Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  "That was a blessed strapping I gave you, alma mia. I thank God for it. Otherwise, you'd still be hemming and hawing and worrying about me. It cleared your mind of the great-marriage stuff. As if your little toe, a single hair of you, didn't mean more to me than all the blazons of the world! I've learned that at least. Do you know what I wear under my shirt, eh?"

  "xo, my lord."

  "That last letter you wrote me at Coyoacan. By the mass, it's been read often enough since then! But now— vive Dios! —to have you back again! And my own wife! Before God and man! My own seiiora! Lord, you'll get little sleep tonight. Mistress. . . . Did you ever think of me?" he added provocatively. "I'll warrant you didn't, you false slut."

  She pressed her face against his back. "Not once, not a single time, curse me else!"

  "How! What do you mean? It's well for you you're behind me."

  "I mean just what I say, querido. How could I think of you once when I thought of you always, every minute?"

  He hooked his reins over the peak of the saddle and turned. "I can't go another moment without a kiss."

  Campeador philosophically stopped at this point and took to cropping grass by the roadside. It was several minutes before the slow progress was resumed.

  "Sefior," she said, her arms closer around him, "do you think it's possible that Our Lord might send Ninita back if we prayed very hard? Of course I'd have to bear her again. But do you think Our Lord would?"

  "Faith, I do," said Pedro. "Hasn't He brought you back? Hasn't He always been good to us? Let's pray Him for it tonight."

  But for the most part, the ride passed in a silence much more eloquent than words. Pedro de Vargas could not have expressed the infinite horizons that seemed opening before him any more than one can put music into speech. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice rather than his words expressed him.

  "By God, we'll take up land southwest of Cuernavaca. We'll import cattle. I say there's more in livestock than in gold. Besides, we have enough gold. Juan Garcia must live near us—he and others of the comrades. That way we can make a head against any Indian upflare. I'll build you a great house, muchacha, and you'll give me kids to fill it." Her arms tightened, but she didn't answer. "What are you thinking about?" he added.

  "Partly of you," she said, "and partly of your parents. We're almost at the city gate. Sefior, I'm so afraid."

  "You afraid! You'd thumb your nose at the devil. What are you afraid of?"

  "Your senora mother. I think I'm even more frightened of her than of Don Francisco. They're such great people, and I'm only—"

  "You're my wife, remember that. Don't worry, querida, we'll man-age.

  And yet now that the ordeal was close, he began to feel more than a qualm himself. If his father took a stand against this marriage, it might come to more than a tongue-lashing. Pedro feared only two people in the world, Cortes and Don Francisco de Vargas.

  It took some time at the town gate before the keeper opened. The watchmen were calling one o'clock when Pedro stabled Campeador in the mews behind the de Vargas house. Then he led Catana across a rear garden and through the back door to which he had the key. By this time he felt a trickle of cold sweat under his armpits.

  The house was utterly quiet as they reached the central patio and started climbing the stairs to the second floor. Only some night tapers were burning.

  "I'll take you up to my room," he whispered. "Then we'll see what's to be done."

  But in the upper corridor, a page, sleeping athwart the threshold of Don Francisco's door, started up, gaped at Catana, and faltered a greeting.

  "Lights here," said Pedro, bracing himself and entering his room.

  When the astonished page had brought a candle, Catana gazed at the unfamiliar walls, at the canopied bed. Her knees felt weak.

  "I believe I'll sit down."

  Pedro took one of her hands. "Why, you're cold as ice, sweeting. Nay, do not fear. If I had thought—"

  "Back in Jaen are you, hijo mio!" exclaimed a familiar voice at the threshold. "Back, and no word to announce you! By good luck, I happened to be awake. Nay, are you hurt? That bandage . . ."

  The voice stopped on a breath, changed its tone to steel.

  "By'r Lady! I seem to be intruding. What woman's this?"

  Lxxxv;»

  It did not impair the dignity of Don Francisco de Vargas to be wearing a skullcap of velvet, which he put on at night, and a dark chamber gown. He looked like an old falcon in the robes of a judge. His black eyes challenged on either side of his beaked nose; his lower lip drooped.

  "Well?" he demanded, while Pedro was searching for his tongue and Catana gripped the sides of her chair. "Well?"

  Glancing at Catana, Pedro came to himself.

  "I have the honor, Sefior Father, to present my wife, Doiia Catana de Vargas y Perez."

  Self-controlled as he was, Don Francisco could not help a start. It was a moment before he breathed, "How!"

  Pedro burst into explanations. The old gentleman continued to stare at poor Catana, who would have been happy if the ceiling had fallen to hide her from those piercing eyes. When Pedro stopped, Don Francisco took a step toward her.

  "Catana Perez!" he said in a voice which might mean anything.

  At that, Catana's nerve failed. She dropped to her knees in front of him.

  "Forgive, Your Excellency! Forgive! It was my fault. I shouldn't have come back. I couldn't help it. I only wanted to see my lord again, not to have—not to have this happen. Don't blame him. Your Excellency. Forgive—"

  Terror made her speechless when she felt herself gripped under the arms by two hands of steel and lifted to her feet. Terror then changed to blank amazement when Don Francisco, having held her a moment by the shoulders at arm's length, drew her to him in a hug, and kissed her on both cheeks.

  "By my honor!" he said. "By my honor! Forgive, hi'ja mia? Forgive what, in God's name? That you saved my life and honor? Nay, better,

  that you saved the lives of my wife and son? That you loved the scapegrace and bore him a child? That you are back to give him happiness and mettle again? I thank God that I can now thank you for everything!"

  If Catana was gradually reviving into a bewildered happiness, it was Pedro's turn to be surprised. He had expected at best a resigned, if benevolent, pardon, not enthusiasm. For a moment, he wondered whether his father really took in the circumstances.

  "We were afraid, sir," he hesitated, "we feared, because of my betrothal to Dona Luisa, that you might be angry."

  "Ha? And why? You were pledged first to Catana Perez. If she would have you and you did not marry her, you'd be a knave. Also a fool. Any man can see that she's worth two of the other. Body with spirit to match, something for a man to count on. What more does a soldier want?"

  But at that Don Francisco turned, limped to the door, pushed the staring page boy out of the way, and made for his room, calling, "Wife! Maria! Out of bed with you!"

  Catana leaned against Pedro and took a deep breath.

  "Sefior, I think I love him almost as much as I love you."

  Later, when Dofia Maria, to Catana's great embarrassment, insisted on her privilege of undressing and bedding the bride, Pedro related the events of the evening and discussed plans with Don Francisco. The news of de Silva's death was received with grim exultation and further heightened the old gentleman's good humor. As to the Carvajal marriage, Pedro for the first time told the truth about his interview with the Marquis four years ago, when he had appealed to him for help, and described their recent meeting at Alcazar de San Juan.

  "Humph!" said the elder de Vargas at the end. "I wish I'd known this before. The old fox would not have made such a fool of me. Pulled his beard, did you? Good! Nay, you can leave him to me. He'll keep silent enough."

  Don Francisco approved too of his son's return to New Spain. "You've made it your country, Pedrito. Your friends are there, and the Emperor's service goes forward. Your wife would not be happy in Spain. . . . Though hard it is to
say good-by."

  "What of you, my lord? Could you not join us, you and Madrecita?"

  To Pedro's surprise, the old cavalier's eyes brightened.

  "Faith, who knows? After my office here expires, who knows? You are all we have. Also I would see your children as they come along.

  New Spain is plainly different from the scurvy Islands. Did not my lord Bayard himself express the wish to show his pennon there? In short, we'll consider it, my son. It's well thought on."

  Meanwhile, the state bedroom had been aired and lighted; the bed had been made with Doiia Maria's finest sheets; and now that the sleepy serving wenches were gone, Catana laid her head on Dona Maria's plump bosom and cried from happiness.

  "Never have I been so frightened, Seiiora Mother. I thought you would hate me because of my lord Pedro and would blame him because of me. I know right well who I am and what he is. But you and His Excellency are saints from heaven."

  "No saints, my dear," said Dofia Maria. "We are old and have only our son, and we love him. It broke our hearts to see him grieve for you. He would never have been the same. Is not his happiness more to us than anything else? Besides," she added, stroking Catana's hair, "it's easy to love you."

  Catana put her arms around the older woman's shoulders.

  "I've never had a mother. Come to us in New Spain, so that I can serve you and have you near me when I bear your grandchildren. Sefiora, we're going to have many children—as many as God will give us. Come to New Spain, Madrecita querida."

  Doiia Maria's eyes filled. "Perhaps, if my husband consents." She said more firmly, "I'll make him. . . . And now, daughter, it's time to put you to bed. Pedrito will not be denied very long. Come."

  She unbuttoned Catana. The dress was slipped off, the petticoat, the shift.

  "No stays, hi'ja mia! And breasts so haughty! Who would ever think you had had a child! Such a figure, too; skin like marble. I'd have thought you were darker."

  "It's the tan of my face and arms, sefiora, and my big gipsy mouth. But by a miracle of God my lord puts up with me."

  Dofia Maria kissed her. "I don't wonder he's mad about you." Then, noticing the marks of the belt, she exclaimed, "Has someone beaten you?"

  "Yes," Catana said simply, "my lord Pedro whipped me well because I didn't want him to break his pledge with the Lady Luisa. He would not be gainsaid. He's strict with me, but I love him the more."

  "And he you," nodded Sefiora de Vargas. "He can't keep his hands from you, one way or the other. Well, I've had my beatings too. They break no bones, and we manage our men just the same. Get into bed, child."

  When she had put out all the candles except one at the bedside, she leaned over and drew Catana to her.

  "You'll rule him, hija rtiia, have no fear of that. You'll rule him with love and wisdom. I know it. But he will never know. That's our secret."

  "Will you bless me, my lady?"

  Maria de Vargas made the sign of the cross.

  "My blessing now and forever."

  A knock and a voice sounded. "Aren't you ready yet? Name of pity!"

  Catana slipped down under the covers. Dofia Maria smiled and opened the door.

  From the top of an undulation in the Cordoba road, Don Francisco de Vargas, mounted on his saddle mule, gazed westward at the small band of travelers receding in the distance. Long rays from the early sun, which had just lifted a crimson shoulder above the summit of the Sierra Magina, brought them into brilliant focus. He could still make out his son's pennon on the lance carried by Cipriano Davila and an occasional glinting from the steel caps of the servants who had arrived yesterday from Linares. But his eyes were fixed on the three riders in front: Garcia, broad-shouldered and top-heavy on his mule; Pedro, centaur-like, a part of his horse; and between them, Catana, riding sidesaddle on another mule. The old gentleman could no longer see the fluttering white plume on the hat which Dona Maria had given her, but it still fluttered in his mind's eye. Vivid too were the sunburned face, expressive mouth, and the parting kiss he had had of her. A right cavalier's girl, his thought commented.

  He leaned forward, his eyes following them with keen tenderness. Youth, he thought. The New Age, an age turned westward across the Ocean Sea. How different from his own! How unimaginable! And yet from the rear guard of the past he bade the future God-speed. The stage might change; the actors might wear other costumes; but the essence of life remained. Courage, honor, love, would blossom in the New World as in the Old. That was what counted after all.

  On the edge of a slope, beyond which the road disappeared, the little party drew rein and turned; he could see them waving back at him. Drawing himself up in the saddle, he raised his gauntlet in salute and blessing and farewell.

  First routes followed by Pedro de Vargas and his parents

  Routes followed by Pedro de Vargas on his return to Spain.

  MEXICO

  MEXICO CITY

  AND SURROUNDING;

  Table of Contents

  Start