Cup of Gold Read online

  One whole section of the city was crowded with the houses and stables and barracks of the King. Here, one-tenth of all the produce of the land was stored, waiting for the next plate fleet, when it would be carried on donkey-back across the isthmus to be loaded on the ship. Panama was supporting the kingdom of Spain—paying for the King’s new palaces and wars. Because of the ready money in his treasury, the King gave Panama a seat of dignity. It bore a proud name: The Very Noble and Very Loyal City of Panama. Its rank was made equal with that of Cordova and Seville, for did not its officials wear golden chains of office about their necks? And the King granted to the city a resplendent coat of arms—a shield in a field of gold on the left yoke, and on the right, two caravels and a handful of gray arrows. Above all was the north star of discovery, while the Lions and Castles of the twin Spanish kingdoms circled around the shield. Truly Panama was one of the greatest cities in the world.

  The center of the Cup of Gold was a broad, paved Plaza with a raised stand in the middle where music was played in the evening. While it played, the people strolled about, proving their positions by those to whom they spoke; the merchant aristocracy was very tender in its pride. A man might argue over the price of flour like a Jew in the daytime, but at night, in the Plaza, he bowed stiffly to acquaintances not so rich as he, and imperceptibly fawned on those richer.

  They had grown soft in their security. The city was considered impregnable. On one side the sea protected it, and there were no foreign ships on the southern ocean anyway; to the landward side were walls and a broad morass which might be flooded in time of danger, making the city a veritable island. In addition, an attacking army must cut its way through the isthmian jungle to approach in force, must wind through narrow passes which might easily be defended by a small body of men. No one considered it possible that any sane leader could dream of the conquest of Panama. And so, when Campeche and Puerto Bello and Maracaibo fell to the buccaneers, the merchants of the Cup of Gold shrugged their shoulders and went about the usual business. It was unfortunate, of course; indeed it was sad that their own countrymen should be so used and robbed—but what could they expect? Their cities were on the wrong ocean. Panama need never think of these disturbances except with pity. God was good, and business—well, terrible; no money any more, and the farmers hanging on to their goods like thieves.

  Don Juan Perez de Guzman was Governor of the Cup of Gold—a quiet nobleman whose life was devoted to being a complete gentleman and nothing else. He drilled his little army, changed his uniforms, and looked with care to the marriages of his relatives. He had been a soldier all his life—not a good campaigner, perhaps, but an extremely gallant officer. The communications he wrote to his subordinates were magnificent. His wording of a demand for surrender by an Indian village was above reproach. The people loved their Governor. He dressed so well; he was so proud, yet condescending. They cheered him daily as he clattered down the street with a troop of horse behind him. If there were any apprehension of attack, surely the gallant figure of Don Juan would reassure the people. His were the noblest blood and the richest warehouses in the city.

  Thus they lived happily in Panama, going to the green country places when the hot days were in, and returning to the balls and receptions of the town during the rainy season. And this was the Cup of Gold when Henry Morgan determined on its destruction.

  One day the news crept into Panama that the terrible Morgan was coming in conquest. At first there was amused unbelief, but when more messengers came in, the city roused itself to frantic activity. The people rushed to the churches, confessed, kissed relics, and rushed home again. Hundreds of priests marched in procession bearing the Host through the streets. The dark brotherhood fiercely whipped themselves and dragged the heavy cross about for every one to see. The broken walls went unmended; the rusty cannons were not replaced. Don Juan heard mass after mass, spoke to the frenzied people, and suggested a procession of all the priests in the city.

  Horrible stories began to grow up—how the buccaneers were not men at all, but animal things with heads like crocodiles and lions’ claws. Grave men discussed such possibilities in the streets.

  “The blessing of the day, Don Pedro.”

  “The Virgin’s blessing, Don Guierrmo.”

  “What is your thought of these robbers?”

  “Ah! horrible, Don Guierrmo; horrible. They are said to be demons!”

  “But do you think it possible, as I have heard, that Morgan himself has three arms and wields a sword in each?”

  “Who can say, my friend! The devil has even greater powers than these, surely. Who can tell the limit of the Power of Evil? It is sacrilegious to consider it.”

  And later:

  “You say you had it of Don Guierrmo? Surely he would not tell a questionable thing—a man of his wealth.”

  “I repeat only what he said—that Morgan could fire bullets from his finger-tips—that he breathed out sulphurous flames. Don Guierrmo was certain of it.”

  “I must tell my wife of this, Don Pedro.”

  So the tales grew until the people were half mad. Stories of cruelty in other captured cities were recalled, and the merchants who had shrugged before, turned pale on remembering. They could not believe; and yet they must believe, for the pirates were already on their way to Chagres, and their stated purpose was the conquest and pillage of the Cup of Gold. At last, under pressure, Don Juan dragged himself from church long enough to send five hundred soldiers for an ambush on the road across the isthmus. A young officer craved audience.

  “Well, young man,” the Governor began, “what is your wish?”

  “If we had bulls, sir—if we had great numbers of wild bulls,” the officer cried excitedly.

  “Get them! Have the whole country scoured for bulls! Let the men gather a thousand of them! But what are we going to do with them?”

  “We should stampede them on the enemy, sir.”

  “Marvelous plan! Genius of an officer! Ah, my dear friend— a thousand bulls? A thousand? I jested! Have them gather ten thousand of the wildest bulls.”

  The Governor ordered out his soldiers—two thousand of the king’s troops—reviewed them, and then returned to kneel in the Cathedral. Don Juan was not afraid of fighting, but, like a prudent general, he was strengthening his secondary defense. Besides, anything that cost as much as the masses he had paid for must have some effect.

  The first creeping rumor grew to a monster. Quaking citizens began to bury the plate from their houses. The churchmen threw chalices and candlesticks into the cisterns for safety, and walled up their more precious relics in passages underground.

  Balboa would have strengthened the walls and flooded the approach. Pizarro’s army would have been halfway across the isthmus, by this, to meet the oncoming buccaneers. But those brave times were past. The merchants of Panama thought only of their possessions, their lives, and their souls—in the order named. They never considered belting on swords or toiling at the disintegrated walls. That was for the soldiers of the King, who were paid good money to protect the citizens. The Governor must see to the defense.

  Don Juan had reviewed his troops; that, to his mind, was all any general could do. The uniforms were proof against criticism, and his soldiers would have come with credit through any parade ground in Europe. Meanwhile, another mass would not hurt matters.

  I

  While the buccaneers were throwing away the savings of plundered Maracaibo, Henry Morgan plunged deeply into plans for his new conquest. It would require more fighting men than had ever before been assembled. The messengers of Captain Morgan went out to the four corners of the Spanish Main. His words found their way to Plymouth and Nieuw Amsterdam. Even to the wooded islands where men lived like apes, went his invitation to the great pillage.

  “Every man will be rich if we succeed”; so ran the message. “This will be the most powerful blow ever struck by the Brotherhood. We will carry terror to the inmost heart of Spain. Our fleet gathers on the south side o
f Tortuga by October.”

  And soon the ships and men poured to the place of rendezvous; enormous new vessels with white sails and carven prows, ships bristling with brass cannons, old rotting hulks, their bottoms so foul with weeds that they moved through the water like logs. There came sloops and long canoes and flat-boats, forced through the water with sweeps. Even rafts drew to the meeting place, under woven palm sails.

  And the men—all the blustering Brotherhood of Tortuga; the old, expert pirates of Goaves; Frenchmen, Netherlanders, English, and Portuguese—the embattled outcasts of the world. Canoe loads of slaves who had escaped the Spaniards paddled in, drawn to this expedition by a thirsting for their master’s blood. The slaves were Caribs and negroes and fevered whites. Little groups of hunters appeared on the beaches of jungled islands and took ship for the south side of Tortuga.

  Among the major ships were tall frigates and galleons which had been captured in old engagements. When the time came for departure, Captain Morgan had thirty-seven ships under his hand, and two thousand fighting men in addition to the mariners and boys. In the crowd of shipping lay three slim, clean sloops from New England. They had not come to fight, but to trade—powder for plunder, whiskey for gold. Powder and whiskey were the two great weapons of offense. And besides, these Plymouth men would buy old, useless ships for the iron and cordage they contained.

  Captain Morgan had sent hunters into the woods to shoot cattle, and ships to the mainland to steal grain. When all returned, there was food on hand for a voyage.

  No one save Cœur de Gris and Henry Morgan, of all this polyglot press of men who had come at the call of conquest, knew where that conquest was to be. No one dreamed where they would be sailing and whom fighting at the journey’s end. The army of brave thieves had trooped to the name of Morgan, thirstily confident in his promise of unlimited plunder.

  Henry Morgan had not dared to tell his destination. Potent though his name was, the buccaneers would have recoiled from such an impregnable objective. If they were given time to think of Panama, they would run home out of dread, for stories of the power and protection of the Cup of Gold had been told in all their islands for over half a century. Panama was a cloud city, an eerie, half-unearthly place, and armed with lightnings. Of course, there were those who believed the streets paved with golden cobbles, and certain church windows carved from single emeralds. These legends would draw them on, if only they had no time to think of the hazards as well.

  When the ships had been careened and scraped, all the sails mended, the cannons scoured and tested, the holds filled with foodstuffs, then Henry Morgan called a meeting of his captains for the purpose of signing solemn articles and dividing the fleet into commands.

  They gathered in the oaken cabin of the Admiral—thirty captains who had brought ships to the mission. The frigate of Captain Morgan was a fine Spanish man o’ war. It had been commanded by a Duke before it fell into the pirates’ hands. The cabin resembled a large drawing-room, paneled in dark oak, its walls drawing slightly inward at the top. Across the ceiling were heavy beams carved with vines and delicate, slim leaves. On one wall had been the painted arms of Spain, but a dagger had scraped and scratched it nearly out of sight.

  Captain Morgan sat behind a broad table of which each leg was a curious carved lion, and around him, seated on stools, were the thirty leaders of his fleet and army. They waited impatiently for his communication.

  There was the short, serious Captain Sawkins, whose eyes burned with the fervor of Puritanism. He justified his murders with Scripture and offered prayers of thanksgiving from a gun carriage after a successful rape.

  Black Grippo was there, an old man now, and sagging under his unimportant infamies. He had come, finally, to regard his God as a patient policeman whom one might possibly outwit. Lately he had reasoned that he might flee his sins by a general confession and reconfirmation in his mother church, and this he intended to do when one more expedition should provide him with a golden candlestick to bear to the confessing priest by way of peace offering.

  Holbert and Tegna, Sullivan and Meyther, sat on stools surrounding Captain Morgan. In a dark corner were two whom the whole Brotherhood knew as inseparables. They were called simply The Burgundian and The Other Burgundian. The first was a little fat man with a face like a red bloated sun. He was nervous and excitable. The slightest public attention threw him into a fit of embarrassment. When he was spoken to his face became redder, and he gave the impression of a bug frantically looking for a board under which to hide. His companion, The Other Burgundian, was his defender and guide. The Other Burgundian was taller and more powerfully made, although his left arm was gone at the elbow. These two might have been seen at any time walking together, sitting together. They seldom spoke, but always the good arm of The Other Burgundian would be about the shoulders of his dumpy friend in a gesture of protection.

  Captain Morgan made his voice harsh and cold for his speech. There was a deep silence while he read the articles. A man who brought a ship might draw such and such rent; a carpenter with tools was to be paid so much; such amounts would be set aside for dependents of the slain. Then he came to the rewards to the first man to sight an enemy; the first to kill a Spaniard; the first into the city. The articles were finished.

  “Now, sign,” demanded Captain Morgan, and the men shuffled to the table and inscribed their names or marks.

  When they were seated again, Sawkins spoke out.

  “The rewards are four times as great as custom demands. Why is that?” Sawkins’ training had made him abhor waste.

  “The men will need bravery,” Henry Morgan said calmly. “They will need urging—for we go to Panama.”

  “Panama!” It was almost a groan that answered him.

  “Yes, Panama. You have signed articles—and I hang deserters. Look to the spirits of your men. You know something of the wealth of Panama—enough to whet their tongues; and I know the dangers well enough to be sure they are surmountable.”

  “But—Panama—” Sawkins began.

  “I hang deserters,” Captain Morgan said, and he left the cabin. Cœur de Gris remained to listen. He would report the temper of the men.

  There was long silence. Every man was recalling the things he had heard about Panama.

  “It is dangerous,” said Sawkins, at last, “dangerous, but goodly rich. And the captain swore he knew the plan of the city and all the dangers of the fight.”

  These words brought sudden reassurance. If Captain Morgan knew, then they need not fear. Morgan was infallible. The room filled with nervous, quick conversation.

  “Money? They walk on it. I have heard that the Cathedral—”

  “But the jungle is impassable.”

  “They have good wine in Panama. I tasted some that came from there.”

  And all at once, every man seemed to think of the Red Saint.

  “Why, that woman is there—La Santa Roja.”

  “Yes, that is right. She is there. Who do you suppose will get her?”

  “The captain’s not a man for women at all. I think it will be Cœur de Gris, here. He is the most favored of us.”

  “Well enough. Cœur de Gris is fated to die on the poniard of some man’s jealousy. I would not mind killing him, because if I did not, some one else would. No, it might be my dagger.”

  “What would you do with a woman like that? A rope’s end wouldn’t be the thing, I guess.”

  “Well, to tell truth, I have always found those fat doubloons the most perfect instruments of rape. They glitter so.”

  “No, no. But see this. Nearly all women will repurchase their diamonds with their virtue. When you have the second, it is an easy thing to reacquire the first.”

  “What does old One-arm say about it—The Other Burgundian? Hey! will you be taking the Red Saint for your fat friend there?”

  The Other Burgundian bowed.

  “There would be no need,” he said. “My friend is very capable. Why, I could tell a tale—” He turned
to The Burgundian. “Have I your permission, Emil?”

  The Burgundian seemed trying to get through the wall, but he did manage a nod.

  “Then I will tell you gentlemen a story,” The Other Burgundian began. “There were four friends in Burgundy; three who squeezed a little sour milk from the dugs of art, and one who had possessions. Also there was a lovely girl in Burgundy; beautiful, accomplished, a veritable Circe, most lovely in the country. And the four friends all fell in love with this sweet exquisite.

  “Each one gave her the gifts which were most dear to himself. The first folded his soul in a sonnet and laid it at her feet. The second filled a viol with her name; and I—the third, I mean—painted the rosy image of her face. Thus did we artists bid for her in all friendliness to one another. But the last of the four was the true artist. He was quiet; he was subtle. What an actor! He won her with a superb gesture. He opened his hand—so—and there, on the cushion of his palm, lay a laughing rose pearl. They were married.

  “Now, soon after this marriage, Delphine gave evidence of greater virtues than any one had suspected. Not only was this paragon a perfect wife, but she was also the discreet and delightful mistress—not to one, but to all three—of the husband’s friends. And Emil, the husband, did not mind. He loved his friends. Why not? They were his true friends, but poor.

  “Ah, where is a force so blind, so idiotic, as public opinion! This time, two deaths and one banishment were born of it. This hydra of a Public Opinion—consider to yourselves what it did! It forced Emil to challenge his three friends. Even then, all might have ended with the kiss, the embrace—‘my honor is whole again, dear friend’—if it had not been for Emil’s deplorable habit of leaving his rapier point in putrefying meat. Two of the men died, and I lost my arm.

  “Now, here again comes this Public Opinion, like a blundering, powerful ox. Having forced the duels, it forced the victor out of France. Here is Emil, beside me—lover, swordsman, artist, landowner. The Public Opinion— But I have strayed from the tale in my hatred of this force. What I wanted to tell you is that Emil asks no consideration, no quarter at all. I know it appears that a swarm of hungry ants has been feasting on his spirit; but let great beauty be placed before him, let the Red Saint be mirrored in those eyes, and you shall see and remember what I say. He is quiet; he is subtle; he is an artist. Where other men cry ‘Virility! Force! Rape!’—Emil carries a rose pearl in his pocket as an aphrodisiac.”