To the Edge of the World

by Michele Torrey

  Although Cartagena’s face twisted with fury, he dared not move. For while the captain-general talked, Espinosa had positioned himself beside Magallanes. Even in the waning light Espinosa’s sword gleamed. Now Cartagena looked away from Magallanes, furious, saying nothing.

  With that, it was decided. For the rest of the day I stumbled around in an aimless way, desperately cold, longing to return to Spain. A horrifying thought kept running through my mind. I tried to shake it, ashamed, but could not. It penetrated like a rotten stench. Perhaps, I thought, Magallanes is insane. Perhaps we follow the whims of a madman. Perhaps he will search for el paso until there are none left to search but himself, alone aboard the Trinidad, the rest of us long dead. Perhaps Rodrigo is right and I am a fool for believing in Magallanes. . . .

  The following day was Easter Sunday, and all hands were ordered ashore for Mass.

  At first it was only a few whispers. Then, spreading over the company like liquid fire, whispers burned our ears from every direction. “They are missing,” whispered Rodrigo. “The two Spanish captains are missing.”

  “To not attend Mass is a grave offense,” whispered someone else.

  “Not only that, but all captains, pilots, and officers are invited afterward to a feast aboard the Trinidad.”

  “To not attend the feast is an insult.”

  “Likely they plot mutiny.”

  “Or murder.”

  “The captain-general pretends he does not notice.”

  “No doubt he is burning with fury.”

  Rodrigo whispered, “I have heard a terrible thing. Someone told me that Magallanes swore to the king of Portugal that he would destroy the fleet and maroon all survivors. Perhaps that is what he intends to do in this godforsaken place.”

  “But why would Magallanes do such a thing?” It made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore.

  “It is what everyone says. Can so many men be wrong? Tell me, Mateo, since you are so smart, why does Magallanes not return to Spain? It is the captain-general’s pride. Either Magallanes will kill us all for the sake of his ambition, or he will leave us here to rot. Either way, we are doomed.”

  I awoke on the second day of April to a drizzle of rain. The day was as gray as my mood. Espinosa again asked Rodrigo and me to come with him to fetch wood and water from shore.

  Soon we rowed the skiff through quiet waters and a thick mist toward the San Antonio to pick up four men who were to join us for the shore party. While we rowed, Espinosa whispered, “Rodrigo, you do not look well this morning. Perhaps it is something you ate?”

  Rodrigo shook his head.

  I frowned. I had not noticed that Rodrigo looked unwell.

  Espinosa paused, then said quietly, “Perhaps then it is something you heard?”

  Rodrigo looked up in surprise but said nothing.

  “Ah, by your silence you confirm I am right. You are a very proud man, young Rodrigo, and do not think I have not noticed your faithful service as my cabin boy.”

  A glimmer of a smile appeared on Rodrigo’s face. He sat straighter and rowed harder so I was forced to match his pace.

  Espinosa continued, “Like I said, you are proud. Too proud. Such a shame, this pride of Castile. So often a sickness in itself.”

  “A sickness? You call my pride a sickness?” Rodrigo squinted and spat over the side of the skiff.

  “Let us suppose a man in Castile is murdered. His brothers, his father, or his sons avenge his death, am I right?”

  Rodrigo puffed out his chest. “Of course, otherwise the family is dishonored.”

  “Or if their sister is violated, again they seek revenge.”

  “Of course.”

  “Likewise would I,” said Espinosa, his face carved of granite in the stark morning light. “But what if someone throws mud upon a man’s cloak? Again he kills because his pride is wounded.”

  “It is so, else there is great dishonor.”

  “And if a man’s family is poor, he must act rich so others think well of him.”

  “Of course, it is the way of Castile.”

  “Ah. But I will tell you something I have learned in my years of being a soldier. Honor based only on the opinions of others is poisoned honor. Empty honor. It is no more than false pride and vainglory. Why should a man care if his cloak be muddy? Why should a man impoverish his family just to convince others he is not poor? Throughout Castile, poor men sit idle because they are stiff with pride. They desire others to believe they are noblemen and unworthy of labor with their hands.”

  I remembered my father’s words. We are not beggars, he would say. We are not poor. But we were poor. We had always been poor. I hung my head with shame, wishing I could plug my ears.

  Espinosa continued, “Yet true honor is not purchased, but born, and it cares not what others may think. You live your life according to what you know is right. Only that kind of honor is worth seeking and keeping. It is honor within yourself. Do you understand?”

  I glanced sidelong at Rodrigo as he blinked with confusion. I wondered. True honor? Honor within yourself? I had a vague understanding, as if I tried to peer through layers of mist to what lay beyond.

  “That kind of honor resides in Magallanes,” said Espinosa. “He is courageous despite the murmurings of his crew, and with or without their approval he will attempt the impossible. Think on it, Rodrigo, my friend. You have a fierce courage like Magallanes’s. Fierce courage others can only dream of. Do not waste it on false pride and false honor. Over the next few days, the next few hours perhaps, I will need honorable men. Are you someone whom I can trust?”

  I saw Rodrigo swallow hard. He glanced at me and I knew what he was thinking. Espinosa was loyal to Magallanes. And he was asking Rodrigo to also be loyal. “I—I don’t know,” said Rodrigo, and his shoulders slumped.

  I almost blurted out, “I will be loyal. I am a man of honor. True honor.” But Espinosa was not looking at me, and by then our skiff bumped against the hull of the San Antonio. The four men we were to meet were nowhere to be seen.

  Then a voice said softly from above, “Hark! Who goes there?”

  “It is I, Espinosa, master-at-arms.”

  “Praise God it is you. We thought you would never come.”

  “Why? What is wrong?”

  “Be forewarned. Quesada and his armed men overwhelmed the San Antonio last night while we slept. Our captain is below deck in chains. Quesada stabbed our ship’s master many times and he now lies dying. Please get help. And hurry. I can say no more. Someone has heard me. I think they come.”

  XIII

  April 2-3, 1520

  “Row to all the ships,” Magallanes ordered as soon as Espinosa told him the news. “Ask them their allegiance. We must know who is mutinous and who has remained loyal.”

  Again we were in the skiff.

  Now in a loud voice, Quesada declared from the San Antonio that he was captain of the ship and that he owed his allegiance to none but the king. When we rowed to the Victoria, Mendoza said the same. And we were not surprised to find Cartagena, freed from his imprisonment, strutting about the Concepción’s deck and ordering the men to prepare for warfare.

  When we pulled alongside the Santiago, Captain Serrano seemed baffled, as if he knew nothing of the mutiny. For when we asked him to whom he owed his allegiance, he responded in a puzzled voice that he owed his allegiance to Magallanes. I was relieved. Serrano had not been named in the letter. Until this moment, I did not know where his loyalties lay. As we rowed back to the Trinidad, Serrano’s Santiago pulled up anchor and followed, aligning itself with the flagship.

  It was two against three.

  That afternoon, we stared across the mists at the other three ships, their masts thrusting out of the fog like swords. When would they make their move? Would they kill us all? Blow us into the waters with the San Antonio ’s superior firepower?

  A longboat appeared out of the mist. A sailor said he had a message for Magallanes from the three captains. The longboat
’s crew of eight was invited aboard. They licked their lips and peered around nervously. I knew they feared ambush. Their leader held out the message for the captain-general and, once delivered, stepped back quickly.

  Magallanes skimmed the message. He turned to Espinosa. “It is a list of grievances. They say they have suffered much and are sorry to have taken three ships. They request that in the future I obey the king’s orders and discuss all matters concerning the fleet with them and consult them regarding my exact course. If I do so, they will acknowledge my leadership and kiss my feet and hands.”

  Magallanes smiled and handed the message back to the leader. “Tell your captains I would be happy to discuss such arrangements aboard my ship. Please give them my assurances that I will hear them out and do what is right. Espinosa, have the apprentice seaman prepare a feast. I will treat my guests with the honor they deserve.”

  A feast! Honor! I felt my lip curl with disdain. What did they know of honor? True honor? They have done nothing but deceive and betray.

  After Magallanes finished speaking, the leader bowed. Soon the longboat disappeared from sight. It was already growing dark though it was early afternoon.

  One hour later, the longboat returned. The leader bowed again before Magallanes. “Sir, they say they dare not board your ship for fear of mistreatment. Instead, they request your presence aboard the San Antonio, where they promise to do as you command.”

  Magallanes regarded the leader. “I must have a moment to consider their request. It—it is not easy to command so many.” The captain-general sighed and passed a weary hand over his forehead. Finally he said, “My friend, the seaman has prepared a sumptuous feast and already my stomach growls. Perhaps you and your men are also hungry. It would be a shame to allow such food to go to waste. So come. Rest and sup with me in my cabin, and when we are finished, I will give my reply.”

  The men of the longboat smiled. They, like us, smelled meat roasting, and I envied their good fortune.

  When they had gone into the captain-general’s cabin, Espinosa approached me. “Come. I need your help.” Again I boarded the skiff, this time without Rodrigo. Espinosa wore a hooded cloak. I saw the flash of steel before he pulled his cloak about him. I wanted to ask him where we were going and why, but the look on his face told me to ask no questions.

  In a silence as thick as the newly fallen night, fifteen heavily armed marines slipped into the San Antonio’s longboat, moored alongside us. On Espinosa’s signal I began to row the skiff into the darkness, leaving the longboat behind.

  I strained against the ebb tide and, as ordered, pulled alongside the Victoria and tied the skiff. Mendoza peered over the gunwale. He was fully armored except for his helmet. “Who goes there?”

  “It is I, Espinosa, master-at-arms.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I must deliver a message to you.”

  Mendoza blinked nervously and ran his stubby fingers over his goatee. Jeweled rings flashed in the lantern light. “Give me the message.”

  “I have my orders. I am to deliver the message privately.”

  Scanning our skiff, Mendoza said, “I am sorry, but I cannot permit anyone to come aboard.”

  Espinosa laughed, his voice filled with scorn. “The proud Mendoza is frightened of an unarmed messenger? Of a cabin boy? What do you fear, Mendoza? That one and a half men will overpower your ship?”

  Even as my ears stung with insult, Mendoza hesitated and then motioned Espinosa aboard. He frowned but made no objection when Espinosa signaled me to follow.

  As Espinosa grasped the gangway ladder to climb aboard, he whispered “Stay with me” before disappearing up and over the bulwarks. By the time I climbed aboard, my mind racing, my heart galloping, Mendoza was already escorting Espinosa into his cabin. I hurried to catch up.

  “Come in, Mateo, and close the door behind you,” said Espinosa.

  In the candlelight, I saw Mendoza frown. “I thought you were supposed to give me the message privately.”

  Instead of replying, Espinosa drew out his message and handed it to Mendoza.

  As Mendoza unfolded the paper and began to read, rubbing his beard with jeweled fingers, Espinosa glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. In that instant I knew it to be a trap. I swallowed hard, thinking furiously, I am unarmed. What am I to do? And what if the trap fails? Suddenly I felt very much half a man.

  It seemed forever before Mendoza finished reading. Then to my surprise, he smiled, his teeth glinting in the candlelight. “The captain-general humbly begs me to surrender,” he said, as if it were a great joke. And he began to laugh. First it was a suppressed chuckle, then a deeper laugh from his chest. Finally, he threw back his head and roared with laughter, his scorn bouncing off the cabin walls and thundering in my ears.

  It was then that Espinosa struck.

  While Mendoza roared with laughter, Espinosa reached out, grabbed the man’s hair, yanked his head savagely back, and buried his knife to the hilt in Mendoza’s neck. A startled look popped into Mendoza’s eyes. A gurgling. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the man sank to the cabin floor with a creak of armor. A trickle of blood seeped down his neck and vanished under his armor. In the candlelight it looked black.

  “You killed him,” I said stupidly.

  The master-at-arms removed his knife from Mendoza’s throat and wiped it clean on his cloak. “Signal the men in the longboat. They are waiting on the starboard side.”

  “We—we were a diversion,” I stammered, trying to understand. “So the longboat could approach in secret.”

  Espinosa gave me a hard look. “Do what I’ve asked, Mateo. Go.” Glad to escape the stench of death and my own stupidity, I ran to the starboard side and peered over the gunwale. Out of the darkness, fifteen faces peered up at me. “It is time,” I said.

  It did not take long. The men of the Victoria surrendered once they saw their captain dead and their ship swarming with marines. Together with Espinosa, I raised the flag of Magallanes on the mainmast. “Long live the king and death to traitors!” we cried.

  My heart sang with victory; my blood rushed with joy. And in that moment I happily forgave Espinosa his insult, knowing it had been part of a plan—a grand trap he had trusted me with.

  We drew up anchor and drifted until the Victoria was alongside the Trinidad. Along with the Santiago, the three ships now guarded the harbor entrance. The tide had turned. The San Antonio and Concepción were trapped.

  I returned with Espinosa to the Trinidad.

  Later that night I fell into a numb sleep, dreamless, when suddenly, beside me, someone shook Rodrigo awake. It was Espinosa. “Rodrigo. Now is the time.”

  Rodrigo sat up, his eyes as wide as I had ever seen them.

  “Row the skiff to the San Antonio and pretend to be a mutineer. Pretend you despise the captain-general and wish to come aboard and join their cause. They will believe you because your hatred of the Portuguese is well known.”

  Rodrigo said nothing and Espinosa continued, “Wait for the ebb tide, and then when no one is watching, I want you to disable two of their three anchors. That should be enough for the San Antonio to drift toward us. We will take care of the rest. Now go.”

  Like that, he was gone.

  I watched as Rodrigo approached the San Antonio. Whatever he said was convincing, for no sooner had the skiff touched the hull of the giant vessel than he clambered aboard. Now we waited. I did not sleep again. I stood alone, wondering why Espinosa had trusted Rodrigo with such a mission. Did he not know Rodrigo despised Magallanes?

  Throughout the night I stared into the darkness, willing myself to see what was happening. Perhaps Rodrigo was welcomed by the mutineers—heartily clapped on the back for fooling Espinosa, a sword lent to his eager hands. Perhaps, like the others, he waited for daylight and the order to slip past us—cannon blazing—for Spain. Why is it everyone I care about is taken from me? I wondered, my chest tight.

  At the first faint light of da
wn, I still stood at the bulwarks. The San Antonio looked like a ghost, and my heart sank. She had not moved. I don’t remember when Espinosa came to stand beside me, but as the sky grew pale, there he was.

  And then it happened.

  The San Antonio began to drift. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.

  Espinosa slammed his fist against the gunwale. “He did it! He did it! I knew he would come through!” He turned and ran through the ship. “All hands! All hands! Prepare for battle! Prepare to grapple and board!”

  XIV

  April 3-May 28, 1520

  As the San Antonio approached, her decks spilled with crew. They ran into each other, confused, dazed with commotion. Captain Quesada, clad in full armor and armed with a lance and shield, strode across the decks, barking orders.

  The Trinidad shook as she fired a broadside that slammed into the San Antonio’s hull. Wood splinters flew and the air quickly filled with smoke.

  Grappling hooks soared, snagging the rigging. I pulled on the lines to bring the big ship in close. Armed marines leaped from the Trinidad onto the decks of the San Antonio. “For whom do you stand?” they cried, brandishing their swords before them. The crew aboard the San Antonio raised their hands in surrender. “For King Carlos and Magallanes!”

  It was over. As quickly as a knife thrust to the throat.

  Quesada and his conspirators were arrested.

  A longboat with forty men was dispatched to the Concepción . Cartagena surrendered and was imprisoned with Quesada and the other mutineers in the Trinidad’s hold.

  So. The inexperienced Castilian captains had suffered defeat. It was victory for Magallanes.

  But it was a heavy blow. For chained below were two of the remaining four captains and many of the fleet’s officers. And the question running through everyone’s mind was: Would they all be put to death?

  For death was the price of mutiny.

  Rodrigo joined me aboard the Trinidad. His pale look of yesterday had vanished. When I asked him why he had decided to help Magallanes, Rodrigo spat and said, “I did not help Magallanes. The captain-general is a Portuguese pig.”