to read at his leisure, wandered out to the bay to feast his eyes upon
the marvels of the shipping. On returning to the humble lodging of his
patron, he was greatly alarmed to find him lying senseless on the floor.
But he had seen Sumac swoon, and he knew what remedies to adopt. He ran
for cold water, bathed the monk’s forehead with it, and chafed his hands.
Fray Fernando ere long recovered consciousness, looked about him, drank
the water José raised to his lips, and told him not to be frightened.
Then, availing himself of his help, he rose and placed himself in his
usual seat.
“What has happened, patre?” José asked affectionately, “Are you ill?”
“No,” the monk answered slowly, as with eye and hand he sought for the
little book. It had fallen to the ground, but José picked it up and gave
it to him.
“Tell me”—he began, but his voice faltered—died away. He paused a moment,
then resumed more calmly, “Tell me—who gave this book to the Palla?”[45]
José opened the first page, and pointed to the inscription, “Doña Rosa
Merçedes y Guevara.”
Fray Fernando gazed on the faded writing with eager kindling
eyes;—gradually they changed, softened, grew dim with a mist of gathering
tears. At last he said very gently, “That name was once dear to me.” And
he said no more.
But José drew nearer, and of his own accord put his arm round his neck,
laying his hand on his shoulder.
By-and-by the monk inquired, still with the same gentleness of manner,
“How did the Palla become possessed of that book?”
“Dear patre,” José answered, “I will tell you all I know. Sumac Nũsta
loved to go to the House of the Holy Virgins—the nuns of Santa Clara.
This book belonged to one of them, who was Sumac’s dear and chosen
friend. Sister Maria was her holy name; the name she had from her father
and mother was—what you find written there.”
“Enough, José; my past comes back to me. The happy, happy past
before—Strange—wonderful—that we have been near each to other, have
breathed the same air, trod the streets of the same city—never knowing!
Well—better so! Both dead—dead hearts in living bodies.”
Then silence fell on the two. José stood like a statue of bronze; Fray
Fernando sat, and dreamed of the past.
At length he spoke again. “José, is there anything I have for which you
would give me this book in exchange?”
José smiled as he answered, “Nothing, patre. Take it from the son to whom
you have given everything. Sumac Nũsta would wish you to take it,” he
added, seeing the monk hesitate.
“Thank you, José,” said Fray Fernando, grasping the Indian’s slender
hand. “What I have said is safe with you,” he added, and the subject
dropped—for ever.
How was it in the meantime with José himself? He was passing through
the furnace of a bitter anguish. Many men, whose love was true as his,
have had to do the same. But few come forth from that furnace unscarred,
scarce one unscathed. Some hearts its fire burns hard, turning them
to stone; some hearts consume in it like dry wood, leaving only ashes
behind; while some, perhaps, are melted there, that they may be refined
and purified like gold.
José could not forget. There was in his nature a dumb, persistent
tenacity, both of purpose and of affection. The river might flow for
leagues underground, yet its still, strong current would know no change.
He rather brooded than thought, rather dreamed than reflected. After that
one outburst of fierce agony on the Sachsahuaman Hill, he uttered no
complaint, even to himself. Perhaps eventually the doom of his race might
come upon him, and stoicism pass gradually into apathy.
A Spaniard in his circumstances would have acted differently. Had the
rival of Don Francisco Solis been of his own race, the successful suitor
would have worn a shirt of mail beneath his broidered doublet, and barred
his windows well. For “Honour,” that idol of chivalry—a bloody idol,
too, propitiated by many a costly hecatomb—sanctioned almost every kind
of treason and violence when glozed over by the name of love. It was
fortunate for Don Francisco that he had not torn his prize from a Spanish
hidalgo, but from a simple Inca Indian, who reverenced from his heart the
Quichua laws of his ancestors, and the Ten Commandments he had learned
from Fray Fernando.
Quietly, and without a word spoken on either side, José resumed his
old position towards Fray Fernando; only he was, if possible, more
assiduous than before in rendering those personal ministrations which the
monk’s feeble health now made doubly acceptable. A prince amongst his
own people, he had yet no sense of degradation in performing even the
lowliest offices for his adopted father. He loved him; that was enough.
Moreover, in common with all his race, he held the paramount sanctity of
the bond of ownership, believing that it ought to supersede, not only
every personal consideration, but every other claim. “I am his; he bought
me,” was a plea strong enough to justify the most unbounded devotion.[46]
When Fray Fernando was engaged in his spiritual ministrations, José
always accompanied him as his acolyte; and from this office he reaped
the great advantage of being able freely to visit all the ships in the
bay. It was not long until his attention was arrested by the miserable
condition of the slaves on board the galleys. Not all the wonders of the
great galleons, with their tall masts and spreading sails, and their
strange monstrous guns, could turn his eyes and his thoughts from those
black unsightly hulks, where sat the long and serried rows of degraded
wretches; brown, haggard, filthy, fettered to their places. “Are they
men?” was his first question to Fray Fernando. When told they were
criminals, enduring a severe but well-merited punishment, he remarked,
“The king ought rather to kill them. Why does he not?” For José was
himself the son of kings, whose stroke often dealt death, swift and
remediless, but who never knew the fiendish delight of torturing their
victims.
Then Fray Fernando said, “We will bring alms to the slaves on board the
galleys.”
“Chachau!” José answered. “My Fathers were the Friends of the Poor.” And
they did so.
XXVI.
The Fruits of the West.
“And when you see fair hair, be pitiful.”
GEORGE ELLIOT.
The good galley _San Cristofero_ was doomed to lie at rest for a
lengthened period in the port of Callao. She needed repairs; and since
these repairs had to be accomplished by Spanish hands, and “To-morrow is
the god of the Spaniard,” a great many to-morrows came and went before
they were completed. And even when at length they had come to an end, the
galley had still to await, for an indefinite time, the pleasure of the
stately man-of-war she was destined to escort.
These delays were no cause of regret to the slaves on board. They gained
thereby some trifling alleviation of the miseries of their lot. The
rowers who sat on the first bench, and who had the severest toil, but the
greatest privileges, were often permitted to go on shore; their peculiar
dress, and the iron anklet they always wore, being considered sufficient
securities against the possibility of an escape. Although this welcome
relief to the monotony of their life was not usually granted to the
others, they also sometimes received small sums in charity, which their
more fortunate comrades used to lay out for them. Moreover, there was
little to be done. The rowers might sleep through the sultry hours of the
tropical day, or sit idle, leaning against their oars, and gazing on the
fair sights that met their eyes—the crystal waters, the green shore, the
white and distant mountains.
One very hot day a cry ran along the benches that the commissary had
fallen down dead. And almost immediately afterwards the slaves saw
him carried along the gangway into the little covered recess in the
forecastle. No very kindly interest in a man from whom they had received
little save curses and blows could be expected from them; but in their
present state of inaction any event was sure to be eagerly discussed.
By-and-by they learned that he was not dead, only suffering from a
sunstroke. But his condition was thought sufficiently dangerous to
require the immediate services of a priest.
There stepped on board accordingly a Franciscan monk, accompanied by a
handsome well-dressed Indian, who carried the little silver bell intended
to warn all who heard it of the presence of their Creator. Even the
slaves were expected to prostrate themselves at the signal. The matador
had, apparently, no scruples about this ceremony; but to Walter Grey it
was a bowing of the knee to Baal, which in his heart he detested, though
he was not yet strong enough to challenge martyrdom by a refusal.
He was not particularly pleased to meet the keen dark eyes of the Indian
fixed upon him with an earnest and, as he fancied, a suspicious gaze.
Nothing, indeed, could be more unlikely than that an Indian should
observe his reluctance or scrutinize its motives; but he had suffered
so much that his apprehensions were not always under the control of his
reason.
The slaves maintained a respectful silence, or conversed only in
whispers, until the monk had performed his ministrations, and with his
attendant re-entered the boat that was to convey him on shore. They then
began to discuss the occurrence amongst themselves. “Did you see the
monk’s face, comrades?” one of them inquired. “On my faith, he might be
a brother of ours. He looks as lean and hollow-eyed as if he had sat for
a twelvemonth at the oar.”
“Yet what an eye he has, the holy man!” remarked Walter’s oar-fellow, the
Quatrero. “He looked at me for a moment, and I had to turn away lest he
should begin to reckon up to me on his rosary all the sins of my life.”
“If he began _that_ bead-roll he would be here till sundown, and not half
through then,” said another dryly.
“Hush mates!” a third interposed. “Here comes the dark-faced sacristan
again, and with a basket of fine fruit on his arm. Enough to make us
all die of thirst this burning day. What lucky fellow has got a real to
spend?”
“What good in that? He will serve our betters first. Well if he comes our
way at all.”
And now the “dark-faced sacristan” stood on the deck, holding parley with
a soldier who acted as sentinel. All took notice of his gallant air and
manly bearing, and saw that he wore his handsome national costume with
as much stately grace as a Spanish cavalier could wear his cloak and
sword. “A fine bird that, and in fine feathers,” muttered the Quatrero.
Meanwhile the soldier conducted José Viracocha to the captain, of whom he
made some request, which appeared to be granted immediately. The captain
politely accompanied him to the gangway, and by a motion of his hand
indicated that the slaves were permitted to hold communication with him.
José stepped at once to the bench where sat the English youth, whose
golden hair and fair complexion rendered him conspicuous amongst the
swarthy Spaniards and dusky Creoles and Mulattoes. With a bow and a smile
he placed his basket of fruit in his hand.
Walter, in his surprise, at first took it mechanically. Then reflecting
that the Indian probably wished to sell, and that he had no money, he
tried to convey as much by signs.
“Perhaps, señor, you speak Spanish?” said José, making use of that
language.
“I do,” Walter answered, more and more surprised.
“Then I pray of you to accept my gift, señor Englishman,” the other
said, adding the last two words in a low voice. Some of the more forward
amongst those around beginning to beg from him, he responded at once,
“Yes, yes, poor fellows, you shall all have something.” And he scattered
small pieces of silver with a liberal hand amongst them, taking especial
care that the feeble, worn-out men who sat on the bench next the water
should have their full share.[47]
Both Walter’s disposition and his interest led him to share the Indian’s
gift very freely with his comrades, of course not forgetting his special
friend the matador. And the sweet and luscious chirimoyas proved very
acceptable to men obliged to sit unsheltered under the fiery blaze of a
tropical sun. Every one supposed that the Indian was the dispenser of
his master’s charity, though for what reason either he or the Franciscan
monk should have singled out Walter Grey as the chief recipient of their
bounty could not be surmised.
The young Englishman’s story was known to all on board. But, fortunately
for him, the captain of the galley was no bigot; he was a thoughtless,
idle young prodigal, the son of a respectable merchant, sent to sea in
despair by his relatives, whose interest procured him the situation he
filled. The commander of the troops on board, on the other hand, was far
too fine a gentleman to have any concern at all with the slaves, beyond
holding his men in readiness to shoot them down if they attempted mutiny.
Thus, whilst every one believed, as a matter of course, that Walter Grey,
the English heretic, was infinitely worse than a thief or a murderer, no
one thought much about him.
The Indian came again the next day with a larger supply of fruit, which,
however, he gave to the soldiers. But the disappointment visible in the
longing eyes of the thirsty slaves as the store quickly disappeared was
soothed by charity of even a more acceptable kind. Many blessings were
invoked both upon himself and upon “his reverence the holy father,” whose
emissary he was supposed to be—nor did he contradict the supposition. But
he contrived, whilst giving silver to the others, to slip a broad piece
of gold into the hand of Walter. The Englishman was about to express
aloud his astonishment at this liberality, but the Indian caught his eye
and whispered, “_Tace_.” As may be imagined, the Latin word, spoken by
such lips, only changed Walter’s look of surprise into one of amazement.
After the Indian’s departure he expressed his wonder at the circumstance
to his friend the matador.
“Depend upon it, Englishman,” said the old galley-slave in reply, “the
good friar has taken pity on you for your youth and your gentle looks,
which would strike a stranger, like the sight of a fair green sapling
amongst a bundle of dry brown fagots. One can read in his face that he
has known much sorrow himself, and therefore, perhaps, his heart is
tender for others.”
“But the Indian,” said Walter. “Do you know, matador, that was a _Latin_
word he spoke to me?”
“Why not? He is the servant of a churchman; and ‘he that measures oil
gets some on his fingers.’ Though,” he admitted, “he seems wondrously
wise and civil—for one of the wild men.”
A concession that moved Walter to draw upon old stores of information,
and to talk of the strange civilization of the New World, and the
splendours of the two great empires that had already been discovered
there. Growing more and more interested as he went on, he conquered
Mexico with Cortes, over-ran Peru with Pizarro, and was making rapid
progress towards the discovery of El Dorado, when at last the matador
brought him to a pause.
“I used to know all these things long ago,” he said. And this was true.
Time was when such themes never failed to bring the blood to his cheek
and the light to his eye. But now the dry embers were not even stirred
by the old fire. “I have done with Golden Cities now,” he went on. “The
only one I am ever like to see will not be found beyond those white
mountains, but higher up—beyond the stars. Your words, that glitter like
gold themselves, mind me of other words heard years and years ago, out of
the one story that is all true;—about a City that hath foundations, ay,
and streets of gold and gates of pearl.”
The extensive and accurate knowledge of Scripture that Walter had
acquired in his childhood was now proving a great comfort to him. He
gladly shared his stores with his companion, who listened to the words of
Holy Writ with an intense and unflagging interest, contrasting strangely
with the seeming indifference with which he heard Walter’s other
narratives.
Walter Grey was not now the miserable, dejected wretch, passively
accepting his life of suffering, that he had been a short time before.
The light of heavenly hope had arisen upon his soul, making all things
new. It was worth while to live, since he might live unto God—even in the
galleys. Many things in his lot were still hard to bear; but nothing was
intolerable, since the worst could only mean death, and death was the
gate of everlasting life.
And, as it is God’s will that little things should often contribute not
a little to the help and healing of sorrowful hearts, the visits and
kindnesses of his Indian friend, which were continued from day to day,
proved a wonderful tonic to Walter Grey. The very occupation they gave
his mind was a much prized relief from the dreary monotony of slavery.
The visits were something to expect, to long for, to think over. It was
good also to be able, even in the midst of his poverty, to minister
to the need of others; and thus he began to find positive enjoyment in
sharing the liberal gifts he received with his less fortunate comrades.
The true explanation, however, of the strange partiality José evinced
for him was this. Whilst looking with a pitying eye along the rowers’
benches of the _San Cristofero_, his glance had been suddenly arrested
by Walter’s fair, or golden hair. Now, in José’s eyes, fair hair
had wonderful significance. It was linked in his thoughts with the
Sun, his great Father; and with his ancestor Viracocha, called the
fair-haired. And yet more, it was bound up with all those dim, mysterious
prophecies—those faint rumours floating amongst his people—of the bearded
strangers, wise and mighty and strong to deliver, who were to come to
them from beyond the Mother Sea; and for whom many of them had at first
mistaken the Spaniards—to their own undoing. The hopes dearest to José’s
heart were built upon the fair-haired Englishmen.
Great was his joy, therefore, when he ascertained that Walter was in very
deed an Englishman. And he was confirmed in more than one fond delusion
by finding that when he addressed a Latin word to the captive, the
latter, though naturally surprised, evidently understood him.
He soon found, however, that it was better on the whole to communicate
with his new friend in Spanish. And he directed all his address to the
task of opening up and improving the means of communication with him.
This did not prove so difficult as he had anticipated. Even on board a
galley a man’s gift maketh room for him; and José had both the means to
offer very acceptable gifts, and the tact to offer them in an acceptable
way. It is true that in losing Coyllur he lost also the secret hoards of
Yupanqui; a loss for which he grieved little; far less than he rejoiced
that they were saved from the covetous gripe of Don Francisco Solis. But
Maricancha, who was childless, made him welcome to all that he had. At
their last interview, he had pressed upon him as much gold as he could
carry, with several valuable jewels.
It was not hard for José, thus amply supplied with the sinews of war,
to gratify the officers and soldiers of the _San Cristofero_. They—as
well as the galley-slaves—looked upon him as the Indian servant of a
Franciscan monk; a character of all others the least likely to excite
suspicion. And as José knew well enough that Franciscan monks had
not usually the means, even if they had the inclination, to exercise
unbounded liberality, he soon gave his friends to understand that his
master was the almoner of a rich and pious lady, who had great compassion
upon poor galley-slaves, and moreover wished to benefit her soul by works
of charity. But it was his finest stroke of policy to bring on board the
galley frequent supplies of a fragrant brown leaf, which proved a most
welcome gift to all—from the señor commandante, who was not too proud
to thank the Indian with an elaborate Spanish bow, to the poor rowers,
who begged for it piteously to comfort them under their miseries. If
the bearer of such treasures chose to amuse himself for half an hour
chatting with the slaves, it was no one’s business to hinder him, and
consequently, no one did it.
So José’s friendship with Walter Grey grew and prospered, though under
difficulties.
XXVII.
The Matador.
“Some murmur when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
On their broad heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one gleam of light,
One ray of God’s good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.”
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
Youth despairs easily. The young, unused to sorrow, sink beneath a burden
that the aged would bear without a murmur; unused to life, they put the
cup aside as soon as the taste grows bitter. But the rebound is easy
also. At any moment hope may revive; the flowers may bloom and the birds
sing again.
It was wonderful, considering all the circumstances, that Walter Grey
did not die. But since life remained, it was not wonderful that even
in the galleys his crushed heart began to recover itself, under the
combined influences of heavenly hope, and of the thoughtful and generous
ministrations of his new friend.
It had at first been no trifling ingredient in his cup of bitterness that
the robbers and murderers amongst whom he toiled looked upon him as a
wretch infinitely more degraded than themselves. Even the Quatrero was
wont to play the Pharisee, and, crossing himself devoutly, to thank God
that he was not as this English heretic. But things were altered now. He
was beginning to be regarded by his comrades as a person of distinction
rather, and one whose intercession might upon occasion do them a good
turn. At least he could and did procure for them, or share with them,
many a valued gift, including the much-prized tobacco. They thought he
owed the special favour he enjoyed to his extremely youthful appearance;
José always called him “El Mozo”—the lad.
“Ask our Indian, next time he comes, to tell us his master’s name and his
own,” said Walter’s comrades to him one day.
And Walter did so.
José smiled at the question; and very readily informed him that his patre
was called Fray Fernando, and “a man more like a saint there never was in
the world,” he added. But when pressed to tell his own name, he returned
an evasive answer, saying that the rowers ought first to tell him theirs.
It was wonderful how far José contrived to lay aside the reserved and
stately dignity of his ordinary bearing, and to assume a frank and
friendly, even a jovial manner, in talking with these poor men. For it
was absolutely necessary to his plans that they should all regard him
with confidence, as a friend. Yet he drew the line somewhere; he never
touched them.
They complied, gladly enough, with his request; the more hardened telling
him their _sobriquets_ with coarse jests and oaths, which he fortunately
did not understand. At last, however, it came to the turn of Walter’s
special friend, who said simply, “I am called the matador.”
“Matador!” José repeated. “That means—man who slays a bull.”
Great was the astonishment and admiration with which this evidence
of José’s knowledge inspired the galley-slaves; and it was certainly
remarkable in an Indian.
“And did you really slay a bull, señor matador?” he questioned with
interest.
“No, Señor Indio. I only wounded him, and saved a gentleman from being
gored.”
“Tell the story, matador,” cried several voices.
“There is none to tell,” said the matador, who, except to his immediate
neighbours, rarely spoke at all, and still more rarely spoke of himself.
Being, however, urged by José to relate the circumstances, he did so
briefly. “Some twelve years ago,” he said, “before we came to the New
World, when my arm was stronger, I sat on the first bench, and had leave
to go on shore at Carthagena. There was to be a bull-feast the next day;
and they were driving the beasts into the city—all the world out to gaze
at them, of course. In old days, I knew something of the ring myself. So
I must needs stand and gaze with the rest. The first bull was stupid,
and made no sport. But the second was an ugly-looking beast—a dry, tough
fellow, lean and sharp-horned—”
“Ay, ay,” cried one Spaniard after another, in high delight at hearing
once more the language of the sport all had loved in former years; “we
know that sort. Hard to kill. No flinchers.”