 | CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND FEAR.—HATE AND RIVALRY. The damsel of Darien |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND FEAR.—HATE AND RIVALRY.
The astrologer returned to the bohio. He, too, had
faith in the star of Vasco Nunez, and yet he almost wished
that the latter had closed with an offer so seemingly advantageous
as that of Enciso.
“Wherefore didst thou refuse the bachelor, my son?”
he asked of the cavalier, when he had resumed his seat
upon the mat before him.
“Ask me rather, wherefore I refused my ruin—my
utter ruin! What should I have done with Alonzo de
Ojeda—he, rash, reckless, ready always for fight, and as
blind to reason as the bull whose ferocity he emulates?
What should I have done with him—what could he have
done with me? We could not have kept our hands three
days from each other's throats; and what had been my
fate, surrounded by his creatures, and within his government?
Surely, I were worse than a fool, being my own
master, to have gone, of my own head, into the guidance
and the bonds of another, and that other so fierce a fool as
Alonzo de Ojeda, seconded by so sly a villain as his alcalde
mayor.”
“And yet, my son, the connexion is not without its
advantages,” said the astrologer.
“Ay, true!—there are lures, the preachers tell us, that
lie like fruits, even about the mouth of hell. Baits for the
blind only—for the selfish and the timid. There are no
advantages to me in the proposed connexion with Ojeda.
One ship can discover the south sea, and one hundred soldiers
were, under my guidance, of more price and value in
the new lands, than one thousand under Ojeda. The bull
would drive his and their heads against the rocks, which
I should train them to walk over. I know the leader of
base emissary, the Bachelor Enciso; we are the better for
their absence,—believe me—ay,—almost the better for
their hostility.”
“Nay, I think not that; but it may be—it must be—
as thou sayest, in respect to the connexion. Ojeda would
certainly seek to restrain thee, and that were fatal to thy
purpose. But let us go forth to the Great Place. There
are purchases which thou must make, necessary to the
completion of thy equipment, ere thy rivals get the start
of thee. Here are the castellanos of Davila. They are
thine. Greatly did I fear that the grasping miser sought
us out to regain them.”
“Evil got!” exclaimed Vasco Nunez, as he received the
treasure, “how many damnable spots have these bright
pieces fastened on his soul. I trust they will bring neither
sin nor sorrow upon ours.”
“Amen!” responded the astrologer, whose veneration
had not suffered any diminution from his study of the
stars. “Let us,” he continued, “go forth and rid ourselves
of the burden, and, if possible, the sin. Thou wilt
need seamen, and the strifes of Nienesa and Ojeda will
leave thee little choice, if thou dost not speak for them
quickly. They have both criers in the Great Square, and
this is market-day, Vasco. There will be a gathering of
the people, and thy castellanos, not to say thy presence,
will do for thee, what neither of them find it easy to do at
this moment. Thou hast money and wilt need no crier.”
A few moments sufficed to put the cavalier in readiness.
Throwing aside the robe of stuffed cotton, which had enveloped
him during the interview, he appeared in the ordinary
garments of the time, without ornament of any kind,
if we except a gorget of plain gold, having a small pendant
medallion, in which an image of Saint John was set. Over
his shoulders he threw a light body cloak, of a dark saffron
colour, and his habit thus complete, he girded on his
sword, and taking in his hand the steeple-crowned Spanish
hat, slightly looped at the brim, declared his readiness to
depart. He led the way for his venerable companion,
himself preceded by the watchful Leonchico. Casting
his eye down upon his feet as he emerged from the shade
of the mighty banyan whose branches formed an arched
avenue to his bohio, he stopped, and with something of the
which were somewhat frayed and discomposed. This excepted,
his movements were all marked by the dignified
and manly ease of one born to the high station which he
subsequently reached. His dark blue eye, full as it was of
fire and expression, yet teemed no less with frankness and
good humour; his high and white forehead was marked by
mingled benevolence and command; and the almost perfect
oval of his face, distinguished by a corresponding perfectness
in every feature, denoted an even and majestic mood
of mind, seldom moved to any but the highest purposes,
undeviating in his devotion to noble sentiments, and as
resolute, in their prosecution, as he was unchangeable in
his estimation of their value. Perhaps, it was only necessary
for Micer Codro to look into the face of his companion,
to find authority for his predictions, not less credible
and imposing, than that which he gathered from the benign
aspect of a favouring star. He did not look in that face
with an admiration inspired as much by personal regard,
as by his professional faith. For years had the two taken
their venture through the world together, in the new world
as in the old, amidst the intrigues of courts, and the strifes
of camps. To the astrologer, devoted to the mysteries of
that wild and wondrous study, then so much affected, and
so much confided in by all classes, Vasco Nunez supplied
the absence of other ties and nearer kindred. Though
otherwise alone in life, the fond superstition which the
former professed, had failed to wean him utterly from those
affections which belonged equally to his nature and early
associations; and it was no less grateful to his heart, than
it was creditable to his skill, to behold the rapid rise to prosperity
and fame, of one still so youthful, who had set out
at first with but few, if any, of those wordly advantages
which are generally assumed to be so necessary to eventual
success. The eye of the astrologer lighted up with renewed
confidence in his own predictions as he surveyed
the port, and marked the expression, of his companion.
“That form of majesty,” he thought silently, “hath a promise
no less proud than the star which rules its destiny;
that face is full of a language writ in characters so like to
those of heaven, I may not doubt that the same eternal
hand hath traced them both. All things speak for the fulfilment
of the truth of that lofty prophecy which my lips
his steps, and, a blessing no less bountiful to me, it is permitted
that I shall behold his adventure, and rejoice in his
success.”
The frame of the old man trembled with unexpected delight,
and big tears, of a holy and unselfish satisfaction, gathered
in his eyes.
“Thou weepest, Micer Codro,” said his companion,
who now discovered his emotion, and turned to him with
the earnest solicitude of a son; “thou weepest—thou art
sad—what is the grief that troubles thee?”
“A joy, my son—the fulness of a rejoicing soul that
asks relief. These tears lessen its abundant heats, as the
big drops fall from the burning clouds, giving vent to the
accumulated vapour that else might burst in storm. They
are the thunder-drops of the heart, and they tell of the renewed
freshness, which is there a hope. I see the hour
so long promised thee, approaching; and I glory in thy
coming honours, even as the aged father, whose foot is in
the grave, rejoices in the bloom and manhood of the child,
whose vigour must repair his own, and renew and perpetuate
his existence. As the father lives in his child, Vasco
Nunez, the withered hand of Micer Codro lives in thee.
When my step is no longer beside thee, when my voice
has perished from thy ears, when the green rushes of
shores, as yet unknown to the Spaniard, shall grow above
my bosom—for there am I assured shall I sleep at last—
then do I know that thy fame shall live, and thy name
shall be known above the proudest and the purest of all
the mighty warriors whom Spain hath sent forth on this
great service. Of this, thy triumph, am I sure! Would
that the one shadow which hangs before my sight, could
fall away, that I might speak for thy happiness—thy life,
my son!”
“And does not the prophecy of which thou hast declared
thyself so sure,—does not this speak for my life and
happiness? Hast thou not spoken of the greatness which
I shall achieve,—of the fame which I shall secure,—of the
triumphs which are to procure me acknowledgments from
fame, putting my name among the greatest of our thrice-favoured
nation?”
“And does the assurance of fame speak for happiness,
my son—does it even speak for life. Even thou, in thy
could I, though I be so certain of thy greatness, be equally
certain of thy life. Thou wilt be great, yet thou wilt encounter
enemies who will quarrel with thy greatness, and
embitter all its rewards. Thou mayst command the
brightest treasures in the scope of fortune, yet who will
secure thee in their enjoyment? Art thou blind to the
base jealousies that move our warriors, valiant though they
be beyond all others, and worthy and generous beside in
so many respects, to abuse their trusts, to violate pledged
faith to their comrades, to plunder and to slay, to secretly
stab, and basely forswear themselves, when it seems needful
to remove a rival from their progress, or to destroy, in
their viper hate, a more successful comrade? Thou hast
not forgotten the fortunes of that noble gentleman of my
own land, Diego Colon—his bold triumphs, his unselfish
zeal for his king and his religion—his trials, his chains,
his death! The seas yielded to his footsteps—the stones
relaxed from his path—the island rocks opened their sealed
harbours for his prows—the wild heathen bowed before
him in homage—God and nature gave him succour and
sunshine where he went—all things favoured his greatness,
but the fellow for whom he had done so much—the
monarch to whom he gave a world—the base soldiers
whom he led to fortune, and for whose prows he removed
the thick seal which had been set for five thousand years
upon the ocean waters of the west. Dost thou dream of a
better fortune than Diego Colon?—Alas! my son, I can
promise thee a glory only less great than his; but for thy
happiness—I can tell thee nothing! There is yet a veil
above thy star, and I can only pray for thee that thou mayst
live for thy greatness, and not be too great for those blessings
of life which fame has seldom yet secured to the possessor.”
The cavalier turned from the enthusiastic speaker. He
strove to speak, but there was a thickness in his voice
which he was not willing that his companion should perceive.
He too keenly felt that there was truth in the
melancholy picture which had been drawn before his mind.
He felt, however much he might desire fame, that fame
was not enough. There was a rival passion in his heart,
and love would not be set aside even for glory. Freely, at
that moment, had the alternative been proposed him, would
fame, for the humbler cottage-light of the softer deity.
He was just then passing the bohio of Teresa. A cluster
of palms spread their thick leaves before the lattice, but
his quick eye could see the white arm which was extended
to close it. His feet bounded forward, as the hand met
his pursuing glance, but the white drapery that floated for
an instant through the closing window, was all that rewarded
the eagerness of his gaze. The involuntary sigh
escaped him, as, turning to his companion, he allowed the
latter to recover the brief space which his increased speed
of movement at the time had made between them. She
had not seen him—she was unconscious of the fond eyes
then gazing upon the lattice which she had just closed upon
them. Was she as indifferent to his regards as she was
then unconscious of his presence? Could the suspicion
of his companion be true? Was she, indeed, the selfish
spirit which he had described her? Was that tenderness
of glance, which had made his own proud heart tender to
behold, the mere artifice of the skilful caprice, the lure of
a bosom heedful of triumphs only, and incapable of a just
appreciation of the treasures it might win? It seemed
sinful to indulge such fancies, and the cavalier turned to
the astrologer with something of diminished reverence, as
he came to this conclusion. The latter had seen, but with
the wisdom of experience he suffered not his companion
to know that he was aware of his emotions. The fondest
lover is conscious of some weakness in the passion which
he yet indulges, and does not often forgive the eyes which
are too ready to discover a secret, that seems more grateful
from its being such. The worship of the primitive Christian
was of the complexion of this love, and was never so
dear to his soul, as when forbidden or reviled by men, he
stole away to the tombs and caverns, and felt that what
was wanting of dignity to his worship, was more than
compensated to him in the intensity of those feelings
which arose from its constraint and concentration. The
vain man, on the contrary, is ostentatious of his devotions,
and seeks the altar quite as frequently with a regard to the
public curiosity, as for the satisfaction of his own zeal.
When such is the case, the temple is required always to
be of marble, and the deity who presides at the altar,
must be enshrined in quite as much of the wealth of the
of devotion in the case of Vasco Nunez. The idol of his
affections was the daughter of a poor knight of Calatrava,
who, though a favourite of King Ferdinand, and for some
time an officer of the royal household, had yet reaped little
beyond the simple distinction in reward for his loyal services
in that economical court. Though gallant and accomplished,
he was not so wealthy as to be independent of
the limited reward which came from his present appointment,
and it was not, therefore, with any strong reluctance
that he yielded to the solicitations of his brother, Felipe
Davila, a man of more circumspect economy, and less
scrupulous character, who, having no family of his own,
desired to adopt his niece, Teresa, and had pledged himself
to provide for her as his own child. He had taken her
from her parents when about to leave old Spain for the
commencement of that career of speculation in the New
World, which, for a time, and until he had been seduced
by the seeming successes of others, to risk his gains upon
novel and wild enterprises, had resulted in procuring for
him the foundation of a noble fortune. In the pursuit of
gain he had proved himself no less successful than unscrupulous;
and, though the extent of his successes was
unknown—for, with the usual policy of the miser, he still,
even to his own brother, pretended the utmost poverty—it
was yet shrewdly conjectured by many, that Teresa Davila
was already the heiress of a noble fortune. But such was
neither a thought in the mind, nor a desire in the heart of
Vasco Nunez. Though a man familiar with the modes of
thinking and feeling in the world, and one who had suffered
from its most humiliating necessities, he was yet one
of those persons who never acquire that narrow wisdom
which makes cold considerations of worldly comfort a
gauge for the affections. The mere desire of gain, the
treasures of the mine, and the jewels from the deep, which
absorb the desires of so many hearts, were as nothing to
the high spirit whose ambition was striving perpetually
with the keenest longing for the pathway over unbroken
waters, and the key to hidden worlds. He could live, as he
had lived, on the bitter roots, the strange vegetables, and
the unripe fruits of the wilderness, when in the same wilderness
he found the pathway which he desired to honourable
conquest and elevated fame. To this passion, so happily
one rival in his; and to win Teresa Davila, without a
single jewel beyond that, richest of all, which he believed
to be enshrined in her own purity and affections,
was to complete the triumph, over which, there were moments,
when his heart seemed to have no desire, and his
mind no inclination. Though unfavourable to this latter
passion, as believing it to be at variance with what he esteemed
the more noble and just direction of his companion's
mind, the astrologer yet forbore, on the present
occasion, speaking to a subject which he clearly perceived
betrayed the cavalier into a departure from his wonted
equanimity and judgment. He was not unwilling, with
that sagacity which leaves something to time and fortune,
to forbear a theme the discussion of which could embitter
only, and could not convince.
“Let us hasten,” he said, “the loss of time now were a
greater loss than if we were to lose our castellanos. Enciso will be the busier for thy rejection of his prayer, and who
knows but there may be other sums in the coffers of Felipe
Davila, to be loaned on usury if the security be good.
There goes a man, my son, who, if the gold were aside,
would stand more in the way of thy success with the
mariners than any other. He is worth to Ojeda more
than the Bachelor and all his cunning; and yet this man
hath none.”
“None, or he would not risk himself and money on a
head so crazy as Ojeda's. La Cosa is a good seaman, but
what of that? It will but stiffen the conceit of Ojeda to
know that men think it will take all his pilot's wisdom to
ballast his folly, and all his prudence and skill to steer clear
of the rocks and quicksands to which the rashness of his
leader will for ever drive their prows. Be sure Ojeda will
quarrel with his counsel when it is best, and hearken only
when it comes too late. I believe La Cosa to stand well
with the seamen, but not to our detriment, I trust.”
“They love him much, and have a faith in his pilotage
which they yield not freely to any other. But for him,
Ojeda had not the credit to command a single ship. The
money of La Cosa hath helped him to his armament thus
far, and his goodly reputation will do much to get him the
best seamen, if we speed not. He hath a love for Ojeda,
which stops not at any sacrifice; and which is strange
of the one, and the cool, considerate circumspection
of the other. It may be that he will temper Ojeda in
his rashness, and, perchance, subdue his valour to a profitable
use.”
“Ay, if any thing, or person, may achieve so much,
which I greatly question. Ojeda hath had experience
enough, years ago, to serve any but a fool or madman;
and he hath never yet been without old heads to counsel,
and good pilots to guide. But old heads and good pilots
are thrown away upon insolent self-conceit and blind passion;
and with the single exception of La Cosa, they have
all been but too happy to escape from connexion with him.
La Cosa will do well to get clear of him with life. His
gold I look upon as but lost to himself, and of little service
to Ojeda. As for this government of Veragua, which the
king hath granted between him and Nienesa, and which
they are seeking for blindfold, they will neither of them,
perchance, behold it; and if they do, it will only be to
quarrel among themselves, and fight for those treasures
which will then be as so much molten gold poured down
their throats. You will see, Codro: I know them both,
and know them well, though I have but little knowledge of
the stars; yet am I not the less confident in my prediction
than thou in thine. But, what is here?—Ah! the carriers
bringing the ripe fruits to market. What a train! The
fruits hang around them as if they grew about their arms
and necks. The yellow fig glitters upon the numerous
branches, and the golden orange and the lime send their
fragrance even thus far to our nostrils. But the poor Indians!—how
they bend beneath their burdens—how they
droop—how they yield, until the knee sinks to the earth,
and the slender frame scarce rises again for its journey.
By the blessed Virgin, Micer Codro, but my heart bleeds
for this abused people, even though we win such great
profit from their wrongs; and sometimes I feel that I
could join hands with the poor savages, and grapple in
deadly strife in their behalf, with these worse savages whom
I shame to call my countrymen.”
“Be prudent, my son,” replied the astrologer, in tones
subdued to a whisper, and marked by some little trepidation;
“thou speakest only too freely for thine own safety:
there is one, even now coming behind us, who loves thee
governor. Let Nicholas Obando but hear of such speech
from thy lips, and it were thy ruin in Hispaniola while his
government shall last. Let Jorge Garabito but hear thee,
and Nicholas Obando will not long lack knowledge of thy
imprudence.”
“Jorge Garabito!” exclaimed the cavalier, in tones
which clearly manifested the uncontrolled disgust which
he felt for the person named; “doth that base creature—
that crow with the feathers of the flamingo—doth he walk
behind us?”
“He doth, but not near at hand as yet. He comes from
the palm grove of Davila.”
“Ha!” was the sudden exclamation of the cavalier, as
he now turned his eyes upon the backward path, a movement
which he had felt some shame to make but a single
moment before. A heavy frown hung like a thunder-cloud
above his brows, as he saw the person named emerging
slowly from the thick grove of royal palmettoes, whose
slender shafts, rising like chiselled columns for more than
a hundred feet in air, without branch or stem to spoil
their symmetrical smoothness, expanded broadly at the
top, and formed a verdant canopy over the bohio of
Teresa, which, without impeding the passage of the air,
utterly excluded the hot glare of the sun from its green
verandas. But Vasco Nunez had no eye for these, the
most majestic and graceful trees of the whole vegetable
world. His eye was fixed in bitterness and scorn upon
Garabito, while his words, simple and few, sought to convey
a different impression to the mind of his companion
from that which filled his own. “He hath business with
Felipe Davila—perchance, he hath occasion for castellanos
like ourselves.”
“They say that he affects Teresa—that he loves the
maiden, and would seek her in marriage.”
“They say—who say?” responded the impetuous
lover. “Hast thou heard one who might know, or is it
only the talk of those withered damsels, who, having
survived their own hopes, if not their own passions, spend
their days in the mischievous employ of coupling fools
with wenches? I would not hearken to the say of one
such as these, in any matter which affects Teresa. Hast
thou heard this fancy from less busy tongues?”
“It is a frequent speech in Santo Domingo; and some
go even further, and reproach him with giving little heed
to his repartimiento, because of his frequent attendance at
the bohio of Teresa.”
“Yet, if this be true, why have I not met him there.”
“Perhaps, he is willing to avoid the meeting.”
“He is wise in that,” returned the cavalier with a bitter
laugh. The astrologer, who did not now seem unwilling
to dwell upon a topic, which, but a little while before, he
was scrupulous to avoid, continued thus:
“Thou seest that he has but now left her dwelling, my
son; and it is not unlike that he seeks her by day only,
while thou hast chiefly sought her at evening. By night,
he returns to the hills where he has rule, and he may not,
by the late decree of Obando, depart from his repartimiento
when the night has set. It is my belief that he seeks
the maiden.”
“And he will win Teresa, think you? He is my rival,
and his star, which hath encouragement from his gaudy
cloak, will outshine mine in the eyes of the maiden? Is
that thy thought, Micer Codro? Tell me:—thou hast fine
words touching the conjunction of Mars and Venus; what
dost thou think of our rival fortunes? This is no Mars, I
am bold to say; and yet, if what thou hast spoken of
Teresa Davila, be true;—if she be the heartless thing that
thou thinkest her—then may this thing of patches and perfume,
be the more honoured in his pursuit than the poor
cavalier, who borrows castellanos from her uncle. I would
to God, Micer Codro, that thou hadst gotten this gold from
Satanos sooner than from Felipe Davila; should it sink in
the sea, he would as soon let the devil have his niece—
ay, and sooner,—than the poor devil who had lost it.”
“It will not sink—it cannot be lost,—and let not, I pray
thee, son Vasco, let not this matter give thee more concern.
If Teresa loves thee, then will she heed nothing of
her uncle's loan in thy behalf; and as little will thy loss
of these miserable moneys, move her to any lessening of
her regards in thy behalf. If she loves thee not, of what
matter is it to thee what is her thought, whether of the
loan or of the loss of it. Heeding not thee, my son, what
shouldst thou care, what she heeds?”
“True, true; what should I care? and yet, Codro, to
think that a creature such as this Garabito, who dreams not
and has no more heart than the rind of a milk-nut, should
win favour—nay, should hope to win favour,—with such
a woman as Teresa Davila, passes the limit of nature.”
The old man smiled as he replied:
“Men think there is something strange in this, but
women never.”
“Thou hast quarrelled with the sex, Micer Codro; they
have been hard upon thee.”
The old man smiled again, but this time the smile was
a faint and sickly one.
“I have seen them perish my son,—the loved and the
beautiful,—and they have perished in pain and various sufferings,
but the little follies and vanities which they loved in
life, have not been forgotten in the moment of death. Teresa
Davila—if she differ not greatly from the rest—objects
not to the smallest riband on the leg of Garabito.”
“Let us speak no more of him,” replied Vasco Nunez
with some haste; “they tell me that he is a wretch, no
less cruel than foolish. It is said that he hath tortured the
poor savages, that he might gather sport from their miserable
contortions, and feast his ears upon their unhappy
clamours. How may this be? Shall a creature that hath
no valour; no affection for strife, even at a season when
war is the word in every mouth, and seems the desire in
every heart, shall such as he, in the mere humour of his
appetite, as I may say, take merriment from the piteous
suffering of these most timid of all the creatures of heaven?
Loose me this knot, Micer Codro, if it be in thy power.
I wonder not that this creature should dance after the
fashion of the Frenchman, and that he should pride himself
in the plumes that make him strut like the vain bird
whose glory lies in its tail; but that he should look with
pleasure on blood spilling, and the taking of life; and
hearken to the groans of the feeble and unoffending, even
while he most encourageth their foolish fancies, passeth
my study, and,—but that it is said by truest gentlemen,—
almost passeth my belief.”
“And yet, Vasco, marvellous as it may seem, there is
this double nature ever in the men of certain nations. Thus,
still, hath it been with the Frenchman, who will mingle
the playful sports of the kitten, with the glutless ferocity
of the tiger. The hot extremes of character, like the intense
meet in the same person; and nothing is more frequent in
the experience of the wise, than to behold sudden changes
of temper, which seem hostile to each other, in the same
man, from heat to cold; from storm to calm; from the full
burst of delighted enthusiasm, which is all merriment and
life, to the gloomy, stern mood, which looks as if all nature
were but a vast sepulchre, and it the unquiet and
sleepless ghost, doomed for ever to watch and shriek above
it. The frivolous nature hath ever a sanguinary mood,
and the sanguinary mood hath its rest in the indulgence of
that which is frivolous. Women, who are very foolish,
are apt to be very cruel. I have seen many of this sort.
There was a man who ruled in Rome that had a feminine
frivolity at one moment, and the rage for blood at another,
which seemed rather like that of the wild beast, than one
born among men; yet he fought not, and was but a sorry
coward after all. But of such monsters in the ancient
times, it is not needful that we should speak, if we hearken
to the good Las Casas, touching the cruel doings of the
Spaniard, and among ourselves—here, in Hispaniola,—
doings, which, if the truth be known, are not ended even
to this day. Did he not with his own eyes behold five
cacicoes roasted before a slow fire!”
“Thou sayst not!” exclaimed Vasco Nunez.
“Ay,—and when their cries came to the ears of the
commander, and kept him from his slumbers, and he sent
word to the officer on duty to strangle them at once, that
they might no longer disturb his rest; did not the other
obey his commands only so far as to gag the unhappy
wretches, while he continued his tortures as before, himself
stirring the fire until they felt pain no longer, and
ceased to yield him sport.”
“I believe it not—it is not possible!” exclaimed the
cavalier, with a very natural expression, at once of horror
and incredulity.
“It is true, Vasco Nunez,” responded the astrologer,
with half-suppressed but solemn accents, “the martyrdom
of the blessed Saint Sebastian not more true than that of
these harmless savages; and, hearken to me—more than
this, my son,”—here his voice was subdued into a whisper,
and, approaching more closely to his companion, he
looked backward as he spoke—“more than this, my son,
behind us, is the very man of Seville, having command at
the time over the repartimiento of Alameda, in the iron
mountains, where this cruel deed was done. It is thought
that it is he of whom Las Casas hath made this cruel record.”
The cavalier clutched his weapon convulsively.
“By the Holy Virgin, Micer Codro, could I believe this
true, which I cannot, I should slay this monster on the
instant. But it is not true. It is not possible; worthless
though this wretch may be, I look back upon his plumage,
and my sense revolts at such belief. But, if it were true
of any man, why hath not Las Casas named the name?
What had he to fear?”
“Of what use to name the name?”
“That man might curse him—that, having his name,
we might have one more fit than all to express the perfect
monster, should he again spring to life in ages yet to come.
But there had been a present use in this knowledge, if it
were for punishment only.”
“And who would punish?”
“The power was in Alameda.”
“Ay, the power, but not the will. When Jorge Garabito
filled the coffers of his employer with pesos that
made him rich, it had been but an idle question to ask,—
`Where are my labourers?—What tale is this they bring
me of thy massacres before breakfast to whet thy appetite?
—to keep thy hands in practice?—to yield thee sport
when the sun has driven thee beneath the palm-tree into
shade?—to prove thy strength with the sword?—and the
thousand ways beside which thou hast chosen to murder
the people which were given thee in trust?' Believe me,
son Vasco, Alameda looked to nothing but his three-fifths;
and asked for no accountability from his officer, but of the
golden pesos which he told before him weekly. While
the treasury filled, he took no heed of the blood which
Garabito, it is said, made to flow like water.”
“But such massacre were infinite loss to the master.
What hand would supply the coffers of Alameda, when
those that gathered him his treasure, were cut away by his
officer? Methinks his own loss were enough to teach
him lessons of humanity.”
“He had no loss! Well he knew that he must acquire
held favour in the jealous sight of Ferdinand, or in that of
the no less jealous Obando? Had he been sure of a permanent
dominion over the poor Indians, he had spared
their lives—he had portioned out their labours, each according
to his strength—he had counted them at morning,
he had been bountiful of the food he gave them at night.
But such was no policy with the master whose sway was
limited—whose hours were numbered—who saw his successor
at the porch! The toils of the Indian were unremitting,
and the value of his life small, because the time of
his owner was short. If this be not the truth, and the
true reason, wherefore is it that the Indians, which numbered
one million when Diego Colon first came to Hispaniola,
do not now reach eighty thousand? That is a
marvel far greater than this of the cruelty of Garabito,
unless ye believe in this cruelty to explain it.”
“'Tis monstrous! I am resolute to refuse belief, though
I deem this creature Garabito base enough for any thing.
We will speak of him no more.”
“It is well,—he approaches us.”
“See him not, if thou canst. I will have eyes only for
other objects.”
This was said by the cavalier in tones like those which
his companion had preserved throughout the dialogue. In
a louder voice he continued thus,—pointing as he spoke to
the carrier Indians, whose appearance had given occasion
to the previous dialogue:
“See where they descend from the heights—what a
train—and how they toil. These fruits which they bring
must be for the armament; the cotton sacks contain mahez
and cassavis, and are in quantity too great for the markets
here. Nienesa will soon depart.”
“He hath need, if he can,” said the old man in a whisper;
“his creditors find too much employment in his annoyance
to let him leave them without notice. We shall
hear of Nienesa when he sails.”
Garabito approached them by this time, and put a
momentary stop to their conversation. He saluted them
civilly but foppishly, with a swagger of importance, which
added to the distaste already expressed for him by Vasco
Nunez. He was a slender and good-looking person
enough, had he been content to let himself alone. But
and flanked as he was on all hands by ribands and knots,
there was enough in his mere outside to provoke disgust
in the mind of one like the cavalier, whose own habits,
though neat, were simple, and whose manners were too
direct and frank to tolerate any form of affectation. The
mincing gait, and no less mincing accents of Garabito, as
sidling by them, he whispered the passing salutation, were
of a piece with his costume; and the cold response of
Vasco Nunez, and the reluctant down-looking air of the
astrologer, had nothing in them to encourage him to linger.
The two shortened their pace as he went forward, obviously
to avoid the necessity of farther communication.
| CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND FEAR.—HATE AND RIVALRY. The damsel of Darien | |