The Conquest Of Espanola - 2

The Conquest Of Espanola - 2

The first thing that Columbus recognised when he opened his eyes after his long period

of lethargy and insensibility was the face of his brother Bartholomew bend-over him

where he lay in bed in his own house at Espanola. Nothing could have been more

welcome to him, sick, lonely and discouraged as he was, than the presence of that strong,

helpful brother; and from the time when Bartholomew's friendly face first greeted him he

began to get better. His first act, as soon as he was strong enough to sign a paper, was to

appoint Bartholomew to the office of Adelantado, or Lieutenant-Governor—an indiscreet

and rather tactless proceeding which, although it was not outside his power as a bearer of

the royal seal, was afterwards resented by King Ferdinand as a piece of impudent

encroachment upon the royal prerogative. But Columbus was unable to transact business

himself, and James was manifestly of little use; the action was natural enough.

In the early days of his convalescence he had another pleasant experience, in the shape of

a visit from Guacanagari, who came to express his concern at the Admiral's illness, and to

tell him the story of what had been going on in his absence. The gentle creature referred

again with tears to the massacre at La Navidad, and again asserted that innocence of any

hand in it which Columbus had happily never doubted; and he told him also of the secret

league against Isabella, of his own refusal to join it, and of the attacks to which he had

consequently been subjected. It must have been an affecting meeting for these two, who

represented the first friendship formed between the Old World and the New, who were

both of them destined to suffer in the impact of civilisation and savagery, and whose

names and characters were happily destined to survive that impact, and to triumph over

the oblivion of centuries.

So long as the native population remained hostile and unconquered by kindness or force,

it was impossible to work securely at the development of the colony; and Columbus,

however regretfully, had come to feel that circumstances more or less obliged him to use

force. At first he did not quite realise the gravity of the position, and attempted to conquer

or reconcile the natives in little groups. Guarionex, the cacique of the Vega Real, was by

gifts and smooth words soothed back into a friendship which was consolidated by the

marriage of his daughter with Columbus's native interpreter. It was useless, how ever, to

try and make friends with Caonabo, that fierce irreconcilable; and it was felt that only by

stratagem could he be secured. No sooner was this suggested than Ojeda volunteered for

the service. Amid the somewhat slow-moving figures of our story this man appears as

lively as a flea; and he dances across our pages in a sensation of intrepid feats of arms

that make his great popularity among the Spaniards easily credible to us. He did not know

what fear was; he was always ready for a fight of any kind; a quarrel in the streets of

Madrid, a duel, a fight with a man or a wild beast, a brawl in a tavern or a military

expedition, were all the same to him, if only they gave him an opportunity for fighting.

He had a little picture of the Virgin hung round his neck, by which he swore, and to

which he prayed; he had never been so much as scratched in all his affrays, and he

believed that he led a charmed life. Who would go out against Caonabo, the Goliath of

the island? He, little David Ojeda, he would go out and undertake to fetch the giant back

with him; and all he wanted was ten men, a pair of handcuffs, a handful of trinkets,

horses for the whole of his company, and his little image or picture of the Virgin.

Columbus may have smiled at this proposal, but he knew his man; and Ojeda duly

departed with his horses and his ten men. Plunging into the forest, he made his way

through sixty leagues of dense undergrowth until he arrived in the very heart of

Caonabo's territory and presented himself at the chiefs house. The chief was at home,

and, not unimpressed by the valour of Ojeda, who represented himself as coming on a

friendly mission, received him under conditions of truce. He had an eye for military

prowess, this Caonabo, and something of the lion's heart in him; he recognised in Ojeda

the little man who kept him so long at bay outside Fort St. Thomas; and, after the manner

of lion-hearted people, liked him none the worse for that.

Ojeda proposes that the King should accompany him to Isabella to make peace. No, says

Caonabo. Then Ojeda tries another way. There is a poetical side to this big fighting

savage, and often in more friendly days, when the bell in the little chapel of Isabella has

been ringing for Vespers, the cacique has been observed sitting alone on some hill

listening, enchanted by the strange silver voice that floated to him across the sunset. The

bell has indeed become something of a personality in the island: all the neighbouring

savages listen to its voice with awe and fascination, pausing with inclined heads

whenever it begins to speak from its turret.

Ojeda talks to Caonabo about the bell, and tells him what a wonderful thing it is; tells him

also that if he will come with him to Isabella he shall have the bell for a present. Poetry

and public policy struggle together in Caonabo's heart, but poetry wins; the great

powerful savage, urged thereto by his childish lion-heart, will come to Isabella if they

will give him the bell. He sets forth, accompanied by a native retinue, and by Ojeda and

his ten horsemen. Presently they come to a river and Ojeda produces his bright manacles;

tells the King that they are royal ornaments and that he has been instructed to bestow

them upon Caonabo as a sign of honour. But first he must come alone to the river and

bathe, which he does. Then he must sit with Ojeda upon his horse; which he does. Then

he must have fitted on to him the shining silver trinkets; which he does, the great grinning

giant, pleased with his toys. Then, to show him what it is like to be on a horse, Ojeda

canters gently round in widening and ever widening circles; a turn of his spurred heels,

and the canter becomes a gallop, the circle becomes a straight line, and Caonabo is on the

road to Isabella. When they are well beyond reach of the natives they pause and tie

Caonabo securely into his place; and by this treachery bring him into Isabella, where he is

imprisoned in the Admiral's house.

The sulky giant, brought thus into captivity, refuses to bend his proud, stubborn heart into

even a form of submission. He takes no notice of Columbus, and pays him no honour,

although honour is paid to himself as a captive king. He sits there behind his bars

gnawing his fingers, listening to the voice of the bell that has lured him into captivity, and

thinking of the free open life which he is to know no more. Though he will pay no

deference to the Admiral, will not even rise when he enters his presence, there is one

person he holds in honour, and that is Ojeda. He will not rise when the Admiral comes;

but when Ojeda comes, small as he is, and without external state, the chief makes his

obeisance to him. The Admiral he sets at defiance, and boasts of his destruction of La

Navidad, and of his plan to destroy Isabella; Ojeda he respects and holds in honour, as

being the only man in the island brave enough to come into his house and carry him off a

captive. There is a good deal of the sportsman in Caonabo.

The immediate result of the capture of Caonabo was to rouse the islanders to further

hostilities, and one of the brothers of the captive king led a force of seven thousand men

to the vicinity of St. Thomas, to which Ojeda, however, had in the meantime returned.

His small force was augmented by some men despatched by Bartholomew Columbus on

receipt of an urgent message; and in command of this force Ojeda sallied forth against the

natives and attacked them furiously on horse and on foot, killing a great part of them,

taking others prisoner, and putting the rest to flight. This was the beginning of the end of

the island resistance. A month or two later, when Columbus was better, he and

Bartholomew together mustered the whole of their available army and marched out in

search of the native force, which he knew had been rallied and greatly augmented.

The two forces met near the present town of Santiago, in the plain known as the Savanna

of Matanza. The Spanish force was divided into three main divisions, under the command

of Christopher and Bartholomew Columbus and Ojeda respectively. These three divisions

attacked the Indians simultaneously from different points, Ojeda throwing his cavalry

upon them, riding them down, and cutting them to pieces. Drums were beaten and

trumpets blown; the guns were fired from the cover of the trees; and a pack of

bloodhounds, which had been sent out from Spain with Bartholomew, were let loose

upon the natives and tore their bodies to pieces. It was an easy and horrible victory. The

native force was estimated by Columbus at one hundred thousand men, although we shall

probably be nearer the mark if we reduce that estimate by one half.