The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Doña Isabel.”

  I jerk backward when I see Fray Buil at my elbow. He wears a coarse monk’s cloak with the cowl down at the back of his neck. Wrinkles, as fine as silk threads, crease the sides of his eyes. He is shorter than I; a great surprise since his presence has always been so commanding. With pounding heart I gaze at his face and see a further surprise—kindness in his eyes, and laughter, too, when he sees me hastily gather my cloak.

  “You need not hide your clothing. I do not despise simplicity.” His voice is more youthful than his face. “Rather, I delight in it, as you can see.” He lightly taps his unadorned frock.

  “I . . . I just wanted to be prepared for the work ahead which . . . .”

  He puts up his hand to stop my speech, for it is vain and silly, as we both know. “I came only to say you have been in my constant prayers. I fear life here will be hard. But you must remember this, Doña Isabel, God’s hand is on you.”

  “Yes . . . thank you,” I manage to say, for I am stunned. “And I want to thank you for saving me during the storm. Many times I have wanted to seek you out in order to extend my gratitude.” It is a lie; for though I sought Fray Buil immediately after the storm, since then I have done all to avoid him. And when he smiles, almost the way Papa smiled when he caught me in some misdeed, I know Fray Buil has caught me in mine. And then, without another word, he walks away.

  Maria and I stand anxiously by the gunwale. The sandglass has twice been turned since the boatload of sailors and soldiers from the Mariagalante have rowed to shore and disappeared into the interior. Admiral Columbus has given the order that none should head to the beaches until the scouting party determines that it is safe.

  My eyes hurt from staring so long at the island, for the sun is strong and its glare on the water is enough to blind. Still I cannot avert my eyes. Neither Maria nor I speak. A heavy silence hangs over the ship. All on board quietly await some sign from shore.

  Then suddenly the small band of sailors and soldiers appear on the sand and climb into their waiting boat. All around us men from other vessels shout to the boat that now rows back to the Mariagalante.

  “What is the word?”

  “How find you our comrades?”

  “Does La Navidad still stand?”

  Maria hastily crosses herself, then takes my hand and clutches it fiercely, for no one on the boat answers. “What is to become of us?” she whispers.

  “Perhaps the news is not so bad.” I try to sound calm. Surely the Merciful One would have pity on so great a number, for many hundreds of souls sail with this fleet. “We must await word before losing heart.”

  And before the sandglass is turned yet again, word does come: Navidad, both its huts and fenced blockhouse, has been burned to the ground, and all the inhabitants slain.

  We have been anchored in the harbor of La Navidad for eight days, and as usual Maria and I have been confined to the ship. Sebastian and several nobles, including Arias and Juan Ponce, have been to shore many times, and from listening to their guarded whispers, as well as to the guarded whispers of the crew, I have gleaned what has happened. Some of the thirty-nine men at La Navidad died fighting amongst themselves over gold and women, but most were killed by Tainos for what Admiral Columbus calls their “licentious conduct” in taking multiple Indian women for their pleasure without regard to the feelings of their husbands or families. The Admiral has been told this by the local Tainos through our Indian interpreters.

  All this increases my concern for Sebastian. He has made foolish boasts regarding the Taino women, boasts I pray he will not try to carry out for if he does, I fear he could end up like the men of Navidad.

  The thin, pale nobleman, who looks about Sebastian’s age, moans as I press a damp cloth to his burning forehead. Sweat runs down his temples, matting the hair around his ears, and his body shakes with fever as I hold him in the crook of my arm.

  “You must say the Ego Pecator, my son,” Fray Buil whispers as he kneels on the other side of the stricken man. “Ramon. Ramon Gomez, pray the Ego Pecator. I will help you.”

  Ramon rolls his eyes.

  “Release him,” Fray Buil says, looking at me. I obey by gently laying Ramon’s head on a soiled blanket smelling of vomit. I think it smells of vomit. I am not sure, for there is such a collection of foul odors all around us that it is impossible to discern from what direction they come. As I smooth the young nobleman’s blanket, Fray Buil dismisses me impatiently with a wave of his hand. Then with solemn face and solemn voice, he administers the last rites of Extreme Unction. If the nobleman recovers, he will forever be obliged to fast, abstain from relations with his wife, and walk barefoot.

  I watch the friar apply anointing oil, and listen to him whisper Latin prayers. More and more he reminds me of Papa: the way he so seriously tends to his duties; his stern manner when wanting to convey authority; and those eyes that are always kind. And because of these things I am beginning to lose my fear of him. I tell myself to beware, for he is a Franciscan still. And I tell myself how quickly those kind eyes would change if he discovered I was a converso. But it is no use, because in my heart I believe him to be a sincere man of God.

  “Rest now,” Fray Buil says, and a moment passes before I realize he is speaking to me.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  Fray Buil shakes his head. “No, not dead. Perhaps God will yet perform a miracle.”

  I hear the rattle in Ramon’s throat, the same rattle I heard when Aunt Leonora died, may her memory be for blessing, and I know God’s miracle must come soon or not at all.

  “Rest,” Fray Buil repeats. There is concern in his eyes.

  I rise obediently. I am so weary. So very weary of this ship, of the stench, of the close quarters and lack of privacy, of the rats and lice and roaches, of the constant pitching and rolling. We have beaten against the wind for twelve days. Admiral Columbus, finding Navidad unsuitable for resettlement, has been leading us eastward along the coast where the prevailing wind is a constant adversary. Days go by when we sail no further than a few leagues. And though we have dropped anchor several times and Columbus has gone forth with his party to scout the land to determine its suitability for settlement, he is never satisfied, and we are obliged to go farther.

  Always farther.

  “Doña Isabel, can you assist me?” Maria sits on the floor squeezing water from a cloth onto the dry, cracked lips of another noble. “He will not drink.”

  I step over a sick ship’s boy, and cringe when I see Doctor Spinoza bleeding him. The boy looks paler today. Two others, both soldiers, lie nearby. Ten, in all, have fallen sick and are packed together under the quarterdeck, brought here to keep them away from the healthy and to make it easier for the doctor to render treatment.

  I lower myself to the floor beside Maria. The stench is overwhelming. Most of the sick have lost control of their bowels, and these vapors of human waste along with the smell of vomit—for many have heaved the contents of their stomach, as well—float all around us. Though two ship’s boys daily wash the planking, and another the blankets when time permits, the stricken men and their clothing remain unwashed, for who is there to do it? I cannot. Modesty forbids it. It is most unseemly for a woman to bathe any man, especially one not her husband.

  “Try a cup,” I say, taking hold of the sick nobleman’s head and raising it slightly, the better to bring the cup to his lips. Maria struggles to her feet, takes his empty cup and dips it into one of the three water buckets cradled in a wooden rack. When she returns, she puts it to his lips. He takes a sip and turns away. We try twice more, but it is no use. I fear Fray Buil will again be administering last rites. We put a clean folded blanked under his head, arrange his covers, then leave him in peace and head for the gunwale.

  Here the stench is not as bad, for with the strong easterly wind comes a clove-like scent from the mountains of Española. I fill my lungs with it as I watch Maria, barely breathing at all, slump over the gunwale. She looks so worn.


  “You are not eating enough fruit,” I say.

  “I eat more than my share.”

  “Your cheeks are as pasty as dough. With weather like this you should look like a Taino.” I gesture toward the sky where the sun blazes brightly.

  “Can anyone feel as he should? With so much sickness all around? With this disease of the bowels that infects more daily and makes men lose their desire for food? Can a man have strength without food? Even my husband, Gonzalo, has begun to complain that his appetite has lessened. And last night, he barely climbed the ropes in time before his bowels betrayed him. I prepared fennel water, and made him drink. But if the Admiral does not let us land soon, I fear we may all die.”

  I look away, for what can I say? I know she is right. Every day someone else falls ill. “Tomorrow you must rest under the forecastle with your husband and not help me with the sick.”

  “Oh, that will please him, Isabel. You know how he detests me going beneath the quarterdeck.” She pats my hand. “It displeases Sebastian, too.”

  I just nod, for I have no wish to tell her the reason it displeases Sebastian is not fear for my safety, but because his friends worry I might bring back the sickness to where we all sleep. And though Sebastian has told me about all the noblemen’s complaints, he has not forbidden me to tend the sick. Both the ship’s doctor and Fray Buil have asked that Maria and I assist them. One can refuse a physician, but can anyone refuse a man of the cloth?

  No. Not even Sebastian.

  “How curious,” Maria says, pointing to the sudden flurry of activity on the Mariagalante that sails beside us.

  I look and see their leadsman heaving lead and presently our leadsman does the same. And then to my amazement, orders go out from the Mariagalante to all the ships to drop anchor. And while seamen unlash the two anchors from the catheads, our captain, without emotion, tells us Admiral Columbus has signaled him with news that he has chosen this area to settle.

  After three long months at sea, we have arrived.

  La Isabela, Española

  Steam moistens my face and arms as I pour hot water into the wooden trough Gonzalo made me. Though the bank of the Isabela River, as Columbus has named it, is nearby, it has taken much of the morning to carry enough water from there to our temporary camp site, and then to heat it for doing laundry. The water of the Isabela River is so clean and clear one can see right down to the pebbled bottom. And the taste! It makes your mouth dance. But I suppose after drinking the swill on board ship for so long even the waters of the Donana marshes would be pleasing.

  I separate the bundle of soiled clothing at my feet into piles of inner and outer garments, and listen to the bleating of sheep in the distance. South of us, pens have been constructed for the livestock, including the prized horses of the Lanzas. The cows, pigs, and even the chickens thrive, but the horses struggle to adjust to the hot moist air, as do the sheep. The sheep, especially, fare poorly, and some have already died.

  Our temporary settlement, called Marta, is most pleasing. The location is faultless. It is as if God has formed this parcel of land in anticipation of our arrival. The great Isabela River empties into the Bay giving our ships access to its mouth where all manner of provisions and supplies, and of course livestock, have been unloaded onto its banks.

  And those who have examined the soil say it is rich. Not only farms will thrive, but in certain sections near the river there are wondrous stores of alluvial clays for making bricks and pottery. Even now, a large kiln is being built for the firing of roof tiles. It is said Admiral Columbus’s house and the storehouse, which will also serve as an armory and meeting hall, will be the first to have a tile roof.

  The Admiral—I still call him that though Columbus now carries many new titles, including Viceroy and Governor of the Indies—has named the actual town La Isabela, after our Queen. La Isabela is a lombard shot from the river, and after hauling water for much of the morning at Marta, where the river is only a few feet away, I know this will be a problem. The Admiral has promised canals will be dug. But with so many sick, and with most of the healthy men busy building the church and hospital and their own homes, I am sure the canals will not be built for a very long time.

  I back away from the rising steam, and bend to where a box sits near my feet. It is brightly decorated with flowers and birds, painted by Beatriz long ago as a gift. I open it and pick through dozens of sheepskin pouches. Under my breath, I bless Mama for packing it so generously. Every household has such a box full of herbs, spices, and curatives. But few have one as beautiful or robust as mine, and I fear I am overly proud of it.

  The scent of cinnamon and saffron, pepper and mace, spices so needful in cooking, fill the air as I poke amid the pouches. And along with these rise the vapors of chamomile which calms the stomach, and basil used to subdue fever. I find the proper pouch, open it, make certain it is caustic soda, then pour a bit into the scalding water. Then I add wood ash before plunging in ten of my linen chemises and an equal number of Sebastian’s codpieces.

  “I have no chicken feathers to remove the grease from Sebastian’s jerkins,” I say to Maria and Pasculina who stand before their own troughs. “I have asked our ship’s boy to gather some gull feathers. Do you think they will work?”

  “Gull feathers! Bah! What can they do? I would rather have a ball of that lovely Italian soap of yours,” Pasculina says, her bodice drenched with perspiration.

  “You would waste such a treasure on scrubbing clothes? When mutton fat soap would do?” There is scorn in Maria’s voice. “Was not Doña Isabel generous enough when she allowed us to use her olive oil soap for bathing?”

  Two days ago after landing, we—Pasculina, Maria and I—bathed in the Isabela River with my scented soap.

  “I am not ungrateful.” Pasculina looks offended. “And I do not expect Doña Isabel to give me her soap for doing laundry. I was only dreaming out loud.”

  I swish the clothes around in the water with the large wooden paddle Gonzalo also made, and laugh. It feels good to laugh, and I throw back my head to allow the last ounce of laughter to tumble out. Surely I look like a madwoman, but I care not. There has been precious little laughter these many months, with the long trek to Cadiz, the sea voyage, the hard work of setting up camp at Marta, the scores of people who have fallen ill, and the many who have died.

  “You know what I dream?” I say, when I have stopped laughing. “I dream of sitting under the shade of my own orange tree sipping scented water and gazing at my beautiful stone house.”

  “And I dream of my vegetables being plumper than everyone else’s, and people coming from miles to inquire about the secrets of my garden,” Maria says.

  “And I dream that all the nobles wear my . . . .”

  “Only one dream,” Maria interrupts Pasculina in a scolding voice, “and you have already dreamed of washing your clothes in good Italian soap.”

  We giggle like children until an angry voice breaks in. “What are you doing?”

  I turn and see Sebastian, his face white with rage.

  “Is my wife no better than a peasant? Have I not wealth enough to hire someone to wash our clothes? Have I not continually asked you to remember your position? And mine?”

  I stare, dumfounded.

  “I forbid you to do such work! Do you hear? I forbid it!” The veins in Sebastian’s neck look like fat worms.

  Despite my best efforts, I frown. It is plain Sebastian fails to understand our situation. There is no one to do this labor. Many able-bodied men have been ordered by Columbus to Marta to fell trees and clear land for planting crops. The rest—those not laid low by sickness—have been ordered to La Isabela for the building of the new settlement. And the ship’s boy I keep supplied with copper coins to run errands and bring me news says even noblemen have been ordered to clear land and build, though they complain bitterly that nobles, even petty nobles, were not born to labor with their hands. They claim such labor is a repugnant curse and beneath contempt, as are those wh
o labor.

  But I am not nobility. I am a merchant’s daughter. Mama and Papa have taught me to work. And instead of repugnant, I find it satisfying, and at times, purifying. Surely, such toil can chasten or cleanse a character of pride, and thus be a means of learning the humility of the Nazarene.

  “There is none to do this work, Señor,” I finally say. “For Maria and Pasculina cannot. It is difficult for one woman to haul enough water for washing. But it is impossible for one woman to do it for two.”

  “Then you refuse to obey my command?”

  “No, Señor,” I say, bending over and picking up one of his greatly soiled jerkins, all the while trying to ignore the offensive odor it exudes, “as long as you are content to wear this as it is.”

  Rage colors Sebastian’s ears, then his cheeks, and finally his forehead. I fear he will say something harsh, and humiliate himself. But he simply turns on his heels and walks away.

  I know he heads for La Isabela’s large rocky promontory on the other side of the Bay. Everyone says it is a good place to build a town, for it rises nearly ten cubits above the sea on one side, and is bordered by a great mountain on another. Soldiers, especially, are pleased for they say these things make the town easier to defend. In addition, a great quantity of limestone lies between Marta and La Isabela where masons are, even now, cutting blocks for the church. And if these were not blessings enough, it is so beautiful many call it Isla bella-beautiful island—instead of Isabela.

  And though these are all hopeful signs that life here will be good, I somehow cannot believe that it will apply to my life, for my husband is ashamed of me, of the way I dress and the way I work. And today, because of the manner in which I spoke to him, I believe I have made him loathe me as well.

  “Pack your things. You are moving,” Sebastian says, coming from nowhere and with such bluster he looks more like a soldier storming an enemy’s rampart than a husband approaching his wife.