Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора Diego Pinzon and the Fearful Voyage he took into the Unknown Ocean A.D. 1492
“‘TO THE MAST WITH HIM!’ SAID MARTIN ALONZO.” [See page 73.]
DIEGO PINZON
AND
THE FEARFUL VOYAGE HE TOOK INTO THE UNKNOWN OCEAN A.D. 1492
BY
JOHN RUSSELL CORYELL
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1892
Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
ChapterI.
Page 1”
II.
”
6”
III.
”
18”
IV.
”
32”
V.
”
48”
VI.
”
64”
VII.
”
74”
VIII.
”
81”
IX.
”
88”
X.
”
97”
XI.
”
104”
XII.
”
112”
XIII.
”
120”
XIV.
”
127”
XV.
”
136”
XVI.
”
144”
XVII.
”
151”
XVIII.
”
160”
XIX.
”
167”
XX.
”
175”
XXI.
”
182”
XXII.
”
191”
XXIII.
”
205”
XXIV.
”
218”
XXV.
”
225”
XXVI.
”
234”
XXVII.
”
246”
XXVIII.
”
253ILLUSTRATIONS.
“
‘To the mast with him!’ said Martin Alonzo”
Frontispiece.“
‘Think twice, did you say, Fray Antonio,’ asked the boy, ‘ere I set foot to the ground?’”
Facing p.
8“
‘Tut!’ said the friar, taking Diego by the collar and leading him away”
”
18“
‘It is my cousin’s son, Diego? Good-day to thee, lad!’”
”
22“
‘He is very young to die,’ said a mocking voice”
”
32“
Then, like a flash, for he was a quick boy, Diego struck the other boy on the cheek”
”
34“
‘Now go forward where you belong’”
”
40“
‘Hush!’ whispered Juan, suddenly, ‘there is a noise in the cabin’”
”
58“
Martin Alonzo disappeared over the side”
”
66“
‘Thou art a true Pinzon, and I am proud of thee’”
”
88“
If I had told, you would have been hanged up there”
”
96“
‘I shall shoot the first man who tries to desert’”
”
106“
No two boys ever filled casks with such expedition as those two did”
”
110“
‘Hey, there! You two have had enough,’ said a man’s voice”
”
118“
‘Come, speak out, boy!’”
”
130“
All over the vessel could be seen those strong men weeping”
”
138“
The admiral was splendidly robed in a brilliant scarlet cloak over his rich and glittering armor, and held the royal standard in his own hand”
”
154“
Refreshing themselves with the fruits that were brought them by the natives”
”
156“
Jingled it before the eyes of the savage”
”
160“
‘Not barter for gold?’ cried Martin Alonzo”
”
164“
Diego dropping through the blackness of the night”
”
190“
He reached out and clutched at the floating thing”
”
194“
There they both sank down”
”
204“
‘Look!’ said Diego”
”
212“
The cleft proved to be a narrow, cave-like opening”
”
214“
Caught up some of the torches and advanced in a body”
”
220“
Of course the knife cut his fingers”
”
232“
For three nights they floated down the stream”
”
244“
Diego went with Juan to see the man unchained”
”
252“
Diego relates his adventures to the convent boys”
”
258“‘THINK TWICE, DID YOU SAY, FRAY ANTONIO,’ ASKED THE BOY. ‘ERE I SET FOOT TO THE GROUND?’”
“‘TUT!’ SAID THE FRIAR, TAKING DIEGO BY THE COLLAR AND LEADING HIM AWAY.”
“‘IT IS MY COUSIN’S SON, DIEGO? GOOD-DAY TO THEE, LAD!’”
“‘HE IS VERY YOUNG TO DIE,’ SAID A MOCKING VOICE.”
“THEN, LIKE A FLASH, FOR HE WAS A QUICK BOY, DIEGO STRUCK THE OTHER BOY ON THE CHEEK.”
“‘NOW GO FORWARD WHERE YOU BELONG.’”
“‘HUSH!’ WHISPERED JUAN, SUDDENLY. ‘THERE IS A NOISE IN THE CABIN.’”
“MARTIN ALONZO DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE.”
“‘THOU ART A TRUE PINZON, AND I AM PROUD OF THEE.’”
“IF I HAD TOLD, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HANGED UP THERE.”
“‘I SHALL SHOOT THE FIRST MAN OF YOU WHO TRIES TO DESERT.’”
“NO TWO BOYS EVER FILLED CASKS WITH SUCH EXPEDITION AS THOSE TWO DID.”
“‘HEY, THERE! YOU TWO HAVE HAD ENOUGH,’ SAID A MAN’S VOICE.”
“‘COME, SPEAK OUT, BOY!’”
“ALL OVER THE VESSEL COULD BE SEEN THOSE STRONG MEN WEEPING.”
“THE ADMIRAL WAS SPLENDIDLY ROBED IN A BRILLIANT SCARLET CLOAK OVER HIS RICH AND GLITTERING ARMOR, AND HELD THE ROYAL STANDARD IN HIS OWN HAND.”
“REFRESHING THEMSELVES WITH THE FRUITS THAT WERE BROUGHT THEM BY THE NATIVES.”
“JINGLED IT BEFORE THE EYES OF THE SAVAGE.”
“‘NOT BARTER FOR GOLD?’ CRIED MARTIN ALONZO.”
“DIEGO DROPPING THROUGH THE BLACKNESS OF THE NIGHT.”
“HE REACHED OUT AND CLUTCHED AT THE FLOATING THING.”
“THERE THEY BOTH SANK DOWN.”
“‘LOOK!’ SAID DIEGO.”
“THE CLEFT PROVED TO BE A NARROW, CAVE-LIKE OPENING.”
“CAUGHT UP SOME OF THE TORCHES AND ADVANCED IN A BODY.”
“OF COURSE THE KNIFE CUT HIS FINGERS.”
“FOR THREE NIGHTS THEY FLOATED DOWN THE STREAM.”
“DIEGO WENT WITH JUAN TO SEE THE MAN UNCHAINED.”
“DIEGO RELATES HIS ADVENTURES TO THE CONVENT BOYS.”
DIEGO PINZON.
Chapter I.
In the ancient province of Andalusia, which, as everybody knows, is famous for the charms of its climate and the fertility of its soil, there stands now, as there stood four centuries ago, the convent of La Rabida.
The convent is almost a ruin now; but in those days it was a sturdy pile, where a busy, eager body of Franciscan friars dwelt, governed by the learned and good Fray Juan Perez, who had once been confessor to the queen, Isabella.
Now there is something mournful in the solitude of the place; but in the days when the things happened which are set down here, there was a suppressed excitement pervading the atmosphere of the convent, which had communicated itself even to Fray Pedro, who had been given the post of porter because he had what the good prior called such a singular gift of slumber.
There had been days recently when Fray Pedro had not closed his eyes for as long as two consecutive hours; and if he felt the influence that was around him, what wonder if the boys, digging away desperately at their humanities, should be wrought up to the highest pitch of unrest and excitement?
Fray Bartolomeo was the pedagogue, who had been selected for the office because of his great learning; but he searched the stores of his knowledge in vain during those days for a device to turn the minds of the scholars from the one topic that absorbed them.
The fact of the matter was that at the seaport town of Palos, only half a league away from the convent, preparations were going on for an adventure of the most fearful nature—an adventure which some people did not hesitate to say was prompted by the evil one himself, and which others, more lenient, declared could have been conceived only by a madman.
At the convent they did not believe the first of these propositions at all, nor did any one give word openly to the second; though there were many there who harbored it in their secret thoughts, and who occasionally whispered it.
The prior, Juan Perez, had faith in the adventure, and, indeed, had done all that lay in his power to forward it, and was continuing to do so in the face of the most violent opposition. But then, as a brother one day whispered to another, the prior was given to the promulgation of new ideas.
It seems that a foreigner—an Italian of some sort, it was believed from his accent—had persuaded the queen to venture some money in this execrable enterprise, and had further induced her to designate the port of Palos as the place which should furnish a portion of the doomed fleet and crew.
There was very little doubt that they were doomed; though this man, Christoval Colon, pretended to demonstrate that there was no danger at all attached to his purposed expedition, and had persuaded the good Fray Juan Perez of the correctness of his demonstration.
It was true that so good a seaman as Martin Alonzo Pinzon had been beguiled by the specious representations of the pestilent foreigner, and that Martin had in turn induced his brothers and many of his kin to lend their countenance and aid to the adventure. A number of the Pinzons had, in fact, enlisted in the enterprise.
It was very well known, however, that the Pinzons were bold, reckless sailors, who feared naught and would dare anything, and all that the people of Palos had to say as to that was that they wished them luck, and hoped they would come back alive. It was no secret, moreover, that more than one Pinzon wished himself well out of the affair, and would have taken himself incontinently out, had it not been that the present fear of the wrath of Martin Alonzo Pinzon was far greater than the fear of the more remote perils that threatened them on the trackless wastes of that ocean which, somewhere in the far western distance, poured over the edge of the earth into the bottomless abyss beyond. Martin Alonzo Pinzon was a difficult man to gainsay, and those of his poorer kinsmen who could not take comfort in the logic of the Italian must set themselves up against the will of the bluff sailor, who had a voice in which thunder rumbled and an eye in which the storm-lightning played.
Martin Alonzo had furnished one vessel in joint account with the foreigner, and as Palos owed, as a sort of forfeit, the service of two vessels for a year to the sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, two vessels had been forcibly distrained for the benefit of the foreigner.
As for the crews, Pinzon had haled a goodly number of his kinsmen into service, and cajoled a few of his townsmen; but there was no inducement that could make any others stir a step towards such certain destruction until a royal ordinance was issued, offering freedom to such convicts as would venture their lives rather than remain in durance.
But even with that the crews did not fill up to the required number, and the mortal terror that was on those who had agreed to go caused them to desert at every opportunity; and the consequent wrath of Martin Alonzo Pinzon was a thing to be shunned carefully.
And, as may be seen, all this disturbance and turmoil naturally created the bitterest feeling; and for the weeks that the foreigner rested at Palos the talk of his insane folly—to call it no worse—ran high, indeed. Well it was for him that he had the good-will of the prior, Juan Perez, and the endorsement of the burly sailor.
Chapter II.
While the little fleet destined for the mad enterprise lay in port, it was considered advisable to restrain the boys of the convent school within the walls. So it came about that the gardener was driven almost distracted by the peril of his choicest vegetables and flowers; for the boys had not the same passionate regard for the growing things that he had.
“See there, now!” said Fray Antonio, angrily, as he held one of the boys by the collar of his jacket, “you have planted your clumsy foot on the stem of my choicest melon, and it lacked a day of perfect ripening. Think twice”—he cuffed him heartily as many times—”ere ever you set foot to ground again.”
He pushed the boy from him, and then regarded him as if sorry he had not been more liberal with his blows. The boy shook himself and gave back to the exasperated gardener a glance as angry as his own. But that was only the first impulse; the second followed close on its heels and turned the anger into mischief. The lad cast a swift glance at his comrades, who stood by, smothering their mirth, and then looked with exaggerated innocence at the irate gardener.
“Think twice, did you say, Fray Antonio,” asked the boy, “ere I set foot to the ground? Is it one of the rules of the order? Or is it a rule you, only, go by? And would it not cause one to go with a singular, halting gait? As thus—he raised a foot and held it suspended—”I think once, I think twice, and down she goes. Now the other. I think once, I think twice. Oh, but that is rare and dignified, Fray Antonio, though I misdoubt those boys be laughing at me.”
“I will have a word with Fray Bartolomeo,” stuttered the angry gardener.
“Gracias for that,” said the boy; “and I beg you to expound the thing to him, lest, when he calls me and I go in this new fashion to him, he may misjudge me. Do I catch the motion, good Fray Antonio?”
He walked towards his convulsed comrades with an absurd, halting step.
“Ah,” said Fray Antonio, with a grim, angry humor of his own, “you will catch the motion, doubt it not, when you dance to the music of the scourge. I will see to that, Diego Pinzon, I will see to that.”
“He means to do it, Diego,” said one of the boys, looking where the angry brother went.
“Why, of course he means to do it,” said Diego, “and Fray Bartolomeo will ask no better than to ply the scourge over my back. I might indeed ask him to think twice ere he let the scourge fall, but I doubt if he will be as ready as I was to act on the hint.”
“You may well doubt it,” laughed one of the boys.
“It is a thing he knows no moderation in,” said Diego, with a grimace.
“The sting would have been no greater had you first eaten the melon instead of only bruising the stem,” said another.
They all found it easy to be merry since it was Diego who was to pay the reckoning. But Diego was as merry as they; for it was not in his nature to cross the bridge until he reached it.
“‘Tis a good suggestion, Alfonso,” said he. “Who will eat of the fruit if I remove it from the bruised stem? I will promise to take all the blame. Alfonso only speaks the truth when he says I will pay as much for the stem as for the melon. For my own part, I think Fray Antonio lets the melons stay too long on the vine. An over-ripe melon does not suit my palate. Who is with me?”
“‘THINK TWICE, DID YOU SAY, FRAY ANTONIO,’ ASKED THE BOY. ‘ERE I SET FOOT TO THE GROUND?’”
The boys looked at each other and then at the melon that lay among the leaves, showing a swelling side full of suggestions of lusciousness and melting juiciness.
“It would be a pity for the melon to spoil,” said Alfonso.
“Besides,” said Diego, hunching his shoulders meaningly, “it would be unfair to pay the price for nothing.”
A grin went around the circle, and Diego, with a glance about the enclosure, stepped over to the melon and plucked it from the vine.
“Ah,” said he, smacking his lips, “Fray Antonio is but a poor gardener; the melon would not have stood another day. Where shall we eat it?”
That was a serious question, and the boys looked blankly at each other. It was not easy to hide in the convent grounds, especially when an angry gardener was likely to make quick search. But Diego was full of expedients. Fray Bartolomeo had often told him that if he would but give the same attention to study that he did to mischief he would surpass the best of them all.
“Tut!” said he, in answer to their looks, “it will be the easiest thing imaginable. Fray Pedro will be sound asleep, and his keys will be in his girdle. It would be a huge pity to awake him, and I will not do it, merely to ask him to open the gates. I will just slip up to him and help myself to the keys and open the gates. It will be a real mercy. Come with me.”
The business began to look too serious to some of the boys, and, if there had been any bold enough, there would have been a decided demur to this proposition; but there was none, and so they all straggled after their bold leader.
Fray Pedro, the porter, was in the state that Diego had declared he would be. He was at his post, it is true; but his twice-doubled chin was sunk into his neck, the flies had undisturbed possession of his shaven skull, and, as if it were needed, his nose gave forth to the world a defiant sort of notice that he slept.
Diego gave the melon into the keeping of his trusty lieutenant, Alfonso, and crept up to the side of the drowsy friar, and detached the bunch of keys from his ample girdle.
This was the last chance the timid ones would have to retreat, and more than one looked for encouragement at his neighbor; but Diego acted as if he expected to be followed, and followed he was.
He knew the right key, and put it in the lock and turned it softly. The bolt shot back and the door swung open. Then Diego slipped back and readjusted the keys in the friar’s girdle, and a moment later the boys of the convent school were scurrying towards the olive grove hard by.
There is probably a difference of opinion in respect to melons. Certainly the boys differed from Fray Antonio as to the ripeness of the one they discussed in the coolness of the olive grove. They thought it could not have been more delicious. There was but one fault—it was too small a melon for eleven boys. There should always be eleven melons for eleven boys.
“It is very good,” said Alfonso, eating rather close to the rind, “and it would have been wasted on that Italian, Christoval Colon, who would have been sure to share it with our reverend prior.”
“Yes,” said Diego, “it would have been wasted; but much as I have enjoyed it, I would not have begrudged it to him; for it is like enough that once he sets sail he will never taste of melon again. Was ever so crazy a venture! And yet to look at him he is serious and reverend enough. I thank my cousin, Martin Alonzo, that he fixed on me for the church. I would not go the voyage with him—no, not for ten thousand ducats of gold.”
“Ducats of gold!” said Alfonso, doubtfully. “I should think twice, like Fray Antonio, before I would refuse that.”
“Gold or silver,” said Diego, scornfully, “what would they profit you and you never returned home to spend them?”
“Let us go back,” said one of the timid ones, to whom the mention of Fray Antonio had brought up visions of a scourge vigorously applied.
“Go back!” said Diego. “Not I. As well be hung for an old sheep as a young lamb. The vessels sail to-night, and I warrant there will be rare doings at Palos to-day. I am going to Palos. Who is with me?”
“I will go,” said Alfonso. “Why not? I have eaten the melon, and I must digest it. Who else is with us?”
But very fear had made the others bold by this time, and to a boy they shrank back.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Diego. “Well, go back, but have a care that Fray Antonio is not waiting for you at the gate.”
It was so possible a thing that the boys looked miserably at each other for a moment, and then started on a run for the convent, followed by the jeering laughter of the two who had elected to be truants.
As for them, the moment of reckoning was so far away that they felt very reckless, and it was with an air of bravado that they struck into the dusty road and walked hastily into the town.
When they reached the town they found that Diego had been quite right, and that the place was in a turmoil indeed. On the square there were sullen faces, and down on the quay, whither they hurried at once, there were weeping women and angry men; while on the three little vessels, anchored a stone’s-throw off shore, the crews could be seen hanging miserably over the rails, casting longing eyes ashore.
“When do they sail?” demanded Diego of a man standing near him on the quay.
“They only wait on some jail-birds that have consented to go,” answered the man in a surly tone. “Even they are too good for such a cruise; but if the whole crew was of the same it were better. ’Tis a sin to let good men risk their lives so.”
“Here they come! here they come!” one and another said, and the boys, looking around, saw a burly, bold-looking man making his way through the crowd, followed closely by two hang-dog looking fellows, who, in their turn, were followed by an officer of the Holy Brotherhood, as the police of Spain was then called.
“‘Tis my cousin, Martin Alonzo,” whispered Diego to his companion. “Let me hide behind you; for if he see me and be short of hands, he will think nothing of taking me in tow.”
The fear might be well enough founded; but Martin Alonzo Pinzon was thinking of other things than the young Pinzon whom he had destined to the priesthood. He had had so much opposition and so many hard words that he was on the qui vive to catch and answer anything that might be said to him.
He left the officer and his two prisoners near to where Diego stood, and went to the edge of the quay to hail a small boat from one of the vessels. Now Diego was not one ever to lose an opportunity. He saw by the looks of the prisoners that, though they had chosen the perilous voyage rather than remain in prison, they were yet far from happy in their lot. And the younger of the two, who was scarcely older than himself, was particularly unhappy.
“He is very young to die,” said Diego, in a sepulchral tone.
Some of the bystanders laughed; for the tone was only in keeping with the dismal expression of the young convict. But the latter raised his sullen face and glared at Diego. He said nothing, but there was something unpleasantly vindictive in his eyes. Alfonso said:
“‘Tis well you are not going to take the voyage with him.”
“I think so myself,” answered Diego, carelessly; “but if I went the voyage, I think I would make little account of his anger, or any one’s else.”
“You are right,” said the man to whom they had first spoken, “what with dragons and monster serpents, and great gulfs in the water, and creatures that live on human flesh and all sorts of inconceivable perils, ’tis better far to dare anything than go such a voyage.”
“Here,” roared the voice of Martin Alonzo Pinzon, at this moment, “take these fellows off to my vessel, and see that they remain there.”
The two prisoners were hurried into the boat amid the silence of the spectators, and Martin Alonzo went back into the town.
“I would rather take my chances at the convent,” said Diego.
“So would I,” agreed Alfonso. “Shall we go there now?”
“Why should we? We shall be flogged the same, whether we stay an hour or five. I say, let us wait and see the vessels weigh anchor.”
“Let us then,” said Alfonso, who seldom gainsaid his friend.
“For a fact,” said Diego, nodding his head sagely, “old Bartolomeo cannot hurt much anyhow.”
“Old Bartolomeo!”
A hand was on the collar of each boy’s jacket. Neither looked up to see whose the hand was. They had recognized the voice as that of him whom Diego had called “old Bartolomeo.” They cast despairing and disgusted grimaces at each other.
“Will you lay hold of this scape-gallows,” said the Franciscan to the man with whom the boys had been holding converse.
The man grinned and took a firm hold of Diego’s collar, much to the surprise of that lad, who had expected, as a matter of course, to be made the example of; it being evident that the pedagogue intended to administer summary punishment.
“Be careful,” said the Franciscan; “for he is a slippery rascal; and, now, give me space.”
It was a diversion as good as any for the idle crowd to see Alfonso capering under the hot blows of the angry friar, and they cheered him on with laughing shouts.
“And now,” said Fray Bartolomeo, letting the scourge fall at his side from sheer exhaustion, “do thou hasten back to the convent, and make good speed, or it shall be the worse for thee.”
Diego had not felt the same sorrow for Alfonso that he might have done, but for the conviction that the worthy friar would be too worn with his exertions to do justice to his particular case. But when the Franciscan released Alfonso, Diego, not to betray his satisfaction, set up a howl, and begged the friar not to be too hard upon him, at the same time casting a comical glance at the spectators, to let them understand that he cared not a fig for the worthy man’s castigation.
“As for thee, Diego Pinzon, who art counting on my weakened strength, thou goest to one whose arm will not fail him, I warrant—thy cousin, Martin Alonzo.”
Then did Diego turn pale, not only with the fear of an arm whose like was not in Palos, but with a greater fear.
“In mercy don’t do that,” he cried. “I mind not the flogging, I will do any penance; but take me not to my cousin, for I know in my heart he will ship me for the terrible voyage.”
“Ah, that he will,” said the man who held him; “for he has not his complement yet.”
“Tut!” said the friar, taking Diego by the collar and leading him away; and the heart of the boy sank within him.
Chapter III.
Diego’s terror of his cousin was in no wise assumed—it was very real; for Martin Alonzo Pinzon, besides being the acknowledged head of the Pinzon family and a very masterful man, was the legal guardian of Diego and had his future in his keeping.
“Good Fray Bartolomeo,” pleaded Diego, earnestly, “do not take me to my cousin. I will mend my ways, indeed I will. And you may put any penance on me, and you shall see how cheerfully I will do it.”
“Thou shouldst have thought of all that before,” said the friar, feeling a pity for Diego that he would not betray, because he believed the mischievous lad needed a severe lesson.
“You do not know my cousin,” said Diego, mournfully.
“‘Tis plain thou dost,” said Fray Bartolomeo.
“The flogging he would give me I care little for,” said Diego.
“Be not too sure; his arm is not that of ‘old Bartolomeo.’”
“‘TUT!’ SAID THE FRIAR, TAKING DIEGO BY THE COLLAR AND LEADING HIM AWAY.”
“If I said ‘old Bartolomeo,’” said Diego, cajolingly, “you must believe it was said with affection. Don’t you know how we sometimes say old when we wish to use a term of endearment?”
Fray Bartolomeo smiled on the other side of his face, but turned a grim eye on Diego.
“Gracias for thy affectionate remembrance of me, even with the thought of the scourge in thy mind; but it must not blind us to the fact that thou didst purloin a choice melon from the garden, having previously flouted Fray Antonio, and having subsequently seduced thy fellows, and done many things which thou shouldst not have done.”
“It was very wicked of me,” said Diego; “but would you for that have me taken from the convent and carried to certain destruction?”
“Tut!” said the friar, scornfully.
“But he will do it,” whined Diego. “You heard what the man said, that he had not yet his complement.”
“Tut!” said the friar again.
“I see how it is,” said Diego, trying a new tack, “you bear me malice for calling you old, and you would have me removed from the bosom of the church. You care nothing for my future welfare. ’Tis unchristian to hate me so bitterly.”
“Tut, tut! tut, tut!” said the worthy friar, uneasily. “‘Tis because I cherish thee in my heart, thou scape-grace! that I will not do thee the wrong to punish thee insufficiently. How many times have I praised thee for thy facility in declension and conjugation? How often have I told thee that thou wert the best student of them all and wouldst be a credit to us but for thy scampish tricks? How often hast thou cajoled me, in my love for thee, and escaped the punishment thou shouldst have had in justice?”
“You have indeed been very good,” said Diego, watching the face above him out of the corner of his eye; “why then will you wreck my wretched life now? I tell you, Martin Alonzo will snatch me from the convent and take me with him. I feel it in my heart.”
There was uneasiness in the heart of the friar, for he loved the boy, and there was enough in what he said to make an impression on his fears, too. Martin Alonzo might do the thing Diego dreaded, or pretended to dread. Diego saw that the good man wavered, and a grin overspread his countenance. The friar, chancing to look down, saw the grimace.
“Thou art an ungrateful little wretch!” he said, angrily. “Thou wouldst play upon my affection for thee, and then laugh at my credulity. I think sometimes, Diego Pinzon, thou hast no heart at all. Now, say no more! I will not listen. I caught the smirk on thy face, and it hath undone thee for a certainty. Thou shalt learn the iniquity of making a mock of thy elders. Say no more!”
Diego hastened to remove the impression the friar had received, and strove with much earnestness and artfulness to work once more on the feelings of his teacher, but it was without avail.
When he pointed out with great particularity what the dangers of the voyage were, Fray Bartolomeo merely gave a grim assent. When he enlarged on the pity of taking him from his religious studies, the friar only snorted ominously. In short, they came to the house of Martin Alonzo Pinzon and went in.
Martin Alonzo was evidently saying his last farewells at that moment, and was in great haste to be away.
“Good-day, Fray Bartolomeo!” he said, in his abrupt fashion. “Whom have you here? It is my cousin’s son, Diego? Good-day to thee, lad! I suppose thou hast come to bid me a last farewell like these women. As if I were never to return! Well, adios, if you will. Is he a likely lad, Fray Bartolomeo? How come on the humanities?”
His rapid, abrupt manner of speaking gave little opportunity for an answer; and the friar saw that it was a poor time to be there on such an errand; but he was so convinced that Diego would be unmanageable without a chastisement and warning from his cousin that he spoke out clearly and to the point:
“The humanities come on well enough, and no one can do better than he when he will; but I have come to tell thee, Martin Alonzo, that he needs a strong hand to correct him, or he will never arrive at grace.”
“My time is short,” said Martin Alonzo, gruffly.
“It needs not much of it to give him a taste of thy vigor, and a word of warning.”
“A sorry sort of remembrance he would have of me then, reverend brother.”
“He will honor and bless thee in the end,” said the friar.
“What hath he done that calls for my intervention?” demanded Martin Alonzo, eying Diego curiously.
“Much in the past that hath been inadequately dealt with, and to-day these several things: He flouted the gardener, Fray Antonio, when he rebuked him for stepping on his melon vines; he—”
“Good cousin,” said Diego, hastily, “I did but as Fray Antonio bade me.”
“‘IT IS MY COUSIN’S SON, DIEGO? GOOD-DAY TO THEE, LAD!’”
“What did he bid thee do?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“He bade me think twice ere I set foot to ground again, cuffing me soundly lest I should not remember his admonition.”
“Ah!” said Martin Alonzo, a twinkle lighting up his stern eye.
Diego, who was quickness itself, caught the twinkle and went on, before Fray Bartolomeo could continue his catalogue of misdeeds.
“And then I begged him to enlighten me further, since I was not certain that I had construed him correctly.”
“Thou didst flout him,” said the friar, indignantly.
“What didst thou?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“I did but lift my foot thus,” said Diego, demurely suiting the action to the word, “and count, so: ‘I think once, I think twice, and down she goes. I think once, I think twice, I think once, I think twice,’ and so on.”
It was so comically done, Diego being a capital mimic and actor, that Martin Alonzo and the women of the household laughed uproariously in spite of their seriousness. Even Fray Bartolomeo was fain to turn his head. Diego retained his innocent countenance; but down in his heart was the feeling that once more his artfulness had saved him.
“‘Tis thus he ever saves himself the punishment he deserves, and then laughs in his sleeve at his own cajolery,” said the friar, resuming his grave face.
“He is a very cunning knave, then, is he?” said Martin Alonzo, thoughtfully.
“If thou knowest him not, he will cajole thy anger into love and so escape his just dues.”
“How does he with his Latin?” asked the sailor.
“Excellent well, I will say. He hath a positive gift for languages.”
“But he is full of mischievous pranks, you say?”
“Like a very monkey for mischief.”
“And he needs a sobering discipline?” said Martin Alonzo, his voice taking on something of its sea roar.
“Sadly,” answered the friar, trembling a little for the boy; “but do not forget he is but a child.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen, good cousin,” said Diego, in a fright; “but do not be so wroth with me. The worst that I did was to break bounds that I might come into port to see you start on your great voyage, good cousin.”
“And purloined a melon and seduced his comrades to eat it with him,” interposed the friar, seeing a softening of Martin Alonzo’s face, owing to the cunning explanation of his reason for disobedience.
“Thou hadst an interest in my voyage, then?” demanded Martin Alonzo.
“The rogue will cajole him!” murmured Fray Bartolomeo, shaking his head.
“Such an interest, good cousin,” said Diego enthusiastically, at the same time chuckling to think how he was like to escape.
Martin Alonzo bent a singular look upon him and turned to the friar.
“He hath a quick wit and a turn for languages, you say?”
“Both.”
“But to-day he hath purloined a melon, flouted one of the brothers, broken the bounds, seduced his comrades into evil, and perhaps hath done other things not yet known.”
“Oh,” whined Diego, immediately cast down, “if you cannot be satisfied with what is known!”
“And,” went on Martin Alonzo, “you say he hath been a sore trouble in the past and that you have felt yourself unequal to the task of fittingly punishing him.”
“Even so, Martin Alonzo,” admitted the friar.
“And you wish for him, now, a punishment that shall be a warning to him?”
“I love the youth, Martin Alonzo; but it is for his good,” said the friar, who found it hard to bear witness against Diego.
“And you think that without an adequate punishment he will not be the ornament to the church that he otherwise would?”
“I wish I could think differently,” said the friar.
“And I wish,” said Diego, desperately, having given up hope, “that you would do the worst and have it over. I can stand a flogging if it must be; but I hate suspense.”
“You shall be relieved of that,” said Martin Alonzo, grimly. “I have thought of the thing which will at once be a punishment for him, a boon to me, and a relief to you.”
Diego held his breath, his first fear rushing over him in an instant.
“And that is—?” asked the friar, not without uneasiness, himself.
“He shall go the voyage with me,” said Martin Alonzo. “I need another hand, and he is agile and strong and will suit me as well as another—better, it may be, since he hath such a strong interest in the voyage.”
“It must not be,” said the startled friar.
“It shall be,” said Martin Alonzo, in such a tone and with such a fire in his eye that Diego felt himself unequal to any words, though the friar, indignant at the trap he had led Diego into, protested vehemently.
“I am his guardian, I think,” said Martin Alonzo. “You brought him here for my discretion, and he hath not yet been yielded up to the church. If he had been, I would be the last to say a word. He hath not been, and he goes with me. It is the last word. Wife, make a hasty bundle of the clothing of our son, which he hath outgrown. We have but a minute to waste. Cousin, look not so glum over a thing which so short a time ago awoke thy enthusiasm. Thou goest with me. Friar, I wish you good-day. Adios!”
Diego said not a word to his cousin; he knew that would have been useless. To the friar, however, he addressed a reproach.
“I told you how it would be.”
“Thou didst indeed, my son,” said the worthy friar, humbly. “But do not despair, for I will hasten to the prior and have his intervention.”
Martin Alonzo laughed in his beard, and Diego felt that his doom was sealed. He saw the friar go out of the house, and he saw the hasty preparations of the women of the household to get him an outfit; he listened to their words of comfort and hope, and to his cousin’s gruff assurance that he would not be taking the voyage himself, if he thought there was danger in it; and all the while his mind was only on the words he had spoken in mischief to the young convict.
“He is very young to die!”
They seemed cruel, now, instead of only mischievous, and he wished very heartily that he had not uttered them. And so he sat in melancholy silence until he heard Martin Alonzo saying to him:
“Pick up thy bundle, cousin; kiss the women, and come. Why, how glum thou art! And thou with the gift of language! Come, they are waiting for us, and the admiral, Christoval Colon, or Christopherus, as he and thou, being learned in Latin, would say it, will be impatient.”
Diego heeded not the banter in his cousin’s voice; but resigned himself to his fate, with no attempt to hide his grief and terror. He took up his bundle and dejectedly followed his cousin out of the house. Usually, when going to punishment, he would bear himself as jauntily as if going to a feast—that is, when all hope of escape was gone; but on this occasion he had no spirit to simulate what he did not feel. He went with drooping head and lagging step.
There was no doubt that some of the people whom they passed pitied him; and there were others who made merry as he had done with the young convict; but both sorts were alike to him, and he stepped off the quay into the boat, feeling very little better than if he had been going to execution.
When they reached the Pinta, as the vessel of Martin Alonzo was named, a sharp word from his cousin sent Diego over the side in short order. He was just conscious of some conversation taking place about him—a short, quick talk—and then he was hustled forward and told to put his bundle down.
There must have been some curiosity under his despair; for he remembered afterwards looking about him and making certain observations that did not in the least tend to dispel his fears.
The vessel on which he found himself, and which was destined for the most perilous voyage in the knowledge of man, was a rickety little craft no larger than those which he had seen sailing along the shallow coasts of Andalusia. It had no deck amidships, and carried houses forward and aft only to shelter the crew and captain, and to contain the most perishable of such freight as she carried.
She was old and dirty and leaky; the crew was sullen and sluggish; Martin Alonzo was harsh and violent; Diego wished he had never taken the melon or broken bounds. The whole affair was wretched and terrible.
There were about thirty persons on board the vessel; but it was plain that all were not workers; and afterwards he learned that some of them were simple adventurers, and that some were officers sent by the queen, Isabella.
The other two vessels had already lifted anchor and were dropping down the stream, and it was not long before the Pinta was doing the same. But, even when the anchor was up, the shouting of his cousin—the roaring rather—did not cease, nor did the sullen scuffling of the crew.
He had no idea what he was expected to do, and he was in no mood to ask anybody, even if he had known whom to ask; so he let his bundle lie where he had dropped it and moved over to a part of the rail which seemed to be out of the way of the sailors, and leaned over it in the dismalest manner imaginable. As he stood there, he was conscious of the approach of some one, but did not turn to see who it might be.
“He is very young to die,” said a mocking voice, and he knew, before he looked around, whose the voice was; but he turned, nevertheless, and looked into the eyes of the young convict whom he had gibed in those same words.
Chapter IV.
Diego looked into the eyes of the boy who stood by his side, and in their sullen depths he saw a gleam of malicious triumph, which he did not fail to understand. The boy was gloating over the plight he had fallen into.
It made it no easier for Diego to submit to the mockery of the other that he was being treated to his own sauce. The sauce was all the less palatable that it was of his own making. And, then, to have it served by a miserable jail-bird!
“You will do well to keep your distance,” he said to the boy.
“Ha, ha!” jeered the boy, “so young to die!”
“Say that again,” said Diego, “and I will so do to you that you will forget the jail you came from.”
A flush rose to the sallow face of the boy, and he said fiercely between his teeth:
“So young to die!”
“‘HE IS VERY YOUNG TO DIE,’ SAID A MOCKING VOICE.”
Perhaps you know how boys do in these days on such occasions. Four centuries have made no difference; boys did the same then. These two forgot their fellow-voyagers and seemed to think they were alone on the narrow ledge that skirted the rail. They glared rage and defiance at each other; they measured each other from head to foot. Then, like a flash, for he was a quick boy, Diego struck the other boy on the cheek.
The latter was knocked off the rail, but was on his feet and up again, and was rushing at Diego, when a strong hand caught him by the collar and lifted him off his feet, and another strong hand fell thwack, thwack, on first one side and then the other of his head; and then he was dropped.
The two hands belonged to Martin Alonzo Pinzon; and as he aimed at impartiality, he had no sooner released the convict boy than he caught up a rope’s end and laid it lustily over Diego’s shoulders, thus giving his cousin an opportunity to form an estimate of the difference between his method and Fray Bartolomeo’s. The advantage seemed to be with Martin Alonzo, for Diego had no need to pretend a distress he did not feel. His anguish was genuine.
“Now,” said Martin Alonzo, comprehending the scowling convict as well as the squirming Diego, “before this happens again take thought that I am the master of this vessel and can do all the fighting.” Then he looked over the crew that had gathered quickly around, and added, meaningly, “All the fighting, mind you!”
With that he roared out another order, and it was a marvel how the sailors jumped to his bidding. As for Diego, he saw in his cousin another sort of man from the gentle, long-suffering Fray Bartolomeo. Nevertheless, he and his antagonist exchanged looks of dislike.
However, they said nothing to each other, though each thought to himself that a more convenient time might come; forgetting, each, that they expected never to see land again.
Well, the little disturbance, odd as it may seem, did much towards raising Diego’s spirits. Besides, he was not much given to low spirits, and, with all his terror of the voyage, he was, like most of the other sailors, willing to forget the future since there was no way yet apparent of avoiding it.
He had come on board so soon before sailing that it had not been possible to assign him to any duty, and so there was nothing for him to do but watch the others work, or to look over the rail at the shore as it seemed to glide slowly by.
“THEN, LIKE A FLASH, FOR HE WAS A QUICK BOY, DIEGO STRUCK THE OTHER BOY ON THE CHEEK.”
One thing that he did especially was to follow his antagonist with his eye, as he went about his work; and, in spite of his dislike for him and prejudice against him, he could not help admitting that he seemed to understand the business of a sailor very well. And once he heard the man who had gone aboard with him address him as Juan Cacheco.
When the Pinta reached the mouth of the river, she dropped anchor again near to where the Santa Maria and the Niña were anchored. The former was the admiral’s vessel and the largest, and the latter was commanded by a brother of Martin Alonzo, and was the smallest. The largest was small enough, and it did not surprise Diego to hear his own thought uttered in a dismal, surly growl on the other side of him.
“Three crazy tubs for a crazy voyage!”
Diego turned to see if the remark was addressed to him and to see who had uttered it. It had evidently not been made to him, for which he was glad when he saw the ugly, sullen face of the companion of Juan Cacheco turned towards the other two vessels. He started to move away from the man, when the latter shifted his gaze from the vessels to him, and said, in a tone of half-surly friendliness:
“I think we’re of the same opinion as to that. Eh, boy?”
“I know naught about it,” answered Diego, without making any effort to conceal the repugnance he had for the man, whom he did not think of as a fellow-voyager, but only as a convict.
“Hah!” ejaculated the man, showing by his sudden change of tone and by his scowl that he comprehended Diego’s feeling towards him. “‘Tis the cockerel that crowed so bravely on the quay and changed his tone so soon after. We’ll clip your comb before this voyage is half done, my little bird, or my name is not Miguel de la Vega.”
Now Diego was as hasty of temper as he was lacking in prudence, as his quick and taunting answer showed.
“Miguel of the plain, or Miguel of the prison, it is all one to me. Only I will say this to you, that you may find it harder to get my comb than you think. It may not be so easy to steal other persons’ belongings on board ship as you found it on shore, perhaps.”
“Ah! say you so?” was the answer of the man, his brevity and lowering brow giving Diego a very unpleasant sensation, and making him wonder if a less sharp retort might not have answered his purpose as well.
He certainly had not made a friend of the man; but, for the matter of that, why should Diego Pinzon, who was an honest boy, with good blood in his veins, and something of a scholar, withal, have any desire to be friendly with a man who had only escaped the punishment of his crimes by his willingness to risk his life in the perilous undertaking on which they were both embarked?
He moved slowly forward, thinking of these things, and making up his mind that he would speak to his cousin and demand of him as a right that he should not be obliged to have his watch with any of the convict members of the crew. He had a very lively respect for his masterful cousin, but he could see nothing unreasonable in the request he had to prefer, and so looked about to see if there might be an opportunity to speak with Martin Alonzo.
There was no hope of finding the captain of the Pinta in an idle moment at such a stage of the voyage; but at the moment Diego looked around he saw him standing aft, gazing aloft at some operation which his new crew was performing in the rigging, and performing very ill, if one might judge from his contracted brow. He gave a hasty, frowning glance at Diego as he approached, and then turned his eyes aloft again. Diego was not yet to be put down with a mere frown, and so held his place in front of his cousin until the latter looked at him again and said, gruffly:
“Well, boy?”
Diego cleared his throat for such a speech as he would have made at the convent to the reverend prior.
“I pray your pardon, good cousin—”
“Are you so in love with the rope’s end that you crave more of it?” interrupted Martin Alonzo, brusquely.
“I do not understand you, cousin,” stammered Diego.
“Then you shall, and that right speedily. Look alive, you lubbers aloft there!” he roared to the sailors in the rigging. “What! will you go to sleep on the yard? I’ll be the death of some of you yet! Now harkee, boy,” he said, with an abrupt turn to Diego, “Fray Bartolomeo said you were ready of tongue, and doubtless ’twas a merit in the convent; but on the Pinta ’tis only a dangerous gift. I, only, have the privilege of the gift of language here—all the others of you may as well know at once that the only gift you may exercise with safety is that of readiness of limb when I give the word.”
“Yes, good cousin,” said Diego, more meekly.
“And cousin me no cousins,” said Martin Alonzo. “I am your captain and naught else while we are on the voyage together. And now to the point. What word have you with me?”
Truly here was no soft-hearted fray to be cajoled with ready words. Diego choked a little and then came to the point more directly than ever he had before.
“I came to ask that in arranging the watches you would put me with the honest men instead of with the convicts.”
“Who speaks of convicts?” demanded the captain, sharply.
“Why, ’tis well enough known that the crew is partly made up of prison men.”
“Ay! is it so? And you are so nice that you must choose your company, eh?”
“I am a Pinzon,” said Diego, with a touch of offended pride.
“A Pinzon! Ay, to be sure!” said Martin Alonzo, scornfully. “And, prithee, why are you going this voyage?”
“Because you forced me, and no other why,” said Diego.
“Tut! will you quibble with me as if I were a fray at the convent? Why, then, did I force you? Speak up like a Pinzon, now!”
“Because I gave the good brothers so much trouble.”
“You stole a melon, did you not?”
“Among other things, I did.”
“And if you stole a melon, in what are you better than these men who stole purses, perhaps? You did it for mischief and to satisfy your gluttony, and how do you know what bitter temptations these men had? Now, let me hear no more of your superiority. The men who are here are sailors, and I know nothing else of them until they force me to. As for you, your watch has been assigned, and your place is where you have been put. Now go forward, where you belong.”
Well, there was that in Martin Alonzo’s tone and manner that kept Diego’s ready tongue in check, and made him turn and go forward very meekly; though not without a tingling sense of shame at having been likened in so public a manner to the convicts he had so despised.
He, indeed, had spoken softly enough; but Martin Alonzo had not. Perhaps his was a voice that did not readily lend itself to a whisper. Anyhow, he had so spoken that many on the little vessel had caught the pith of the whole conversation, and Diego felt very certain that, among others, Juan Cacheco had heard and was grinning with glee.
At that instant there was nothing he would have liked better than to have had a pitched battle with that lad; but he had learned already to exercise some self-restraint, and so went into the forward cabin without even exchanging glances with Juan.
“‘NOW GO FORWARD WHERE YOU BELONG.’”
If he had felt disinclined to the voyage before, he felt much more so now, when the prospect of the future offered so strong a contrast to the past, which he had brought to a close by his own folly. More than once that night he had it in his mind to slip overboard and swim ashore; but the folly of it was too apparent to him for him to act upon the idea, and when the call came in the morning for the watch to go on deck, he was ready with the others.
It seemed to him when he looked around in the dim morning light as if especial trouble had been taken to humiliate and cross him; for he found himself in the same watch with Juan Cacheco and Miguel de la Vega, the two whom, of all others, he would most have wished to avoid companionship with.
He had not much time for bitter thoughts, however, for Martin Alonzo had tumbled on deck at the same time with the sailors, and had at once begun to roar out order after order; so that Diego, unless he was minded to taste of the rope’s end again, must needs jump to the word.
Fortunately for him, he was enough of a sailor to understand the orders given, and was nimble enough to acquit himself tolerably well—better, indeed, than many of the men, some of whom found themselves on board a vessel for the first time in their lives. Besides, he was soon engaged in a hot rivalry with Juan Cacheco, each boy striving to outdo the other in nimbleness and expedition.
The Santa Maria and the Niña showed as much life as the Pinta, and it did not take long for all to understand that the little fleet was now about to start in good earnest on the long and, as they believed, fated voyage.
Sullen curses and deep anathemas were muttered all over the Pinta, and it was plain to Diego that a more unwilling crew had never set sail. He might have wondered that the men did not refuse to obey the orders of the commander, had he not gained such an opinion of Martin Alonzo as rendered such a wonder idle. Moreover, he knew that, despite their unwillingness to go, there were many who had nothing but imprisonment to hope for if they refused to go.
Still, it was strange and terrible to him to hear the men all about him cursing as they worked at getting the vessel under way. Cursing the voyage, cursing the captain, and, most of all, cursing Christoval Colon, the mad adventurer, who had prompted the voyage, as they declared, at the instigation of the Evil One.
In the first moments of despair at leaving their native land behind them, the men had made little concealment of their words; but later, Diego noticed them whispering together in knots, though always careful to give Martin Alonzo no cause for anger.
Diego noticed, too, that the convicts were not the only ones who whispered so suspiciously together; though of what was being said he could gain no notion, for at his near approach to any one of the whispering groups the whispering would instantly cease, and he would be regarded with scowling looks. Indeed, he was not long in discovering that he was in disfavor with the majority of the crew, and he very rightly attributed that fact to his cousin’s loud voice, which had betrayed his, Diego’s, feelings towards the convict crew.
His situation was so different from what he had always been accustomed to, that it threw him into a very unhappy frame of mind. His bold temper and gay spirits had always made him an unquestioned leader among the boys at the convent, and his quick wit and readiness to acquire knowledge had made him a favorite with the friars, even when he was fullest of mischief. Here he was a sort of outcast. His cousin was unreasonably harsh with him; the convicts, whom he had scorned, despised and disliked him, and the honest portion of the crew passed him by with scarce a civil word.
The result of it all was to make him very sullen and dejected. His gay spirits deserted him completely, and he went about his work without a word for anybody, but always with a black look ready for any one who might challenge it, and particularly for Juan Cacheco, who took a malicious pleasure in the misery of the lad who had taunted him in his time of misery.
Had circumstances been different, Diego would have gone to his cousin with his fear of some mischief brewing on board the Pinta; but, as it was, he felt that anything he might say would only be received with rough upbraiding, and so, in spite of hearing now and again an ominous and threatening word dropped by the whispering men, when they did not suspect his presence, he kept silence and let the talk go on.
Mutiny was what he suspected; but from the few words he had overheard he was quite certain that the only object of the mutiny was to force Martin Alonzo to return to land, and he was too little in love with the voyage to care to prevent the sailors having their will in that respect. His thought was that if he could only get back to Spain, he would make good speed to the convent, and so conduct himself that there would never again be any need for extreme measures against him. Ah, if he could but be in those quiet, peaceful cloisters again!
Yes, he was really of a mind to let the mutiny progress; not merely because he had no sympathy with Martin Alonzo, but quite as much because the terror of the sailors, which had been daily growing since leaving land behind them, had communicated itself to him.
They were on the third day out now, and the faces of the men wore that dull, stolid look of terror, despair, and threatening which seemed to have transformed them from human beings to brutes, a likeness that was further borne out by the constant, low mutterings that broke from their lips whenever two or three came together.
Whether Martin Alonzo suspected anything or not, Diego could not tell by any sign he ever made. The burly captain went about the deck always in his masterful, confident way, and the men were too much afraid of him to give him any cause for complaint against them.
On this third day, especially, when Diego was satisfied that matters among the sailors were drawing to a head, as if ripe for action, Martin Alonzo was absolutely free from any sign of suspicion. There seemed a storm brewing, and before he left the deck at night, he had everything put in readiness to be made snug and tight at a moment’s notice.
Diego was so certain that something would occur that night that, at the last moment, his resolution to remain reticent deserted him. It seemed to him that it would be right to make an effort to put his cousin on his guard; and with that purpose in view he placed himself nearer aft than he had any business to be, in the hope that Martin Alonzo, in passing, would give him the opportunity he sought for speech with him.
Well, Martin Alonzo saw him; but as it was a part of that worthy sailor’s plan to give Diego a good lesson in obedience and subjection, he merely noticed him to snatch up a rope’s end and order him forward with a sharp blow across the shoulders.
That effectually closed Diego’s lips to him; but as he caught the sound of a jeering laugh from Juan Cacheco, as he passed him, he turned fiercely on him and muttered between his shut teeth:
“Your turn will come, you prison dog!”
“And so will yours; and sooner than you think,” was Juan’s answer, no less fiercely spoken.
“It won’t be too soon,” said Diego.
“Ah! won’t it?” was all Juan’s answer; but it had an ominous tone.
Chapter V.
Although under not more than half her full spread of sail, the Pinta was dashing freely through the constantly roughening water, responding, like the good sailer she was, to the freshening breeze.
Night had come on with a black sky, and it was only now and then with the utmost difficulty that the lights of the other vessels could be seen, rising out of the darkness for an instant only to be engulfed as if forever.
All through his watch, Diego had divided his interest between these appearing and disappearing lights and the possibility of some action on the part of the conspirators on the Pinta. His anxiety on that score had been sharpened not a little by the ominous tone of Juan Cacheco’s words to him.
But, alert as he was, nothing occurred that was in the least suspicious, and his watch was relieved without anything having taken place to justify his fears; and as his belief was that the man Miguel was at the head of whatever plot there was, he felt reassured when he saw him, after a few muttered words with one of the new watch, plunge into the close cabin where the men crowded together to sleep.
The company of those who disliked him, whether they were asleep or awake, was never pleasant to Diego, and, moreover, the bad air and odors of the close cabin were almost sickening to him, though a good sailor; so he did not follow his watch into shelter, but determined to remain on deck as long as the rain, which threatened, held up.
With this intention he crept silently to a corner, where a coil of rope offered a support for his head, and curled up, intending to sleep there. It is easy enough to imagine what thoughts must have come to the desolate and lonely yet high-spirited boy as he lay there, clinging to his coil of rope to steady himself under the increasing motion of the boat. The bitterness of the present was mingled with regretful thoughts of the happy past.
The night was fresh, but not really cold—not cold enough, anyhow, to prevent his sleeping where he lay, and he had already dozed and opened his eyes twice or thrice, when it seemed to him that something like an animal stole past him, and he stared with wide eyes to see what it might be, or to determine whether or not he had been merely dreaming.
Not quite dreaming, nor yet wide awake. Something had passed him with a stealthy step and crouching body, and, dark as the night was, he could distinguish a human form; and, indeed, what other living thing was there on board the vessel? Dislike is sometimes keener than even love, and it was this that led Diego to the quick conclusion that the crouching figure, moving so softly and cautiously aft, was that of Juan Cacheco. And it seemed to his strained eyes that there was a gleam of a knife-blade once when a lantern swung around the foremast.
His first thought, with a gulp of terror, was that the convict boy was stealing aft with the intention of murdering Martin Alonzo Pinzon; but then, though the idea was not an irrational one, he reflected that it was not likely, since the after-cabin was too full of friends of his cousin to make the thing possible for a boy to accomplish. And yet Juan’s errand must be a wicked one, or he would not go about it in such fashion.
But be it what it might, Diego was determined to understand it, and with that idea was rising softly, when a new terror was added to the first by the sudden apparition of a man skulking along the opposite side of the vessel. And there was something about the movement of the man that made Diego fancy at once that he was Miguel de la Vega.
Some evil it certainly was that took these two wretches out on deck when they should have been asleep in the forecastle. Diego was a brave enough boy, and at this moment was nerved by the desperate feeling that his own safety—life, perhaps—depended upon his action; but, notwithstanding, a chill of fear crept over him as he stole from his shelter by the coil of rope and followed the dim figure of Juan.
He wondered at first that none of the sailors of the watch challenged the two skulking figures; for it was inconceivable that they had not yet been seen by some one. Then it came over him, with a new accession of terror, that all of the watch must be in collusion with Miguel and Juan.
And if that were so, might not their errand be the murder of his cousin? But no, it seemed so unreasonable that they should attempt that, with the cabin so full of friends of the captain. However, he was determined to watch Juan, who had paused for some reason; and if he saw him turn into the cabin door, he would throw himself on him and shout for help. He would have done that anyhow, but he was afraid of making a mistake and of thus calling down on himself the wrath of his cousin.
Juan had stopped, evidently to listen for some noise from the cabin, and, as if reassured, had gone on again. Diego saw him pass the cabin door and felt relieved of his greatest fear, but was still certain that some evil was the object of this stealthy excursion. Could it be the helmsman?
No, that was improbable, for the sea, having grown rough, had made the helm so difficult to control that the man there had called a companion to help him, and it seemed unlikely that Miguel and Juan would take the uncertain chances of assault on two able-bodied men. Besides, what would be the object, since it was more than probable that the two men were in sympathy with whatever plot there was on board?
Indeed, though they must have seen Juan and Miguel, too, they paid no attention to them, but kept up a conversation in a low tone, as if they stood there quite alone. What should Diego do? What could he do but hide in the shadow of the cabin and wait?
And so he waited and watched Juan, who had crawled to the starboard rail, and was exchanging some whispered words with Miguel. Then, of a sudden, Juan rose to his feet, and, to Diego’s eyes, seemed to drop over the side. His first impulse was to cry out and run to the rail; but he checked that, knowing that the boy could not have deliberately jumped overboard, as a result of all his mysterious preparation.
Again the impulse was strong to slip into the cabin and warn his cousin that something unusual was going on, and again the fear of being put in the wrong restrained him, and he did nothing but wait for something else to happen which might elucidate what had gone before.
Juan was gone what might have been five minutes before his head appeared above the rail again. Miguel at once rose to his feet and helped Juan carefully to the deck, the men at the helm studiously keeping their eyes turned the other way all the while.
What did it mean? What had been done? What ought he to do? It seemed incomprehensible that those two should have made all that mystery for nothing but to enable Juan to idly get over the quarter-rail; but what object could there be in it? Perhaps there was a porthole through which the knife of the prison boy could be thrust with fatal effect! Diego shuddered at that thought, and shrank away behind the cabin, feeling that he might have been wasting precious time, and that it was now too late for him to do any good.
But at least he could brave the possible displeasure of his cousin and go into the cabin to ascertain if any foul deed had been committed. He told himself that he would do so as soon as the two conspirators had returned to the forecastle.
He stole to the mast and crouched at its foot, thinking to be better hidden there. Juan appeared around the corner of the cabin on the same side that he had first passed it, crouching by the rail and peering on every side. Suddenly he stopped and stared towards where Diego hugged the shadow under the mast. Diego waited breathlessly, intending to leap towards the cabin at the first sign of discovery.
But, after a minute of peering, Juan resumed his progress, and Diego turned his head to watch for Miguel. Dislike and ready suspicion had done for Juan, however, what they had already done for Diego, and had caused him to recognize Diego in the half-hidden figure at the foot of the mast.
He had moved on as if freed from the doubt that had made him stop, and then he turned again quickly and had leaped on Diego from behind; so that, almost at the moment that Diego had espied Miguel coming along the starboard rail, he had felt himself seized by the neck and borne to the deck.
Fear and anger combined gave him courage and strength, however, and he twisted under the grasp of his antagonist, and gave utterance to a yell at the same moment that he grappled with Juan.
“Help, Miguel!” cried Juan, finding himself unable to cope with Diego, and fearing another yell that would arouse the sleepers in the cabin.
And before Diego could utter more than a hoarse cry, he was caught by the neck in the strong hands of Miguel, and despite his struggles was in a fair way of being choked.
“Who is it?” he heard Miguel whisper.
“The boy Diego,” was Juan’s answer.
“Ah! and he was spying on us?”
“I think so.”
There was an instant of silence, during which Diego felt the grasp on his throat relax, and he made a furious, desperate effort to free himself.
“Ah! would you?” said Miguel, angrily, and once more tightened his grasp on Diego’s throat. Then he said, suddenly: “The little spoil-sport! The best place for him is over the rail. Bear a hand, Juan, and we will send him to find better company, since he seems to dislike ours.”
“What! throw him overboard?” demanded Juan.
“What else?”
“No, no. I won’t do it,” was the hasty answer.
“Why, you little fool! do you think our lives will be safe if we leave this little friar to tell the captain what he knows?”
“I will not do murder,” said Juan, in a frightened tone.
“Then out of my way, and take no part in it. If it is his life or mine, I shall not take long in the choosing. You’re a fool, Juan.”
“You shall not do it,” said Juan, laying hold of Diego, who was as still, now, as if senseless, though, in fact, he was cognizant of all that was going on.
“Out of my way, boy!”
“I will cry out and alarm the cabin,” said Juan.
Miguel cursed him for his folly, and demanded what he would have done, then.
“Make him promise not to tell a word of what he knows.”
“Ay! he’d promise anything for his life’s sake,” said Miguel. “So much for having a boy to work with.”
“He’ll keep his promise,” said Juan, positively. “Let him speak in a whisper. Say, Diego! will you promise—will you swear on the crucifix not to speak of what you have seen to-night, or of what you suspect? Let him speak, Miguel!”
“And let him yell out and arouse the cabin,” retorted Miguel, in a surly growl.
“If he tries to do it, throw him over,” said Juan.
Diego shook his head, as well as he could, to intimate that he would not cry out. Juan seemed to understand the movement, and again urged Miguel to loose his grasp. And, indeed, it was about time he did; for Diego was losing consciousness. Miguel unwillingly did as Juan urged him, and the latter spoke quickly to Diego.
“Will you swear as we ask you?” he said.
It was a minute before Diego could recall his senses to make a reply. Then he demanded brokenly:
“Have you done harm to my cousin?”
“Not a thing has been done to him,” answered Juan.
“Have you taken any life?” asked Diego.
“Fool! no. Will you swear?”
“What have you done?”
“Holy St. Martin!” growled Miguel, “does the little priestling think we are confessing to him?”
“You will learn soon enough what has been done if you will swear; but if you do not take the oath and that at once, it is like you will not be alive to learn,” answered Juan, angrily.
“I will swear,” said Diego.
“Where’s a crucifix?” said Juan to Miguel.
“You may be sure the priestling has one,” answered Miguel. “And let me warn you, boy,” he said, savagely, “if you break your oath, you shall not escape.”
“Here’s my crucifix,” said Diego, “and if I swear I will keep my word. Now what shall I swear?”
“Swear that you will say nothing of what you have seen or heard,” said Juan.
“Stop!” growled Miguel, suspiciously, “do not forget that he is a fray, or hopes to be, and that it is his trade to juggle with words. Make him swear in such a way that he cannot get around it.”
“I will swear honestly what you like,” said Diego, indignantly.
“You are too ready to swear,” said Miguel with all the suspicion of ignorance.
“Hush!” whispered Juan, suddenly. “There is a noise in the cabin. Swear as I said,” he ejaculated hastily to Diego.
“‘HUSH!’ WHISPERED JUAN, SUDDENLY. ‘THERE IS A NOISE IN THE CABIN.’”
“The captain!” muttered Miguel with an oath, and he and Juan crawled away, attempting to drag Diego with them.
But he was not minded to bear them company, and tore away, only just in time to avoid a vicious stab from the knife that Miguel drew from his belt.
“We will hang for it!” he heard the older convict growl. “Curse you, Juan, for a soft-hearted fool! Curse you!”
The man was in such a rage that Diego expected him to brave all consequences and rush after him; so he ran aft near to where Martin Alonzo was standing, and waited. Miguel and Juan had disappeared into the forecastle, however, and he was not molested.
Martin Alonzo, like the thorough seaman that he was, had been waked from his sleep by an unusual motion of his vessel; and, as he had lain down in the full expectation of being disturbed by the coming of the storm he had foreseen, he had leaped out of his bunk and rushed out on deck. His first thought had been that the disturbance had been caused by the storm; but when he reached the deck and discovered that the storm had not yet burst, albeit the wind was fresh and the waves running high, he sprang to the men at the helm and roared out:
“What’s wrong? Can’t two of you hold that helm steady? She yaws like a blind mule on a hill-side. Steady there!”
He pushed the men angrily away and caught the helm in his own strong hands, and braced his feet to keep the rudder steady. Still, there was a quivering, unsteady motion to the vessel.
“Whose watch is it?” he roared. “Is it yours, Lopez?” as the third mate came hurrying aft. “Have you turned lubber like the rest? Have you lost your wits because we’re three days out? How long has she been yawing like this?”
“Just commenced it,” was the surly answer.
“What’re you doing for’ard? Couldn’t you tell that something was wrong with the steering-gear? All hands on deck and have everything made snug! Jump, now! Let go the main sheet and bring her upon the starboard tack. Jump, you lubbers! Do you think I want her brought about, you sea-calves? There! that steadies her. Here, take this helm, and keep her where she is.”
The vessel was alive almost from the first roar of the captain, and everything was being done as expeditiously as possible; although most of the people aboard of the vessel were wondering what was the cause of so much excitement. The captain, however, gave no one much opportunity for reflection; for as soon as he had given the helm into other hands, he had issued more orders looking to lightening the canvas, making all snug, and to keeping the vessel steady.
Diego had quickly seen that there would be nothing for him to do but to take his part in the execution of the orders of Martin Alonzo, and he had jumped like the others at the first word. The only care he had was to keep away as far as possible from his two recent antagonists, and this he accomplished, notwithstanding the manifest efforts of Juan and Miguel to have a word with him.
He had wondered how he would be able to keep them at a distance after the excitement had subsided; but he had no need to concern himself about that; for no sooner had Martin Alonzo put the vessel in condition to hold her own than the storm that had been threatening broke upon them, accompanied by sheets of rain, forked streaks of lightning, and peals of thunder; so that until daylight dawned there was little idleness for any of the crew.
The rudder worked so badly that the vessel would not head as she was put, and in consequence shipped so much water that all hands were kept busy bailing her and pumping too.
When morning dawned, the first thought was of the other vessels, and great was the relief to see them laboring in the great waves, not far away; though in the event of danger to the Pinta the others could have done nothing for her in such a sea. Still, there was some comfort in the companionship of the vessels. What Diego thought most of, however, when the first streaks of dawn lighted up the gray waste where sky and water were hardly distinguishable, was that now his life would be safe from Miguel.
He had made no effort to have any communication with his cousin; for that efficient sailor seemed to know what was wrong better than he could have told him, and any information he could have given seemed to him superfluous. He felt sure, of course, that whatever had happened had been the result of the action of Juan; but, as no danger seemed to threaten in consequence, he decided that it would be wisest to keep silence. He knew, too, that everything he did was watched by Miguel.
The Pinta was quite bare of canvas by this time, and was laboring frightfully. Martin Alonzo had made several efforts to ascertain what was wrong with the steering-gear; but without result, since it was dangerous to go over the side during the gale, and he had determined to postpone his investigation until the storm had abated.
All this while he had been without food, even when the sailors had been supplied with theirs, and as the wind was now blowing steadily from one quarter, he left his brother, Francisco Martin Pinzon, in charge of the deck while he went for a hasty bite of something.
He had hardly taken two mouthfuls, however, as it seemed, when the vessel suddenly shuddered from stem to stern, and in a moment more was rolling like a log in the trough of the sea. With two leaps he was out of the cabin and at the helm.
Something in the gearing had snapped and the rudder was useless. It looked as if the vessel would swamp in another minute. The water poured over her low rail, and yards dipped into the waves at each roll.
No man on board expected to survive that hour, and more than one who had not prayed for many a year knelt where he clung to some rope and tried to recall the forgotten words.
Diego found himself side by side with Juan Cacheco.
“You did this,” he cried, furiously.
“I didn’t expect this,” answered Juan, his face blanched with terror.
Chapter VI.
It was very fortunate for the well-disposed few, as well as for the disaffected majority of the crew, that the Pinta was commanded by so able a sailor and so cool-headed a man as Martin Alonzo Pinzon.
Many another man at such a time would have been utterly at a loss what to do; but Martin Alonzo acted with a promptness that gave the impression that he had been prepared for this very emergency.
He did not merely issue his orders in quick and precise terms, but bore a hand in the execution of the more pressing duties, and so animated the terrified sailors that they took heart to act briskly and in sympathy with his efforts. Drags were hurriedly prepared and thrown over, and after a time of doubt and fearful anxiety the little vessel swung around and brought her head up to the wind.
There was no hope of any assistance from the other vessels during such a high wind and rough sea; but Martin Alonzo had the distress signal run up as soon as he had secured the safety of the Pinta, in order partly to explain why he did not continue on his course, and also to prevent the companion vessels from leaving him.
Providentially—it seemed as if Providence interfered more than once in behalf of this daring enterprise—providentially the wind began to abate a great deal of its violence at this time; and although the waves continued to run very high, they were less dangerous by reason of no longer curling and breaking.
It still remained a hazardous thing to get over the vessel’s side to examine the steering-gear and rudder; but Martin Alonzo had such courage and such confidence in his strength that he performed that office himself. He tied a stout line about his body and slipped it up under his armpits, and then, commending himself to the care of his brother, climbed over the rail.
Diego knew that it was inevitable that so shrewd a seaman as his cousin must discover that the gear had been tampered with, and when Martin Alonzo disappeared over the side he looked around to note the effect on the conspirators. Many of the sailors looked frightened, but on the faces of Miguel and Juan especially he could see a desperate, hunted expression, as if they believed that their crime would certainly be fastened on them.
Diego himself was not without a deep concern, and his face was as pallid as any; for, now that he knew the danger they had all been exposed to by what Juan had done, he realized that there could be no excuse for his not hastening to inform his cousin of his suspicions. And he knew it would not make his case seem any better to plead that his cousin had repelled him so often that he had feared to warn him.
Presently he saw Miguel whisper to Juan, and then both of them glanced towards him. After that, Juan left the side of Miguel and made through the anxious crowd towards him. Now, the last thing Diego wished was any intercourse with either of those two. He was uncertain enough of his own position not to wish it made worse by seeming to have any understanding with them, and so he shifted his place until he was as near as he dared to go to where Francisco Martin Pinzon stood.
Perhaps Juan would have followed him there had not Martin Alonzo at that moment lifted his head above the rail, and then climbed quickly on deck. His brother asked him a question relative to the nature of the injury to the rudder; but Diego noticed that Martin Alonzo pushed him sternly aside and stepped forward to where he could sweep the waiting crew with his keen glance.
“MARTIN ALONZO DISAPPEARED OVER THE SIDE.”
It seemed to Diego as if that stern eye were reading every face, and he had no doubt that he had betrayed in his countenance all that he knew, when the glance passed over him. He looked involuntarily at Miguel and Juan, and could see that they were in the same dread as himself, and that the former, with the ugly expression of an animal cornered, was feeling nervously of the handle of his knife.
The look they both shot at him was one of mingled inquiry and hatred, and he knew that Miguel was regretting that he had been prevented carrying out his murderous design towards him.
It was as certain to him as it seemed to them that he would be questioned by his cousin, and his dread of Martin Alonzo was such that he caught at the rail to steady himself. Martin Alonzo had other work to do first; the rudder must be repaired as far as was possible before he did anything else, and the carpenter was called and instructed what to do.
He brought his tools and such materials as seemed to be needed and went over the rail. And all the while that he was making ready, Martin Alonzo paced back and forth in the limited space available to him, never taking his stern glance from the crew, which stood in the waist of the vessel eying him with evident trepidation.
But not until the carpenter had made all his preparations and disappeared over the rail did the captain utter a word. And when he did, it was sternly and harshly enough, but without that roar which had theretofore characterized his voice. He stepped to the ladder and sent a searching glance over the faces turned expectantly upward to his. Then after a moment of silence, during which more than one of the sailors caught a painful breath, he spoke.
“A foul deed has been wrought here.” He stopped and waited as if to give time for his words to be fully understood. “Some scoundrel, for whom hanging is too good, has wrecked the rudder. The gear has been cut with a knife, and the rudder is separated and unhung.” Again he stopped, and Diego stole a frightened look at Miguel and Juan. “Every life on board has been put in jeopardy. It is only by a mercy of God that we live now. It will be only by a further mercy that we shall continue to live. When I know the man who did it, I will hang him there,” and he pointed with flashing eyes to the yard. “What! because ye like not the voyage will ye seek to drown us all? What! do ye think Martin Alonzo Pinzon is to be frightened from his purpose?” He stopped short and looked over the faces as if he would find one that expressed such a belief.
It is unlikely that he saw such a face; for of all there, those who were innocent of participation and those who were guilty, there was not one that did not answer his glance with one of fear or of respect. Once again before he spoke he swept the crowd with his eyes, but this time slowly.
“Diego Pinzon, come hither!”
He spoke sharply, shortly, distinctly, and Diego heard; but it was not until he spoke again that the boy found strength to move. It was then with a stagger rather than with a walk that he went to the foot of the ladder and turned his pallid face up to his cousin.
“Up, by my side!” said Martin Alonzo, sternly.
Diego climbed up with difficulty, and stood with pale face and beating heart by the side of the captain of the Pinta. Martin Alonzo eyed him in silence for a few moments, and the crew waited breathlessly for what was to follow. In that brief space Diego understood that the whole crew looked upon him as a sort of spy, and that his cousin regarded him as a coward who could be frightened into telling aught he might know.
“Now, boy,” said Martin Alonzo, “you know something of this; tell me what it is. Speak!”
Diego raised his eyes imploringly to his cousin’s face, as if beseeching him not to force such a thing upon him; but Martin Alonzo held the safety of his vessel above the feelings of a boy, whose chief merit was his over-readiness of speech when it was least desired of him, and so he repeated, threateningly:
“Speak, or I shall know how to make you!”
Diego drooped his head and was silent. Martin Alonzo thought he was obstinate, when in fact he was torn between doubt and anguish. What was his duty? The great muscular hand of the captain fell upon his shoulder and gripped it tight, the angry man not realizing perhaps his own energy, and causing Diego severe pain.
“Will you speak? You had tongue enough a while since. Speak, I warn you!”
Martin Alonzo was doubly angry now. Angry at what he believed was Diego’s obstinacy, and angry that he should meet with a check before the crew. If he had doubted his ability to make Diego speak he would not have essayed it so publicly; but, since he had essayed it, he was determined to succeed; for Martin Alonzo was a man who at all times would have his own way, and who was used to being supreme and undisputed when at sea on his own vessel.
Diego was well satisfied that nothing on the score of relationship would stand between him and the wrath of his cousin should he refuse to speak and tell what he knew. It was true, he might lie. How should any one know that he had cognizance of what had happened? Was it not more likely, indeed, that his denial would be the more readily credited in view of the fact that he had been a sort of outcast among the crew? Well, he did not even think of lying. A lie is the coward’s refuge, and he was not a coward.
He was pale, he trembled, and his voice was unsteady; but when he looked up at his cousin his eye did not quail.
“I had naught to do with it, and I have naught to say,” were his words.
Martin Alonzo’s face grew gray with sudden wrath. He was in no mood then to credit Diego with the courage he had before denied him. He only knew, or believed, that his vessel had been put in jeopardy by some miscreant, and that the boy before him knew who it was and refused to divulge his knowledge. Diego was no more to him than any other boy on the vessel would have been.
“You know, and you refuse to tell!” he said, hoarsely. “Now I ask you again, and I bid you think twice ere you answer.”
Even at that moment—a terrible moment to him, with his fear of his cousin—the picture rose in his mind of Fray Antonio bidding him think twice ere he set foot to ground. Ah, the good fray! the sweet, peaceful days forever lost! It had been so funny then; it was so pathetic now!
“Who—who did it?” demanded Martin Alonzo, quivering with wrath.
“Why,” cried Diego, with sudden indignation, “would you make a spy of me? They all hate me now, though they have no cause. I will not give them cause. I have naught to say.”
He seemed to hear a murmur of approbation from the crew; but it died away as Martin Alonzo, in a voice hoarse with passion, cried:
“Have you naught to say? We shall see! Lopez! trice him up. Though he were my own son, he should not brave me so.”
Diego understood the meaning of that—they were going to flog him. Alas! it was a common enough thing in those brutal days. Diego turned paler than before, but he looked into the angry face of his cousin and said:
“And this is how you keep your promise to my mother!”
“Will you tell?”
“I have naught to tell.”
“Then you shall be flogged.”
“And I may say things I should not, Martin Alonzo Pinzon; but the shame will be yours, not mine,” and the pallor on his cheek gave place to a red flush.
“To the mast with him!” said Martin Alonzo, a flush showing, too, on his bronzed cheek.