“And when you see fair hair, be pitiful.”
GEORGE ELLIOT.
THE good galley San Cristofero was doomed to lie at rest for a lengthened period in the port of Callao. She needed repairs; and since these repairs had to be accomplished by Spanish hands, and "Tomorrow is the god of the Spaniard," a great many tomorrows came and went before they were completed. And even when at length they had come to an end, the galley had still to await, for an indefinite time, the pleasure of the stately man-of-war she was destined to escort.
These delays were no cause of regret to the slaves on board. They gained thereby some trifling alleviation of the miseries of their lot. The rowers who sat on the first bench, and who had the severest toil, but the greatest privileges, were often permitted to go on shore; their peculiar dress, and the iron anklet they always wore, being considered sufficient securities against the possibility of an escape. Although this welcome relief to the monotony of their life was not usually granted to the others, they also sometimes received small sums in charity, which their more fortunate comrades used to lay out for them. Moreover, there was little to be done. The rowers might sleep through the sultry hours of the tropical day, or sit idle, leaning against their oars, and gazing on the fair sights that met their eyes—the crystal waters, the green shore, the white and distant mountains.
One very hot day a cry ran along the benches that the commissary had fallen down dead. And almost immediately afterward the slaves saw him carried along the gangway into the little covered recess in the forecastle. No very kindly interest in a man from whom they had received little save curses and blows could be expected from them; but in their present state of inaction any event was sure to be eagerly discussed. By-and-by they learned that he was not dead, only suffering from a sunstroke. But his condition was thought sufficiently dangerous to require the immediate services of a priest.
There stepped on board accordingly a Franciscan monk, accompanied by a handsome well-dressed Indian, who carried the little silver bell intended to warn all who heard it of the presence of their Creator. Even the slaves were expected to prostrate themselves at the signal. The matador had, apparently, no scruples about this ceremony; but to Walter Gray it was a bowing of the knee to Baal, which in his heart he detested, though he was not yet strong enough to challenge martyrdom by a refusal.
He was not particularly pleased to meet the keen dark eyes of the Indian fixed upon him with an earnest and, as he fancied, a suspicious gaze. Nothing, indeed, could be more unlikely than that an Indian should observe his reluctance or scrutinize its motives; but he had suffered so much that his apprehensions were not always under the control of his reason.
The slaves maintained a respectful silence, or conversed only in whispers, until the monk had performed his ministrations, and with his attendant re-entered the boat that was to convey him on shore. They then began to discuss the occurrence amongst themselves. Did you see the monk's face, comrades?” one of them inquired." On my faith, he might be a brother of ours. He looks as lean and hollow-eyed as if he had sat for a twelvemonth at the oar.”
“Yet what an eye he has, the holy man!” remarked Walter's oar-fellow, the Quatrero." He looked at me for a moment, and I had to turn away lest he should begin to reckon up to me on his rosary all the sins of my life.”
“If he began that bead-roll he would be here till sundown, and not half through then," said another dryly.
“Hush mates!" a third interposed. "Here comes the dark-faced sacristan again, and with a basket of fine fruit on his arm. Enough to make us all die of thirst this burning day. What lucky fellow has got a real to spend?”
“What good in that? He will serve our betters first. Well if he comes our way at all.”
And now the "dark-faced sacristan" stood on the deck, holding parley with a soldier who acted as sentinel. All took notice of his gallant air and manly bearing, and saw that he wore his handsome national costume with as much stately grace as a Spanish cavalier could wear his cloak and sword. "A fine bird that, and in fine feathers," muttered the Quatrero. Meanwhile the soldier conducted Jose Viracocha to the captain, of whom he made some request, which appeared to be granted immediately. The captain politely accompanied him to the gangway, and by a motion of his hand indicated that the slaves were permitted to hold communication with him.
Jose stepped at once to the bench where sat the English youth, whose golden hair and fair complexion rendered him conspicuous amongst the swarthy Spaniards and dusky Creoles and Mulattoes. With a bow and a smile he placed his basket of fruit in his hand.
Walter, in his surprise, at first took it mechanically. Then reflecting that the Indian probably wished to sell, and that he had no money, he tried to convey as much by signs.
“Perhaps, señor, you speak Spanish?" said Jose, making use of that language.
“I do," Walter answered, more and more surprised.
“Then I pray of you to accept my gift, Señor Englishman," the other said, adding the last two words in a low voice. Some of the more forward amongst those around beginning to beg from him, he responded at once, "Yes, yes, poor fellows, you shall all have something." And he scattered small pieces of silver with a liberal hand amongst them, taking especial care that the feeble, worn-out men who sat on the bench next the water should have their full share.
Both Walter's disposition and his interest led him to share the Indian's gift very freely with his comrades, of course not forgetting his special friend the matador. And the sweet and luscious chirimoyas proved very acceptable to men obliged to sit unsheltered under the fiery blaze of a tropical sun. Every one supposed that the Indian was the dispenser of his master's charity, though for what reason either he or the Franciscan monk should have singled out Walter Gray as the chief recipient of their bounty could not be surmised.
The young Englishman's story was known to all on board. But, fortunately for him, the captain of the galley was no bigot; he was a thoughtless, idle young prodigal, the son of a respectable merchant, sent to sea in despair by his relatives, whose interest procured him the situation he filled. The commander of the troops on board, on the other hand, was far too fine a gentleman to have any concern at all with the slaves, beyond holding his men in readiness to shoot them down if they attempted mutiny. Thus, whilst every one believed, as a matter of course, that Walter Gray, the English heretic, was infinitely worse than a thief or a murderer, no one thought much about him.
The Indian came again the next day with a larger supply of fruit, which, however, he gave to the soldiers. But the disappointment visible in the longing eyes of the thirsty slaves as the store quickly disappeared was soothed by charity of even a more acceptable kind. Many blessings were invoked both upon himself and upon "his reverence the holy father," whose emissary he was supposed to be—nor did he contradict the supposition. But he contrived, whilst giving silver to the others, to slip a broad piece of gold into the hand of Walter. The Englishman was about to express aloud his astonishment at this liberality, but the Indian caught his eye and whispered, "Tace." As may be imagined, the Latin word, spoken by such lips, only changed Walter's look of surprise into one of amazement.
After the Indian's departure he expressed his wonder at the circumstance to his friend the matador.
“Depend upon it, Englishman," said the old galley-slave in reply, "the good friar has taken pity on you for your youth and your gentle looks, which would strike a stranger, like the sight of a fair green sapling amongst a bundle of dry brown fagots. One can read in his face that he has known much sorrow himself, and therefore, perhaps, his heart is tender for others.”
“But the Indian," said Walter. "Do you know, matador, that was a Latin word he spoke to me?”
“Why not? He is the servant of a churchman; and he that measures oil gets some on his fingers.' Though," he admitted, "he seems wondrously wise and civil—for one of the wild men.”
A concession that moved Walter to draw upon old stores of information, and to talk of the strange civilization of the New World, and the splendors of the two great empires that had already been discovered there. Growing more and more interested as he went on, he conquered Mexico with Cortes, overran Peru with Pizarro, and was making rapid progress towards the discovery of El Dorado, when at last the matador brought him to a pause.
“I used to know all these things long ago," he said. And this was true. Time was when such themes never failed to bring the blood to his cheek and the light to his eye. But now the dry embers were not even stirred by the old fire. "I have done with Golden Cities now," he went on. "The only one I am ever like to see will not be found beyond those white mountains, but higher up—beyond the stars. Your words, that glitter like gold themselves, mind me of other words heard years and years ago, out of the one story that is all true;—about a City that hath foundations, ay, and streets of gold and gates of pearl.”
The extensive and accurate knowledge of Scripture that Walter had acquired in his childhood was now proving a great comfort to him. He gladly shared his stores with his companion, who listened to the words of Holy Writ with an intense and unflagging interest, contrasting strangely with the seeming indifference with which he heard Walter's other narratives.
Walter Gray was not now the miserable, dejected wretch, passively accepting his life of suffering, that he had been a short time before. The light of heavenly hope had arisen upon his soul, making all things new. It was worthwhile to live, since he might live unto God—even in the galleys. Many things in his lot were still hard to bear; but nothing was intolerable, since the worst could only mean death, and death was the gate of everlasting life.
And, as it is God's will that little things should often contribute not a little to the help and healing of sorrowful hearts, the visits and kindnesses of his Indian friend, which were continued from day to day, proved a wonderful tonic to Walter Gray. The very occupation they gave his mind was a much prized relief from the dreary monotony of slavery. The visits were something to expect, to long for, to think over. It was good also to be able, even in the midst of his poverty, to minister to the need of others; and thus he began to find positive enjoyment in sharing the liberal gifts he received with his less fortunate comrades.
The true explanation, however, of the strange partiality Jose evinced for him was this. Whilst looking with a pitying eye along the rowers' benches of the San Cristofero, his glance had been suddenly arrested by Walter's fair, or golden hair. Now, in Jose's eyes, fair hair had wonderful significance. It was linked in his thoughts with the Sun, his great Father; and with his ancestor Viracocha, called the fair-haired. And yet more, it was bound up with all those dim, mysterious prophecies— those faint rumors floating amongst his people—of the bearded strangers, wise and mighty and strong to deliver, who were to come to them from beyond the Mother Sea; and for whom many of them had at first mistaken the Spaniards— to their own undoing. The hopes dearest to Jose's heart were built upon the fair-haired Englishmen.
Great was his joy, therefore, when he ascertained that Walter was in very deed an Englishman. And he was confirmed in more than one fond delusion by finding that when he addressed a Latin word to the captive, the latter, though naturally surprised, evidently understood him.
He soon found, however, that it was better on the whole to communicate with his new friend in Spanish. And he directed all his address to the task of opening up and improving the means of communication with him. This did not prove so difficult as he had anticipated. Even on board a galley a man's gift maketh room for him; and Jose had both the means to offer very acceptable gifts, and the tact to offer them in an acceptable way. It is true that in losing Coyllur he lost also the secret hoards of Yupanqui; a loss for which he grieved little; far less than he rejoiced that they were saved from the covetous gripe of Don Francisco Solis. But Maricancha, who was childless, made him welcome to all that he had. At their last interview, he had pressed upon him as much gold as he could carry, with several valuable jewels.
It was not hard for Jose, thus amply supplied with the sinews of war, to gratify the officers and soldiers of the San Cristofero. They—as well as the galley-slaves—looked upon him as the Indian servant of a Franciscan monk; a character of all others the least likely to excite suspicion. And as Jose knew well enough that Franciscan monks had not usually the means, even if they had the inclination, to exercise unbounded liberality, he soon gave his friends to understand that his master was the almoner of a rich and pious lady, who had great compassion upon poor galley-slaves, and moreover wished to benefit her soul by works of charity. But it was his finest stroke of policy to bring on board the galley frequent supplies of a fragrant brown leaf, which proved a most welcome gift, to all—from the señor commandante, who was not too proud to thank the Indian with an elaborate Spanish bow, to the poor rowers, who begged for it piteously to comfort them under their miseries. If the bearer of such treasures chose to amuse himself for half an hour chatting with the slaves, it was no one's business to hinder him, and consequently, no one did it.
So Jose's friendship with Walter Gray grew and prospered, though under difficulties.