I thought, as the Indian spoke thus, that both the brothers experienced some kind of satisfaction in recounting to another the secret, which would otherwise die with them, and thus keeping it a little longer floating in the world. Presently, after their accustomed fashion of alternate speaking, Buonahari chimed in—
‘Our forefather, who came from Guanhani and Hispaniola, was the son of him who was cacique in Guanhani, when the white men landed upon it, and said, “Here is a New World.” Five years after he began to reign, there came many ships with white men. Our forefathers thought that the white men were gods come down from the sun, and they honoured them, and feared them. Then said the white men—“Would you see again your fathers and your mothers, who have died and gone to the happy valleys—to the land of Coyaba—to that land where are cool shades and delicious fruits—where the drought burns not up the ground—and the hurricane tears not up the trees? If you would go thither, come into our ships and we will sail with you to Coyaba, and we will also see your departed friends.” So our forefathers believed the white men, and went into their ships, and the white men did not take them to Coyaba, but to Hispaniola and to Cuba, and made them slaves to dig for gold in the mountains. Most of our forefathers died there, and gradually the nation wasted away—but our family did not come to an end, but went on, generation after generation, until we were begotten, and with us our family will die, and the last of the race of Guanhani will be taken from the earth.’
Both the old men spoke as though they had already outlived all sorrow for their lot. Their words and gestures were grave and solemn, but not mournful, for their trust was, that when they died, they would at length go to Coyaba, and see again all their forefathers, those who had been slaves in Cuba and Hispaniola, and those who had borne rule in Guanhani.
In about a week’s time I was quite restored, and daily went a hunting and a fishing with my Indian hosts. I had told them my story, to which they listened eagerly, and I had assured them, that if, perchance, there should come to the island a ship manned by my countrymen, and which might carry me away, that I would reveal to none the secret of their habitation, but leave them undisturbed in their solitary abode. I made them lead me also to where Rumbold lay buried beneath the palm. It was a breezy, sunny spot, and upon the turf I piled a little heap, or cairn of stones, such as, in Scotland, where they are found heaped on dreary moors, and among lone hills, are said by the country-people to mark the grave of a hero. Weeks glided away thus. The old Indians were always the same—grave, courteous, and kind. They fished, and set snares for birds, when they wanted them for food, but killed none wantonly. They ever went together, and with the same slow, stately step. Their talk was almost always of Coyaba, and the friends who had gone before them, and who they would meet there. In short, their demeanour and their speech were those of men whose minds were set upon the things of the new world into which they were soon to enter. The space between them and death was short, and their eyes seemed to be able to look beyond it, and to care little for what was on this side of the dark river. Notwithstanding, however, I drew from them many traditionary accounts of their people before white men had visited them; and one night, in particular, I asked whether there had been handed down any remembrance of the first white men who landed upon Guanhani—they being, indeed, no other than Columbus and his followers. To this question, Buonahari readily answered, that he had often heard from his father the full account of that event, as it had been handed down, and that, if I pleased, he would narrate it. Then, filling his cup with palm-wine, and trimming the torch, which cast a sparkling glow upon the rock-walls and wattled roof of the hut—the descendant of the caciques began the tale.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW WORLD.
The name of my forefather, who reigned in Guanhani when white men first came there was the same as mine, Buonahari. He was a good cacique, and the people loved him; he ruled the island, and none disputed his sway. Then there was great plenty in the land; the earth bore her fruits, and the people subsisted upon them. There were no fish caught with hook, or spear, or net; and no birds with snare or arrow. The people ate only what grew—the fruits of the ground and the corn, and about the hut of each man was the field of maize which he cultivated. Then were the gods worshipped piously—the gods who sent the good things the people enjoyed. There were songs and dancing through all the land. The people met in the evenings, and lighted great fires upon the altars, and then the young men and the maidens danced, and the old men and their wives looked on, and the Bohitos, that is, the priests and the bards, sang songs in praise of the gods.
One night there was a great feast of singing and dancing before the hut where my forefather, the cacique, dwelt down by the sea. All the people of the village were there, for the cacique and the chief of the Bohitos had caused proclamation to be made that every man and every woman should come forth from their huts to dance and sing and praise Zemi, the greatest of the gods.
Now, when the night was dark, and the songs of the people were loud, the chief of the Bohitos came to my forefather, the cacique, and said—
‘Why are not all the young men at the festival?’