FINDING young Sancho upon the _Marigalante_, I kept him beside me for
information’s sake. He, too, had his stories. And he asked me how Pedro
and Fernando died.
In this ship were two sets of captives, animals brought from Spain and
Indians from those fiercer islands to the south. The _Monsalvat_ that
was a freight ship had many animals, said Sancho, cattle and swine and
sheep and goats and cocks and hens, and thirty horses. But upon the
_Marigalante_, well-penned, the Admiral had a stallion and two mares,
a young bull and a couple of heifers, and two dogs--bloodhounds. The
Caribs were yonder, five men in all.
He took me to see them. They were tall, strong, sullen and desperate in
aspect, hardier, fiercer than Indians of these northward lands. But they
were Indians, and their guttural speech could be made out, at least in
substance. They asked with a high, contemptuous look when we meant to
slay and eat them.
“They eat men’s flesh, every Caribal of them! We saw horrid things in
Guadaloupe!”
Away from these men sat or stood seven women. “They were captives,” said
Sancho. “Caribs had ravished them from other islands and they fled in
Guadaloupe to us.”
These women, too, seemed more strongly fibred, courageous, high of head
than the Hayti women. There was among them one to whom the others gave
deference, a chieftainess, strong and warlike in mien, not smoothly
young nor after their notions beautiful, but with an air of sagacity
and pride. A ship boy stood with us. “That is Catalina,” he said. “Ho,
Catalina!”
The woman looked at him with disdain and what she said was, “Young fool
with fool-gods!”
“They came to us for refuge,” said Sancho. “We think they are Amazons.
There was an island where they fought us like men--great bow-women! Don
Alonso de Ojeda first called this one Catalina, so now we all call her
Catalina. At first they liked us, but now that they are safe away from
Caribs--all but these five and they can’t hurt them--they sit and pine!
I call it ungrateful, Catalina!”
We moved away. There came from the great cabin where they had wine and
fine sweet cakes the Admiral and Guacanagari, with them Don Diego and
three or four cavaliers. Guarin was not with the cacique, upon the
_Marigalante_. He would not come. I had a vision of him, in the forest,
seated motionless, communing with the deepest self to which he could
reach, seeking light with the other light-seekers.
Christopherus Columbus beckoned me and I went the round of the ship
with him and others and his guest, this far-away son of Great India. So,
presently, he was taken to view the horses and the cattle. Whoever hath
seen lions brought to a court for show hath seen some shrinking from
too-close and heard timorous asking if the bars be really strong. And
the old, wild beasts at Rome for the games. If one came by chance upon
them in a narrow quarter there might be terror. And the bull that we
goad to madness for a game in Spain--were barriers down would come
a-scrambling! This cacique had never seen an animal larger than a fox
or a dog, Yet he stood with steadiness, though his glance shot here and
there. The stallion was restless and fiery-eyed; the bull sent forth a
bellow. “Why do they come? What will they do here? Will you put them in
the forest? The people will be afraid to wander!”
He looked away to sky and sea and shore. “It grows toward night,” he
said. “I will go back to my town.”
The Admiral said, “I would first show you the Caribs,” and took him
there where they were bound. The Haytien regarded them, but the Caribs
were as contemptuously silent as might have been Alonso de Ojeda in like
circumstances. Only as Guacanagari turned away, one spoke in a fierce,
monotonous voice. “You also, Haytien, one moon!”
“You lie! Only Caribs!” Guacanagari said back.
The cacique stood before the woman whom they called Catalina. She broke
into speech. It was cacique to cacique. She was from Boriquen--she would
return in a canoe if she were free! Better drown than live with the
utterly un-understandable--only that they ate and drank and laid hold
of women whether these would or would not, and were understandable that
far! Gods! At first she thought them gods; now she doubted. They
were magicians. If she were free--if she were free--if she were
free! Home--Boriquen! If not that, at least her own color and the
understandable!
Guacanagari stood and listened. She spoke so fast--the Admiral never
became quite perfect in Indian tongues, and few upon the _Marigalante_
were so at this time. Juan Lepe understood. But just as he was thinking
that in duty bound he must say to the Admiral, “She is undermining
reputation. Best move away!” Guacanagari made a violent gesture as
though he would break a spell. “Where could they come from with all that
they have except from heaven? Who can plan against gods? It is sin to
think of it! _El Almirante_ will make you happy, Boriquen woman!”
We left the women. But Guacanagari himself was not happy, as he had been
that Christmas-tide when first the gods came, when the _Santa Maria_ was
wrecked and he gave us hospitality.
The Admiral did not see that he was unhappy. The Admiral saw always a
vast main good, and he thought it pearl and gold in every fiber. As yet,
he saw no rotted string, no snarl to be untangled. It was his weakness,
and maybe, too, his strength.
The sunset hung over this roadstead and the shore. The mountains glowed
in it, the nearer wood fell dark, the beach showed milky white, a knot
of palms upon a horn of land caught full gold and shone as though they
were in heaven. Over upon the _Cordera_ they were singing. The long
cacique-canoe shot out from the shadow of the _Marigalante_.
Sun dipped, night cupped hands over the world. The long day of
excitement was over. Mariners slept, adventurers gentle and simple, the
twelve friars and Father Buil. Seventeen ships, nigh fifteen hundred
men of Europe, swinging with the tide before the land we were to make
Spanish.
The watch raised a cry. Springing from his bed Juan Lepe came on deck
to find there confusion, and under the moon in the clear water, swimming
forms, swimming from us in a kind of desperate haste and strength. There
was shouting to man the boat. One jostling against me cried that they
were the captive Indians. They had broken bonds, lifted hatch, knocked
down the watch, leaped over side. Another shouted. No, the Caribs were
safe. These were the women--
The women--seven forms might be made out--were
not far from land. I felt tingling across to me their hope and fear. Out
of ship shadow shot after them our boat. Strongly rowed, it seemed to
gain, but they made speed strongly, strongly. The boat got into trouble
with the shallows. The swimmers now stood and ran, now were racers; in
a moment they would touch the dry, the shining beach. Out of boat sprang
men running after them, running across low white lines of foam. The
women, that strong woman cacique ahead, left water, raced across sand
toward forest. Two men were gaining, they caught at the least swift
woman. The dark, naked form broke from them, leaped like a hurt deer and
running at speed passed with all into the ebony band that was forest.
Alonso de Ojeda burst into a great laugh. “Well done, Catalina!”
The Admiral’s place could ever be told by his head over all. Moreover
his warm, lifted, powerfully pulsing nature was capable of making around
him a sphere that tingled and drew. One not so much saw him as felt him,
here, there. Now I stood beside him where he leaned over rail. “Gone,”
he said. “They are gone!” He drew a deep breath. I can swear that he,
too, felt an inner joy that they had escaped clutching.
But in the morning he sent ashore a large party under his brother, Don
Diego. We received another surprise. No Indians on the beach, none
in the forest, and when they came to the village, only houses, a few
parrots and the gardens, dewy fresh under the sun’s first streaming. No
Indians there, nor man nor woman nor child, not Guacanagari, not Guarin,
not Catalina and her crew--none! They were gone, and we knew not where,
Quisquaya being a huge country, and the paths yet hidden from us or of
doubtful treading. But the heaped mountains rose before us, and Juan
Lepe at least could feel assured that they were gone there. They
vanished and for long we heard nothing of them, not of Guacanagari, nor
of Guarin who had saved Juan Lepe, not of Catalina, nor any.
This neighborhood, La Navidad and the shipwreck of the _Santa Maria_,
burned Guarico and now this empty village, perpetual reminder that in
some part our Indian subjects liked us not so well as formerly and
could not be made Christian with a breath, grew no longer to our
choice. Something of melancholy overhung for the Admiral this part of
Hispaniola. He was seeking a site for a city, but now he liked it not
here. The seventeen ships put on sail and, a stately flight of birds
greater than herons, pursued their way, easterly now, along the coast of
Hispaniola.
Between thirty and forty leagues from the ruin of La Navidad opened to
us a fair, large harbor where two rivers entered the sea. There was
a great forest and bright protruding rock, and across the south the
mountains. When we landed and explored we found a small Indian village
that had only vaguely heard that gods had descended. Forty leagues
across these forests is a long way. They had heard a rumor that the
cacique of Guarico liked the mighty strangers and Caonabo liked them
not, but as yet knew little more. The harbor, the land, the two rivers
pleased us. “Here we will build,” quoth the Viceroy, “a city named
Isabella.”