University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

As the secretary anticipated, the tracks of the reinforcement
were plainly discernible over the sandy
downs and by the margins of the pestilent fens, which
gave an air of desolation to this part of the Mexican
coast, not much relieved by an occasional clump
of palms, nor by the spectacle, here and there disclosed,
of the broad ocean blackening among the low
islets; though the hazy and verdant ramparts which
stretched between these burning deserts and the imagined
paradises of the interior, ever presented a field
of refreshment and interest to the eyes of the travellers.
The novelty of their situation, felt more or
less intensely by all, was exciting: and many a dream

of barbaric monarchs reposing on thrones of gold
and emeralds, and canopied by flowers and feathers,
—of dusky armies deploying among green valleys
and on the borders of fair lakes,—and perhaps of
themselves doing the work of heroes among these
mystic multitudes,—wandered through their over-troubled
fancies.

Such visions flitted over the brain of Amador, but
mingled with others, with which the past had more
to do than the present; for, despite the eager longing
with which he looked forward to a meeting with his
good knight and kinsman, and notwithstanding his
impatient ardour to gaze with his own eyes upon
those scenes which were filling the minds of men
with wonder, he looked back from a sand-hill to the
distant ships, and sighed, as, in an instant of time,
his soul was borne from them, over the broad surges
to the pleasant hills of Spain.

But with the view of the squadron vanished his
memory and his melancholy: the narrow belt of
sand-hills along the coast had been exchanged for
the first zone of vegetation; the mimosa afforded its
shade; the breeze and the paroquet chattered together
on its top; and when he came, at last, to journey
among the shadows of a forest rich in magnificent
and unknown trees and plants, with here a lagoon
fringed with stately ceibas (the cotton-wood
trees of Mexico) and gigantic canes, and there a
water-course murmuring among palms and other
tropical trees, he gave himself up to a complacent
rapture. He remarked with satisfaction the bright
plumage of water-fowl,—the egret, the pelican, the
heron, and sometimes the flamingo, sporting among
the pools; gazed with wonder after the little picaflor,
or humming-bird, darting, like a sunbeam, from flower
to flower; with still greater admiration listened to
the song of the calandra and the cardinal, and to
the magical centzontli,—the hundred-tongued,—as it
caught and repeated, as if with a thousand voices,
the thousand roundelays of other songsters scattered

among the boughs; and it was not until the notes of
a trumpet, swelling suddenly in the distance, invaded
his reveries, that he roused from the voluptuous intoxication
of such a scene.

“It is the trumpet of the soldiers, señor!” cried
the secretary, joyously; “and it rejoices me much,
for I know not how much longer I could have followed
their obscure tracks through this forest. And
besides, I find, as I must in honesty confess, I have
in me so little of the skill of a leader, that I would
gladly submit to be led myself, especially by your
worship, though it were to follow you to battle as an
humble esquire.”

“I must commend your spirit, señor Lorenzo Fabueno,”
(for so the secretary had called himself,)
“though I must needs believe your inexperience in
all matters of war might render such an attempt exceedingly
difficult, if not altogether impossible.”

“Señor,” said the secretary, eagerly, “I have the
wish, and doubtless the ability, in course of time, to
learn all the duties, and to acquire some of the skill,
of a soldier; and under so noble a leader as your
favour, I am sure I should advance much faster than
ever I did in the learning of a clerk. And, in addition
to the little service I might render with my sword, I
have such skill with the pen as might be of good use
to your honour.”

“I have no certain assurance,” said Amador, “that
I shall have any occasion to use my own sword; it
is utterly beyond my imagination to discover to what
use I could put the inkhorn of a secretary; and finally,
I know not how the course of events in these deserts
may require me to add to the number of my associates.
Nevertheless, señor Lorenzo, if it be the wish
of his excellency the admiral, that his secretary should
be transformed into a soldier, I see not how I can
refuse to give my assistance to the conversion.”

“I know not why I should be dungeoned in a ship's
cabin,” said Lorenzo, with a sort of petulance, “when
other youths are roaming at liberty among these brave

hills; and gnawing a quill with disgust, when all my
old schoolmates are carving out reputation with more
manly implements. I am sure I was not born to slave
forever at the desk.”

“This may be all true, as, in my opinion, it is both
natural and reasonable,” said Amador, with gravity;
“for, it seems to me, man was brought into the world
for a nobler purpose than to scribble on paper. Yet
you have not made it apparent that the admiral's
wishes are in this matter consonant with your own.”

“I know not that they are,” replied the secretary,
“but, as I now feel myself at liberty, with both horse
and sword, I cannot help feeling that they ought to
be. How I can ever have the heart to return to my
bondage again, is more than I can tell; and I am
confident, if it were your favour's desire he should
grant me permission to follow you through this land,
he would make no opposition, the more particularly
that your favour is his kinsman.”

“I doubt whether the consent would not be wrung
from his courtesy; and I cannot well agree to rob
him of one who may be a valuable servant. Neither,
under such circumstances, can I think of encouraging
you in your ardour, or recommending you, at present,
to change your pursuits, for which you are better
fitted than for mine. Nay,” said the cavalier good-naturedly,
observing the chagrin of the youth, “if
you are resolutely bent on your purpose, it is my advice
you make your petitions to his excellency; and
when he has granted them, as doubtless he will, you
can, with a free mind, seek the patronage of some
cavalier engaged in these armies of invasion.—Hark!
the trumpet sounds louder and nearer, and by my faith,
I see on yonder rising ground the bodies of men and
the glimmer of weapons! Spur thy horse a little; (and,
I pr'ythee, fling thy shoulders a jot backwards, sitting
erect and at ease; for I promise thee, this manner of
riding, as if thou wouldst presently be hugging at thy
nag's neck, is neither becoming nor advantageous;)

—spur me up a little, and we will join company with
them.”

The long and straggling train with which the travellers
caught up, just as it issued from the forest
upon an open tract of low sandy hills and plains, was
composed of motley materials. A few mounted men,
who, by their armour and bustling activity, seemed
the leaders and commanders, were scattered among
a horde of footmen, a portion of whom were armed
and ranked as a company of military, but the greater
part being the ordinary native labourers, who served
the office of mules, and bore on their backs the burdens
of the invaders. Some five or six score of these
swarthy creatures, followed by a dozen Castilian
crossbowmen and a single horseman, brought up the
rear. They stalked in a line one after another, each
bending to his burden; and in their uniformity of
equipment, gait, muscular figures, and solemn visages,
added not a little to the singularity of the spectacle.
A narrow strip of some vegetable texture, so rude
and coarse that it seemed rather a mat than a cloth,
was wrapped round the loins of each, leaving their
strong and tawny bodies otherwise naked. No sandal
protected their soles from the heated soil; and
no covering, save only the long and matted locks
swinging about their countenances, defended their
heads from the scorching sun. A huge basket of
cane, the petlacalli, or petaca of the Spaniards, carelessly
covered with matting, and evidently well charged
with military stores and provision, weighed upon
the shoulders of each, while it was connected by a
broad strap to the forehead. Thus burthened, however,
and thus exposed to a temperature which, as
the day advanced, seemed, in the open plains, nearly
intolerable to their Christian companions, they strode
on with a slow but vigorous step, each bearing a knot
of gay flowers or of brilliant feathers, wherewith he
defended his face from insects, and perhaps, occasionally,
his eyes from the dazzling reflection of the soil.
These were the Tlamémé, or carriers of Mexico.

The eye of Amador, though at first attracted by
this singular train, dwelt with more surprise and
curiosity on the crossbowmen, who were sweltering,
in common with nearly every Christian of the party,
under the thick and uncouth investment of the
escaupil, a sort of armour which the invaders of
Mexico had not disdained to borrow from their despised
enemies. This consisted of nothing more than
garments of woollen or cotton cloth, cut as much
after the fashions of Spain as was possible, quilted so
thickly with cotton as to be able to resist the arrow-heads
and lance-points of the Indians; which virtue,
added to the facility with which it could be obtained
and adapted to every part of the body, gave the escaupil
a decided preference over the few pieces of
iron mail which the poverty of the combatants denied
them the power of extending to the whole frame.
In truth, so common had become this armour, that
there were few among the cavaliers of the conquest,
except those leaders who despised so unknightly and
so unsightly an attire, who were provided with any
other. Nevertheless many distinguished captains
concealed garments of this material under their iron
armour; and the common soldiers of Cortes, after
long experience, had fallen upon the plan of quilting it
in pieces imitative of morions and breast-plates, which
were far from being uncouth or unwieldy. But its
efficacy, though strongly explained and urged by the
secretary Fabueno, could not blind Don Amador to
its ungainliness, as seen in the fashions of raw recruits;
and even the solemn gravity of Baltasar was
changed to a grin of ineffable derision, and the good-humoured
vivacity of Lazaro to a laugh of contempt,
when the secretary advised the cavalier to provide
his followers with such coats of mail.

“What thinkest thou, Lazaro, rogue?” said Don
Amador, merrily. “Thou wert but a bitter groaner
over the only cut it was ever thy good hap to meet:
and that was by a fair and courteous pistol-shot,
which hath something of an oily way about it;

whereas these infidel flints and hard woods gash as
painfully as an oyster-shell. What sayest thou?
Shall I give thee an escaupil, to save thee from new
lamentation?”

“May your honour live a thousand years!” said
the serving-man. “The tortoise to his shell, the
Turk to his turban: heaven never thrust a hornet
into the cocoon of a caterpillar, nor a lion into a
sheep's skin. Wherefore I will keep my sting and
my claws free from the cotton bags; the only merit
of which is, that when a man is wounded in them, he
has lint ever ready at his fingers.”

“For my part,” said Baltasar, “I am, in this matter,
much of Lazaro's way of thinking. Howsoever,
please your favour, when I see these lubberly lumps
fight more courageously than myself in my iron trifles,
I will straightway change my mind on the
subject.”

“Hold thy tongue, then,” said the cavalier, “lest
thou give offence to some of these worthy cotton-coats,
who have, in no manner, furnished thee with
cause for a quarrel.”

The cavalier rode on, followed closely by his attendants,
courteously returning the salutations which were
everywhere rendered to his apparent rank and martial
appearance by the Spanish portion of the train;
though not even the glitter of his mail, the proud
tramp of his war-horse, nor the stout appearance of
his followers, drew a glance from the Tlamémé. The
dull apathy which the oppression of ages has flung
over the spirits of Mexicans at the present epoch,
had already been instilled into the hearts of this class
of natives, which with some others, under the prevalence
of the common feudalism of barbarians, were
little better than bondmen. He rode slowly by them,
admiring the sinewy bulk of their limbs, and the ease
with which they moved under their heavy burdens.

The van of the train was formed by a score of
footmen, all arrayed in the escaupil, and all, with the
exception of some five or six, who bore firelocks,

armed with sword and spear. A cavalier of goodly
presence, and well mounted, rode at their head; and
Amador, thinking he perceived in him the tokens of
gentle blood and manners, pressed forward to salute
him. The ringing of Fogoso's heels arrested the
attention of the leader, who, turning round and beholding
the gallant array of the stranger, instantly
returned upon his path, and met him with many courteous
expressions. At the very moment of meeting,
Amador's eye was attracted by a figure, which,
in making way for the steed of the leader, had well-nigh
been trodden under the hoofs of his own; and in
which, when removed from this peril, he instantly
remarked the spare person and haggard countenance
of the Moor. Holding fast to the hand of the Almogavar,
and indeed, for an instant, while the danger
lasted, wrapped anxiously in his arms, was a boy,
whose youth and terror might have won a second
notice, had not the salutation of the officer immediately
occupied his attention.

“The señor Amador de Leste,” said he—“Thou
varlet of an infidel. I will strike thee with my lance!”
(This menacing objurgation was addressed to the
Moor, at the moment when, most endangered, he
wavered with his boy between the horses.) “The
señor Amador de Leste,” he continued, as the Moor,
recovering himself, cowered away, “will not be surprised
to find his coming expected, and his presence
welcomed, by the general Narvaez, or by his excellency's
humble friend and captain, Juan Salvatierra.”

“Señor Salvatierra, I give you good thanks,” replied
Amador; “and although I know not what
avant-courier has proclaimed the approach of so
obscure an individual as myself, I will not, for that
reason, receive your courtesy less gratefully.”

“I have with me here,” said Salvatierra, with a
stately condescension, “several of your fellow-voyagers
of the caravel; among whom it would have been
strange indeed if any had forgotten the name of so
honourable a companion.”

“Those cavaliers of the caravel,” said Amador,
dryly, “who condescend to claim me as a companion,
do me thereby a greater honour than I am
desirous to do myself. My companions are, as you
may see, my two men-at-arms; to which we will at
present add the young señor, Fabueno, whom, as the
secretary of his excellency the admiral Cavallero, I
am not indisposed to acknowledge.”

There was something in the tone of the haughty
and even arrogant neophyte, that might have nettled
his new friend; but its only effect, beside bringing a
little colour upon his rather pallid cheeks, was to rob
his suavity of somewhat of its loftiness.

“It is for hidalgos and cavaliers of knightly orders,”
he said, “and not for ignoble adventurers, to aspire
to the fellowship of a valiant knight of San Juan.”

“I am no knight of San Juan,” said Amador, “but
a simple novice, who may one day claim admission
to the illustrious order (by right of birth,) or not, as
it may please the destinies and mine own humour.
Nevertheless I have much pleasure to speak of the
order and its valiant brothers, at every opportunity,
and at the present moment I am moved to ask your
favour, as relying much on your knowledge, what
tidings have been last had of the good knight Calavar,
an eminent branch of that most lordly, though thunder-stricken,
stock.”

“Concerning the knight of Calavar,” said Salvatierra
blandly, “it is my grief to assure you that his
madness—”

“Call it his melancholy! or his humour!” said Amador,
sternly; “and let it be some mitigation to your
surprise, if my correction sound like a rebuke, to
know that I am his kinsman.”

Again did the colour mount into the cheeks of the
cavalier, and again did his courtesy, or his discretion,
get the better of the impulse that raised it.

“The kinsman of that valiant and renowned gentleman,”
he said politely, “shall command me to any
epithet he chooses. The señor De Leste will doubtless

ament to hear that his kinsman, with an eccentricity
scarce worthy his high birth and knightly dignity,
still stoops to be the follower of an inferior and
rebel, the outcast and proclaimed outlaw, Hernan
Cortes.”

“As far as my own judgment is concerned in this
matter, señor caballero,” said Amador coolly, “I very
much doubt whether I shall lament that circumstance
at all. The knight Calavar will not disparage his
dignity or his profession, by choosing to serve where
a little-minded man might covet to command. Such
a condescension in him, besides being a new proof of
magnanimity and fidelity to his vows, whereby he is
sworn never to make peace with the infidel, is only
an evidence to me that the cavalier Cortes, whom
you call a rebel and outlaw, must be a man worthy
of much more respectful appellations; as indeed,
methinks, your own reflections should show you
must be the due of any associate of the knight of
Calavar.”

The unaffected surprise, and even consternation,
with which the follower of Narvaez heard the neophyte
thus speak of his leader's enemy, might perhaps
have urged Amador to the utterance of commendations
still more unequivocal, had not his eye at
that moment been caught by the shadow on the sand
of a man striding nearer to the flanks of Fogoso than
he had supposed any footman to be. His own position
was near the side of the company of musketeers
and spearmen mentioned before; his followers, not
being willing to obtrude upon the privacy of the
cavaliers, had fallen a little back; and the Morisco,
as he took it for granted, was lagging some distance
behind. His surprise was therefore not a little excited,
when looking round, he beheld the Almogavar
so close at his side as to be able to overhear all that
was said, and drinking his words with an expression
of the intensest interest.

“Son of a dog!” cried Salvatierra, who beheld
him at the same time, and who was not unwilling to

vent some of the gall that Amador had raised in his
bosom, upon so legitimate an object,—“I will see if
I cannot teach thee how to thrust thyself among soldiers
and hidalgos!”

“Softly, señor Caballero!” cried Amador, observing
the captain raising his lance; “strike not Abdalla;
for I have it in my power to inform you, that, although
in some sense your prisoner, and, to the eye
of a stranger, a most helpless and wretched varlet,
he has shown himself to be possessed of a spirit so
worthy of respect, that you will do yourself foul
shame to strike him.”

The lance of the cavalier was turned away from
the shrinking Moor.

“Don Amador de Leste shall command my weapon,
whether it be to smite or to spare,” said Salvatierra,
smothering the rage which every word and
action of the neophyte seemed fated to inspire, and
advancing to the head of the train.

“Harkee, Sidi Abdalla,” continued Amador, beckoning
complacently to the retiring Morisco, “it is not
in my nature to see indignity of any kind heaped
upon a man who hath not the power of vengeance,
and especially a man who hath in him the virtue of
courage, without raising a hand in his defence.”

“My lord speaks the truth,” said Abdoul, with a
subdued voice; “the Almogavar hath not the power
of vengeance:—The strong man may strike him, the
proud may trample, and he cannot resist; the cavalier
may wound with the lance, the soldier may smite
with the unthonged bow.—It is all one;—his head is
bare, his breast open, his hand empty:—he can neither
resist nor avenge.”

“By St. John of Jerusalem,” said the cavalier
warmly, moved to a stronger feeling for the friendless
Morisco, “I remember, as was confessed by that
beast of a Canary captain, that when thine enemies
were on thy decks, and thy friends fled from thy side,
(for which they deserved to sink to the bottom, as
they did;) thou hadst the courage to discharge thy

mangonneau into the victorious trader; for which
reason chiefly, but partly because thou hast avowed
thyself a Christian proselyte, I will take it upon me,
as far as it may be in my power, to be thy protector
and champion.”

“My lord is good,” said the Moor, bending his
head low on his breast; “and in the day of my death
I will not forget his benevolence. The Almogavar
was born to grief; trouble came at his first hour; his
first breath was the sigh of Granada, his first cry
was mingled with the groans of his enslaved people
his first look was on the tears of his father. Sorrow
came in youth, anguish in manhood, and misery is in
the footsteps of years. My lord is great and powerful;
he protects me from the blow of a spear.—He
can save me from a grief that strikes deeper than a
thousand spears!”

“As I am a true gentleman and Christian,” said
Amador, “I will hold to my word, to give thee protection
and aid, as far as my power lies.”

“The feeble boy that totters over these scorching
sands!” said the Moor, raising his eyes wistfully to
the cavalier, and turning them for an instant with a
look of unspeakable wildness to his son.—The cavalier
looked back, in that momentary pause, and beheld
the young Morisco. He seemed a boy of not
more than twelve years. The soldier judged only
from his stature, for a garment of escaupil of unusual
thickness completely invested and concealed his
figure; while his face drooping, as if from weariness,
on his breast, was hidden by a cap slouching in disorder,
and by long ringlets that fell in childish profusion
over his shoulders.

“The boy!” continued Abdalla, turning again to
the neophyte, and raising his clasped hands as if in
supplication. “Is it fit his tender years should be
passed among the horrors of a camp? among the
dangers of a wild war? among the vices and contaminations
of a brutal soldiery? If it were possible,”—
and here the voice of the Almogavar trembled with

eagerness;—“if it were possible that boy could be
sent to Granada,—nay, to Barbary,—anywhere,
where, for his father's sake, he should be granted a refuge
and asylum; then might the curse be uttered,
the blow struck, and Abdoul, receiving it as the payment
of his debt, would not call upon his lord for
vengeance.”

“Thou heardest from the admiral,” said Amador,
“how impossible would be the gratification of such
a wish; since, even were he parted from this shore,
it rests with another, who, I can, upon mine own
knowledge, assure thee, is not likely to help him on
his way, whether he shall not waste his days among
the planters of the islands; who, according to common
report, are not a whit less wild and debauched
than their friends here in Mexico.”

“God is just!” cried the Moor, clasping his hands
in despair.

“Nevertheless,” continued Amador, “I will not
fail to make thy petition, backed with my own request,
to the señor Narvaez; and at the worst, it is not improbable
some good cavalier may be found who will
consent to receive him as a page, and treat him with
kindness.”

“God is just!” reiterated the Moor, with a gloomy
sorrow; “and the arrow of the savage may save
him from the wrong of the Christian.”

“I tell thee again,” said Amador, “I will not forget
to do my best for his welfare, at the first opportunity.
But tell me, Abdalla”—The Morisco was
dropping behind: he returned.—“I had forgotten to
ask thee a question for which I first called thee. I
was speaking to this hot-tempered captain of the
knight Calavar—By heaven! it was thus I saw thine
eyes sparkle before! Is there any magic in the name,
that it should move thee to such emotion?”

“The knight Calavar,” said the Morisco, “was
among the conquerors of the Alpujarras; and how
can I hear his name, and not bethink me of the black
day of my country? His name is in our Moorish

ballads; and when the orphan sings them, he mourns
over the fate of his father.”

“That the knight Calavar did good service among
those rebellious mountaineers, I can well believe,”
said the cavalier, hastily; “but that he did not temper
his valour with mercy, is an assertion which no
man can make to me with perfect safety. As to
those ballads of which you speak, I am not certain
if they be not the invention of some devilish magician,
opposed to honourable war and glory; since it is their
sole purpose to keep one thinking of certain sorrowful
particulars, that may be a consequence of victory
and conquest, such as tearful widows and destitute
orphans; and I must declare, for mine own part, such
is the mischievous tendency of these madrigals, that
sometimes, after hearing them, I have had my imagination
so enchanted, as to look with disgust at war,
and almost to lament that I ever had struck at the
life of a human being. I shall like well to have thy
boy sing to me; but, as I will tell him beforehand,
it must be of lovelorn knights, and of knights going
to battle, and never a word about widows and
orphans.”