Captain from Castile (67 page)

It seemed to Pedro that for once he was seeing Cortes in his ultimate character. The tall, dark, lean figure towered.

"It depends on you whether we shall be permitted to consolidate what we have gained, or whether it is to be frittered away by other hands and made futile. The Emperor must acknowledge this colony, must acknowledge me as his deputy in the lands we have conquered, not Velasquez or someone else. I am not boasting when I say that I have led you well, that only I at this time can bring to good issue what we have begun, so that our labor and the loss of our comrades shall not have been in vain. I think you believe this."

"With all my heart," said Pedro.

"Therefore, I say you carry the future with you. Captain de Vargas, a future of which we can hardly dream. Can I rely on you?"

Pedro, deeply moved, raised the hilt of his sword to his lips. "To the death, my General, I swear it."

The evening was not far advanced %vhen he went out vibrating from his last interview with Cortes. But he still had to say good-by to Catana and Garcia and, facing this with an effort, he took his way through the winding streets of Coyoacan to the quarters which Catana shared with the newly married Farfans. Maria answered his knock.

"But I thought you knew, Sefior Captain."

"What?"

"That Catana left today with Juan Garcia and the detachment for the southeast country."

Pedro stood frozen. It was a minute before he answered, "No, I hadn't heard that either of them—" His voice stuck.

"They decided yesterday," said Maria. "But I thought you had seen them."

In a daze, he walked back to his house, passed the Zapotec warrior on guard and, entering his bedroom, sat down absently on the bench in front of the table.

To have left without a word! At least they could have said good-by, if it was no more than a gesture. The most casual friends did as much. But that was the trouble: they and he could never be simply friends. Suddenly he realized good-by would have been meaningless. They wished him Godspeed: he knew that.

Irked by the bulkiness, he drew out from his cloak the letters that Cortes had given him and glanced at their superscriptions in the smoky rush light. "To his Caesarean Majesty, Charles, by the Grace of God" . . . "To the Duke de Bejar" . . . "To the Count de Aguilar" . . . "To Captain Martin Cortes de Monroy."

There lay the future, the fulfillment of his hopes. Why brood upon the past! He was returning to Spain rich as a grandee to marry the daughter of one. He was an envoy to the Emperor. But at the moment he felt strangely apathetic.

A folded piece of paper on the table caught his attention and, reaching out, he picked it up. At first he could make nothing of the writing inside it, for the letters were often reversed and the words misspelled. But at last he read: —

Good-by, senor. I could not hear to say it, therefore I am leaving with Juan. May you he happy always!

He noticed a round spot on the paper, like a drop of tallow. But then he remembered that there were no candles in this country and, touching his finger to the place, he guessed what it was.

Suddenly his throat tightened. Leaning forward, he bowed his face upon his outstretched arms.

Conclusion

LXXIII

In august 1522, there was perhaps no busier spot in Europe than the Plaza San Pablo in Valladolid. Messengers came and went; attendants of state dignitaries showed their liveries; the gaudy clothes of Flemish and German noblemen, sweating under the hot sun, mingled with the soberer dress of Spanish grandees or hidalgos. As a focal point of the colorful eddy stood the packed court>-ard of a spacious house, wliich courtesy might call a palace, at the meeting of two streets. Here a detachment of German mercenaries, the famous Landsknechte, in Haps-burg colors, guarded gate and door. For Charles of Austria, now Emperor, had recently landed in his Spanish dominions after a three years' absence, during which civil war had convulsed the Castiles, and there was much accumulated business to attend to.

The confusion of plaza and courtyard, the babble of voices in audience rooms and anterooms diminished progressively as one approached the imxperial cabinet where two gigantic guards with halberds stood in statuelike silence before the inner sanctum. Barred at this hour to everyone except the Grand Chancellor himself, the room was devoted rigidly to a consideration of the day's affairs.

An administrator and chiefly that, even at twenty-two, the blond young Emperor was businesslike, diligent, and competent. The sober splendor of the room reflected his masterful and earnest personality. No need for the Italian Chancellor, Gattinara, to remind him of business matters: they took precedence over everything else in his daily schedule. Seated in a stiff armchair upholstered in crimson velvet, he turned an executive blue eye on the Italian gentleman before him and asked for the morning's agenda.

He spoke in French, the tongue of his birth, and the gravely alert Italian answered in that language.

"Affairs of the Comunidades, sire. Your Majesty's pleasure regarding certain rebels captured in the late disorders. Here is the list."

The Emperor scanned it rapidly. "Clemency," he returned after a moment. "We'll get further with fines than with executions. It's money we need, not bloodshed, Monseigneur di Gattinara."

The other nodded approval and, dipping a quill into the inkhorn at his belt, presented it to Charles, who wrote a short instruction, signing it, "I the King."

"Yes, money," the young man repeated. "With Solyman and his Turks to the east, the corsair Barbarossa to the south, and my cousin of France to the north, we cannot arm too soon or too well. . . . The treasury receipts?"

"Relatively good. But if Your Caesarean Majesty is to defend Christendom from the infidels on one hand and the Milanese from France on the other, va.stly more will be needed. As Your Majesty implies, no source of revenue should be ignored."

The Emperor returned the paper to Gattinara. "Next?"

"A matter relating to Your Majesty's overseas possessions. It has long waited decision. The Bishop of Burgos, President of the Indian Council, entreats that it may be finally settled."

Searching his memory, Charles found what he looked for. "You mean the claim of the Governor of Cuba—his name slips me (yes, Velasquez)—to jurisdiction over the lands conquered on Terra Firma by an expedition sent out by him under—under Hernan Cortes? A reasonable claim, it seems to me, Gattinara. Though the man Cortes wTites well and sent over a sizable treasure two years ago. Still, we must have respect for law and for the royal deputies." He paused a moment, "But, ma foi, I know nothing of these colonial bickerings."

"It is to inform Your Majesty of the point at issue that the Bishop of Burgos craves audience together with his kinsman, Diego de Silva, who has newly returned from those parts."

The Emperor's eyes brightened. "You mean the man who was taken by the corsairs before reaching Cadiz and escaped from them by miracle? Yes, I've talked with him. He's given us valuable information of Barbarossa and his Moors."

"The same. Your Majesty."

Charles hesitated. "Is there no more important business to deal with than this squabble in the colonies?"

"We were observing, sire, that no source of revenue should be overlooked. But if Your Majesty prefers—"

"Oh, no, bring them in. I should have to see them one time or another."

A black-clad usher glided out between the German halberdiers. A

gust of voices, sounding from the anteroom, fell silent. Then the guardsmen presented arms; the usher announced, "The Lord Bishop of Burgos and Seiior Diego de Silva"; the doors closed; and the newcomers obsequiously advanced.

Charles extended his hand, over which the Bishop bowed low, while de Silva kneeled before kissing it. The Emperor was a stickler for etiquette, which, if backed by efficiency, is a powerful weapon in the hands of a good executive. But he lost no time in getting to business.

"We have been considering with sorrow," he said, struggling with the unfamiliar Spanish and choosing his words slowly, "with sorrow this contention between our servants, Diego de Velasquez, adelantado of Cuba, and Hernan Cortes commanding our forces in that part of Terra Firma known as New Spain. You, my lord Bishop, being in charge of colonial affairs, will be inform.ed as to the rights and wrongs of the matter and can advise us. You have leave to speak."

His cool, observant eyes rested on the heavy-jowled, stubborn-looking churchman, then turned to the suave darkness of de Silva, then drifted back to the Bishop.

"Your Caesarean Majesty," began the latter, "speaks of this man Cortes as if he were a loyal servant of the Crown. Alas, it grieves me that Your Majesty should be so misinformed, and for that the fault is doubtless mine. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" A blow of the palm on his resounding chest accompanied each of these exclamations. "Sire, unfortunately the reverse is the case. Hernan Cortes is an arrant traitor and villain, a man of violence and without principles, who, far from deserving the title of Your Majesty's servant, schemes only to set himself up as monarch in the lands he has wrongfully taken."

The Bishop spoke in a rumbling, angry voice with dogmatic conviction. He shook his head every now and then for emphasis. There was no gray in Fonseca's world, but only white and black—principally black. The Emperor, with his Teutonic reserve, and the shrewd Italian Chancellor sensed a partisan and exchanged glances.

"Of course you have proofs, lord Bishop?" observed Charles.

"A thousandfold. Your Majesty."

Fonseca proceeded to unload them. He did not have to invent much. It was common knowledge, he submitted, that Velasquez, Governor of Cuba, being zealous in His Majesty's service, had equipped at his own great expense an expedition for trade and exploration on the newfound coasts to the west; that he had appointed Hernan Cortes captain-general of said expedition, but with no authority to colonize; and that said Hernan Cortes had agreed to these conditions. It was common

knowledge that hardly had he landed on said coasts when said Hernan Cortes—

"I know," interrupted the Emperor, stifling a yawn. "He set up a colony. I forget what he calls it—Villa something-or-other Vera Cruz, Well, I admit that he broke his word to the worthy Governor. Very irregular indeed."

"Yes, sire, and then boasted openly that he would bribe Your Caesarean Majesty—I blush at such blasphemy—to overlook, to connive at, his treason."

"Humph!" said Charles. "Did he so? Well, go on."

It was common knowledge, Fonseca continued, that said Cortes had then scuttled the ships, which did not belong to him, in order to prevent loyal adherents of Velasquez from returning to Cuba. Some of these he had hanged or maimed, all of them he had terrorized into marching inland. There he and his captains had distinguished themselves by incredible orgies of massacre and rapine, a disgrace to the Spanish, let alone the Christian, name. But when Diego de Velasquez, loyal and God-fearing, had sent Panfilo de Narvaez and twelve hundred men to assert the King's law and bring the rebels to reason, said Hernan Cortes had treacherously fallen upon said Narvaez by night, had cruelly put out one of his eyes, killed divers of his company, and compelled the others to join with him.

"The fellow must be a monster," Charles grunted. "Continue."

The Bishop rumbled up and down the scale of the Seven Deadly Sins, but when he described the royal treasure, some hundreds of thousands in gold, which had disappeared on the Sad Night and which many believed had been diverted by the General to his own use, the imperial eyes hardened to blue steel.

"Some hundred thousand pesos in gold, you say?"

"No less, sire."

"Ha! . . . Well, go on."

Fonseca stamped gradually to a conclusion. "And now, Your Majesty, having lost land and treasure, he continues a hopeless fight, leading his men to sure death, because he fears rightly to face the penalty of his crimes. Sire, I ask redress for Diego de Velasquez and that he be given full power in New Spain."

"He shall have it," Charles returned. "If true, I have seldom heard a sorrier tale."

"// true, Your Majesty?"

Arborio di Gattinara put in, "Is it not rumored, my lord Bishop, that your sister is to marry Diego de Velasquez?"

The Bishop shot him a black look. "You imply tlicn that I—that I who for thirty years have governed the affairs of the Indies, who have promoted and fostered them, who have built up an empire where none existed—that I, a Bishop of the Church, am lying, because my sister-— Your Majesty, I ask now redress—"

The Emperor smiled. "My good lord Bishop, have patience. There are no implications. My lord Chancellor asked a random question. Well, sir?" His eyes were on Diego de Silva, who had dropped gracefully to one knee.

"A word. Your Majesty," replied de Silva in a liquid voice. "The Bishop of Burgos speaks from written report and from the testimony of credible witnesses. He speaks with righteous indignation. But let me who have seen the crimes of Hernan Cortes and of his captains with my own eyes gain the favor of your august ear. I am without prejudice, sire, believe me, a simple gentleman who sought to serve Spain in the New World and whose heart beats only in devotion to Your Majesty. Ay de mi, why should I have left Hernan Cortes had it been possible to serve Your Caesarean Majesty longer under his command?"

"And how was it," asked Charles reasonably, "that you were permitted to leave him? So ruthless a villain as he is pictured would have been apt to prevent it. . . . You may rise, sir."

De Silva complied as elegantly as he had kneeled. "Nothing escapes Your Majesty's penetration," he went on. "Indeed, sire, General Cortes would have prevented me if he could. But a bully has feet of clay. I had gained favor with our company, I mean that of Panfilo de Narvaez, with which I had come. I promised to lay their intolerable wrongs and grievances before Your Majesty so that, if it was too late to redress them (Poor souls! I doubt the greater number are now dead!), they might at least be avenged. If Cortes had refused to release me, he would have met more trouble than at that time he had stomach for."