Free To the Indies by C. S. Forester

Ophir,” said Rodrigo Acevedo in an undertone to Rich, but Rich would not allow himself to be drawn; he could not enter into a discussion of that sort while in a position of responsibility.
     
    And at this place where they had stopped for a moment there seemed, for the first time, to be a possibility of humans near them. There might almost be a path through the undergrowth, here, nearly imperceptible, probably only a wild beast run. Rich, looked up at the sky; there was a wisp of cloud there which was quite stationary — in the absence of wind they could continue the exploration without fear of being parted from the Holy Name .
     
    “Follow me quietly,” he said to the others, and he turned his steps up the path, his sword in his hand.
     
    But they could not hope to move quietly in the forest. Dead wood crackled under their feet, low twigs rang on their helmets, their scabbards rattled and their accoutrements creaked. There was precious little hope, Rich realized, of ever surprising a party of Indians in this fashion, especially after he stumbled and fell full-length. As he picked himself up someone came running down the path and stopped and looked at them — it was a little Indian boy, naked and pot-bellied. He put his fingers in his mouth and stared, the sunlight through the branches making strange markings on his brown skin. His features began to work and it was clearly only a matter of seconds before he would start to cry.
     
    “Seize hold of him!” hissed García into Rich’s ear.
     
    “Quiet!” muttered Rich in reply over his shoulder.
     
    He held out his hand, peacefully.
     
    “Hullo, little one,” he said.
     
    The little boy took his finger from his mouth and stared all the harder, postponing his tears.
     
    “Come to me,” said Rich. “Come along, little one. Come and talk to me.”
     
    Clearly while he spoke gently the child would not be frightened. He racked his brains for things to say, chattering ludicrously, and the little boy slowly began to sidle towards him, with many hesitations.
     
    “There!” said Rich, squatting down on his heels to bring their two faces on a level.
     
    The little boy piped out something incomprehensible; his eyes were fixed on Rich’s helmet, and he stretched out a small hand and touched it.
     
    “Pretty!” said Rich. “Pretty!”
     
    The little boy replied in his own strange language, still engrossed in the helmet. When at last his interest died away Rich cautiously straightened himself.
     
    “There!” he said again, and pointed slowly up the path. “Mother? Father?”
     
    He began gently to walk forward, and the little boy put his hand in his and trotted with him.
     
    They came out into a little clearing. There was a tiny wisp of smoke rising in the center, marking the position of a small fire. On one side there were five strange houses of dead leaves, but no human stirred; as they stood grouped at the edge of the clearing they could hear no sound save that of the birds and the insects. The little boy tugged at Rich’s hand to draw him forward, and then raised his voice, calling. An Indian woman broke from the forest beyond the clearing and came running heavily towards them. She, too, was naked, and far gone in pregnancy; she caught up the little boy in her arms and stared at them, asking urgent questions of the child meanwhile.
     
    Rich spread his left hand again in the instinctive gesture of peace, even though his right still held his drawn sword.
     
    “We come in peace,” he said. He tried to make soothing noises; the little boy pointed at the glittering helmets and chattered shrilly to his mother.
     
    Now there was a bustle and stir in the forest; a score of Indians came forth into the clearing, old and young, men and women and children. Rich, looking to see if any of them were armed, saw that one man carried a little cane bow — as feeble as a ten-year-old child’s — and two small cane arrows, and two others carried headless cane