“Suddaine they see from midst of all the maine,
The surging waters like a Mountain rise,
And the great Sea, puft up with proud Disdaine,
To swell above the measure of his guise,
Threatening to devoure all that his Powre despise.”
SPENSER.
The caravel in question was more than ordinarily frail, having been
hastily equipped with two others from the port of Tehuantepec in Mexico,
at the order of Cortez for the exploration of the continent about and
above the gulf of California. It is true, an experienced seaman named
Grijalva had been put in command, and he had been so far successful as
to have reached the twenty-ninth degree of north latitude. Thence one
vessel had been sent back with an account of his progress. The other
two continued their explorations northward, with the hope of arriving
at that kingdom so rich in precious metals, of which they had heard so
many rumors from the recently conquered Mexicans. Creeping coastwise
slowly upward, many fine bays with shores rich in verdure met their
view, but of gold they found no traces, and of inhabitants, with the
exception of an occasional glimpse of a naked savage, who ran terrified
away, they were equally unsuccessful. Yet they were navigating waters,
the tributary streams of which were literally bedded in gold. But
neither the time nor people to which this treasure was to be disclosed
had arrived. Consequently, Grijalva, with his eyes blinded to what was
constantly within his reach, saw nothing but a vast wilderness, which
promised neither wealth nor honor as the reward of further exploration.
Reluctantly, therefore, he turned his course southward. That night a
severe gale came on, and both caravels were driven far from their course
towards the southwest. It was in vain with such unseaworthy vessels that
Grijalva sought to regain the coast. The wind blew him still farther
into unknown seas, which daily became more tempestuous, until his
storm-shattered vessel sank in sight of her scarcely better conditioned
consort, engulfing all on board.
This sight for the moment chilled the hearts of the surviving crew,
and paralyzed their exertions. But Spanish seamen and the soldiers of
Cortez were too accustomed to death in every form, to long despair. They
redoubled their efforts, and by bailing and cautious steering, keeping
the vessel directly before the wind, weathered the gale, which the next
day was succeeded by the fatal calm, already described.
There were on board some twenty persons, veterans in the hardships and
conflicts of the new world. Their commander was the young man that lay
exhausted in the cabin. He spoke to the woman who now sat with his head
on her lap, while she gave him such meagre refreshment as their famished
bark afforded. His name was Juan Alvirez. Hers was Beatriz. They were
brother and sister. He had been a volunteer with Narvaez, and after his
defeat enlisted under Cortez, and was present at the siege of Mexico, and
all the subsequent expeditions of his commander, to whom he was greatly
attached. This attachment was founded in a congeniality of temperament,
which led him to emulate the heroic daring and unflinching perseverance
of Cortez, while his more powerful intellect was equally an object of
his profound admiration. With the same thirst for adventure, the same
chivalric courage, the same devotion to the Catholic worship, the same
contempt for the rights, feelings or sufferings of others so that his own
desire was gained, devout and loyal, with deep affections, easily moved
to anger or kindness, childlike in his impulses, yet strong in action,
Alvirez in most points, except judgment, might be considered a Cortez
on a small scale. Indeed, his intimacy with him, begun when Alvirez was
not twenty years of age, had, by strengthening the natural traits of
character so similar to his own, quite merged him into his commander. His
individuality was shown chiefly in executing what Cortez ordered, and in
blind though gallant acts of devotion, upon the spur of emergency, in
which prudence or generalship were not often considered.
Alvirez was frank and social. These qualities joined to his tried
bravery made him the favorite of all. Even the Mexicans who had so
often suffered from his arm, learned to distinguish and admire in him
that generous fearlessness to all danger, which pitiless to them, was
self-devoted to his own cause, and stooping to no artifice in action,
went direct to its mark, like the swoop of a hawk upon its quarry. With
them he was known as Tonatiuh, ‘the child of the sun,’ from his burning
glance and stroke as quick as light. His thirst for adventure keeping him
in continual action, he gladly volunteered to command the soldiery in the
expeditions which Cortez sent to explore and subdue the unknown regions
to the north of Mexico.
Not yet in the prime of life, we find this Spanish cavalier, faint from
exertions which had wearied out all on board, lying half helpless,
grieving over the fate of the brave seamen who had so long and skilfully
kept the little squadron afloat.
His sister Beatriz shared many of these traits with her brother. She was
as brave, self-devoted, ardent, and impulsive as he, but true womanhood
and a benevolence of heart which instinctively led her to seek the
happiness of those with whom she was, made her in conduct an altogether
different being. Deeply imbued with the Roman Catholic faith, while
she sedulously conformed to the demands of its ritual, its principles
tempered by her own native goodness and purity, reflected through her
peace and good will towards all men. Juan was all energy and action.
His will flowed from desire like a torrent, rending asunder its natural
barriers, and spreading mingled ruin and fertility in its course. Her
will was deep, calm, and sure, without noise, with no sudden movement,
but like the quiet uprising of an ocean-tide, it steadily rose, floating
all things safely higher and still higher on its bosom, until they
attained its own level. All about her felt its movement, wondered at the
effect, and welcomed the cause.
Her influence over rude men was not the result of charms that most
attract the common eye. The oval of her head was faultless. Her hair
was of ethereal softness, and seemed to take its hue and character from
her mind rather than from nature’s pigments. Considering her race, her
complexion was rare, being blonde. Warmth, firmness, decision, and much
heart-suffering, were denoted by her mouth. Her eyes spoke at will the
language of her soul, or kept its emotions as a sealed book. Yet they
were not beautiful in the strictly physical sense, being in repose
somewhat lifeless in color, but when they talked, an illumination as if
from another sphere overspread her countenance, and surrounded her entire
person with an atmosphere radiant with spirit emotion. So gentle, yet so
penetrating was her speech, that it seemed as though she breathed her
language. To the listener it was as if some delicious strain of music
had passed through him, harmonizing his whole nature. This, no doubt,
was owing rather to her purity and earnestness, as they found language
and a responsive echo and all that was true and good in others, than to
any wonderful endowment of voice. Her vital organization being acute
and generous, she was extremely susceptible to all life emotions, yet
so well-balanced was her character, which was the result of a varied
experience, garnered into wisdom, that came more from intuition than out
of the cold processes of reason, that rarely was she otherwise than the
same quiet high-toned woman, as persuasive to good by her presence, as
faithful to it by her example. None, therefore, asked her age, debated
her beauty, or questioned her motives. All, even the mercenary soldier,
the profane seamen, and the untutored Indian, felt themselves better,
happier and safer, for having her among them. Her sad, sympathizing face,
her winning speech, generous action, and noiseless, graceful carriage,
were to them more of the Madonna than of the earth-woman. Yet she was
strictly human, differing from others of her sex only in being a larger
type of God’s handiwork, with fuller capacities both to receive and give,
whether of suffering or joy. The key to her character was her invariably
following her own noble instincts, sanctioned and aided as they were
by the principles of her faith. In this respect, she was fortunate in
possessing for her confessor the priest who was with them. He was a
Dominican monk, Olmedo by name, and although attached by education to
his theology, was of enlarged and humane mind, and felt that love rather
than force was the only sure principle of conversion of the heathen to
Christianity.
Olmedo had come from Spain with the father of Alvirez, who held a post
of trust in Cuba. Thence he followed Cortez to Mexico, and on repeated
occasions had done much to soften his fanaticism, and inspire him with
a more humane policy towards the unhappy Indians. When Alvirez set out
on the present expedition, his sister and Olmedo determined to accompany
him; the former from her love for Juan, and the latter from attachment to
both, and the hope that he might find a field for missionary labor, in
which the principles that animated him and Beatriz might have free scope,
unneutralized by the brutality and excesses of the miscalled soldiers of
the Cross.
The other members of the caravel’s company need just now no special
mention, except that although bred in the Cortez school of blood and
rapine, they were, almost unconsciously to themselves, influenced much
not only by the high toned courage and unflinching perseverance of
their commander, but still more by the purer examples and earnest faith
of Beatriz and Olmedo; each of whom, as opportunity offered, sought
to deepen this impression, and to persuade them that there was truer
treasure on earth than even the gold for which they lavished their
blood, and better enjoyment to be found than in the brutal indulgence
of base passions. There was, in consequence, in most of them a devotion
to their leader and confessor, loftier and more sincere than the force
of discipline, or the ordinary inspiration of their religion, because
founded on an appeal to their hearts. For Beatriz the rudest one among
them would willingly have shed all his blood to save a drop of hers.
“May the Holy Mother receive their souls,” somewhat abruptly exclaimed
Juan, who had been musing upon the fate of Grijalva. His sister did not
reply, except by a deep sigh, feeling that silence best expressed her
sympathy with her brother’s ejaculation.
Juan and those of the crew who now remained alive, exhausted by their
sufferings and labors, soon sunk into a sound sleep. Olmedo and Beatriz
were alone left awake, and avoiding by a common instinct the past, they
talked only of their present situation and probable future. There was
nothing in their external conditions to authorize hope for maiden or
priest; yet a reliance on divine care so completely filled their hearts,
that although no light penetrated their ocean-horizon, each felt and
spoke words of encouragement to the other.
While they talked, light breezes began in variable puffs to stir the
sails. As the wind increased, it grew contrary to the course for Mexico,
yet it was balmy, and as the sea under its influence began to rise and
fall in gentle swells, the air became cooler, and the sky was gradually
interspersed with fleecy clouds which occasionally shed a little rain.
Awakening Juan and the crew, Olmedo pointed to the clouds, which,
driving before them, seemed to beckon to some unknown haven beyond. “Our
deliverance has come,” exclaimed he; “let us lose no time in welcoming
the breeze.”
“We cannot reach Mexico with this wind,” said Juan glancing aloft; then,
as his spirits revived with the brightening prospect, he gaily added,
“Let us follow whither it blows; new fields of adventure may repay us for
those we have lost.”
“My son,” solemnly replied Olmedo, “we are a feeble band, but trusting in
Him who ordereth all things, we may accept with gratitude the auspicious
breeze; not to carry us to new scenes of slaughter, but in the hope that
He who has preserved us alike from the storm and calm, reserves us for a
more noble mission.”
“What say you, Beatriz, is father Olmedo right?” asked Juan, more to hear
her voice than as desiring her opinion, which he knew would conform to
her confessor’s.
“Dear brother, our father is right. Orphans that we are, let us abandon
ourselves to the guidance of the Holy Virgin and the saints. They will
lead us to the work they have for us to do.”
To the followers of Alvirez, any course which promised a new excitement
or conquest was welcome. They therefore bestirred themselves with such
alacrity as their famished condition permitted. In a short time the
caravel was going before the wind with all the speed she was capable of,
while the crew, excepting the necessary watch, again betook themselves to
the repose they so greatly needed, and which, sustained as it now was by
hope, did much to revive their strength.