DIEGO’S terror of his cousin was in no wise assumed--it was very real;
for Martin Alonzo Pinzon, besides being the acknowledged head of the
Pinzon family and a very masterful man, was the legal guardian of Diego
and had his future in his keeping.
“Good Fray Bartolomeo,” pleaded Diego, earnestly, “do not take me to my
cousin. I will mend my ways, indeed I will. And you may put any penance
on me, and you shall see how cheerfully I will do it.”
“Thou shouldst have thought of all that before,” said the friar,
feeling a pity for Diego that he would not betray, because he believed
the mischievous lad needed a severe lesson.
“You do not know my cousin,” said Diego, mournfully.
“‘Tis plain thou dost,” said Fray Bartolomeo.
“The flogging he would give me I care little for,” said Diego.
“Be not too sure; his arm is not that of ‘old Bartolomeo.’”
[Illustration: “‘TUT!’ SAID THE FRIAR, TAKING DIEGO BY THE COLLAR AND
LEADING HIM AWAY.”]
“If I said ‘old Bartolomeo,’” said Diego, cajolingly, “you must believe
it was said with affection. Don’t you know how we sometimes say old
when we wish to use a term of endearment?”
Fray Bartolomeo smiled on the other side of his face, but turned a grim
eye on Diego.
“_Gracias_ for thy affectionate remembrance of me, even with the
thought of the scourge in thy mind; but it must not blind us to the
fact that thou didst purloin a choice melon from the garden, having
previously flouted Fray Antonio, and having subsequently seduced thy
fellows, and done many things which thou shouldst not have done.”
“It was very wicked of me,” said Diego; “but would you for that have me
taken from the convent and carried to certain destruction?”
“Tut!” said the friar, scornfully.
“But he will do it,” whined Diego. “You heard what the man said, that
he had not yet his complement.”
“Tut!” said the friar again.
“I see how it is,” said Diego, trying a new tack, “you bear me malice
for calling you old, and you would have me removed from the bosom of
the church. You care nothing for my future welfare. ’Tis unchristian to
hate me so bitterly.”
“Tut, tut! tut, tut!” said the worthy friar, uneasily. “‘Tis because
I cherish thee in my heart, thou scape-grace! that I will not do thee
the wrong to punish thee insufficiently. How many times have I praised
thee for thy facility in declension and conjugation? How often have I
told thee that thou wert the best student of them all and wouldst be a
credit to us but for thy scampish tricks? How often hast thou cajoled
me, in my love for thee, and escaped the punishment thou shouldst have
had in justice?”
“You have indeed been very good,” said Diego, watching the face above
him out of the corner of his eye; “why then will you wreck my wretched
life now? I tell you, Martin Alonzo will snatch me from the convent and
take me with him. I feel it in my heart.”
There was uneasiness in the heart of the friar, for he loved the
boy, and there was enough in what he said to make an impression on
his fears, too. Martin Alonzo might do the thing Diego dreaded, or
pretended to dread. Diego saw that the good man wavered, and a grin
overspread his countenance. The friar, chancing to look down, saw the
grimace.
“Thou art an ungrateful little wretch!” he said, angrily. “Thou wouldst
play upon my affection for thee, and then laugh at my credulity. I
think sometimes, Diego Pinzon, thou hast no heart at all. Now, say no
more! I will not listen. I caught the smirk on thy face, and it hath
undone thee for a certainty. Thou shalt learn the iniquity of making a
mock of thy elders. Say no more!”
Diego hastened to remove the impression the friar had received, and
strove with much earnestness and artfulness to work once more on the
feelings of his teacher, but it was without avail.
When he pointed out with great particularity what the dangers of
the voyage were, Fray Bartolomeo merely gave a grim assent. When he
enlarged on the pity of taking him from his religious studies, the
friar only snorted ominously. In short, they came to the house of
Martin Alonzo Pinzon and went in.
Martin Alonzo was evidently saying his last farewells at that moment,
and was in great haste to be away.
“Good-day, Fray Bartolomeo!” he said, in his abrupt fashion. “Whom
have you here? It is my cousin’s son, Diego? Good-day to thee, lad! I
suppose thou hast come to bid me a last farewell like these women. As
if I were never to return! Well, _adios_, if you will. Is he a likely
lad, Fray Bartolomeo? How come on the humanities?”
His rapid, abrupt manner of speaking gave little opportunity for an
answer; and the friar saw that it was a poor time to be there on such
an errand; but he was so convinced that Diego would be unmanageable
without a chastisement and warning from his cousin that he spoke out
clearly and to the point:
“The humanities come on well enough, and no one can do better than he
when he will; but I have come to tell thee, Martin Alonzo, that he
needs a strong hand to correct him, or he will never arrive at grace.”
“My time is short,” said Martin Alonzo, gruffly.
“It needs not much of it to give him a taste of thy vigor, and a word
of warning.”
“A sorry sort of remembrance he would have of me then, reverend
brother.”
“He will honor and bless thee in the end,” said the friar.
“What hath he done that calls for my intervention?” demanded Martin
Alonzo, eying Diego curiously.
“Much in the past that hath been inadequately dealt with, and to-day
these several things: He flouted the gardener, Fray Antonio, when he
rebuked him for stepping on his melon vines; he--”
“Good cousin,” said Diego, hastily, “I did but as Fray Antonio bade
me.”
[Illustration: “‘IT IS MY COUSIN’S SON, DIEGO? GOOD-DAY TO THEE,
LAD!’”]
“What did he bid thee do?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“He bade me think twice ere I set foot to ground again, cuffing me
soundly lest I should not remember his admonition.”
“Ah!” said Martin Alonzo, a twinkle lighting up his stern eye.
Diego, who was quickness itself, caught the twinkle and went on, before
Fray Bartolomeo could continue his catalogue of misdeeds.
“And then I begged him to enlighten me further, since I was not certain
that I had construed him correctly.”
“Thou didst flout him,” said the friar, indignantly.
“What didst thou?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“I did but lift my foot thus,” said Diego, demurely suiting the action
to the word, “and count, so: ‘I think once, I think twice, and down she
goes. I think once, I think twice, I think once, I think twice,’ and so
on.”
It was so comically done, Diego being a capital mimic and actor, that
Martin Alonzo and the women of the household laughed uproariously in
spite of their seriousness. Even Fray Bartolomeo was fain to turn his
head. Diego retained his innocent countenance; but down in his heart
was the feeling that once more his artfulness had saved him.
“‘Tis thus he ever saves himself the punishment he deserves, and then
laughs in his sleeve at his own cajolery,” said the friar, resuming his
grave face.
“He is a very cunning knave, then, is he?” said Martin Alonzo,
thoughtfully.
“If thou knowest him not, he will cajole thy anger into love and so
escape his just dues.”
“How does he with his Latin?” asked the sailor.
“Excellent well, I will say. He hath a positive gift for languages.”
“But he is full of mischievous pranks, you say?”
“Like a very monkey for mischief.”
“And he needs a sobering discipline?” said Martin Alonzo, his voice
taking on something of its sea roar.
“Sadly,” answered the friar, trembling a little for the boy; “but do
not forget he is but a child.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen, good cousin,” said Diego, in a fright; “but do not be so
wroth with me. The worst that I did was to break bounds that I might
come into port to see you start on your great voyage, good cousin.”
“And purloined a melon and seduced his comrades to eat it with him,”
interposed the friar, seeing a softening of Martin Alonzo’s face, owing
to the cunning explanation of his reason for disobedience.
“Thou hadst an interest in my voyage, then?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“The rogue will cajole him!” murmured Fray Bartolomeo, shaking his head.
“Such an interest, good cousin,” said Diego enthusiastically, at the
same time chuckling to think how he was like to escape.
Martin Alonzo bent a singular look upon him and turned to the friar.
“He hath a quick wit and a turn for languages, you say?”
“Both.”
“But to-day he hath purloined a melon, flouted one of the brothers,
broken the bounds, seduced his comrades into evil, and perhaps hath
done other things not yet known.”
“Oh,” whined Diego, immediately cast down, “if you cannot be satisfied
with what is known!”
“And,” went on Martin Alonzo, “you say he hath been a sore trouble
in the past and that you have felt yourself unequal to the task of
fittingly punishing him.”
“Even so, Martin Alonzo,” admitted the friar.
“And you wish for him, now, a punishment that shall be a warning to
him?”
“I love the youth, Martin Alonzo; but it is for his good,” said the
friar, who found it hard to bear witness against Diego.
“And you think that without an adequate punishment he will not be the
ornament to the church that he otherwise would?”
“I wish I could think differently,” said the friar.
“And I wish,” said Diego, desperately, having given up hope, “that you
would do the worst and have it over. I can stand a flogging if it must
be; but I hate suspense.”
“You shall be relieved of that,” said Martin Alonzo, grimly. “I have
thought of the thing which will at once be a punishment for him, a boon
to me, and a relief to you.”
Diego held his breath, his first fear rushing over him in an instant.
“And that is--?” asked the friar, not without uneasiness, himself.
“He shall go the voyage with me,” said Martin Alonzo. “I need
another hand, and he is agile and strong and will suit me as well as
another--better, it may be, since he hath such a strong interest in
the voyage.”
“It must not be,” said the startled friar.
“It shall be,” said Martin Alonzo, in such a tone and with such a
fire in his eye that Diego felt himself unequal to any words, though
the friar, indignant at the trap he had led Diego into, protested
vehemently.
“I am his guardian, I think,” said Martin Alonzo. “You brought him here
for my discretion, and he hath not yet been yielded up to the church.
If he had been, I would be the last to say a word. He hath not been,
and he goes with me. It is the last word. Wife, make a hasty bundle
of the clothing of our son, which he hath outgrown. We have but a
minute to waste. Cousin, look not so glum over a thing which so short
a time ago awoke thy enthusiasm. Thou goest with me. Friar, I wish you
good-day. _Adios!_”
Diego said not a word to his cousin; he knew that would have been
useless. To the friar, however, he addressed a reproach.
“I told you how it would be.”
“Thou didst indeed, my son,” said the worthy friar, humbly. “But do not
despair, for I will hasten to the prior and have his intervention.”
Martin Alonzo laughed in his beard, and Diego felt that his doom was
sealed. He saw the friar go out of the house, and he saw the hasty
preparations of the women of the household to get him an outfit; he
listened to their words of comfort and hope, and to his cousin’s gruff
assurance that he would not be taking the voyage himself, if he thought
there was danger in it; and all the while his mind was only on the
words he had spoken in mischief to the young convict.
“He is very young to die!”
They seemed cruel, now, instead of only mischievous, and he wished very
heartily that he had not uttered them. And so he sat in melancholy
silence until he heard Martin Alonzo saying to him:
“Pick up thy bundle, cousin; kiss the women, and come. Why, how glum
thou art! And thou with the gift of language! Come, they are waiting
for us, and the admiral, Christoval Colon, or Christopherus, as he and
thou, being learned in Latin, would say it, will be impatient.”
Diego heeded not the banter in his cousin’s voice; but resigned himself
to his fate, with no attempt to hide his grief and terror. He took
up his bundle and dejectedly followed his cousin out of the house.
Usually, when going to punishment, he would bear himself as jauntily as
if going to a feast--that is, when all hope of escape was gone; but
on this occasion he had no spirit to simulate what he did not feel. He
went with drooping head and lagging step.
There was no doubt that some of the people whom they passed pitied him;
and there were others who made merry as he had done with the young
convict; but both sorts were alike to him, and he stepped off the quay
into the boat, feeling very little better than if he had been going to
execution.
When they reached the _Pinta_, as the vessel of Martin Alonzo was
named, a sharp word from his cousin sent Diego over the side in short
order. He was just conscious of some conversation taking place about
him--a short, quick talk--and then he was hustled forward and told to
put his bundle down.
There must have been some curiosity under his despair; for he
remembered afterwards looking about him and making certain observations
that did not in the least tend to dispel his fears.
The vessel on which he found himself, and which was destined for the
most perilous voyage in the knowledge of man, was a rickety little
craft no larger than those which he had seen sailing along the shallow
coasts of Andalusia. It had no deck amidships, and carried houses
forward and aft only to shelter the crew and captain, and to contain
the most perishable of such freight as she carried.
She was old and dirty and leaky; the crew was sullen and sluggish;
Martin Alonzo was harsh and violent; Diego wished he had never taken
the melon or broken bounds. The whole affair was wretched and terrible.
There were about thirty persons on board the vessel; but it was plain
that all were not workers; and afterwards he learned that some of them
were simple adventurers, and that some were officers sent by the queen,
Isabella.
The other two vessels had already lifted anchor and were dropping down
the stream, and it was not long before the _Pinta_ was doing the same.
But, even when the anchor was up, the shouting of his cousin--the
roaring rather--did not cease, nor did the sullen scuffling of the crew.
He had no idea what he was expected to do, and he was in no mood to
ask anybody, even if he had known whom to ask; so he let his bundle
lie where he had dropped it and moved over to a part of the rail which
seemed to be out of the way of the sailors, and leaned over it in the
dismalest manner imaginable. As he stood there, he was conscious of the
approach of some one, but did not turn to see who it might be.
“He is very young to die,” said a mocking voice, and he knew, before he
looked around, whose the voice was; but he turned, nevertheless, and
looked into the eyes of the young convict whom he had gibed in those
same words.