Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon

by Christine Echeverria Bender

  Cabrillo stopped him there. “Yes, I maintain the right to own horses, an honor I hold very dear.” The steel in his voice had begun to reveal its edge. “Any man fortunate enough to ride so proud an animal should understand its worth. Do you own this horse, Lezcano?”

  He hesitated for an instant. “No, sir. It is the property of Viceroy Mendoza.”

  “Look at his flank and belly. Tell me what you see?”

  The quickest of glimpses revealed the swelling welts, but rather than answering directly Lezcano made the mistake of trying to explain. “As ordered, sir, I rode first to your home in New Santiago. You were not there, so I came south in all haste. I was certain you would want the message with little more delay.”

  “Did you whip this horse along the entire length of that final distance, nearly two leagues?”

  Lezcano’s voice barely managed to hide his growing discomfort. “I meant only to deliver Viceroy Mendoza’s message with the speed he bade me to maintain, sir.”

  The next words were conveyed like sword strokes. “Then deliver your message.”

  Cabrillo grasped the oilskin wrapped papers from Lezcano’s outstretched glove and immediately handed them to Diego within the shelter. “Now you may leave.”

  “May... sir, may I take your response to the viceroy?”

  “I will send it with another messenger.”

  Weary, hungry, heavily weighted by water and mud, and frustrated by this dismissive rebuff, Lezcano could see no possibility of mercy in the disapproving eyes that held him. He darted a glance at the other gentleman, but Diego Sánchez de Ortega merely studied his notes more closely. Now grimly resolved that no courtesies would be extended, Lezcano reached for the reins still held by Cabrillo.

  “No. You will walk.”

  Lezcano asked in disbelief, “Walk, sir?”

  “All the way back to the garrison at Iximché. Your returning those twenty-some leagues without a mount will give your horse time to recover, and you time to reflect.”

  Lezcano’s body had stiffened more tautly with each word, and he now just managed to hold his voice level. “Sir, today I act as a mere messenger, as a special favor to our viceroy, but I must inform you that I am of noble blood. My family and that of our viceroy have lived near one another in Castile for hundreds of years.”

  Cabrillo restrained his own anger to momentarily disarm the defensiveness rising before him. “A man’s family can not always teach him what must be learned. Sometimes the most essential instructions are left to others, so hear me. In this land one horse can save the lives of ten men, twenty, if a battle is raging. You have abused a fine horse over miles of roads harsh enough to kill you both. That animal,” he said, pointing to the exhausted mount, “has the best heart among us all. If you lack the capacity to see such things for yourself, you had better learn how before speaking again of noble blood. Nobility is more than a birthright.”

  As these words cascaded down upon Lezcano, causing far greater discomfort than the drops descending from the clouds, the breath left his pride-expanded chest. Yet an air of defiance remained. “Perhaps I do have much to learn, sir. My destiny has not led me to serve in His Majesty’s mounted military, so some lessons are new to me. I have been trained to give service of another kind. However, on this occasion I have been especially entrusted to deliver this message and return directly to the viceroy with your response. I ask you once again, sir, if I may be allowed to fulfill that mission. I promise to heed your words and to never again misuse a horse, but I entreat you to devise another means of satisfying yourself that I will keep this commitment.”

  Cabrillo considered the request as his hand gently glided around the welts on the horse’s flank. At last, he said, “Very well. Count these lash marks.”

  Lezcano’s heart began to sink and it grew heavier with each welt he counted. After numbering them twice he said clearly, “Seventeen marks, sir.”

  “Yes. Here, then, is your choice. Rather than immediately retracing your miles to Iximché on foot, you may rest and eat, and I will give you my response to the viceroy’s message. You may then return riding a horse I will provide. However, if you choose to leave mounted you will be accompanied by two of my men, and at a quiet place outside of town you will halt long enough for them to mark your back with seventeen lash strokes. No one but my men will witness this punishment, and they will not recount what takes place. What you tell Viceroy Mendoza of the event will be your choice. In time, the evidence of the lash will fade, but I trust the lesson will not.”

  Watching Lezcano closely as he issued this alternative, Cabrillo guessed the thoughts that were passing through the youth’s mind. He was likely imagining the pain of the lash, fearing that his courage would weaken in front of his guards, and dreading the scars that would mar his back the rest of his life. He will refuse this option.

  Seldom did Cabrillo misread men, yet today his perception missed its mark. He was surprised by the grave smile that drew itself across Lezcano’s face, and the answer he gave.

  “I thank you for allowing me to choose, sir. I will take the lash.”

  Cabrillo took a moment to reassess young Lezcano. “I see now that there is strength in you, messenger, and courage. Once you learn to use both wisely, you may fare well.”

  Giving orders for his pages to see to the horse and motioning Lezcano into the shelter, Cabrillo unwrapped the papers that came from the municipality he’d first known as Tenochtitlán but was now called Mexico City. Within the protective sheets he found a letter and a printed pamphlet. After scanning the pamphlet’s cover, he lifted his eyebrows in question towards Lezcano.

  The messenger spoke as if little unpleasantness had previously passed between them, saying, “The viceroy was pleased with your account of the earthquake, sir. Because of its clarity and thoroughness, he had it printed. He bid me to tell you that it is the first secular document to be so honored in our new lands. Copies have already been sent to Spain.”

  Still more taken aback by this news, Cabrillo set the pamphlet aside, broke the seal of the letter, and silently read. When he’d finished, he let out a sigh and asked Lezcano, “Do you know its contents?”

  “Yes, sir. I acted as scribe for the viceroy. He wishes for me to serve you in that role as well, if you wish.”

  Scanning the letter again, Cabrillo passed it to Ortega and explained before he had a chance to read its content, “I am to return to Puerto de Navidad with all haste. The Bolaños fleet was stranded off the southern tip of California and needed immediate aid. Villalobos has already been sent to rescue Bolaños and his men, but I am to oversee the completion of the fleet that Villalobos will sail to the Spice Islands upon his return.” His expression grew more meaningful as he added, “I must also see that the fleet Pedro de Alvarado was to lead northward is speedily finished, only now I am to take command.”

  Ortega said with concern, “After so many crewmen were killed with Alvarado at Nochistlán, and still others taken by the earthquake, it will be difficult gathering enough men.”

  Cabrillo nodded his head wearily and then addressed Lezcano. “You need not write down my reply. It is brief. Tell Viceroy Mendoza that I will set out toward Navidad immediately after my family is settled in our new home. I hope to be there within a month.”

  “Very well, Captain-General.”

  Cabrillo said softly, more to himself than the others, “Captain-General, yes, I am to bear that title once more.” Giving Lezcano another assessing look, he asked, “Has your decision concerning your return held firm? Do you still choose to ride and to bear the bite of the whip?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Cabrillo’s expression revealed a measure of grudging approval before he sent a page off to collect two guards. Lezcano was given food and drink while three horses were quickly made ready for their journey. When the guards appeared Cabrillo gave his strange but explicit orders regarding Lezcano. Neither by word or sign did his men question these commands, but he had the most senior of the
pair repeat them to be certain they were understood precisely.

  Just as Ortega was handing one of the guards a small package to deliver to his wife in New Santiago, the horses near the hut suddenly tossed their heads and shifted their feet. The men tensed, holding their bodies in strained suspension. Watching, listening, his nerves as taut as full sails, Cabrillo abruptly snatched up the papers from the table and shoved them under his doublet as he shouted, “Out of the hut!”

  Lezcano hesitated in confusion, so Cabrillo grabbed his arm and yanked him forcefully from beneath the shelter. While dogs barked and women and children shrieked, Lezcano perceived the first tremblings beneath his feet, which swiftly strengthened to a ground-rumbling shaking. Feeling as if he’d been tossed aboard a madly rocking ship, he just managed to keep from toppling over by grabbing hold of the nearest guard’s shoulder. He righted himself and stood swaying precariously, his legs and arms spread wide. The tremor intensified for several seconds, increasing the growling emanating from the earth’s depths and causing Lezcano’s heart to beat at a previously unknown cadence. The support posts of the hut they’d just left swayed until three of them snapped, causing the roof to slide several feet off center, but it refused to fully collapse. At this, one of Cabrillo’s horses broke free of its staked tether and fled at a stumbling trot down the broken road. Without awaiting orders, a page set off in unsteady pursuit.

  People of the town had raised their eyes toward the volcano as they scurried from ditches and shelters, slipping and falling in the mud, scrambling to higher ground well away from the path of the previous flood, hauling small children with them, and crying out for others to follow. When Lezcano’s sweeping gaze fell upon Cabrillo’s back, he saw the captain-general standing like a stone. He too was facing the volcano and staring at its crater. Remaining motionless until the shaking of the earth had ceased, he then said without alarm, “It would be wise to leave soon.” His men wasted no time in preparing for a swift departure. Noticing Lezcano’s paleness, Cabrillo asked, “Your first earthquake?”

  Lezcano gathered his rattled fortitude and calmed his features, yet he answered with candor, “Yes, Captain-General, and hopefully my last. It was an experience I do not hope to repeat.”

  “Only a fool would. Go now. Do not fail to treat my horse, or any other, as a blessing.” At these words a subtle smile betrayed Lezcano’s discretion. Although restrained, something in the expression, something keen and shielded, made Cabrillo wonder if he’d unintentionally struck upon a secret known to no man but the messenger.

  But Lezcano said only, “You need not concern yourself about the care of your horse, Captain-General Cabrillo. I swear that the lesson you impose on me today will never be forgotten. After so impressive a first meeting, I sense that we will meet again one day.”

  Gauging the potential menace behind Lezcano’s features and words, Cabrillo responded evenly with, “So we shall, if God wills it.”

  Now Lezcano could not hold back a clipped laugh. “Indeed, Captain-General, if God himself wills it.”

  In an icy tone, Cabrillo said, “One last thing, Lezcano. Be grateful you were lighter with your spurs than your whip today. If not, my guards would soon be inflicting their spurs on you as well.”

  The smile disappeared from the messenger’s face. “I do not doubt that you would have given such an order, sir.”

  At Cabrillo’s command the three riders mounted and rode slowly out of town. Lezcano could feel the captain-general’s eyes lingering on him as they headed northward, and the skin on his back began to prickle. He wondered but did not allow himself to ask where they would make their short but painful halt before going on.

  Chapter 2

  CALAFIA’S CALL

  Señora Beatriz Cabrillo stood before the open window dressed in a long linen chemise and wrapped protectively in her naked husband’s arms. She gazed over the tile roof of the cookhouse and watched dawn’s golden fingers reach outward along the edges of the eastern horizon. Too soon the cool breeze that lightly brushed her body would withdraw its touch, just as her man would shortly take his leave. But unlike the breeze, it was to be two long years before he caressed her again.

  She began to hear the first stirrings of the servants and slaves, confirming that their large household was again coming to life with the rising sun. In moments the cooks would be cackling over their pots as conscientiously as hens over chicks. The mason would call out orders to organize the men raising the south wall of the new horse stalls. The slaves, a few Africans shipped as prisoners of war but mostly Indians captured during battles in Mexico and Guatemala, would head for the fields with hoes and shovels resting on their shoulders.

  Cabrillo sat down upon the window ledge and lifted Beatriz’ small frame onto his lap. He picked up her hand and ran his rough thumb, a swordsman’s thumb, across the softness of her skin. “I have always loved your hands,” he murmured, “so long and graceful. I shall miss them.” He lifted the hand to his lips and held it there, then lowered it slowly and met her eyes. “And I shall miss the way your cheeks brighten and pale with every emotion, and the smile that touches your mouth when you look upon our children. But, most of all, I shall long for your nearness.”

  She brushed back the dark hair parted above the center of his forehead, tucked half neatly behind each ear, and then tucked both sides again. Her fingers trailed to the deep, curved scar on his left shoulder, the remembrance of a wound that occasionally caused him pain even after so many years.

  “When we first spoke of your going,” she said in a tone of admission, “I hoped we might start another child before you left, a new one to greet you when you return.”

  “Perhaps we have started one this very morning.”

  “No, Juan, it was a foolish hope. It has been many years since I last conceived. My body seems to have grown too old for bearing children.”

  “Too old?” he protested. “You are but a single year older than I.” He could detect few signs of age on the small face before him, a face in which his imagination found the same airy qualities possessed by angels depicted on walls and ceilings of Spanish churches. He perceived this goodness even during the rare times when Beatriz bristled with anger. Her smooth skin was lighter in shade than that of most Spanish women. Her eyebrows were the same color as shelled almonds, and the depths of her long hair hid strands of deep copper. From these signs, Cabrillo suspected that at some time in the past a member of the Ortega family had mated with a Hapsburg, perhaps even a distant relative of Spain’s royalty.

  “Yes, I am too old,” she insisted, “so I will be content with our fine sons.” She was silent for a moment and then revealed her musings by asking, “As you have been preparing to leave, Juan, have you paused to realize that your daughters may bear their own children before your return?”

  He nodded a bit ruefully. “Yes, although I struggle to accept that two have indeed reached an age for marriage. Lucia showed me her list of suitable husbands yesterday, all former conquistadors, I noticed. Her selection of men seemed especially shrewd, perhaps because of some help from you?”

  Beatriz affirmed, “We worked on the list together.”

  It seemed almost strange, looking back, how painfully she’d resented Lucia at first, even though Juan had told her about the Indian woman and his daughters before he’d proposed. In those early days of their marriage it had helped little to know that taking a common-law wife was quietly accepted and fairly widespread here, a youthful union recognized for what it was by the law if not by the Church. No, her jealousy of Lucia’s exotic beauty and Juan’s past affections had burned with the heat of an oil-doused fire. For many months Beatriz had dreaded losing her new husband to his previous love. She would have been devastated if he’d ever returned to Lucia’s bed, but from every sign she could read he had not.

  Fortunately those old embers of envy had cooled with the passage of time. Today, not for the first time, Beatriz asked herself what she would have done without Lucia to help guide her a
long the way. The older woman had taught her many things about this land and its people, as well as how to bring children into the world and raise them to be strong and proud.

  Still referring to the list of suitors for his daughters, Cabrillo said, “That was kind of you to help her, my dear.”

  She gave him a look that held gratitude as much as fondness. “It was a small thing. Even now my heart seems unable to completely relinquish my jealously of her, yet she has been a great comfort to me at times. I can admit that now.”

  Cabrillo’s was mildly surprised by this acknowledgment, and he rightly guessed that Beatriz had come to recognize how his approaching voyage would oblige the two women to rely on one another more than ever before. He breathed in Beatriz’ scent and said softly, “As always during my absences, she and my daughters will aid you and our sons.”

  “That is true. She hides any resentment she might feel for me, treating me with politeness always, but I am not blind to the feelings she still holds for you.” Her glance touched his. “With what little wisdom age has brought me, I am learning to hold her emotions against her less and less.”

  As the moments remaining to them dwindled, Beatriz studied his scarred but still attractive face and eased all thoughts and words of Lucia aside. She thought back to the day after her thirteenth birthday when he’d come to her to say he was sailing for Cuba to make his fortune. When he’d left Seville she’d been inconsolable for months. Then, after nearly two decades had passed, he returned to her at last.

  She reached toward him now and cradled his face between her hands, holding his eyes with the intensity of her gaze. “I have loved you since I was nine years old, ever since you brought me that tiny kitten wrapped in the only good shirt you owned.” They both smiled, remembering, and she gently released him. Her features clouded as she eased away enough to face him more squarely. “Today I must accept that you are going far away for two years, perhaps longer.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “You will make landings in many unknown lands before you join Villalobos in the eastern lands, and you will likely find wonders at every harbor, some in the forms of women.” Her voice lowered and her words came with an effort. “I am not inexperienced enough to think that in all that time there will be no other female to give you comfort.”