Son Pedro, in all this, you did well and showed great prudence and management. Have no fear for Solddn, as I gladly accept this debt. Indeed, I have increased it to a thousand pesos. Senor de Coria may have to wait awhile; but, alas, do we not all have to wait until the end of our venture?
De Vargas chuckled. If Cortes ever paid his promises, the Golden Age would begin again.
Now, as to the emeralds for His Majesty, I am informed that you recovered them and that Juan de Escalante has them in keeping, so that score is canceled.
Of your desertion from camp last night contrary to orders, I will say this. Disobey any order for the sake of the army, but let disobedience be justified by success. If you had failed last night, I would have hanged you. Since you succeeded in a way greatly to the profit of this company, I promote you.
Pedro's cheeks flushed; the writing swam in front of his eyes.
/ promote you for energy and initiative to the rank of captain in command of exploradores when we march inland. Ton will be the eyes of the army. And may your wound, Senor Captain, be speedily mended, for we march presently. May you long live to emulate the deeds of your father, whom God preserve!
Pedro looked up into the round eyes of Juan Garcia, fixed on him in suspense.
"Holy Virgin!" he breathed.
"Come, boy, what is it? Speak out. No great matter, I hope?"
"Congratulations!" bowed Escalante.
"Me, a captain!" gasped Pedro. "A captain!"
XXXVIll
Next morning Pedro awakened to the sound of thunder. Or was it thunder? Boom, boom, close at hand. Boom, boom, boom, from the harbor.
Cannon. An Indian assault.
He stood up dizzily. But there was no sound of haste in the fort, no shouting of orders—in fact, nothing; a peculiar silence between the salvos of artillery. Then, fully awake, he understood. The ship from Cuba.
The recent loss of blood had left him weaker than he could have believed possible. He tottered to the embrasure in his room, which opened on the harbor, and looked out.
Yes, there she came standing in, her painted sails billowing, a bone in her teeth as she cut the water, her gilded round-tops catching the morning light, the royal standard of Castile at her mainmast. Other pennants, doubtless those of Salcedo and Marin, fluttered from the fore- and mizzenmasts. Smoke puffs floated from her sides, and a moment later came the muffled report of her answering salute.
Pedro's eyes smarted. Here she came out of the sea, a token of the world beyond its vastness, the ever-remembered world in contrast to tliis remote country. Cuba might not be home; but it was closer to home, was settled and secure and Spanish.
Boom!
In the new responsibility of his rank, he questioned the waste of gunpowder. But who could blame anybody? Five months of silence, of wondering about this and that, as if the ocean stream were Lethe itself. And now a sail. News perhaps of friends and parents, perhaps even a few letters; news, however old, of Europe. Of course, residents of the Islands had most to expect; but—who could tell?—there might even be a scrap of news from Jaen.
He could see the whole garrison, men and women, streaming down to the beach; Garcia by the side of Escalante; the gunners, who had fired the salute, running to catch up. A small boat was being got out. Several Indian canoes raced toward the new vessel. She stood pointed
in as far as possible, no doubt for convenience in landing the horses. Then at last came the rumble of her anchors.
At that moment, Pedro would have given anything to be on the beach. But his head swam even from the effort of standing up; his knees turned to cotton; and he just managed to reach his mat before they gave way like springless jackknives.
After a while, unable to resist, he got up and dragged back again to the embrasure. He could see the horses, who had been swum ashore, shaking themselves and taking a few cautious steps after their long confinement. The garrison and the newcomers formed a milling group on the sand, the bright headpieces of the strangers and their new equipment contrasting with the makeshift rags and tags of the Villa Ricans. Even from that distance, the clatter of tongues drifted up. Pedro could make out the lean figure of Escalante, standing a little to one side with two other men, one of whom formed a vivid spot of yellow and crimson against the tawniness of the beach. That must be Salcedo, nicknamed "the Dude" on account of his elegance. Garcia, who had friends everywhere in the Islands, had evidently found acquaintances and was embracing and back-slapping.
De Vargas regained his mat. No fun for him in any of this. Nothing to do except languish and swat flies until Garcia remembered him enough to drop in with a few scraps of gossip. He wasn't presentable anyway. A bandage on his head; his torn shirt, carelessly washed, still looking pinkish from the bloodstains; his breeches, ripped by the crossbow bolt, gaping indecently; his boots lost in the Gallega adventure and not yet replaced; his toes sticking out through the undarned extremities of his stockings.
"A lazar," he reflected. "Nothing but a lazar! Dirty as a pig! Forgotten, while everybody else enjoys himself! Hell's blisters! I look like a captain now, don't I?"
The approaching sound of voices and footsteps announced the procession up to the fort. But in his self-pitying mood, the arrival no longer interested him. Then, to his surprise, embarrassment, and gratification, Escalante entered with the two officers from the ship.
He identified them at once: Francisco Salcedo, dark, splendid, and foppish, the typical overdressed adventurer with too elaborate manners; Luis Marin, squat, bowlegged from a lifetime in the saddle, red-bearded (as were many Spaniards of the time), pockmarked, and with strangely mild ways that concealed a lion's courage.
"Captain Pedro de Vargas, gentlemen," said Escalante, introducing them, and Pedro thrilled at his new title. "You will see that the gentle-
man is temporarily indisposed. A recent wound"—Escalante hesitated: it was not wise perhaps to mention the mutiny so soon—"has caused the Captain much loss of blood. No, sirs, not a duel. An affair of hotheads with whom Senor de Vargas had to deal almost single-handed."
Propped up on the mat, Pedro did his best to return the compliments and express thanks for sympathy in a way to do credit to Villa Rica de Vera Cruz. He noticed the surprise in Salcedo's expression at Captain de Vargas's rags and lamentable quarters. But civilities were exchanged with grace and decorum as if the palm-thatched cell had been a palace. Of course, when it transpired that this was the son of Francisco de Vargas, the surroundings hardly mattered.
Luis Marin said, "I had the pleasure once, sir, of watching your father at the jousts in Seville. A more accomplished man-at-arms I have never seen. It does not surprise me that his son should be promoted to a command at so early an age."
He spoke with the Andalusian lisp that reminded Pedro of home.
"It's a young army, sir. Captain Gonzalo de Sandoval and Captain Andres de Tapia, whom you perhaps know, are little older than I. . . . But, seiior, since you come from Seville, perhaps you have news. Jaen isn't far off."
Marin shook his head. "No, I've been a long time in the Islands."
The call ended, they left Pedro once more to his tedium and impatience. No news. At least it was a relief that the strangers had not learned of the disgrace of his family, which would not have improved matters here. But unreasonably he had hoped for some echo from Jaen, something to bridge the gap between here and there.
In his fretful mood, it irritated him that Garcia didn't come. He ought to realize that a fellow hated to be left out of things and was keen to hear the small talk. But the big man remained jabbering in the courtyard. Pedro could hear the distant rumble of his voice above the come-and-go outside. At last he could stand it no longer and struggled up from the mat to the door.
Garcia was standing at the opposite corner of what might be called the plaza in jocular conversation with two of the new arrivals—one of them a stocky, bearded man; and the other a youth, dressed in black, with a cap on his head, and a white feather.
"P
opinjay!" grunted Pedro, conscious of his own damaged appearance. "I'll back the army to take some of that sleekness off of him. . . . Hey, Garcia!" he barked.
The conversation broke off. The three looked around.
"Ta voy! I'm coming," Garcia shouted.
Aware that he must be making a scarecrow impression and that it did not befit one of Cortes's officers to be clinging to a doorpost and bawling for attendance in full view of the fort, Pedro tottered back to his place with as much dignity as possible.
But even so, he did not hear Garcia's lumbering footsteps crossing the courtyard. It was a lighter tread. Apparently he had sent the page to ask what was wanted.
"Now, my word!" thought de Vargas. "I like that!"
The youth appeared in the doorway.
"The Captain desires?" he smiled.
"Nothing," Pedro snapped. His distaste for the figure in black, with the square-cut bang, deepened. "Tell Senor Garcia, if you please, not to hurry. When he's at leisure, if he can spare me a few moments of his attention, I should like to see him."
He broke off, staring at the boy's face. A sudden fear for his own sanity struck him. Perhaps that wound—
The youth took a step toward him and smiled again, a generous, unmistakable smile.
"God in heaven!" Pedro whispered. ''Am I dreaming? Catana! Ca-tana Perez!"
"Didn't you really know me, seiior?"
She sank down beside him. He continued to stare, open-mouthed.
"God in heaven!" he repeated. "Catana! Querida mia!"
He kissed her again and again on the mouth. His eyes devoured her.
She drew her hand gently across his face. "You've changed. All burn and bone. Even a beard. And wounded. I'll have to take care of you."
He caught her in his arms again.
"You aren't real, Catana!"
His strength gave way; but to cover up the weakness that crept back, he smiled.
"Talk about me changed! Look at you!"
Her tanned cheeks turned darker, and she raised her hands instinctively to her hair, which was now cut square like a boy's. She drew her legs under her.
"Yes, I'd forgotten. You get so used— You see, traveling on ships—"
"But how does it happen? When did you sail? Where's Hernan Soler?"
"Dead." She hesitated a moment. "He used me badly. I killed him."
Knowing Catana, Pedro was not too much surprised nor, indeed, greatly shocked. In her world and Soler's, knife blows did not call for much comment.
"Ah?" he said. "What then?"
"I came away with Manuel. We went to Sanlucar. It was there we heard about you and Senor Garcia sailing for the Islands."
She added that they had crossed with the spring fleet, had drifted to Cuba from Santo Domingo, and by chance had found Salcedo making ready the caravel to rejoin Cortes. What she did not mention were the eager questionings from port to port, the tactful management, which had induced her brother to sail from Sanlucar, follow on to Cuba, enlist with Salcedo. Perhaps, as a matter of fact, she was not too conscious of it herself. She had simply followed a current that had inevitably carried her to Villa Rica.
"Well," he said, "you've come to the right place. Catana, there's a world of gold beyond the mountains."
He told her of Montezuma's reported treasure, and she listened intently as a man would listen.
"It'll be cursed hard to leave you again," he broke off—"now that you're here. We'll be marching soon. But don't worry: I'll see that you get your share. I'll bring it back to you."
Her familiar drawl cut in. "What are you talking about, senor? You don't think I came here to sit in a flea-bitten fort, do you?"
"It's a long road, Catana; there'll be plenty of fighting. A woman—"
Met by her smile, he realized that the protest was silly. Of course other women would march: Dofia Marina, the Indian, whom Cortes would no doubt take as his mistress when Puertocarrero sailed; Catarina Marquez, who kept a sharp eye on her man, Hernan Martin; Beatriz Ordas, in love with the blacksmith, Alonso Hernando; a couple of others. They would cook and wash and fight. Only the pregnant or the dolls would remain at Villa Rica. He had been thinking conventionally.
"Well then, we'll make the campaign together."
Reaching out, he took her hand. It quickened his pulse to think of the bivouacs at night, some place apart, her head on his arm, his cloak covering them.
"You know what that means, querida mia?"
Only her eyes answered.
"God help the man who forgets that you belong to me!" he said.
Suddenly her eyes filled. "Belong to you?" She raised his hand and laid her cheek against it. "When I think of the days and the weeks and the months! Belong to you? What I never believed possible—"
She released his hand and stood up.
"By the way, I have good news. Before we sailed from Sanlucar, a
Genoese felucca put in. It happened to be the one which carried Don Francisco and Dona Maria to Italy. The shipmaster said that they reached Genoa safely, and that before he left there again he heard that they had been well received by the sefiora your mother's people, in some other town called Florence."
Pedro clenched his fist. "Viva!'' he exulted. "Maravilloso!" For a whole year he had been haunted by the dread that after all his father and mother might not have reached Italy. "We'll see now whether that infamous charge will stick! Our cousin, the Cardinal Strozzi, will attend to that. Catana, I wager that my father is even now in Jaen, reinstated, or prepares to return there—in triumph! When this venture is over—"
His thought was no longer in the New World; it swaggered through the narrow streets of Jaen; it was rich with the gold of Montezuma; it accepted the admiration of the townsfolk- it stopped by the wide-open doors of a certain palace. The miserable, half-finished fort, his rags and weakness, Catana herself, disappeared at the moment. When he remembered them, it was still with the background of Jaen in mind.
"Any other news," he asked with studied casualness—"I mean from Jaen?"
He thought he was being impenetrable, but she understood.
"It depends. If you mean about that fine lady you're in love with, you've never told me who she is. Who is she, sefior?"
Taken aback, Pedro hesitated. Why shouldn't she know? She was bound to find out in the long run. There was no possible connection between the sunburned camp follower and the daughter of grandees. They belonged to two utterly different planes.
"The Lady Luisa de Carvajal," he pronounced reverently.
Yes, she had guessed that; she remembered the episode in church. Her throat tightened, and she found it hard to keep her voice natural.
"No, I heard nothing. We left the mountains not long after you. But I did hear about the Senor de Silva. Or perhaps you have too."
"What?"
"That he didn't die from the thrust you gave him; he was getting well."
"Esplendor de Dios!" Pedro straightened up. "That devil living?"
But his first amazement was followed at once by a wave of relief. God, after all, had not permitted him to commit the unpardonable sin. It was an act of divine mercy. Now he would have the pleasure of meeting Diego de Silva again and of killing him in an orthodox manner; that is, if Don Francisco let him live. Holy Trinity how de Silva would writhe when the de Vargases returned to Jaen! Father Olmedo would be glad to hear of this.
"Well, well," he added carelessly, "I'll make sure the next time."
He returned to the more enthralling subject. Now that he had disclosed the name of his lady, it would be pleasant to talk about her.
"You have seen the Lady Luisa, Catana?"
"Yes."
"She is beautiful as a star. She accepted me as her cavalier and gave me a favor to wear. We are in a sense betrothed. When I think of the Blessed Virgin, I think of her, Catana."
But he got no answer, and the sense of oneness was gone. He sighed. Women were queer—as if Catana could be jealous of a star in heaven!
She let si
lence bury the topic, then remarked: "Cdspita, sir, I hardly know where to start upon you. I think the breeches should come first. Take them off, and I'll see what can be done with them."
The dream light vanished. He was back once more in his naked quarters at Villa Rica.
In good humor again, she opened her belt purse.
"See, I've brought two fine needles all the way from Sanlucar, and good woolen thread. In this country, I wouldn't part with them for fifty pesos. Now let me have the breeches."
But this intimate operation was postponed by a sudden fanfare of trumpets in the near distance and by the growing rattle of horses' hoofs. The fort sprang to life; footsteps hurried outside.
"The General," said Pedro. "Our men from Cempoala."
Getting to his feet, he stood with Catana in the doorway, so that they could watch the entrance gate.
The trumpets sounded nearer, then the beat of the marching drums; then through the gateway appeared the aljerez, Antonia de Villaroel, mounted on a tall dapple-gray and bearing the black standard of the expedition, then the General himself with Alvarado and Olid, followed by a group of lances. Behind them wound the long file of foot soldiers; pikemen, crossbowmen, arquebusiers, gentlemen rankers with sword and buckler; the cannon hauled by natives; the baggage; the rear guard. Pennons fluttered here and there; the sunlight glanced on helmets and breastplates. Upon entering the fort, the cavaliers showed the mettle of their horses, rearing and caracoling. For an instant it was Gothic Spain rather than Indian America.
''Viva!" Catana exclaimed. "What a brave sight!"
Cortes swung from his great horse, Molinero; embraced the two new captains, Salcedo and Marin, greeted Escalante. Then, his keen
eye glancing everywhere, he caught sight of Pedro de Vargas and strode over to him, his spurs clanking.
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