_A JACK IN OFFICE._
It was the 29th of June. There was a hush on board the Admiral's ship.
Yonder were visible the white low houses of San Domingo on the island
of Hispaniola. Around the ship the sea lay still and grey, and the
sails hung limp in the hot, heavy air.
A knot of men gathered close around a cabin, listening with lowering
brows and compressed lips to bitter groaning, and sobbing cries, that
were being wrung from one within, by his wounded soul. Well might the
old and way-worn discoverer of mighty continents feel tempted at that
moment to cry: "Hath God forgotten to be gracious?"
A storm was coming on; one of his four poor, shabby vessels--that on
which his beloved brother Bartholomew held command--was in a shattered
condition, and he had asked leave to take shelter in the harbour of the
small island he had himself given to Spain, and Spaniards had refused
him! What wonder that the noble and generous heart of the old Admiral
was wrung to its very depths! What wonder that, as Montoro leant with
Fernando against the cabin-door, the lad clenched his fists until the
nails almost cut his palms, and muttered fiercely to his boy friend:
"Fernando, ask thy father's leave. There is not a man on board will
refuse to turn our guns against those miscreants, though they were
twenty times our countrymen. Only let him give the word, and he shall
be speedily avenged."
"Ay, speedily," echoed two or three hoarse voices in the group, from
those who had caught the tenor of Montoro's passionate request, and the
Admiral's young son raised his eyes gratefully. His steadfast face was
pale with emotion, his lips trembled. Even this weak testimony to his
father was some comfort.
"I only wish," he exclaimed, struggling to speak with manly calm; "I
only wish that, as you say, the Admiral would give the word that we
should let our guns loose against the dastard hounds. We would soon
teach them a lesson they should not easily forget."
"Nay then, young Señor, how about yon fleet?" asked one of the sailors
significantly, pointing to a number of gay and gallant-looking ships at
a short distance within the harbour. "Think you, Señor Ferdinand, that
yon fleet would leave us alone if we took to avenging our insults by
bombarding the town? And they are close upon twenty to one!"
"What of that?" hastily ejaculated Montoro, his cheeks still crimson
with excitement. "God fights on the side of right and just--"
He stopped abruptly. The sounds of grief within the cabin had ceased
during this short discussion, and at this instant the door opened,
and a hand was laid on Montoro's shoulder, while the well-known slow,
distinct voice said with grave earnestness:
"That is true, my son. The great Father fights on the side of right
and justice. But He still better loves to espouse the cause of the
merciful. Instead of seeking to destroy life let us rather try to save
it, that with the measure we mete it may be measured to us again."
"That comes out of the great book I gave thee to hold the day we
started," whispered Fernando to his companion, who nodded. It had been
a favourite quotation of the benevolent old priest, Bartolo. Meantime
Christopher Columbus proceeded to give proof that he spoke not with his
lips only but from his heart.
The great fleet in the harbour of San Domingo was that which had
brought out his superseder, Ovando, a few weeks since, and it was now
in all the bustle of preparation for a speedy return to Spain with
crowds of home-going adventurers, many ill-wishers to the just and
virtuous discoverer, numbers of prisoners Spanish and native, and an
immense amount of gold, pearls, and other treasures, well-nigh every
ounce of which had cost a life.
On board this fleet were the Admiral's most bitter enemies; on board
its grandest vessel was the narrow-minded, mean-spirited upstart,
Bobadilla, who, to the ever-enduring disgrace of his own name and of
his country, had dared to send the great seaman, the great thinker,
the man of unbounded hopes, enthusiasm, courage, endurance, and
magnanimity--the man who to Bobadilla was as a lion to a rat--had dared
to send this giant hero home in chains like a vile malefactor but two
years before, and had covetously grasped at his possessions, impudently
installing himself in the house of his patient victim, and laying
greedy hands upon his arms, gold, plate, jewels, horses, books, and
even his letters and precious manuscripts.
Against that fleet, with all its proud sumptuousness contrasted with
the miserable little squadron granted to Columbus, and against his base
enemies on board, the company on board his own ship considered that he
had a full right to feel the most vengeful wrath. It was not Montoro
only who could scarcely believe his ears when, after the pause of a
few moments following his sacred quotation--moments devoted to further
keen, close scrutiny of those weather signs in which he was so deeply
skilled--the Admiral summoned forward the crew of the boat that had
just returned, and despatched them with a second message to the new
governor Ovando, to entreat him to save the fleet from the certainly
approaching storm, by a few days' delay of their departure.
"Better to leave them to meet their fate as they leave us," muttered
Montoro, with the yet unconquered passion of his nature. But once again
that firm touch came upon his shoulder. The Admiral's quick ears had
caught the growl, low as it was.
"My son," he said quietly, "you shall go with my messengers. That will
be a fitting rebuke for you, will it not," he added with a grave
smile, "for uttering opinions contrary to those of your commander, and
contrary to those of the Divine Ruler of the universe?"
Obeying a sudden impulse of veneration, Diego snatched the aged hand
in his own, and pressed it to his lips. "I can never attain to your
generosity, Señor," he murmured, "nor be thus forgiving to those
wrongfully my enemies."
Just as the boat was starting, Ferdinand Columbus bent over the ship's
side, and called mischievously:
"Diego, there, hark ye!"
"Ay, what is it then?" asked Montoro, as he lifted his head, resting
on his oar the while. "What news hast thou since I left thee and the
caravel?"
"Great news," was the mischievous answer. "My father gives me leave to
tell thee that, since thou art doubtless feared by reason of the coming
storm, he will obtain permission at least for such a whipper-snap as
thou to abide on shore."
That quick, unmanageable spirit of Montoro's was set all ablaze for
a moment at the supposed imputation of cowardice; and he was about
to shout back an answer little in accordance with his late act of
reverence, but Diego Mendez, the officer in command of the little
embassy, hastily clapped his hand over the lad's mouth, as he said with
a short laugh:
"Nay now, art thou not a very fool to be so taken in? Dost thou not see
by thy tormentor's face that the brain of no Columbus but himself made
up that message for thee?"
The friendly intervention was timely. When Fernando called down
again--"Say then, dost accept the offer?"--his companion's face was
brimming over with merriment like his own, as the retort was shouted up:
"Ha, Fernando, my good Señor, thou art but a sorry messenger. My
absent ears have caught the purport of thy father's words better than
thy present ones. The Admiral's message to me is, that since thou art
feared, I must obtain a leave to land for thee. I bid thee, then, calm
thy quaking heart, since I will not fail. Adios."
"And a slap o' the ear for thee when thou returnest," was the answering
shout; and then the boat cast off, and was rowed with vigorous strokes
to that once fertile, but already so dismal and desolated island of
Hispaniola, the head-quarters of cruelty, lawlessness, suffering, and
rapacity.
Montoro was very quickly to have a specimen of the deeds that had
brought the island to its present wretched condition.
As the boat approached the strand, crowds of idlers gathered about,
some to give the new-comers welcome, more to express their contemptuous
dislike of the Admiral by covert sneers or openly-expressed scorn
bestowed upon his followers.
There, flaunting in silks and brocades, which not even the proudest
hidalgos dared any longer wear in Spain, stood half-a-dozen men, who
had been loosed from richly-deserved felons' dungeons at home, to serve
as colonists for the New World. Near them, reclining in a sumptuous
litter, borne upon the bleeding shoulders of four of the meek-spirited
and unhappy natives, was an ignorant, cunning rascal, whom Montoro had
himself seen carried off to prison for theft in El Cuevo. Now he lay
there in all the insolent dignity of riches, with a palm-leaf umbrella
borne over his head by one slave, whilst another sickly-looking
creature fanned him.
Closer to the edge of the soft-lapping waters was a real Spanish Don,
whose poverty-stricken estate had driven him to hide his thread-bare
pride in exile. To indemnify himself for leaving his beloved Castile,
he spent his whole time and thoughts on the island in squeezing wealth,
almost, as it seemed, even out of its very stones. His slaves died off
day by day, very nearly as soon as they were allotted to him; but that
was nought to their owner, so long as with the remnants of their dying
strength they reaped his harvests, and brought up gold for him from the
mines. They were to him as machines for making riches; and when one of
the machines wore out, it must be tossed aside to make room for another.
But with all Don Alfonzo's heartless barbarities to his miserable
victims, he had a warm corner in his callous heart for his own
countrymen, whoever they might be. All Spaniards were friends to Don
Alfonzo, while the ocean lay between him and his home. He watched the
progress of the incoming boat with eyes almost as eager as those with
which, week by week, he counted his golden gains; and when, from the
shallowness of the water, the rowers had to stop some way short of
dry ground, he looked round hastily for some one whom he could order
off for their assistance. None of his own people were in sight, but a
weak, wan-faced Indian lay beside him, and him the nobleman immediately
commanded to rise, and go into the water to help drag up the boat.
With a moan the poor creature began to obey, but too slowly to suit the
despotic impatience of the Spaniard.
"Hurry thy lazy carcase, then, thou black-skinned dog," he exclaimed
imperiously; and to enforce his words he raised a bamboo cane he held,
and brought it down with a fierce swish through the air, which told
its own tale of what its effect should be if it came in contact with
the native's tender flesh. As the cane rose the Indian crouched with a
low, pitiful cry, which was echoed with an added note of indignation by
Montoro from the boat.
The next moment Montoro sprang to his feet with a second cry of
impulsive admiration. The stinging slash of that bamboo cane had come
down upon the arm of a young Spaniard, who had stretched it out as a
cover for the helpless Indian; and then, when the arm had performed
its allotted task, it was quietly withdrawn, terribly cut as it must
have been, and folded over its owner's chest, who as quietly turned and
confronted Don Alfonzo.
"It is the command of our Sovereign, Queen Isabella," he said firmly,
"that the Indians be treated with humanity, and according to law."
"Who is that?" asked Montoro, as he sprang on to the sandy shore, and
pointed out the young man who had made his arm serve so readily for
another man's shield.
Shyness was never one of Montoro Diego's failings; and now curiosity
and a generous admiration made him put his question eagerly to the
first person he came up to. All he got at first was a return question
to match his own, a good-humoured:
"And pray, then, who are you? If you're come to work you are welcome;
if you have come to make others work, you may as well be off again, for
there are more than enough of that sort here already."
"I am going off again," replied Diego laughing. "I have not come to
stay; not just yet, at least. But do tell me who that young Señor is."
"Well, he's a crack-brained young Señor, to begin with," was the reply,
with a shrug of the shoulders. "His name is Bartholomew Las Casas,
and he's only been out here a few weeks. He came out with Ovando. His
father came out here before, with the Admiral himself."
Montoro grew still more interested.
"But why do you call him crack-brained?"
"Because he is crack-brained. Crazy as he can be about what he calls
the wrongs of the black rascals out here. His father took one over for
him to have as his own in Spain, five or six years ago, and comfortable
enough the fellow was with such a soft-hearted master. Then comes the
royal order that there are to be no more of these Indian slaves in
Spain; that they are not cruelly to be kept from their own country,
and they are forthwith all packed back again, to be grabbed at as fast
as they arrive, and worked to quick deaths in the mines. Meantime, our
young Señor Las Casas has been taught to think a whole host of nonsense
about their miseries, and his duties of relieving them. If he uses his
arms as their covers in his fashion just now he'll pretty soon need
some one to relieve him.”
"Ay, verily," murmured Montoro musingly as he turned away from his
informant and rejoined his companions. The history of his own family's
wrongs had made him more keenly alive to the wrongs of others. He had
a generous feeling of envy that it had been the arm of the young Las
Casas, and not his own, that had taken the blow for the Indian. But, as
the great American poet says,
"A boy's will is the wind's will."
Before half-an-hour had passed Montoro's will had veered round once
more--from a desire to relieve injuries to a desire to inflict them.
For humanity's sake Columbus had sent urgent warnings and entreaties
that the departure of the fleet might be delayed a few days, to avoid
the coming storm. And for his charity he received contempt. The
Governor and his counsellors looked at the quiet sky, the calm sea,
they felt the soft breeze on their cheeks, and the contemptuous answer
was sent back:
"In this year of grace dreamers of dreams are out of fashion."
"When I see the Admiral's letters patent as the authorized reader of
the heavens, and the interpreter of its signs," said the Governor
haughtily, "doubtless he will find me an obedient pupil. Meantime I
prefer instruction when I ask for it."
"He and all the rest of them deserve to be drowned if they are not,"
said Diego Mendez indignantly, as he returned with his party to the
boat, and put back to the ship.
Montoro's thoughts flew back to the cannon on board. He felt just then
as if nothing on earth would so well satisfy him as to see them pointed
at the Governor's house, to see their flash, to hear their roar, and to
witness the wholesale destruction they could cause.
"Why was there no young Las Casas to avenge this insult to the Admiral?"
But there was One mightier than Las Casas to do that, One whose
artillery was mightier than the cannon in which Montoro put such
confidence. Two days passed, and then the tropical storm burst in
all its fury. To such poor, unforbidden shelter as he could find the
Admiral had guided his battered little squadron, and there he and his
followers waited, and watched the gathering gloom of earth and sea and
air and sky; and well it might seem to some of those watchers that a
spirit of retributive wrath was brooding over the scene of cruelty,
treachery, and insolence.
"It will require all their seamanship to ride out the coming
hurricane," said the pilot, Antonio de Alaminos, on the second day, as
he regarded somewhat dubiously their own quarters.
And Diego Mendez answered moodily:
"I should heave no sigh if they and their ill-gotten wealth went to the
bottom of the deep before mine eyes; but I do grieve to have heard that
on the craziest of their barques they are carrying home the Admiral's
gold, the poor remnant of his rents they have permitted him."
"Never have care for that, Señor," said the young Fernando earnestly.
"It is my father's, and it will be kept safe for him."
"It is as well that thou canst console thyself with that belief, any
way," muttered the man, as the boy went off to where Columbus was
already issuing orders, needed by the sudden wild gusts of wind that
came as forerunners of the tempest.
Then came the wild roar and whirl, and darkness made more awful by the
fiery flashes that momentarily illumined the terrors of the scene.
On land trees uprooted, houses flung into ruins as though made by
children's hands of cards, the fields of maize changed as in an instant
from fields of gold to grey, scorched deserts. Living beings struck at
a breath into corpses; others crushed in the downfall of their homes.
And at sea those four poor cranky vessels, which were all a great
country could afford its great benefactor, tossing and toiling in the
boiling sea.
Now the waters would seethe as though some hideous cauldron, prepared
by evil spirits for some demon feast, and the doomed vessels shook
through every plank and spar as though with living horror. And then,
with a sudden shock the waters would rush together, and mount wildly
into mountain waves crowned with crests of foam.
The ships lost sight of each other. Sailors and adventurers all
gave themselves up for death. In a delirium of fear they confessed
their sins to whoever would heed the dismal catalogue. Ave Marias,
invocations of the saints, and such fragments of Scripture as they
knew, were groaned forth on all sides, rather as invocations than
prayers, as the days went by, and still the furious battle of nature
raged.
The fellow to that storm not even the veteran navigator of all seas
had experienced before. At times during the blackness of the night it
would seem to the affrighted mariners as though hell itself had opened
its jaws to swallow them. Making a pathway for themselves through the
darkness, the raging billows would suddenly rush onwards brilliant with
light, and surround the ship and its awe-struck occupants with a sea
of flame. For a day and night the heavens glowed as a furnace; and the
reverberating peals of thunder sounded to the distracted sailors as the
last despairing cries from the other ships of their sinking comrades.
What was becoming of the wretched, foolhardy creatures on board
Ovando's proud fleet they had no longer care to think. Drenched with
the ceaseless sheet of rain, which poured down day and night throughout
that long week of storm continually, exhausted with toil, worn with
fears, Columbus and his company were to be still further tried by the
majestic terrors of those southern seas.
Wildly tossed as was the whole ocean, it suddenly became observed, with
deepening dread, that in one spot the agitation was still redoubled.
Even as they looked the waters reared themselves higher and yet higher,
grim and terrible as a giant pillar of molten lead; while a livid cloud
bent down from the heavens to meet it. Thus joining, and ever gathering
fresh size and force as it sucked up the waves in its headlong course,
the dreadful column rushed on towards the ships.
The Admiral came forth from his cabin with the iron-clasped Bible open
in his hands, to exorcise the evil spirit abroad for their destruction.
Men hardened in callousness fell on their knees in silent prayer.
Antonio de Alaminos stood gazing with fixed eyes at the invincible
enemy. His skill and knowledge were powerless in the presence of that
foe. As he stood there waiting for the end he was startled by a voice
beside him so clear, so calm, that it was distinct even in the midst of
that wild tumult.
"Alaminos, thinkest thou that we shall live through the storm?"
Starting, the pilot turned his gaze for a moment from the advancing
column, and exclaimed:
"Montoro! boy, hast thou no fears?"
"None," was the low, soft answer of his lips. "None," was the answer
of his rapt, earnest eyes, full of a beautiful awe and reverence. "He
holds the storm in His hand, and us."
Even as the boy spoke the vessel swerved, the waterspout passed on
beside it, and they were safe.
"The Admiral's Bible has saved us," exclaimed the mariners, as wild
with joy as they had been with fear.
Alaminos, the pilot, looked at Montoro de Diego, and said nothing. For
the first time in his life the thought had stolen into his mind whether
the faith to be learnt from the teaching of the Bible might not be a
more precious thing than even its print and paper.
The force of the long-protracted tempest was at length spent; the
sea subsided, and Columbus's scattered caravals, none of them lost,
gathered together again to offer thanks to God for their preservation,
and to seek the shelter and refreshment no longer denied them, in the
ports of Hispaniola.
The storm had passed, but it had left behind it sorrow and shame and
gloom on the countenances of Ovando the Governor, and those about him.
The gay, grand fleet, despatched against the Admiral's advice, was
lost, with all those many hundreds of souls on board, and all that
wealth. The Admiral's enemies had perished; Bobadilla, the mutinous
Roldan, and many another. Those gallant ships were gone. Only that
poor, mean, weak little barque, inferior to all its consorts, that had
been thought good enough to carry the Admiral's grudged revenue, that
lived through the storm, and took its little treasure safe into the
Spanish port.
"It is my father's; I told you that God would guard it," said Fernando
Colon, some months later, when the strange, good news of that survivor
reached his ears.