It is interesting that codpieces, those triangular protective fabrics used to emphasize a man’s groin, should be mentioned first as though in Sebastian’s mind this is a matter of manly honor. Without a word, I open my trunks and hastily consolidate what is most needful. Then my extra trunk is netted once again, and sent back down to the oarsmen who will take it to shore where they will, no doubt, divide its contents. And this vexes me greatly since I cannot bear the thought of those leering men handling my clothes as if they belonged to a common strumpet.
And when I once again notice the fluttering white flag with the green cross it reminds me that in addition to praying to the Merciful One about my fears, I must also pray to Him about one of the seven deadly sins . . . my pride.
There are so many of us; almost one hundred twenty passengers plus crew, aboard the Tortoise. We, and all the nobles and gentleman knights, huddle like Papa’s merino sheep beneath the forecastle. And like his sheep, we each butt this way and that trying to secure our place.
The peasants—who have been brought to work the gold mines and farms and whatever else the nobles want—crowd below the quarterdeck. But there are others too: a notary, one of seventeen notaries who are on other ships, and a royal scribe, with a second scribe sailing on the flagship. And at least thirteen members of the clergy are said to be on the passengers’ list—no doubt giving the sailors much cause for concern.
Not surprisingly, nearly half the clergy are Franciscans for they are eager missionaries and certainly have great aspirations of converting all the Indies. But only one sails on the Tortoise—a Catalan friar from the Montserrat monastery, Bernaldo Buil. He is a man of great influence for he has authority over the other twelve. And this disturbs me, for Franciscans are known for their zeal in persecuting both Jews and conversos, a zeal second only to the Dominican’s—which is legendary. But I am grateful that no Lanzas are aboard. For these members of the Holy Brotherhood, the Crown’s police, are ruthless, cruel, and have authority to strike down a life with impunity.
Sadly, Maria and I are the only women on our vessel, and though the passengers have separated themselves by rank, it is decided Maria and I will sleep together, surrounded by our men. It pains me that Gonzalo and not Sebastian conceived this plan, though to be fair it was a great concession on Sebastian’s part to allow peasants to share his space.
For me, it means protection and privacy both, since Maria and I cannot swing over the bulwarks nor hang amongst the rigging on the leeward side of the ship every time we have need of a chamber pot as we have seen the men do. Though even with each of us shielding the other with a blanket, using a chamber pot on this forever rolling ship will not be easy.
We stake our claim with bundles and blankets before leaving the men. Gonzalo instructs Maria to “be careful” when we say we are going for air. Sebastian only nods. He is busy playing dice with Arias and two others.
Maria and I walk closely together. It is a strange feeling to be surrounded by so many men. We especially avoid the sailors, since we know their resentful attitude toward us. Our traveling cloaks are tightly wrapped around us. Our heads are hooded. We talk in whispers and avoid looking anyone in the eye.
When we reach the gunwale we rest against it, allowing our forearms to dangle over the side. I have left the men not only to take air but to say “goodbye” to the land I love. When I see Maria’s face as she gazes on Cadiz, I know she is saying “goodbye” as well.
“Will we ever see Spain again?” Maria’s voice breaks.
“If God wills.” I sound braver than I feel.
“You still love her even though she has been so unkind to your people?”
Her frankness startles me, but pleases me too, since it suggests a budding friendship. “It is the only home I have ever known.”
“Then perhaps God, in His mercy, is sending you to a better one.”
I think on it a moment and wonder if indeed this is all part of the Holy One’s plan. But when I remember my wedding night, the weary journey on foot to Cadiz, the attack by bandits, the dirty inns, Sebastian’s drinking and gambling, and his great neglect of me, it is hard to imagine such a thing. And when I do not answer, Maria thoughtfully drops the matter.
As we lean against the gunwale, I smell whale oil and see one of the younger ship’s boys oiling the planks.
“Hope they tarred and tallowed the hull better than last time,” he says to another boy watching him. “Nothing sinks a vessel faster than shipworm.”
I am busy worrying how quickly shipworms can ruin a vessel when one of the boys shouts, “Admiral Columbus! It is the Admiral.”
I glance at the nao next to us, and see a tall, broad man walking the deck of the forecastle. And indeed it is the same man who filled the streets of Seville with his entourage of soldiers, seamen and Indians. I am told on this voyage his entourage consists of thirty household members and personal retainers, as well as five of the six Indians from his previous trip.
The nao is obviously the Mariagalante, for the innkeeper’s wife told me the Mariagalante is the flagship, though it still puzzles me how ships can have names yet bear no marking of these names on their hulls.
The Admiral gives orders to the man next to him, a ship’s officer by the look of his clothing, for he wears a laced doublet of dressed leather, white hose, and a bright red cloak.
At once, colorful flags of stunning beauty are hoisted on both the mizzen and main mast: first the expedition standard of a green cross on white with the Sovereigns’ green initials; next the flag of Castile and Leon; and then a flowing red and white pennant. Then elsewhere two other flags are raised, one of which, I hear someone say, is Columbus’s coat of arms.
A shout is given to “hoist sail” and the deck crew of the Mariagalante swarm the rigging, some to the spars and ratlines, while others haul and tally sail. And all work in time to a chant-like song.
Within minutes, three large sails, each displaying a sizeable red cross, unfurl, followed by two smaller sails, and an upper bonnet.
I watch the Mariagalante raise anchor, watch the wind fill her canvas, watch her glide past us and go deeper into the Bay of Cadiz to take her rightful place at the head of the fleet and I am filled with a sense of wonder and awe.
But as our own sails unfurl my awe and wonder disappear, and my stomach lurches. All around us sailors tug and groan against the ropes. Others scramble to lace together the upper bonnet and mainsail. When a shout is given to “weigh anchor,” I clutch Maria’s arm.
“Courage, Isabel,” Maria whispers. “Perhaps we should join the men.”
I shake my head and bite the inside of my mouth to keep from crying. “No. I will stay as long as I can see Cadiz.” And that is what I do. I stay, pressed against the gunwale, listening to the water lap the sides of the hull as the wind lifts the sails and takes us further out into the bay where we maneuver behind the Mariagalante. One by one the ships weigh anchor and fall into formation. People on shore shout and wave. Then comes the blasting of horns and trumpets and lombard cannon, all to wish us God speed.
How long I remain pressed against the side of the ship I cannot say. I only know that when I finally release both Maria’s arm and the gunwale, my heart and Cadiz have shriveled to specks.
A group of nobles, all minor aristocrats, surround Sebastian, talking and laughing and drinking the wine from one of the many barrels Sebastian’s father, Señor Villarreal, bribed the ship’s master to store in the hold well before our boarding.
“One would have to travel far to find finer wine than that coming from Señor Villarreal’s vineyard.” It is the voice of Arias Diaz. “It is even finer than a Vernaccia.”
It takes all my willpower not to laugh. Vernaccia, the highly prized wine from Genoa, is so expensive only the very wealthy can afford it. Hardly the drink of a minor knight like Arias.
“I have not had the privilege of tasting the Genoese brew,” another noble says, “but certainly Don Sebastian’s wine is far superior to that of o
ur ship’s.” He lowers his voice. “Everyone knows how the corrupt hands of Bishop Fonseca have watered down the fleet’s stores.”
“And that is why Providence has brought us Don Sebastian and his excellent barrels,” says another.
The men take turns extolling the virtues of Sebastian’s wine, seemingly eager to ingratiate themselves, for who in Spanish aristocracy does not know the name of Villarreal?
It troubles me that Sebastian has revealed his identity before we are well out to sea. I am fearful of Fray Buil who always seems to be nearby. And I still worry that somehow Fray Alonso will learn of our departure and overtake us. But Sebastian seems unmindful of these dangers, and even now delights the nobles, who crowd his elbows, with stories of his older brother, Antonio, and his many intrigues at court.
I hardly remember Antonio, for he has been at court for years. And though I suspect Sebastian’s stories are great exaggerations, intended to illustrate the high esteem in which Antonio is held by the ladies at court, and indeed by the Crown itself, I find myself thrilled by them, too. When Sebastian has exhausted his treasure-trove of tales, the nobles begin talking about Don Antonio’s wife.
“. . . and I swear by the true cross that I made three pilgrimages to Our Lady of Guadalupe begging her to allow me just one encounter with the fair Doña Maria de Murcia. That is, before she was wedded to your brother. Her beauty is legendary. I hear no man can resist her. And I hear that even while great with child, her beauty continues to be extolled at court.”
“I have only seen Doña Maria once, but she is all they claim.”
“And I, too, can swear it is true, for two years ago, just months before she married Don Antonio, I had the privilege of escorting her entire party to the Church of Santa Clara de Moguer, for she and her cousins were making a vigil. What beauties! Though to be sure none was fairer than Doña Maria.”
Several others add their praise, and then I stop listening for I am remembering that today is the twenty-fifth of September. The month of Tishrei. The stress of travel has made it impossible to observe Rosh Hashanah—when the story of Abraham is read and sweet foods are eaten to ensure a sweet new year. It is a most holy time of prayer and contrition, and ushers in the High Holy Days—the ten days of repentance that end with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.
Now seated on a blanket next to Maria, I lower my head to silently offer prayers of repentance to God, but before long I feel Maria nudge me.
“You are being paid a compliment, Doña Isabel.”
I look up and see Arias Diaz smiling at me. “I was saying, Doña Isabel, that while I too have seen Doña Maria de Murcia and admire her beauty, Don Sebastian need not envy his brother, for his wife is equally as fair. Perhaps you will kindly remove your hood and attest to the validity of my words.”
I am shocked by his boldness, and even more shocked when Sebastian smiles approvingly. But what can I do? Can I humiliate my husband by refusing? So, instead, I humiliate myself and pull back the hood of my cloak, exposing my long dark hair which hangs in one thick braid down my back. Heads nod, and admiration marks the faces of the nobles, even Sebastian’s. Then I cover myself, but not before noticing that Fray Buil is watching me from across the deck.
One of the ships is taking on water, and after only six days of sailing southwest by south we are forced to put into port at Grand Canary to repair the vessel. Since Admiral Columbus believes it will take all day to caulk the leaking seams with oakum, the passengers have been given permission to disembark.
As soon as our feet touch sand, Sebastian and Arias and an entourage of raucous nobles go in search of a tavern, and no doubt, a game of chance. We have been warned against wandering the streets of the “lower city”. It is hardly a city at all, but an area nearest the waterfront and laced with filthy alleyways where rogues and drunks and disreputable street peddlers are purported to inhabit. So Maria and I quietly walk the beach. For my part I am grateful to be off the Tortoise and on ground that does not pitch and roll. I drink in the sweet air and watch a large blue chaffinch fly overhead.
Not all have gone, like Sebastian, in search of pleasure, for the sand is littered with men, and as we walk my heart sinks. Maria and I are on a mission. We are determined to search for all the females that have come on this voyage but so far have found none.
We walk with our hoods up and our cloaks gathered around us, but still the men stare. They are mostly from Andalusia, but some from Galicia, Santander and Catalonia, and even a few from as far away as Portugal and Florence. And all have come to seek their fortunes and gain new titles—the nobles and knights, anyway. The peasants and tradesmen outnumber them greatly, and why they have come, I cannot say. It seems unlikely they will ever gain wealth or titles, and I cannot imagine how a mere salary from the Crown would be sufficient inducement to leave home and family.
Suddenly, Maria yanks my arm. “Do my eyes deceive me, Isabel? Is it possible . . . is it possible that up ahead stands another woman?”
I look and see a portly man sitting on the beached remains of a ship’s mast. His simple clothing tells me he is neither noble nor knight. But next to him stands a woman, hooded and cloaked as we are. My heart pounds, and I caution myself against rashness, for I would like nothing better than to rush upon her and administer the type of hugs and kisses given a sister. Instead, I allow myself the luxury of squeezing Maria’s hand then feel her squeeze mine in return. And by the time we reach the spot where both man and woman now sit, I have reined in my excitement to a tolerable level.
The woman rises first, and appears as elated as we. “By the arm of St. Lawrence!” she says, then blushes. “Pardon . . . I . . . I have forgotten my manners.” When she bows slightly I realize my cloak has opened, revealing my traveling clothes and disclosing my wealth.
Quickly, Maria introduces me, and soon we are all talking as if old friends; a spectacle that would surely cause Sebastian untold vexation. The couple is husband and wife—a Señor and Señora Lopez. He is an assayer, skilled in determining the properties of precious metals, and she, a seamstress. And from the discoloration under her nails, I know she is also schooled in the art of dying fabric with madder and wood ash.
Señor Lopez talks first, mostly about gold and how rich everyone will be. He is certain that nuggets, the size of biscuits, will be found lying about, though what makes him believe this is a puzzlement.
Next, Pasculina Lopez talks about fashions and fabrics, describing in great detail some of the gowns she has made for the wives of nobles. After a time, Señor Lopez yawns, excuses himself, and sits back down on the water-logged mast. And though he is obviously bored by our conversation, I judge him to be a kindly man for I see the pleasure in his eyes over his wife finally having some female companionship.
After we have exhausted our conversation on clothing we then talk about the voyage and the weather, and finally I say “goodbye” for I am determined to see if there are any more women to be recruited into our sisterhood. Maria quietly follows. We walk the sandbank stepping over shells and ocean debris, and around men and more men, and when at last we have walked it all we understand that only three women will be going to the new Spanish settlement in the Indies.
Owing to calm winds it has taken us five days to reach the island of Gomera, though it is not that far from Grand Canary. The one blessing is that during this time Maria and I have been able to wash our hair and bodies. When there is little wind, sailors often haul buckets of seawater for bathing, and one of the ship’s boys was kind enough to haul water for us.
Now we are anchored in order to take on additional provisions of wood and fresh water and salted meat, as well as breeding stock of pigs, goats, cattle, sheep, and chickens. We have been told it will take several days to load everything, leaving the passengers free to roam the island.
Sebastian and his band of nobles have disappeared long ago for parts unknown. So have the Vivar men. But the three of us, Maria, Pasculina and I, stay near the shore. For most of the day we hav
e watched boatload after boatload of supplies being rowed to the fleet. Where will they put it all? Before sailing from Cadiz the ships were loaded with provisions of fresh fruit, olive oil, sardines, raisins, salted flour, vinegar, biscuits, and the like—enough for the trip to the Indies and back.
The ships were also loaded with a mountain of supplies for La Navidad which included dried beans and wine, plantings of sugar cane, orange and lemon trees, and bags of seeds for crops. Also for Navidad were tools and household items and weaponry, not to mention mules and the twenty Lanzas horses as well as their war dogs. And on top of all this, the holds contain the luggage of nobles and knights. Can any more room exist? It is hard to imagine.
“I wish to return to the ship,” I say to Maria and Pasculina. “But there is no need for you to come.” I do not tell them that today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and I want to spend time, before the ship fills for the night, in honoring it. I was unable to perform mikvah yesterday, the customary ritual bath which the women of my family take before Yom Kippur, but I did use some of my allotted drinking water to wash my face and hands, much to everyone’s dismay. Nor was I able to eat our customary meal of olives and unleavened bread followed by meat. I had a biscuit dissolved in saltfish stew. And though there will be no Neilah service tonight, I will stand by the gunwale for at least an hour as is the custom of standing in the Neilah, and will think of the Nazarene, who is my atonement. And there I will quietly sing praises to Him for what He has done for me. And my heart will swell with overflowing love for the Bearer of my sins.
But when I turn to go, Maria restrains me. “Doña Isabel, please do not venture away from us.”
I smile, grateful for her concern, then gently remove her hand, and head for the longboat. “Pardon,” I say to one of the oarsmen as I pull my hood further down over my forehead, “what are you carrying?”
The oarsman thrusts the paddle end of his long wooden oar into the sand as though erecting a barrier. “Gomera cheese.” His voice is sharp.
The Salt Covenants Page 11
