When Ovid describes the memorable encounter between Perseus and the
great sea-monster of Ethiopia, he is at the pains to narrate with what
fury the creature _snapped at the shadow_ of the flying hero,--a
circumstance of trivial importance in itself, though both striking and
characteristic; nay, he even relates how the warrior, at the first sight
of the fair Andromeda, chained to the rock, and waiting to be devoured,
was so moved with admiration that he forgot, for an instant, to flap his
wings,--another detail of more fitness than moment. Thus stooping to the
consideration of trifles, the poet does not scruple entirely to pass by
matters of the most palpable consequence. He disdains, for example, to
tell us even whether the monster _died_ or not in the encounter, leaving
that to be inferred; and, in like manner, he scorns even to answer the
question that might have been anticipated, namely, _why_ Perseus, like a
sensible soldier, did not whip out his gorgon's head, instead of his
'crooked sword,' and, by turning the beast into stone, save himself the
trouble of despatching him with his steel.
The writer of historical works, like the present, must claim the
privilege of the poet, and be allowed, while expatiating on events of
interest so inferior that they have been almost rejected by his
predecessors, to leave many others of manifest importance to be
supplied, not indeed by the imagination, but by the learning of the
reader. Our only desire is to follow the adventures of two individuals,
so obscure and so unfortunate, that the worthy and somewhat
over-conscientious Bernal Diaz del Castillo has despatched the whole
history of the first in the few vague fragments which we have prefixed
to the story; while he has scrupulously abstained from saying a single
word of the second.
If the reader will turn to the pages of this conscientious historian, of
De Solis, or of Clavigero, he will be made acquainted with the stirring
exploits of the eight or nine weeks that followed after the arrest of
Juan Lerma. In this time, the Captain-General, at the head of all the
Spaniards, save those who were left in garrison at Tezcuco, and the few
sailors and shipwrights who remained in the dock-yards, to preside over
Indian artificers, compelled to work at the brigantines--in this time,
we say, and at the head of this force, assisted by many thousand
Tlascalans, Cortes commenced and completed the circuit of the whole
valley, storming and burning cities and towns without number, resisted
valiantly in all that were not disaffected, and sometimes, as at the
city of Tacuba, repulsed with great loss and no little dishonour. The
whole campaign abounds with singular and exciting incidents, of which,
however, it does not suit our purpose to mention any but one, and that
almost in a word. At the city of Xochimilco, or the Garden of Flowers,
(for this is the signification of the word,) where the resistance was
sanguinary and noble, though, in the end, ineffectual, Cortes was
wounded, surrounded, struck down from his horse, which was killed, and
he himself, for a moment, a prisoner; and he owed his life and liberty
only to the extraordinary valour of Gaspar Olea of the Red Beard, who,
with the help of a few resolute Tlascalans, succeeded in bringing him
off. The aid thus rendered by Olea was the more remarkable, since, from
the moment of Juan's arrest, he had become sullen, morose, and was
sometimes even charged to be mutinous. In this last imputation, however,
as far as it implied any treasonable thoughts or practices, the rude
Gaspar was wronged. His dissatisfaction was caused solely by the fall
and anticipated fate of his young captain. The heinousness of Juan's
crime--the drawing his sword upon an officer in the execution of his
duty, as Guzman had been, and, worse yet, the aiming of that at the
breast of the General--had left it, apparently, impossible to be
forgiven. It was universally expected that Juan would expiate the crime
with his life; and the only wonder was, that he had not been immediately
tried, condemned, and executed. His destiny was therefore anticipated
with more curiosity than doubt, and apparently with less pity than
either. Gaspar did not attempt to deny Juan's guilt; but when he
remembered the sufferings and perils they had shared together, his heart
burned with fury, to think how soon the brave and well-beloved youth
should die the death of a caitiff. His dissatisfaction expended itself
in anger towards the Captain-General; and hence the surprise of his
comrades at his act of daring and generosity. But Gaspar had his own
ends in view, when he saved the life of Cortes.
It was now many weeks since his arrest, and Juan yet lay in
imprisonment, ignorant not so much of his fate, as of the causes which
delayed it. On the fourth day of his captivity, he was apprized, by the
sound of trumpets and artillery, the cries of men, and the neighing of
horses, and, in general, by the prodigious bustle which accompanies the
setting-out of an army from a populous city, that some enterprise was
meditated and begun; but of its character he was kept wholly ignorant.
The custody of his person seemed to be committed to Villafana and the
hunchback Najara, conjointly; but it was observable, that, although
Najara frequently entered his den alone, Villafana never made his
appearance without being accompanied by the Corcobado.
From Najara he gained not a word of intelligence, the hunchback ever
replying to his questions with scowls, or with pithy sarcasms in
allusion to the crimes of treason and mutiny. From Villafana, attended,
and, as it seemed to Juan, watched, by the jealous Najara, he obtained
nothing but unmeaning nods of the head, and sometimes looks, too
significant to be doubted, and yet too oraculous to be understood.
After the first fortnight, Villafana failed to visit him altogether, and
he saw not the face of a human being, except once each morning, when
Najara was accustomed to make his appearance, followed by an Indian
slave, bearing food and a jar of water. With this latter being, a
decrepit old man, on whose naked shoulder was imprinted the horrible
letter G, (for _guerra_, indicating that he was a prisoner of war,--in
other words, a branded bondman,) he endeavoured to speak, using all the
native dialects with which he was acquainted; but, though Najara made no
offer to prevent such conversation, the barbarian replied only by
touching his ear and then his breast, signifying thereby that, though he
heard the words, he did not understand them. Though Najara permitted
these little attempts at speech, with contemptuous indifference, Juan
perceived that he ever kept his eyes fastened upon the Indian, as if to
prevent any effort at communication of another sort. Thus, if any
benevolent friend had endeavoured to convey a message by letter or
otherwise, it was apparent that Najara took the best steps to insure its
miscarriage.
Foiled thus in every attempt to exchange thoughts with a fellow-being,
and reduced to commune only with his own, the unhappy prisoner ceased,
at last, to make any effort; and, yielding gradually to a despair that
was not the less consuming for being entirely without complaint, he
began, in the end, to be indifferent even to the coming and presence of
his jailer, neither rising to meet him, nor even lifting his eyes from
the floor, on which they were fixed with a lethargic dejection.
He became also indifferent to his food; and once, when Najara entered,
he perceived that the water-jar, the dish of _tortillas_, or
maize-cakes, the savoury wild-fowl, and the fragrant _chocolatl_, (for
in regard to food, he was liberally supplied,) stood upon the little
table, where they had been placed the day before, untasted and even
untouched. He cast his eyes upon the youth, and, for the first time,
began to feel a sentiment of pity for his condition. Indeed, the noble
figure of the young man was beginning to waste away; his cheeks were
hollow, his neglected beard was springing uncouthly over his lips, and
his sunken eyes drooped upon the earth, as if never more to gleam with
the light of hope and pleasure. The hunchback hesitated for a moment,
and then growled out a few words,--the first he had uttered for a week.
But these, though commiseration prompted them, he succeeded in making
expressive only of scorn or anger.
"Hark you, senor Juan Lerma," he said, "do you mean to starve?"
At the sound of his voice, so unusual and so unexpected, the young man
raised his eyes, but with a vague, wo-begone look, and answered nothing.
"I say, senor," continued Najara, somewhat more blandly, "is it your
will to die by starvation rather than in any other way?"
"Ah, Najara! is it thou?" said Juan, rising feebly, or indolently, to
his feet. "Heaven give you a good-morrow."
"Pshaw!" returned the jailer, gruffly; "pray me no such prayers: keep
them for yourself. I ask you, if it be your purpose to starve yourself
to death, out of a mere unsoldierly fear of hanging?"
"Thou hast not said so much to me, I know not when," replied the youth,
not with any intention of shuffling off the question, but speaking of
what was uppermost in his mind. His voice was very mild, and Najara, by
no means without his weaker points, felt it as a reproach.
"I care not," he replied, "if I answer you any two or three questions,
that may be nearest to your heart. But first give me to know, wherefore
you have eaten nothing? Are you sick?"
"Surely I am, at heart; but, bodily, I am well."
"And you are not resolute to die of hunger, before the
judgment-day?--Pho, if you have that spirit, perhaps it were better. But
it is a death of great torment.--Yet, why should one be afraid of the
shame? 'Tis nothing, when we are dead."
"Is this thy fear then?" said Juan, patiently. "It is not permitted us
to commit suicide in any form. I will eat, to satisfy thee; but food is
bitter in prison."
"What a pity," muttered Najara, as Juan ate a morsel of food, "that
heaven should give thee such a goodly and godlike body, and such a brave
soul, (for, o' my life, I believe thou art entirely without fear,) and
yet make thee a madman and traitor!"
"A traitor!" said Juan, without taking any offence, for, indeed, he
seemed to have been robbed of all the fire of his spirit. "It is not
possible anybody can believe me a traitor."
"Pho! did I not, with mine own eyes, see thee lunge at Cortes? It is
base of thee to deny it."
"I do not deny it," said Juan; adding, vehemently, "but I call heaven to
witness, I saw not his face, and knew him not. He may persecute me to
death, as I believe he is doing. Yet could I do him no wrong; no, I
_think_, I could not.--But it is bitter, to feel we are trampled on!"
"Well, senor, it is better you should be in a passion than a trance. But
be not utterly without hope. If you can truly make it appear you knew
not the general, it is thought by one or two, you may be pardoned. I
have talked with Guzman; and I think he may be brought to forgive and
even intercede for you."
"I will neither receive _his_ forgiveness nor his intercession," said
Juan, frowning. "And I wonder you mention to me his detested name."
"Oh, senor!" said Najara, sharply, "you may choose your own friends, and
hunt them again among heathen Indians.--That you should sell your life
for this dog of a noble!--Fare you well, senor, fare you well."
"Stay, Najara," said Juan, following him towards the door: "you said you
would answer me such questions as were nearest my heart. Give not over
the kindly thought. There are many things, which if I knew, my lot would
not be so hard, my dungeon not so killing to my spirit. The army is
gone--is Mexico invested?"
"Not so," replied the hunchback; "it has a month or two's grace
yet.--The troops have marched against the shore-towns.--But for this mad
fit, thou mightst have been with them, or making thyself famous at
Tochtepec!"
Juan sighed heavily.
"And the Indian, of whom you spoke,--the young noble,--Olin the orator,"
he demanded, at first, not without hesitation.
"Oh, the cur," replied Najara; "I think Cortes was even as mad as
thyself, touching the knave. But wit is like a river, sometimes too
full, washing away its own banks--it may be said to drown itself.--He
made the dog his ambassador, swore him to return faithfully from
Guatimozin, and waited three days for him in vain. Such rogues are like
arrows,--good weapons, when you have the cast of them, but not to be
expected in hand again, unless shot back by a foeman."
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Najara had relaxed so far from his
austerity as to resume the vein of metaphor common to his softer
moments. Had he been as observant as usual, he must have been struck
with suspicion at the sudden gleam of satisfaction, with which Juan
heard the good fortune of the Mexican. But he marked it not.
"Tell me now," said Juan, "how thou comest to be my jailer; and why it
is that Villafana seems to have given up his trust to thee?"
At this question, Najara's good-humour immediately vanished, and he
replied, sourly,
"Oh, content you, you shall be in good keeping."
"I doubt it not," said Juan, calmly. "But Villafana is, or methinks he
is, more friendly to me than you. I did but desire to know what changes
had taken place in the government of the city, from the watchman up to
the commandant, since my imprisonment."
"Ay, indeed!" replied Najara, grimly: "such changes, that hadst thou
fifty friends waiting to aid thee, thou shouldst be caught, before
getting twenty steps from the door. Know then, that I am made Alguazil,
as well as Villafana; and what is more, I am captain of the prison. The
Alcalde is Antonio de Quinones, master of the armory; and the Corregidor
of the city is thy good friend Guzman,--an honour thou gavest him, by
hacking his face so freely, and so leaving him in the hospital."
"You speak to me in sarcasm," said Juan, mildly: "I have not deserved
it. And methinks you should be more generous of temper, than to oppress
with words of insult, a fallen and helpless man.--Well, heed it not--I
forgive you. I have but one more question to ask you.--The lady,--this
lady, La Monjonaza--"
"Ay!" cried Najara, with singular bitterness, "I have heard of that too.
You were seen talking with her in the garden. You will play chamberer
with Cortes! ay, and rival too! Pho, canst thou not be at peace? Meddle
with the general's fancy. Why that were enough to hang thee. I had some
soft thoughts of thee; but everything shows thou art unworthy. Farewell;
think of these things no more; but repent and make your peace with
heaven."
So saying, the hunchback flung out of the room, and securing the thick
door of plank, Juan was again left to his meditations.