Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  The fact that it was under false pretenses cast the only shadow upon his present life in the camp. If Cortes knew that the Inquisition was on Pedro's and Garcia's traces, he could not compromise the expedition by enrolling them. As a dutiful son of the Church, he would be bound to arrest and hand them over. Not until the fleet had finally sailed for Yucatan could Pedro feel entirely safe.

  Whenever he spoke to Garcia about it, the latter only laughed. "Boy, we've got the Ocean Sea between us and Jaen. The Santa Casa hasn't grown wings yet. Not by a long shot. Forget it. We're in the New World."

  But, perhaps as a nervous aftermath of the experience in Jaen, the dread hung on. Pedro tried to forget it, but a premonition of something impending stalked behind him. On the eve of sailing, the foreboding increased. To hide his nervousness, he wandered off by himself in the late afternoon and climbed the slope of the Vigia hill above the settlement.

  At first the path wound between trees shrouded in Spanish moss, past thickets of flowers; unseen waters sounded here and there, and the voice of birds. Then finally he came out on the open land crowning the summit, a dome of sky above, the immensity of the ocean beneath. A little soothed by the exertion of the walk and by the infinite quietness, he sank down at the foot of a solitary palm and sat staring eastward over the Caribbean.

  It brought back the picture of himself a few months ago, similarly seated and gazing westward from the Sierra de Jaen at the beginning of his flight with Garcia. He confronted himself across the interval of space and time that separated one milestone from, another.

  At that time he had been flushed by the triumph of his escape and of his vengeance upon de Silva. Now the feeling had strangely altered. Not that he regretted killing the man—he would have killed him again without hesitation—but that he had duped the coward into renouncing God before he killed him remained an undigested lump in Pedro's conscience. His code did not justify such blasphemy as that. Strange, he thought, that the one thing which should have given him the greatest satisfaction now constantly returned to haunt him. "Renounce God, de Silva!" The echo of his own voice kept him away from mass, kept him awake at night. But was any punishment too great for the man? Was hell too hot for him? Had not God used Pedro's sword as a righteous instrument? Then why remorse?

  The faint tones of the Angelus from the distant church below reached up to him and started another train of thought. He said his

  Ave Maria, trying to remember something that was connected with the Angelus, something on the fringe of his mind.

  Yes—Catana. He had promised to think of her every day at that hour, and in the beginning he had kept his word. A wave of longing for her passed over him. Though he had neglected to think of her at the appointed time, he had still thought of her often, and always with a warmth that was partly physical, but not merely that. A strange girl, he reflected, unlike anybody else. He owed her his life. What had become of her with that cutthroat, Soler?

  The ocean, vast and infinite as the sky, shut him off from any answer. The New World was well-named. Echoes from the Old World might reach him after months, when the news they carried was long since stale; or they might never reach him. Spain and Italy seemed more remote than the figures on the moon, for at least he could see the moon. What had happened of good or ill? Were his father and mother safe? Did Luisa de Carvajal remember him?

  He reached under his doublet for her handkerchief and spread it out on his knee. Inevitably his mind swung back, like a compass, to its fixed point: his one divine hour (the moonlight on the laurels of the garden, on her face), his one devouring purpose which alone gave meaning and a goal to life! If he gained her, he gained everything; if he lost her, nothing mattered. For her, the gold he might win in the West; for her, the fame.

  A long shadow, advancing from the sunset, fell along the ground in front of him, the shadow of a cowl and gown. Turning with a start, he found himself looking up into the features of Father Bartolome de Olmedo, chaplain of the army.

  Taken by surprise, he lost countenance a little, returned the handkerchief to its place, and started to get up; but Olmedo laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "Sit still, my son. I'll join you by your leave, and rest a moment. It's a fine spot you've chosen."

  Whereupon, Father Bartolome seated himself shoulder to shoulder with Pedro against the trunk of the palm and breathed a sigh of contentment.

  He was a square, soldierly man with a scrubby beard, frank eyes, and an appealing smile. He wore the habit of the Order of Mercy. Cortes often remarked that if Father Bartolome could not convert the heathen dogs of Yucatan, they were past praying for. Entrusted to him, the spiritual interests of the expedition were in good hands.

  The friar slipped off his sandals, complaining that the thong chafed him, and wriggled his strong toes in relief.

  "So you're thinking about Spain, Senor de Vargas?" he observed. "Seems far off, eh, and a certain young lady farther still?"

  Shocked by the aptness of the remark, Pedro colored. Was the friar a necromancer? He shot him a nervous look.

  Olmedo laughed. "Vdlgate Dios, when a young man, newly arrived in Cuba, walks off by himself and sits gazing to the east with a handkerchief on his knee, he's probably thinking of home and sweetheart. I've been young myself and not always in orders. Cheer up. You'll sail back again some day wdth a chestful of gold and much honor. The peerless lady will be yours. The dream will come true." He added with a sigh, "And afterwards, Seiior de Vargas?"

  "I don't understand."'

  The other retorted, "Why not? I only meant that your dream is attainable and wondered what would take its place afterwards. Another lady? More wealth and fame? Because the zest of life is effort, my son, not attainment."

  Tempted out of his reserve, Pedro smiled. "Believe me, if I get what I long for, I'll be satisfied."

  "Ah?" said Father Olmedo. He raised his knees and sat clasping them, his eyes on the ocean. "Well, the difference between you and me is that I shall never get what I long for."

  To become a bishop, thought Pedro, or maybe even pope? Yes, it did seem a far cry for a poor chaplain.

  "What is that. Father, if I may ask?"

  "To know God in His perfection," said Olmedo quietly. And after a moment, "It is unattainable. And therefore I shall be happy forever in my dream. You see," the friar went on in another tone, "dreams are like carrots, and we are like mules. As long as the carrot dangles in front of our noses, we keep going, cover ground. If we catch up with it, we stop."

  Unused to metaphors, Pedro digested the meaning slowly.

  "How did you happen to come to the Islands, Father?"

  "As a witness for God."

  "To the Indians?"

  Olmedo looked amused. "Yes, I came with that idea. I soon learned that the greater need was to witness to the Spaniards."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why," returned Olmedo, "who is more guilty: the Indian, serving his devils through ignorance; or the Spaniard, professing Christ and serving the devil in rape and murder, cruelty and extortion?"

  The friar's face grew darker.

  "The Indians welcomed us like children. We destroyed them by the sword, by the lash, in the fields and in the mines. They died like flies; soon there won't be any more. We've been a plague to these islands, God have mercy on us!"

  He controlled himself with an effort. "So on this expedition, I am chaplain to the army. It's my flock—of wolves," he added. "Hernan Cortes talks of converting Indians. I'm not nearly so much concerned for them as for us. By God's help, what happened here shall not happen again."

  The words, harsh as they might be to Spanish pride, struck a responsive note in Pedro. Yet it was not so much the words as the ring of them, the emanation of Olmedo's spirit. He sounded actually like a good man, not good merely in the usual, but in a higher, sense; a man one could talk to—perhaps even confess to. Maybe a priest like this could be trusted.

  De Vargas probed further. "It seems to me. Padre, that men like you could d
o some witnessing in Spain. Talk about cruelty and extortion! Holy saints! And in the Church too. I saw an auto-da-fe not so long ago in Jaen. Vhat do you think of the Santa Casa?"

  This was the test. If Fray Bartolome sidestepped the question, Pedro would drop it; but Olmedo returned his gaze without blinking, though he fingered his beard. When he spoke, it was as if he were partly thinking aloud.

  "My son, do you believe in the Holy Catholic Church?"

  "I do of course."

  "There isn't any other church, is there?" iSo.

  "One church in Spain, England, France, the Empire, and Italy— everywhere. Every Christian believes alike. Isn't that true?"

  It was before the Reformation. Pedro could answer, "Yes."

  "You wouldn't like to see the Church, the mantle of Christ, torn into rags and patches, would you? Instead of one sheepfold, many folds? Would that make for harmony and peace?"

  "No. But does the Santa Casa—"

  "One moment. Because there are often cruel shepherds, greedy shepherds, do you think that the office of shepherd itself should be given up and the sheep left to wander?"

  "No. But what has that to do with the Inquisition?"

  "Everything. It was founded to protect the Faith—I say founded for that purpose. It may be that it is not accomplishing its purpose; it may be that its means are wrong; it may be that it is in the hands of evil

  shepherds. But let me say this: not all of the Santa Casa are evil men, and not all who are condemned are innocent."

  Pedro pressed his point. "Father, what do you think of the Santa Casa as it is now?"

  Olmedo replied bluntly. "I shall not answer that question, my son, except to an Inquisitor himself. If that time should come—" But he broke off. "Son Pedro, let me tell you something. When we reach Yucatan, I shall preach the gospel; I shall do what I can to prevent human beings from eating human flesh and making human sacrifices-I shall overturn, when possible, the blood-filthy idols that Captain Gnjalva speaks of, for it is not fitting that men should bow down before devils. But for the rest, I shall use love, mercy, and meekness, not the rack and the scourge. Judge of my behefs by my deeds. It is how we hve, not how we talk, that counts. . . . Now, let me ask you a simpler question. Why haven't you been to mass?"

  Such transparent honesty looked through Olmedo's eyes that Pedro could not evade it. He felt a growing lightness. It occurred to him that the talk they had just had would have been unthinkable in Spain. Perhaps the New World meant something more than new land.

  "I'll tell you. Padre," he said, "if you'll answer me one thing. What do you think of a priest who uses a confession he hears against the man who makes it?"

  "That's easy," Olmedo nodded. "Whatever the man did, I think that priest is damned. Now, what's on your conscience?"

  "Well, then," said de Vargas. "I, Pedro, confess to Almighty God ..."

  He told the whole story, while Olmedo listened and nodded now and then m encouragement. What he had most feared to reveal, he told smiply and without fear, as man to man. When he had finished, he felt as if he had been released from, prison.

  "You see," he added, "I've put Garcia and myself in your hands." Olmedo's reply was startling. "No, my son, you've been in my hands since this morning." He drew a paper from his wallet and unfolded it Except for de Silva, you've told me little that I did not know; but I wanted to hear it from your own lips. ... Can you read Latin?"

  Pedro's heart had turned to ice. "Not well."

  "This is an order from the Bishop of Santiago to Hernan Cortes for your and Juan Garcia's arrest at the petition of Ignacio de Lora, now m Santo Domingo on the business of the Holy OflSce. What you have told me is set forth here, though hardly from your standpoint "

  So the forebodings of the last few days had been justified. De Lora

  in the Islands! Pedro remembered now what de Silva had said about the Inquisitor's sailing. He and Garcia were lost. In view of this order, Cortes and Olmedo, even if they were inclined to pity, could do nothing.

  "The General handed it to me," Olmedo added. "He said that he had no time today for bishops and Latin: they were my province."

  "Then he hasn't read it yet?"

  "No."

  Pedro got up and stood a moment gazing at the ocean. In his mind, he saw the sailing of the fleet for Yucatan without him and Garcia. He bit his lips.

  "I'm ready. Father. What are we waiting for?"

  He turned to face Olmedo, but what he saw amazed him. The friar was tearing the Bishop's letter across, forth and back. When he had finished, he let the small pieces flutter down the breeze.

  "So much for that!" he remarked. "The equerry who brought it wants to enroll with us. Letters can be lost. We'll be a long time out of Cuba."

  "We?" Pedro repeated.

  "Yes, we."

  "Then, you mean—"

  The friar put on his sandals and stood up. "I mean a great deal, Pedro de Vargas. If you had not confessed, I would not have destroyed that letter. Honesty covers a multitude of sins, and Fray Bartolome de Olmedo hates injustice."

  "But the General?"

  "I shall tell him part of the letter—that the Bishop of Santiago sends his blessing."

  Pedro kneeled in front of Olmedo's brown robe.

  "Father, what can I do to show you—"

  "You can perform your penance, my son."

  "Yes—anything. What is it?"

  Olmedo said gently, "It is to take up the burden of God's forgiveness and to pray for the soul of Diego de Silva."

  For a moment, Pedro did not answer. At last he said, "I swear it."

  The friar laid a hand on Pedro's head and bent it back so that he could look down into his face.

  "Boy, it's more of a penance than you think. God's love is a heavy burden. Remember that when we sail tomorrow and in the days to come."

  XXV//I

  If Ortiz the Musician had lived four centuries earlier, he would have been called a troubadour. As it was, he had the qualities and temperament of one without the name. A gentleman and good swordsman, half-owner of one of the sixteen horses of the expedition, the proprietor of a comfortable hacienda near Trinidad de Cuba, he combined with these solid assets a talent for music and song and a command of the ute and the fiddle. He had a wide repertory of old romances and popular airs, which inspired topical ballads of his own to the amusement and admiration of the army. A handsome man with a short, straight nose and intense hght blue eyes, he was created for the joy and sorrow of women.

  Pedro de Vargas, who had a respectful fondness for music and poetry, but not the least skill in them, was drawn to Ortiz by the law of opposites and sought him out with the reverence of the untalented for the artist.

  On Holy Thursday, when the fleet had been two months out of Cuba, the two young men sat on the forecastle of the capitana, sharing the support of the mast and within the shadow of the sail, which cut off the burn of the April sun. The pitching of the bow kept others away and secured them a privacy impossible in the crowded, but steadier waist oi the ship. '

  Humming to himself, Ortiz plucked absent-mindedly at the strings ot his lute, absorbed in the effort of composition. "What's it going to be?" asked Pedro.

  "I don't know," Ortiz murmured. "Some serenata or other. I got the idea this morning when the sun struck those mountains over there."

  He nodded toward the near-by coast of the mainland, alone which the eleven ships of the armada, scattered irregularly over the sea, were heading north The land lay close enough for all eyes to make out the sand flats with their backing of jungle, the upslope beyond that, and at length, like clouds, the snow peaks of the interior.

  "Far in the west [Ortiz hummed]. The white sierras bloom In gold and fire To meet the coming day . .

  Something like that. Then apply it to the lady. But I haven't got far. . . . Hell s blisters! How can a man make verse with all the noise and

  "57

  stench of this cursed ship on top of him? Demonio!'' He gave the strings a resent
ful twang and sHd the instrument between his legs. "No use."

  Six feet below them in the waist, a throng of men babbled like frogs. A double row along the bulwark gazed at the land, exchanging loud comments. A dice game was in progress on one of the water casks. Barefooted, red-coifed seamen puttered as usual with gear and tackle. The three horses carried by the flagship stamped in their deck stalls. Sandoval, Garcia, and some others were cleaning their equipment to the tune of much clanging and joking. Some of the Yucatan women, acquired at Tabasco, perched on a pile of galley firewood and held court for the lovesick; while Isabel Rodrigo and Maria de Vera, hard-pressed by the competition, ran a court of their own at the starboard rail. The wind from astern swept forward the smells of the ship—garlic, salt fish, horse manure, rancid oil, and the everlasting stench of the hold. And there were always occupants of the outboard seats hung over the rail as a latrine.

  But the effect of crowd and commotion did not stop with the waist. Beyond rose the quarter-deck, thronged by gentlemen of the afterguard; and beyond that again, higher than anything but the masts, towered the poop deck with the General's quarters, where Cortes with the pilot Alaminos, Dofia Marina, the prize of the Indian bevy from Tabasco, Puertocarrero, and a group of men from Grijalva's expedition, could be seen studying the land.

  "AnimOj friend!" said de Vargas. "Cheer up! The words will come; it isn't any noisier than usual. Until they do, give me some stanzas of that ballad about Bernardo del Carpio. You know, the one that goes: —

  ''En corte del Casto Alfonso Bernardo a placer v'wia . . .

  I love that one."

  Ortiz shook his head. "No, I'm not in the mood. Besides, it's such mossy old stuff. I respect the old, mark you, and at times a cantar de gesta suits me better than anything else. But by and large I'm modern and like the up-to-date. Why keep on about the Cid and Bernardo del Carpio when we're on a venture that's ahead of any of theirs?"

  Pedro felt shocked. "I'd hardly say that."

  "Well, I'll say it for you. When did the Cid or Bernardo ever start off to win an unknown continent? When did they ever fight with forty thousand howling savages like the handful of us did less than a month