The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Well, please leave room for me, for I wish to be taken to the Tortoise.”

  He glares as though I’ve just said I carry the plague. “Find another boat!”

  I turn to go then stop as the two oarsmen prepare to push their boat off the sand. This will not do. Must I always curb my natural inclinations? I will never be Beatriz. Why continue to try? Besides, how suitable would her soft, gentle nature be to this life I now find myself living? If my character is flawed, then let the Holy One purge it. And if not, if He has given me this sometimes untamed, sometimes obstinate character that I might survive a harder life, who will have pity if I do not submit to it and life treats me ill? Without a word, I return to the boat and jump in.

  “What? You again?” the oarsman snarls. “Did I not tell you to take another boat?”

  “To the Tortoise!” I reply, fighting to keep my voice calm. And after the briefest hesitation, I allow my robe to open, revealing my traveling clothes. And just as I hoped but not entirely expected, the oarsman dips his oars and says, “Yes, Señora.”

  It is the thirteenth of October. We are just leaving Hierro, one more small island in the Canary chain, and finally heading to open sea. Maria and I sit on a blanket beneath the forecastle. Opposite us, Sebastian and the nobles congregate and drink wine. Shipboard rumor says it will take another twenty days before we sight land, then perhaps another week before we reach the settlement of La Navidad, but already there is much grumbling.

  Sailors complain that the wine barrels leak and that wine spills into the hold and spoils some of the dry provisions. Even now, the ship’s cooper is in the hold tightening casks and caulking leaks. Everyone blames Bishop Fonseca, and accuses him of purchasing poor quality barrels out of his ample allowance, then pocketing the difference. They do it in low tones out of fear of Fray Buil. But with the barrels leaking wine, the weevils infesting biscuits, and mold covering raisins, complaints of how Fonseca lined his pockets with gold at their expense can be heard everywhere.

  Maria and I try not to listen, and engage in our own conversation.

  “What else will we plant in our garden?” Maria says.

  We have spent most of the morning planning what we will plant when we reach the Indies, and so far neither of us has tired of the subject. “Certainly chickpeas and lettuce, and of course melons. We must have melons.”

  Maria laughs. “And oranges?”

  “Yes, oranges, too.”

  “And cane sugar, perhaps? Admiral Columbus must believe the Indies can support such a crop since he carries so many plantings.”

  I shake my head. Papa has told me about the sugar fields of Valencia, and how they require at least thirty workers to not only tend the fields but work the mills. Such an enterprise was beyond the ability of two women. “Let the Admiral plant his cane. We will concentrate on other crops.” Without consulting our husbands, Maria and I have formed a partnership in the manner of the partnership Papa formed with the peasants who tend his vineyards. “We need to cultivate crops we can sell. And you, with your knowledge, must guide me.”

  “Do you really believe there is profit to be made in this . . . this selling of vegetables?”

  “Look around.” I lean closer. “What do you see? Men in search of wealth and glory. What else do they talk about except gold? Or the Indian women. But mostly gold and how they will find it. And while they look, who will plant their gardens? Or pickle their harvest? The peasants? No. They will be forced to dig this gold for them.”

  Maria nods thoughtfully. “But the nobles claim there are plenty of Indian women to be had. Surely, they will force them to plant and harvest their crops.”

  “Does it seem reasonable so many women will be available? Surely they will have men and crops of their own to care for. I think it a foolish assumption. And, in the end, Maria, they cannot eat gold.”

  Maria’s face tightens. “Yes . . . gold. There is much talk of it. The Admiral has boasted it will be found everywhere. Even the miners and assayers who ship with us say so. And gold, even the promise of it, can make men mad.” She shakes her head. “Will it ensnare our men? Make them mad, too?”

  I glance at Sebastian who is already mad with wine, and is laughing and talking loudly. And then I look at the Vivars. They are on the main deck with the other peasants. Gonzalo hangs over the gunwale, heaving the contents of his stomach, something he does every time we set sail. Juan and Luis smile and talk, while Enrique stands by, scowling.

  “Who knows what will happen to our men,” I finally say. “But whatever does, we will still have each other.”

  Ocean Sea to La Navidad

  On this vast glistening waterway that stretches as far as the eye can see, the days blend together like sifted wheat. The single consolation is that by weeks end we will sight land, or so we are told. There has been no lack of wind to fill our sails—praise be to God. Though we are still the slow tortoise we have always been, for some reason the Mariagalante has become as slow, and neither of us can keep up with the other vessels. More than once they have shortened sail in order to close the distance between us.

  This pacing the Mariagalante has afforded me an opportunity to observe the Admiral, for almost always he can be seen on the quarter deck or forecastle. I observe him now. He is taller than those around him, and stands erect while studying his charts. His white hair, which some say was once as red as cane-apples, protrudes beneath a dark velvet cap.

  I am standing by the gunwale, wondering if the Lord will allow the Admiral to finally find the great Khan and the fabled city of Quinsay with its silks and spices and roofs of gold, when all of a sudden drops of water, the size of starling eggs, begin to fall. They fall so hard and thick it is as if the sky has opened and released some great river upon our heads. The boatswain blows his whistle alerting everyone to the danger, and sailors rush about donning “rough gown,” their foul-weather gear.

  The wind has picked up, and the once pleasant breeze now howls like a beast. As canvas rips in the wind men scramble to lower sail. The waters, too, have changed, for waves as high as towers wash over the sides, and someone yells “we’re letting water!” Four sailors work the pumps, bringing up foaming bilge. And though they work with all haste, the water coming over the sides from the sea is greater than the water being pumped back into it.

  The officer on the quarter deck shouts down an order to “rig the tiller” as it bumps and thrashes the helmsman. It takes several tries before the helmsman can secure it with the relieving tackle. And as I watch him struggle, it suddenly occurs to me that we may all perish.

  I pray for God’s mercy, and when I look up I see that the very sky is at war. Lightning slashes the air like Lanzas swords, and the thunder is louder than a dozen cannons firing at once. I cling to the gunwale for fear of being washed overboard. Maria, and even Sebastian, are shouting for me to come to the shelter where they huddle below the forecastle. And though the distance is short, I cannot, because the ship pitches so violently.

  Another wave crashes over me, leaving me gasping for air. I barely recover when over comes another. If I stay on deck much longer I will surely die. I try inching my way toward safety.

  All the sails are down now, and the Tortoise runs before the wind with bare masts. We are like a toy in the heaving water. And just when my grip on the gunwale weakens and I am certain the sea will have me, a strong arm pulls me across the deck and lashes me to the mainmast. I cannot see who performs this kindness for my eyes burn from the salt, leaving me nearly blind.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, but hear no response. I sense, rather than see, that sailors around me are roping themselves, too, as they cry out to God in terror. Many swear vows. Others promise to make pilgrimages to Our Lady of Guadalupe or Loreto. Someone says it is St. Simon’s Eve and that we must pray to him. So everyone shouts prayers into the wind while I pray silently to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

  Suddenly, amidst the thunder and lightning, the captain appears. He shouts that we need mor
e ballast or we will capsize. Then he rips at the roping, and roughly pulls seamen to their feet with orders to fill all empty provision barrels with seawater.

  I remain lashed to the mast, pitching back and forth, wet to the bone, with eyes stinging and my mind full of Mama and Papa and Beatriz. I am remembering the smell of Mama’s lavender, the feel of Papa’s leather bound ledgers, the shine of Beatriz’s beautiful black hair. I remember these and a thousand other things, and all are followed by this one thought . . . soon I will be with the Nazarene.

  “Señora? Señora Villarreal, are you injured?”

  I open my eyes and though I can barely see, I am able to make out the round face of the young ship’s boy who first helped me with my trunks.

  “Are you hurt?” he repeats.

  I run my hands over the front of my dripping cloak. “No . . . I think not.” Then I notice that the deck has stopped rolling and that the sun is coming out from behind the clouds.

  “I thought for sure you were done for. You would have been, too, if you had not been lashed.”

  “Then you are the one who saved me?”

  “No. Not I.” He unties my ropes.

  “Who then? I must thank him.”

  “I saw no one, Señora. Only you by the gunwale just as a great wave was about to take you.” He helps me to my feet.

  “Fray Buil,” Maria says, suddenly appearing beside me. “It was Fray Buil.”

  “Fray Buil?”

  Maria drags a wet palm across her dripping face and nods. “He grabbed you before you could be washed overboard.”

  At once I look for Fray Buil but he is on his knees, fingering his beads. All around me sailors are praying, too. The Salve Regina and Gloria fill the air. I drop to the deck and kneel among them. And bowing my head I recite, beneath my breath, the eighth Psalm in adoration and praise for the One who spared my life, all the while wishing He had done so by any other hand than that Franciscan’s.

  “Our provisions are dwindling,” Maria says, taking a small bite of her soaked biscuit.

  The smell is sickening, for the mixture in which she dunks it is stale, foul-smelling water mixed with ship’s wine—which has soured. In addition, the recent storm has stove-in some of the water and wine casks, creating a great shortage. For this reason, the captain has a standing order to raise a corner of the main sail each time it looks like rain. But it has rained so little that so far the bellied-canvas has caught only enough water to fill three small buckets.

  “Soon our food will be gone.” Maria continues nibbling her biscuit like a rodent.

  I look away so she cannot see my worried face. We sit together under the forecastle amid Maria’s family and a few nobles. A large rat scurries by, then disappears into a wood pile. And in one corner a handful of roaches swarm a fallen fragment of hardtack.

  It is barely daylight.

  “I find if I take only a few bites now and then, I feel no hunger at all.”

  I know Maria says this because she is trying to be brave. The ship’s stores are only for those salaried by the Crown. The others, like us and the “gentlemen volunteers,” must provide for themselves, though wine and water are made available to all. In addition, the ship’s boy cooks only for the crew while everyone else must cook for themselves.

  “I plan to make a fish stew today,” I say. “Please share it with me.”

  “You know I cannot.”

  The voice of a young ship’s boy drowns out my objection as he begins his song announcing daybreak and time for morning prayers. “Blessed be the light of day and he who sends the night away.” Then he leads the sailors in the Pater Noster and Ave Maria.

  Soon there is a flurry of activity. The pilot throws a large wood-chip off the bow to plot the ship’s speed; four sailors work the pumps, emptying the bilge, while others haul sea water for washing the decking. Still others scrub the main shrouds, the lower rigging, and the deadeyes of urine and human waste deposited during the night by passengers and sailors who failed to hang far enough over the ship’s side. The more experienced seamen check the running gear for slack in the lines, and others tar stays.

  Four ship’s boys haul the iron firebox from the hold to the main deck and set it up on the lee side of the ship, away from the prevailing wind just as they do everyday, weather permitting.

  I watch one of them fill the floor of the box with sand before adding logs and kindling the fire. Then he begins cooking the crew’s one hot meal of the day. When he has finished, the passengers will each take their turn, though these days fewer and fewer prepare hot food. Most, like Maria, eat hardtack soaked in water and wine. After twenty days at sea, everyone’s provisions are dwindling, and this has caused many to sicken. Even the sailors are failing, for they eat little food and still must work hard. But I do not fear for them as I do for Maria.

  “You have eaten nothing but one biscuit a day for the past three days,” I say, noting her sunken eyes. “You cannot continue this.”

  “I must conserve.”

  “You look poorly. Perhaps if you ate some of my . . . .”

  “Oh, Isabel, you must trust God for we are all in His hands.”

  My mouth hardens. I know God carries us all. But what Maria doesn’t understand is that my grief and worry have allowed an ugly thought to take root. One I cannot shake, and one that causes me great shame. If I must lose someone let it be Sebastian and not Maria.

  “I have enough biscuits for ten days, and honey and saltfish, too,” I press. “And there are the sacks of dried beans and wheat in my trunk if we become desperate. Señor Villarreal was most liberal in his preparations. We can share. It is my allotment, not Sebastian’s, so you need not worry.”

  “Isabel, I have already told you I cannot. My family and I would deplete your stores too quickly, leaving you with nothing. And you must not eat your beans and wheat, and neither can I eat mine, for we must save them for when we land or we will have no provisions while our crops grow. They are all that stand between us and starvation.”

  I look away, defeated. I can barely stomach the smell of Maria’s foul brew, and wonder how I can eat another stew made of this same mix of vile water and wine. Everything on this ship is vile. Even me. I have not bathed hands or face in days. Fresh water is scarce, and there have been no calms for sailors to haul seawater. My clothes, soaked with perspiration and saltwater, smell like rotten fish. We all reek. Even Sebastian, who is normally foppish, gives little attention to his matted hair or scraggly beard, or the large stains on his jerkin. And while I watch Maria carefully wrap her half-eaten biscuit in homespun, then carefully tuck it beneath her bodice as if it were a prize florin, I cannot help wondering what is going to become of us.

  Maria and I stand by the gunwale. I have forced her here hoping the sun, which is just beginning to show itself, and the gentle breeze, which is steadily blowing us westward, will improve her health. We still pace the Mariagalante, though I barely notice her, for I have lost interest.

  “Shall I begin?” I say. It is Sunday, and in honor of the day, we have agreed I should read from my book of Psalms until Fray Buil is ready for Mass.

  Maria nods, and before I can pull the book from my bodice someone from the Mariagalante shouts, “Land in sight!”

  The words are as sweet as the notes Beatrice once played on her lute, yet I hardly believe them until the sailor repeats, “Portside! Portside! Land in sight!”

  At once, Maria and I move with the others across the deck and see an island. It is lush and mountainous, with vegetation growing right down to the water line. And the vegetation is so dense it is impossible to glimpse the interior. Oh, how majestic and beautiful it is! I have not seen its like in all of Andalusia.

  Someone begins the Gloria. Others join in. Maria crosses herself and mumbles the Pater Noster. I remain silent, for my senses are too full of perfumed air, the cry of gulls, the warm caressing breeze, the taste of salt spray. And as our ship slowly passes this glistening jewel, all I keep thinking is that this is wh
at the Lord’s garden must have been like when Adam first saw it—beautiful, unsullied, full of promise. And to my surprise, I find myself weeping, but I know not if for joy or sorrow.

  “The women, I am told, are most obliging and so agreeable that many of the men had three or four of them.”

  “I, for one, refuse to believe it.”

  “Oh, it is true, I swear! A ship’s boys who sailed on the Pinta’s last voyage told me. He said he saw it with his own eyes. Women walk around as bare as babies. So do the men. Now what could be more pleasant than an agreeable woman without clothing?”

  My cheeks burn as I listen to the nobles behind me. Sebastian is there, too. They all sit around the main mast. Maria and I stand by the gunwale. We are amid a chain of islands and have anchored while a caravel, on Admiral Columbus’s orders, searches for a suitable harbor. We have passed six islands in all, and each one named by the Admiral himself. Still, no order has been given to disembark, and I grow restless for land.

  The nobles are loud, their conversation tiresome, surely due to their own restlessness. I ignore them by watching Admiral Columbus board a boat loaded with a cross, a standard, the flag of Castile and Leon, and some men from the Mariagalante. One nearby sailor tells another that Columbus goes to take possession of the island in the name of the Catholic Kings. And it must be so, for when they land, they plant the cross, then the standard and flag—all things I have seen before. Still I watch to keep my attention from the odious conversation behind me, but it is no use.

  “If the women are really as you say, it will indeed be compensation for having to live in a crude, untamed land. For what else can Navidad be but a backward outpost if only thirty-nine men were left to build it? Hardly a Madrid or Barcelona or Seville.”

  The men laugh, and Sebastian’s laughter is heard above the others.

  “Yes. A small price to pay. With all the women we want for pleasure and for cooking our food, we can go about the business of plucking gold from the ground. Soon enough we will all return to Spain rich as kings.”