Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon

by Christine Echeverria Bender

  “Not to a Basque.”

  “I know, I know,” Cabrillo said, smiling broadly now. “Because your people are talented sailors you all think you can claim your coastal seas right along with the fish. And you believe you have as much right to your mountains as the oaks that give birth to your ships.”

  “Is that not natural? They are our seas, our mountains after living there for thousands of years.”

  “Forgive me, Andrés, but His Majesty is not likely to agree that you are entitled to more authority over that piece of the world than he is.”

  Now Urdaneta let his own grin widen a little with each word. “It takes more than a king to convince a Basque he is wrong on this subject.”

  “Ha, and many other subjects! But you are far from alone in the possession of such leanings.” Cabrillo became thoughtful as he picked up another olive, and he said, “I have asked you before about the generalities of your travels, but since those events were dreadful for you and the other survivors I have not pushed to learn more. Would you mind telling me now?”

  Urdaneta kept his eyes on Cabrillo’s face for several moments, his thoughts drifting back. “Yes, perhaps the time is right. As the months pass, it becomes less difficult to speak of the voyage. Even so, it was an experience I could never survive a second time. Never. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  He took a deep breath and began, his lids half-closing in reflective contemplation. “When I was seventeen I signed up to sail with the Loaísa expedition as the assistant to our ship’s scribe. Quite soon, old though I was, I became Juan Sebastian de Elcano’s cabin boy. Just as most young men, I was familiar with the fame of the man who had completed Magellan’s voyage, but I did not meet him until a week before departure. My admiration for that man quickly grew into a great fondness.” Cabrillo merely nodded, encouraging Urdaneta to continue.

  “He had an extraordinary ability to accurately read the character of a man, and this made him a very skillful leader. With him as the fleet’s pilot-major and captain over all six of the flagship’s consort vessels, things went well enough as we crossed the Atlantic and descended the coast of South America. Captain Elcano led us through Magellan’s strait, which many thought impossible once we were there, fighting for every mile against its treacheries. We did reach the Pacific Ocean, however, but only after scurvy had claimed Captain-General Loaísa’s life. Captain Elcano became our commander, though he was also beginning to show signs of illness. Not long afterward, to my horror and grief, he grew too weak to stand.”

  Urdaneta raised his eyes to Cabrillo, and they still reflected the pain of that loss. “I acted as a witness when he signed his will. By then, he barely had strength enough to lift the quill. He had already suffered through scurvy during his voyage with Magellan, and he had no more reserve to defeat it. I was with him at the very last. That cursed disease took him from us when we needed him so badly, even more badly than we knew at the time.”

  Cabrillo pushed Urdaneta’s cup closer to his elbow, encouraging him to drink. His friend wrapped a hand around the vessel but did not lift it from the table as he went on. “Scurvy ruthlessly killed many more men and badly weakened those of us who dared to hold onto our lives. All the while we tried to hold off starvation with nothing more than spoiled food and tainted drinking water, and there was very little of either. When the storms hit, those endless storms, we had no choice but to work the pumps night and day in order to remain afloat. Many more men died laboring at those pumps. When they fell, we merely rolled their bodies aside, stepped into their places, and kept pumping. Ship after ship went down despite our pitiful efforts; their men sinking under the waves without the strength even to scream.”

  At these words, these terrible memories, Urdaneta’s head lowered for a moment. When it lifted slowly he seemed to notice the cup in his hand, and he took a couple of swallows of wine. Setting the cup down and bracing himself with a deep breath, his tongue forced the words from his mouth. “Only one of our seven ships reached the Moluccas, and I shall always wonder why ours alone was spared. And yet, once there, rather than finding the rest and pure food we longed and prayed for, we few survivors were captured by the Portuguese.

  “I was their prisoner for seven years before I was finally able to escape. Seven eternal years. Please do not ask me to describe how they treated us, Juan. That, I cannot do. Not yet.”

  He paused for another drink. “Afterward, for several more years I sailed at length around those islands in boats too small for the Portuguese to bother. I learned the Malay language and I traded. In the end, six years ago now, I managed to return to Lisbon aboard a Portuguese ship. I slipped away from them again and got back into Spain in February of 1537. Shortly following my return, I met your old commander, Alvarado. Did he tell you that it took him over a year to convince me to face the sea again, so I could accompany him back to Mexico?” His expression became poignant as he said, “And then Alvarado allowed himself to be killed by rebellious natives.”

  He met Cabrillo’s sympathetic gaze. “Well, Juan, that is my story.”

  “I thank you for telling me. Andrés, I was wrong to tease you about the tenacity of your people. You needed every bit of it to endure those trials, and no small amount of courage.” After a pause, he said without accusation, “You must hate the Portuguese.”

  “Those Portuguese, yes, at least I did for many years. Now I try to forgive even them.”

  Cabrillo paused and then said, “What would you think if I told you I had some Portuguese blood myself?”

  “That is not a very well kept a secret, my friend. I have known for some time. But I learned long ago that a man’s nationality does not dictate his integrity, or his choices. There are doubtless as many fine Portuguese as Spaniards and as many wicked Spaniards as Portuguese.”

  In a lighter tone, Cabrillo asked, “Even as many wicked Basques?”

  Urdaneta gave him a surrendering smile as his only answer.

  They grew silent for another breath or two, and Cabrillo asked softly, “Do you intend never to set sail again, then?”

  “Truthfully, I am not certain. Despite everything, at times I actually consider returning to the Moluccas. For now, however, I will try to make myself useful to the viceroy as he directs the voyages of others.”

  “I understand, and yet I cannot help greatly wishing that you would be standing beside me when we sail. Ah, but since that is not to be, I will accept things as they are if you agree to tell me more about the people of the East. Yes?”

  Urdaneta nodded, and their conversation carried him back to the Molucca Islands of his fonder memories. He possessed a wealth of knowledge, which Cabrillo began to explore with the methodical thoroughness of a miner digging into a rich vein.

  The afternoon had well matured when the captain-general asked him at last, “Can you give me any last pieces of advice that might prove helpful?”

  Urdaneta’s face clouded for a moment before answering with a question of his own. “Do you know much about the nature of poisons?”

  “Not a thing. Why?”

  With concentrated gravity he said, “I suggest you learn enough to discover one that is as painless and quick as possible.” At Cabrillo’s uneasy expression, Urdaneta explained, “You are a Christian and a good man, Juan, but if in the year to come you find yourself about to be captured, it would be useful to have such an aid close at hand.”

  Stunned, Cabrillo said, “Take poison willingly! Could you do such a thing?”

  Urdaneta placed his hand on Cabrillo’s shoulder. “While under torture and enduring the pain afterwards, I wished a hundred times I could have done so. Yes, under the same threat I would do exactly what I am proposing. If you are caught in waters they consider their own, sailing under a Spanish flag, any Portuguese blood may make things even worse for you. You will likely be looked upon as a traitor. Please, if you spot a Portuguese ship, beware.”

  Chapter 4

  BLESSING OR CURSE

/>   The beach of Navidad clamored so raucously with bellowing seamen, squealing pigs, chopping axes, barking dogs, haggling vendors, squawking chickens, clanking hammers, and bellering cows that fishermen a half-mile offshore glanced at one another and shook their heads in disapproval. If the harbor had been astir throughout the last few weeks, it was frenzied this morning, and Cabrillo strode along the sand scrutinizing the whirlwind of activity with pensive satisfaction.

  As the captain-general and supply officer Lope Sánchez passed by the pigpen, a particularly loud and fretful chorus of squeals burst from its occupants, announcing that the four-legged creatures sensed high anticipation in the air as acutely as their bipedal masters. Though the animals would not be loaded until tomorrow Cabrillo had ordered them corralled near the seaside to avoid last-minute delays.

  At first light boats ashore had begun skimming the water toward the fleet where men, yards, blocks, and tackle awaited their arrival. With long-practiced agility they raised heavy armaments, gunpowder, ropes, canvas, metal fastenings, pitch, and firewood, as well as barrels of wine, water, and dried and salted food to the ship’s waists. Chests, crates, and bundles of trade goods had already been carefully stowed below decks. Cabrillo glanced toward his flagship and spotted Pilot San Remón with his back to the San Salvador’s railing, personally supervising her loading while Sánchez carried out his related duties on land.

  Sánchez was easily distinguished as a maritime supply officer by the set of formidable keys that hung from his belt and jangled dully with each step. These keys kept the bulk of their food stores and weaponry securely locked behind iron bars, thereby reducing the temptation of any sailors inclined to opportune pilfering.

  Not far beyond the pigpen, he and Cabrillo paused to observe the transfer of a seven-foot breech-loaded great gun fashioned of wrought iron, known as a bombardeta, from a solidly-built wagon to one of the San Salvador’s launches. Because each of these guns was so precious, only a single such weapon was permitted to be transported at a time. Three other bombardetas and their two-wheeled carriages had previously been taken aboard the flagship and stowed in the bilges, joining their supply of five-pound balls as ballast. This last big gun alone would be positioned on its waiting carriage beneath the starboard gunwale, where it could be used to hold off any attack until the other bombardetas were mounted. Although neither the San Miguel nor La Victoria carried bombardetas, they had each received an allotment of smaller swivel guns called bercos that nearly equaled the sixteen assigned to the San Salvador. Three bercos were already mounted at both side rails of each ship. These along with their other assorted armaments were capable of causing great damage to any enemy within close range, especially when trying to board.

  As two brothers with startlingly bright reddish hair eased the heavy bombardeta from its wagon braces, Cabrillo nodded approvingly and said to Sánchez, “I would willingly wager that we have the only two Irish gunners on this side of New Spain.”

  “And they are good men, sir, though the younger brother speaks not a word of Castilian.”

  “One of many who will learn quickly enough. What is the condition of our weaponry, Lope?”

  “Beautiful, Captain-General,” Sánchez answered with pride, though he knew that Cabrillo was as aware of the state of the fleets’ armaments as he was himself. “With every piece in complete readiness, sir, we will not be caught unprepared. The viceroy has been generous.”

  “Has anything yet to be brought to the beach?”

  “After this last gun, every bombardeta, berco, crossbow, javelin, pike, shield, musket, ball, and keg will be aboard, sir. We await only the few fighting blades still being sharpened and oiled, and they will be delivered within the hour.”

  With frequent glances at myriad other loading activities around them, Cabrillo and Lope noted how ably the hands performed the ticklish task of settling the great gun onto its bed in the launch. When at last the weighty artillery piece rested serenely, the now low-riding launch eased away from shore and pulled gently toward the flagship. Upon the gun’s safe arrival, Lope let his breath out in a soft sigh of relief, then smiled. “May I say, sir, how lovely our ships look today? So shining and proud, as if they too are pleased to be sailing with the dawn.”

  “Yes, Lope, they are lovely,” Cabrillo said, and his voice carried the sincerity of a man who had overseen the birth of all three ships, who had planned, watched, corrected, worried, and occasionally bellowed and cursed, from their inception to the threading of the last sheet of sail. Though he had built other ships before these, his earlier attempts had not caused his heart to swell as it did now. The San Salvador, his masterpiece, dominated the small fleet as she floated restfully at anchor. Here was a vessel about which Spain and its subjects could rightfully boast.

  Measuring 74 feet in length and 24 feet abeam at the waterline, her distinct design exhibiting the marvelous technology of her age, she was a galleon built to sail undauntedly into wild open seas. Her trim had been painted red and blue, highlighting the deep browns of her pitch-treated hull and masts. Every line and knot aboard was rightly placed, and every plank and block was smoothly scrubbed.

  Fluttering now and again from her main masthead, a bright cloth emblem honored the royal oversight of King Charles I, who held the additional august title of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. This particular standard was much simpler than the king’s extravagantly crowded coat of arms, however, and reflected none of his holdings in the lands of Aragon, Navarre, Sicily, Naples, Granada, Flanders, Austria, Brabant, Tyrol, and both old and new Burgundy. Instead, this flag displayed New Spain’s particular approbation for his grandmother Queen Isabella I by bearing only the red and yellow castles of Castile and lions of León. The viceroy’s banner, adopted from the red and white Burgundy cross, decorated the flagship’s foremast, as did the fluted crimson cross of Santiago. From the top of the mizzenmast astern, Cabrillo’s own pennant depicted the simple yet stylishly arrayed initials JRC in dark blue upon a golden field.

  Though the sails were furled at the moment, both levels of main and fore yards would carry precisely cut rectangular planes of canvas. Only the mizzenmast would sport a triangular lateen sail. In addition to her sails and lines, the San Salvador would be steered by a whipstaff that attached perpendicularly to her tiller and rose up through the planks of the main deck to extend its nearly six-foot height into steerage. She was capable of carrying 200 toneladas of cargo, equivalent to 400 barrels of about 117 gallons each.

  Cabrillo’s flagship had proven herself commendably during her maiden voyage to Peru over a year ago, and he had made small improvements to her since then. Even during that first sailing, there had been times while braving a storm or flying before a bold wind and current when she’d seemed to possess a daring soul of her own. She had responded to his wishes as if she’d discerned them before her whipstaff or lines had been touched.

  Today she rode a little lower in the water with each new load of cargo she accepted, but her forward, quarter, and upper stern decks continued to stand tall and willing. Ah yes, she was a lady of the very finest order. With this affectionate and satisfying thought, Cabrillo turned his gaze to his other ships.

  La Victoria had nearly equal total square footage to that of the San Salvador, but her somewhat broader beam and deeper body sacrificed a measure of mobility for cargo capacity. Cabrillo looked upon her as the mother duckling of the fleet: sure, steady, and protective of the greatest share of their supplies. The spry, dependant bergantine San Miguel was significantly smaller and sleeker than the sister ships. Her oars and shallow draft provided fine maneuverability, and she had repeatedly confirmed her usefulness during the earlier transportation of goods to the larger ships.

  This was his fleet. As he looked upon it, the tide continued to tease each prow toward the beckoning sea, making the ships appear more than ready to sail whenever he commanded. Under the heat of the strengthening morning sun he wiped his sweating brow and smiled at his imagining that the vessels were as
impatient as he to be off. A priest would almost certainly deem such personifications of a fleet heretical in nature.

  He turned away and wove his way slowly along the beach, letting his thoughts turn to the vigorously working crews. With recent injuries being light and few and any with signs of fever being kept far from their activities, the men were in first-rate condition for their departure. Last evening while aboard the San Miguel, Cabrillo had noticed with satisfaction that the men who had been involved in the fight two weeks earlier were working with healthy vigor. Their lightly marred backs affirmed that Captain Correa’s boatswain had followed his orders to use the lash sparingly.

  The same sort of leniency, he uneasily reflected back, had not always been extended to the Indians pressed into labor in order to complete the building of the ships. Much of the heavy equipment and materials had been carried on their bare shoulders from interior provinces over backbreaking terrain to reach this port. Even here the men had nearly revolted due to working and living conditions, so Indian women were gathered from the nearby countryside and marched to Navidad to calm the men by serving them both sexually and domestically. Some of those same Indians would sail with them tomorrow, and a number might even be utilized to build a settlement in the strange lands they would encounter.

  Cabrillo was pulled from his reverie when Sánchez pointed back toward the San Miguel and said, “Captain Correa is approaching us, sir.”

  Before his launch reached the sand near their feet, Correa called out, “How goes the morning effort, Captain-General?”

  “Well enough, Captain Correa.” When Correa dropped from his boat and strode up to them, Cabrillo confided, “There is but one thing that devils my peace of mind, Captain, and it grows worse with every passing hour. Where is our second priest? He should have been here days ago.”

  “If he fails to arrive, will our sailing be postponed, sir?”

  “You know our orders as well as I, Captain,” Cabrillo grumbled. “We would have no choice but to wait. We must have two priests aboard. To think that the majority of our efforts in preparing for departure could be wasted because of a single individual...” He gave Correa a sidelong glance and lowered his voice to the level of mischief. “If it were left to me I would be tempted to ask Father Gamboa to perform a peremptory ordination, even of your rowers.”