To the Indies

  At every turn Rich was reminded of the difficulties around him. The Admiral had borne off to Isabella with him the last horn of ink which the island possessed — before Rich could even set pen to paper (and paper was scarce) he had to consult Alamo regarding this difficulty and wait until, out of burnt bones, Alamo managed to compound a horrid sludge which would just answer the purpose. There were two hundredweights of gold, there was a gallon of pearls, in San Domingo — enough wealth to build a city in Spain — and yet he had to live in a wretched timber hut in a corner of the citadel ramparts, where the rain leaked in through the gaps, and where bugs were already well established, and which had the sole merit of being private now that Antonio Spallanzani had sailed with his master to Isabella.

  Food was scarce. The fifty men who constituted the garrison should have been amply fed from the surrounding country, where thousands of Indians cultivated the soil under the direction of the Spaniards. But naturally these supplies for the government had to be paid for with government funds — with the gold that came from the fifths and tenths and thirds that were levied on the treasures of the island as collected by the Spaniards outside the town. And when the Spaniards paid it in again, being gold it was subject once more to those fifths and tenths and thirds, until it was a most unprofitable business even to sell roots to the garrison, certainly not worth the enormous trouble of bringing them in. In San Domingo the healthy sickened and the sick died and discontent seethed, and the Adelantado dared not use strong measures for fear of further defections to Roldan, and Rich scratched his head unavailingly to try to make some sense out of the tangle of laws and privileges which had already grown up in that part of the island, which still remained lukewarm in the government’s cause.

  There were times when Rich wondered whether he were really awake, or whether he was not deep in some prolonged and fantastic nightmare, from which he would presently awake to find himself safe in bed in Barcelona. All this might well be a dream; in clairvoyant moments he realized how quite unlikely it was that it should be reality — that he should have crossed the ocean, and explored new lands, and ridden in a cavalry charge striking down living men with his sword, and should have taken part in high political debate seriously discussing the hanging of hidalgos. It was a marvelous moment to be invited to the Adelantado’s table, there to eat gluttonously of turtle when a fortunate catch had provided several of the creatures. Rich remembered his shuddering disgust at turtles in the Cape Verdes, where lepers congregated to seek a cure by daubing themselves with turtles’ blood. Now he was hungry enough to eat them with appetite — that was a nightmare in itself.

  The parrot that Malalé had given him in Paria had died long since, while under Diego Alamo’s care during his absence at Soco. It had been a disappointing piece of news to receive on his return; in the brief time that he had owned the lovely thing of red and blue he had grown fond of it, with its comic habits and its crowbar of a beak which prized open any buckle which bound it. Rich had an uneasy feeling that this island was fated, that everything Spanish that lived in it was doomed to an early end, whether parrots or codes of law. He was aware of a growing disgust for the place.

  And then the Rosa came sailing back into the harbor, the Admiral’s flag flying at the masthead, and Alonso Perez blowing fanfares on his trumpet, startling the sea birds into flight all round the river mouth. The Adelantado put off hastily from the shore to welcome his brother; everyone else congregated on the beach in anxious expectancy, wondering what had been the outcome of the negotiations with Roldan. They watched for some time before they saw the Admiral descend slowly and painfully into the boat — apparently the brothers had plunged immediately into a long discussion without waiting to return to land.

  Apparently, too, the discussion had not been very friendly, to judge by the Adelantado’s black brow as he splashed through the shallows to the shore; he stood digging his toes irritably into the sand and meeting no one’s eyes while the Admiral was being helped ashore, feeble, almost tottering, by Alonso Perez and a couple of Indians. But the Admiral was no sooner within earshot again than Bartholomew turned upon him to renew the discussion.

  “Have you a copy of this precious treaty, brother?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the Admiral. He halted in his slow course up the beach and fumbled in his pocket.

  “Oh, it can wait until we reach the citadel,” said Bartholomew. “Gentlemen, come with us and hear what His Excellency the Admiral has agreed upon.”

  The Admiral fluttered a thin hand in protest, only to call forth another bitter comment from his brother.

  “Why should they not know?” demanded Bartholomew. “You say the news is to be proclaimed publicly. That is one of the terms.”

  It was only the least of the terms. Bartholomew read the document aloud in the council room, while Rich and the others looked at each other in unbelieving astonishment. It seemed quite incredible that such a treaty could have been made. Item by item Bartholomew read it out, with its unlettered travesty of legal terminology, its ‘whereases’ and ‘aforesaids’ which a group of ignorant people had put in in an attempt to imitate lawyers’ expressions. By the first clause Roldan and all who followed him were given a pardon for anything they might have done during their stay in the Indies. By the second clause they were, each and severally, to receive from the Admiral a certificate of good conduct. By the third clause a proclamation was to be made throughout the island, to the effect that everything Roldan and his followers had done had met with the Admiral’s entire approval. By the fourth clause Roldan was to select who should be allowed to go back to Spain, and those that he should nominate should be allowed to transport whatever property they might desire, either of valuables or of slaves. By the fifth clause the Admiral guaranteed that whoever should remain in Española should receive, free of obligation, as much land as a horse could encircle in a day, with the inhabitants thereof; the recipients to select both the land and the horse. The sixth clause merely confirmed that Roldan was invested with the office and powers of Alcalde Mayor, but added that these powers — as the original document had merely implied without express statement — were of course given in perpetuity to Roldan and his heirs forever, as long as the Admiral’s viceregal authority and that of his heirs should endure.

  The Adelantado interrupted his reading and tapped the document with a gnarled forefinger.

  “You did not tell me about this last one, brother,” he said, and then, turning to the rest of the meeting: “That appears to be all of importance, gentlemen. The rest is merely a résumé of the titles of His Excellency the Admiral of the Ocean and of the Right Honorable the Alcalde Mayor of the Indies; I think I can spare myself the trouble of reading them.”

  There was only a murmur in reply, and a shuffling of feet. Rich’s mind was already deeply engaged upon a legal analysis of the treaty he had just heard read, and the others were too stunned to speak.

  “Would any of you gentlemen care to comment?” asked the Adelantado, but the Admiral spoke before anyone else could open his mouth.

  “I will not have the matter discussed,” he said. “This treaty is your Viceroy’s decision, and it would be treason to question it.”

  The Admiral sat in his chair, with his hands on his thin knees. He had spoken with an old man’s querulousness, and yet — and yet — there was a suspicion of triumph in his glance, a self-satisfied gleam in the blue eyes. It was as if he thought he had done something clever, hard though that was to believe. Rich remembered earlier discussions. Perhaps the Admiral had decided that to retain his power he needed to create some new party for himself which he could play off against the Adelantado’s brutal bullying, or against Rich’s vague powers. Or possibly he wanted to send a dispatch to Spain saying that he had arrived to find the island in disorder, and had dissipated the disorder immediately by a few judicious concessions. Or perhaps he knew he had been weak and would not admit it. Or — anything was possible — he might by now have deluded himself into thinking
that he had brought off a really creditable coup, just as he believed he had discovered the mines of Ophir and the Earthly Paradise. Meanwhile, Rich saw various loopholes of escape from this treaty.

  “Your Excellency signed of your own free will?” he asked. “You were not coerced into it?”

  “Of course not,” said the Admiral indignantly.

  “A promise entered into under compulsion is not binding, Your Excellency,” persisted Rich.

  “I know that.”

  “And these gifts of land, Your Excellency . . . Land is a tricky thing to deed away. It is Crown property. I doubt — please pardon me, Your Excellency, but of course we are all anxious to have everything as legal as possible — if Your Excellency’s viceregal authority entitles you to dispose of the property of the Crown. The recipients would be well advised to have their title confirmed by Their Highnesses, and until Their Highnesses have given that confirmation I myself, for one, would be chary of entering into any dealings regarding those properties.”

  “My agreement with Their Highnesses gives me full powers.”

  “Powers can only be expressly given, Your Excellency. Any powers not named are by every rule of law retained by Their Highnesses.”

  “Oh, why split these hairs?” broke in the Adelantado. “Their Highnesses are two thousand leagues from here, the treaty is signed, and there’s an end of it for a year or so. Roldan and his men will have the land if anything my brother can do can ensure it. There is no profit in continuing this debate, I fancy, gentlemen.”

  Rich was of the same opinion. He escaped from the room as soon as he could, and went to sit in the tiny apartment which he shared with Antonio Spallanzani. The Holy Name and the Santa Ana would be sailing soon, and his report must go in one ship while he sailed in the other. He thought longingly of Spain, of his cool stone house and the fountain in the courtyard, the while he sat sweating and fighting the flies. It would be a long voyage home, reaching far to the northward to avoid the path of the eternal easterly breezes, but in three months at most he would be in Spain. The King would be at Valladolid or Toledo, and he might be kept cooling his heels round the court for weeks. But six months at most, and he would be home again, in his own house, leading a decent and orderly life. He could sit in his big leather chair reading through the pleadings of law-abiding merchants, or, with a hushed band of students behind him, he could issue his judgments, in stately Latin, to the expectant litigants assembled in his hall.

  That was the world he knew and loved, not this mad new world of rain and mosquitoes, of slaughter and mutiny, of mad theories and madder politics. And yet mad though it all was, he was conscious of a queer regret that he was leaving it. He would have liked to stay a while longer, even though he knew that he would be bitterly disappointed if some unforeseen circumstance compelled him to stay. He told himself that he was as mad as everyone else in Española.

  Meanwhile the report had to be written, and he had to make up his mind what to write. As he repointed his pen he began to form phrases in his mind. He did not want to word them too strongly — the contents of the report would need no emphasis of phrasing.

  Chapter 19

  Roldan and his followers had come to San Domingo under the protection of the free pardon which had been solemnly proclaimed at the foot of the flagstaff. They were swaggering about the place, Roldan and Bernardo de Tarpia and Cristobal García and all of them. They had brought a long train of Indian slaves with them, well set up and handsome young women, each bearing burdens. Slaves and burdens, in accordance with the recent treaty, were to be sent to Spain in the Holy Name; the crop-eared Martinez was to sail with them as agent for all the recent mutineers, and he was to be armed with a long list of the luxuries which he was to buy with the proceeds of this plunder.

  Rich’s report was completed, signed and sealed. Rich had given it with his own hands to Ballester, who was sailing as captain in the Santa Ana. The action had reminded him — if reminding were needed — of the impermanence of life in this world. He was taking the precaution lest the Holy Name, with him on board, should never reach Spain at all. Perhaps the next week would find him with the saints in Paradise, or suffering the pangs of purgatory, or — he felt a shudder of fear — more likely cast into the eternal flames of hell as a result of his recent heretical thoughts. He was in a state of profound dejection and agitation of mind which was not relieved in the least by the suspicious glance which Ballester darted at him when he received the letter; Ballester could suspect only too well what the contents were, and Ballester was one of those who loved the Admiral.

  Should anyone of the Admiral’s party come to know exactly what was written in his report, Rich knew that his life might be in danger. There were subtle poisons in this island — the deadly manchineel was one — even if it might not be the more simple matter of a knife in his back. He had to set himself for these last few days before the ships sailed to play the part of the conscientious supporter, critical but not too much so — certainly not the man who would write to the King that the Admiral was not fit to govern a farmyard, let alone an empire. It was a comfort to him now that Roldan knew of the letter. Certainly neither the Admiral nor Ballester would dare to incur the penalties of high treason by tampering with a sealed document addressed to His Highness himself — at least, not while an enemy knew that such a letter existed. Rich could not trust either the Italians or the Andalusians, and he waited with impatience during the interminable delays in fitting out the Holy Name.

  He was walking back in the dark after dining with the Adelantado. The Santa Ana had actually sailed with his report on board; the Holy Name was almost ready; another thirty-six hours and he would have seen the last of this island. Overhead the stars were brilliant; the moon would rise soon in all her splendor. The cicadas were singing wildly all round him, and the lusty croaking of the frogs in the stream supplied a cheerful bass. Fireflies were lighting and relighting their lamps about his path, far more brilliant and mysterious than their duller brothers of Spain. Altogether he was in a cheerful mood — two cups of the Admiral’s wine may have had something to do with that.

  A denser shadow appeared in the darkness close at his right hand, and then another at his left. There was a man at either elbow walking silently in step with him; Rich felt the skin creep on the back of his neck, while between his shoulder blades he felt the actual spot where the stiletto would enter. Yet even in that moment he found time to wonder why they were troubling to murder him while his report was on its way to the King and beyond recall.

  And then the walking shadow on his right spoke to him with the voice of García.

  “Don Narciso,” he said. “I must trouble you to turn back and come with us.”

  “And if I do not, Don Cristobal?”

  Both men pressed in close upon him, forcing his elbows against his sides.

  “I have a dagger here, Don Narciso. I will use it if you cry out.”

  “And I have another,” said the voice of Diego Moret on his left. “And I will use it, too. There will be one in your back and one in your belly.”

  “Turn back with us, Don Narciso,” said García, insinuatingly.

  Rich turned; he felt there was nothing else he could do.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked; he had to try hard to keep the quaver out of his voice.

  “This is not the time for explanations,” said García grimly. “I would prefer you to keep quiet.”

  They were walking down the slope from the citadel; the little town lay on their right, and there was only one solitary gleam of light from it. Rich decided they were going to lead him into the forest and kill him there. His body might lie forever in that tangle of vegetation and never be discovered, even within a mile of the place. But he was still puzzled as to the motive, so puzzled that quite involuntarily he broke the silence with another question.

  “What do you want to kill me for?” he asked.

  “Be quiet. And we are not going to kill you,” said García.
r />   “Probably not going to,” amended Moret in the darkness on his left.

  Even with this amendment the statement was reassuring. The wave of relief which surged over Rich astonished him; he realized that he had been far more afraid than he had suspected at the time. He trembled a little with the reaction, and then battled with himself to stop it. He did not want these two men at his elbows to know he was trembling. They were coming nearer to the trees and the forest.

  “There are four horses here, Don Narciso,” said García. “One of them is for you. The others are for Don Diego and myself and Don Ramon who is waiting for us. There will be no reins for you to hold — the reins will be in my charge. But I hope you can stay in the saddle by holding on to the saddle bow.”