tries pulling him to his feet but the boy clings to the lifeless looking woman and will not let go. Finally, Enrique pries the boy’s fingers loose and drags him to the clearing, but as soon as he lets go, the boy scrambles back behind the palms.
Enrique follows, leaving his crossbow and bundle on the ground. And what transpires next happens so quickly I can scarcely believe it. Without saying another word, Enrique pulls the knife from his belt, grabs the boy by one shoulder, tosses him to the ground, plunges in his blade, and runs it down the entire length of the boy’s abdomen.
I cry out in dismay, and rush to where the boy lies on his back. His eyes are wide in disbelief as he cradles his spilling bowels.
Oh, merciful God.
Enrique wipes the blade on his jerkin, then calmly returns it to his belt.
“Finish the job,” a soldier says, stepping around me. “You have cut him deep enough to kill, but not deep enough to make death swift. You cannot leave him like that. He could linger for hours.”
Enrique laughs and pushes past the soldier, and when he sees me, he grabs my arm and roughly pulls me away, but not before I see the soldier raise his firearm and shoot the boy in the head.
The rope bites into my wrists as Enrique gives it one final pull before knotting the ends. All the while he taunts me about how he will kill me if I try to escape. Willpower alone keeps me from crying out from pain as the rope digs deeper into my wrists. I keep my lips tightly compressed for even the slightest utterance will encourage his cruelty.
It is the morning of the third day, and we have finally reached the outskirts of Concepcion. Even now, Roldan is planning the attack with his commanders, while his soldiers prepare for battle, checking their crossbows, pikes, and other weaponry.
“Keep your eyes on her,” Enrique says, talking to three soldiers too sick with bowel disease to fight today, and who will remain behind. “For if she escapes, I will gut you like I did that boy.”
For five days Enrique ties me with ropes in the morning, gives the same instructions to the sick men—who now only number two, for one has died—then goes off with Roldan and the others to conquer Concepcion. But when Concepcion shows no signs of falling, Roldan finally orders his men to pull out.
We head southwest to the Province of Xaragua. We have been walking for days. It is at Xaragua that Roldan plans to make his camp, living off the Indians and gaining strength. Already, other renegade soldiers have joined our party, and from seventy our ranks have increased to over a hundred. Also, the further south we go, the more Tainos join us, for Roldan has promised they can take revenge against the Columbuses for all the hardships imposed on them.
The soldiers have grown used to me, and talk openly as if I am not here. This serves me well, for from their conversations I am able to glean what lies ahead. For instance, I have learned that Roldan, after he gathers enough men, plans to return to Concepcion and again try to capture it. If he is successful, he will move against Santo Domingo, where, it is rumored, he plans to kill Don Bartolome.
I have also learned that when we reach Xaragua, Enrique intends to send his ransom demand to Antonio at Santo Domingo. But is Antonio still there, or has he returned to Isabela? Does he even know about the attack and my abduction?
I trudge wearily behind a company of soldiers. Nearby, walk two Tainos, new to our group. Neither wears the customary token, indicating they have not paid their tribute, and are renegades. One of the Tainos, in particular, catches my eye. He is slight of build, with a large red scar running the length of his forehead, the kind made by a sword. Had he come across a soldier who noticed he lacked the proper token, and been forced to fight for his life? The wound, by its color and size, looks only months old. His gait is unsteady, and I wonder if the injury to his head is not the cause. In addition to the scar, he looks drawn, as though suffering from some malady.
He seems curious about us too, Enrique and I, for he often glances backward as though checking to see where we are. He carries a war club bigger than his arm, and I shudder to think of how many heads he has broken with it. There is a fierceness about him that is disquieting, and something else, too . . . he looks familiar. But I am certain I do not know him. And yet I am just as certain I have seen him before. It is very strange.
As I walk I try not to think about how hungry I am. The food I brought has been consumed long ago, and my current ration—which Enrique doles out every morning—consists of half a
loaf of cassava bread “to keep me vigorous enough to walk the distance to Xaragua,” he says, “but not too vigorous to be any trouble.” I fear I grow weaker by the day. Soon I must make my escape or I will lack the strength to do so.
Suddenly, there is a commotion ahead, and the column stops. Men shuffle their feet, they whisper, they swear under their breath until finally the news of what is happening trickles down the line. A group of soldiers seeking to join Roldan has brought news that Christopher Columbus has returned from Castile with six ships; three anchored in the harbor of Isabela laden with supplies, another three circling the island. Furthermore, Bartolome Columbus and his soldiers are searching for Roldan in the interior.
At once, men swear by the saints, others grow pale; still others vow to fight to the death. But no one is happy except me; for I know my deliverance is near. And though I try to stifle it, my joy finally bubbles to my mouth creating a smile, and Enrique sees it.
“Pray Columbus does not find us,” he whispers, “for if there is a fight, you will be the first to die.”
Roldan has pushed us hard all day, trying to reach Xaragua before Bartolome Columbus’s men find us, for he believes more Tainos will join his forces there. But it is doubtful their number will be enough to ensure victory over Columbus. And the rebels know this. They also know that with the Admiral’s ships come enough reinforcements to crush the rebellion and send them all to the gallows or back to Castile in chains. The men march as though carrying a millstone around their necks. Only the Taino with the club seems unaffected. He walks in his customary uneven gait, and continues to glance back at us.
At last, the order is given to stop and make camp. Everywhere, soldiers mill about. Some open flagons of water and drink, for there is no more wine to be had. Others find a soft spot among the vegetation and lie down. Still others pull cassava from pouches and eat. The Taino with the club, and his companion, settle near me. He takes what looks like a root from the cotton pouch he keeps slung over his shoulder, then eats it before beginning his meal of cassava and dried fish.
The Salt Covenants Page 29