The Seven Serpents Trilogy by Scott O’Dell Read Free Book Online Page B

into the harbor with a grant to the island. Or a band of adventurers might happen along and seize the shed filled with treasure.
    I couldn’t expect much help, if any, when Don Luis returned. Since the day of our arrival on Isla del Oro, he had grown more and more like the greedy Guzmán. His voyage to Hispaniola was no more than an effort to ac cumulate new lands and new Indians to work them. His ambition, I felt certain from hints he had let fall to Cap tain Roa, was to become the most powerful
encomendero
in New Spain.
    Â 
CHAPTER 9
    S IXTO G ONZALES, THE SHIP’S GUNNER, STATIONED AT THE NORTHERN arm of the bay with instructions to report any thing out of the ordinary, fired a musket shortly after dawn of a mist-shrouded morning.
    It was now nine days since Don Luis had left for Hispaniola. My first thought when I heard the sound of the musket was that he had returned. I was at the lagoon talking to three boys, trading Spanish words for Indian. I started at a run for the bay, some half a league distant.
    I broke out of the jungle as I came to the sea and ran along the beach to where Sixto Gonzales was perched on a flat rock. I peered seaward, looking for the sails of the
Santa Margarita.
I saw nothing except a small red canoe, which belonged to an old man who fished the bay every morning for sharks, whose skins his wife and daughters used to make sandals. He had hold of some thing and was being towed along at a good rate.
    A moment after I sighted the old man, Sixto Gonzales fired the big bombard. I saw the shot fall into calm water northward of the cannon smoke. Beyond the fountain it raised, I saw a swarm of painted canoes.
    A large canoe, manned by dozens of paddles, led the way. It was striped yellow and blue, in the same design, the same colors, I remembered from our encounter short weeks before.
    Sixto Gonzales stood beside the cannon, a spyglass to his eye. He confirmed my suspicions.
    â€œCaribs,” he said. “The canoe that leads them has the Carib figurehead.” He turned to his helper and gave instructions about loading the bombard. “A double charge, Porfirio. We will blow them into the deepest pit.” He took hold of the lanyard, making ready to fire, and motioned me to shoulder the musket. “Do you comprehend its workings?”
    â€œNot at all,” I said. “I have never held one in my hands.”
    â€œYou know one end from the other? Good. Now put the blunt end to your shoulder, your finger under the guard, lightly on the trigger, take a deep breath, and wait for orders, which I will give presently.”
    The iron ball, a large one, had struck in front of the Caribs. As the column of water rose across their bow and the cannon roared and echoed over the bay, the swarming canoes stopped dead in the water.
    Meanwhile, the musket shot had alerted Señor Guzmán. He suddenly appeared on the beach, with four men fully armed. When Sixto Gonzales saw that there were no natives among them, he shouted down to Guzmán, “The Indians. Where are they?”
    In disgust, Guzmán spat upon the sand. “Hiding,” he shouted back. “All of them—men, women, and chil dren. They hide.”
    â€œWe do not need the natives,” said Sixto Gonzales.
    â€œNo, but they would not hinder us,” Guzmán replied. “Later I will try to rally them.”
    I stood looking at the two men, amazed at how calm they were. A hundred savages and more paddled toward us, making ready to attack, and yet they acted as if they were on parade. In all the days I lived in the New World, my amazement never ceased at the calm way the Spaniard faced danger and death.
    Part of this bravery, the certain belief that, be the en emy one or one hundred, he still was equal to the chal lenge, came from a lust for treasure. The conquistador dreamed of slaves and gold. He talked of little else.
    And another part of it came from an arrogance that a Spaniard like Don Luis drank