The Seven Serpents Trilogy by Scott O’Dell

in with his mother’s milk. It never left him even in defeat, for he felt that he was doing God’s work, at God’s command, and that in the end God would not desert him.
    To be truthful, I had been as arrogant as any. I, Julián Escobar, I, too, had lusted. I had lusted for souls, dreamed and talked of little else. The difference was that I seemed to lack the sure belief that Don Luis possessed.
    The Caribs had recovered from their surprise at the cannon roar and the water spout, which I presumed they had difficulty explaining to themselves, being igno rant of both. They now had formed a single file, the big canoe in the lead, and were slowly rounding the promontory, watching the beach as they came.
    Three of Señor Guzmán’s guard, what Don Luis had left him, appeared on muleback, dragging a cannon and a sled stacked with shot. The cannon was placed in posi tion and made ready to fire. Two bowmen and two mus keteers stood ready behind them.
    Paddling for a few moments, then coasting, the Caribs skirted the beach within range, but Guzmán held his fire.
    â€œWait until they make up their minds,” he said to Sixto Gonzales. “By now they have made out that we are Spaniards. This is giving them thought.”
    â€œAs well it might,” Sixto answered.
    The Caribs had reached the promontory that formed the southern boundary of the bay and were returning, now at a more rapid pace and closer to the beach.
    The morning was hot and quiet. I could hear the savages jabbering among themselves. They began to chant, a jumble of words in a high, excited pitch. As the canoes reached the northern limits of the bay and made a wide turn that brought them closer to us, I heard a familiar voice speaking. It belonged to the fat Carib chieftain I had seen once before. As his words came clearly across the quiet water, Esteban translated them as soon as they were spoken.
    â€œDogs,” the cacique said, “we come to eat your arms and legs and fingers. We shall consume your flesh with sweet mango sauce.”
    A chorus of insults went up from his followers. Guzmán answered by raising his hand to Sixto Gonzales. The two brass cannon roared at once. The shots struck in the midst of the swarming canoes. One sent up a spout and seemingly did no harm, but the other lifted the big canoe into the air and turned it over, end for end. At the same time, our musket fire poured down upon those struggling in the water, among them the fat cacique.
    A flight of fire arrows immediately fell upon the promontory, wounding the two bowmen and setting ablaze a keg of powder.
    No longer were the Caribs shouting insults. Their big canoe was sinking fast. Those in the water clambered into other canoes; then the whole fleet moved swiftly seaward. Behind them, a dozen or more bodies floated on the tide.
    Sixto Gonzales wanted to send a parting shot after them, but Guzmán told him to hold his fire. “If I know them, they have not gone,” he said. “They will regroup, lick their wounds, and return.”
    As he spoke, the Caribs made a quick turn, all the ca noes at once, and headed for the northern arm of the bay, where the jungle reached down to the sea.
    â€œThey’ll come back,” Guzmán said. “We are at a dis advantage now, with our two bowmen wounded. And we can’t count upon Don Luis arriving. We need to choose a good place to defend ourselves.”
    He was fearful that the Caribs would go ashore somewhere and then creep back through the jungle and fall upon us from the rear. He also feared that on their way they might happen upon the gold he had stored away. We therefore left our place, with the wounded bowmen on the sled, the mules dragging the cannon, and re turned to the lagoon. There, Guzmán grouped us around the shed, seven of us and the two big dogs. I was still clutching the musket, about which I knew little.
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CHAPTER 10
    T HE
ARRASTRE
WAS SILENT . T HERE WERE NO