The Islands of Unwisdom

by Robert Graves

  Don Alvaro sank down upon a drum. ‘Now we are utterly undone!’ he groaned—a phrase often on his lips. But this time he buried his head in his hands and swayed from side to side.

  When Sebastian arrived, with a hang-dog look, he was sent to the guard-house and fastened in the stocks. The main-party were now straggling towards the armoury, to replace their weapons in the racks, as usual; but the General had ordered Don Luis and some sailors to hide behind the back door; they were to bind and gag them one by one as they emerged. This was done expeditiously and in silence. The Adjutant and Sergeant Andrada, who brought up the rear, were also disarmed, and Don Alvaro had them placed in the stocks beside Sebastian. They gazed about them in wonder, not knowing what to think until they spied Pacito nursing his wounded head in a corner, fettered to a post. When they asked him with their eyes what had happened, he ran one finger across his throat and began to weep again; which caused them much apprehension.

  Next the Colonel’s nephew returned, in company with the Ensign-Royal; but neither of them was molested. Doña Mariana had pleaded for the life of her lover, and Father Juan for that of Don Toribio, who was related to the Bishop of Lima on his mother’s side. ‘Here at least are two faithful servants of the King!’ announced Don Alvaro, rising feebly from his seat.

  ***

  The rear-guard arrived under the command of Juan de Buitrago, and were in their turn overpowered outside the armoury, but Don Lorenzo manacled the Ensign and marched him off between four arquebusiers to a sentry-box at the other side of the camp.

  ‘Why do you treat me like this?’ he asked indignantly.

  ‘The Colonel is dead, and a general pardon has been offered to his associates,’ Don Lorenzo replied.

  ‘Then why these manacles?’

  ‘Your enemies have sworn to kill you. You are in safe custody.’

  The Ensign’s young wife, already with child, had been weeping silently for hours, and now ran shrieking after him between the huts and bushes, until she fell in a faint.

  ‘Was that Doña Luisa?’ asked the Ensign in anxiety. ‘Let someone at once assure her that no harm will come to me.’

  ‘Wait behind this tree, and I will go myself,’ answered Don Lorenzo. ‘Shoot him, if he stirs,’ he told the escort. Then he went to the Colonel’s house, where Father Antonio could be heard praying for the souls of the dead; his voice came in gasps, as though he were wrestling.

  ‘You are wanted,’ Don Lorenzo announced brusquely, as he strode in. ‘And you had best come at once.’

  Father Antonio did not rise from his knees. Reading murder in the other’s proud, flushed face, he answered: ‘What if I refuse to wade this muddy river, my son?’

  ‘Then I will drag you through it by your skirts.’

  ‘Captain Barreto—since you will not call me Father, I cannot call you son—remember that I am a priest! In the name of the One God, I adjure you not to add sacrilege to murder….’

  ‘Come with me, I say!’

  A black face peered in at the window. It was Myn, who had taken advantage of the disturbance to slip off in search of loot.

  ‘Myn, my son,’ Father Antonio cried, ‘if you are a good Catholic, come to my help!’

  Don Lorenzo did not carry his cruel game further. Before the negro entered, he said mildly: ‘I intended no violence, Father. But pray come with me to confess one who is about to die. Upon my honour, this is all that will be required of you.’

  ‘Your honour?’ he asked, investing the words with a garment of scorn. Then he rose, hurriedly washed his hands, robed himself, took what he needed from the chest which served as his sacristy, and followed Don Lorenzo out. ‘Stay by my side, Myn,’ he said, ‘and guard me.’ Myn shouldered his axe obediently, and they went off together.

  The Chaplain found Don Juan laughing and jesting with his guard. ‘Well met, Father,’ he said. ‘Now I shall know what has happened during our absence. These men seem afraid to open their mouths.’

  Father Antonio replied: ‘Murder has been committed, my son. The Colonel has been cowardly stabbed to death—in the presence of Don Alvaro.’

  The Ensign struggled to cross himself, but the manacles hindered him. He said, in deep grief: ‘May God pardon his faults, which were many, for the sake of his cruel end, which was undeserved!’

  ‘And Tomás de Ampuero has been hunted and cut down by the General’s family.’

  ‘They must have caught him alone and unarmed.’

  The good Father did not answer.

  ‘And what next?’

  ‘Now, my son, they intend to kill you.’

  ‘Ay, that was always their intention. They know that I esteem them less than three bugs on the wall of a brothel jakes.’

  Father Antonio reproved him: ‘Hush, man! This is where quarrels end: I have been summoned to confess you. You are to die at once.’

  ‘Despite the General’s pardon?’

  ‘That did not avail Don Tomás. Are you ready?’

  ‘With you to confess me, reverend Father.’

  ‘Dear son, if you wish for absolution and eternal life, I implore you to hold nothing back. Repeat after me the Confiteor.’

  The Ensign knelt obediently and when he had done, ‘Father,’ he muttered, ‘I accuse myself of having sinned in the flesh…’

  ‘Captain Barreto,’ said the Chaplain, ‘pray withdraw your guards to a respectful distance…. Now continue, my son!’

  When the Ensign had done, Father Antonio was heard to say: ‘Those are grievous sins, my son! Do any others press upon your conscience?’

  ‘One only, Father,’ he answered, raising his voice. ‘A sin which, though it seemed trivial at the time, has brought more evil in its train than all the others together. At Callao, four days before we sailed, by the mainmast with Don Andrés and the Boatswain…’

  ‘Say no more!’ said the Chaplain. ‘I overheard your words and I witnessed the sequel. Yet you were not the first with that mischievous tale: thirty years ago, when I served under the Duke of Alva, the same blind orphan girl was lodged at Brussels, above a goldsmith’s shop; and I doubt not, she had been at her tricks long before in ancient Rome and Niniveh and Sodom. Come now, dear son, make a good act of contrition….’

  He gave him absolution and administered the sacrament.

  The Ensign, wonderfully refreshed in spirit, asked the good priest to comfort his widow. His last words were: ‘Let the negro be my executioner. I would not have this murder weigh on the hearts of my own arquebusiers.’

  At a sign from the Chaplain, Myn stepped quickly forward and, before Don Lorenzo could intervene, swung at Don Juan and struck off his head with two sure blows of the axe.

  ***

  At the guard-house, the General was waiting impatiently, not knowing what kept Don Lorenzo so long.

  ‘Pray pardon the delay, your Excellency,’ said he, running up. ‘Which of these three traitors is to be judged first? Shall it be the Adjutant?’

  ‘And why not?’ cried the Major. ‘I’ll bring the rogue before you with all my heart.’ He hurried into the guard-house and dragged out Captain Diego de Vera, as a butcher would a ram.

  Don Alvaro looked around him dubiously. ‘What do you say, friends? Is it to be death or pardon?’

  Next to the Colonel, the Adjutant had been the best-liked officer in the camp, and such a hum of ‘Pardon, let it be pardon!’ went along the ranks, that the Barretos dared not press for the extreme penalty. He was ordered to kneel and take an oath of fidelity to the General, after which his sword was returned to him and he was freed.

  Then Sergeant Andrada was brought up for trial. He knew that Don Alvaro had held him in abomination since his boast that he had killed more Indians on Santa Cristina than any other man, and therefore expected no mercy. ‘At your service, my General!’ he said. ‘If this head must fall, let us be quick about it!’ The Major, tugging at one arm, tried to hurry him off to the executioners, but Pedro Fernandez pulled him back by the other. ‘Why this indecent has
te?’ he protested. ‘For the love of the Virgin, let the sergeant be given a fair trial!’

  Don Alvaro walked away to avoid an appeal for clemency, but Doña Ysabel, wishing to earn Pedro Fernandez’s gratitude, went after and persuaded him to relent.

  The Sergeant fell on his knees, and was allowed to take the oath; but as he rose, he saw Don Diego with the Colonel’s loaded stick in one hand, and in the other a halberd on which was stuck the Colonel’s gashed and pallid head. He covered his eyes to hide the streaming tears, and ‘Alas, noble old man!’ he cried. ‘Is this the end of your long and faithful service to His Majesty? Sweet Christ, what a royal reward! A dastard’s death, and your grey locks wagging from the summit of a stake!’

  ‘Honestly spoken, by God!’ the Colonel’s nephew burst out, unable to contain himself. ‘No one with a spark of honour in his breast, or of pity in his bowels, but must weep with you!’

  ‘Silence, sirrah!’ cried Don Alvaro. ‘Have you no sense of obligation to those who interceded on your behalf?’

  ‘I thank them all sincerely,’ he said. ‘But I also thank the man who has dared to speak aloud what is in every heart.’ He turned to embrace the weeping Sergeant, and the troops gave him subdued applause.

  ***

  Sebastian Lejia, still in the stocks, induced one of his guards to call the Chief Pilot who, coming to him at once, enquired what he wanted. ‘They tell me, your honour, that you have saved Sergeant Andrada’s life. For God’s sake, do the same for me!’

  ‘Why should I take your part? In cold blood you murdered our noble benefactor, as in cold blood you murdered the man who was swimming with his child off La Magdelena.’

  ‘In either case I did no more than what I was told, your honour. Then my orders came from the Colonel, now from a person whom you hold in high esteem; but do not ask me for the name. And I swear to your honour, by sweet Jesus who redeemed us all, that my undeserved death will bring a dozen more in its train…. The General’s Lady will thank you for your good services,’ he whined. ‘Only yesterday she gave me permission to marry her under-maid Pancha.’

  Pedro Fernandez little knew what a Devil’s bargain had been struck between Doña Ysabel and Sebastian: Pancha was to be his reward for the murder of Malope. I myself did not at once suspect her part in this infamous crime, though aware of her talent for deceit and double-dealing, because it seemed to go altogether against her interests.

  Sebastian was released from the stocks along with Salvador Aleman, and they were taken before Don Alvaro. Salvador’s life was spared when he pleaded that he would have dealt a comrade the same merciful blow to end his agony. Sebastian kept silent. The General himself now had him fast by the collar. ‘Here is the vilest assassin of our age!’ he said. ‘A man who, without warning, instigated by the Devil, shattered the generous breast of our innocent ally Malope. Is there a man so lost to shame dares plead for him? You shall be strangled, villain!’

  The Chief Pilot doffed his bonnet. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘I beg you to lay no further victim on the altar of justice. The Colonel is no more, and those whom he misled have returned to obedience. This man acted under orders; it would be unjust to hang the dog and let his master go free.’ He assumed that it was Don Lorenzo who had prompted the crime, because he had often been heard to say that we should wage indiscriminate war on all the natives and wrest the island from them by force of arms.

  Don Alvaro must have guessed what was in his mind. He relaxed his hold on the prisoner and complained petulantly: ‘Mercy is very well, friend. But how am I to avenge Malope’s murder, if I spare this man’s life?’

  ‘Enough blood has been shed,’ answered Pedro Fernandez, ‘and your Excellency must remember how few we now are. Send the heads of the Ensign and the Sergeant to Malope’s village, as if they were those of the murderers. The savages will know no better.’

  The General glanced at Don Lorenzo, who said quickly: ‘The Chief Pilot is right. This man’s orders must have come from Juan de Buitrago, who has already paid for the crime.’

  Then he yielded, but instructed the Chief Pilot to take Sebastian out of his sight, before he repented of his clemency; and, having said this, he fainted clean away. His actions that day reminded me of a dying candle-end, that flares up suddenly before it sputters to final extinction.

  While Doña Mariana and I were reviving him, Pedro Fernandez called four sailors and sent Sebastian to the flagship, where he confined him in the forecastle on a diet of biscuit and water. The crew, still feasting on the food that Malope had given us, were outraged by his deed. That night they mixed salt with the water in his pitcher, and brought him almond-shells to eat. Nor would they let him go to sleep, but continually prodded him awake, shouting: ‘Why did you kill Malope, you fiend? You ought to be hanged, drawn and quartered!’ It was a novel pleasure for seamen to have a soldier in their power, especially one who had always looked on them with scorn.

  The next morning Sebastian sent for Pancha, who presently peeped in at the door. His face lighted up, and he told her: ‘Sweetheart, the very day that I’m released, I’ll marry you; I have Doña Ysabel’s consent.’ But when she spat at him and put her arms lovingly around the neck of the gaoler who had been his chief tormentor, and let him fondle her bosom, he turned his face to the wall and sobbed.

  Chapter 20

  THE ECLIPSE

  A light breeze blew from the direction of Malope’s village, and carried with it the sound of distant lamentation, so lugubrious and prolonged that it made our hearts sick. Don Alvaro, trembling with anxiety, ordered the head of Juan de Buitrago to be taken there in placation; he had learned that on the death of a chieftain his kinsmen always demanded a victim to escort him to the other world—the murderer, had his death been violent, but otherwise (since no chief was believed to die naturally), an enemy suspected of killing him by magic. This unpleasant task was entrusted to the Adjutant, who went off with Don Jacinto and twenty men; but no sooner had the villagers sighted the long-boat, than they broke and ran into the woods, still wailing loudly. He shouted after them, displaying the Ensign’s head on a stake, but as they paid no attention, he landed and marched to the village.

  To demonstrate their ecstatic grief, the bereaved tribesmen had felled scores of young fruit-trees, trampled down the flowering plants in their yards and even mutilated the carved posts of the assembly-house. Into the pen which usually housed Malope’s pigs, every man and woman had cast some weapon or adornment as a parting gift to the soul of their Chieftain, including several of the red badges they had received from us. The soldiers would have entered the pen to pocket the carved shell frontlets and the armlets of boars’ tusks, but the Adjutant prevented them. ‘It is unlucky to rob the dead,’ he remarked. Nevertheless, he had scarcely turned his back before they stole Malope’s own ornaments from the wooden altar beside the house on which they had been placed. The Ensign’s head was then nailed under the eaves, and Don Jacinto climbed in by the entrance-hole to see whether any of Malope’s widows were still in residence, to whom the General’s condolences might be conveyed. He found the house empty. The hearth was cold, broken spears littered the floor among strewn banana skins and the rinds of other fruit, and on the platform where Malope used to sleep lay a coffin, shaped in the figure of a shark, which contained his corpse. Only the lower half of his face was visible, all the rest had been covered with nettles pressed down upon it by heavy boards, which was the islanders’ way of keeping a body from corruption while it lay in state.

  The wailing cry of ulo, ulo sounded dolefully from the woods, and the Adjutant crossed himself and led his men back to the boat. All that day and night, with brief breaks, the mourning rang in our ears like an accusation.

  Jaume the water-steward came to me with a dejected look, and asked: ‘Don Andrés, have you heard what is being said about the General’s health?’

  ‘I know that he is very sick. He has given me no writing to do since the day the Colonel died.’

  ‘Or the day
that Malope died.’

  ‘The same, but what of it?’

  He came closer, and whispered: ‘They’re saying, Don Andrés, that Malope changed names with him as a safeguard against treachery: by the magic of sympathy, any disaster coming on Malope would involve Don Alvaro too, should he be concerned in it.’

  ‘What a preposterous notion!’ said I. ‘In any case, whoever gave Sebastian his orders, you may be sure that it was not Don Alvaro.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ he returned. ‘But if he’s heard the rumour, as Elvira tells me that he has, and if he believes it, as she assures me that he does—why, then mark my words, he’ll never rise from his sick-bed. It’s on his mind that he did not threaten death to any man who harmed Malope; and now he complains of searing pains in his right breast, where the ball struck Malope, and of a headache fit to split his skull. Not for nothing does he come from Corunna, where every child is raised in terror of witchcraft, and the very priests are alleged to be in league with Satan.’

  ‘And are there no witches in Majorca?’ I asked, laughing. ‘I have heard Galicians swear that black magic is unknown in their province, but that Majorca and the other Balearics are raddled with it.’

  ‘Well, I won’t deny that we have our wise women. My own uncle, a cobbler in a mountain village, was house-bound for more than ten years; his wife, jealous of the baker’s daughter, had laid a spell on the doorstep which he could never cross without falling down in a faint. She did him no other injury, though, and when she died he stepped over the threshold in safety, went down the street and made straight for the baker’s house. But the witches of Corunna don’t use their spells merely in self-defence.’