troubling with passing storms the deep and bitter waters of anguish
that filled his soul like a flood. Often would he start from dreams of
the glittering ice-crowned heights of the Andes, as he used to see them
from Cerro Blanco; or of the cool interior of Yupanqui’s house, with
some melody of his native land, breathed by the lips of Coyllur, still
sounding in his ear. Often, again, the great green leaves of the tropical
forest would droop over his head; he would touch them, pluck them, feel
their moist coolness, watch the sunbeams flicker amongst them, see some
bright bird with radiant plumage flit through their overhanging branches,
and be wakened by its song, or by the murmuring sound of running waters.
Thus brought back to his misery, he would rise from his place without
moan or murmur, trim the lamp, give Fray Fernando food or water, or do
for him, most tenderly, any other little office that love and watchful
care suggested; but, except to answer his questions, and that briefly, he
scarcely ever spoke.
At last a circumstance occurred that partially broke down this
mournful stoicism. The position of the prisoners in the dark damp hold
was necessarily one of great misery; but they were not treated with
intentional inhumanity by those who had the charge of them. Their food
was sufficient, though coarse; and if their allowance of water was
scanty, so also was that of the ship’s company, and José contrived that
the privation should be little felt by the patre. As time wore on, the
soldiers whose duty it was to guard them and supply them with necessaries
became gradually more friendly and communicative. A belief was gaining
ground amongst them that the captives, though prisoners of the Holy
Office, were not heretics, but political offenders of some kind; for
it was well known that such were occasionally apprehended and punished
by the Inquisition. The pious deportment and devout language of Fray
Fernando favoured this supposition; but still more the presence of José,
since it was inconceivable that an Indian could be a heretic.
Moreover, the soldiers of the _Trionfo_ were sorely in want of interest
and occupation during the long voyage, which at best must occupy many
months. They were all “señores y caballeros,” who would not, to save
the ship from sinking, haul a rope or climb a mast. Except in the
improbable event of an enemy appearing in sight, these two hundred and
fifty hale and active fighting-men had literally nothing to do save to
burnish their armour, to play cards with each other, to quarrel with the
Flemish gunners, or to tyrannize over the mariners, who were treated like
slaves, and “made to toil and moil for all the rest.” Those therefore
who attended the prisoners were very willing to vary the monotony of
their lives by exchanging a few words with persons who, for many reasons,
excited their curiosity.
Fray Fernando and José soon learned that the señor commandante was at
deadly feud with the captain of the ship, an officer who in an English
vessel would have been simply called the sailing-master. The soldiers,
of course, took part with their commander; and to the surprise of Fray
Fernando, who had been told that the ship was an excellent one, railed
continually, and “in good set terms,” against the unfortunate _Trionfo_,
with all her appurtenances and appointments.
“Is she not a swift sailer?” inquired the captive, naturally anxious to
encourage conversation.
“Oh yes. Swift enough, to be sure; everything sacrificed to speed, and
to the stowage of her merchandize. See her decks! All for space: not an
inch of shelter or vantage-ground where a man could cover his head from
an enemy’s fire. Not too sea-worthy either, for all the gallant show she
makes. Well we are with the Plate fleet, or we would not sight a hostile
flag for ten thousand ‘pieces of eight.’ Worse luck! If on the contrary
the ship were what she ought, and the captain anything but ‘a hen,’ with
low wretches of mariners without honour or valour, no sight would be more
welcome—not even the shores of old Spain.”
Fray Fernando remarked afterwards to José,—“The galleon may be a fine
ship for all that. It is evident that the soldiers take their cue from
their commander. He must be, as I think, a man of strong though rather
peculiar character. I doubt that he is much beloved. His men all fear
him, evidently. I should not be surprised to find that some of them hate
him.”
“They never mention his name,” said José languidly. “Who is he?”
“What! Do you not know? He is the Viceroy’s nephew, Don Francisco Solis
de Toledo.”
José uttered a piteous cry, as one surprised by sharp, uncontrollable
anguish.
“What is it, my son José?” Fray Fernando questioned tenderly. But José
could not speak. After that one involuntary cry he could only lock his
lips with stern resolve. Had he allowed a word, a moan, or even a sigh to
escape them, there would have ensued a passion of weeping, to shame his
manhood, and—far worse—to alarm and distress the patre beyond description.
The last time Don Francisco Solis and Don José Viracocha met face to face
was at the door of Doña Beatriz Coya’s stately mansion in Cuzco. That
day, as they exchanged formal salutations, José, strong in the favour of
Coyllur, felt his proud triumph over his Castilian rival, and scorned him
in his heart. Where was now that old happy, hopeful time? Where was that
sweet face—those dark eyes, from which his soul had drunk enchantment?
Where were the dreams that filled his heart,—of great deeds to be done
for his people, and deliverance to be won for them, perhaps by his arm?
Gone from him, and for ever. He lay in that dismal hold, a captive, with
Death already in his heart. The Spaniards had the dominion over the land
of his fathers. Don Francisco Solis had the beautiful bride that should
have been his; and, as if that were not enough, it seemed he had even the
key of his rival’s dungeon—a thought that added the last drop to José’s
overflowing cup of bitterness.
What had he left him now to show that the past was not all a dream? Only
_this_. He still wore about his person, carefully wrapped in a morsel of
parchment, the withered passion-flower. He took it out, and held it near
the lamp; a poor, crushed, faded thing, meet emblem of his own crushed
hopes and faded life.
“What is that you have there?” Fray Fernando questioned.
José allowed him to take it in his hand. “It has a story?” said the monk.
“Tell me, my son, if you will. We are all the world to each other now.”
“The story of one I loved—and lost,” José murmured, in a voice like the
ghost of his natural one. “It was Don Francisco Solis who robbed me,
making my life desolate. As, every day, his people rob mine. And,” he
added yet more sorrowfully, “Christ, the King, does not help us!”
“José, José, come near to me.”
José came near. The monk raised himself, drew his arm tenderly round him,
and held him to his heart. “Oh, my son,” he asked very gently, “can you
not trust Him still?”
“Still,—even still,—I hold the Saviour. At least, I hope He holds me. But
the King—”
“Is strong to save us yet,” said Fray Fernando.
“To save _us_?—It may be. But what are we two, down here in the hold,
with only two lives to lose? It is my people I think of—my people! For
them my heart is heavy as stone, cold as ice of the Antis. Day and
night, patre, I see visions and dream dreams. Faces look upon me—dark
faces, growing ghastly in dungeons like this—agonized faces—faces of the
tortured and famine-stricken, of the women and little children who weep
in secret places, and there is none to pity them.”
“None—upon earth,” Fray Fernando interposed. “But, you know—”
“I _know_ nothing. I try to believe, even yet, that He cares,” said
José, whose heart was sickening now with the sorest of all doubts. “Ay,
patre,” he went on more earnestly, “He said, ‘I have compassion on the
multitude.’ In those happy days at Callao, when I came to know Him
first, I put my finger on that word, I knelt down and pleaded it with
Him—for my people. And I believed surely that He would do them right at
last. It was so well with me that I never doubted it would be well with
all I loved. But in those dreary weeks, shut up in that hateful Santa
Casa, hope faded from me day by day. Not hope for myself. Still, when
He calls, I can give my soul up to Him without fear. But my people—my
people! Who shall show me any light or hope for them? Must wrong and
cruelty go on for ever and ever—none to help, none to save?”
Fray Fernando’s heart went up in an agony of earnest prayer for his
beloved son, in this hour of sore and bitter need. At last he said, “But
where you trust your own soul, José, you can surely trust all else that
your heart holds dear?”
“I suppose so,” José murmured. “At least I ought. But all is dark—dark.
Wrong triumphs always. Nothing seems to come right.”
Fray Fernando had reached the place of sunshine, far up on the mountain
summit, very near the sky. But José was still in the _Puna_, the land of
mist and rain, where no sunbeams pierce the thick dark veil of clouds.
“José,” said the monk once again, “I pray you, do not think of men. Think
of Christ. Look to Him.”
“Patre,” José answered, with infinite sadness in his voice, “speak no
more to me. God knows you are dearer than my life—dear as my own soul.
But even you cannot help me now. I sit beside you, your hand in mine;
but I am alone. My ear hears your voice; but my heart hears nothing.
Nothing—except the wail and dash of waters, and the voice of those who
cry, as from a sinking ship. Who cry to a King—_a King!_—far away in the
distant heavens. And He is silent.”
Soon that happened which made José’s allusion to a sinking ship seem like
an awful prophecy.
The terrors of a storm at sea, always great, were multiplied sevenfold to
the unhappy captives who lay in darkness and the shadow of death. Vainly
did they try to guess, from the wild, discordant sounds that met their
ears, mingling in tumultuous confusion, what might be the fate in store
for them—what horror, of all the horrors that threatened, would be the
first to lay its spectral grasp upon them, and claim them for its own.
The storm raged on; the timbers strained, and the waters surged around
the floating prison, which rocked and shook with their violence. The
captives began to fear—and not without reason—that they would force an
entrance, and drown them as they lay in the dark, clasped in each other’s
arms. For now their lamp had expired, and no one brought them oil. Nor
food; an omission that soon added another terror to those that oppressed
them already. What if, in the general confusion, they should be forgotten
and left to starve? Better let the waters find them where they lay;
better sink with the sinking ship.
Fray Fernando called on God. Even in this dark hour his faith did
not fail. Sorely tried indeed it was, by Nature’s shrinking from a
terrible death that had no glory in it, and must be faced in darkness
and loneliness. Still, he could take comfort; and even give it to his
companion in distress. “God is with us, José,” he murmured. “He stilleth
the raging of the waves. And all His ways lead us safely to the Golden
City. Fear nothing.”
But for José, Fray Fernando would have died, over and over again. He held
him in his arms, or, weak as he was, he would have been dashed against
the wet planks bound with iron that formed the sides of their prison, by
the lurchings of the tempest-tossed ship. He covered him with his own
garments from the damp, death-like chill, as unlike the healthful natural
cold of the outside air, as the noisome hold was unlike the breezy height
of Cerro Blanco. And from time to time he fed him with the morsels of
food that still remained to them, dipped in the one precious cup of
water to which at last they were reduced. If, meanwhile, he himself
felt hunger, thirst, cold, terror, at least he made no sign. And to the
patre’s inquiries he always answered—far more cheerfully than he had
spoken before the storm—that he was well, and that he needed nothing.
After this agony had lasted for what seemed to both of them a long
lifetime, but those who could see the face of day would have reckoned
about three times four-and-twenty hours, Fray Fernando suddenly raised
himself, and exclaimed, “José, do you hear those cries? The ship is
settling—we are going down! Let us commend our souls to God!”
A dreamy languor had been stealing over José for some time past, despite
his utmost efforts. Rousing himself with difficulty, he answered, “I do
not think it. I think the storm is passing.”
“Hush! Listen!”—There were confused noises,—shouts—the clanking of
chains—uneasy tremblings and swayings of the ship; then—at last—the shock
of a strange stillness after tumultuous motion. “We have come to land,”
said José.
“‘So He bringeth them to the haven where they would be,’” Fray Fernando
murmured, sinking back.
To José the words came faintly, as if from a great distance. He
tried to fix his attention, fancying that the patre still continued
speaking—failed—tried again—could hear nothing except a bewildering
murmur as of many waters—then lapsed into utter unconsciousness.
XL.
José’s Words Again.
“And now He pleads in heaven above,
For our humanities,
Till the ruddy light on seraph’s wings
In pale emotion dies;
They can better bear His Godhead’s glare
Than the pathos of His eyes.”
E. B. BROWNING.
When consciousness returned to José, he was surrounded by what seemed to
his dazzled eyes a flood of light. Yet, in fact, he was only lying in the
gloomy, dimly-lighted space between decks. An agony of burning thirst
was his first feeling; and, as his eyes gradually recovered their powers
of vision, he instinctively looked around him for the means of quenching
it. A pitcher of water lay near; but when he moved to take it, some one
raised it for him, and bore it to his lips. Then he drank, and never had
he enjoyed so delicious a draught. After this, his thoughts grew clearer.
“Where is the patre?” he asked.
“I am here, my son,” said the voice of Fray Fernando; for he it was who
sat by his side, and who had raised the water to his lips.
“Where are we? What has happened?” questioned José, in a tone of
bewilderment.
Fray Fernando explained:—“They have put the ship into a bay, a kind of
natural harbour, on some lonely island—where, probably, the foot of man
has never trod since the making of this world. The storm is over; and the
lives of all on board are saved, thank God.”
“And you, patre?”
“I am better. They have brought us here, between the decks, whilst the
hold is being cleansed, and some leakages repaired. Most of the soldiers
and the crew are on shore. Even so much of God’s free light and air as we
enjoy here seems to bring new life to me. Now I return your question. And
you, José?”
“I? Since I drank that water, I am quite well. How cold it is! Easy to
tell it has come fresh out of some deep fountain in God’s own blessed
earth.”
“Drink again. There is no stint now, thank God. They have found spring
water, and are bringing an abundant supply on board.”
And José drank again—deeply, as one who had thirsted long and sorely.
Then Fray Fernando prayed him to eat. Food was at hand,—not coarse, hard
biscuit, but cool and luscious plantains and bananas, fresh gathered from
the luxuriant grove that filled three-fourths of the little island.
José ate, and was refreshed. “How long shall we stay here?” he asked.
“For several days, at all events, we must stay. Some damage has been
done during the storm to the rigging, and especially to one of the great
sails, which must needs be repaired before the ship can put to sea again.”
“How has the storm dealt with the other ships that were with us?”
“That we cannot tell. We have been separated, by the stress of weather,
from all, except one. One vessel has taken shelter in the same bay, and
is near us now. One for which we have good right to care. Guess its name,
José.”
“Is it a galley, patre?”
“Yes—a galley.”
“The _San Cristofero_! O patre, if only we might see the face of Walter
Grey once more!”
But Fray Fernando shook his head. “Our making inquiry after him could do
us no good, and might do him cruel harm,” he said. “He would come again
under suspicion, as the friend of prisoners of the Holy Office.”
For the space of a week, and rather more, the captives were permitted to
enjoy their comparatively comfortable quarters between decks; and their
lot was further alleviated by good food, delicious fruit, and an abundant
supply of fresh water. But this little gleam of sunshine soon faded.
Both the commander and the captain of the _Trionfo_ were very anxious,
and with good reason, to overtake and rejoin the Plate fleet. They were
therefore of one mind in desiring to hasten the departure of the galleon
from the friendly shelter of the island; though they were by no means so
unanimous in their ideas of the share that the soldiers and the mariners
ought respectively to take in the preliminary labours rendered necessary
by her condition.
The captain was reported to have said one day, in the bitterness of his
soul, that he supposed the “señores y caballeros,” who did him the honour
of walking up and down the deck of the _Trionfo_, would rather go to the
bottom at once, or fall alive into the hands of the English pirates and
cut-throats, Draco and Achines (he meant Drake and Hawkins), than demean
themselves so far as to roll a single water-cask on board. And that, as
for himself, he was a plain man, and must speak his mind, if the señor
commandante were the Lord Viceroy’s nephew ten times over; ay, and if he
were to run him through the body the next minute.
To whom the señor commandante made answer, with cool contempt and
well-bred scorn, that the worthy señor capitano very far mistook if he
imagined that anything he could possibly say or do could induce Don
Francisco Solis so far to forget what was due to himself as to honour him
with his sword.
In spite, however, of these bickerings, the work was done at last; and,
accompanied by the _San Cristofero_, which had waited to attend upon the
larger vessel, the great galleon bade farewell to the peaceful shores of
the friendly island. In return for Nature’s profuse hospitality,—for the
cold fresh water bubbling in crystal streams, for the golden juices of
the delicious fruits, for the wild birds all the more easily snared and
taken because unused to the destroyer,—surely the best thing her first
visitants could have wished the little isle was so to slumber on for ages
yet to be, unsullied by the foot of man, who has so often turned his
rightful lordship over creation into cruel tyranny.
If such thoughts did not occur to Fray Fernando and to José, it was
because they had never seen the island. And now they could only think
that they should never see anything on God’s free earth again; they could
only feel the crushing, stifling misery of their return to the hateful
dungeon of the hold, the scene of such bitter suffering.
But to each other they gave no utterance to what they thought or felt.
Indeed, at this time they spoke but little. Sometimes, however, Fray
Fernando repeated psalms or other passages of Scripture suited to their
condition; and often he prayed, for himself and for José.
As weary nights, and days which were nights in all except the name, wore
on, the gloom around them grew and deepened, until at last it seemed to
pervade everything, and to shut their very voices in like a thick and
heavy fog. Gradually, silence as well as darkness was establishing her
dominion over them. They were losing the desire to move, as well as to
speak. Both often lay for hours motionless, as if in stupor.
Yet night and silence frequently cover, with their veil of mystery, the
slow quiet growth that tells of the presence of life. Over the chaos
of one heart, at least, the Spirit of light and liberty was brooding
throughout the great darkness of those gloomy hours.
Much was Fray Fernando surprised, when one day José suddenly raised
himself, and with considerable energy began to speak:—“In the old days of
the Incas—”
Never before, in that dreary prison, had José named his heroic fathers—a
significant and mournful sign. When the lute thrills no more to the
master’s touch, when the heart responds no longer to the theme that
always awakened its deepest harmonies, there is room to fear that both
are broken. Fray Fernando felt a throb of joy at hearing the familiar
words once again; and had he been even in the act of death, he would have
roused himself to listen to what followed.
“In the old days of the Incas,” José said—and though his voice had
certainly a muffled sound, it was unfaltering and full of purpose—“the
eldest son of the sole Inca, who should be his heir, was prepared for
his high inheritance by severe and arduous exercises. He had to suffer
pain and weariness, to fast long and often, to go unshod and in poor
mean clothing, to sleep on the bare ground. All this, that ‘when he
should behold himself on the throne of his majesty, he should look down
from thence with a compassionate eye on the poor, in remembrance that he
himself was one of them.’”[53]
Fray Fernando feared his companion’s mind was wandering. He scarcely knew
what to answer. At length, however, he said, “That was a noble thought.”
But after a short pause José went on, in a measured musical tone, almost
a kind of chant:—“In after-days, when the poor man came to the Golden
Throne with his tale of wrong and woe, he would bend low before the sole
Inca, on whose head was the crimson llautu and the white wing-feathers
of the cora-quenque. ‘Inca, Child of the Sun, Friend of the poor!’ he
would say, ‘I pray thee, look on me. I hunger. Thou hast hungered too. I
have no place to lay my head. Nor hadst thou. My feet are weary, and they
bleed; for the paths are rough and stony. So were the paths thou didst
tread in once.’”
Here again José paused, and Fray Fernando suggested, “Then the Inca would
have pity on him?”
José’s voice rose higher—though still it was soft and harmonious—as he
glided insensibly from the parable into the interpretation. “_Pity?_ No.
It was not pity He gave me. Shall I tell you, if words _can_ tell it,
what He said, stooping down from the throne of His majesty? He said,
‘Come near to Me,’ and I came. Then He said, ‘Child, it is true. My
unshod feet have trod that rough and thorny way. My heart has hungered
and thirsted—even as thine. I too wept over My people—bitterer tears by
far than thou hadst ever need to weep over Tahuantin Suyu. Hast thou
forgotten that great and bitter cry, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that
slayest the prophets”? Yet I remember all.’”—Here José paused, overcome
by his emotion.
But “a breath and a beam of heaven” passed through the weary heart of
Fray Fernando, as he asked, with eager interest, “Has He then taken the
burden from you, José?”
“No, He has not; He has shown me more love than that. He has said, ‘I
bear it with thee,’—a better word, ten thousand times, than ‘I take it
from thee.’ Don’t you know sharp pain can become highest joy sometimes?
With us, the crowning glory of the Belting festival for the noble youths
who stood victorious and approved, was when the sole Inca pierced their
ears with his own right hand. How the touch of that hand thrilled them
through with pride and rapture! And now—His hand touches me—His voice
whispers, ‘_Once_ I suffered all; _now_ I know all. Wait. Trust me. My
name is Secret. Believe, and thou shalt see the glory of God.’”
“And you _can_ trust Him now, José?”
“With all my heart and mind and soul and strength. I only grieve now for
my past distrust of Him. I know not what He will do; but I know _Him_. I
give my people up to Him, as freely and joyfully as I give Him up this
life of mine. He is the King. He is coming, and that soon. He shall right
every wrong. ‘He shall deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy also,
and him that hath no helper. And His dominion shall be from sea to sea,
and from the river even unto the ends of the earth.’ Ranti, ranti! Capac
Inca, Huacchacuyac!”
Fray Fernando could only say, from the depths of his heart, “Thank God!”
And so Peace came down to that gloomy dungeon, and spread her white wings
over the desolate captives there. Nay, the Son of Peace Himself was with
them. And whenever His voice should summon them, they would come forth
out of the darkness “into the sudden glory” with instant readiness and
glad confidence. Surely soon now—any day, any hour, any moment—might that
thrice welcome voice be heard, calling them home, to dwell with Him for
ever.
XLI.
José is Avenged of His Enemies.
“The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.”
CAMPBELL.