by Paul Clayton
Calling Crow had heard about the joust. The thought of seeing either Mateo or De Sole skewered on one of the long lances like a roasted bird inflamed him with an angry hope. He walked back toward the playing field.
Up in the stands, crowds of colorfully-dressed Spanish sat and talked excitedly. On the ground, the native peoples pressed up against the wooden fences that surrounded the field. Their usually pained and tired faces now full of wonder and smiles. Calling Crow pushed into the crowd to watch.
The drummers and trumpeters played a fanfare and the crowd noise dropped to a collective whisper of anticipation. From between two tents, De Sole appeared on a great white horse and raced out onto the field. Everyone in the stands stood and cheered. Dressed in white and gold, De Sole carried a pure white shield with his left arm, his sword held aloft with his right. His horse was covered with polished armor and golden tassels. Bright morning sunlight blazed off horse and rider into Calling Crow’s eyes.
Rearing his horse back, De Sole aggressively slashed at the sky with his sword, shouting, “Santiago!” The crowd roared as he charged across the field, slashing at the air as if slaying invisible demons. The people around Calling Crow smiled appreciatively. Making a tight turn, De Sole raced back and reigned in his mount just before the stands. Slowly, the cheering died down.
A cheer went up as the black horse bearing Mateo raced out onto the field. Mateo reined up beside De Sole, and Calling Crow watched in rapt attention as he pulled a metal helmet topped off with a bright red feather over his head.
Both men faced the stands. The drums rolled like distant thunder until the crowd quieted. Raising his arms dramatically, the announcer’s voice boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the first joust will be a pass, left to left, with shields.” He looked solemnly at the two knights. “Begin.”
The crowd fell silent as Mateo and De Sole rode off to opposite ends of the field. Turning, they steadied their mounts as they watched a gold pennant flying atop the pole before the stands. A page released the pennant and it fluttered to earth. Sunlight flashed off Mateo’s mount’s hooves as they threw clods of soft damp earth. The two knights raced toward each other
Calling Crow pushed up against the fence with the others. The thunder of the horses’ hooves reached him as the men closed. Mateo’s lance found De Sole’s shield, shattering it, but De Sole remained in the saddle. The two men turned round at the ends, and De Sole quickly leaned down to take another shield handed up to him by a page, before beginning his next run. As they quickly closed, De Sole leaned low at the last minute and clipped Mateo’s helmet, sending it flying.
Horns sounded a fanfare signaling the end of the first part of the contest, and the two knights rode back to the stands. The announcer walked calmly out to the field as the two combatants attempted to calm their dancing steeds. Raising his arms solemnly, he called out, “The next contest--. will consist of three runs--. passing right to right across the barrier.”
Juana pushed through the crowd up to Calling Crow. She had a woman with her, an older fat woman with a pretty face. Juana handed Calling Crow a roasted plantain.
“Calling Crow,” she said, “there is a way for us to get to the Floridas together.”
Calling Crow looked at her angrily. “I thought you said you would go to the mountains with me.”
Juana shook her head. “Listen, please. They are picking men to be bearers for De Sole in the Floridas, but they must understand the language of the Spanish. If you were picked as a bearer, we could both go. And when we were there we could run away together.”
Calling Crow said nothing as he thought about it.
“This is my friend, Jomme,” said Juana. “Her man, Wild Bird, works carrying for the Spanish. He is at the old warehouse in the city now and he can help us.”
Calling Crow raised his hand for silence. He thought quietly for a moment. “It is true,” he said. “We would have a better chance of escaping in the Floridas.” He looked at Juana sharply. “Do you think they would pick me?”
“Aieyee,” said Jomme, interrupting, “all they have to do is get one look at you! You are so big! You could carry twice what another man could.”
Calling Crow said nothing as he considered it. Juana grabbed his arm and shook him. “Calling Crow, Jomme says that the Spanish that Wild Bird works for is a good man. You must go to him and tell him that Jomme sent you. Tell him that he should hire you as a bearer and an interpreter.”
Calling Crow looked at her, his eyes hard as stones. “If he does not choose me as a bearer, then will you go away with me to the mountains?”
Juana nodded. “Yes.”
A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd, and Calling Crow turned back to the field. The gold cloth fluttered down from the pole. Sunlight flashed off Mateo’s mount’s shoes as he sped down the field. Mateo’s lance dug deep into De Sole’s shield and held, flipping him quickly and cleanly off his horse. De Sole landed on the barrier with a crash, shattering the wood. Calling Crow turned to Juana. “I have seen enough. Where do I find this man, Wild Bird?”
***
Mateo reined in Vailarin and quickly dismounted. Running back to de Sole, he saw with relief that the man’s eyes were open and he was attempting to get to his feet.
Mateo extended his hand.
De Sole looked at it and frowned. With his mailed fist, he angrily smashed a piece of wood debris out of his way and sat up. Without looking at Mateo, he pushed himself to a kneeling position. “They said you were quite good at these knightly games and they were right. I, however, am a soldier, and I haven’t had the time to master all the tricks of it.” De Sole got slowly to his feet and brushed some dirt and wood debris from his armor. “Well, you have won. You may go.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” said Mateo. “About Senor Diego Vega-- remember what we discussed? When can I bring some good citizens of the island around to see you?”
“Why bring anybody around?”
“Excellency, you agreed that I could bring others to you to testify on Senor Vega’s behalf.”
De Sole’s face hardened. “Oh, that. For a crime such as his, there can be no bargaining, no pleading.”
Mateo felt his temper rising and could not restrain himself from raising his voice, “Excellency, he is not guilty! This is nothing but slander! You must allow me to defend him from these false charges.”
One of the squires reached De Sole and began hurriedly dusting off his armor. De Sole’s face was livid as he barked at Mateo. “Shut up! One more word out of you, and you will go straight to jail.”
Mateo’s pulse pounded in his temple, but he managed to keep his tongue.
“One more thing,” said De Sole. “You will report to the Cabildo in the morning.”
“Excellency?” said Mateo.
De Sole pushed away the boy who was brushing the dirt from his armor, knocking him to the ground. He turned to Mateo as some soldiers dressed in heavy armor lumbered protectively up to him. “Because of your recent slaving raid in Florida, you have knowledge of that coast. I shall require you as one of my scouts on the expedition.”
Mateo bowed, disgust and anger filling him. “Yes, Excellency.”
***
Calling Crow ran all the way to the big house Juana told him about. He slowed to a walk when he spotted a man squatting outside the black rectangle of the doorway. The man did not look like one of the people. Big and fat, he sang to himself as he caressed a skin bottle of Spanish wine.
“Are you the one they call Wild Bird?”
The man spat and grabbed himself. “This is the Wild Bird here, man. Do you want to see it?”
Calling Crow ignored the insult. “The one called Wild Bird is picking men to go with De Sole. I want to go.”
The man drunkenly waved him away. “They are all picked. Go away.”
Calling Crow started toward the dark opening of the big house. The drunk man got to his feet and blocked his way. “Hey! You can’t go in there.”
Calling
Crow pushed him aside. Ignoring his shouts and curses, Calling Crow entered the vast dimness of the warehouse, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Stacked up against the wall behind him were many pieces of trees. They were like so many bones. Juana had told him that the Spanish sent these chopped down trees back to Spain where they made colors with them, which they then put into their clothes. Calling Crow looked around. The large center of the building was empty, but on the far side he saw some big two-wheeled carts arranged in a large circle. There was a small fire on the other side of them, and voices.
As Calling Crow started over he heard a sound from behind and turned. The fat drunk had staggered into the big house. “You!” he called. Calling Crow ignored him and walked between the carts. They were loaded with Spanish weapons: thunder sticks, swords, and long clubs, taller than a man, tipped with sharp bits of iron. In the nearest cart, spears were stacked up like cane after the harvest. The sharp spear tips stuck out from the bundles, ready to pierce anyone who foolishly stumbled into them. Calling Crow passed through them to see about two dozen Carib and Arawak men squatting around a fire. Not far away, two large mestizo or cholo men stood, looking at a large piece of skin with Spanish writings on it. One of them had a beard.
The smaller, smooth faced cholo walked over to Calling Crow. “What do you want?” he said.
“I want to speak to Wild Bird about carrying for De Sole.”
“He has gone somewhere. But you look like you could carry much. Go over there with the others.”
As Calling Crow started over to the men by the fire, the loud voice of the other bearded man, a Spanish, boomed out. “You there! Where are you going?”
Before Calling Crow could say anything, the cholo spoke. “I told him to sit with the others. He is very big and he could carry much. He also speaks the language passably.”
The big, black bearded Spanish barked at the cholo, “And I told you we had enough.” He looked at Calling Crow in annoyance. “Get out of here. We don’t need any more bearers.”
The man walked back to the fire and again picked up the piece of paper. Calling Crow remained where he was standing. A moment later, the drunk from the door staggered through the circle formed by the carts and walked up to the Spanish.
“Senor Galvez, I tried to stop him from coming in, but he snuck by me when I went to piss.”
The bearded Spanish called Galvez looked up. “Never mind,” he said. Then he noticed that Calling Crow had not left.
“Go, you empty headed Indian. Are you dumb? Get out of here.”
Calling Crow ignored the man’s insults and stood his ground. “I want to go with De Sole as a bearer,” he said. “I am strong.” Calling Crow pointed to the Caribs, who were watching the exchange. “I can carry as much as three of them, and I can understand your language.”
Galvez laughed. “No, I don’t think you understand my language at all. I have already told you to leave. Do you know what ‘leave’ means?”
Calling Crow stood and said nothing. Galvez looked at him in amused silence. No one spoke. A knot of wood snapped in the fire, releasing a hissing jet of gas. Galvez suddenly put down his paper and walked over to one of the carts. It was piled high with bundles covered in cloth and tied neatly with cords. He picked up the handles of the cart from the ground and turned it slowly.
With a cruel smile on his face, he yelled, “Santiago!” and began pushing the cart toward Calling Crow. The car rumbled threateningly as it slowly picked up speed.
Calling Crow stood his ground. When the cart was almost on top of him, he bent low to meet it, digging his feet into the earth. Galvez pushed Calling Crow backward a few feet as he fought for a purchase in the dusty earth. Calling Crow managed to stop the cart. Galvez cursed, but could not move the car further. The Caribs watched the contest, their hard faces giving away nothing.
Calling Crow turned the cart, maneuvering Galvez backwards toward the small fire. Galvez looked over his shoulder at the drunk and the cholo who stood watching the contest. “Manuel, get over here.”
The fat drunk who was called Manuel ran over and put his shoulder to the cart alongside Galvez. They slowly began inching the cart back toward the door. Galvez laughed through his heaving breaths. “Now we shall put this garbage outside.”
Calling Crow screamed out a war cry. The veins in his neck bulged as he managed to stop the cart a dozen feet from the door. Three of the Caribs moved over to see better. Galvez shook the sweat out of his eyes and called out, “Agustine,” he called to the cholo. Come and help us.”
The cholo ran over and put his shoulder against the cart. Slowly they pushed it toward the door. As Calling Crow slid backward, the three Caribs suddenly appeared on either side of him to push. The cart slowed and stopped, then began moving backward into the warehouse, picking up speed. Calling Crow steered the cart toward the fire, and at the last moment, Galvez and the others jumped away and the cart spun around and came to a stop.
“All right,” said Galvez, glaring at Calling Crow, “that is enough play for today.”
Manuel started towards Calling Crow.
“Leave him!” Galvez called out. “There is work to do before the sun sets.” He looked at Calling Crow. “Take your place with those fellows over there.”
Calling Crow nodded, silently thanking his spirit guide for helping him to prevail in the contest. He walked over to stand with the Caribs.
Chapter 34
A long high bench dominated the front of the great hall of the Cabildo. A dozen black hooded clerics sat behind the bench with Father Toribio, the Inquisitor, in the center. Two soldiers armed with halberds flanked the bench. Along the back wall, a row of large windows had been curtained to keep out the light of day. Several dozen candles burned brilliantly in two large candelabra suspended from the ceiling. About thirty men-- minor officials, encomenderos, soldiers, and one Indian off by himself-- sat in a gallery of chairs which faced the bench. They talked among themselves in whispers as they waited for the inquisition to begin.
Father Toribio looked out at the assembly as he contemplated the crime against God they would address. It was a common notion that many of the criollos seemed less Spanish than those Spanish born and raised on the Spanish Peninsula. True or not, the man who would soon be brought before him, Diego Vega, was not criollo. But Diego Vega had lived on this fetid island most of his life, a place where the native people engaged in all manner of revolting behaviors, and the fact that his alleged partner in crime, the boy, was a moor-- all of this prejudiced the Inquisitor against Vega. Guilty or not? Only God could say. However, this day, God’s Holy church would give Vega a chance to prove his innocence to all in this room-- Toribio sighed heavily and nodded at Father Pacheco. The young priest rose to his feet and the noise in the great room died. Father Pacheco bowed his head. “We will begin with the Lord’s Prayer,” he said in a thin voice, and he recited the prayer slowly. Finishing, he intoned, “Long live the King!”
The men repeated the phrase and Father Pacheco climbed the stairs to the high bench. He turned and faced the room. “Father Luis, you will be the first to speak. You may approach,”
Father Luis got to his feet and approached the bench, his heart pounding in his chest. He bowed to Father Toribio, thinking that he must make Toribio see that what they were about to do to Diego Vega was terribly wrong. “Holiness,” he began, “I am afraid that we are about to start down the wrong path. I would like to be given an opportunity to prove that these despicable acts never occurred. I believe that these charges have only been brought to cover up the real crime that occurred on Senor Mateo’s expedition.”
Father Toribio looked unperturbed. “And what crime was that, Father Luis?”
Father Luis’s voice trembled with anger. “The deliberate drowning of eighteen Indians, women and children among them, by Senor Alonso Roldan and his soldiers.”
Bishop Cavago got to his feet. “Holiness, this is the event which Senor Roldan related to me and which I explained to you. It was not
Senor Roldan who did this, but rather one of his men.”
Father Toribio frowned. “Is Senor Roldan here? Let him tell the story.”
Alonso Roldan got up from his chair and approached the bench.
Father Toribio looked down on him. “Is what Father Luis says true?”
Roldan looked over at Father Luis. “It is true that it happened, but not in the way he says. I was on the ship, but I did not give the order to throw the Indians over. It was the soldier, Alfonso Zamora. He and the other men did it because they were afraid the ship was overcrowded and in danger of sinking.”
“Is Senor Zamora in the gallery?” said Father Toribio.
A few of the soldiers shifted uncomfortably as the Inquisitor looked in their direction.
“No, Holiness,” said Roldan, “he is dead. He died a few months after the ship returned.”
Mateo leapt to his feet. “Holiness! This is all a pack of lies! Senor Roldan was the one who stirred the men up.”
Roldan turned to him. “How would you know? You were drunk in your cabin when the ship was in danger of sinking.”
“More lies!” shouted Mateo. “Diego Vega saw what you were up to and tried to stop you!”
“And you would have us take the word of a sodomite?” said Roldan incredulously.
Mateo started toward him. “You shall pay for all of this-- ”
Two soldiers confronted Mateo and pushed him back to where he had been standing. Father Luis took Mateo’s arm and tried to calm him.
A priest entered the hall and walked quickly to the bench. He whispered in the Inquisitor’s ear and the audience waited. Toribio nodded and the priest walked away, his sandals softly slapping the marble floor tiles.
Father Toribio held up his hand. “There are two reasons why I will not allow this debate to go on a moment longer. One is that the man accused of the drownings is long dead. The second, more important reason, is that the Moorish boy has just confessed to the crime which he and Diego Vega are charged with.”