Captain from Castile (52 page)

"Name of God!" he muttered. "Why did you hinder me, friends? Except for you, that piece of dung would have been spattered around the compound. But wait! And it won't be long either. ... So he's joined our company, has he! That's a joke!" He clenched his huge fists, staring again at the place where de Lora had disappeared.

A vociferous, half-angry, half-curious throng surrounded them. Oaths and demands of what was up and what ailed Garcia showered on all sides. It was noticeable that the old company tried to make light of the matter but that the newcomers were ruffled and truculent. Dirty looks started and hands fingered sword hilts. But all at once silence fell, and the crowd opened; Garcia found himself facing Cortes.

The General was bareheaded, but otherwise in full harness. Though he said nothing for a moment, his extreme pallor, the vein across his forehead, and the hook of his mouth, denoted towering rage.

"Give me the truth of this," he said at last in a dry, hot voice. "I hope I have been misinformed. Did you attack the Reverend Father

Ignacio de Lora when he had scarce dismounted and when, thinking no ill, he was talking with a couple of gentlemen?"

Garcia's bloodshot eyes met the black glance of the other steadily.

"Aye, Your Excellency, and I would have attacked him before he had dismounted if I had noticed him. But I was busy with the cannon. It was a mistake, I grant you. I should have waited until there were fewer meddlers about."

"For what reason, except madness, did you attack this holy man?"

The cords of Garcia's neck swelled. Trying to speak, he could get no sound out at first. Then the words came like hot lava.

"Because that swine laid my mother on the rack; because he broke every bone in her body until she prayed him for death; because, when I bribed him eight hundred castellanos to spare her, he took the money and sent her to the stake. Reason? If that's no reason, I'd be glad of hell, provided I can tear his carcass limb from limb ..."

The voice choked again. A mutter, half-sympathetic, half-angry, went through the crowd.

"From your standpoint, a good reason—if true," snapped Cortes in the same burning tone.

"By the Cross, it's true," said Pedro. "I swear to every letter of it."

"Who asked for your swearing?" The dark eyes flicked like a lash. "Am I concerned with this man's private feud? But I'm concerned with this—yes, in full measure—that he should flout the laws of the army by attempting to kill one of our company—let alone that Father Ignacio is a priest of God. . . . Nor is this the first time. At Cempoala, he drew his sword against Captain Velasquez and endangered the lives of other gentlemen. I overlooked it then because he was drunk. He is not drunk now; and, by my conscience, I intend to make it clear once and for all that military laws are not to be trifled with."

Though plainly in a hanging mood, Cortes curbed himself. His anger was perhaps the more deadly because he controlled it. Not that Garcia would escape (the gallows were written in every line of the General's face), but to string him up on the spot would defeat the purpose of his execution. He must be tried and condemned. He must be hanged to a ruffle of drums in the presence of the company.

Cortes's glance singled out one of the newcomers. It was politic to hand Garcia over to the faction to which de Lora belonged. They would not then be able to complain of favoritism to the old veterans. Besides, in the case of so popular a man as Garcia, the comrades could not be trusted to treat him rigorously.

"Andres de Duero," he said, "will you and some of yours take charge

of this man. See that he has a double weight of irons and is well guarded. We'll hear the case tomorrow."

For the first time, Garcia seemed to be aware of his plight. "Your Excellency—" he began, but the words failed. He turned his eyes in a mute appeal to the familiar faces around him.

"Well, Your Excellency," Pedro put in, "order me a double weight of irons at the same time. Juan Garcia and I will take what comes together."

"If it is necessary," Cortes retorted, "to teach twenty rebels the lesson of discipline, that lesson will be taught. Are you a soldier, Captain de Vargas, or not? If not, hand me your sword."

On the point of making the latter choice, Pedro hesitated. He could not help Garcia by sitting in the bilboes with him.

"Caramhaf' Garcia burst out. "If you hand over your sword, I'll wring your neck. Senor General, don't let the lad make a fool of himself. He's only young and a hothead. This Is my business. I don't want anyone holding my hand."

Cortes's face did not soften. "Captain de Sandoval, you can show Andres de Duero where we keep prisoners here."

Duero picked out several of the Narvaez men, drew his sword, and turned to Garcia. "Then, sir, I am under the necessity—"

The crowd made way. Garcia squared his shoulders. Circled by his squad of guards, he moved slowly off and disappeared between the buildings.

"Cristobal de Olid," said Cortes to that officer, who had come up, "you will appoint a military court for tomorrow morning. You will choose officers who are neither especially friendly nor unfriendly to the prisoner. There can be, however, but one verdict. . . . And now, hark you, I have matters of importance to thresh out with Captain de Alva-rado. It's been a sad mess here. Let me not be disturbed again."

LV

The interview between Cortes and Alvarado must have been stormy, to judge by the Sun God's red face and burning eyes when he came out. It got around that Cortes had berated him for a fool on the score of the May massacre in the teocalli. This was no doubt deserved, but it did not make for good feeling within the quarters.

Word passed that Cortes was in a seething bad humor at his sullen

reception in the Valley: towns deserted or silent, no welcome, no acclaim. He had boasted great things to the Narvaez captains and now had to make excuses. It was shame and fear on the part of the Aztecs, he said, because of their attack. He would mete out punishment, reconcile the people, and all would be well. But his pride burned in his belly.

Report had it that he refused to see Montezuma, the dog of a king, as he called him, who would not open his markets or furnish food. It was hinted that, drunk with his victory at Cempoala and confident in the power of his army, Cortes had put on the airs of a grandee and taken credit to himself that belonged rightfully to God.

Almost at once the joy of reunion was turning sour. Bad blood showed. The men of Narvaez smarted at their defeat and looked askance at the victors. The veterans, on their side, sniffed at the new recruits.

And now this fracas about Garcia did nothing to sweeten matters. To those with experience in military' courts, his sentence was a foregone conclusion.

"By God," stamped Catana Perez, when she and Pedro had returned to their quarters, "I don't believe it! It's but a feint of the General's. He must make a show. But hang Juan Garcia? Hang one of the best of us? A greathearted gentleman like him? Ahsurdo!''

De Vargas shook his head, his eyes on the floor. After a pause he walked over to their common chest, took out his best gold chain and a fine pair of jade earrings, which he put on, then slipped a large turquoise ring on his thumb.

"Why?" she queried.

"Ordered to dine at the General's. Dinner for the new captains. Dine with Diego de Silva, Father Ignacio de Lora!" His voice shook. "Say an Ave for me, rosa mia. I can do more for Juan by keeping in with Cortes and attending that dinner than bv holding off. But it's mortal hard."

Seated not far from the head of the table at Cortes's dinner for the captains. Father Olmedo watched the depressing pattern of human nature repeating itself. Something of a philosopher, he realized that this small, remote gathering represented the whole of mankind, just as a detached pool contains the essentials of the ocean. Here present were the qualities that created and destroyed empires, the same heroism and the same blindness: wisdom and courage to plan and execute; ambition and hatred to divide and nullify.

Rolling a bread crumb between his fingers, he reflected with what slender means the original company had wrought its great achievement. But there had been humility then, the feeling of dependence on God, the faith, however crass, in divine guidance; there had been loyalty, good fellowship, brotherhood. Now, its numbers tripled, its security assured, its goal won, it seemed to be disintegrating.

Olmedo observed the men about him: Cortes, vain of his triumph, no longer the plain, alert captain but the petulant dictator, his eyes inscrutable and scheming, as he glanced down the board. Alvarado glooming over his reprimand of the afternoon. Olid's swarthy face, reckless as ever but now with a shade of the fox in it. Sandoval, the soul of loyalty, a little downcast, evidently puzzled. De Vargas, grown old for his years, looking white and deadly, as he kept his eyes averted from Diego de Silva. And then, worst of all, the two ranks at table, Narvaez's contingent facing the veteran officers, a chasm between them.

It seemed to Olmedo, who had a touch of the mystic, that Death sat at the far end of the table, balancing Cortes. For death was inevitable when vanity and human passion lined the board, as they were doing here. Why could men never learn, never see? Why, untaught by repeated experience, did they have to meet over and over again the same disaster? It was not that they did not know how to avoid it. They had known for fifteen hundred years. They had only to renounce their tiresome and malignant egos for the grandeur and freedom of love. They had only to be Christian in thought and heart. To the honest friar, it seemed childishly clear that this was the remedy for most human ills; and it lay ready at hand. For Olmedo, the ironic tragedy of human life consisted in tiiis perpetual shipwreck within sight of the haven.

He dropped the bread crumb and looked up to find the cold eyes of Ignacio de Lora fixed on him from across the table. The man's presence added its full share to the strain which Olmedo sensed in the room. With de Lora, the Inquisition had arrived in New Spain. It was not dominant as yet, but it was there—one tentacle of the octopus feeling its way, the octopus which, it seemed to Olmedo, strained at gnats and swallowed camels.

"I've often wondered," said the Inquisitor, leaning forward with a frozen smile, "about the fate of that letter written by the Bishop of Santiago to Captain General Cortes in Trinidad de Cuba. You remember. Father Bartolome, I spoke to you about it when you visited our camp in San Juan de Ulua."

Olmedo shot an anxious glance toward Pedro, who was seated a

few places off. Fortunately he was in conversation with Andres de Tapia.

"Yes, Father Ignacio, I told you it was lost." The friar added significantly: "We discussed the matter again in Cempoala with His Excellency before it was decided that you should come to this city."

Olmedo's words conveyed a reminder and a warning. There had been no mincing of phrases in the Cempoala interview. Cortes had made it plain to de Lora that the latter's charges against two respected and prominent members of the original company carried no weight in New Spain. 

"What you say," he had snapped, "requires an ecclesiastical court and the testimony of witnesses. We have neither the one nor the other here. Father Olmedo is in charge of the spiritual interests of our enterprise. He vouches for these two men, and that is enough for me. Hark you, we will have no brawling or feuds among us. Accept those terms or remain on the coast. Is that plain?"

"Will your Pedro de Vargas and Juan Garcia accept them?" de Lora had queried.

"My word on it," said Cortes.

The General's anger against Garcia that afternoon had been partly motivated by this pledge.

Now, facing Olmedo across the narrow board, de Lora smiled his frozen smile and nodded.

"Yes, you told me that the letter was lost. Father Bartolome; but I can't help wondering how and why."

The friar shrugged. "It's plain that Your Reverence has had little experience with such expeditions as this, or you would not wonder so much."

"Indeed?" A slight shiver ran through de Lora, as if the cold of his passion chilled him. "No, my experience has been chiefly with men —to discern truth from falsehood. A bishop's letter does not seem to be of great importance to you. Father Bartolome. And yet if you had not—mislaid the one in question, there would have been no attempt on my life today."

Cortes, whose sharp ears missed nothing, looked up from talking with Andres de Duero. "Faith, I was sorry for that, as I told Your Reverence. Garcia acted like a madman and shall certainly hang. What more can be done? Why harp on it now?"

De Lora's glance shifted slightly in Pedro's direction. "Because the next attempt may be successful, Sehor General, and I crossed the Ocean Sea to serve God, not to die at the hand of renegade and ruffian

Spaniards. To punish them after the event will not help me. I look to your promise and to Father Olmedo's. My life, valueless as it is, is your responsibility."

Before Cortes could answer, Sandoval lowered his cup and growled: "Who calls comrades of mine renegades and ruffians! Juan Garcia's a good Christian and a noble fellow. He's one of the boldest men-at-arms in this company. I admit he overstepped the mark today, but that he has a grievance against you doesn't make him a renegade or ruffian. Vive Dios! I should say not! Look you, Padre—"

"And look you!" rapped Cortes. "You'll hold your peace, son Sandoval, or you'll repent it. . . . As for my responsibilities, I do not need to be reminded of them. Is this the fitting place for such talk? You have my promise. Father de Lora—"

"Aye, Your Excellency," broke in Juan Buono, one of the Narvaez captains, seated next to the Inquisitor, "but His Reverence makes a distinct point. He needs protection more than promises, and by God, Your Excellency, there're enough of his friends here to see that he gets it."

"Are there indeed?" sneered Alonso de Avila from the other side of the table. "Who of them protected him today? It seemed to me that they weren't much in evidence. He'd be singing with the angels by now if it hadn't been for one of us. Eh, Sandoval?"