University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

It does not lie within the plan of this legend to follow in detail
all the progresses of De Soto in his weary marches, his long
wanderings and fierce battles with the Floridian and other Indian
races of our country. These details must be sought in
other histories, and are available in many, to the reader. We
shall only notice the general route pursued by the expedition,
through what regions, and dwell upon those events only, which
concern the persons of the drama, with whom we have already
travelled through so many pages.

The encounter with the red men of Apalachia, which, as we
have seen, took place almost on the very moment of De Soto's
landing in the country, was only the beginning of a long history
of conflicts. From tribe to tribe, from village to village, he
pressed onward, only to encounter the fiercest foes, or the most
treacherous friends. But, at the very outset of his career, he recovered
a Spaniard, one Juan Ortiz, who had been a follower of
Pamphilo de Narvaez, and had become a captive to the Apalachians.
In a captivity of several years, he had acquired the language
of many of the tribes, and almost lost his own. This acquisition
rendered De Soto somewhat independent of the services of
Philip de Vasconselos. The latter was soon made aware of this
consciousness of independence, on the part of the Adelantado.

Eager for the attainment of the great objects of the expedition,
the famous cities, and the golden treasure, which were believed
to be locked up in the Apalachian mountains, Soto lost no time
in unnecessary delays. Dispatching his largest vessels to Havana,
with the view to cutting off all thought on the part of his
followers, of returning home—in this policy, emulating Cortez,
and other great leaders,—Soto retained but a single caravel, and
two brigantines, to keep possession of the sea-coast and the bay
where he had cast anchor. To this charge, he appointed Pedro
Calderon, an old soldier. He next proceeded to send forth various
small expeditions into the country, seeking gold and information.
None of the parties thus sent forth failed to experience

curious and exciting adventures; but they do not affect our legend.
We must not forget, however, that, from this moment,
we lose our famous millionaire, Don Vasco Porcallos, whom an
adventure in a swamp, in which he narrowly escaped suffocation,
cured effectually of all his warlike ambition, and who returned
with the fleet to Cuba.

Soto set forth himself, after no great delay, for the interior.
His splendid cavalry were free for use, by the employment of
hordes of captive Indians who carried the heavy luggage of the
expedition. His foot marched at an easy rate, the cavalry procuring
supplies, and clearing the forests as they went. In this
way, the army marched from Tampa to Anaica, near the modern
Tallahassee. The brigantines, meanwhile, coasting the shore, discovered
the harbor of Ochoa, now Pensacola. Moving from
Anaica, Soto marched east, and successively crossed the rivers
Ockmulge, Oconee and Ogechee. He finally reached the Savannah.
These marches were not made in peace. War and terror
hung upon the footsteps of the Spaniards. Every where they
met with foes;—not such foes as the feeble Cuban or Peruvian—
but fierce, stern, strong, implacable enemies,—accustomed to
hard blows, and to a life of incessant warfare. The advantages
lay with the Spaniards, but only as a consequence of their superior
civilization. They owed their victories to their cavalry and
firearms, rather than their valor. In this quality, the Apalachians
were equal to any people that ever lived. The Spaniards
proved merciless conquerors. They mutilated where they did
not destroy, or desire to make captive. They had brought with
them handcuffs of iron, for securing their prisoners, and thus
ironed, the miserable wretches bore the baggage of their captors
through the wilderness. Their conquest was not easily made.
Thousands of the red men perished in the conflict, and the Spaniards
did not always escape. It was not easy to ride down these
fierce savages. Many of the whites perished. De Soto, himself,
had several narrow escapes in close personal conflict, in which, but
for his companions in arms, he must have been slain. We need
not say that, on all these occasions, Philip de Vasconselos maintained
himself according to his reputation. He suffered no disaster.
His page was equally fortunate. The latter had risen in
his master's esteem, as he had subsequently shown more courage
than had been promised by his first encounter, at the landing of
the troops. From that moment, he exhibited no signs of fear.
He was ever near the good knight, and proved always ready with
the cross-bow. Of what effect were the arrows he discharged,
we have no means of knowing. Enough that he contrived to

satisfy the spectators—if any may be thought to have been spectators
at such a time, and in such fields—of his stoutness of
heart and readiness of aim. Philip de Vasconselos himself was
satisfied, and felt more at ease in respect to the boy's safety, than
he had been at the first opening of the campaign.

He was more than satisfied in other respects. The boy proved
an intelligent companion. In his society the knight found solace,
and often did he feel surprise, at the equal taste and intellect, so
different from his race, which, as they grew more and more intimate,
the boy betrayed. Of course, Philip had not forgotten
what Mateo had told him, that Juan, the son of a free woman of
the mountains, had been carefully nurtured, and had not been
wanting in such education as could be procured by money, in
such a region, during that early period. But the intellect of the
boy declared for gifts, quite as much as acquisition—such gifts
as were not often found in any other than the white race. But,
though such exhibitions surprised Philip, quite as much as they
delighted him, yet his moods and present employments were not
of a sort to suffer him much speculation upon them. He was,
after a while, quite content to enjoy their benefits, in the solace
which they brought, without questioning their source; and he
needed all this solace. He was still alone, and still, in spite of
his services and valor, quite as much as before an object of jealousy
among the Spaniards. Nuno de Tobar, indeed, was still
his friend, and he knew others in the army, who were kindlily
inclined; but it was not often that the parties saw each other.
They were in different commands, and frequently detached on
expeditions, aside from the main route. There had been no
absolute reconciliation between the Portuguese brothers; and
Andres still kept aloof; though we may state that his bitterness
of mood had been modified. But they rarely met. Philip was
a frequent volunteer when perilous or adventurous service was
required. It was in this way, mostly, that he exercised his skill
in arms, save when summoned to the special assistance of the
Adelantado, to whom he was nominally an aide; but this rarely
happened except when captives or embassies were to be examined,
and interpretations made from their language. This requisition,
too, had been of unfrequent occurrence since Juan Ortiz
had been recovered. He, however, sometimes failed to understand
the tongues of foreign tribes, and thus it was that Philip
was needed. But for this, his uses in the army, according to the
estimates seemingly put upon them by his superior, were of little
moment.

Philip felt this treatment, and his boy showed that he felt it

also. The two lived to themselves apart. They lay beneath the
same trees at night: they harnessed their horses in the same
glade. They sat together at the same repast; Juan retired behind
his lord, and speaking with him thus, except when, at times,
as finally was frequently the case, Philip bade him to sit beside
him, or before him—a proceeding which the knight adopted, the
better to encourage the boy, and to overcome his excessive shyness.
And he gradually succeeded. The boy, who shrank from
all other associations, gradually grew to him, as the vine grows
to the mighty tree. Soon he came to speak freely even of his
own secret fancies and emotions, and it really pleased the knight
to hearken the language, still timidly spoken, of a young confiding
heart, possessed of the deepest and tenderest feelings, which
the isolation in which he lived, and the wild seclusion of that
realm of shade and forest, seemed rather to expand and develop,
than subdue and overcome. The deep solitude which received
them as they went, seemed to open the warmer fountains
of their human nature, as society rarely opens them. Thrown
together incessantly—forced to communion by the repulsive
treatment of the rest—sleeping near each other by night, encountering
the same toils and dangers by day,—breaking the
same loaf when they ate, and naturally inclined to each other by
kindred sensibilities,—it was soon evident to each that the charm
of their lives lay chiefly in the regards of one another. There
was a sad simplicity in both their natures,—a grave tenderness
of soul, which still further helped to cement their intimacy; and
it was soon felt—by Philip, at least,—that, in this new and
seemingly incongruous relationship, the peculiar pangs and disappointments
which he had experienced in Cuba, were fast losing
the sharpness and severity of their sting. He sometimes wondered
at himself that he so much craved the companionship of
the boy; but he was too much pleased with the enjoyment of it
to question its sources. When they were apart he mused upon
his fondness with curiosity. Why should he, a knight of Portugal,
feel such sympathy for this Moorish urchin? It was in vain
that he recalled the boy's devotion to himself,—his goodness of
heart, his gentleness of mood, the quickness of his mind, the
delicacy of his fancy, and his general intelligence. These did not
suffice to account for the hold upon his affections which the boy
had taken. In all his meditations when left to himself, he found
no solution of his problem. When the boy was at hand, and
they spoke together, there was no problem. It seemed to him
quite natural, at such moments, all the affection that he felt,—
all the sympathy that warmed him to the dusky page.

To all others, Juan was a stone,—insensible, unattractive—a
sullen, reserved and silent boy,—submissive, but retiring; humble,
but not soliciting; one of whom nobody entertained thought
or question; of whom the common speech in camp was, that this
page was just suited to the haughty and sullen master. There
was an exception perhaps to this general judgment. Don Balthazar
de Alvaro was observed to note the boy with a persevering
eye. Juan was the first to be aware of this. It did not finally
escape the notice of Philip; but it did not occasion his surprise
or curiosity. In the case of Juan, however, it was something
of an annoyance. Had he been watched, it would have been
seen that he sought to avoid the eyes of Don Balthazar—that he
was somewhat agitated when they met suddenly—that he spoke
with a slight tremor of voice in the hearing of the Don, and especially
when, as was sometimes the case, he was required to
answer his demands. It sometimes happened that Don Balthazar
sought Vasconselos at his post, or where he had cast himself
down for the night. On such occasions—as he considered the
ostensible subject upon which the former came,—he could not
forbear musing upon its inadequacy as a plea for coming. The
parties did not love each other. Their instincts were hostile.
There could not be any cordiality between them; and, such being
the case, why Don Balthazar should seek him, unless with reasons
of necessity, was a frequent subject of Philip's surprise. At such
times, he always drew an unfavorable augury from his coming.

“He means mischief,” said he aloud, one evening, after the
departure of Don Balthazar from the place where he had laid
himself down to rest. “Why should he come to me, and on
such pretext? What is it to me whither we move to-morrow,
or what new dreams fill the brain of the Adelantado? Let him
march, east or west, along the plains, or among the mountains,
I care nothing! and, sure, he knows it. He knows, too, that I
love not his serpent nature, and his subtle and treacherous eye.
He knows, too, that I am not to be deceived in him! Besides,
what can he seek of me? I am poor and powerless. He can
win nothing from my weakness. If he comes, he can only come
in hate! Yet what have I to fear? Him I fear not, and he knows
it too. Verily I believe, that did he not fear me, he would have
sought to slay me ere this,—nevertheless—I feel it—by sure
instinct, I feel it—this man means mischief.”

“He is a villain!” was the bitter speech of Juan from behind
the tree, where he had crept quietly.

“Ha! Juan, are you there, boy? But what do you know
about Don Balthazar? Ah! Juan, if you knew what I know of

that man—had you but seen what mine eyes have looked on
—”

“Seen, Senor?—” was the faltered inquiry.

“Aye, boy, seen! But it is not for you to hear—not for mortal
to hear. Yet, were it not for another—his victim—one dear
to me once as my own eyes,—but for her,—I had long since
taken the monster by the throat, and declared his crime aloud,
while I strangled him in deadly punishment! You say right,
Juan; though you know nothing. Don Balthazar de Alvaro is
one of the blackest of all the black villains that poison and deface
the blessed things of earth. He hath been my fate—that
man!”

The boy sobbed, “And mine!” but the words did not reach
the ears of Philip, and when he looked round, and called again to
the page, he was nowhere to be seen. Ere he returned that night,
Vasconselos was asleep. The boy had eaten no supper. He crept
close by his sleeping master, and watched over him for weary
hours, with big tears gathering fast in his eyes the while. When,
at the dawn, the knight awakened, he saw Juan sleeping, with his
head sunk against his own shoulder, and the stain of tears was
still upon his cheek.