Not long after the two species had parted, Chumash canoes appeared and came to glide sociably along with the fleet. The sun had just passed its zenith when Cabrillo spied a thickly inhabited harbor where a considerable river emptied into the sea and he ordered the fleet toward it. Sailing nearer, he could see that the river separated two evidently distinct villages, where each settlement layout and home construction differed, some houses possessing gabled roofs rather than the more common domes. With his curiosity highly piqued, he was impatient to settle into a comfortable anchorage and find an explanation.
By the time the ships floated sedately at rest and before Cabrillo had a chance to take to his launch, visitors from both villages were arriving and being welcomed aboard. And they didn’t come empty-handed. Within a quarter-hour so many loads of fine sardines had been offered in trade that Cabrillo decided to name the place Pueblo de las Sardinas.
After assisting with the initial flurry of goodwill trading and gift distribution Father Lezcano stepped closer to Cabrillo and voiced his surprising conclusion, “Sir, the people from each village have their own diverse language.”
“It seems so to me also, but I hear remnants of the Chumash dialect from each group.”
“Yes, sir, but the words of villagers on the southeastern bank of the river are more familiar to me. Thankfully, their clothing helps to keep them separated for communication.”
As the genial tumult continued on deck, Cabrillo gazed ashore and considered the distinction of habitat, dress, and language in fascination. This was certainly not the first time they’d come upon Indians speaking distinctive languages. On the contrary, they seemed to have discovered a different language, or at least a different dialect, in nearly every village between Pueblo de las Canoas and this place but never within such intimate proximity. How could each group cling to a cultural uniqueness while living within a stone’s throw from one another? Then again, he considered, perhaps it was not so very unlike some ancient towns in Spain where divergent ethnicities coexisted tolerably well.
He remembered natives they’d met in southern locations telling him repeatedly about wars arising, not uncommonly, between subtribes. Could violent conflicts have contributed to the history of even these two villages? Carefully observing the posturing of both groups and detecting no tensions between them, he concluded that this was unlikely. However, with even the possibility of underlying discord being roused aboard his ships, he quickly organized boarding parties and headed them for the nearest shore. There, he and his delegation began exercising détente in a more structured manner, on one side of the river and then on the other.
Gifts and hospitality proved to be great equalizers. Chiefs of the same stature were honored in the same measure. Trade was divided equally and fairly. By evening, both villages seemed content to have three Spanish ships afloat in their bay.
Although human relations had been kept adequately balanced, to Cabrillo’s growing disappointment he had learned little from either clan of new people beside the assertion that farther to the north the natives used much larger canoes. Sitting in his cabin with just his priest, he mused aloud, “Why would northern tribes need larger canoes, Father? To haul larger goods? Perhaps to transport some of those monstrous trees I have been hoping to come across? Or do they use them to travel longer distances out to sea? I hesitate to voice this hope, but perhaps they are needed to cross a stretch of water that reaches China?”
Father Lezcano said, “I sorely wish, sir, that I had been able to make your questions understandable to the Indians. I have provided you with nothing but speculation and hope.”
“The fault is not yours, dear priest. The natives may have no answers to offer even if they understood us well. But this damnable uncertainty of the distance to our goal fires the need to advance without any unnecessary delay.” He cleared his gloomy brow and asked with a lighter expression, “How about a stroll on the quarterdeck? I can listen for signs from nature while you speak with God.”
As he stared up at the twinkling night lights and then out at the endless sheen of ocean he heard only whispered warnings to push ahead.
The day that followed delivered such amiable weather that Cabrillo mentally chastised himself for brooding over imagined omens. The fleet was making good time before fair winds and the only clouds in the brilliant sky were high and widely scattered. His mood continued to lighten as he took closer note of the natives traveling along with the fleet, paddling tirelessly between the many coastal villages they passed. Those bold enough to come aboard were welcomed and rewarded.
To Cabrillo’s fascination, one Indian accepted a handful of beads with great solemnity and then proceeded to unwind his waist-length hair and remove a small wooden dagger that had held it in place. He offered the dagger to Cabrillo in two outstretched hands. The captain-general received it with thanks and asked him to demonstrate how he had bound his hair. Seeming pleased by the request, the man gathered and twisted his thick hair into a large knot, wrapped it round and round with a long stretch of twine, and used the dagger to secure two sides of this bundle to his scalp just above the nape.
Cabrillo was so impressed by this feat that he presented the elated native with a pouch filled with beads of every color.
After the man had returned to his canoe, Cabrillo said to his pilot and his priest, “By heaven, some of our own men have hair long enough to be bound in such a manner. It might prove not only more convenient but safer under some conditions. And, in case of need, a dagger would always be at hand.”
Pilot San Remón raised a dubious brow but didn‘t vocally object to even so wild an idea when it came from his commander while on deck.
Father Lezcano, noting the pilot’s hesitation, said, “Why, Captain-General, what a splendid idea. My vows allow me only short hair, of course, but the use of twine and daggers by our men with hair, say, something of the length of our good pilot, would be most advantageous.”
San Remón darted a firm stare at Father Lezcano but otherwise refused to acknowledge such taunting, which he felt the ship’s priest dispensed too freely and too often in his direction.
Cabrillo successfully hid his amusement at this light dueling between the young men. Yet he didn’t seem able to keep from pointing out every new variety of regional dagger he spotted throughout the day. “Look, pilot, this one is so cleverly made of ivory. How finely this dagger has been chipped from flint! Did you see the carved images on this wooden blade?” San Remón somehow managed to maintain his diplomatic silence on the subject.
That evening, however, he quietly drew the ship’s physician aside and asked him to act as his barber. A short time later the pilot reappeared on deck to reveal that his locks had been shorn to a previously unseen shortness, and Father Lezcano’s expression drooped as he muttered, “You have dashed my hopes of ever seeing a Chumash pilot.”
Such lighthearted diversions were unwillingly swept from the captain-general’s mind by the coolness in the breeze that greeted him near the end of his night watch. This midnight held winter in its breath. He could not disregard its imminence.
At daybreak the ships pushed up the westward curving coast but the chilly wind discouraged any canoes from offering companionship. With Cabrillo pushing his men to exert considerable effort to gain each mile, the hour of ten found them approaching what he judged to be the westernmost point they must conquer. From their present viewpoint several men voiced the opinion that the cape took on the shape of a galleon, so it was named Galera.
With noon came a strengthening of the wind and frustratingly little forward progress, and Cabrillo started silently formulating many less flattering names for the cape that taunted them. The weather grew fouler still as they pushed on, and he finally gave the order to break out the heavy jackets. Bracing their stances against the whipping drafts, Cabrillo and Pilot San Remón took out an astrolabe to read the sun and attempted to calculate their present latitude. Though gauging the elevation of old Sol as it flitted from behind shifting clo
uds proved difficult, they concluded at last that their location was now 36° north of the equator. “From here,” said the captain-general, “some questions become more nagging. How much colder will it grow before we can drop southward again? And, how long will we have to endure whatever winter brings?”
For hours they inched along the cape toiling to clear the point that lay a few miles ahead, but the wind mercilessly blasted them back time and again, and the men were growing exhausted. Grudgingly, bitterly giving up every wave they had just conquered, Cabrillo finally accepted that they had no choice but to bow before nature’s insistence and turn their ships in retreat. They must head back in the direction of the island they had named San Lucas. He took a strengthening breath before bellowing the order to alter their course into the face of the wind.
As the gale strengthened and the swells rose higher, the fleet turned and flew to the south. Resigned now, Cabrillo kept his eyes peering forward and altered their course to cut through the waves as smoothly as possible. Now, they must find shelter.
When the lookout from La Victoria cried out, “Land ahead, sir!” his young voice blew forward to Cabrillo as a shrill wail, and the captain-general’s eyes swept the horizon. There, beneath the low swirling clouds in the distance, it waited. Drawing closer, he discovered that what lay before them were two separate islands rather than the one they had presumed from their earlier remoteness. The larger spread east to west, and he quickly estimated it to be twenty miles long; the lesser one, only half that length. He squinted to see the small island more clearly through the whipping air but could tell little.
“We will sail for the smaller island,” Cabrillo shouted to his pilot, shipmaster, and priest. “Pray that she has a snug anchorage.”
Whether in answer to their prayers or because of a turn of fortune, that late afternoon Cabrillo led his ships through a defiantly rocky reef, past a high-backed sentry rock large enough to consume several ships, and into a moderately sized but deeply cut harbor on the north side of the island.
Once the ships had drawn well inside and been tucked up close to the western arcing boundary of the port, the men of all three ships wiped their slickened brows, scanned their short-term home, and gave sincere thanks for the protectiveness offered by the 500-foot ridge-line that surrounded them. Their next immediate thoughts turned to whomever might own the many canoes that dotted the shore. For several moments, not a soul could be seen.
While he, too, was watchful of the beach, Cabrillo let himself take another moment to appreciate the qualities of the bay. Here, the bluster of the wind was cut to little more than a huff, and its cry was muffled to a moan. The harbor allowed the three ships to nestle safely enough but provided little room for wasteful maneuvering. With the tightness of their quarters in mind, and eyeing the sentry rock with wariness, Cabrillo issued the order to lower double anchors for the night.
As the ships were being tied down he saw things starting to move ashore. One native appeared from the protection of a sand dune, and then another, and another. The slowly gathering Indians walked to their canoes but didn’t slide them into the water. Showing no eagerness to approach the ships, they stood absorbedly assessing their visitors.
Cabrillo could spot no weapon of any kind, yet the manner of the islanders was far from welcoming, and bows and arrows could easily be hidden in the sand or canoes. The situation brought to mind the favorite saying of a tutor who’d instructed him as a restless youth, and he muttered aloud, “Precautions are wise companions.” Without giving any sign of hurry or concern, he called out to Vargas, “Sergeant-major.”
“Yes, Captain-General.” Vargas said, his voice as calm as Cabrillo’s.
“Discreetly distribute arms to ten of your men but have them held out of view.”
“Yes, sir. Should Cardenas bring up the war dogs?”
“Definitely not.” Turning slightly toward the next man he sought, he said, “Master Gunner, quietly ready the swivel guns.”
Pilot San Remón, Master Uribe, Father Lezcano, Manuel, and Mateo had joined Cabrillo one by one and had added their eyes to the staring match between the Indians and the men of the fleet. The captain-general surrendered his scrutiny long enough to glance toward his sister ships and happened to catch Captain Ferrelo’s eye. His captain’s expression showed the same evaluating supposition that tugged at Cabrillo. Then, Ferrelo moved his shoulders in a subtle shrug, and again their attention turned to the island.
Cabrillo began evaluating the turn of the tide, the break of the waves upon the beach, the location of potentially dangerous rocks, and many other variables that might affect landing. The ruggedly descending slopes came nearly to the water’s edge, leaving only a short southerly beach that was flanked on its left side by a long sand dune about two fathoms high and on the right by a tightly wedged collection of large boulders. Visually following the curve of the bay around to the right and gazing beyond his prow, Cabrillo beheld the first sentinels of a sizeable sea lion herd that was noisily voicing its displeasure at the intrusion of the fleet. Again he reverted his consideration to the natives, who continued to reveal neither arms nor ill intentions.
“Well,” he said, “someone must be the first to offer an outstretched hand. Pilot, the watch is yours.”
Vargas, Father Lezcano, and his rowers accompanied Cabrillo as they headed to a fully armed launch. While Manuel handed their commander his helmet and boarded with the others, Vargas said quietly aside to the captain-general, “You have undoubtedly considered this, sir, but that sand dune could hide many warriors. Their arrows could easily reach us on the beach.”
“Yes, a perfect opportunity for an ambush.”
“The rest of your armor, sir...”
“Judging from the way the surf is breaking, we may have to swim a few strokes to reach the beach. As I have already told Manuel, today we will count on caution rather than armor.”
Theirs and two boats from the other ships pushed away together but Cabrillo’s launch held the lead position. As was his practice, he had the two captains send chosen officers ashore rather than allowing all of the fleet’s commanders exposed to harm at once.
“Watch closely, men,” Cabrillo ordered the rowers stroking with their backs to the island, “and pull for the ship if I give any sign.”
As the boats neared the beach an apparent leader of the group stepped forward and lifted his arm to slice the air in a cautioning rather than welcoming gesture. Several of his people repeated the signal. Cabrillo read no indication of direct challenge, merely a bold defensive warning, as if to say, “Beware! We can return whatever harm you might inflict.”
The captain-general stood slowly in the boat and offered the gesture he had learned for “friend.” The islanders lowered their arms but did not reciprocate the sign of goodwill.
Vargas, fearless during the deadliest of times, let his tone convey his mistrust of their circumstances as he muttered, “Captain-General.”
“Yes, sergeant-major, just a little closer. Slowly on, men.”
Vargas kept his hand on his musket as the boat nudged toward the beach.
Even as the sailors neared, the faces of the Indians revealed none of their intentions and very little of their concerns. But the islanders had held themselves back from the water line, and Cabrillo took this as a positive restraint. He now made his decision and, after ordering the other boats to hold their positions, said to his rowers, “Take me in, men.” From the corner of his eye he saw Vargas about to voice an objection, but a subtle gaze stilled it. His boat pulled forward.
Only a few hard strokes were needed to drive his boat within three yards of the sand. Still the Indians did not move. He ordered the men to steady the boat. Leaving his crossbow behind, armed only with the sword at his belt, and protected by no more than his metal helmet and leather breastplate, Cabrillo swung his legs over the side of the launch and fought the chest-high waves to shore. Immediately behind him, Manuel, Vargas, and six soldiers carefully held their firearms above
the water as they and Father Lezcano leaped from the boat. The remaining rowers quickly pulled the lightened boat ashore and stood at its side, within an arm’s reach of their crossbows.
Cabrillo now could see that light bows and quivers did indeed lie in the sand beside most of the native men. At his approach only two Indians picked up their weapons, but these men set no arrows to their strings. Locking his gaze on the Indian chief while maintaining an awareness of the others, Cabrillo, with Father Lezcano and Manuel a step behind him, walked forward until the space separating him and the natives diminished to fifteen feet.
The chief, flanked by two younger men who were likely his sons, studied Cabrillo keenly. This island leader gave no indication of his emotions, whether amazement, fear, or curiosity, but his natural shrewdness could not be hidden. As were most aboriginal chiefs that Cabrillo had met, this one was past middle age, yet he looked to be far from frail as he stood eye to eye with the captain-general. He wore his gray streaked hair tied up at the back of his head, giving his strong-boned face a roughhewn impression. His long loincloth and fur-skin cape had been decorated with the exquisite care generally shown only to those who are both loved and respected. The elaborate shell and stone beading that fanned his chest was the most beautiful Cabrillo had seen on his entire voyage.
There was palpable tension in the faces and bodies around them, a sharp narrowing of the eyes that gave Cabrillo pause, but he worked to hide his own disquiet. With great respect, and with Father Lezcano’s assistance, Cabrillo addressed their ruler. “We greet you and your people, chief. I am Cabrillo, chief of these ships, and I have come in the name of our most honored leader, King Charles of Spain.”
After a curt nod of acknowledgment the chieftain said, using widely recognized Indian signs but another dialect unfamiliar to the seamen, “We have heard of you, Chief of the Great Canoes.” A few of his warriors shifted uneasily but the chief continued, his face communicating as expressively as his hands and arms. “It is said that you are a friend of the Chumash, but what is said is not always true.” There was a marked defensiveness in his voice, the tone of a man determined to protect his people. It suggested the possibility of recent attacks made against them, or of other hardships inflicted by outsiders.
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 22
