Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon

by Christine Echeverria Bender

  The three ship’s boats met the launch of the fishermen at nearly the same time. Vargas tugged at an arrow protruding from his leather armor two inches below the position of his heart. He gritted his teeth and with one powerful yank he pulled the arrow free, let loose an obscene curse, gulped back a couple of breaths, and lied before Cabrillo could ask, “Nothing but a scratch, sir, thanks to this thick bull hide.”

  The fishermen had had no body protection other than their linen shirts and cotton vests. Fortunately for them the arrows had managed to strike nothing more critical than a thigh and a shoulder. With gazes still scraping the shore, the crew of the other boats closed ranks around the fishing launch, and they all returned to their ships.

  With double watches posted and extra lamps lit that night, the two remaining arrows were removed and awarded to the wounded sailors as trophies. Dr. Fuentes assured the captain-general that the fishermen’s gashes had been neatly sewn and should heal quickly, adding his always-anticipated caveat, “barring any putrefaction.” Vargas, much to Dr. Fuentes’ loud disapproval, had refused medical treatment, preferring to bathe his hurt in seawater and fresh air and to bear the relatively small wound with pride. Although released from the rest of his watch, Vargas remained on the main deck and graciously retold the story of the attack to those who had been below decks when the short burst of excitement took place. Since the wounded had received an extra ration of wine, the sergeant major’s tale proved a lively diversion for the healthy, but the two wounded sailors were soon fast asleep.

  Well after midnight the knot in Cabrillo’s stomach began to loosen at last. He had endured this twisting sensation many times before, whenever one of his men had been hurt in battle. Though this encounter had been extremely mild compared to his past campaigns, tonight the injuries to his sailors and the potential for more pain or death tomorrow made him feel old. He felt the weight of too many battles, too many men lost. Staring at the shoreline still, he heard Manuel step to the rail beside him and saw his large dark hands wrap around the wood. He felt him studying his mood, reading his mind, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard him say, “Dr. Fuentes said they will be fine, sir.”

  “He did, yes.”

  “What will you do, sir, when the sun comes?”

  Cabrillo shook his head, and his words came slowly. “What will I do? The answer would be much simpler if I wanted to fight them, or if I did not understand why they fired upon us tonight. None of our men were lost, so the harm they inflicted was not severe. Even so, we must protect ourselves, and we should make a stand for the sake of those who may come after us. Word spreads far and quick among these people, and if we appear weak or cowardly it will only increase the risk of other attacks along our route.” He lifted his face, listening, as if the answer resided with the moon and stars. After a little time had passed, he said, “Vengeance alone is an unworthy excuse for a war. I will strive for patience, Manuel, and hope that dawn sheds a calming light on their warriors. If they do not attack again, we may be given the chance to change their opinions of us. I will try to offer proof that I meant what I said yesterday about intending these people no harm.”

  “Then, sir,” said Manuel, “I will pray they can see what you offer.”

  Pilot San Remón strolled over to join them and Cabrillo straightened. “Is all well, pilot?”

  “Everything is quiet, sir. I take comfort in seeing no canoes near the water.”

  “Well, then, I have been too long on this deck during your watch. I leave the San Salvador in your able hands.” He descended to his cabin without hurry, knowing he would sleep little, if at all. Manuel took up his place by the door, wrapped himself in his woolen blanket, and breathed deeply until each inhale had become a gravelly snore.

  Sitting at his writing desk with a sharpened quill poised in his hand, Cabrillo heard the snoring only as a soothing hum. At the edge of his lamplight’s glow he noticed the impressive thickness of the stacked letters he’d written to Beatriz. He mused about how tall that stack might grow by the time he returned to her. Lifting the lid of his bronze inkpot, dipping his quill, and tapping the tip against the inner edge of the pot, he reflected on the happenings of this day. What would he write to Beatriz about, and what would he chose to withhold so she would not worry overly? At this thought he smiled at himself, realizing how foolish it was to imagine his wife reading a letter and growing afraid for his safety before he could reassure her in person. What chance was there of encountering a homebound ship willing to deliver his written words in these far-off waters?

  Chapter 10

  TRADE AND TOLERANCE

  Red-eyed and heavy-lidded, Cabrillo met the rising sun, and its light revealed that not a soul stirred ashore. Summoning the captains of his other ships, Cabrillo communicated his intention to maintain peaceful ties with these natives. No aggressive action would be inflicted without further provocation. So the men of the fleet waited and watched, their armaments sharpened and primed, but minutes accumulated into an hour and still no Indian showed himself. Nonetheless, Cabrillo did not doubt that their every motion was being observed.

  Since all remained quiet around their anchorage the officers met again in Cabrillo’s cabin and agreed upon the desirability of learning more about this lush, protective port. “The governor will be hungry to learn all we can gather.” He bent over a rough map he and his pilot had already begun sketching. “The far end appears to lie at least five leagues away, and though we have seen little smoke there may be villages hidden along the length of it. Captain Correa, the San Miguel is best suited to tour the harbor.”

  “That she is, Captain-General. And she’s ready and willing.”

  “If nothing delays you, report back to me before noon. Fire a bercos volley if you need aid, but Captain, try diligently to avoid any violence with these natives. We walk a delicate plank here. I want to strengthen it. God willing, while you are gone Captain Ferrelo and I will be approached by Indians more interested in trade than war.”

  “I shall hope so, sir,” Correa said. His bow was returned, concluding their discussion.

  Cabrillo watched the San Miguel lift her sails and nose southeastward into the depths of the gently arcing harbor, then grow smaller and smaller until she was completely lost from view. His inability to mark her further progress generated a feeling of uneasiness, and as the hours of her absence accumulated he had to make an ever greater effort to conceal his apprehension for her welfare. This calm façade became nearly impossible to maintain, however, when noon came and went and shadows on land and ships grew to half their full length. At last, minutes after the hour of four had been hailed, the lookout in the maintop shouted, “There she is, sir, just rounding the spit!”

  Now working to hide his relief just as he had veiled his concern, Cabrillo scanned the bergantine for any signs of attack but found none. He grew even more anxious to learn what had delayed the San Miguel’s return, and Captain Correa wasted no time in presenting himself to the captain-general. He didn’t come alone. As he set foot on the flagship he presented Cabrillo with two wide-eyed Indian boys.

  Correa said, “Some of my men came upon these young whelps while filling water barrels, sir. I thought they might be a means of fostering good will, just as our treatment of the women and child at Puerto de la Posesión produced friendly fruit. So here they are.”

  Cabrillo eyed his captain with displeasure. How the hell would this new development play out with the locals?

  He asked Captain Correa, “Did you see anyone else, there or elsewhere?”

  “Not one, sir.”

  “All right, Captain, we will discuss this later. First we must see to your young captives.”

  He studied his new charges more closely and guessed them to be eight and ten years old. Even so young they stood uncowering before him. Calling Father Lezcano nearer and using signs and words he tried to put the boys at ease by saying, “You are welcome on my ship.”

  To the surprise of all, and making it obvious that Cor
rea had already taken steps toward détente, the older boy pointed to himself and then his brother and said, “Friend, friend.”

  Cabrillo’s grin couldn’t have been more genuine. “Fine!” He tapped his own chest and said, “I am your friend too.”

  Both boys’ faces lit up with toothy smiles of their own.

  “Manuel, find these young fellows some clothing. They are to be fed and treated as dignitaries. Father Lezcano, your assistance with communication would be welcome.”

  In moments the boys sat upon the deck amid officers and crew almost lost in shirts far too large for such juvenile frames and wearing expressions of happy bewilderment. Cabrillo kindly presented them each with a small pouch of glass beads and a few metal fishhooks. These simple gifts delighted the youngsters enough to extract repeated gestures of gratitude. The captain-general then questioned them gently for some time about their people, but he learned little. The boys’ glances toward shore were becoming more frequent, their apprehension growing.

  To Father Lezcano, Cabrillo said, “Come, they must be returned to their parents before their absence causes mischief. The light is fading.”

  “Captain Correa, please return the boys to the place you found them. And do not tarry. I am anxious to hear every aspect about what you saw while exploring.”

  “I will return shortly, sir,” Correa promised.

  Turning to the boys, Cabrillo said, “My young friends, you likely will not understand this, but I want you to take our greetings to your parents.” Father Lezcano signed these last words again and the boys bowed just as they’d seen Cabrillo’s men do.

  Within two hours Correa proved to be as good as his word. Upon the second reunion with the San Miguel, with darkness claiming its transitory right to earth and sky, Cabrillo and Correa met on the flagship, cloistered themselves in the commander’s cabin, and talked into the depths of the night. Only after the captain-general had heard and recorded all that Correa could remember of that day did he bid him a good night, drag himself to his own bunk, and allow his exhausted body and mind to surrender to sleep.

  Pilot San Remón made it a point, as well as an order to the men of the San Salvador, that the captain-general was not to be awakened before dawn. Yet, in the end, it was the pilot himself who called Cabrillo from his dreams at the first sign of light, saying, “I am very sorry to disturb you, sir, but three natives are paddling toward our ship.”

  Rubbing his eyes and then yawning as he tugged on his doublet, Cabrillo asked, “Only three? This sounds hopeful, pilot. Is it the same three we spoke with on the beach?”

  “I believe not, sir.”

  “Perhaps that is even better. Those two boys, God bless them, spread a kind word last night. Let us greet our new visitors properly, eh, pilot? See what the cook has prepared that we can offer them, and have Manuel choose several finer pieces from our trade merchandise.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Paulo appeared at the cabin door with his master’s bucket of water. Beckoning his servant inside, Cabrillo said in parting to their pilot. “I will be on deck shortly.”

  It took few moments before he joined his pilot, Master Uribe, and Father Lezcano just as the men from the canoe were being helped aboard. From their appearance and manner Cabrillo guessed that these three Indians, each taller and broader-chested than the average Spaniard by a couple of inches, had prepared themselves for this encounter with as much understanding of its potential importance as their hosts.

  Their waist-length cloaks, the finest specimens of clothing Cabrillo had seen during the voyage, still brandished the beauty of the animals that had provided skins for their construction. One cloak had been made from the fur of foxes, one from rabbits, and the last had originated from what Cabrillo guessed to be sea otters. From waist to knee they were covered by skirts of woven plant fibers overlain with long eagle feathers. Their hair was also adorned with feathers, the largest array worn by their apparent leader, who also bore the longest cloak. Tied at the throat but spread open across the chest, the cloaks framed wavy horizontal rows of white body paint. Beautifully delicate multicolored shells had been artfully strung to form necklaces and bracelets. Each warrior carried a fur-wrapped bundle secured by a strap slung over his shoulder and resting against his back as he stood before the officers.

  Cabrillo bowed cordially, gestured for them to be seated, and soon had them all arranged in a conversational oval upon the deck. Unlike the previous exchanges with coastal Indians, the speaker of this group attempted communication without any encouragement. It was made clear that the villagers on the beach the day before had discussed their first encounter when their leader hailed the fleet’s commander with, “We greet Chief Cabrillo.”

  Cabrillo bowed, returned the gesture of salutation, and said, “Father Lezcano, will you please use your skill to determine his name?”

  His priest tried, but he received such a lengthy and confusing verbal reply that he had to make a second attempt, and a third. Even then it was quite impossible to divine which syllables were to be used as a polite address. The chief at last simply moved the dialogue along to the topic uppermost in his mind. Using vocalization sparingly, his hands introduced the story now becoming familiar to the seafarers. Father Lezcano managed to gather the following. “They have heard of men like us, sir, from their people in the east. These bearded men, whom they called Guacamal, wore clothing similar to ours. They were also armed as we are with swords and crossbows.” Now the Indian stood and motioned as if he were lifting a lance and thrusting it through an enemy. He then pantomimed a man riding on horseback. Cabrillo nodded his understanding. After sitting down again, the chief observed Cabrillo keenly as he explained through Father Lezcano, “As these warriors made their way inland they kill a great number of our people.”

  Cabrillo’s expression indicated a disapproval of the slayings as he said to Father Lezcano, “Again, I can only guess this was Coronado. Ask him to continue, Father.”

  The Indian went on signing, “These stories made my people fearful. But I have also heard of your visit with the two boys. You offered gifts rather than war, after my men shot arrows at your men. That is not the way of the other bearded ones.”

  Cabrillo nodded in appreciation for this distinction. “Tell him, Father, that we seek his friendship. We invite him and his men to eat with us and to accept our gifts as a sign of this new understanding.”

  These wishes were relayed but the Indian objected, and Father Lezcano explained uncertainly, “He seems to be saying that his people must first make us an acceptable offering.”

  “For what, Father?”

  After several questing exchanges the priest said, “I believe, sir, that he wants to give you something in payment for the men who were wounded last night. He is evidently trying to determine the compensation that must be paid to you. He asks whether the men died.”

  Concealing his surprise, Cabrillo called forward Vargas and the other two men who had been wounded, and Father Lezcano told the chief who they were. The three Indians stood up and closely inspected each man to confirm that the arrows had not inflicted lasting harm. Satisfied, the chief now brought forward his bundle and with obvious reverence withdrew the meticulously tanned skin of an albino deer. He held it out and gravely offered it to Cabrillo.

  Highly impressed by its beauty and rarity, the captain-general accepted the skin by bowing with a formal grace that needed no word of interpretation. He was about to declare the debt between them fully forgiven, but paused. He perceived something in the native’s manner that betrayed an expectation of further bargaining, countering the silent implication that a perfectly adequate compensation had just been offered. This, and the fact that the bundles of the other Indians still rested against their backs, led him to exhibit a look of deep concern. When he spoke, his tone emphasized his wrestling with a dilemma. “Tell him, Father, that we thank him for this uncommon and valuable gift, but the welfare of my men is of greater worth to me than one skin, regardless of it
s beauty.”

  It was evident from the accepting, even approving, expression of the chief that Cabrillo’s response had been anticipated. Like two duelists the native leader and the captain-general now began to maneuver, making one bartering thrust and parry after another, all the while taking in the character and strength of the other. Their expressions began to warm with mutual respect. When at last Cabrillo paused to make a tally of the furs, shells, flint knives, soapstone bowl, and bow and arrows before him, he said to the chief. “Since my men will live, these gifts make me satisfied. The incident of last night will be forgotten.”

  Pleased with this conclusion, the chief bowed in perfect imitation of Cabrillo’s earlier gesture.

  “Now,” said Cabrillo, “I ask that you accept the items we offer from one friend to another.” Not wanting to disturb the balance of fairness that had been established between them, Cabrillo was careful to select only those articles that might be esteemed in reciprocal measure. He had Father Lezcano hand the goods out and watched the wonder and delight of his guests unfold. In moments the Indians stood draped in bright fabric cheerfully ringing small hawk’s bells. The Indian chief approached and embraced Cabrillo, and this well-meaning gesture ignited a round of hugging by his two companions that didn’t ease until the shoulders of every officer and many of the men had been warmly clasped. Manuel bore it with tolerance when he was pulled into the affable clutches of native fingers that slapped and rubbed his black skin with particular fascination.

  At this time the captains of the other ships were invited to join them on the San Salvador for a meal of fried fish flavored with garlic, bean soup, fresh flat bread, and honeyed almonds, all of which the natives seemed to enjoy. During their repast Cabrillo had his scribe record the exchange of basic native words such as “fish,” “boy,” “wood,” “rope,” “knife,” and “hand.” One word, ikuch, seemed to mean leader, man, or warrior. When Cabrillo tentatively referred to the Indian chief by this term, he seemed pleased and was thereafter referred to as Ikuch by the captain-general. As the meal progressed, good-natured banter, both verbal and manual, flowed across the deck with increasing frequency.