Authors: C. S. Forester
Tags: #Inquisition, #treasure, #Caribbean, #Indian islands, #Indians, #aristocrats, #Conquistadors, #Orinoco, #Haiti, #Spain, #natives
“Here they come!” said the
Adelantado
. “Form your square, men.”
Rich had no time to see more during the bustle of forming up.
“Invalids here in the center!” called the
Adelantado
. “Gentlemen, mount your horses. Pikemen! Crossbowmen!”
Rich helped his invalid to the ground. There were a dozen helpless men lying there already, but his own invalid was convalescent by now and with one more curse lurched away to join the ranks of his fellows. Ruiz and the advanced guard came clattering up as Rich climbed on the grey horse. Other horses cannoned into him, and he lost a stirrup and nearly lost his helmet before he found himself in the mass of cavalry grouped round the invalids. The foot soldiers had formed a square round the cavalry, facing outwards, the handgunmen with their matches alight, the crossbowmen with their bows wound up.
Pouring up towards them was an enormous crowd of naked Indians. It was like a brown sea rolling upon them, thousands and thousands of them — not merely men, Rich saw as they approached, but women and children as well, all shrieking and yelling, as they waved their arms over their heads, with a noise like surf on the beach.
“Please God they charge,” said the
Adelantado
, and then, raising his voice: “Remember, no man is to fire a shot until I give the word. Don Bernardo, see to it.”
Rich, fidgeting with his reins and his sword, marveled at the
Adelantado’s
sentiments. It seemed to him the most necessary thing in the world that the guns should start firing at once. Through his muddled brain coursed a sudden desire to wheel his horse round and break through the ranks and gallop away; panic was making his heart beat painfully fast and clouding his intellect, and it was only with difficulty that he restrained himself from acting on the impulse.
“If we shoot one now the whole lot’ll run away,” explained the
Adelantado
to the hidalgos round him. “I want to close with them.”
The huge crowd poured up towards the square. Then it halted a hundred yards from the nearest face, came on again, halted again in the center, while at the sides it still poured forward until in the end the whole square was surrounded at a discreet distance. A few more daring Indians ran closer still and, with frantic gestures, flung stones which fell to earth far in front of the waiting Spaniards.
“No shooting!” said the
Adelantado
loudly again.
The crowd eddied round the square like mist, forward here and back there. The din was tremendous. Then at last came the rush, as some indetectable impulse carried the whole mob inwards towards the square.
“Fire!” yelled the
Adelantado
.
The crash of the handguns drowned the noise of the discharge of the crossbows. Rich saw one Indian fall, and next moment the two nations were at grips. The Indians carried heavy sticks for the most part, with which they struck clumsily at the helmets in front of them, clumsily, like clowns in a comedy. Perched up on his horse Rich caught vivid glimpses of brown faces, some of them striped with red paint, distorted with passion. He saw the expression on one turn to mild dismay as a Spaniard drove his sword home. Rich’s horse was chafing at the bit as the smell of blood reached his nostrils; close in front of him a crossbowman was winding frantically at his moulinet. There came a loud bang as one of the recharged handguns went off, and then another and another. The brown masses began to hesitate, and ceased to crowd up against the sword-points.
“They’re going to break!” said the
Adelantado
. “Gentlemen, are you ready?”
The crossbowman thrust his loaded weapon forward between the two swordsmen who were protecting him, and released the bolt with a whizz and a clatter.
“Open out when you charge, gentlemen. Ride them down and show no mercy,” said the
Adelantado
. “There! They’re breaking! Sailors, make way! Open your ranks, sailors! Come on, gentlemen!”
The sailors, who formed one face of the square, huddled off to either side making a gap for the horsemen who poured through it in a torrent, the maddened horses jostling each other. Rich kept his seat with difficulty as his horse dashed out along with his fellows; reins and sword seemed to have become mixed in his grip. Avila was riding in front of him, his horse stretched to a gallop and his lance, with its fluttering banderol, in rest before him. The point caught a flying Indian in the back below the ribs, and lifted him forward in a great leap before he dropped spread-eagled on the ground; and Avila rode forward to free his point. The swords were wheeling in great arcs of fire under the sun. There was an Indian running madly close by Rich’s right knee, his hands crossed over his head to ward off the impending blow. Rich had his sword hand free now, and he swung and struck at the hands, and the Indian fell with a dull shriek.
This was madly exciting, this wild pursuit on a horse galloping at top speed, with Indians scurrying in all directions before him. Behind him the handguns were still banging, and faint shouts indicated that the infantry were in pursuit as well. Rich struck again and again. He found himself leaning far out of the saddle, like an accomplished cavalier, to get a fairer sweep, and the discovery delighted him. He was carried away by the violence of his reaction from his previous panic; there were enemies all about him, running like rabbits. He yelled with excitement and slashed again. An Indian, crazed with panic, ran blindly across his course, and fell with a scream under the forelegs of the grey horse. The grey horse came down with a crash, and Rich found himself sailing through the air. The earth which received him was soft, and he was not stunned by the fall, but the breath was driven from his body as if he were a burst bladder. Dazed and winded, sword and helmet gone, he groveled about on the ground trying to recover himself. An Indian woman saw his plight; she still had her club in her hand, and apparently she was not as affected by panic as most of her companions. She ran up and struck at Rich, screaming the while for assistance. Two more women arrived, one with a pointed cane which she stuck painfully into Rich’s left arm, overbalancing him just as he was on the point of regaining his feet. The club clanged on his breastplate, the sharpened cane scraped over it. But the screams of the women changed from excitement to fright. A horse’s head loomed hugely over them; one woman fell across Rich, deluging him with blood from her half-severed neck, the others disappeared. García was there, riding a maddened chestnut stallion with graceful dexterity; the blood slowly dripped from his reddened sword and his white teeth flashed in a smile.
“Wounded? Hurt?” he asked.
“No,” said Rich, sliding disgustedly from under the woman’s corpse.
“I’ll catch your horse,” said García, wheeling the chestnut towards where the grey was standing, his reins over his head and his sides heaving.
Rich picked up his sword and helmet and received the reins which García handed him.
“All well?” asked García. “Right!”
García uttered some inarticulate yell and urged his horse into a gallop again, wheeling his sword in circles; Rich stood with the reins in his hand and watched him catch an Indian and strike him down. Rich had to sheath his bloody sword in order to mount. It was an effort to raise his foot to the stirrup, a worse effort to swing himself up into the saddle even though the blown horse stood stock-still for him; he gathered up the reins and wondered what to do next. Behind him the scattered infantry were chasing Indians with small chance of catching them — a few Indians were still running towards him from the direction of the battlefield and swerving frantically away when they caught sight of him. Far ahead the cavalry were still on the fringe of the great mass of flying Indians; the shouts came back to Rich’s ears like the distant cry of gulls at sea. He shook his horse into activity and rode forward towards Soco at a ponderous trot — he passed dead and wounded Indians scattered here and there over the plain as witness of the efficacy of the pursuit. The shouting and screaming ahead suddenly redoubled; the distant crowd wavered and hesitated and then broke up into two halves, one flying to the right and one to the left amid the loud reports of gunfire.
The firing enabled Rich to guess what had happened: the garrison of Soco had come charging out across the line of retreat of the Indians, a dozen men against ten thousand and yet sufficient to check their speed enough to give the horsemen’s swords a fresh opportunity. There were plenty of Indians even near him, stragglers whom the pursuit had left behind ungleaned — exhausted Indians squatting gasping for breath, crippled Indians limping over the plain and Indians running madly back towards him from the slaughter ahead. Rich put his hand to his sword-hilt and then found himself, rather to his own surprise, leaving the weapon where it was. He did not want to kill any more.
He rode slowly up towards the fort of Soco, where the horsemen were rallying, breathing their horses and tightening their girths. A dozen men on foot — the garrison of Soco, presumably — were standing with them, everyone talking and laughing excitedly. Dead Indians lay in swathes all about them, marking the area wherein their retreat had been cut off by the garrison’s sally.
“Mount again, gentlemen,” said the
Adelantado
as Rich came within earshot. “We can beat back over the ground. Plenty of game broke back and the foot are there to head them off for us.”
The Spaniards who had dismounted got back into their saddles. They were like men who had been drinking — some were giggling like schoolboys with the excitement of slaughter.
“One long line,” said the
Adelantado
. “Fifty yards apart. My standard in the center. Spread yourselves out, gentlemen.”
The
Adelantado
ran an interested eye over Rich as he trotted up — Rich was conscious of the blood and mud with which he was smeared. He bore clear enough proof that he had played his part in the battle.
“Don Cristobal said you had a fall,” said the
Adelantado
.
“I had,” said Rich, “but nothing serious.”
“Are you wounded?”
“Nothing serious again,” answered Rich.
“You can have your revenge now.”
“Do you really mean what you say, Don Bartholomew? Are you going on with this killing?”
“Why, of course. There are four hours more of daylight.”
“Haven’t enough been killed?”
“No, by God. I mean this to be a lesson that they will never forget.”
“But they are your brother’s subjects — your subjects, Your Excellency. Don’t you want them to earn revenue for you?”
“They’ll breed again. And we’ve had no chance of sport like this for months. Don’t be mealy-mouthed, Doctor. Trumpeter!”
The trumpet set the long line in motion again in its sweep back across the plain. It was sport for the infantry too; crossbows and handguns found plenty of targets as the frantic Indians were driven within range. The spearmen and swordsmen, even, hampered though they were with clothes and equipment, were often able to run down on foot the naked Indians who were already exhausted. Some of them showed a pretty wit in their choice of the place in which to plant their weapons when they caught their victims — the same idea had occurred to the horsemen, and shouts of laughter and approval ran along the line as each man vied with the others in displaying his dexterity or strength of arm. Rich followed fascinated.
“Torture?” said Don Bartholomew surprisingly that night in reply to a question from García. “There’s no need for torture with these miserable wretches. Just keeping ‘em in one place; and preventing ‘em from wandering about is torture for ‘em. I’ll guarantee that tomorrow morning every one of the fifty in the corral will blab all we want ‘em to. Three days of it, and they die, like fish in a bucket. But if they won’t talk tomorrow morning they will in the afternoon, after a morning in the sun without food or water. And if not, even then, the slow match that these handguns use will find tongues for ‘em. But mark my words, Don Cristobal, by two hours after dawn we’ll know all we want to know and we’ll be on our way.”
They were discussing the next move in the suppression of the rebellion. The
Adelantado
had announced his intention of ascertaining from the prisoners who was the ringleader in the affair and whether he was likely to have fled; he was going to hunt him down, him and every other rebel he could catch, even if he had hidden in the heart of the unexplored mountains.