 | CHAPTER VI.
THE AVENGER—NEW PLOTS AND PARTIES. The damsel of Darien |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE AVENGER—NEW PLOTS AND PARTIES.
A wild shriek of mingled horror and hostility burst from
the lips of the approaching cavalier, as he beheld the bloody
and unexpected deed. The trembling grasp of the astrologer
now laboured vainly to restrain him. He broke through
all impediment, dashed aside the gaping crowd who seemed
all too much stunned by the deed, and awed by the authority
which it was well known Garabito possessed, to take
any part in its punishment; and with a fury in his look and
manner which could not be mistaken, and which fully declared
his purpose, even had his threat been unspoken, he
rushed upon the murderous wretch, where he stood, half
exulting in the slight of arm which he had shown, and altogether
heedless of the poor mother's agony; and dashing
aside the weapon which the villain opposed to his approach,
in his precipitation, his own being still undrawn, he hurled
Garabito to the earth and planted his heavy foot upon his
neck. This was all the work of an instant—of a single impulse,
which was acknowledged by the crowd, so speechless
hitherto, with a shout of unanimous approval. He did
not in that moment of desperate excitement feel the slight
wound which the murderer had inflicted upon his side, nor
till he had him down beneath his foot, did he seem conscious
that his own sword remained still in its scabbard.
Another instant repaired his error, as he remembered that
justice was yet unexecuted. He drew the keen steel forth,
and the pale cheeks of the criminal attested his dread of a
fate that promised to be scarcely less sudden and terrible
than that which he had inflicted upon the unoffending boy,
as he saw the bright blade sweep in air, with its point
bearing down upon his bosom. The timely hand of the astrologer
arrested the blow.
“What wouldst thou, Vasco Nunez—what wouldst
thou, my son, by this violence.”
“Slay the black-hearted villain—the bloody murderer,
even as he slew the child.”
The groans of the mother, who clung to the bleeding victim
till her long black tresses were dyed red and matted
with his gore, increased the rage of the cavalier, as it seemed
to implore the doom which he threatened, and flinging
himself loose from the astrologer, he again prepared to
strike. But Micer Codro who knew the danger which he
must necessarily incur, even by an act of such sacred justice,
clung to him again, while he cried to the bystanders
for help in his attempt.
“Stay thy hand, brave Vasco, dear son, stay thy hand,
strike not the blow, remember the decree of Nicholas
Obando. It is death to him in Santo Domingo, who shall
take life of a Spaniard. Remember, I pray thee, thou hast
no friend in Obando; thou wilt find no favour at his hands,
though God himself looked on and approved the deed.
Break the law, in however small a measure, and he will
mete out to thee its harshest penalties. Be patient, spare
this man—thou hast no matter in his doings.”
“Ay, but I have, Micer Codro, and so hast thou, and so
hath Obando, and all men not absolutely brutified by the
damning power of Satan and his angels. All men who look
on such crime unmoved, are partakers, unless they show
themselves willing to avenge.”
“Thou hast already shown thyself willing to avenge. It
is enough.”
“Stand aside, Micer Codro, I bid thee; and stay me not
in the course of justice.”
“I dare not, Vasco—for thy own sake, I dare not.” The
astrologer covered the prostrate body of Garabito with his
own, as he spake these words:
“Move me not to do thee harm,” replied the cavalier,
hoarsely; and while the astrologer began to repeat his
warning touching Obando and his decree, with no gentle
hand he grasped him by his cloak, and lifting him from his
feet with the ease of one who lifts an infant, he threw him
fairly behind him, while he exclaimed,
“Let Nicholas Obando come; I fear not that he will
censure. His own sword should do this justice, if mine
did not. And he dare not, in the face of Heaven and of
our king and country, not to say to God and man. Yet will
I give this wretch a chance for his life; no man shall say
I took him at 'vantage. Rise, villain,” spurning the murderer
with his foot, while withdrawing it from his body;
“Rise, villain, and take thy weapon. Thou art ready and
valiant enough to use it upon the feeble savage, and the
feebler child; try it on the man, sirrah—try it on the
Spaniard. Rise, dog, ere I strike my heel into thy teeth.”
The murderer availed himself of the permission to rise,
as promptly as the stunning fall which he had received
would permit. But, though he resumed the grasp upon his
weapon, and took his place fairly before his antagonist, he
did not show that forward disposition to the encounter,
which the injury he had received, and the sanguinary mood
of which he had shown himself capable, would have seemed
to justify.
“Thou art ready?” demanded the impatient warrior,
with a quick sudden tone, looking as he spoke into the very
eyes of Garabito, with a withering, sharp glance, that promised
to penetrate only less deeply than his sword. The
other was disposed to expostulate. Vasco merely stamped
with his feet, and simply pointed to the murdered child.
“But, Señor Vasco, wherefore? It is but a heathen
boy—an Indian—a lad born for perdition. Wouldst thou
have me answer with life for such as he?”
Such language need not surprise the reader, when he
remembers that it was forty years after the period of these
events, when it became necessary for the pope (Paul III.)
to issue his famous bull, declaring the Indians to be men,
and entitled, therefore, to all such consideration as was due
to humanity.
A stroke upon the cheek with the flat part of his sword
was the only answer which the cavalier deigned the murderer
to this speech. A murmur ran through the crowd,
which, without sympathizing greatly with the Indians,
always sympathizes with courage, and were now indignant
to behold the tameness, under such an indignity, of one
wearing a weapon, and who had just proved himself so indifferent
to bloodshed. Garabito could no longer evade the
requisition. The blood mounted into his face with the suddenness
of a torrent. Though entirely devoid of real valour,
he was yet not without that conventional courage
community, and to fight now was absolutely necessary to
save caste.
This consideration came to his aid, and he was strengthened
by the free murmurs of those around him. He raised
his eye to that of his enemy, set his feet firmly, took an
attitude at once manly and graceful, and the swords clashed
and crossed. The murmur of the crowd, changing to that
of applause and pleased anticipation, was still encouraging;
and a faint smile rose upon the lips of Garabito, which was
strangely contrasted with the bitter joy which glared out
from the eye of his opponent. Twice, thrice, the weapons
clashed and clung to each other, their points bearing down
to the earth, under the mutual pressure of the well sinewed
arms that bore them. Like most of the Spaniards of that
day, Garabito had some knowledge of his weapon; he had
played with a skilful swordsman, as he had boasted, in the
person of Alameda, and had learned some of the nice practice
with which the ready fencer sometimes manages to
elude the strength with which he could not equally contend.
Driven to the wall, he became collected, and assumed
the show of a confidence which he did not possess. But
his knowledge of his weapon, his art, and practice, were
nothing to the ability of Vasco Nunez, in the same noble
art. He, in the language of history, had received, par excellence,
from his cotemporaries, the appellation of “Egregius
Digladiator,” or “master of fence,” and a very few
passes between them soon convinced the crowd, and the
feeble Garabito among them, that he was in the custody of
his fate. He grew pale with the conviction—his efforts
became hurried and confused; and, with a wandering of his
mind, came a wandering of his glance, which is always
fatal in such a conflict. His eye lost that of his opponent,
and in the next passage the finger joints of his sword hand
experienced a shock and numbness which instantly relaxed
them. The weapon flew from his grasp, and the point of
Vasco Nunez was lunged with deadly force and exactness
towards his heart. He saw no more—a death-like paleness
covered his cheek—a mist shrouded his sight—a miserable
sickness filled his heart, and he sunk without an effort to
the earth. He fell without a wound! The arm of his
enemy had been arrested ere the blow was given, and the
miserable tyrant, whose reckless and blood-thirsty nature
and death, was deficient in the courage to look boldly on
his own. He had fainted from the fear of death, and he
now lay a spectacle of shame, exposed to the wonder of the
poor savages whom he had tortured, and the unqualified
scorn of his own people.
“Who checks me? who stays my arm?” were the
fierce words of Vasco Nunez, looking around him. His
eye rested upon a small but noble-looking gentleman, who
had just reached the spot in time to arrest a weapon that
would not otherwise have spared the wretch, whom its very
aspect may be said to have overcome. A conciliating smile
rested upon the fine features of the stranger, and his words
were gently spoken, and of a character to disarm, in part,
the anger of the cavalier.
“Nay, señor, you cannot now strike this person without
shame. His blood would do dishonour to your weapon;
the very fear of it hath sufficiently slain him.”
The suggestion was enough. An artificial sentiment of
chivalry taught Vasco Nunez to spare, where a natural
sense of justice might have moved him to destroy.
“You are right, Señor Diego,” replied the cavalier—
“you are right, and I thank you for your timely counsel.
The blood of such as he would indeed dishonour the sword
of an honourable man; yet, señor, did you but know—”
The stranger interrupted him:
“Put up your sword, Señor Vasco—the Señora Teresa
approaches. Let us put ourselves before the miserable
spectacle that it be hidden from her eyes.”
There was a tremor in the heart of Vasco Nunez as he
hearkened to these words, which the conflict with Garabito
had not occasioned. Meanwhile the proud lady of
his love drew nigh, borne in a cushioned chair upon the
shoulders of four Indian slaves, her dark eye flashing as she
met the obeisance of the cavalier, with a fire all its own,
and languishing at other moments as if softened by some
dream of love, and overcome in its enjoyment. Gracious
was the smile which she bestowed upon her lover—so
gracious as almost seemed to assure him of that regard
which the astrologer held to be so doubtful. She passed
on, leaving as she went a softness in the soul of Vasco
Nunez which made him turn away from the scene of strife
and of bloodshed with a sentiment of horror and disgust
reminded him that the duties of humanity were yet to be
performed.
“This miserable spectacle must be taken from the thoroughfare;
the body must be removed.”
Addressing the trembling Indians, who had shrunk into
the back-ground, and to this moment had not offered to
touch the carcass of the murdered boy or lend the slightest
assistance to the mother, Vasco Nunez bade them take
up the child;—but the words were not well uttered, before
they were answered by the miserable mother.
“No, no, no!” she cried, in broken Spanish, grasping
closer to her bosom the headless trunk over which she had
been bending in a grief almost as silent as it was fruitless
during the whole progress of the combat: “he is mine—
he is the child of Azuma; and Caonabo, his father, who is
a free man of the mountains, will come to seek him in the
night. Touch him not! take him not!—the fire will not
hurt him now—nor the sword.” And she lifted her hand
imploringly towards the Spaniards, who were grouped in
front of her, as if dreading their approach; but when she
saw her own people draw nigh, she started to her feet and
in the language of Hayti, she spoke to them vehemently
for a few seconds, and in tones of imperative command.
“What says she?” asked the cavalier, advancing towards
them as he spoke.
“Ah! it is you!” she resumed, in broken Spanish,
sinking again upon her knee before Vasco Nunez and
placing one hand upon the headless trunk: “you will not
take the boy from Azuma—the poor boy, the son of Caonabo—the
poor Hawaie, that only played with the monkey—that
will not play with the monkey any more—the
poor Hawaie!”
And she threw herself at length upon the senseless
corpse, in all the abandonment of consciousness to surrounding
objects, which marks the genuine sorrow of the
soul.
“Poor wretch—look! this is a dreadful spectacle!” exclaimed
the cavalier to his companions.
“Let us leave her!” was the reply of the stranger.
“We can do nothing for her; and while we remain here
she can do nothing or will do nothing for herself. In our
better help her when we are gone.”
The opinions of the stranger were evidently correct, and
Vasco Nunez, as he felt their truth, in spite of the seeming
inhumanity, was about to turn away, when, starting
from her trance of grief as she heard his movement, she
crawled suddenly forward, and clasping with both her
arms the knees of the cavalier, rested her head against them
and muttered a few words in her own language, which,
from the tone of her utterance, might be deemed a blessing.
Vasco Nunez gently strove to disengage himself
from her grasp, while he spoke in accents subdued to a
sympathizing kindness:
“I can do nothing for you, my poor woman—nothing!”
She lifted her eyes, streaming with tears, and looked her
gratitude in his face. Then, convulsively sobbing, while
releasing him from her grasp, she replied in imperfect
Spanish:
“But if you could, master—but if you could!”
She said no more—the rest was implied. The confidence
in his humanity to do for her whatever lay in his
power, which the broken sentence seemed to convey, was,
perhaps, the highest acknowledgment which the Indian of
Hayti could give to any individual of the Spanish race.
“Let us go,” said Vasco Nunez, as he dropped unnoticed
a piece of money at her feet; “let us go, señor.”
The miserable murderer, Garabito, by this time had
shown some signs of consciousness, but he had not risen
from the spot. He was partially concealed from the cavalier
by the persons of two men in humble condition, whom
the stranger recognized as his followers.
“Take your master from sight,” he said to them while
turning away — “he will thank you for it.”
They made him no reply, but proceeded to obey his
suggestion. They had little need for this. The Spaniards
were no sooner out of sight than Garabito recovered,
and rose without assistance to his feet. But his cheeks
were deadly pale, and there was a gleam from his eyes
like the very last from those of despairing and departing
sanity. His glance rested upon the person of the woman
who crouched within a few steps of him, busied in wiping
with her hair the blood and dust from the face of the sundered
sight of the dreadful spectacle chilled the bosom of the
wretched murderer. The eyes fixed in the glaze of death,
were yet riveted upon his own; the jaws were spasmodically
parted, and the tongue, dropping blood and slaver,
lolled out upon the cheek. The murderer gave his victim
no second look. He turned hurriedly away, motioning
his men to follow, and it was only when his form was entirely
lost to sight behind a rising ground that the trembling
natives came forward to the assistance of the poor woman
and her child.
Garabito did not follow his assailant who, with the
crowd, had taken his way towards the place of public assemblage.
His course was from the town and towards the
hills that seemed to promise him a shelter in their iron
fastnesses, from the shame which he felt when among his
people. His mind brooded only upon its degradation and
the hope of revenge. He had no word for his followers,
who communed to themselves in language which he was
not suffered to hear.
“The Señor Jorge,” said one, “will have no stomach
for his cassavi to-day. He hath swallowed of food more
bitter than the poison mandioc.”
“By the blessed Virgin, though we be his followers,
holding his service and taking his pay, Pedro, it did my
heart good to see Vasco Nunez cross weapon with him.
Jorge Garabito had such conceit of his sword that there
was need to cure him. He hath a lesson this day, that he
will not soon forget.”
“Yet, what a hot-brained fool that Vasco Nunez, to
draw sword in such a matter! What was the woman or
the boy to him or to any body? A pretty coil, in God's
name, about an Indian—a little cub of a heathen, not much
bigger than the monkey and not half so active; and for this
a free-born Spaniard must take buffets o' the cheek, and
bide strokes of keen toledo. Look you, now, the Señor
Vasco, to my mind, lifts a hand quite too high, now that
he hath a vessel ready for the ocean seas, and since Micer
Codro hath found for him that fortunate star. He makes
equal count of the heathen and of our own people, and
there will be other swords in this quarrel, do you mark
me? of better edge than that of Jorge Garabito. It is well
for us that the Señor Jorge hath had no such love for these
been but dull sport in the iron mountain. For my own
part, Sanchez, I could tell thee—”
“Ay, Pedro, of some of thy own valiant deeds of this
sort among the heathen,” replied his companion interrupting
him; “but if this practice of Vasco Nunez grows to
be universal in Santo Domingo, then wilt thou curse the
long tongue that couldn't keep its own secret. Hear now
to something better even than thy own bravery—something
that will pay thee well if thou canst prove that thou hast
some of it left, and art willing to put it into quick exercise
when I bid thee.”
“What mean you, Sanchez? Speak.”
“Didst hearken to the speech of the woman, Azuma?”
“What speech?”
“To Vasco Nunez!—Ah! I see thou hast too long a
tongue to have good ears. Hearken! When Vasco Nunez
bade them take the child away, she refused, if you remember?”
“Surely I do.”
“Well, that were nothing, but for certain words which
she let fall in her speech.”
“I heard them not—I heard no words that I cared to
hear, Sanchez.”
“I warrant thee—I could have sworn it! But thou shalt
know these words upon conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“To share with me the adventure—the reward—first
having sworn to keep the secret which I shall tell thee.
Wilt thou do this?”
“Nay, but let me know the venture—the reward—
wouldst have me thy dudgeon?”
“Thou shalt be, or thou shalt have no part in this matter.
Thou shalt swear by the Virgin to keep the secret I tell
thee, and give heart and hand to the enterprise; or I swear
by our blessed Lady at Compostella, thou shalt have no
knowledge of this business. What! shall I trust thee with
a good two thousand pesos, and have no security from thee
for thy truth? No, no, good Pedro, I know thee too well;
I have sailed with thee too long. Thou shalt swear, Pedro,
swear, or thou sleepest without my secret, and without a
peso of the whole two thousand.”
“Two thousand pesos, two thousand! By the Holy Virgin,
Saint Sebastian into the bargain! Didst thou think me an
infidel to refuse thee in so small a matter? I will swear to
thee after any form, to keep any secret, and help thee to
any service, so that thou swearest in like manner to share
with me these two thousand pesos.”
“That will I, and now swear—thou shalt smack the
image, so that I hear and see thee.”
A silver cross was taken from the bosom of one of the
parties, and pressed to their mutual lips.
“And now, Sanchez, for thy secret.”
“Dost thou remember, Caonabo the Carib chief, who
had dominion over the kingdom of Maguana? He it is for
whom the Governor, Obando, offers his reward—two thousand
pesos.”
“Ay, do I; he fled from the mines of Cibao—a big Indian
and bold of heart. There will be blows when he is
taken. Did he not defeat Valverde with great loss?”
“Ay, did he,” said the other; “as thou sayst, there will
be blows when he is taken; but there will be pesos, too,
Pedro—two thousand pesos.”
“Nay, nay, Sanchez, I shrink not back though I speak
of blows. I will join thee in this danger. Say, hast thou
knowledge where to seek Caonabo?”
“Ay, that have I; my ears are keener far than thine,
though my voice be not half so good. The Virgin be praised
that it is not, for then, like thee, I should listen to no music
but mine own.”
“Stay thy prating, and give forth thy secret. Thou
hast tongue enough now, I trow, beyond any necessity.
What is thy knowledge?”
“Thou art right. I feel loath to resemble thee too closely
in my speech, and will come at once to the business.
This woman, in her grief, declared the boy whom Garabito
slew to be the son of Caonabo.”
“Well! what then? how does that help thee?”
“He comes nightly to her cabin.”
“Ha, and she dwells—”
“In the repartimiento of Pedro de Aguilar, in the little
valley of Los Fleches, over which Garabito has rule, and
where we, blind boobies that we were, have seen nothing.”
“And thou proposest—”
“To follow the footsteps of this woman and to seek him
there, said Sanchez.
“By the blessed Virgin, I am with thee,” responded
his companion, “I am with thee; but what is thy plan?”
“Enough,” said the other. “Garabito pauses and looks
toward the hills. He will scarce seek the Señora Teresa
again to-day. He hath no loving mood to move him now.
His eyes are on San Juan. He will seek Ribiero, and
drive out his shame with a calabash of wine; and we shall
have no service but to lay him in the hammock, and let him
sleep off the drunkenness which he will scarce do before
the morrow. This will give us time. But thou must see
to thy weapons. As thou lookst for close strife with Caonabo,
who is what thou hast spoken him, though his people
are not, both strong and fearless,—there will be need for
keen stroke and close strife; but the pesos, my brother,
the pesos, Pedro—does not the thought of them make thee
valiant?”
“For any mischief! have I not sworn to thee, Sanchez?
Give me thy cross once more if thou doubtest me.”
“Enough, I believe thee. Not a word, remember; and
look not too wise when the eye of Jorge Garabito is upon
thee. See, he beckons us. He takes his way for the hills,
and will be drunk with Ribiero before sunset. The Virgin
strengthen the good wine of the calabash, that it fail not of
its work in season!”
“Amen!” was the devout response of Pedro, as the
two hurried after their employer.
| CHAPTER VI.
THE AVENGER—NEW PLOTS AND PARTIES. The damsel of Darien | |