GOLD AND GLORY
OR,
WILD WAYS OF OTHER DAYS
A TALE OF EARLY AMERICAN DISCOVERY
BY GRACE STEBBING
_Author of "Silverdale Rectory," "Only a Tramp," etc._
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
New York
THOMAS WHITTAKER
2 AND 3, BIBLE HOUSE.
INTRODUCTION.
Only an apology for having written this historical tale.
My private opinion is, that all writers of historical tales should
return me thanks if I apologize for them with myself, all in a body,
the truer the tale the ampler being the spirit of the apology.
While I have been writing this tale, sometimes in its most important
or serious portions, I have been startled by detecting my own mouth
widening with an absurd smile, or by hearing a ridiculous chuckle
issuing from my own lips, and have suddenly discovered that I was quite
unconsciously repeating to myself the famous old Scotch anecdote of the
old woman and the Scotch preacher--"That's good, and that's Robertson;
and that's good, and that's Chalmers; ... and that's bad, and that's
himsel'."
Turning the old woman into the more learned among my possible readers,
and the Scotch preacher into myself, I read the anecdote--"That's good,
and that's Prescott; that's good, and that's Robertson; that's good,
and that's guide-book; that's good, and that's Arthur Helps; and that's
bad, and that's hersel'."
I can only wind up my apology by pleading, that at least my badness has
not gone the length of distorting a single fact, nor of giving to this
wonderful page of history any touch of false colouring.
G. S.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. _A POISON-FLY FOR THE HEART OF ARAGON_
CHAPTER II. _CONSPIRATORS_
CHAPTER III. _RIVALS AT DON PHILIP'S HOUSE_
CHAPTER IV. _THINKING OF EXILE_
CHAPTER V. _DEATH FOR ARBUES DE EPILA_
CHAPTER VI. _SANCHO'S BROKEN VICTUALS_
CHAPTER VII. _CONSULTING A SWEET TOOTH_
CHAPTER VIII. _A POWERFUL FRIEND_
CHAPTER IX. _FROM THE NEW PRINTING PRESS_
CHAPTER X. _A JACK IN OFFICE_
CHAPTER XI. _THE FIRST FIND_
CHAPTER XII. _SURGEON TO THE REDSKINS_
CHAPTER XIII. _FOR LIFE OR DEATH_
CHAPTER XIV. _MASTER PEDRO'S DOGS IN DANGER_
CHAPTER XV. _NOISE TO THE RESCUE_
CHAPTER XVI. _I AM 'DON ALONZO'_
CHAPTER XVII. _GOOD OLD DON_
CHAPTER XVIII. _DEATH FOR DON_
CHAPTER XIX. _THE WAY TO TREAT THE REDSKINS_
CHAPTER XX. _THE MASSACRE AT CAONAO_
CHAPTER XXI. _THE PATRIOT CACIQUE HATUEY_
CHAPTER XXII. _ANOTHER STORM FOR THE PILOT ALAMINOS_
CHAPTER XXIII. _A SYMBOL WITH TWO MEANINGS_
CHAPTER XXIV. _KINDRED FEELING_
CHAPTER XXV. _MONTORO DE DIEGO TURNS HANGMAN_
CHAPTER XXVI. _CORTES BURNS HIS SHIPS_
CHAPTER XXVII. _MONTORO LEADS A CHANT_
CHAPTER XXVIII. _THE GODS MUST AVENGE THEMSELVES_
CHAPTER XXIX. _MONTORO AND CABRERA RESCUE A HUMAN SACRIFICE_
CHAPTER XXX. _TOO USEFUL TO BE KILLED_
CHAPTER XXXI. _ONCE FOR ALL--THEY SHALL CEASE_
CHAPTER XXXII. _ON THE ROAD TO MEXICO_
CHAPTER XXXIII. _THE CAUSE ONCE MORE IN JEOPARDY_
CHAPTER XXXIV. _AN INDIAN GIRL-CHAMPION_
CHAPTER XXXV. _THE TLASCALAN KNIGHT'S PROBATION_
CHAPTER XXXVI. _ACROSS THE CAUSEWAY_
CHAPTER XXXVII. _ESCALANTE'S FATE DECIDES IT_
CHAPTER XXXVIII. _THE DOWNFALL OF AN EMPIRE_
CHAPTER XXXIX. _HOMEWARD BOUND_
CHAPTER XL. _REINSTATED_
GOLD AND GLORY,
OR
Wild Ways of other Days.
CHAPTER I.
_A POISON-FLY FOR THE HEART OF ARAGON._
In an apartment, gorgeous with a magnificence that owed something of
its style to Moorish influence, were gathered, one evening, a number of
stern-browed companions.
A group of men, whose dark eyes and olive complexions proclaimed their
Spanish nationality, as their haughty mien and the splendour of their
attire bore evidence to their noble rank.
The year was 1485: a sad year for Aragon was that of 1485, and above
all terrible for Saragossa. But as yet only the half, indeed not quite
the half, of the year had gone by, when those Spanish grandees were
gathered together, and when one of them muttered beneath his breath,
fiercely:
"It is not the horror of it only, that sets one's brain on fire. It is
the shame!"
And those around him echoed--"It is the shame."
During the past year, 1484, his Most Catholic Majesty, King Ferdinand
of the lately-united kingdoms of Castile and Aragon, had forced upon
his proud, independent-spirited Aragonese a new-modelled form of the
Inquisition. The Inquisition had, indeed, been one of the institutions
of the noble little kingdom for over two hundred years already, but in
the free air of Aragon it had been rather an admonisher to orderliness
and good manners than a deadly foe to liberty. Now, all this was
changed. The stern and bitter-spirited Torquemada took care of that.
The new Inquisition was fierce, relentless, suspicious, grasping,
avaricious, deadly. And in their hearts the haughty, freedom-loving
Aragonese loathed its imperious domination even more than they dreaded
its cruelty.
"It was not the horror of it only," said Montoro de Diego truly, "that
made their eyes burn, and sent the tingling blood quivering into their
hands. It was the shame."
And those others around him, even to Don James of Navarre, the King
Ferdinand's own nephew, echoed the words with clenched hands, and
between clenched teeth--
"It is the shame!"
But what cared Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, that mortal wounds
should be inflicted on the noblest instincts of human nature? or what
cared his tools in Aragon? Crushed, broken-spirited men would be all
the easier to handle--all the easier to plunder or destroy.
Montoro de Diego had been one of the deputation sent by the Cortes to
the fountain-head, as it was then believed, of all truth and mercy and
justice, to implore release from the new infliction; for whilst one
deputation had gone to the king himself, to implore him to abolish his
recent innovation, another, headed by Diego, had gone to the pope. But
the embassy was fruitless. The pope wanted money, and burning rich
Jews, and wealthy Aragonese suspected of heretical tendencies, put
their property into the papal coffers. The pope very decidedly refused
to give up this new and easy way of making himself and his friends
rich. The king's refusal was equally peremptory, and the deputations
returned with dark brows and heavy hearts to those anxiously awaiting
them.
The burnings and confiscations had already begun.
Soon after Diego and his companions entered the city of Saragossa they
encountered a great procession, evidently one of importance judging
from the sumptuousness of the ecclesiastics' dresses, their numbers,
and the crowds of attendants surrounding them, crucifix-bearers,
candle-bearers, incense-bearers, and others. There was no especial
Saint's Day or Festival named in the Calendar for that date, and for a
few moments the returning travellers were puzzled. But the procession
advanced, and the mystery was solved.
In the centre of the gorgeous train moved a group so dismal, so
heart-rending to look upon, that it must have rained tears down the
cheeks of the Inquisitors themselves, had they not steeled their hearts
with the impenetrable armour of a cold, utter selfishness.
Deadly pale, emaciated, unwashed, uncombed, with wrists and fingers
twisted and broken, and limping feet, came the members of this group
clad in coarse yellow garments embroidered with scarlet crosses, and a
hideous adornment of red flames and devils. Some few of the tortured
victims of base or bigoted cruelty were on their way to receive such a
pardon as consisted in the fine of their entire fortunes, or life-long
imprisonment; the others--they were to afford illuminations for the
day's ceremonies with their own burning bodies. For each member of
the wretched group there was the added burden of knowing that they
were leaving behind them names that were to be loaded with infamy, and
families reduced to the lowest depths of beggary.
"And all," muttered a voice beside Diego's elbow, "for the crime, real
or suspected, or imputed, of having Jewish blood in their veins."
"Say rather," fiercely muttered back the noble--"say rather, for the
crime of having gold and lands, which will so stick to the hands of the
Inquisitors, that the king's troops in Granada will keep the Lenten
fast the year through, before a sack of grain is bought for them out of
those new funds."
"Ay," answered the unknown voice, "the Señor saith truth, unless there
shall be hearts stout enough, and hands daring enough, to rid our
Aragon of yon fiend Arbues de Epila."
Montoro de Diego turned with an involuntary start to look at the
speaker of such daring words. For even though they had been uttered in
low cautious tones they betokened an almost mad audacity, during those
late spring days when the very breath of the warm air seemed laden with
accusations, bringing death and ruin to the worthiest of the land, at
the mandate of that very Arbues.
But Diego's eyes encountered nothing more important than the wondering
brown orbs of a little beggar child, who was taking the whole imposing
spectacle in with artistic delight, unmixed with any idea of horror,
and who was evidently astonished at the agitated aspect of his tall
companion, and irritated too, that the Señor should thus stand barring
the way, instead of passing on with the rest of the rabble-rout
trailing after the procession.
Whoever had ventured to express his fury against the new Inquisitor of
Saragossa, it was evidently not this curly-headed little urchin, and
with a somewhat impatient gesture of disappointment the noble turned
away in search of his companions. But they also had disappeared.
Carried away by the excitement or curiosity of the moment, they also
had joined in the dread procession of the Auto da Fé.