To the Indies

by Forester, C. S.

  “The sun is hot,” protested Rich feebly.

  “Naturally, seeing that at noon it is directly overhead at this time of year. But that calls forth the treasures of the soil, the fruits, the minerals. This will prove to be the richest quarter of the earth, Don Narciso.”

  “We must hope so.”

  “Hope? We know it to be so already. The ancients proved it, and the Scriptures tell us so. Last night, Don Narciso, instead of sleeping, I pondered over our new discoveries. I thought about this new balminess of the air, as compared with the windless and torrid regions of the ocean which we have crossed. I compared this blessed land with the stifling unhealthiness of those regions of Africa which the Portuguese have discovered and which lie as close to the equinoctial line as does this. There must be an explanation of the difference. Is it not likely to be that the earth is not a perfect sphere, as one might deduce from what one knows of the northern half, but drawn out and prolonged towards this point, like, say, the thinner end of a pear? Or perhaps on a smaller scale — one can naturally not be certain yet of exact proportions — like the nipple on a woman’s breast?”

  “The possibility had not occurred to me, Your Excellency,” said Rich, bewildered.

  “But now you must appreciate it. Here we must be farther from the earth’s center, closer to heaven, remote from evil. I think we must be close beside the Garden of Eden, the Earthly Paradise, where the Tree of Knowledge grows, and where man is near to God.”

  Rich stared up, under his helmet’s peak, at the tall gaunt Admiral and the ecstasy in his face. Yesterday they had reached Ophir, today it was the Garden of Eden. He could think of no passages either in the ancients or in the Scriptures to justify either theory. He was at a loss of words with which to make any pretense at a reply. But he was preserved from the necessity, for the Admiral’s keen eyes had detected an indentation in the shore-line. He turned to give orders in his clear, penetrating tenor, and the seamen leaped to obey him. The steersman dragged the tiller over; the sails were clewed-up; the anchor was let go and the cable roared through the hawse-hole. Even Rich, with his mere theoretical knowledge of the sea, was impressed by the neatness of the maneuver — as impressed as he was by the Admiral’s sudden change from a dreamer of lunatic to a sailor of profound practical ability. As the Holy Name swung to her anchor the Admiral turned to Rich.

  “A stream comes down to the sea at that beach, Don Narciso. I shall send ashore for fresh water. Would you care to go with the landing party and take possession of the island in the name of Their Highnesses?”

  “Indeed yes. I must thank Your Excellency.”

  There was no denying the thrill of excitement which ran through him at the suggestion. Rich forgot the weight of his armor and the heat of the sun; he fidgeted with his sword hilt while the sailors rigged the yard-arm tackles with which to swing out the long boat from the waist. The cooper supervised lowering of the empty barrels into the boat; six seamen scrambled down and took their places at the oars; Osorio the boatswain took the tiller. At a sharp command from the Admiral four of Bernardo de Tarpia’s crossbowmen followed him. Then came Antonio Spallanzani, the Admiral’s Italian squire, with the Admiral’s standard, bearing the lions and castles of Leon and Castile, recently granted him, quartered with the barry wavy, argent and azure, charged with green islands, to represent his discoveries. Those lions and castles in the flag might be of use if ever a legal argument arose regarding the sovereignty over this new land. They would help to make out Their Highnesses’ case — but although the Admiral might be suspected of much, no one had yet openly accused him of dreaming of an independent sovereignty.

  They were waiting for him. Rich clambered down into the boat, ungracefully, conscious of many eyes upon him, and realizing only after he had settled himself at Spallanzani’s side that if he had slipped into the sea his armor would have carried him straight to the bottom. The sailors tugged at the oars, and they went dancing over the sea towards the shore.

  The Italian sat silent — he had a reputation for taciturnity — while they rowed past the anchored caravels, busy hoisting out their boats, and crept in closer to the shore. There was still only the golden beach and the white surf and the tangled greenery to be seen. The sailors rested on their oars for a space while Osorio stood up and studied the surf. He gave a hoarse cry; the sailors tugged sharply at the oars, and the boat leaped forward on the shoulder of a wave, hurrying on until its motion died away and the sand scraped under the keel and the white foam eddied back past them. The sailors leaped out, thigh-deep, in the water, and hauled the boat up as fast as it would go, until by a wave of his hand Osorio indicated to the two gentlemen that it was time for them to step ashore. Rich scrambled up into the bows and from there over the side; a dying wave swirled past his knees as he stepped into the water and his feet sank in the sand. He struggled up the beach, oppressed by the weight of his armor, until he was beyond the water’s edge. The Italian was close behind him, and the crossbowmen followed, their crossbows on their shoulders. Spallanzani struck the shaft of the flag into the sand and took a paper from his breast.

  “We,” he read, a barbarous Tuscan accent coloring his Castilian, “Don Christopher Columbus, Admiral of the Ocean, Viceroy and Governor of the Islands of the Indies, Captain-General and Grandee of Spain . . .” It was a solemn formula of possession.

  When he had finished Rich took off his helmet.

  “This is done,” he proclaimed, bareheaded, to the four solemn crossbowmen, “in the name of Their Highnesses Don Ferdinand and Donna Isabella, by the grace of God King and Queen of Castile, Leon, Aragon, Sicily, Granada, Toledo, Valencia, Galicia, Mallorca, and Seville, Count and Countess of Barcelona, Roussillon and Cerdagne, Duke and Duchess of Athens and Neopatra, Marquis and Marchioness of Oristano and Goziano, Lord and Lady of Biscay and Molina.”

  He had left out quite a number of the titles, but he had done enough to ensure the legality of the royal possession, especially as the only witnesses were the crossbowmen, standing with ox-like stupidity in the sunshine. Osorio and his men had put out the boat’s anchor, and were carrying empty water breakers up the beach. At a roar from the boatswain two of the crossbowmen joined in the work; the other two wound up their bows, laid bolts in the grooves, and walked forward to where the stream came bubbling down out of the greenery, to stand as sentries on guard against surprise. It was an elementary precaution to take, so elementary that Rich experienced a feeling of annoyance that he had not thought of it and ordered it himself.

  He cleared the hilt of his sword and walked curiously up the beach, conscious now of a particular thrill at making these, his first steps in the New World. The little stream bubbled and gurgled, and he stooped, and filled his hands and drank, over and over again, rejoicing in the water’s cool freshness and in having enough to drink after six weeks of a ration of only three leathern cups of water a day. He walked on beside the stream, to be engulfed in the delicious shade of the vegetation, so dense and tangled that it was only by walking ankle-deep on the pebbles that he was able to make any progress: He turned a corner and the forest behind him cut him off from the sea more effectively than the closing of a door. The sounds of the beach — the surf, and the voices of the watering party — ended abruptly.

  Here he could hear only the sound of the brook and the clapping of birds’ wings above him. Looking upward, he could see the birds flitting through the tangle of the branches, birds of gay colors, crying harshly to each other. Some brilliant red flowers grew just out of his reach to his left; there were some strange greenish yellow blooms growing on a decaying stump on the other side of the stream. The noise of his passage disturbed half a dozen more birds — like starlings, he thought at first, and then he saw that they were all of a sombre black, beak and claws and all, funereal birds, with something repellent about their metallic chirping.

  There was a breathless heat here in the forest. The shade had been grateful enough at first, but out in the open there was at least a wind, and
here the air was stagnant and warm. The sweat streamed down from under his helmet, and his skin began to itch furiously inside his armor where he could not scratch. A mosquito sang into his ear and then bit his neck. He brushed it off, and soon he was busy brushing off flies from neck and face and hands and wrists. He burst through into a little clear space, where the stream expanded into a small pool with marshy banks. There was a startled croaking of frogs, and a dozen splashes told how they had dived back into the pool on his approach. On the surface of the water lay two fallen trees, their exposed parts green with moss; so wide was the pool that the interlaced branches hardly met overhead, and, looking upward, he could see the blue sky again. Tall canes grew here, each twice the height of a man and thicker than his wrist. The gay birds with hooked beaks flew thick — parrots, they were. He remembered that in the Admiral’s triumphal procession through Barcelona, when he was received by Their Highnesses on his return from his first voyage of discovery, there had been a great many parrots displayed. Probably there was nothing to be found at this landing place which was not to be seen in Guanahani or Española.

  He turned back and made his way down the stream again. Were those bees, beating the air above the scarlet flowers? Rich looked at them more closely. They were tiny birds, brilliant in coloring. He thought they were the most lovely things ever seen in his life. He plunged into the thorns in order to view them more closely, but they flew away, erratically, at his slow approach, and would not return. With a twinge of real regret he continued his way. A loud challenge greeted him at the edge of the wood, and he replied, a little self-consciously, “Friend.” It was the first time in his life a sentinel had ever challenged him.

  The crossbowman lowered his weapon and allowed him to pass, blinking in the sunshine. Someone was kneeling at the water’s edge, above the point where the men were filling their barrels. He had a flat pan in his hand, which, with a gentle rocking motion, he was holding at the surface of the water. There was gravel in the bottom of the pan, and under the influence of the current and of the man’s raking fingers it was gradually being swept away. Rich recognized the man and guessed what he was doing — it was Diego Alamo, the assayer, who had sailed in the caravel Santa Ana along with the expedition. Alamo had dealt in gold and precious stones; he was learned in the languages of the East and with his knowledge of Hebrew and Chaldean might be useful when they made contact with Asiatic civilization. Under suspicion of being a crypto-Jew he had thought it well to accept the appointment of Royal Assayer to escape the attention of the Holy Office.

  Alamo, with a skillful jerk, flirted the remaining water from, the pan and studied the layer of sediment closely, inclining the pan to this side and to that so as to catch the faintest gleam of color. Then he shrugged his shoulders and washed the pan clean, looking up to meet Rich’s eyes upon him.

  “Ha, good day, Don Narciso,” he said, white teeth showing in a smile.

  “Good day,” said Rich. “Are there signs of gold?”

  “Not so far. The country looks as if it might bear gold, but I’ll certify that this stream has none.”

  Rich forgot any disappointment he might feel at that statement in the pleasure of this re-encounter with a friend — Alamo, and he were old acquaintances. He made the conventional inquiries as to whether Alamo had enjoyed his passage across the ocean — conventional and yet sincere. It was odd to ask those questions here, on the shores of the Indies.

  “Well enough, thank you,” answered Alamo. There was a wry smile on his dark intelligent face; Rich guessed that Alamo was as much out of place among the seamen and gentlemen-adventurers of the Santa Ana as he himself was in the Holy Name.

  Alamo rose to his feet, brushing his hands clean. The beach was a scene of animation now, with three boats lying in the shallows and a score of men carrying water casks. The two caravels lay beyond, black upon the blue, and farther out the Holy Name rode to her anchor.

  “Have you been into the forest?” asked Alamo.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see any minerals? Any rocks?”

  “Only the pebbles and boulders of the stream bed. The forest is too thick to see more.”

  Alamo was looking round the beach.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing. “The rock comes down to the sea there.”

  They walked over the sand to the place he had indicated, and Alamo ran his hands over the rocky ledges.

  “Gold is unlikely here,” he announced. “These rocks are dead. They are smooth and lifeless — feel them for yourself, Don Narciso. It is the spirited, lively rocks which bear the noble metals.”

  He climbed over the ridge and dropped onto the sand on the other side. There were more rocks beyond, running out to the water.

  “Now this is strange,” announced Alamo.

  He went down onto his knees to examine his find more closely. Among the brown rocks there were patches and dabs and seams of black, and he pawed at them, clearly puzzled.

  “This appears to be pitch,” he said. “Bitumen. I have seen specimens brought from the Holy Land, but never before have I seen it in situ. Now how comes it here?”

  He looked up at the forest and out at the sea.

  “It is found on the shores of the Dead Sea,” he explained, “at the foot of arid cliffs. It was with fiery pitch that God overwhelmed Sodom and Gomorrah, but the Moslems believe it to be formed by the great excess of salt in the water, under the influence of a burning sun. Now, is the ocean here more salt than usual?”

  “It is not dead, at least,” said Rich. “There is weed growing. And the gulls prove that there must be fish.”

  “Quite right. I should have thought of that. Yet it is hard to think of any other explanation of this pitch. The Dead Sea lies in the midst of deserts. There is no life — no plants, no birds — although I am assured by credible authority that the story is incorrect that birds drop dead who fly over its mephitic surface. Two places more unlike than that and this it is hard to imagine.”

  “Very hard,” agreed Rich, thinking of the lush vegetation and the teeming bird life around them.

  “Has a Sodom been overwhelmed here, too?” asked Alamo.

  “Not unless the name of God has penetrated here,” answered Rich, fairly sure of his theology on this point.

  “Exactly. That is why I sought for a naturalistic explanation.”

  Alamo walked on among the rocks of the beach, Rich straying a little apart from him along the water’s edge. It was he who made the final discovery, and his sharp cry brought Alamo hurrying back to him. There was a little stretch of smooth sand here, at which Rich was staring; in the sand was a wide, shallow groove, and around it were the half-obliterated prints of bare feet. Rich had already made the deductions from the appearances.

  “No ship’s boat made that mark,” he said. “There is no sign of a keel.”

  Alamo nodded agreement, stooping to peer at the footprints.

  “There is little enough left to see,” he said. “But I should think the feet that made those marks were longer and narrower than any Spaniard’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long ago were they made? An hour? Two hours?”

  They looked at each other, a little helpless. Neither of them had the faintest idea.

  “We can be sure of one thing at least,” said Rich. “The people here are not as eager to meet us as were those of Cuba and Española.”

  A bellowing behind them made them turn; the watering party was waving arms to them in recall. They picked their way back over the rocks.

  Chapter 4

  The squadron was still sailing westward, along the south coast of Trinidad, while the Admiral listened to Rich’s report. His face fell a little when he heard that Alamo had found no sign of gold, but he grew cheerful again over the undoubted evidence that the island was inhabited, and over the other details which Rich conveyed.

  “Pitch?” he said. “Bitumen?”

  He ran his fingers through his beard as he pondered the phenom
enon.

  “What did Alamo say about it?”

  “He said that it was found beside the Dead Sea,” said Rich. He was a little shocked to notice an inward quaver as he said it; he was actually dreading some new theory as to the fleet’s whereabouts.

  “That is so. It is found in Egypt, too, in the deserts that border the Nile.”

  “There is no desert here, Your Excellency,” said Rich, stoutly.

  “No.” The Admiral looked over at the luxurious green coast. “Yet it makes me more sure of the Earthly Paradise being at hand — I shall write to Their Highnesses to that effect — but perhaps I shall have more evidence still by the time I can spare a ship to return to Spain.”

  “I have no doubt you will, sir,” said Rich, strangely sick at heart.

  The armored men were lounging about the deck. Spallanzani had his lute, and was singing Italian love songs to the accompaniment of soft chords from it, to an audience of hidalgos. They had eaten their meal of weevily biscuits and rancid cheese with its flavor of cockroach. Rich remembered with regret the roast suckling pig on which he had dined his last day on shore, and was quite startled to note that all the same he did not wish himself home. This crushing heat, this wearisome armor, the foul food, the wild talk of Ophir and the Earthly Paradise — notwithstanding all these things he was happier where he was, here in the New World, than sitting in his furred robe in the admiralty hall in Barcelona listening to the crooked pleadings of crooked lawyers paid by crooked merchants. Seventeen years of it — the Consulate of the Sea, the Laws of Oléron, and the Code of Wisby, Justinian and the fueros of Barcelona. . . It was better to be able to raise his head and sniff the scented air of Trinidad.