The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita

by Richard Woodman

  And with this freedom there came in time the mastery of boats. A proficient oarsman at seven, he could handle a boat under sail at ten and was entrusted with errands by the merchants whose houses flanked the quays along the Guadalquivír, scrambling aboard the ships that worked their weary way upstream from the distant ocean, laden with the fruits of the Indies, their sailors burned black by the sun, their ears pierced by the bright gleam of Indian gold from the land of Eldorado. The shore-going of these exotics was accompanied by drunkenness and whoring; they were surrounded by gipsy dancers, the flash and colour of a seductive wildness and the disturbing music of the guitar. Young Iago, for so he was called, observed their ebullient bravado to be accompanied by a stream of endless, good-natured chaffing. All this excited the boy, who took with alacrity the notes and messages from their resplendent masters standing proud upon their poops. Iago ran and conveyed these important missives to the quiet and splendid merchants in their counting houses along the quays of Seville. Occasionally he would be permitted to accompany one of them, carrying the great man’s heavy leather wallet containing the documents pertaining to the ship’s voyage, to the Casa de Contratación. Here, at the great door of the splendid trade-house, he would be dismissed with a coin and stand in awe as the capitáno disappeared into the cool shadows. Once too, he had performed this office as a capitáno went to the Alcázar where he had been summoned to appear in the Cuarto del Almirante. It was from here, the awe-struck Iago learned, that Fernão de Magalhaes was charged with finding the Moluccas by sailing west on behalf of His Most Christian Majesty. That the captain-general did not return alive only added awe to the boy’s tenuous connection with these distinguished and brave souls.

  Those capitános who came to know him well would allow Iago to climb on to the yards as they ordered their men aloft to roll the sails into a tight harbour stow. Long before he could read or write he had become a skilled helper, an adept who owed more to his Dutch blood than the encouragement of his stepfather. Nevertheless, his adoptive father, seeing this aptitude in his stepson, insisted he learned all there was to know about such things, and soon Iago knew much about ships and could not only tie most of the bends and hitches required of an able marinero, but could box the compass backwards in quarter-points. This feat alone set him apart from most of the imps who frequented the waterfront in the hope of pickings from the foolish and impulsive generosity of sailors newly arrived home.

  This recollected sensation of ascendancy now brought a smile to his face, dispelling the last wraiths of the dream. The past receded into the night and Iago stirred in the swiftly growing light of dawn. He stretched luxuriously, fully awake and again master of himself. Rising, he padded out through the curtain to where the girl slept. Ximenez had mentioned her too. For a moment he paused and looked down at her, moved by a spasm of affection, then he turned aside and went to the door. The house was a primitive dwelling, more suited to one of the shipwrights who had fabricated the vast mass of the Santa Margarita on the slipways of Cavite than to a man who had arrived in the Philippines with a small fortune concealed about his person. It was this that had dissuaded him from too close acquaintance with the Gobernador of Manila or any of his many time-serving and swaggering officials. Iago’s inbred caution sped his exit from the islands. He had been a dissembler all his life, an habitual concealer from necessity rather than vice, but a man to whom self-revelation was not merely anathema, but an impolitic folly the consequences of which might prove fatal. Nor had the manner of his survival been any different, though his manner of arrival in the Spanish stronghold of the Philippines was explicable enough. How he could have betrayed himself so lightly to Ximenez under the palms the previous night he was at a loss to know, but the momentary lowering of his guard under the mistaken assumption that he was alone was a grievous error and the very thought of it brought a sudden apprehensive quickening of his pulse. It was also a measure of his loneliness: occasionally a man must articulate even the most suppressed emotions.

  Iago dismissed the excuse of believing himself to be alone as inexcusable, even as it again pleaded for his conduct. Diverting his mind, he wondered for a moment whether sunrise would arrive with a halberdier’s guard and an official from the Holy Office intent upon his arrest, or merely a full rice-bowl. Had he the measure of Ximenez? Did the diminutive and crippled human arouse an injudicious pity in him? Was Ximenez perhaps capable of avenging himself on others more fairly made than himself? And was he himself the sacrificial scapegoat of Ximenez’s imagination? If so, Iago had been fooled. He considered the matter for a moment; somehow he did not mark the wretched creature for an informer, yet doubt lingered as to the dwarf’s trustworthiness. And if he was not to be trusted?

  Iago grew suddenly exasperated with himself; he would confront that eventuality when he met it; his sword had a blade as keen as any from Toledo, though its odd shape marked it as a katana from the fabulous islands of Cipangu. In the meantime he needed a shave and, he thought with a contrived but reassuringly wry amusement as he sought the means to accomplish this, if yesterday’s encounter had meant anything at all the wretched Ximenez should be here attending upon his person with hot water and a stropped razor. Perhaps in the dwarf’s reappearance Iago might place some trust. But if he failed to come, or arrived with a company of halberdiers and a dark-frocked priest – Iago lowered the razor and his eye fell upon the katana in its slings hanging handily above the bed – then God help him.

  Iago shaved and broke his fast of rice prepared by the Chinese girl he had brought with him from Cathay. She knelt and served him in silence and swiftly rose with an indrawn breath when Ximenez suddenly appeared in the doorway. The dwarf, decked out in a dark blue doublet of some extravagance but which had clearly been made for him, announced his arrival with a surprisingly discreet cough and a change of attitude.

  ‘Good morning, master.’

  Iago, a small beaker of hot coffee at his mouth, stared with astonishment at the dwarf. ‘I thought the finery to be for me . . .’ he began but fell silent when Ximenez almost impertinently gestured him to silence. Ximenez than stepped back, beckoning to others outside. To Iago’s astonishment three short and stocky Filipinos brought in a number of packages, all of which were bound in woven coconut matting, and laid them respectfully on the ground at Iago’s feet. After they had withdrawn and Ximenez had followed them outside and paid them for their labour, the dwarf returned to the room. Iago had finished his coffee and was ready for Ximenez’s explanation.

  ‘Master,’ Ximenez began, producing a knife from the waist of his doublet with a flourish and cutting the sisal bindings of the packages, ‘I have provided you with . . .’ There was a brief pause and then he lifted or indicated in turn each of his purchases. ‘A short cloak of broadcloth; two doublets of velvet, one of crimson, one of blue, both with slashed sleeves; five shirts, two of silk, three of cotton; breeches of black, under-drawers, hose, two pairs of shoes for which I beg my master’s indulgence if they do not fit, and, if my master pleases, a fine pair of boots . . .’ There were in addition handkerchiefs, ribbons, three ruffs, two pairs of gloves and some lace that Iago thought might have been made in his natal city.

  ‘And for your lady . . .’ Ximenez gestured at the Chinese girl who stood coyly watching this extravagant performance in the shadows, ‘knowing little of the preferences and peculiarities of women, I have as yet secured only a gown . . .’ He drew the rustling grey-blue silk from the final bundle and held it out towards the girl. She came forward and Iago could see the glow of pleasure in her eyes.

  ‘She is pleased, Ximenez,’ Iago said.

  ‘Even I can see that, master,’ the dwarf said drily and Iago felt in that odd moment a powerful and disturbing sensation as if the three of them were somehow drawn closer together.

  ‘How much did all this cost . . . ?’ he began but the dwarf cut him short.

  ‘A little credit, señor,’ said Ximenez, reverting for a moment to the style of address that had preceded the form
al change in their relationship. ‘Let us talk of debts later.’

  ‘And for yourself . . .’ Iago gestured at the dwarf’s own finery.

  ‘It was the last gift of my mother. She made it for me as the son of an hidalgo.’ Iago saw the glitter of tears in the dwarf’s eyes. ‘I have only once worn it before.’

  ‘Then you shall be one again, Ximenez. We shall chance our fortune as equals. I am not so set upon this course that I must have a servant.’

  Ximenez shook his head, his ugly face strangely softened. ‘I am grateful, señor, but since my mother’s death I have lived too long in the ditch like a cur and been whipped too often to appear transfigured. No, I must be your servant and this,’ he pointed at his velvet doublet, ‘must be thought by the world to be your gift.’ He brought his head up with a spirited assurance that Iago found touching. ‘I fear, master, my attachment to your person, whatever its practical value, will do you little credit when you solicit an appointment aboard the Santa Margarita. I am too well known to raise myself other than by my master’s indulgence. You will be seen as a fool, master, a newcomer gulled by the plausible monster the midwife allowed to survive.’

  ‘Then we shall have to hide our talents a little, Ximenez.’

  ‘You are not a Spaniard, señor.’

  ‘Was your mother a witch?’ Iago responded with a sharp evasion, adding as a half-truth, ‘I grew up in Seville and am as Spanish as yourself.’

  Ximenez bowed low. ‘Of course, master. But I am half Filipino.’

  The innuendo was clear and there was a moment’s awkward silence and then the girl spoke, diverting Iago’s attention.

  ‘Am I now lady of these islands?’ she asked in the pidgin that was the lingua franca between Iago and his mistress.

  ‘Yes,’ Iago said nodding, his face softening as he turned towards her as she stroked the grey-blue silk.

  ‘And I am in your service, lady,’ Ximenez said, adding again to the powerful sense of bonding that Iago felt with a disturbing prescience. Such emotions, he thought with a suppressed shudder, led to love or the stake. Or perhaps both. For a moment the shadow of his dream again crossed his mind and then, as Ximenez held out the under-drawers and the hose, he rose and began to change his apparel. Yet how sure could he be of this timely yet monstrous addition to his slim entourage? The dwarf was clever, cunning even, a perfect agent for the Inquisition, he thought as he felt Ximenez pull the drawstring tight about his waist. And was not this provision of the clothes that Iago sought, almost as if by magical powers, further evidence that Ximenez was working for the priests who constantly surveyed this land like black vultures?

  ‘I have heard, master, that they are wanting officers practised in the arts of the shipman’s craft aboard the Santa Margarita,’ Ximenez remarked with so casual an indifference as he knelt at Iago’s feet and offered a shoe. Iago started: the pronouncement was contiguous with his thoughts.

  ‘Master . . . ?’ The kneeling dwarf looked up, startled, one hand flat upon the beaten earth floor.

  A coldness seized Iago’s spirit. He placed his newly shod foot upon the dwarf’s fingers, immobilizing him. ‘If you prove false, Ximenez,’ he said icily, his jerked head indicating the girl quietly tidying the room behind him, ‘Ah Fong will kill you. So you must first kill her and then I shall know your intentions.’

  The dwarf stared up at him, his eyes full of astonishment and despair. In an intuitive moment Iago saw through the little man’s deformity. ‘Master, I thought you trusted me.’

  ‘There is much here,’ Iago said, his hand waving over the finery spread across the humble room.

  ‘I am a man of resource, master,’ Ximenez hissed, a flash of spirit entering him in response to this new humiliation. ‘Besides,’ he shot back with an ironic shrug, ‘it is the señor who is in debt!’

  Iago felt a sudden shaming, Ah Fong had stopped what she was doing with a second sharp intake of breath that, Iago knew, signalled disapproval of his actions. He was in grave danger of making an enemy where an instant before he had had an ally, if not a friend. He slid his foot sideways, releasing the dwarf’s hand, suddenly squatting in front of Ximenez and taking it up in a firm grip. ‘Forgive me, amigo, forgive me. I have lived so long on my wits that my trust is not easily given. From this moment on we shall be partners, our parts those of players.’

  Ximenez’s expression softened. ‘My master owes twenty maravedis. I had not expected to ask the sum so soon, nor to ask it to clear my name.’

  Iago patted the dwarf’s hand. ‘You shall have it – or its equivalent in gold.’

  Ten minutes later the man known as Don Iago Fernandez stepped out into the sunshine accompanied by the dwarf. He wore the blue doublet with slashed sleeves that revealed a white silk shirt, black breeches and hose, with buckled shoes that fitted tolerably well. The only irregularity in his attire was the curious sword that swung upon his hip.

  Two

  The Santa Margarita

  From the hired native canoe Don Iago stared up at the vast bulk of the Santa Margarita’s stern looming above him and marvelled. Close to, the great ship impressed even more than she did at a distance. Although the timbers wore their coat of newly applied oil with a soft gloss, there was no other evidence that the great não had not been built in the shipyards of Cadiz or Havana, for she was crafted with all the skill of the shipwright’s art, even to the carvings on her high poop where, above the windows of the great cabin and the gallery that ran round the stern, amid a roil of leaves and palm fronds, a drooping Santa Margarita, her breasts bared by a torn gown, struggled against the licentious intentions of what, Iago supposed, were two Roman soldiers. The fashioned woodwork, however, wrought by native craftsmen, had been modelled on the Spanish soldiery who despoiled their own women and wore the morion and cuirass of Castile and Aragon. This unfortunate anachronism was a sharp and painful reminder of Iago’s own mother’s situation on that dreadful morning when the Spanish pikemen burst into their house in Zierikzee.

  For a moment he was chilled by the thought, wondering if it was an omen, a superstition rising in his mind that the ship was ill-fated. Then reason reasserted itself. He was a fool to have his mind corrupted by these rich images. It was precisely what they were intended to do, one way or another, terrify and subordinate all sensible men to a state of supine obedience. He had hardly rid himself of the dark thought when the real shadow of the ship fell over the canoe as they rounded her stern. Alongside her hull lay several junks from which bales and bundles of cargo – some in burlap, others in coconut matting – were being hauled aboard by the yard tackles.

  Iago pointed to two manropes hanging down the ship’s tumblehome on either side of a battened ladder. As the hired Filipino dug his paddle into the dark water and drove his narrow craft into the shadowed gap, Iago ducked under the slack bights of the junks’ mooring lines. A moment later the little canoe rubbed alongside and, grabbing the two manropes made of the straw-coloured hemp for which the islands were famous, he scrambled up the curved strakes of the Santa Margarita.

  Stepping over the high rail and down upon the deck, Iago was confronted by noise and turmoil. He regarded a confusion of strewn packages, boxes and chests among which scores of seamen and coolies swore and toiled as they sought to secure what seemed at first glance to be an immensity of cargo. Although some of the larger bales were being lowered into the hold through the two small hatchways amidships, it was clear that much was being borne on deck, where a party of swarthy seamen shoved and secured them. These men seemed to be drawn from all quarters of the globe. Dressed only in baggy breeches and headscarves, their naked torsos shone with sweat as they laboured under the hot sun. Forward, Iago’s eye was caught by a huddle of female Filipinos, several of whom were washing clothes in wooden tubs; others idled, one plaiting another’s hair, while all gossiped cheerfully. They were carelessly and indifferently dressed and clearly the seamen’s women. The illusion of disorder, though somewhat modified by the roaring figure of the b
oatswain whose rattan was freely applied, was in sharp contrast to the Santa Margarita’s outward appearance.

  Such a scene was not unfamiliar to Iago, though it was some time since he had witnessed this confusion of a large ship loading and preparing for sea. He caught the boatswain’s eye and the man stared at him for a moment, before roaring another instruction at an adjacent gang of men. Then, kicking a coolie aside, the man leapt with surprising agility for so large a fellow over an interposing bale to plant himself in front of Iago.

  ‘Señor?’ the boatswain said with only a slight interrogative inflection and with the minimal respect to Iago’s obvious station. This, too, was a game with which Iago was familiar. He had learned it along the banks of the Guadalquivír as a boy entrusted with an errand to a ship newly berthing alongside the quay.

  ‘Present my compliments to the captain-general,’ he said, casually removing his eyes from the large petty officer and affecting a tone of easy disdain. ‘Don Iago Fernandez at His Excellency’s service.’