 | CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND ACTION IN ABEYANCE—HATE AND LOVE ALONE BUSY. The damsel of Darien |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND ACTION IN ABEYANCE—HATE AND LOVE ALONE BUSY.
While Pedro waited without, a slave brought him
word that Vasco Nunez desired his presence in an inner
room, to which he conducted him. This was an apartment
which was sacred to the commander and his most
trusty friends. Here, he found Vasco Nunez, attended
by Valdivia, to whom he was giving his parting instructions
for his return to Hispaniola. The two warriors
were employed at a table, which was covered with papers,
rude charts, and Spanish books chiefly on subjects
of war and adventure. At the feet of Vasco Nunez, lay
the favourite Leonchico, who raised his head at the entrance
of the boy, and surveyed him with a keen watchfulness
that betokened some jealousy, if not distrust;—
while, sitting upon a sort of ottoman, rudely constructed
from the severed shaft of a pine, and covered with
padded cotton, such as the natives were wont to use
commonly in the decoration of their furniture and houses,
sat the Indian damsel, Careta, busily intent in working,
after the fashion of her people, a tippet of dyed cotton,
over which she was distributing, with the natural and
felicitous taste of the woman, a handful of seedy pearl,
which, under the rapid movements of her fingers, soon
began to assume, upon the garment, all the several shapes
of leaf, bird, and flower. She gave but a single look to
the stranger, and her eyes thenceforward were divided
solely between her girlish labours, and the mighty chief
upon whom her father had bestowed her. She had found
it no difficult task to love one who so completely filled
her own and the imaginations of her people—who was
endued with such wondrous powers, alike, of conquest
with no less facility than of winning countries. His
full, clear, open countenance, beaming with conscious
nobility of soul—his high and towering forehead denoting
manly intellect—his mild, but expressive eye of blue,
and the small mouth, the sweetness of which was not
lost even when it wore the stern aspect of battle—these
realized that ideal of a god, which rendered it a thing no
less strange than grateful to her mind, when she reflected
that she was beloved by such a being—that she held the
dearest secret of his soul, and even slept with an ear,
listening through the long night to every beating of his
heart.
But the boy was not suffered much time to survey the
scene. His services were instantly commanded by his
superior, who, bidding him to the table, proceeded to instruct
him in the labours he was required to perform.
“You are a scribe, Pedro—you have had the blessings
of the schools?”
“I was favoured by the wholesome instruction of the
royal school at Merida, señor—the Holy Father, Gomez
Gutierrez was my teacher in God and man, from my
tenth year to my sixteenth.”
“You should have grown as learned as the Holy Father
himself, Pedro, in that long stretch of time. I trust
thou hast enough of thy school knowledge to prove a
worthy scribe for thy present duty. Thy writings shall
have no less worthy eyes to read them, than those of the
Bishop of Burgos; and it may be, by reason of their contents,
our royal master himself will be pleased to behold
them with his own. Do thy best therefore in transcribing
on clear parchment, the rough advices which I have
here drawn out before thee. Let thy copy be true, for I
am jealous of the words which I here employ. As I use
none that may be rejected, it follows that each hath its
own force and meaning, and may not be so well expressed
by any other. To thy task, therefore, with all
speed, and the better to encourage thy labour, thou wilt
learn from me, that the record which thou readest is a
true history of this province of Darien, and of the means
whereby I came into power, having no power in the colony
at first. Thy knowledge of all these matters, will
future.”
With these words, Vasco Nunez left the boy to his
task, and, turning to Valdivia, he resumed the tenor of
those instructions, touching his business in Hispaniola,
which rendered his instant departure necessary. These
were long and various, nor were they uttered with any
restraint or reservation. The boy heard equally with the
warrior. Vasco Nunez was a man proverbially frank
and fearless, and he recounted to Valdivia, not only the
facts which had transpired in Darien while under his
command, but even the hopes that grew out of his own
calculations, and the plans which he had formed, the
better to realize the resources which he knew to be in
the country.
“I lack but a thousand men, Valdivia, and this sea of
the south shall be reached. Beyond it there are lands, I
well know, richer far than any yet known to the Spaniards;
lands where the sun, with a more fervid power,
turns whatever mineral he smites with his glance, into
the pure and precious metal.”
A shadow darkened the entrance at this moment.
“Ho! who is there? Francisco! enter, man—stand
not there. We await you.”
The individual who made his appearance at this moment,
was the afterwards world-renowned Francisco Pizarro—a
man utterly illiterate, but daring and adventurous;
stout of limb and fearless, as became a soldier of
fortune, but quick in hostility and implacable in his
anger. When he entered and was seated, Vasco Nunez
continued his enthusiastic and but half imagined pictures
of the new world, yet in waiting for the tread of the conqueror;
and from his glowing narratives and vigorous
plans, the bold and savage soldier gathered that knowledge
of the regions to which the eyes of the cavalier
were turned, which enabled the former, in after days, to
achieve the conquest of the empire of the Incas. Pizarro
hearkened with greedy ears to the rich visions which
Vasco Nunez described as truths, and which proved so to
his hearer if not to himself. He summed up the various
scraps of information afforded by individuals of different
Indian tribes, all tending to confirm his grand theory of
the southern sea, and the mighty continent which its
mountains, an unfailing tribute of the virgin gold.
“These waters and this world, it may be said, are
now at our feet awaiting us. A few days' march, and we
enter upon a new ocean and a new empire. I care not
to live beyond that hour—the hope of my heart is answered.
And you, Valdivia, will luxuriate in golden
vessels, quaffing your wine from cups which our king
may scarce equal, and must envy, while you, Francisco,
will prefer, perchance, the spearing of a thousand tawny
enemies, before you can sufficiently quiet your feverish
blood, to sit down to supper with your companions.”
“By the Holy Cross, it were a blessing to be prayed
for, señor,” answered Pizarro with a reckless laugh; “and
Valdivia cannot too soon return with the forces which
are to help us to this empire. My blood even now is in
the mood for active service among the heathen; but it
hath little encouragement from the numbers at this moment
fit for service in our army.”
“Hast thou finished thy count, Francisco?”
“I have, señor—of the arquebusses, there are seventy-one
men; of the crossbows, one hundred and fifteen; of
the swords and targets, one hundred and twenty-three;
these, however, include not the men brought by Valdivia,
of whom I took no count, seeing that he himself was at
hand to speak more clearly to that matter.”
“Seventy-one—one hundred and fifteen—one hundred
and twenty-three! and thine, Valdivia?”
“Sixty-seven, señor—twenty-one arquebusses, thirty-three
crossbows, and twenty-three swords and lancers.”
“But three hundred and seventy in all,” mused Vasco
Nunez, “and of these not two hundred in condition for
service. We can do nothing with these, Francisco—
it were madness, madness! The savages in these mountains
of Darien are no such timid creatures as the Haytian;
and were they but wise enough to fight in the close
wood or among the rugged passes of the hills only, we
should find the warfare not so unequal between us.
They will learn this secret from our successes, and then
we shall lose the power. Haste with thy writing, boy—
we have need of baste. The wind favours thee now,
Valdivia, and all depends on thy skill and fleetness.
Diego Colon thou think'st friendly; he is a noble gentleman—seek
himself. The gold for the king's treasury, thou wilt deliver
only to Miguel de Passemonte—fifteen thousand
crowns—which must be kept apart from other sums
which are sent upon private account to certain creditors
in Hispaniola, who still cry, like the daughter of the horse-leech,
`give, give.' On his own account and mine, Micer
Codro will provide thee with a treasure for the payment
of a bond which is held against our mutual names by
Davila. Thou wilt be heedful, ere thou deliverest the
money to see him yield the parchment, and rend it with
thine own hand. There are good reasons why it should
be my prayer to have no claim against my person in the
hands of such as he. Hast thou finished thy writing,
Pedro, that thou givest freedom to thy pen?”
“The papers are finished, señor,” replied the boy rising
and placing them before his superior. While Vasco
Nunez prepared to peruse one of the despatches, Pizarro
took another into his hands, and looked with a degree of
interest and curiosity over the document, which, though
perceptible to Vasco Nunez, he yet regarded without
seeming consciousness. Valdivia turned away from the
table, concealing the smile which irresistibly rose to his
lips; while the boy, ignorant of the illiterateness of the soldier,
and seeing only that he surveyed the instrument
reversed from top to bottom, in few, respectful words,
endeavoured to set him right. The sallow cheeks of Pizarro
grew to crimson on the instant, while he replied in
tones the harshness of which he scarcely could subdue—
“Well—thinkest thou I know not, boy?”
A single glance of the eye of Vasco Nunez taught Pedro
his error, but the evil was already done, and from
that moment the boy knew Francisco Pizarro for his mortal
enemy. A similar offence against the same individual
in after days, cost the Inca of Peru his life. When the
business of the morning was over, Valdivia despatched,
and of the council the boy alone remained with Vasco
Nunez, that cavalier spoke to him thus:
“Pedro, thou hast unwittingly made a foe of Francisco
Pizarro. He is a man proud of the favouring opinion of
mankind, and ambitious of that greatness which he may
yet earn in these wild countries. But he hath the misfortune
to be of lowly birth, and the blessings of that
been denied to him. Hadst thou been wiser, and less
prompt, thou wouldst have suffered him to read thy
writing after his own fashion, satisfied that, beginning at
the end, he would soon have finished. As the matter
stands, be wary not to vex or offend him—give him no
power over thee by a perversity of speech, or chafing and
offensive look. I have marked that thine eye hath a
spirit and fire which speak thy feelings promptly, and
with something too much of defiance in them. It will be
well to throw none of these glances on Francisco. It
will seem as if thou rememberest his error—which thou
canst not too soon forget—and gavest him thy scorn in
consequence. He would sooner forgive thee a stab at
his throat than a flout upon his understanding, as indeed,
would most men, those in especial who have the ambition
of greatness without its soul, and better love the attributes
which follow achievement, than the difficult paths
and chastening circumstances which attend it. Enough:
be wary, Pedro—I caution thee, not to rebuke thy youth,
but that, through its rashness, thou mayst not come to
harm. The rest of the day is thine.”
The thought insensibly rose into the mind of the boy
as he departed from the presence of Vasco Nunez:—
“Surely, this is one of the great men of Spain. He
hath a wisdom that governs souls not less than soldiers;
and, how strange to the time, the nobleness which strives
not to secure for himself the treasures to which he guides
the footsteps of all the rest. Yet, is he not the murderous
wretch by whom my brother fell, and am I not sworn to
avenge him? What is his greatness to me? wherefore,
should I care whether he have noble or base purposes?
If he be noble, the better, since the blood which I shed
will not dishonour the steel of the avenger.”
“Thou art happy, Careta?” said Vasco Nunez to the
damsel when they were alone.
“Doth not my lord know,” replied the girl, with eyes
radiant with smiles and tears, as, throwing herself upon
the rush-covered floor of the apartment, she placed her
hands upon his knees, and looked up into his face. Her
words, a sort of broken Spanish, in which language he
himself strove to be her tutor, were sweeter to his ears
from the lisp which accompanied and added to their imperfectness.
with a degree of tenderness that lost none of its
character, because it was mingled with something of sorrow
if not of regret. He spoke, but his words, only in
part understood by the damsel, seemed the escaping expression
of his own moved feelings, rather than as a
speech intended for her ears.
“Thou should'st be happy, Careta, and I that have
brought thee away from thy people, from thy wild foresthome,
to share with me the cares of strife and the evil
fortunes which may befal my ambitious strivings—I
should make thee happy if I may—and if I may, by the
smiles of the Benignant Mother, I will. But, an hour, my
poor girl, may hurl me from the high place, the possession
of which alone enables me to make thee happy and secure.
The breeze that comes in fairly from the sea,
though I look for it with prayers, I await its fruits with
apprehensions. If it brings me the anger instead of the
smiles of my sovereign—if it brings me manacles, rather
than honours—what then will become of thee? At whose
mercy shall I leave thee, far from thy father's home, and
destitute among those who will scorn thee because of the
very tie which thou hast had with me? Better, indeed,
that I should slay thee with my own hand, than leave
thee to the stripes and blows, such as the brutal Spaniard
too freely bestows upon the weak or the unwilling
victim of his prowess. he will punish thy weakness, as
if it were unwillingness, and thy unwillingness, as if it
were crime—until—”
The speaker paused, as if made conscious for the first
time, that the damsel listened to his words. That she
comprehended something of the feeling and the subject of
which he spoke, if not the language, was evident from
the increasing and tearful interest with which she watched
every movement of his lips.
“Is my lord sorry that he took the poor damsel of Darien
to sleep in his bosom?” she demanded with trembling
tones and a broken dialect that seemed to go more
deeply into the heart of Vasco Nunez, as it reminded him
of her entire dependence upon him, than if it had been
uttered by the polished lips of the noble Spanish maiden,
and in the sweetly sonorous language of Castile.
“Let not my lord be sorry. Let him send Careta back
of the poor Indian girl? She can go to the woods,
and hide herself in the mouth of the rock, and when my
lord asks at Coyba, `where is Careta?' they will tell him
she died in the mouth of the rock, because she would
not that my lord should be sorry. Careta will go back
to Coyba, that my lord should not be sorry.”
“Thous shall stay with me, Careta—why shouldst thou
think that I am sorry to have thee in my arms. Alas!
my poor girl, my sorrow is that I may not be able to
keep thee in them.”
“And who shall take Careta from my lord? Is not my
lord strong? who can stand before a weapon like this,
that can cleave down the warrior of Darien at a single
blow? Is not my lord the lord at Darien? Doth not the
cassique Zemaco fly from before him? Hath he not driven
the cruel Ponca to the mountains? Did not Comagre
do him honour?—and when he speaks, do not his own
bearded warriors come and go, even as he bids them?
Ah, my lord, they cannot take Careta from thee, if thou
be not sorry to behold her.”
“Thou forgettest, Careta. Have I not told thee that I
too, though I seem greater to thee here than all—I, too,
serve a cassique in Spain, to whom my own power is that
of the infant when he would strive against the grown
warrior? Should the cassique of Spain be angry with
me—”
“No! no! my lord said that his cassique was wise—
would Zemaco be angry with his best warrior, that slays
his enemies, and brings him their treasure? No! no!
my lord is beloved of the great cassique—my lord that
loves Careta must not fear. Let him not look sorrowful
any more.”
“I will not, for thy sake, Careta,—and, indeed, it would
be unbecoming for my own. The brave man should have
no fear when he is without the feeling of wrong. Let me
now teach Careta of my God—of the God of the Christians,—he
who died upon the Cross, that thou shouldst
be saved in life for ever.”
“How!—died for Careta, didst thou say, my lord?
Can it be? Where did he see—how did he know Careta?”
“He knows thee now, and has known thee from the
looking upon thee.”
“Ah! dost thou say, my lord?” cried the startled damsel,
springing to her feet, and looking around with the
timid expression of the fawn, suddenly aroused in the covert
by the footstep of the hunter. Then, suddenly turning
to her companion—“I see him not—I see him not. Ah!
my lord, can it be that thou art he?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed the cavalier, with something
of a holy horror in his countenance, “God forbid that
such impious thought should have birth within thy mind,
Careta. The God of whom I tell thee looks on thee, even
though thou mayst not look on him. He sees thee in the
darkness the same as in the daylight. Thou canst not
hide from him—thou canst do nothing which he may not
see—thou canst say nothing which he may not hear; and,
therefore, it is wisdom for thee to do nothing and say nothing
which may give him displeasure. But sit thee, Careta,
while I teach thee of these things in order. First of
God the Father, then of God the Son, the Holy Ghost,
and the thrice-blessed Mother of God, who will, through
great love, intercede for thee, so that thy sins may be forgiven
thee. Look on this picture—this is an image of
Mary, the Mother of God.”
“Oh, sweet! oh, sweet! She is looking on me, my
lord,—she is going to speak to me. Speak to me, sweet
mother,—speak to the poor girl of Darien, and teach her
the good things—teach her all the good things that she
longs to hear!—Ah, my lord, she says nothing.”
And an expression of disappointment passed over the
face of the damsel, as she turned her eyes from the portrait
to meet the watchful and fond glance of Vasco
Nunez.
“She cannot speak from this. It is but an image, Careta,
and has no life. I give it thee only that it may remind
thee of one whom thou wilt soon learn to know,
never to forget. But I will speak for her. I will teach
thee her story, and the story of her Son, and the Son of
God, who came down for thy safety and salvation, Careta,
not less than mine. Hearken to me then, while I
speak to thee of a people older far than thine own, and
of lands, the names of which thy ears never heard before.
The Blessed Mother of God help me to enlighten thy understanding
the words that I utter.”
Sitting upon the rushes of the floor, with her hand resting
upon his knees, while her eyes were riveted, with equal admiration
and curiosity, upon the face of the cavalier, the
maiden disposed herself in silence. The speaker, meanwhile,
as if duly elevated with the noble but unwonted
task which he had undertaken, wore an expression upon
his fine features which almost sublimed them; as if the
Deity had lent something of his divine countenance to the
spirit which impelled the performance of this new duty in
the warrior. It is not our purpose to go through that
process which the cavalier found it necessary to observe,
in simplifying, to the rude understanding of the Indian
damsel, the sacred history which he laboured to impress
upon her. This must be left to the imagination of the
reader, who will hardly fail to conceive the course, more
readily than it can be compassed in unnecessary description.
It will be enough to say, that the lesson which is
taught by love, is one seldom found difficult of acquisition;
and the history of immortal love, descending for the
universal happiness, is one, of itself, too satisfactory and
grateful, not to lessen the few difficulties which remain in
the way of such a teacher. Ah! how much more auspicious
to the reign of Christ on earth, and how much more
blessing and beneficial to man, if, instead of cold constraint,
austere dogmatism, and selfish intolerance, love alone
could always be found or chosen to represent the religion
of love. How many thousands more would gather before
the altars, from which they are now driven by vain-glorious
pride, and join in that glorious procession that proclaims
where it goes, “Peace on earth, and good-will to
all men.”
| CHAPTER IV.
HOPES AND ACTION IN ABEYANCE—HATE AND LOVE ALONE BUSY. The damsel of Darien | |