Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  The report went up to the quarters of Captain General Cortes that several volunteers from Santo Domingo had reached Santiago only to find the fleet gone, and that they had chartered the pinnace to bring them on to Trinidad. Their leader was an old-timer, one of Columbus's men, Juan Garcia, who had had an allotment of Indians and land near Isabella. It was good news too that they had brought a horse on the pinnace, a tall sorrel by the name of Soldan.

  They begged leave to wait upon the General and pay their respects. Whereupon, Gonzalo de Sandoval was dispatched by Cortes to welcome them.

  Sandoval met the new arrivals as they were trudging up the palm-shaded valley, and he swung from his saddle, cap in hand. They were suiting their pace to that of their horse, who was still stiff from the voyage. Sandoval's eyes took in the animal almost sooner than the men, for a horse rated high in the expedition; but he did not forget his courtesy.

  "Ha, gentlemen!" he said. "Welcome to Trinidad!" Then, more formally, he introduced himself.

  He was a compact, muscular young man with slightly bandy legs, curly brown hair, and the beginnings of a beard. His eyes were clear, direct, and soldierly. His voice sounded rough, and he stammered a little when embaiTassed.

  "The General sends his compliments and desires your attendance," he added.

  Garcia, taking a step in front, acted as spokesman. The others were presented, made a leg, and bowed.

  A mixed group, thought Sandoval. Garcia, the typical seaman-yeoman of the Islands, consorted strangely with the others. Sefior Nightingale Casca and Sefior El Moro had plainly cheated the gallows. In Pedro de Vargas, Sandoval recognized the aristocrat, a fellow hidalgo. His square hand gripped Pedro's cordially; his eyes warmed. They were about of an age, he and de Vargas.

  "That's a good horse," he remarked, unable longer to put off inspecting the new mount.

  "Not a patch on yours," rumbled Garcia.

  Sandoval smiled. "Well, perhaps not. Motilla's hard to beat. But this is a good horse." He poked judiciously. The sorrel bared his teeth. "Ha, bite, would he?" The sorrel tried to wheel. "Ha, kick, would he? A good horse! A horse of spirit!" He clapped his hand on the beast's haunches. "Are you his owner, sir?'*

  "Yes," said Garcia—"that is, my friend and I own him together." He shot a warning glance at Pedro not to deny it. "But he'll do the riding of him. He's the horseman. No horse for me and no sore buttocks as long as I have my two legs, por Dios!"

  It was usual enough to share a horse in the army. Sandoval laughed. "Well, gentlemen, take my advice and keep away from the dice-box. There're a good many here who'll try to win him from you, one way or another."

  Walking uphill, they now came into full view of Trinidad, which already called itself a city, with its stockaded fort, its roughly built houses on the Spanish model, edging the plaza-commons, and among them a church, a tavern, and the residence of the alcalde.

  The square buzzed with people, the townsfolk intermingling with seamen and soldiers from the fleet. Some strolled arm in arm; others merged with larger groups, or came and went through the doors of the tavern; bronzed veterans of other expeditions; women camp followers equally tanned and tough; newcomers from Spain; flower-decked Indian girls, plump and barelegged, at the side of white husbands or paramours; here and there the somber robe of a friar; hidalgos from country estates, with now and then a Castilian wife; natives carrying bundles on their heads; a blending of costumes and nakedness, clatter of tongues and accents.

  "That's the General's banner," remarked Sandoval, pointing to a black velvet flag, edged with gold, that floated on the offshore wind in front of one of the better houses. It looked funereal at a first glimpse but showed sparkles of color on second view. Unfolding to the gusts of the breeze, it displayed the royal arms of Spain and, joined with

  them, a crimson cross girt with white and blue flames, having a motto in gold letters underneath.

  "How does it read?" asked de Vargas.

  Sandoval swelled a little. "It reads, Brothers and comrades, let us follow the Cross with true faiths and in this sign we shall conquer. Good-looking, isn't it? The General designed it himself. Hola! We're just in time for the cry. We have it three times a day. Listen."

  Prefaced by an urgent roll on a long drum (the drummer plying his sticks like mad), a great-voiced crier, stationed next to the flagpole, shouted his oyez: —

  "Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! In the King's name! Know everyone that the fleet now in Trinidad harbor sails by the authority of His Excellency, the Governor, to the West, for trade, settlement, and discovery, under the command of Hernando Cortes, Alcalde of Santiago Baracoa. Enroll for God and King under this his banner! Carry the light of our Blessed Faith to those in heathen darkness! Win lands and profit, gold and treasure for our gracious King, Don Carlos, and for yourselves! Join the cavaliers from Santiago, who invite you of Trinidad, you of Sancti Spiritus, and of this district, to be their comrades in arms! Eleven stout ships! Big returns for all monies ventured! Do not delay! Enlist under the banner of Hernan Cortes, Captain General!"

  "We're getting to be an army," Sandoval went on when the proclamation ended. "Only three hundred left Santiago; but we're four hundred now, not counting seamen and Indian servants. Pedro de Alvarado and his brothers joined up from here. He was on the expedition with Grijalva, you know. Cristobal de Olid's from Trinidad too, and Alonso de Avila, Juan de Escalante, Ortiz the Musician—" Sandoval mentioned other names. "I got in yesterday from Sancti Spiritus with Alonso Hernandez de Puertocarrero, Roderigo Rangel, and Juan Velasquez de Leon. They shot off" the cannon for us. More are coming. We plan to stop off down the coast and pick up others at San Cristobal de la Habana."

  "What do you think of the General?" asked Garcia, putting his finger at once on the main point; for an expedition was a kind of military stock company, each member of it profiting in proportion to his investment; and as its leader had the functions of a general manager, everything depended on his ability. "I've known plenty of captains and generals in my time—Ojeda, Ponce de Leon, Nicuesa, Cordoba, not to mention Grijalva. Good men but not good enough. Never quite hit the clout, you understand. How's Cortes?"

  "Wait till you've met him!" In his enthusiasm, Sandoval, who was

  leading his horse out of deference to the newcomers, stopped dead and tapped Garcia on the chest with an emphatic forefinger. "Senor, there's a man for anybody's money. Doesn't let the grass grow under his feet, I can tell you. Sleeps with one eye open. Knows when to take a chance, if you follow me, but he looks ahead too and thinks out every detail." Sandoval grinned and slapped his leg. "Hear about the sailing from Santiago?"

  "Como noT' said Garcia. "Heard nothing else when we got there. Governor Velasquez tried to double-deal Cortes out of the command at the last moment, didn't he?"

  "He did, and be damned to him! Call that justice, when the General has put more into this venture than anybody else? His last peso, they tell me. And that isn't the worst of it. Velasquez sends a fellow here, ordering the alcalde, Francisco Verdugo, to arrest him and send him back to Santiago. By God, the alcalde knows better! We'd sack the town. We're betting our lives on Hernan Cortes and no other. That is, most of us are," Sandoval added, "because you'll always find a few soreheads. Hombre! It must have been a night in Santiago! Cortes hustling the men on board, buying out the town market for supplies. Then next morning, Velasquez on the jetty: Cortes in the ship's boat. Ha, ha! Good-by, Your Excellency! I tell you, seiiores, you've got to get up early to steal a march on the General."

  Garcia pointed at the extra thick wheeling of Cuba's guardian buzzards over the outskirts of the town. "Slaughtering, eh?"

  Sandoval nodded. "Yes, hogs. We're laying in enough salt pork and cassava bread for a three months' stretch. As to equipment, listen to the blacksmiths' shops. They're at it day and night."

  They started threading their way across toward the General's quarters.

  "Hola, Isabel." Sandoval smiled at a full-blown wench with an enterprising eye who stare
d hard at the strangers. "Seeking grist for your mill, eh? Gentlemen, this is Isabel Rodrigo, one of our ladies."

  The girl simpered and bobbed. Pedro stared a question.

  "Yes, our ladies," repeated Sandoval. "We've got a few in the army, some married and some in hopes of it, eh, Isabel? By God, I think they'll get more gold out of Yucatan, one way or another, than any of us."

  She stuck out her tongue at him. Her gaze faltered between Pedro and Nightingale Casca. She decided on Casca and gave him an intense glance. The Sicilian answered in kind.

  "Now, now!" Sandoval put in. "We're due at the General's. Business

  before pleasure. Be off with you, muchacha!" He gave her a playful smack on the behind, dodged a return cuff, and walked on. "Be careful, man," he remarked to Casca.

  The other got the point and nodded thoughtfully.

  Crossing the square, Pedro was struck by the number of young men in the crowd, most of them near his own age. He did not reason about it; but anyone of more experience could have told him that youth was the chief characteristic of this or any other expedition in the New World: youth with its qualities good and bad, its dash and dare, fickleness and passion; its confused motives of gold, fame, or religion, against the background of still recent chivalry; youth, credulous of rumor. From Santo Domingo to Cuba, Pedro had heard the tales of an unknown vvorld in the West, mysterious as the planet Mars: tales of elephant-eared people and others with dog faces; countries inhabited by Amazons. Anything might wait beyond the western water.

  A rumble of voices sounded from the General's house, laughter, and a scuffling of feet. Leaving Soldan and Motilla in the keeping of an Indian servant, they were about to enter when a couple of brawny fellows wearing earrings shouldered into them with never an apology and walked off singing, arm in arm. The passage beyond was filled with men, gossiping, disputing; it smelled of sweat and leather. Sandoval forced a good-natured way through the crowd, exchanging quips and greetings as he went.

  So this, Pedro thought, was the moment he had imagined two months ago on the beach at Sanlucar. Between now and then lay the discomforts and alarms of the voyage, the thousand new impressions, the landing in Santo Domingo, the hot haste to find passage to Cuba, the disappointment at Santiago, the last suspense of the chase along the coast in fear of missing the fleet after all. He wondered now if it had been worth the effort. Trinidad, the tough-looking, boisterous colonials, who were evidently to be his companions, did not attract him. Even Sandoval had the voice of a bull-herder and a homemade doublet. Not for the first time, he regretted Italy.

  "Blast my guts!" roared a voice. "There's Bull Garcia!"

  A burly man, with one shoulder higher than the other, pushed forward and stuck out a hairy paw.

  "Humpback Nojara!" returned Garcia, shaking hands. "Well, well, Humpback! It's a long time since Veragua, eh? Hope we have better luck this voyage. See you when I've talked with the General."

  Following Sandoval, they entered a good-sized room on the left, similarly filled with men but of a different condition from those outside.

  They were evidently officers of the expedition. Though their clothes were provincial and far from the latest cut, there was*still a showing of velvet and colors, steel and gold. A group at a table had their heads together over a map. Several others played cards.

  Pedro wondered who was the Captain General, for no one seemed to have particular authority. Catching Sandoval's eyes, he looked inquiringly at a tall, blond man, magnificent in crimson, with a gold chain around his neck and a big diamond ring on his forefinger, the most conspicuous person in the room. Sandoval shook his head. "Pedro de Alvarado," he whispered. "A grand gentleman. You'll like him— everyone does. That's Cristobal de Olid," he added wdth a glance at a dark, sinewy man overlooking the card game. "A good svordsman. And that's Juan Velasquez de Leon." He pointed out a thick-set, bold-looking soldier with a red beard. "Those gentlemen are Diego de Ordas and Francisco de Morla, the Governor's people." He mentioned other names.

  One of the group around the map looked up.

  "Ha, son Sandoval!"

  The speaker was tall, slender, dark, and singularly pale; but his broad shoulders and long arms suggested physical strength. Though apparently still in his early thirties, he gave somehow the impression of being older. Through his thin beard, a scar showed reaching down from his lower lip. Facing him, Pedro met the level impact of his eyes, as he straightened up from the map. They were grave eyes, but with a friendly twinkle in them, a twinkle of personal interest and understanding. Instinctively de Vargas knew that this was the General.

  "So you've brought the gentlemen." Rounding the table, Cortes held out both hands. "Senor Garcia, eh? I've heard much of you, sir—and all good. We've been neighbors, so to speak, back in Santo Domingo. But on my conscience, haven't we met? Didn't you pass through Azua in 1508? I was a boy then, no older than Sandoval."

  "Yes," nodded Garcia, his broad face beaming with gratification. "I was in Azua in 1508, after the Indian revolt. Only twenty-five at the time. What a memory Your Excellency has!"

  "One doesn't easily forget a man of your build and carriage, sir. I hope you're with us in this venture? Good! You never made a sounder investment, Senor Garcia. Every maravedi you lay out now w'ill net you a thousand. At the least. At the least, I say. Torrazas"—he nodded to a man with an inkhorn at a side table—"inscribe my friend, Juan Garcia, on the roll of the company. Take good note of his commitment. And these other gentlemen?"

  The Nightingale and the Moor, as Sandoval presented them, each received a personal welcome. They were caught up by the General's eye and made one of his fellowship. His warm, quiet voice heated them like wine. Here was no stiff-necked hidalgo looking down his nose at common people. He was a man you could talk to, a man like yourself in spite of his blood. The Moor and the Nightingale grinned and glowed.

  "Pedro de Vargas of Jaen," said Sandoval.

  Cortes's manner changed slightly. From bluff, he turned polished. Pedro's bow showed a breeding different from the others'.

  "From Jaen? Are you by chance a relative of the famous captain of that name, Francisco de Vargas?"

  As spring after winter, a golden echo from the past, the reference to his father lifted Pedro's heart.

  "His son, sefior."

  "By my conscience!" Pedro found himself in a steel-like embrace. "Our fathers were friends, though mine never reached the eminence of yours. Alvarado, Velasquez, Ordas—gentlemen, here's a good omen! The son of Francisco de Vargas joins our company. From the look of him, he has his father's spirit."

  Salutations were exchanged. Even the group at cards paused to stare.

  "Your illustrious father is well?" asked Alvarado.

  "When I last saw him," Pedro evaded.

  Cortes remarked, "I hope it will please you to act as one of my equerries. No doubt your merit will soon raise you to a command."

  Pedro thought that he had never met anyone so winning. Cortes fascinated with a charm that made men eager to serve him, made them feel important.

  "I should like nothing better, sir," he answered. "But I am with Juan Garcia. It is entirely at his charges that I came to the Islands—"

  "Nonsense, Your Excellency!" Garcia interrupted. "The boy's independent of me, as far as that comes to. If you take him, you'll have an equerry who knows how to use his weapons."

  Cortes smiled. "I'll borrow him then. Meanwhile, you and he do me the honor of dining today at my table. He can take up his duties tomorrow. I want your advice on the stores. And show me this new horse you've brought. We've room for one more manger on the flagship."

  Pedro forgot his qualms of a few minutes past. A spark had passed from the General to himself. He looked at the future once more through a rainbow.

  As for Cortes, while enlisting four new men in the army, he had added four devotees to his personal service.

  XXVll

  During the next few days, Pedro worked harder than ever before in his life. He sometimes w
ondered whether it did not detract from the dignity of a gentleman to oversee the salting down of pork and the lading of vats in the ships, or to dicker for poultry and cassava bread with grasping settlers of the neighborhood, or to sweat under the tropical sun on endless plebeian errands. But with a captain general who kept his eye on these and a thousand other details and who was pedantically thorough about trifles, he had no choice. If Pedro worked, he had to admit that his commander worked twice as hard; if he drudged and sweated, he did no more than Cortes himself. This was an antidote to romantic dreams of adventure. He began to learn that glory depended on salt pork and equipment, on minute planning and careful arithmetic.

  "Quien adelante no mira atrds se queda" as Garcia put it. "He who does not look forward remains behind. And that," Garcia added enthusiastically, "our General has no intention of doing, by God."

  Pedro soon found that the admiration one felt for Cortes, rather than love, was the secret of his power—admiration for the man's ability, force, and vision. It was probable that a selfish unscrupulousness lay behind his charm: but, even though conscious of being used as a tool, one still willingly served him.

  One of Pedro's chief duties was to stand guard over the military chest. "It shows the trust I have in you, de Vargas," the General would say. "I'd ask a wolf to play nursemaid to a lamb sooner than leave this to most of our good companions. Keep your eyes peeled. You're guarding the mainspring of the army." And tapping the box, which gave back a rather hollow sound, he added characteristically, "On my honor, you'll soon have a lot more than this to guard. My word! Tons of gold! I pledge my beard that you'll have your share of it too—depend on me —gold to your elbows."

  Though busy, they were pleasant days at Trinidad, days of comradeship and responsibility. After his escape from arrest in Spain, Pedro rejoiced at being enrolled in a legitimate undertaking. He was now in the King's service, even if under false pretenses.