University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

The eighteenth day of May, in the year of grace, one thousand,
five hundred and thirty-nine—more than three hundred
years ago!—was marked with a white stone in the calendar of
Don Hernan de Soto; for, on that day, his squadron, eight large
vessels (small-sized schooners of our days), a caravel (a sloop)
and two brigantines—things with scarce a deck at all—sailed from
the noble harbor of Havana, with their prows turned east in the
direction of the opposite coast of Florida. But it was rather
late in the day before they took their departure; and though
the armament had been supposed in readiness several days before,
yet, when the time came, there were many things that required
to be hurried. Of these, the Adelantado had his share:
and Don Balthazar more than his share; all needing to be attended
to, and sped. But, of the cares of these great personages,
we will say nothing in this place. They scarcely affect our narrative.
We shall confine ourselves to those of Don Philip de
Vasconselos, chiefly; and relate how he was provided with a
Moorish page, almost at the last moment, and on the most liberal
terms.

The sun was just warming the tops of the Cuban mountains,
when the good knight was summoned to the entrance of his lodgings,
to hearken to an unexpected visitor. This was no other
than our old acquaintance, Mateo, the outlaw. Don Philip was
on the alert, and was not found napping even at that early hour.
He was busy brushing up his armor; condensing his wardrobe
into the smallest possible compass; preparing his steed and furniture;
for transfer to one of the caravels where a place had been
appointed him; and adjusting his affairs, in general, for that removal
which had now become inevitable.

Don Philip met the outlaw with a grave, but gentle welcome;
spoke and looked him kindly; and asked what he could do for
him. The sight of the features of the Portuguese knight, seemed
to occasion some difficulty in the speech of the outlaw. The
sadness, approaching confirmed melancholy, which his face wore,

and which the tones of his voice so well expressed, reminded Mateo
of many matters, and in particular, of one very terrible scene,
in which he had beheld the brave cavalier wounded to the very
soul; crushed, as it were, into the earth, and partly by his
proceedings. The whole scene came back to both parties as
they met; and, as the gloom darkened on the visage of Don
Philip, the mind of Mateo became agitated and confused, in a
way wholly unwonted with the rough, wild, half-savage character
of the Mestizo. But he plucked up resolution to reply, and
in tones as simple and unconstrained as possible.

“Well, Señor, it's not so much what you can do for me, as
what I can do for you!—You've been wanting a page or squire,
Señor,” said the outlaw, “and you haven't got one yet?”

“It is true, Mateo. I did not like the looks of any that were
brought me. Can you help me to one? Do you know?—”

“I can provide you with a Page, Señor; not a servant; a
young lad, a kinsman, a nephew of my own; brown like myself,
but the child of a free woman of the mountains; who has heard
of you, and would like to see a little of the world, and of armies,
under such a brave leader; but he can't be bought. He's
the son of a free woman, Señor, as I tell you, and will serve you
for love, not for money; and will bring his own horse, and provide
his own means; and will only expect to be treated kindly,
and to be taught the art of war; and—”

“Will he submit—will he obey me?”

“Certainly, as a page, Señor: and will be happy to do so. I
can answer for all that, Señor. He will do for you, I am sure,
as no bondman would ever do—will be faithful always—and be
very glad when you employ him, for he is pleased with you,
Señor,—he has seen you often, and admires you very much!
He longs to go with you, and hasn't let me rest, for the last week,
for urging me to come to you and make the offer. He don't
want pay—he has means of his own, as I told you: his mother,
a free woman of the mountains, Señor, has property; cattle
and horses; and though the boy is quite young, and slightly
built, yet he has health and strength, and can stand a good deal
of trouble and fatigue; all he wants is to be with you;—that is,
to see war under your lead;—and as he's the son of a free woman,
Señor, I thought it right, perhaps, that he should have such
desires, and should learn from the best teacher.”

“Bring him to me, Mateo.”

“He is here at hand—I could not well keep him away, Señor.
He is so anxious!”

Here the outlaw turned away for a moment from the lodge of

the knight, and, stepping down to the highway, he gave a slight
halloo. In sight, stood a boy holding a stout and spirited steed.
He approached at the signal, leading the horse. When he drew
nigh, the knight, who had retired into the lodge for a moment,
reappeared, and gazed steadily upon the new-comer.

“Let the boy fasten the horse to yon sapling, Mateo, and
draw nigh, that I may have some talk with him. He has a fine
horse, Mateo.”

“Yes, Señor, I raised him myself. He walks like the wind,
and will go like an eagle to the charge. Suppose you step out,
and look at him closely, Señor. You must love a fine animal,
Señor, and this is one for a brave man to love, without feeling
ashamed of his choice.”

How the heart, already vitally sore, applies the most remote
allusion to the cause of its secret suffering! This casual remark
of Mateo, smote on the sensibilities of Philip de Vasconselos,
like a sneer. But the face of Mateo was innocent of any occult
meaning; and Philip showed that he felt, simply by an increased
solemnity of voice and visage. He followed the outlaw out to
where the horse stood, still held by the boy in waiting. The
first regards of the knight were given entirely to the steed.

“He is certainly a very fine animal, Mateo. You do not
praise him more than he deserves.”

“See what a chest he carries, Señor, broad like a castle. See
what legs, so clean, so wiry. There's not an ounce of fat to
spare from those quarters. There's not a long hair that you'd
like to pull out from those fetlocks. And, look at his eye!
It's like that of a great captain! Cortez, I warrant, does not
open a finer when he looks down from the towers of the Mexican.
See what a mane of silk! It is like the hair of a Princess.
And he's young, but a quarter over four, Señor; and he comes
of a breed that lasts till forty.”

“Unless no shaft from an Apalachian savage cuts him short;”
was the remark of Vasconselos, sadly made, as he turned to bestow
a look upon the boy.

There seemed to be a new interest springing into the eyes of
Philip as he gazed. The boy was of fine, dark bronze complexion,
looking more like the native race of Indians, than the Mestizo
cross, from which he was said to have sprung: he was well
made, and symmetrical; with good limbs and much grace of outline.
But Vasconselos dwelt not so much upon the form, as
the face, of the youth. This seemed to rivet his attention for
awhile. And the effect of his gaze was to disquiet the boy himself,
and Mateo, his uncle. The former closed his eyes, involuntarily,

under the steadfast glance of the knight; and the outlaw
hurriedly said:

“The boy is bashful, Señor: he has never before stood in the
presence of a great captain, or a knight, or even a fine gentleman.
He is from the mountains, as I said, and don't know
about the fine behavior of a young man of the city, who is always
expected to look up, you know, as if he was born to
say to the sun—`stop a little—I must talk with you.' Now,
Juan—”

“Juan?—Is that his name?”

“Yes, Juan, Señor; his mother's name is Juana, a free woman
of the mountains, Señor—”

“His face reminds me very much of one that I have seen
somewhere. I have certainly seen him before, Mateo.”

“Never him, Señor,—never!” replied the other sturdily.
“Juan has never been to the city before last week; and you, I
know, have never been into the mountains, Señor. He is a
mountain boy, your Excellency,—son of a free woman of the
mountains. He has seen you, but you could not have seen him
before. But what's in a likeness, Señor? You will see them
every day, every where. I have seen thousands of likenesses,
in my time, for which there was not the slightest bit of reason.
Now, Juan looks like several people I know, and you may have
seen them. He looks very like Antonio Morelos, a creole of
Havana, here. You must have seen him. Then, he looks monstrous
like his mother, and she has been a thousand times to the
city. Oh! likenesses are nothing now, we see so many. You
never could have seen our Juan's face before, Señor.”

Mateo talked rapidly, rather than earnestly, as if against time
and the wind. Vasconselos did not seem to hear half what he
was saying. He still kept an earnest eye upon the boy, as if
deeply interested; evidently communing with every feature of
his face—as far, that is to say, as he was allowed to see them.
But the boy's eyes were cast down. He saw nothing; yet felt,
evidently, that the keen eyes of the knight were upon him.

“The boy is young, very young, Mateo, and I very much fear
will hardly be able to stand the fatigues of such a campaign as
that we shall have to endure in Florida.”

“Oh! he is strong, Señor. His looks are deceptive. He
comes of a hardy race. He can stand fire and water.”

“But he seems unusually timid. Art thou sure that he has
courage? Will he look danger in the eye?”

The boy seemed disposed to answer for himself. He looked
up—he looked Don Philip in the eye, and without blenching.

Nay, there was so much of a settled calm—an unflinching resolution
in his sudden glance, that the knight was struck with it.

“Certainly,” quoth he, “that was something like a lightening
up of the spirit. He is capable of flashes, Mateo.”

“Ay, and of fire and flame too, Señor! Faggots! Give him
time, your Excellency, and you will see the blaze. But he's
naturally bashful when you're looking on him. It's not a bad
sign in a boy, Señor.”

“No, truly! But I like his looks, Mateo. There is something
in those features that please me much. Were I sure of
the strength and courage of the boy,—his capacity to endure,—
I should not hesitate: I should feel sure of his fidelity.”

“Oh! that I can promise, Señor. He's as faithful to the man
he loves as if he were a woman.”

“Pity but he were more so!” responded the knight quickly.
The outlaw felt that he had blundered, and he promptly strove
to recover his false step.

“As a woman is expected to be, your Excellency; that's what
I mean! I can answer for Juan; for his courage, his hardihood,
not less than his honesty, Señor. He's a boy of good principles.”

“Let him answer for himself! Somehow, Mateo, I am a little
doubtful of your answers. You are too quick to be quite sure of
what you say! Hark ye, Juan, are you sure you desire to go
with me, to Florida?”

The boy evidently trembled: but promptly enough, in a rather
hoarse voice, answered—

“Yes, Señor! I wish to go with you.”

The voice was a strange one, yet, its tones seemed to interest
the knight, as if there was something familiar in them also.

“He has a very peculiar voice, Mateo.”

“Yes, Señor, strange enough to those who heard him only a
year ago. Now, his voice is getting the cross 'twixt man and
boy. It's rather more a squeak than a song, your Excellency.
But I reckon, Señor, we all underwent some such change about
the same time in our lives.”

Don Philip. But, my good boy, you don't know the toil and
trouble; the daily marching in that country; where there are
no roads; only rank forests, great swamps, wild beasts, deadly
reptiles; where, half the time, you may be without food; and
perhaps, quite as frequently without water.

Juan. Yes, Señor, but if one would be a soldier, it's a part
of his education to taste these things. I am to be a soldier, you
know.

Philip. True; but you begin early! There is a certain
hardening necessary before one can be a soldier

Juan. This campaign will give it me, Señor.

Mateo. You see, your Excellency, his heart is set on being a
soldier.

“True; but one does not begin training for it, in the midst
of a campaign,” quoth Philip, not heeding the outlaw.

Juan. You forget, Señor, that I was bred among the mountains.

Philip. If you had been bred upon the plains, my boy, it
might be more in your favor, going to Florida. But you forget
the danger.

Juan. It is that of war, Señor, and I am not afraid to die.

Philip. So young, and not afraid to die? but you speak what
you cannot know! Bethink you of the terrors of the strife; the
savage arrows,—his cannibal sacrifices,—his bloody rages,—the
scalping knife,—the fiery torture!

Juan. Yet you are to encounter them, Señor

Philip. I am a man, boy, accustomed to the encounter; and
life is to me of little worth. I have survived its hopes.

Juan. And I have none, Señor.

Philip. Thou no hopes, at a season when the heart is all hope,
or should be?

Mateo. Ah! you don't know Juan, Señor. He was always
a saddish sort of boy; loving the glooms; the dark woods; the
lonely rocks! He never played like other boys! He was never
like other boys.

Philip. But he will outgrow this sadness, Mateo. He will
grow to hopes. It would be cruel to peril one so young, so tender
yet, in such a warfare as that with the Floridian savage!

Juan. You allow nothing for the will, Señor,—the heart—
nothing—

Philip. Every thing, boy! will and heart are the great essentials
of all achievement. Can it be that thou art already ambitious?

Mateo. That he is, your Excellency. It's his great folly,
Señor; I've told him so a thousand times. For what can his
ambition do, for him, a mestizo? Let him be as brave as Francis
Pizarro, and as wise as Hernan Cortez, who'll give him command
of armies, and authority in counsel? Here am I now, as
brave, I think, as any man that ever stepped in leather; yet
what am I but an outlaw! I don't think I'm wanting in a sort of
sense either, yet who listens to me?

Philip. The boy talks sensibly, Mateo, yet he is very young.

Mateo. If he lives much longer, Señor, he'll grow much older.
And if he don't live long, he'll only be more sure of being young
all the days of his life.

Philip. Logical enough, Mateo; yet I have no wish to shorten
his days.

“Try me, Señor,” murmured the boy, in very low but earnest
tones, not daring to look up. There was a pleasant change
in the voice, which seemed to interest the hearer. He put his
hand on the head of the boy, who started from under the touch,
and visibly trembled. But Philip was not permitted to see his
face.

“Do you not overrate both your courage and your strength,
my boy? You start and tremble at my touch.”

“'Tis not with fear, Señor!” was the subdued reply, still in
the same low, sweet accents.

“No! For why should you fear me, child? But you seem
naturally timid—nervous, I should say;—and such wars as that
we go upon, require hardihood above all other things. There
must be no agitation when the trumpet rings the alarm. There
must be no faltering when we are bade to charge. The page of
the knight will be expected to do good service, and to follow
close after his master, even if he does not emulate him. Canst
thou carry a lance, Juan?”

“I am provided with a cross-bow, Señor, and can shoot. The
lance will come—”

“Thou art so eager for it, Juan—”

“Oh! take me with you, Señor!”

“I like thee, boy. Thou hast something about thee which appeals
strangely to my imagination.”

And the good knight sighed deeply. His instincts, rather than
his memory, perhaps, guided his asseverations. The boy hung
his head also. He dared not, at that moment, look up in the
face of Don Philip.

“I will take thee with me, boy, and fight thy battles, if need
be; will keep thee as much from harm as possible, and share
with thee my spoils—”

“I ask nothing, Señor!” said the boy hastily.

“Oh! no, Señor!” quoth Mateo. “My sister is a free woman
of the mountains. Her son is able to pay his own way. He
wishes to go to see service and learn a profession, and will share
no one's spoil. He hopes to make his own. Besides, my sister
is resolute that her son shall take no pay for his services. Remember
that, Señor. She has provided him, as you see, with a
good horse. She has given him a well-filled pouch besides! she

has made all provisions for his support and equipment; and I
am commissioned to get even the needful weapons and armor.
So you see, Señor, he is to go with you for love, not for money.”

“For love!” murmured the boy.

“Be it so, Juan,” said the knight, taking his hand. “Be it as
thou wilt. Thou shalt go with me, boy. Thou shalt be my
companion, rather than my page. But thou wilt find me a sad
companion, Juan—a melancholy master. I tremble for thee,
besides, when I behold thy slight frame, thy timidity, thy tenderness
and youth. We must be true to each other, Juan; for
we go with those who are true only to themselves. We must
love each other, Juan; for in all that assembled host, there will
be few worthy of any pure heart's love. Wilt thou love me,
boy, spite of my gloomy visage, and melancholy moods?”

“I will love thee, Señor—I do love thee!” was the murmured
reply, and this time the boy looked up. The glances of the two
met. Then it was that the knight saw how large and expressive
were the eyes of the boy, and what a soft and dewy brightness
shone through the dilating orbs. But they sunk in a moment
beneath the searching gaze of the knight. They sunk, and the
boy again trembled.

“Truth, Mateo, he is bashful! But a campaign soon cures
that infirmity. Well, Juan, you are mine now.”

And he gave the boy his hand, who kissed it passionately,
murmuring—

“Thine! Thine!”

The knight turned away to the tent with Mateo, the boy leading
his horse and following. Before the close of the day, knight
and page were upon the waters of the gulf, rolling forward in a
good vessel towards the gloomy shores of the Apalachian.