“We are none of us safe.”
“Stop it, Rodrigo. Think about other things. Think about Spain and the happy day we return.”
“That’s just it, Mateo.” He looked me full in the face.
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps no one will live to see Spain again. Not even you.”
I blinked at him stupidly. “Don’t say that. You curse us with such thoughts. Of course we will return to Spain. All of us.” But, for some reason, my words sounded hollow, and I was forced to look away.
In celebration of the return of the Santiago’s crew, Magallanes ordered wine for everyone. Again I brought out my guitar. Then Magallanes ordered the chains struck forever from the mutineers, provided they remained loyal. “They have suffered enough,” he proclaimed.
Cartagena, moved to the barracks when the weather turned too bitter aboard ship, said nothing as they struck the chains from his ankles. He seemed but a shadow of the proud man I had first seen aboard the San Antonio, alone and silent, as if he were already marooned. It is enough, I thought. Enough that he should suffer so. We have all suffered. Let it end.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to tell him that he was no longer my enemy, that I no longer hated him. Several times I approached him where he sat staring into the fire. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and instead I walked away.
One day there was a terrible fistfight. It exploded from the area around the fire when someone wouldn’t make room for someone else. Fists flew and curses erupted. I saw a smear of blood, a pockmarked face, and knew one of the men was Segrado. Espinosa broke up the fight, forcing the men apart. Segrado’s chest heaved, and he had the look of murder in his eyes. Then, to the utter amazement of all, including Segrado, he burst into tears—deep, wracking, silent sobs. Espinosa let him go when he thrust his way out of the barracks and into the cold. When the door closed behind him, there was an embarrassed silence.
Since leaving Brazil, Segrado had never bothered me again, not even to look at me. It was a relief, but that was many months ago. To see him reduced to tears shook even me. Later that evening I was sitting by one of the fires eating my supper when Segrado stumbled into the circle beside me to warm his hands. He smelled of cold, and his body trembled beneath his clothes. Suddenly, I handed him my plate. “It’s hot,” I said.
He gaped at me, his nose red and dripping, his beard crusted with ice. Then, finally, he grunted, crouched, and began shoveling food into his mouth.
On my other side, Rodrigo hissed in my ear, “If you weren’t hungry, why didn’t you give it to me? Why did you do so foolish a thing?”
I shrugged, remembering the pimply-faced boy who walked into the sea and the proud Castilian captain sentenced to die.
As the days passed, we continued to watch for natives. It gave us something to do besides fight each other. We decided to capture a few of them, to take them to Spain as a gift for the king. Six days after the return of the Santiago’s crew, two giants appeared onshore. They were good specimens, each painted with a different design. This time a crew of twelve men, including Magallanes, was dispatched in a longboat toward the mainland to greet the natives. I watched from the islet, as did all the others. I thought perhaps the natives would suspect something was wrong, but they smiled and danced when the longboat touched shore.
Magallanes ordered the natives be loaded with gifts. Even from the islet, I saw their delight. Then Magallanes gave each of them a set of iron shackles. They seemed pleased and sought to hold the iron shackles but could not because their arms overflowed with gifts. Magallanes knelt before them and placed the shackles about their ankles, indicating that in this way they could carry them and their gifts as well. At first they were happy, but when they tried to walk, they realized they had been fooled. They cast their gifts to the ground and bellowed like the bulls of Spain.
There were congratulations among everyone. We had done it. We had easily captured two natives. They were brought to the islet and housed in the barracks. Once they saw we meant no harm, though still seeming sad, they stopped their bellowing.
They quickly adapted to life in the barracks. Each of them could eat a basket of biscuit and drink half a bucket of water in one gulp. Never had we seen such appetites. We also watched in fascinated horror when they ate rats, not bothering to skin them first.
Now we dared not go to the mainland except in armed parties of forty men or more, for we were constantly pestered by scores of angry natives. So although winter yet continued, it was agreed: it was time to move camp.
On a misty day in August, as a light snow drifted from the sky, Espinosa and I marooned Cartagena and his two dogs on an islet. The islet was nothing more than a pile of boulders jutting from the harbor waters, barren, white with snow. There we left him a supply of biscuit and wine.
Cartagena brushed the snow off a rock, sat down, and arranged his cloak around him. He said nothing, instead staring out across the vast waters as if he could see through the mists all the way to Spain.
I wanted to tell him I did not wish to see him left behind. That no one deserved such a fate. “Cartagena, I—I—”
He held up his hand to stop me, still not looking at me, staring only across the ocean. “Please, say nothing.”
“But I—I . . .” My voice trailed away. How stupid I sounded.
The dogs whined. One of them licked Cartagena’s hand, and steam rose from the dog’s breath.
And then, before I could stop myself, I blurted, “If you would promise upon your life not to mutiny again, maybe Magallanes would reconsider. He has never wished you ill. Only that you would stop trying to—”
At this, Cartagena threw back his head and laughed. It was a shrill laughter, a needle in the ear. It pierced my bones and shattered my words. On and on he laughed. Tears slid down his cheeks. The dogs cocked their heads. Finally, the laughter faded, and gasping for breath, Cartagena looked at me. A chill spread through my spine like a disease, for in his eyes I saw death.
“Is life really so simple for you, Mateo?” Still breathing hard, Cartagena studied me. “Ah, yes, I see that it is. Do you know that sometimes I envy you? With nothing to think about except eating, sleeping, and breathing? Seems funny, does it not? That I would envy you?”
I did not answer.
“Will you trade places with me now?” He stared at me, his eyes deadened in their sockets. “I will be Mateo, and you, the young, dashing captain? No?” He returned his gaze toward the sea. “Pity.”
A gust of wind rippled the water. Snow swirled at our feet like white dust. Nearby a seabird floated in the air, caught in a current of wind, motionless. A hand pressed my shoulder. It was Espinosa. “Come,” he said, pulling me gently away.
“Wait,” I said, facing Cartagena for what would be the last time. “Is that all? You will not even try?”
He did not look at me again. “Tell my mother not to grieve,” he said finally. “Tell my father I’m sorry I failed him. That is all.”
I stumbled into the boat. As we rowed away, my heart pinched and heavy, I knew. As long as Cartagena had breath within him, strength to raise a dagger even, he would forever rise against the captain-general. It was a bitter understanding.
The weather detained us for another thirteen days, but finally, on the twenty-fourth day of August, in the year of our Lord 1520, the fleet sailed from Port San Julián, leaving Cartagena behind.
XVI
August 24-November 28, 1520
We wintered for two more months in the harbor where the Santiago was lost. In mid-October the weather improved enough to strike winter camp. It was what we had waited for, and we bustled about like ants, bumping into one another in our rush to leave. For myself, I felt a lightness in my heart I had not felt for many months. It was the warmer weather, yes, but also a longing to quit this whole land, to forget that the soil seeped with blood and betrayal.
We sailed south in search of el paso.
On the twenty-first day of O
ctober, we entered a bay where the water was the color of a light blue gemstone and the beaches gleamed of white sand. When the mists parted, I glimpsed snowcapped mountains stretching far inland. There would be no passage here. The water was too shallow and no passage could cross such mountains.
“A mission of stupidity,” whispered Rodrigo when Magallanes ordered the San Antonio and Concepción to explore the bay. Even from where I stood, I saw the dark looks cast toward the captain-general.
As the two ships sailed deep into the bay, the sky suddenly blackened. The wind whipped the caps from our heads, and the heavens opened with a violent storm. Those of us aboard the Trinidad and Victoria watched in horror as the San Antonio and Concepción careened toward a gigantic rock that jutted over both land and water.
They vanished in a confusion of spray and waves.
Monstrous waves towered over us, crashing over the decks. Men were swept overboard. Thunder roared in our ears and lightning rattled our teeth. The sea swept through the Trinidad’s hatches, poured through her gun ports. We manned the pumps, desperate, praying. To do anything else was death. Through the spray and blinding wind and flashes of lightning I glimpsed the Victoria, dismasted.
Two days later, when finally the storm ended, the Trinidad and Victoria, wounded and bleeding, limped their way back into the bay. There were no signs of the other ships. We had surely lost them. The shores were bare. There were no survivors. No wreckage. A chill ran through me as I remembered the words of Rodrigo spoken so long ago, more than a year prior. If we are lucky, half of us will return. It is the way of the sea.
We conducted our repairs ashore in silence, speaking only to ask for a tool or to give instructions. No one looked at anyone else. Our grief was too enormous, unspeakable—so many men lost. Had they come this far only to perish? I wondered. To drown in an instant, before they could even make confession, their sins unforgiven? Perhaps Rodrigo had cursed us with such a pronouncement. I slipped behind a tree and prayed the rosary—once, twice, three times. And as I gazed into a sky of lead, cold and distant, I vowed, curse or not, to return to Spain. The sea shall not claim Mateo Macías de Ávila.
After repairs, we continued our search and began to edge past the rock where the ships had disappeared. Perhaps the wreckage lay behind it.
“Smoke!” cried the lookout.
We peered around the rock and, indeed, a thin column of smoke snaked like a scar into the sky. Maybe there were survivors! We sailed farther, and when we passed the rock, we caught our breath in amazement.
Before us, through the snowcapped mountains, lay a deep-water passageway, stretching for many leagues, that had been hidden from sight by the rock. While each of us yet stared, there came the cry “Two sail! Closing fast!” We scrambled up the shrouds to see. There! There in the distance, with every scrap of canvas to their yards, the Concepción and San Antonio sailed toward us, cannon blasting, flags waving.
“God be praised!” cried our lookout. And, hanging from the shrouds, our voices joined his, each of us grinning and shouting with joy, hailing our shipmates as they approached.
The San Antonio hove to alongside the flagship. Her captain stepped aboard and bowed before Magallanes. He was breathing heavily and his eyes danced with an excitement we had not seen for many months. “My captain-general, I have the honor to report the discovery of el paso. It is a narrow, deep strait, with a heavy tidal flow, and we penetrated many leagues before turning back.” He outlined the route they had taken, the succession of bays, the presence of salt in the water. “It is el paso, I tell you. We have found it!”
Magallanes smiled, and we cheered as the gunners fired salutes. What a glorious day! Not only had we found our lost shipmates, but also the passage!
“El paso! El paso!”
“A few short days and we will be in the South Sea!”
“Perhaps in no more than a week we shall arrive at the Spice Islands!”
“God be praised that the worst is behind us!”
On the first day into the strait, excitement surged through the crew of the Trinidad. Since the end of March we had lived in the gut of winter. Now it was time to sail to warmer seas, to paradise. Stories of Magallanes circled the deck—stories of his past heroism, stories of honor, of courage. Gutiérrez never tired of the telling, and Magallanes grew like a god in the eyes of the crew, even, I believe, in the eyes of Rodrigo. “Through this man’s madness,” he said, “I will become rich. It was a good day I signed for this voyage.”
I brought out my guitar. Though the weather was brisk, it was springtime in the south. In honor of the season I sang a song of maidens, of young love. I composed another song about Aysó. As I sang, the clouds parted, the sun shone bright, and the breeze snatched white clouds of breath from my mouth.
Come nightfall, fires dotted the land to the south. They were far away and silent. The next day we saw what appeared to be a village on an inland hill to the northwest, less than half a league from shore.
I approached Espinosa as he prepared an armed party to investigate. Always before, I had scouted for wood, or food, or water. Never a village. “Let me come with you,” I said.
“For what purpose?”
“None,” I stammered. “I—I just want to go.”
“No.” He slid his polished sword into his scabbard, turned, and left me.
Upon sudden inspiration, I ran after him. “Espinosa, wait. Our court-appointed artist was washed overboard in the last storm, and now there is no one to draw pictures of our voyage.” I puffed out my chest and held my head high. “Therefore, in addition to my regular duties, I will draw sketches of what I see, including the village. It will be official. I am the best there is. You have no choice.”
He regarded me. “Such fine words, Mateo. Let’s hope you live up to them. Fetch your things, for we leave now.”
The men from the ships watched as we picked our way past bleached bones, past the rotting carcass of a great whale whose ribs jutted upward, exploding with stink and hundreds of screaming seabirds. Out of the corner of my eye I saw cabin boys lining the rails. I pretended not to notice that they gaped at me as I marched with the marines. I threw back my shoulders and held my head high, thinking, I am now the official artist of the voyage. If all goes well, I will someday be famous. Invited to court to show the king the miraculous things I have seen and done. I will be given money. And land. All shall clamor for my attention. It is a far cry from a poor shepherd’s son.
The forest closed around us as I followed Espinosa and ten heavily armed marines. I heard nothing but the tramp of boots upon the path as we wound through the trees, upward toward the village. As the trees loomed over me, quiet and vast, an odd thing happened. An unsettled feeling began to follow me, as if someone breathed on the back of my neck. I kept glancing behind me but saw no one.
Then I heard it.
A whisper.
. . . Go away . . .
Again, no one.
Again, the breath against my neck.
. . . Go away . . .
It is a ghost, I thought, my heart hammering wildly. An evil spirit. It wishes me ill and will cast a spell on me if I do not leave. If I do not flee. Now.
Gooseflesh prickled my skin and I resisted the urge to run to the safety of the ships. Instead I coaxed my feet forward. I refused to look backward anymore. I decided I would not give the ghosts the satisfaction of seeing me frightened. Ghosts! Pah! I marched in rhythm, our footsteps as one.
We left the forest of ghosts and marched up the barren hill, our pikes thrust upward into the gray sky. A wind blew, hollow and bleak. When we reached the top, instead of the village we expected, strange platforms circled the hill like a crown. We entered the circle, armed, breathing hard. Where were the people? Except for the wind that swirled over the ground and moaned between the platforms, it was eerily silent.
“Spread out,” said Espinosa, his voice unnaturally loud. “See if we can find anything of use to us.”
The platforms rose o
n irregular sticks, ending above my head in a bed of thatch. I settled beside a platform and began to draw. After all, that was my job now, was it not? The sketch was bold and vivid, but even so, it was inaccurate. For how does one draw the wind? The emptiness? The fear on the face of each marine? The whispers against the back of our necks, shouting louder, louder.
. . . Go away . . .
Then it happened.
With a heave-ho, one of the marines hoisted another marine atop a platform. The platform swayed and toppled in a clatter of weapons, curses, and sticks. A corpse tumbled from the platform, decapitating upon impact. The skull rolled and bounced onto my legs. Blackened skin stretched over the skull like leather, exposing the teeth in a grin of death. And beneath a headdress of seabirds’ feathers, shriveled eyes stared at me.
A mummy.
Horrified, I screamed and kicked the skull. It soared out of the circle and bounced down the hill.
. . . Go away! . . .
My blood boiled with terror. Without waiting for anyone, I fled down the hill and along the forest path, hair flying.
. . . Go away! . . .
Ghosts swarmed over me. I screamed as I ran, reckless, tripping over stones, leaping over streams and logs, my lungs afire. God in heaven! Help me! Finally, I reached the beach of bones and flew into the longboat to hide.
“Mother Mary, have mercy!” I crossed myself again and again.
Seconds later the longboat filled with marines, their faces white as candle wax. I saw many arms making the sign of the cross.
“God save us!”
“Holy Mother of God!”
“Blessed Virgin, save us!”
Only Espinosa took his time coming from the village. The men cursed having to wait for him, and as soon as he entered the longboat, we flew like a bird across the waters, our oars like wings.
“It was a burial ground,” Espinosa told Magallanes once we’d boarded the Trinidad. “Nothing but thatched mounds that held the bodies of giant natives, their skin not even rotted but stretched and dried atop their bones. It was unholy. Let us leave—and quickly.”
To the Edge of the World Page 11
