The bright sun rose into the clouds of the sky. Three seagoing ships lay anchored on the deep-blue sea. On the lush green shore stood a village. In that small village, seventy or eighty corpses lay toppled on the ground. And excited howls echoed beneath the bright sun.
"Haaha! There's a whole big basket of cotton thread here!..."
"Praise the Lord! This pearl is mine! Mine!..."
"Joder! A house this big, and there's only a basket of dried leaves inside?! Mm, the smell of these leaves is so strange..."
"Coo! After holding back for so long, this is damn satisfying! Killing her would really be a waste..."
"Merda, you bunch of idiots! Search carefully, all of you! Find all the food and carry it onto our ships!... And these valuable spoils, they all belong to the flagship! Hand them over to me to divide!... I am your commander!..."
The sea wind carried a faint salty dampness and the stench of blood, and it also carried the sailors' laughter and wild cries. The royal steward, Gutierrez, stood at the bow of the flagship, watching the slaughter on the shore, and watching the revelry of these lowborn men. There was little ripple on his face. He merely furrowed his brow slightly, his gaze critical, as if he were looking at a less-than-perfect painting that nonetheless drew the eye.
The base colors of this painting—the beautiful sky, coast, and woods—were unforgettable brightness, vividness, and vitality. But at the center of the painting, this withering village, the cooking smoke and the natives, were smeared with such thick ink-dark shadows, cruelty, and death!
"May the Lord protect us! He sends down boundless blessings, saving the lost and wanton madmen, forgiving the hardships and mistakes of their road!..."
The Castilians were devout, relentless, and more than