To the Indies

by C. S. Forester

  They were filing over a ford now, and everybody eagerly slipped out of the saddle to drink from the dark water; Rich found himself, after two hours’ riding, already so stiff that he could hardly swing his leg over, but fortunately no one noticed. The column halted to rest in the shade along the banks, the sweating infantry lying stretched out flat with their weapons beside them until the Adelantado set the trumpet blowing to call them to their feet again. Rich scrambled somehow back into the saddle — he was already sore, and his body shrank from contact with the harsh leather. By the end of the day he was in misery. The chatter went on unnoticed round him, blended with the squeaking of leather and the occasional ringing of hoofs or accoutrements. The final order to halt found him quite stupid with fatigue. He tried vainly to make some pretense of attending to the sorry grey horse, and experienced unfathomable relief and gratitude when Rodrigo relieved him of the task unobtrusively.

  “I can’t thank you,” was all Rich was able to say, white-faced.

  Ruiz and his companions had driven a small herd of cattle up to the encampment, and fires were lighted for roasting the meat. There was cheerful chatter round the fires, where the meat was roasted upon huge grids of green boughs — barbecues or boucans, strange Haytian words which the old-timers used naturally and at which the newcomers made tentative attempts with as realistic an appearance of habit as possible. No more than five sentries were necessary to protect the camp while the others slept.

  That had been a day of sunshine; the next was a day of rain, perpetual rain falling in torrents from a grey sky. It soaked everyone to the skin, finding its way remorselessly down inside the necks of leather coats and from there into the leather breeches so that the horsemen had wet squelching bags of water round their thighs. The men on foot sank to their ankles in the mud, the horses to their fetlocks. The little streams from the mountains became broad rivers bordered by knee-deep marsh; armor and weapons rusted almost perceptibly under their very eyes, and every man was daubed and streaked with mud. In those conditions, not nearly so prolonged a march could be made as the Adelantado had wished — it had been his plan to camp that night so near to Soco as to make it possible to surprise the besiegers at dawn. With ten miles of slippery ground and three watercourses still between his army and the fort, the Adelantado was forced to give up the project.

  “But marching at dawn we shall be at Soco by noon,” he, said to the disgruntled group of hidalgos round him. “Time enough then for the lesson I want to teach them.”

  It rained until dawn, men and horses suffering miserably under the continued drenching, but with morning came a fiery sun which put new life into them — into all save a score or so of the earlier colonists, who lay shuddering and with chattering teeth despite the heat. They were in the grip of malaria — everyone who lived long in the island went down with it in course of time, apparently, and exposure to wet and to night air was certain to bring on an attack. One of the shivering victims begged with blue lips to be left with his companions where they lay.

  “So that when we have gone the Indians can beat you to death with their clubs, I suppose,” commented the Adelantado. “You could not raise a finger to stop them if they did. No. You must come with us. There are horses enough until we reach Soco.”

  So Rich completed the march on foot, leading the grey horse and with another man on the other side to help him keep one of the invalids in the saddle. Nor was he specially sorry, for two days of riding, even at foot pace, had rubbed his flesh raw. He trudged along with his sword tapping against his leg, while the sick man on his horse blasphemed wearily about the island and the Indians and the fate which had led him thither. Rich tried to make himself listen, because unguarded speech of this sort would be a valuable source of evidence for the report he would later have to make to His Highness, but it was hard to concentrate on the business with the imminent prospect of a battle before him. The handgunmen had their pieces loaded, and two of them had their matches smoldering, whereby a light could quickly be given to their companions; the Adelantado was riding along the column reminding his subordinates of his orders for the line of battle. With every step he took Rich knew that he was coming nearer to his first battlefield; it was a strange sensation. Once a false alarm ran down the column, and swords were drawn as they halted, but the mounted hidalgos reassured them and they plodded on.

  And then they came over a low rise to open up a fresh vista of the plain. Two miles ahead stood a low grey building with a black speck fluttering over it — the fortress of Soco with its flag; evidently the dozen colonists who had taken refuge there had made good their defense.

  “Here they come!” said the Adelantado. “Form your square, men.”

  Rich had no time to see more during the bustle of forming up.

  “Invalids here in the center!” called the Adelantado. “Gentlemen, mount your horses. Pikemen! Crossbowmen!”

  Rich helped his invalid to the ground. There were a dozen helpless men lying there already, but his own invalid was convalescent by now and with one more curse lurched away to join the ranks of his fellows. Ruiz and the advanced guard came clattering up as Rich climbed on the grey horse. Other horses cannoned into him, and he lost a stirrup and nearly lost his helmet before he found himself in the mass of cavalry grouped round the invalids. The foot soldiers had formed a square round the cavalry, facing outwards, the handgunmen with their matches alight, the crossbowmen with their bows wound up.

  Pouring up towards them was an enormous crowd of naked Indians. It was like a brown sea rolling upon them, thousands and thousands of them — not merely men, Rich saw as they approached, but women and children as well, all shrieking and yelling, as they waved their arms over their heads, with a noise like surf on the beach.

  “Please God they charge,” said the Adelantado, and then, raising his voice: “Remember, no man is to fire a shot until I give the word. Don Bernardo, see to it.”

  Rich, fidgeting with his reins and his sword, marveled at the Adelantado’s sentiments. It seemed to him the most necessary thing in the world that the guns should start firing at once. Through his muddled brain coursed a sudden desire to wheel his horse round and break through the ranks and gallop away; panic was making his heart beat painfully fast and clouding his intellect, and it was only with difficulty that he restrained himself from acting on the impulse.

  “If we shoot one now the whole lot’ll run away,” explained the Adelantado to the hidalgos round him. “I want to close with them.”

  The huge crowd poured up towards the square. Then it halted a hundred yards from the nearest face, came on again, halted again in the center, while at the sides it still poured forward until in the end the whole square was surrounded at a discreet distance. A few more daring Indians ran closer still and, with frantic gestures, flung stones which fell to earth far in front of the waiting Spaniards.

  “No shooting!” said the Adelantado loudly again.

  The crowd eddied round the square like mist, forward here and back there. The din was tremendous. Then at last came the rush, as some indetectable impulse carried the whole mob inwards towards the square.

  “Fire!” yelled the Adelantado.

  The crash of the handguns drowned the noise of the discharge of the crossbows. Rich saw one Indian fall, and next moment the two nations were at grips. The Indians carried heavy sticks for the most part, with which they struck clumsily at the helmets in front of them, clumsily, like clowns in a comedy. Perched up on his horse Rich caught vivid glimpses of brown faces, some of them striped with red paint, distorted with passion. He saw the expression on one turn to mild dismay as a Spaniard drove his sword home. Rich’s horse was chafing at the bit as the smell of blood reached his nostrils; close in front of him a crossbowman was winding frantically at his moulinet. There came a loud bang as one of the recharged handguns went off, and then another and another. The brown masses began to hesitate, and ceased to crowd up against the sword-points.

  “They’re going to break!”
said the Adelantado. “Gentlemen, are you ready?”

  The crossbowman thrust his loaded weapon forward between the two swordsmen who were protecting him, and released the bolt with a whizz and a clatter.

  “Open out when you charge, gentlemen. Ride them down and show no mercy,” said the Adelantado. “There! They’re breaking! Sailors, make way! Open your ranks, sailors! Come on, gentlemen!”

  The sailors, who formed one face of the square, huddled off to either side making a gap for the horsemen who poured through it in a torrent, the maddened horses jostling each other. Rich kept his seat with difficulty as his horse dashed out along with his fellows; reins and sword seemed to have become mixed in his grip. Avila was riding in front of him, his horse stretched to a gallop and his lance, with its fluttering banderol, in rest before him. The point caught a flying Indian in the back below the ribs, and lifted him forward in a great leap before he dropped spread-eagled on the ground; and Avila rode forward to free his point. The swords were wheeling in great arcs of fire under the sun. There was an Indian running madly close by Rich’s right knee, his hands crossed over his head to ward off the impending blow. Rich had his sword hand free now, and he swung and struck at the hands, and the Indian fell with a dull shriek.

  This was madly exciting, this wild pursuit on a horse galloping at top speed, with Indians scurrying in all directions before him. Behind him the handguns were still banging, and faint shouts indicated that the infantry were in pursuit as well. Rich struck again and again. He found himself leaning far out of the saddle, like an accomplished cavalier, to get a fairer sweep, and the discovery delighted him. He was carried away by the violence of his reaction from his previous panic; there were enemies all about him, running like rabbits. He yelled with excitement and slashed again. An Indian, crazed with panic, ran blindly across his course, and fell with a scream under the forelegs of the grey horse. The grey horse came down with a crash, and Rich found himself sailing through the air. The earth which received him was soft, and he was not stunned by the fall, but the breath was driven from his body as if he were a burst bladder. Dazed and winded, sword and helmet gone, he groveled about on the ground trying to recover himself. An Indian woman saw his plight; she still had her club in her hand, and apparently she was not as affected by panic as most of her companions. She ran up and struck at Rich, screaming the while for assistance. Two more women arrived, one with a pointed cane which she stuck painfully into Rich’s left arm, overbalancing him just as he was on the point of regaining his feet. The club clanged on his breastplate, the sharpened cane scraped over it. But the screams of the women changed from excitement to fright. A horse’s head loomed hugely over them; one woman fell across Rich, deluging him with blood from her half-severed neck, the others disappeared. García was there, riding a maddened chestnut stallion with graceful dexterity; the blood slowly dripped from his reddened sword and his white teeth flashed in a smile.

  “Wounded? Hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” said Rich, sliding disgustedly from under the woman’s corpse.

  “I’ll catch your horse,” said García, wheeling the chestnut towards where the grey was standing, his reins over his head and his sides heaving.

  Rich picked up his sword and helmet and received the reins which García handed him.

  “All well?” asked García. “Right!”

  García uttered some inarticulate yell and urged his horse into a gallop again, wheeling his sword in circles; Rich stood with the reins in his hand and watched him catch an Indian and strike him down. Rich had to sheath his bloody sword in order to mount. It was an effort to raise his foot to the stirrup, a worse effort to swing himself up into the saddle even though the blown horse stood stock-still for him; he gathered up the reins and wondered what to do next. Behind him the scattered infantry were chasing Indians with small chance of catching them — a few Indians were still running towards him from the direction of the battlefield and swerving frantically away when they caught sight of him. Far ahead the cavalry were still on the fringe of the great mass of flying Indians; the shouts came back to Rich’s ears like the distant cry of gulls at sea. He shook his horse into activity and rode forward towards Soco at a ponderous trot — he passed dead and wounded Indians scattered here and there over the plain as witness of the efficacy of the pursuit. The shouting and screaming ahead suddenly redoubled; the distant crowd wavered and hesitated and then broke up into two halves, one flying to the right and one to the left amid the loud reports of gunfire.

  The firing enabled Rich to guess what had happened: the garrison of Soco had come charging out across the line of retreat of the Indians, a dozen men against ten thousand and yet sufficient to check their speed enough to give the horsemen’s swords a fresh opportunity. There were plenty of Indians even near him, stragglers whom the pursuit had left behind ungleaned — exhausted Indians squatting gasping for breath, crippled Indians limping over the plain and Indians running madly back towards him from the slaughter ahead. Rich put his hand to his sword-hilt and then found himself, rather to his own surprise, leaving the weapon where it was. He did not want to kill any more.

  He rode slowly up towards the fort of Soco, where the horsemen were rallying, breathing their horses and tightening their girths. A dozen men on foot — the garrison of Soco, presumably — were standing with them, everyone talking and laughing excitedly. Dead Indians lay in swathes all about them, marking the area wherein their retreat had been cut off by the garrison’s sally.

  “Mount again, gentlemen,” said the Adelantado as Rich came within earshot. “We can beat back over the ground. Plenty of game broke back and the foot are there to head them off for us.”

  The Spaniards who had dismounted got back into their saddles. They were like men who had been drinking — some were giggling like schoolboys with the excitement of slaughter.

  “One long line,” said the Adelantado. “Fifty yards apart. My standard in the center. Spread yourselves out, gentlemen.”

  The Adelantado ran an interested eye over Rich as he trotted up — Rich was conscious of the blood and mud with which he was smeared. He bore clear enough proof that he had played his part in the battle.

  “Don Cristobal said you had a fall,” said the Adelantado.

  “I had,” said Rich, “but nothing serious.”

  “Are you wounded?”

  “Nothing serious again,” answered Rich.

  “You can have your revenge now.”

  “Do you really mean what you say, Don Bartholomew? Are you going on with this killing?”

  “Why, of course. There are four hours more of daylight.”

  “Haven’t enough been killed?”

  “No, by God. I mean this to be a lesson that they will never forget.”

  “But they are your brother’s subjects — your subjects, Your Excellency. Don’t you want them to earn revenue for you?”

  “They’ll breed again. And we’ve had no chance of sport like this for months. Don’t be mealy-mouthed, Doctor. Trumpeter!”

  The trumpet set the long line in motion again in its sweep back across the plain. It was sport for the infantry too; crossbows and handguns found plenty of targets as the frantic Indians were driven within range. The spearmen and swordsmen, even, hampered though they were with clothes and equipment, were often able to run down on foot the naked Indians who were already exhausted. Some of them showed a pretty wit in their choice of the place in which to plant their weapons when they caught their victims — the same idea had occurred to the horsemen, and shouts of laughter and approval ran along the line as each man vied with the others in displaying his dexterity or strength of arm. Rich followed fascinated.

  Chapter 16

  “Torture?” said Don Bartholomew surprisingly that night in reply to a question from García. “There’s no need for torture with these miserable wretches. Just keeping ‘em in one place; and preventing ‘em from wandering about is torture for ‘em. I’ll guarantee that tomorrow morning every one of the
fifty in the corral will blab all we want ‘em to. Three days of it, and they die, like fish in a bucket. But if they won’t talk tomorrow morning they will in the afternoon, after a morning in the sun without food or water. And if not, even then, the slow match that these handguns use will find tongues for ‘em. But mark my words, Don Cristobal, by two hours after dawn we’ll know all we want to know and we’ll be on our way.”

  They were discussing the next move in the suppression of the rebellion. The Adelantado had announced his intention of ascertaining from the prisoners who was the ringleader in the affair and whether he was likely to have fled; he was going to hunt him down, him and every other rebel he could catch, even if he had hidden in the heart of the unexplored mountains.

  “Are these people likely to have a ringleader?” asked Rich. “They don’t appear to me to have enough sense.”