DIEGO left the cabin very happy in the praise of his cousin and in the
fact of the reconciliation that had taken place between them; but there
was something still lacking to complete happiness, and that was the
good-will of the crew, which he thought he deserved, but which he was
not certain he would obtain.
He need not have concerned himself about that, however. The crew
had seen and admired his courage, and was ready to welcome him with
acclamation or with sympathy, whichever seemed the most appropriate.
Only Miguel and Juan knew how much he could have divulged; but there
had been so many in the secret of the intended attempt on the rudder
that it was easily surmised that Diego could have told something
harmful to them if he had been willing.
[Illustration: “‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”]
The fact that he had not been willing, pleased as much as it surprised
them, and the dislike for Diego that had been almost general among the
crew had been quickly and completely changed to admiration and liking;
so that when he made his appearance out of the cabin with the air of
being freed from fear of the flogging, they set up a shout of welcome
and gathered around him the moment he came down the ladder from the
poop-deck. And he, in his pleasure at their good-will, forgot his
former nice distinction of honest men and convicts, and gave his bright
smiles right and left.
“Art spared, boy?” said one old sailor.
“Yes, and have his good-will, though I betrayed no one--not I.”
“And so it should be,” said another; “for you showed yourself one of
his own kind. A brave boy, comrades!”
“Ay, ay! and we did him an injustice.”
“So we did,” was agreed, “but we’ll make that right.”
“But how came he to let you off?” asked a voice that Diego knew for
Miguel’s, though the fellow did not show himself inside the group,
preferring to skulk on the outer edge.
“Why,” answered Diego, a little hotly, “because it was discovered that
the fellow who did the trick was as much fool as knave; for the rudder
had been fixed to break down ere ever the vessel left port. And I must
say it is well that the _Pinta_ had so good a captain, or we would all
have been at the bottom now. I tell you all freely and frankly that
I like the voyage no better than any of you; but it was a foolish and
a knavish trick to do a thing that might have sent us all to feed the
fishes. I wager the one who did it was no sailor.”
“True,” and “That’s true,” and “He says well!” came from every side of
him, and Diego knew he had made no mistake in putting the matter as he
had.
All this while, of course, the carpenter had been busy at the rudder,
and after a time he came up and reported that he had done all that
could be done--a matter Martin Alonzo certified to himself by going
over the rail and examining the work. When he came on deck again he
said to his brother:
“Nothing more can be done; but we cannot go far in this plight. Another
such gale would make an end of us. I would I could talk with the
admiral.”
Somehow his words got forward among the sailors, and there were very
few, if any, among them that were not content with the prospect of
having to turn back. And Diego, if the truth be told, was as pleased as
any.
It was still too rough for any communication with the admiral, and so
there was nothing for it at present but to put on sail and proceed;
but that did not disquiet any but those who were not sailors; for it
was well enough understood that Martin Alonzo was only keeping on until
he could communicate with the admiral, Christoval Colon.
The sailors had fully expected some sort of harangue from Martin
Alonzo; but he maintained what seemed to some of them an ominous
silence, and gave his whole attention to the navigation of the disabled
ship.
Once again during the day the rudder broke down; but the sea had
moderated so much that it was repaired more easily this time; though
it was still understood that nothing permanent could be accomplished
without seeking land first.
It was not until the next day that the waves had gone down sufficiently
to render intercourse between the vessels possible; though the _Pinta_
had approached near enough to the _Santa Maria_ to shout across the
water the nature of the accident that had disabled the former ship.
Martin Alonzo would have gone aboard the _Santa Maria_, but the admiral
thought it better for himself to go to the _Pinta_, and he did so soon
after sunrise. The sailors of the _Pinta_ greeted his appearance with
execrations--muttered, indeed, but deep and heartfelt; and they had
many disparaging things to say of him, likening him to a madman in
looks. But Diego, who had seen him often, could not feel as they did,
and thought him one of the noblest and most dignified of men.
He retired to the cabin, taking his pilot with him, and followed by
Martin Alonzo, Francisco Martin, who was pilot of the _Pinta_, and by
Garcia Fernandez. There must have been a serious consultation between
them; for they all looked grave when they came out. When the admiral
had returned to his vessel, Martin Alonzo had all hands called aft,
and they went readily enough; for they were hot to hear what had been
decided.
Martin Alonzo stood on the poop and waited silently, until all the
sailors stood ready to hear him. He looked very stern and determined,
and some who were more acute than others augured ill for their hopes of
a return.
“If I had discovered yesterday,” began Martin Alonzo, in a very
uncompromising tone, “who had cut the gearing I would have hanged him
to the yard. I had good reasons for not pressing the matter. Now, I
will say that any similar attempt in the future will be punished by
instant death.
“So much for that. The object in playing that fool’s trick was to
force me to turn back. You are all hoping that I will turn back. I
shall not. We are heading now for the Canary Islands, where a new
vessel will be found to replace this; or, if that cannot be done, this
shall be thoroughly repaired and the voyage continued to the end. Or
at least until we have gone seven hundred leagues to the westward of
Andalusia.”
He stopped as if he believed he had said the last possible word on
the subject. The men looked uneasily at each other, and it was plain
that there was a strong feeling of dissatisfaction among them that
must find voice, and it did in the person of a grizzled old sailor,
who theretofore had had as little to say as any one. He knuckled his
forehead and hitched himself a little forward in the group of his mates.
“I’ve sailed more than one voyage with you, Martin Alonzo.”
“So you have. Well?”
“I never gave trouble?”
“Never.”
“And don’t intend to now. I shipped of my own free will, or to please
you, which comes to the same thing; but I will say I don’t like the
voyage--I don’t like it. ’Tisn’t natural. I hoped we were going back,
I did, like all the others here, and I’d like nothing better than to
go back. Of course if you say you are going on, that settles it, for I
know you; but don’t you think, Martin Alonzo, it would be fairer to let
those that don’t want to go get off at the Canaries? I say what I say
to be fair all around.”
It was the mildest sort of protest, but it was the best the old fellow
could do with the eye of Martin Alonzo fixed sternly on him all the
time.
“No, it wouldn’t be fairer to let them go,” was the answer. “If I did,
I could get no others to take their places. Besides, they are a parcel
of children who will thank me some day for having made their fortunes
in spite of them. Why, men, we are going to find a country where the
houses are roofed with plates of gold and silver. Doesn’t that tempt
ye? eh?”
“We’re going to perdition,” interrupted a surly voice.
“Bah!” said Martin Alonzo, flashing his eye over the men to find the
owner of the voice, but not succeeding. “Perdition! Do you think I
would like that any better than you? Have I not as much--more to lose?”
“Life is life to one as to another,” said a voice.
“A coward’s life is worth nothing,” said Martin Alonzo, scornfully.
“But there, enough has been said. We go the voyage. To your work.”
He was so sharp and peremptory that it was a marvel to Diego that he
was not hated by the men; but it was not so, indeed. However much they
might dislike the voyage, and there was no doubt on that score, they
greatly admired their masterful captain. A few there might have been
who did not, perhaps, but they were hushed into silence at the first
complaint against him. It was Christoval Colon who had to bear the
odium of the forced voyage.
They were two days in coming in sight of the islands, and a glad sight
it was to them all, even though they knew they would be obliged to put
it behind them again. During those two days, and in fact ever since
his reconciliation with his cousin, Diego had studiously avoided Juan
Cacheco; for as he had no friendly word to say to him, he preferred not
to say any. He felt bitter still whenever he reflected that Juan and
Miguel would have let him be flogged.
But Juan was all the while anxious for a word of explanation with
Diego, and continued to seek it even when he saw that Diego avoided
him. He could have forced a conversation at any time; but what he
had to say needed privacy, and that Diego would not give to him. The
approach to land gave Juan the opportunity he had sought, however;
for Diego stood alone, gazing abstractedly at the towering peak of
Teneriffe. Juan stole up to him, and there was something wistful in his
tone as he said:
“I am glad you were not flogged that day.”
Diego turned with angry start, and said, quickly:
“No thanks to you that I was not.”
“I could not--” began Juan, eager to justify himself, when Diego broke
in cuttingly:
“Oh, I know a flogging would be nothing to you. I suppose you have been
used to it.”
This reference to his prison life made the blood rush in a red tide
into the boy’s face. He tried to speak, but could not find the words
readily, and, while he was struggling, Diego said, bitterly:
“I owed you my life that night, but you owe me yours for keeping
silence. If I had told, you would have been hanged up there,” pointing
to the yard; “so we are quits. I owe you nothing and you owe me
nothing; and I hope some day to show you what an honest boy can do to a
rogue.”
Juan answered never a word, but seemed as if he were choking as he
turned and walked slowly away.
[Illustration: “IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”]