The Crimson Conquest 3
Whatever the motives that led recruits to Pizarro’s banner, they
comprised all sorts and conditions of men, from the noble and hidalgo to
the fugitive from the law—younger sons of ancient families bearing
historic names; veterans of European wars, free-lances from every
country on the northern shores of the Mediterranean. It was a band as
mixed as the swarms of pirates infesting the Indies in later years, and
hardly less ferocious in hunger for blood and plunder.
The days flew quickly, and few remained before the command should
embark. Considering the character of the men, the preparations had gone
on smoothly. But there had been, it must be said, certain flurries,
even small tempests, from another source. These episodes were due to
the temperament and powers of Señora Bolio. This worthy lady proved to
be a slumbering volcano—yet not always slumbering—with potentialities
that justified the impressive words of Pedro. She erupted unexpectedly,
for causes unforeseen, and spread sudden confusion throughout the
establishment. There would be heard from time to time in the patio a
quick disturbance, a scurrying of soldiery, and then a tirade in the
deep tones of the señora, matchless for rapid invective. Perhaps a
soldier, a newcomer to Panama, would venture to oppose her eloquence
with his own, like in kind, but feeble in comparison. It was only to
court defeat and humiliation.
To Cristoval, at first amusing, it soon grew monotonous, and as his time
became precious, an annoyance and irritation. He appealed, to Pedro, in
whom there might lie hope.
"In the name of the fiend, Pedro," said he, "canst suppress that woman?
If so, do it—in a gentle way if possible; for she is a woman. Those
varlets below deserve their flaying, but it groweth wearisome."
Pedro shook his head. "I doubt if she could be estopped by anything
short of strangulation. However, I’ll cast about." But he muttered as
he moved away: "Now the saints lend me their protection! This is what
cometh of being a cook."
Thereafter, when the lady broke out, Pedro, with marvellous patience,
would go to the patio, approach her with all deference, and oppose her
torrent with an equal flood of apologies, assurances, entreaties,
compliments, and cajoleries, with splendid versatility. And however
great her rage, the moment would come when Madame would stop to
listen—and be undone. The cook would thereupon lead her ceremoniously
to her door, bow her across the threshold, and return to his kitchen
leaving the lady appeased. But having regained his privacy, Pedro would
swear roundly.
These repeated softenings were not without their effect upon the señora.
This effect was cumulative. As the days went by it grew apparent that in
her hostility toward mankind she made the suave _cantinero_ an
exception. This he noticed at first with natural complacency. Later,
when her attitude became one of tolerant friendliness, he blessed his
stars, vowing privately that his circumspection should be without a
flaw. Still later, as a consequence, the señora’s amiability grew more
pronounced, expressed by small favors, and even by occasional
invitations to sup. The good Pedro’s serenity increased, and its
influence seemed to spread over the establishment. Alas for his
tranquillity, for its life was short! The señora had speaking eyes, and
as they looked with growing favor upon the gracious cook, they softened
in a measure that could never have escaped one less unsuspecting than
he.
Pedro went his placid way, unconscious of the growing tenderness, until
a glance awoke him to his peril. There was no doubt, no need of words
to interpret. It was only a glance in passing, but Pedro looked after
the lady in consternation. As she passed he crossed himself, stood a
moment, then deserted his task and stumped with precipitation to the
first refuge—to Cristoval. The cavalier looked up as the cook entered.
Pedro sank into a chair.
"Ho! Pedro, what is to do?" demanded the cavalier, surveying his
agitation with concern. "What hath happened?"
Pedro stared at him in silence, with parted lips, and in abstraction.
He seemed not to have heard the question, nor to see his questioner, in
the absorption of contemplating the tacit revelation of a moment before,
with the possible complexities to follow. Señora Bolio’s avowal was
unspoken, but how long would the silence be preserved? And with the
ardor of that impetuous nature turned to tender passion, with her
boundless powers of utterance directed against him as its object!—ah,
_Dios!_ what would become of him?
Again Cristoval demanded, more than half alarmed: "What is it, Pedro?
Name of a saint! Why dost stare in that ghastly way? Come! Speak,
man! Hast lost thy tongue?"
Pedro, still speechless, gathered up his apron and wiped his forehead;
placed a fist upon either knee, and glowered at the floor. Cristoval
leaned back in astonishment. Never before had Pedro’s language failed.
Once more the cook passed his apron across his brow, glanced again at
Cristoval, arose abruptly, and went as far as the door. Here he paused,
hesitated, then turning back, whispered hoarsely, "Señor Cristoval, by
the gods of heathens, I’ve—I’ve overdone it!"
"Overdone it! Overdone what, thou mysterious cook?" But Pedro had
gone.
He regained his kitchen by stealth, moving by short dashes, with many a
halt to reconnoitre. His boy-helper, Pedrillo, was there, and
approaching, Pedro clutched him by the arm. "Pedrillo," he said
solemnly: "Pedrillo, have I been good to thee?"
Pedrillo looked up with wide-open eyes. "Why—bodkins!—of a surety,
Master! Who saith not?"
"No one hath said. But hear me, Pedrillo!—as thou hopest some day to be
a cook, stay by me! Stay by me! Dost understand? Until we are safe
aboard ship, leave me not for a minute!—not a minute!"
"_Cielo!_" exclaimed the astonished boy. "What is wrong, señor? Do—do
you have fits?"
"It will be worse than fits, Pedrillo," replied Pedro, seriously, "if
thou failest me an instant. Promise!"
Pedrillo promised, swore to it, and for the rest of the day watched his
patron in mystification. Thereafter the cook slept with his heavy
furniture piled against the door.
Pedrillo kept his word as far as possible; but vigilance cannot be
eternal, and sometimes Pedro was alone. On one of these occasions the
worst befell. The señora entered. That she came with fell purpose Pedro
divined at a glance. He saw flashes of soft lightning in her eyes, more
dreaded now than the blaze of her ire. Instinctively he placed himself
with the table between.
The lady looked quickly about, and approaching, said in a tone he had
not heard her use before, "Pedro, I have a word for thee."
"Oh, the fiend, señora!" he interrupted, paling slightly and looking for
Pedrillo. "Say it to some one else—now do! There’s a good woman!
I—stew me!—I am a busy man. I have a roast on the point of burning, I
swear it! Come, now, I—"
"It is for thee, Pedro," she said with resolution, but Pedro noted with
relief that she spoke slowly. He had expected a storm of tender
protestations without prelude, as vehement as her upbraidings of the
men. "It is for thee," she said again, and Pedro quailed.
"Nay, Señora Bolio," he pleaded. "Be discreet, I pray thee! Talk of it
first to—to Father Gregorio, now. Thou’rt young, and—" The señora
blushed, and Pedro cursed the slip. Said she:
"I will talk to Father Gregorio later, Pedro; but first to thee."
Pedro groaned, and swore under his breath. "Hold, señora!" he cried.
"Thou ’rt making a mistake. Say it not to me—to some other man. To
Peralta—to De Soto! They are good men both; but I—"
"And so art thou!" she said hastily, "though once I did think thee a
knave, like the rest."
"Ah! So I am! So I am!" cried Pedro with impetuosity. "That and
worse, my word for it! I am a very Turk—a basilisk! Señora, thou
knowest not the depth of mine iniquities—and moreover, I have but one
leg. Consider that! Peralta hath two good ones. I am incomplete—a
cripple—a—"
"Oh, Pedro, thou ’rt the only man I ever knew!" interrupted the lady,
with fervor; then, rapidly: "Thou ’rt a good man, Pedro, and hast a
kindly heart. Not once beneath this roof hast thou used an unbecoming
word to me. Whilst these scapins of soldiers have tried my patience
with their insolence, thou hast spoken only with gentleness—and ’tis
rare enough to me—rare enough, God knoweth!" She brushed away a coming
tear. "But I have come to tell thee, Pedro—"
"Do not say it! Do not say it!" shouted Pedro in desperation. "I tell
thee, señora—"
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