The others began to disperse, and Cabrillo found a moment to eye Manuel again. “Heaven help you, man. If you were a horse I would say you have been ridden nearly to death.”
“That is not so very far from the truth, sir. I’m bone tired.”
“You are not trying to say you regret last night?”
“Well, no, sir, I can’t say such a thing as that. I am sorry if what I did was sinful, but a man could have no pleasanter duty on earth.” Glancing up at the group of Indians that seemed unable to shift its attention away from him, Manuel added, “I must admit, sir, being watched by so many while... while a man is... well, it makes things more uneasy than it ought to be.”
“Uneasy. Yes, I am sure it would. Still,” he nodded toward Manuel’s clustered admirers, “all signs point to your having performed admirably under trying conditions.” Cabrillo’s devilish tone pulled an embarrassed smile from Manuel.
“Come, there will be no rest for anyone today, especially not you. The men must be given no excuse to foster their envy of your exploits. There is work enough for all if we are to finish repairing the ships before we can depart. And, Manuel, do not let the day pass without confessing before Father Lezcano. Our priest particularly desires to perform absolutions today.”
Manuel’s smile dissolved into an expression of dread. “Yes, sir, I’ll confess everything, but that may take quite a little time.”
Cabrillo chuckled softly and clapped Manuel on the back as they went to join their men.
The routines of scraping, caulking, washing, sealing, oiling, patching, carving, trimming, and knotting continued in earnest with every hand put to good use. Manuel was so constantly bombarded with prodding and questioning by his fellow crewmen that Cabrillo finally decided he’d had enough. At mid-afternoon he set off with Dr. Fuentes, Father Lezcano, Manuel, two village healers, and a small contingent of guards to scout the surrounding area for native foods and medicinal herbs. As they hiked along well-worn paths Cabrillo listened attentively to the descriptions of a valley many miles inland where maize and game were plentiful. Farther still, he was told, a tall mountain range divided the landscape, and he recorded these along with every other discovery made during their frequent stops to collect plants.
To Dr. Fuentes and Cabrillo’s fascination, plant life here was almost limitless in how it provided medicinal benefits to the Indians skilled in their use. They saw only a few species that the natives described along their track, since much of the medicinal flora was acquired by trading with tribes to the north and east. But upon their return to the village, they were shown many more curatives in their dried state. Cabrillo and his physician learned that the leaves of maple trees, wild ginger, giant hyssop, ragweed, columbine, the roots and leaves of yarrow, the twigs of greasewood, the leaves and bark of alder trees, the needles and bark of fir trees, the roots and juice of angelica, the blossoms of cottonweed, the juice of milkweed, the roots of balsam, as well as the parts of seemingly countless other plants held medicinal secrets. By the time they returned to the ships, Cabrillo’s notes and drawings filled five pages of his parchment.
Upon his arrival at the beach he could plainly see that the other officers had done a fine job of keeping the men to their tasks. Already the ships presented themselves more respectably. If the work continued at this pace, they should be able to set sail the day after tomorrow.
Espying Cabrillo, Captain Ferrelo approached him and said eagerly, “Captain-General, I have been studying the construction of the native canoes, and I would like to share a discovery. Will you come with me, sir?”
They walked with a few Chumash men to the side of a plank canoe, where Captain Ferrelo crouched down and pointed to the seams. “Look at the sealant, sir. If I understand the natives correctly, they call it yop and it is a mixture of pine pitch and an ingredient called chapopote. The quality seems extraordinary, sir, much better than pitch alone.”
Cabrillo ran his hands over the tightly joined lines, noting with fascination the tough flexibility of the black sealant. “Where does the second ingredient come from, Captain Ferrelo?”
“I will be happy to show you, sir.”
They didn’t have far to go before stopping beside a pool of smelly, shiny, thick, black goo. Cabrillo asked in amazement, “It just seeps from the ground?”
“It does, sir. There are a number of these springs nearby.”
Cabrillo bent down and touched the tip of his fingers at the edge of the pool, then rubbed the warm tar-like substance between them, evaluating its elasticity and strength. “This is a marvel, Captain Ferrelo. A true marvel.”
He stood and questioned a native about the durability of the sealant, and the response was enthusiastic gestures meaning, “Strong! Good!”
“I have noticed that they use the yop to seal more than canoes, sir,” said Ferrelo. “They turn large abalone shells into bowls and tightly woven baskets into drinking bottles. It seems to be highly serviceable.”
“Then it is worth investigating further. Attempt to trade for a number of barrels so we can test it thoroughly, Captain. Use it on a launch first. If it withstands the sea well, as it appears it will, we will seal the ships with it.”
To Cabrillo’s caulkers’ delight, the people of Wocha’s village willingly accepted several pairs of scissors in exchange for the asphaltum and helped load two barrels aboard each ship.
Hoping to repay a portion of Wocha’s magnanimity, Cabrillo invited the chief and two men of his choosing to dine with him, his captains, and his priests that evening. So large a company crowded the snug cabin and makeshift table but all who gathered proved themselves most congenial, especially his officers after taking up their small glasses of wine. At Wocha’s first taste of the deep crimson liquid, Cabrillo could see that the chief was trying politely to hide his unfavorable reaction. Much more to his liking was the salty smoothness of Cabrillo’s esteemed olives, as well as the sweet crustiness of a baked dessert filled with spiced ground almonds. Wocha had contributed to the feast by bringing maguey, fresh clams, and fish aboard. And although Cabrillo had noticed that the natives generally ate their fish raw, the chief was cordial enough to allow his catches to be cooked by Paulo. He even made a show of approving of the garlic-flavored outcome. Having no appreciation for how to cook the maguey leaves in anything like an impressive manner, Paulo tactfully placed these out of sight.
More fascinating to the chief than the food were the dishes and trays it was served on. He fingered and eyed each piece of silver, glass, and china within his range, especially his delicate glass wine chalice. Much to the chief’s delight, Cabrillo offered him this goblet for his small collection. To reciprocate, Wocha removed the finest of his shell necklaces and handed it to his host.
“Here, now,” said Cabrillo, truly moved, “this is something I shall indeed treasure. I shall think of you, Wocha, every time I look at it.” Pleasing the chief even more than the sincerity of his words, Cabrillo tied the decoration around his neck and patted it proudly.
Between bites and drinks, the captain-general questioned Wocha further about the surrounding land and people. Wocha responded freely, sharing that many Chumash villages such as his lined the shores to the north. He described the terrain, flora, and fauna that they could expect to find. Tantalizingly, he spoke of the great river to the far north, and Cabrillo prayed that it was actually the mouth of the strait that ran all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, not a mere river.
Having noticed a small nugget that served as a decorative plug in one of Wocha’s ears, Cabrillo now asked about the location of any gold in the vicinity.
The chief explained thoughtfully, “My people trade for small pieces of the sun stone but it has little value. It is too soft to make a good knife. Others bring it here from far inland.”
This explanation held no real surprise, since very little gold had been seen among Wocha’s people.
As the table was being cleared the discussion turned to the topic that evidently most fascinated Wocha. �
��Tell me more about your one God,” he signed. “What are his powers? Why does he wish you to place the cross on the beach? How are men chosen to serve him?”
Fathers Gamboa and Lezcano gladly spent some time answering these and other questions about their faith, providing Wocha with a great deal to contemplate. As the lamp wicks shortened with the evening, Cabrillo drew their conversation to a close. “We have much work tomorrow, Wocha.”
The chief asked, “Do you need help with your work, Cabrillo?”
“With the trading, Wocha. We must gather all that is needed so that our ships may leave in two days. Also, you have seen our horses. I wish to bring them ashore, but they must only be handled by my men. Can this be done?”
Wocha said, “My people will only watch. They will not touch your animals.” He then looked up at Manuel, who had been among those silently waiting on them. “I have heard that many children may be born to mark the coming of your people. I hope their skin will be the color of the night sky.”
Manuel had the grace to remain soundless as he studied the walls of the chamber. When Cabrillo shifted his gaze and noticed the reddening of Mateo’s sun bronzed cheeks, he realized that even the boy had understood what Manuel had been up to ashore.
The captain-general rose from his seat and parted cordially from his guests, and after they’d left Mateo was allowed to fall asleep in the corner. Only Manuel, Father Lezcano, and Cabrillo lingered to talk awhile longer.
“I offer my congratulations on such a successful evening, sir,” said Father Lezcano.
“Successful? In many respects, yes, but I doubt Governor Mendoza would deem it so. What of the Seven Cities of Gold? How far must we sail before we hear corroborative word of it? And yet, if the river Wocha described to us is the Strait of Anián, its discovery might prove more valuable than mountains of gold.”
Cabrillo toyed with the burgundy liquor in his glass, swirling it gently and watching the play of the lamplight within and around it. He took a sip and said to Father Lezcano, “Your interpreting skills are improving greatly, my dear priest. I find myself hoping we meet many more of these Indians along our way.”
“Simply because of my interpreting talents, sir?”
Cabrillo smiled, saying, “The abundance of their generosity is very welcome as well. And I appreciate their obvious intelligence.”
“They do possess that, sir, but some of their ways are incomprehensible to me. I have been wondering, when we first met Wocha, when you declined accepting one of his women and he offered you the youth instead, you seemed little shocked by his proposal. Was I mistaken?”
“No, Father, I was not surprised. I have read about this custom before. Hernando de Alarcón’s reports were quite explicit on the subject, which he observed in a village along the Colorado River.”
“It must be widespread if it extends so far.”
“Evidently so. According to Alarcón, the son of the village chief was one of four men chosen to serve his people by offering himself carnally. These few men were strictly forbidden from having sex with women but had to make themselves available to every marriageable young man of the area. They received no payment but were welcome to take whatever they needed for survival from any house in the village. When one of them died, the next male child born was named as his successor and reared for that specific role. This custom is evidently meant to secure the virginity of their unmarried women, and it may succeed to some extent.”
Father Lezcano harrumphed and said, “Their goal is set at a disgraceful price, sir.”
“Not to them. Perhaps this tradition so astonishes our own people because it is carried out very openly. And yet, we cannot deny that sexual interactions have occurred between some men of the sea and of our land too, for that matter, since time began.”
“But, sir, such activity can not be condoned.”
“Trysts of any kind can cause trouble on a ship, and the law in this case is clear. Our faith and our society denounce such a practice, but to these people it is useful, even admirable.”
Father Lezcano shook his head and tactfully turned the topic back to the language of the Chumash before a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” said Cabrillo.
Pilot San Remón closed the door behind him, bowed, and said reluctantly, “Captain-General, a man was just caught sleeping on watch.”
Cabrillo’s chest sank an inch, but he asked with resignation. “Who was it?”
“Young Battista, sir.”
“Curse him, he is a good man.”
“Yes, sir, and he has been working like a mule lately. He was exhausted, sir.”
“You know as well as I, and as well as he, that the punishment is firmly set for a man who sleeps at his post, even while at anchor-watch in a friendly port.”
“I do know it, sir. It is my hope that some flexibility may lie only in the length of his punishment. A man is usually assigned to the bergantine’s oars for a month, but in this case...”
Sighing heavily, Cabrillo said, “There can be no exceptions, pilot, not for anyone.”
Pilot San Remón accepted this judgment with a solemn yet acquiescing bow. “He will be rowed to the San Miguel at once, Captain-General.” He turned to depart.
“Pilot,” Cabrillo said, halting him at the door. “I will not be opposed to Captain Correa being discretely encouraged to spare the lash and the chains on his newest crewmember.”
An expression of restrained gratitude and relief accompanied another bow as Pilot San Remón left the cabin to deliver this unusually light sentence.
At dawn, however, the men of the San Salvador found themselves ruing Battista’s absence and their own added workload due to his assignment to the San Miguel. Cabrillo pushed himself as hard as his men, taking little time to rest as he oversaw the final preparations of repair and departure. It didn’t help matters that the day turned unseasonably hot, making every exertion more draining. Two men passed out under the dehydrating sun, causing Cabrillo to order water delivered to each man in a timely manner. The sun did not relent until it settled low in its resting place, and the fading light offered the most relief the men had known in days. In Cabrillo’s cabin it was almost too hot to eat, and he picked at his food with little interest.
When the evening hour of eight was called out, Cabrillo climbed to the stern deck looking almost as limp as his men. “Get some sleep, pilot,” he said to the young officer he relieved, and there was no hesitation in following this command. Cabrillo gazed down upon Mateo standing at the waist of the ship, chatting now and then with Father Lezcano and scanning the water between the island and the railing. He had toiled without complaint right along with the men today. He was a fine boy, a boy to take pride in.
As the darkness deepened and a cooling breeze began to stir, Cabrillo blessed the feel of its breath upon his skin. What a peaceful night, he thought, as serene and gentle as it had been punishingly hot just hours before. As he mused about Wocha and his people, their land and their village, he turned to face the stern rail and let his glance skim his other two ships.
At the sound of a loud splash off the starboard side of the San Salvador he hurried to that railing and peered over. Someone had gone overboard and was splashing and sputtering below. He was about to issue an order to those now rushing to investigate, but he saw that Father Lezcano was already lowering the rope ladder. Cabrillo reached the priest as a coughing Mateo grabbed the bottom rung and began to climb. At his captain-general’s interrogating stare, Father Lezcano said, “The boy was leaning over the side to check the anchor line, sir. He lost his hold and fell. All is well now, sir.”
Cabrillo studied his priest for a moment, then muttered, “Please remain with me, Father. You other men, back to your posts.”
As they shuffled away Mateo threw his leg over the railing and landed before Cabrillo looking almost as shamefaced as he was wet. In an undertone not meant for the ears of the rest of the crew, Cabrillo said, “Father Lezcano told me you were leaning over the
railing and lost your hold, Mateo.” The lad couldn’t quite meet his uncle’s eyes. This was answer enough. Rather than pressing him further, Cabrillo addressed the priest. “Strange, Father, that a boy would investigate an anchor line at such a time of night and from such a poor angle.” He shifted his concentrated gaze from one to the other. “It is fortunate indeed that Mateo is a good swimmer, otherwise such an accident could have proved fatal,” he said, his tongue lingering slightly on the word “accident”.
Father Lezcano said in a very low tone, “I am certain the boy will be more careful in the future, Captain-General.”
“He had better,” said Cabrillo, his expression driving home the point. “It is time both of you returned to your watch.” He turned aside and made his way back to the stern deck.
Neither Mateo nor Father Lezcano uttered a word for a quarter of an hour. Then Mateo edged closer and whispered, “Thank you, Father. I promise it shall never happen again.”
“It must not, Mateo. If you ever feel sleep taking you again, remember tonight. Think of the slap of that water, and if that is not enough, think of the oars you could have been chained to.”
“Before God, I will, Father. With all my soul I will.”
Chapter 14
CHANGE IN THE AIR
There was barely enough early light to see where to take a step, but this didn’t keep Cabrillo from having all hands rousted to prepare for departure. The flurry of activity brought scores of Chumash to the beach and drew Wocha and his small native contingency to the flagship. Cabrillo welcomed and thanked him sincerely for his kindnesses during their stay.
Placing a hand on the captain-general’s shoulder, Wocha said, “Chief Cabrillo will stay in my heart until I see him again. We will share stories of this visit for many, many seasons.”
“I hope to return, Wocha, but that is in the hands of God.”
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 20
