Correa choked back his laughter. “One of my men! What a thought, Captain-General! The heavens would weep.”
The officers swung around at the sudden crash of pottery followed by volleys of accusation between an olive merchant and a sailor, both standing over a three-gallon, pointed-bottomed clay jar that lay in pieces amid its spilled contents.
“Bilbao!” Cabrillo raised his voice toward the nearest sailor. “See that that vessel is replaced. I want no shortage of olives.”
“Yes, sir!” the young seaman responded smartly, as aware as every other crewman that the captain-general’s weakness for the small salty fruit was nothing to be ignored.
“Since all is going well here, Lope,” Cabrillo said to his supply officer, “I will leave things in your hands. Captain Correa, will you join me while I check on the horses?”
“With pleasure, Captain-General. Since my little mare has never been to sea I am anxious to confirm her fitness.”
Over the past three weeks Cabrillo had kept the horses stabled a little longer each day and had seen that their feed was gradually changed in order to more closely imitate their future conditions on board. The ships were taking with them what Cabrillo deemed a generous supply of dried carrots, maize, grain, and chopped hay. He was fairly confident that they would be hugging the coastline throughout the voyage to the East, and he looked forward to taking the horses ashore and having wild replacements for their feed collected whenever possible.
He and Correa dodged a small flock of panicking chickens that had just escaped their keeper’s wagon, and walked toward the barn located behind a nearby inn and livery. As Cabrillo rounded a corner and the barn’s front came into view, a tall dappled stallion lifted his head at the open upper half of his door and called out to him. Pawing the floor of his stall, he continued to whicker as if demanding an immediate conversation.
“That horse of yours seems half human, sir, the way he speaks to you. I have never seen the like.”
Cabrillo approached the horse wearing an expression so filled with devotion that it might well have made his wife and children jealous. Even they, however, had learned very early that horses had found the soft regions of his heart long before he’d met any of them.
“Nor will you see his kind again,” said Cabrillo. “Viento is the finest of an exceptional Andalusian line.” The stud arched his neck, shook his head, and extended his fine muzzle. Except around his eyes and muzzle, his head was a much lighter gray than the rest of his body. Downward and back from his jaw, his mottled coat gradually darkened to nearly black as it approached his tail and hooves. Viento had been dark as pitch at birth but had dappled through his youth and would one day mature to a brilliant white. His black-tipped mane and tail were lavishly thick, and Cabrillo seldom let either be cut, preferring to see them hang long and free.
Reaching out, Cabrillo’s hand met the softness of Viento’s neck and began to scratch what he knew to be a favorite spot. Viento responded by leaning into the hand of his master and half-closing his eyes. This equine expression of contentment evoked soft chuckles from Cabrillo and Correa.
The captain-general’s half-blood nephew, page, and soon to be cabin boy, Mateo, poked his head out of a nearby stall and trotted toward them. “Good morning, Captain-General, Captain Correa.”
“Well, Mateo, how are the horses faring?”
“As you see, sir, hearty and willing.”
“You have done good work with them, Mateo.” Cabrillo seldom was able to keep the fondness from his voice when addressing this young page, which was due only in part to the fact that he was the natural son of his wife’s brother and lifelong friend. The boy was quick-witted, hard-working, and shared his uncle’s love of horses.
Much to Viento’s disappointment, Cabrillo now patted him with the two light slaps that signaled an end to his scratching session. His master eased him back a few steps and then entered the stall to examine him from forelock to tail while Correa went to find his own mare. When Cabrillo had completed his inspection he nodded and proclaimed at last, “Yes, he is as fit as can be.” To the eleven-year-old boy, he asked, “And you, Mateo, are you ready to become a man of the sea?”
The slightest hesitation betrayed the lad’s uneasiness before he stiffened his lips, pushed back his shoulders slightly, and said, “Very ready, sir, though I have so much to learn.”
“Everyone has much to learn on his first voyage. You are a bright lad and you will learn more quickly than some.”
To Correa, who had reappeared at the stall door, he said, “Will you be good enough to look over my other two mounts with me, Captain?”
Correa gave an acquiescing bow and they moved to a stall two doors down, where Cabrillo’s brood mare was lodged. Correa’s horse glanced around the end of the wall that separated the two stalls and whickered at them. “Ah, my Luna,” Cabrillo said, “you have become a kind older sister to Captain Correa’s filly, eh? You will be a comfort to her on our long voyage.” He lifted her left forefoot, muttering softly as he checked the soft tissue of the hoof. “Since Viento must not be tempted by such fine mares while at sea— steady there —he and Seguro will sail with me. Good, good, firm but not too dry. Now this foot up, girl. That’s right. You will travel aboard La Victoria. Do not worry, she is a fine ship and Captain Ferrelo will take care that no harm comes to you. This one now. Hold there. Yes, yes, it feels fine. One more, my lady. Up, that’s it. Ah, again, no sign of trouble. All four hoofs are sound as I could hope. And how are your muscles feeling, Luna? Smooth and strong, just as they should be, and your eyes are as clear as ever. Although Captain Correa may be unwilling to admit it, you are the most excellent mare in all of Mexico. When we reach the East you and Viento will mate again and produce a foal as beautifully as you did last year.”
His faithful sedate gelding, Seguro, awaited a portion of his master’s attention with a patience gained through fourteen years of life. For his sweet nature and serene acceptance of being visited last, Cabrillo rewarded him with a brief brushing before scrutinizing the many signs of his physical well-being.
The inspection of the horses included particular attention to the animals’ hooves for good reason. Three days earlier their forefeet had been vigilantly trimmed to encourage a shifting of weight to their heels in the hope of reducing the risk of hoof fever, which could be fatal. The horses had then been reshod. Muscles, teeth, throats, eyes, noses, ears, and even their droppings were studied for any indication of a pending problem.
After all four horses had been fully examined, Cabrillo pronounced, “They are all in top sailing condition, praise the Lord. Remember, Mateo, allow them no food or water for three to four hours before they are taken aboard. Once they are safely installed they will feel comforted by receiving both.”
“Yes, sir. I shall not forget.”
While giving Viento a few final pats, Cabrillo was interrupted by a sailor who hurried into the barn, bowed quickly, and announced, “Captain-General, our second priest, he has arrived! He is here, sir!”
“At last,” said Cabrillo with heart-felt relief. “Where is he?”
“He is coming directly to you, sir.”
These words had barely been spoken before a brown-robed man leading a dusty bay horse rounded the inn and became visible through the barn door. His eyes were aimed quite low so that the top of his head, capped by a round patch of gleaming skin and skirted with a ring of short-cropped hair, was the most visible feature. It was not until the friar lifted his face that Cabrillo recognized him, abruptly stilled his hands, and swallowed back an unholy curse.
They slowly approached one another until they met at the corral’s railing. The friar was the first to speak. “Good day, Captain-General.”
Cabrillo demanded, “Is this some sort of joke, some mockery?”
“Not in the least, sir. I pronounced my vows as a friar several months ago and have since been ordained a priest. I am fully qualified to celebrate the sacraments.”
“Ordained as a p
riest,” Cabrillo echoed, still trying to accept this unexpected and most unwelcome challenge. He stared penetratingly into the young face, discovering little.
Correa, much confused by this exchange, looked from one man to the other but for once found his tongue to be of no use whatsoever. Mateo’s eyes had grown huge in anticipation of the calamity that his uncle’s manner foretold. He stood very still, his muscles tight.
“Captain-General Cabrillo,” the priest said evenly, “I have come to offer you my services. I have ridden far and have taken only what time was needed in getting here. I ask that you observe the condition of my horse. You will find that he is in good spirits and, under the coating of dust that the road has bestowed on both of us, he is in admirable health.”
When Cabrillo moved neither his disgruntled gaze nor his body, the young friar continued. “Please allow me to apologize for my late arrival, sir. As you can see, my horse is no longer youthful.” The tenor of his voice lowered just enough to deepen the meaning of his next words. “I was recently taught never to mistreat a noble animal.”
After a moment Cabrillo allowed his attention to be diverted to the horse, and he eyed the animal critically. At last he said, “I must admit that he appears to have received acceptable care. But this does not keep me from questioning your motives for being here at all.”
“A priest goes where he is assigned, sir.”
“Assigned? Did you receive this assignment before our first encounter?”
“I did not, sir. When we met in Santiago I had just completed my year as a novice. My vows as a friar in the Order of Hermits of St. Augustine had only newly been pronounced.”
“Yet you wore none of the clothing of your order that day, and you said nothing of your true calling. You allowed me to believe you were no more than a messenger.”
“For that journey, since it was to be the final personal service I was to perform for the viceroy, he felt I might travel with greater safety and speed if I displayed the visible evidence of his authority, carrying his seal and riding one of his horses. My superiors at the monastery complied with the viceroy’s wishes and gave me permission to briefly don the clothing I had so recently set aside rather than wear my friar’s robe.” An evocative smile, perhaps unwillingly, touched the youthful face. “As you may remember, sir, during our initial interactions I was given little opportunity to discuss any calling I might follow.”
Cabrillo chose not to validate this accusation with a direct response. “Did Father Gamboa know of your coming to act as our second priest?”
“No, sir. Even I did not know until two days prior to my departure from Mexico City. Any messenger that might have been sent to inform you of my appointment would have failed to reach you much sooner than I. My superiors asked me to deliver their sincere apologies for the delay in sending me to you. They hope you will understand that since the Augustinian order has not been in Mexico long, many of our activities are still being organized and refined, including the assignment of priests.” He stepped to his saddlebag and withdrew a paper. “Here is my letter of introduction, sir.”
With a notable lack of enthusiasm Cabrillo accepted the letter, unsealed and unrolled it, and scanned the words. Curling the parchment up again, he turned to Correa. “Forgive me, Captain, but I must now speak with our visitor in private.”
“Of course, sir,” said Correa, failing to hide his disappointed curiosity. He bowed and moved off to resume his duties on the beach.
One quick glance from the captain-general sent Mateo scurrying back to the stalls.
Addressing the priest alone, Cabrillo asked, “Did you request to be assigned to this voyage, or are you here at the viceroy’s command?”
“Viceroy Mendoza felt that my abilities with native languages might be of particular service to you, sir.”
“My men can tell you that I favor full and direct responses. Did you request this assignment?”
“Very well, sir. I am here at the order of the viceroy, but he did ask me of my own thoughts before the order was made official. I told him I would be most willing to serve you and your men on my first priestly mission.”
Cabrillo could find no sign of an absolute lie, yet he felt something being withheld, some undisclosed motivation. “Then tell me, Father Lezcano, why you chose to sail under the command of one who has had you soundly whipped?”
The priest answered without pause or preamble. “Even when under the lash a man can admit when he has been wrong, Captain-General.”
“Only an exceedingly uncommon man could do such a thing at such a time.”
The priest lifted his chin a degree or two. “I have been described by that word on more than one occasion, sir.”
A smile heavy with irony now lifted the corners of Cabrillo’s mouth. “The cross and robe seem to have done little to curb either your pride or brashness.”
“I admit that I am still striving to find my way to humility, sir. It escapes me often.”
“Am I to believe that you hold no personal resentment toward me, then?”
“I ask you to believe just that, sir.”
“Are you willing to swear before God that no thought of vengeance or sabotage has brought you here?”
“I swear it readily, sir. Before our Heavenly Father, I harbor no such intentions.”
The suspicion did not leave Cabrillo’s face, but it lessened. “Doubtless, you know that we intend to depart at tomorrow’s sunrise, and that we are under orders to sail only if we have two priests with us.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of those orders.”
“Simply put, I am cornered.” Cabrillo suddenly slapped the nearest corral post so hard it tilted, and then he slapped it back into position with his other hand. Releasing a great huff of exasperation, Cabrillo pronounced, “There is nothing else to be done but to take you aboard.”
“Thank you, Captain-General. I will pray for a safe and successful voyage.”
Giving him one more visual raking, Cabrillo said, “As will I.” He raised his voice and called out, “Mateo, come see to Father Lezcano’s horse.”
But before the boy had emerged from the barn Father Lezcano spoke up again. “If you would not mind, Captain-General, I would like to tend to him myself. He has served me faithfully.”
Surprised, and immediately wondering if this request was some form of posturing, Cabrillo said nevertheless, “Very well. Afterward, Mateo will present you to Father Gamboa, who can introduce you to Captain Correa, the gentleman who was with me when you arrived. When the captain has time he will show you the workings of the San Miguel. Tomorrow you will sail aboard her.” He did not need to add, which will keep you well away from me.
Anticipation greatly lengthened a night that offered no sympathy to ease Cabrillo’s restless tossings and mutterings, leaving the fleet’s commander to waken with a start and open his eyes on the day of departure hindered by a headache and a foul mood. He had finally fallen asleep only two hours earlier, cursing his luck at being forced to endure Father Lezcano’s unreadable motives and blatant audacity during the voyage. But worse than this, he’d dreamed of Beatriz with another man, and the man had been an Aztec warrior. He now sighed as he rubbed his temples and wondered for the hundredth time, Why am I cursed with such dreams?
He rolled over in his bunk and sat up, planting his bare feet on the deck. Momentarily remaining quite still, he listened to the rustlings, bumpings, and mutterings of the ship and her crew. Nothing sounded amiss. He said a quick prayer, asking that all would go well today, June 27, 1542. He wondered if this would be a day that men would find worthy of remembering. Fortune, fate, and the sweat of them all would decide.
Pushing himself off his bunk, he stepped to his small desk, examined the tip of his quill, dipped it several times in his inkpot, blotted the excess lightly onto a rag, and began to write his wife a letter. While his quill danced, telling of Lezcano’s arrival, of the fleet’s final preparations, and of his devotion to her, Cabrillo heard the commotion forward and
below increase as the chickens, the horses, and a cow were being boarded. All still sounded as if procedures were flowing smoothly, so he continued to employ his quill and paper to express his dedication to his wife and children. He wrote not a word about his disturbing dream.
By the time he’d finished his letter, he felt better. He was tilting the page to slide the ink-drying sand into its tin when a knock sounded at his door.
“Yes?”
Paulo, Cabrillo’s personal servant of several years, opened the door and bowed. “Captain-General, Father Gamboa has sent me to tell you that he and Father Lezcano will be ready to hear confessions soon, about an hour before Mass is to begin.”
Paulo was a Spaniard whose slightness of stature had been compensated for by a wiry strength of body and unmovable force of will that even the sailors had come to respect. He was bristly by nature, and his prickliness reached its height whenever he witnessed dishonorable manners displayed in his master’s presence. Such an occurrence was only slightly less tolerable than any event that interfered with providing the proper appearance and comforts for Cabrillo. These were Paulo’s areas of expertise, and his territorialism could be fierce. On most days he endured a lesser but always nagging frustration that sprang from his master’s evident lack of dependency on his valet even after so long an association. Cabrillo seemed to accept his solicitations to avoid displeasing a willing servant rather than in acknowledgment of a needed service. At times Paulo almost suspected that Cabrillo would have relished returning to the privacy and freedom he’d known before his successes had been acknowledged and rewarded. Such a thought was not to be borne for long, however, and it was soon tucked away in his mind.
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 6
