“Not yet.”
Every eye moved to Cabrillo’s leg as the doctor took a serrated knife from his chest and began to cut away the boot. As Dr. Fuentes eased the sliced footwear from the leg, blood spilled onto the bunk and decking, and he was forced to call upon every year he’d practiced medicine, every unwelcome diagnosis he’d had to make, in order to conceal his reaction from the patient. His effort to keep his face blank was wasted, however, since Cabrillo and every other soul in that chamber could see the damage for themselves. A couple of inches above the ankle the splintered shinbone protruded from the torn muscle and skin in three places. The unsupported foot would have twisted unnaturally inward if the doctor had not held it steady, quickly grabbed a roll of linen bandages, and braced it in place.
Standing back in the corner Paulo grew ashen and slid slowly into an awkward sitting position on the floor. For a moment, no one else moved. It was Cabrillo who spoke first, “What can you do, doctor?”
Dr. Fuentes said, “There are two choices, sir. I can reset the leg...”
“How?”
The physician was unable to evade a slight pause. “I can open the area around the break and move the bone sections into their proper placement, and then I would bind the muscles and skin around the bone.”
“Or?”
“Or I can remove the leg, sir.”
“Which do you recommend?”
“The chance of festering will be less if I take the leg, Captain-General.”
Cabrillo closed his eyes for a moment, then, to the surprise of all except Manuel, he said, “I believe my left arm is also broken, just below the shoulder. Will you examine it now, doctor?”
Dr. Fuentes and Manuel removed Cabrillo’s coat and shirt with great care, and it was now easy to see that his arm was already swollen and reddening. After the doctor had gently probed and maneuvered the elbow and shoulder, he concluded, “I can not tell with certainty, sir. It may indeed be broken or just badly bruised.”
“And if it is broken?”
“It would be best to splint it, sir.”
“Is there a chance it will fester also?”
After another unwilling hesitation, he said, “Yes, sir, a chance.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Sir, I should operate as soon as possible. The longer the wound remains open, the more blood will be lost and the greater the chance of corruption.”
To his pilot, Cabrillo asked, “How long until noon?”
“About two hours, sir.”
Cabrillo could hear horses’ hooves upon the deck below, a reassuring sound. “If I choose to keep the leg, Dr. Fuentes, how long will the surgery take?”
“Sir, it would be preferable to—”
“How long?”
“The pain must first be dulled by spirits, sir, and then the surgery itself could take an hour or more.” He couldn’t keep from adding, “Amputation would be quicker, sir.”
“And afterward I would be intoxicated or unconscious,” Cabrillo muttered. “Then, doctor, wrap the leg to slow the flow of blood. The rest must wait until the Chumash have left.”
“But, sir—” said the doctor, Father Lezcano, and Pilot San Remón almost at once.
Cabrillo weakly waved their concerns away with his right hand. “I have witnessed scores of surgeries, and I have seen men recover from worse injuries than these. Since it will be much more difficult to lead this fleet to Asia with only one leg, you must try to save the injured one. You may operate immediately after the punishment concludes.” He kept to himself the awareness that he could die during any form of surgery, and this he could not risk until the Chumash had seen justice carried out, and his fleet was out of danger.
Dr. Fuentes bowed his head in submission and began to set out the wrappings and bindings he would need.
“You have been studying the cures of the Indians, doctor. I ask you to consider their methods of healing as well as ours.”
“Yes, Captain-General.”
Now Cabrillo, his words slowing at last under the weight of his torment, he said, “Manuel, I will take a glass of sherry while Dr. Fuentes gathers his supplies.”
As the doctor studied the leg wound closely, Captain Ferrelo appeared at the cabin door and reported, “Viento and Seguro are safely aboard, sir. The mares are being transported now. There was no trouble bringing them off the island.”
“Very good, Captain, very good.” The first gulps of sherry were already warming his limbs but had done little to reduce the pain, and even the smallest movements made by Dr. Fuentes as he wiped the blood from around the wound required a clamping of Cabrillo’s jaws to keep him from moaning. When the doctor reached for more bandages, Cabrillo said, “Master Uribe, Pilot San Remón, please prepare the ship for our visitors. The rest of you, I would like a moment alone with Captain Ferrelo.” Dr. Fuentes was about to protest, but Cabrillo added, “Only a moment, doctor, and then you may finish.”
When the door closed behind them, Captain Ferrelo faced Cabrillo squarely, forced himself to study the broken leg, and said, “I can guess why you wish to speak with me, sir. You want me to take command of the fleet in the event your death appears imminent. Do not ask me, sir. I have never disobeyed one of your orders, but I will refuse to accept your death or take command until I see the saints come down from heaven to carry you off.”
Cabrillo could almost smile. “Heaven, eh? And the look of this leg does not discourage you?”
“As you told the doctor, sir, I have seen worse. Men without your strength and purpose have lived with little more than a limp after such a hurt. You survived the wounds you suffered while fighting with Cortés, and many battles since then. This is just one more.”
“Very well, Bartolomé,” he said, his tone heavy with affection, “I will do my best not to die. I hate to think of the fright you would endure if a horde of saints appeared on deck to carry me off. Now, attend to your duties and let my doctor return to his bandaging.”
Chapter 25
A PRAYER WITH FATHER LEZCANO
After Captain Ferrelo departed, Dr. Fuentes did his best to stanch the blood still seeping from Cabrillo’s elevated leg. With Manuel’s help he padded it well with linen and wrapped it in several layers of bandages. When he’d finished, however, he could rally little faith that his ministrations would impede the flow for long. Cabrillo lay back and rested for a while, but then neither blood nor pain could stop him from calling Manuel to help him up and appearing on deck when Matipuyaut and his large party of warriors boarded the San Salvador. Although Father Lezcano, Dr. Fuentes, and Manuel remained watchfully at hand, Cabrillo had lost too much blood to trust his ability to brace himself upright for long, and he sat pale but relatively alert in his wooden chair. His stomach had managed to keep down the sherry, and he was hoping the liquor would help him endure his wounds until the punishments had been carried out.
Moments after Matipuyaut’s arrival Captain Correa’s launch came to the flagship, his accompanying prisoners grim in their chains. The shackled men needed assistance to board, which was given none too gently by the San Salvador’s crew, and as they stood before the assembly Gaspar’s face showed defiance but the others’ eyes were unwilling to meet Cabrillo’s.
The Captain-General asked, “What is the sentence, Captain Correa?”
“For Gaspar, Captain-General, sixty lashes and for the others, half that number. With your permission, sir, Gaspar will go last.”
Cabrillo and several others had seen men die under such castigation, but the sailors had put the satisfaction of their own lust above the safety of the entire fleet, not to mention the injury they’d done to the island women and their families, and such a penalty was not too harsh. He was not about to overrule Captain Correa’s decision. Too much was at stake. “Father Lezcano,” he said, “please translate the sentence for Matipuyaut and his people.”
As he did so, the warriors shifted uncertainly, never having witnessed any kind of public physical punishment and not fully
comprehending what was about to take place. They didn’t have long to wait before becoming all too aware. The first of five men was led to the mainmast, his wrist shackles tied to a line, his arms hoisted high above his head, and his feet braced as far apart as the chains allowed. At Correa’s signal the San Miguel’s well-muscled boatswain stepped forward wearing an expression more fervent than reluctant and carrying his long-handled cat-of-nine-tails. Cabrillo never allowed a man to be flogged with a cat that had been made lethal by tying metal fragments to the ends of each leather strip, as many captains did, and even this occasion would be no exception. Even without the brutal enhancements, when the boatswain swept his arm back and then whipped it forward the nine knotted tentacles hit the bare back with a sharp “snap” that sliced into the flesh of the sailor. His piercing cry mingled with the stunned exclamations of the Chumash but the boatswain was already making his next swing. As the first few blows fell, most of the native faces showed satisfaction at the harshness with which their women were being avenged, but as the assault continued to rain down and thin crimson streams flowed in increasing number down the sailor’s back, breeches, and legs, their expressions grew bleak. When the man was finally released, badly weakened but still able to stay upright on shaky legs as they hauled him away, Matipuyaut turned eyes on Cabrillo that mingled respect and abhorrence at what he’d just witnessed.
The next man was tied and the whippings began again, and this time the islanders did not utter a sound. It was the same with the two prisoners that followed. Only when Gaspar was brought forward did any of them mutter in anger and glare with a renewed hunger for retribution. But when the number of lashes that the others had received had been inflicted on Gaspar and still the blows continued, Matipuyaut glanced again at Cabrillo, questioning.
Gaspar had stopped slinging profanities and insults after twenty lashes, and had passed out at forty-three, but Captain Correa did not dismiss his boatswain until every prescribed lash of the whip had fallen. The boatswain, now dripping with sweat and swaying from exertion, stepped back so his shipmates could take what was left of Gaspar back to the San Miguel.
Father Lezcano, who’d been watching Cabrillo with concern during the entire process, saw now that he was losing his battle to remain attentive. As soon as Gaspar was released, the captain-general began to sag in his chair, and Manuel was there in an instant.
Addressing Matipuyaut loudly enough for his warriors to hear, Father Lezcano said, “Cabrillo is in need of care, but he would not be healed until he had avenged your people. You may go back to your village and tell your women that they will not be harmed again.” Aside, he added, “We must take him to his cabin now, Matipuyaut. I will send you word of him.”
As Manuel and another sailor lifted Cabrillo and carried him away, the Indian chief took from beneath his cape a leather pouch, which he handed to the priest. Aiming a look of genuine disquiet at the departing Cabrillo, he said, “This is from his woman, to make him well.”
Father Lezcano listened keenly to the short instruction Matipuyaut relayed for the curative’s preparation. He then offered his thanks and left the Indians to board their canoes.
Cabrillo had neither the strength nor will to object when they placed him on a wooden table already set up for his surgery. While his commander was being settled, Dr. Fuentes detained Pilot San Remón as he was about to leave and said softly, “Sir, will you send some men to collect any snow or ice they can find.”
“Snow, doctor?”
The physician confessed, “I have read that a cold environment around a wound may help slow bleeding during surgery. Snow has never been at hand when I could have used it before, but it may help today.”
“I will send men at once,” the pilot said, already stepping away.
It was again necessary for the doctor to clear the captain-general’s cabin of anyone not needed, leaving only Manuel and Father Lezcano to assist him. Paulo protested vehemently at being ordered away but Dr. Fuentes barked loudly, “I will not be distracted by a servant whose nerves are tempered with anything less rigid than steel, no matter how devoted he is. Out! Mateo, station yourself on the other side of the door and let no one come in.”
Father Lezcano now showed Cabrillo and Dr. Fuentes the herbs that Taya had sent. Cabrillo eyed the pouch through a thickening haze and nodded, then he let his head fall back upon the table and asked in a whisper. “Do you know what it is, doctor?”
After examining the colors, textures, and smells of the contents and taking a tiny taste on the tip of his tongue, Dr. Fuentes frowned and said, “It seems to be a mixture of several ingredients, sir, only a few of which I recognize.”
“I leave it to you, Dr. Fuentes, to use or not.”
“Sir, I must ask you again if you—”
“Wasted breath, doctor. My decision is made. Put the leg back together. Please begin.”
Begin. So simple a command. Dr. Fuentes knew his best chance of success was dependent on immobilizing his commander, but how does one adequately restrain a powerful man when his mangled leg is about to be restructured? Sherry was only minimally effective and frustratingly temporary when it came to killing pain and anesthetizing. Should he instead opt for native drugs with properties he could only imagine and which he’d never previously prepared or tested?
Father Lezcano saw Dr. Fuentes’ mental struggle and asked, “What do you fear is in the herbs, doctor?”
“They may contain Datura.”
“The drug that killed the Chumash boy? But why would Taya send that to us?”
Quietly, Cabrillo said, “She thought it would be useful.”
Dr. Fuentes leaned over Cabrillo and said, “Matipuyaut explained how to prepare it, sir. But I am uneasy about what it might do, and for how long. Should I send for Taya?”
It took a moment before he said, “I doubt they would let her come, not after what has happened.”
“Then, sir, may I send one of our men to her, so we can learn more?”
Cabrillo was about to say it was too dangerous but before he could utter a word Father Lezcano was already heading for the door. “I will go, sir,” he said, and left without waiting for permission.
Dr. Fuentes gave Cabrillo another glass of sherry and, after he’d taken two large gulps, the drink seemed to help a bit as the doctor and Manuel removed clothing and loosened bandages from the wounded areas. Swallowing the last of the crimson liquid and waving the glass at Manuel, Cabrillo said in a manner meant to sound matter-of-fact, “Doctor, my personal papers are in a small chest inside that larger one there. In addition to my will and my letters, there is a document that confirms Manuel’s freedom. Please see that it finds a safe home.”
Manuel stared at him, unhappy at this turn of the conversation, but Cabrillo went on. “It would please me if you agree to make certain of that, and that my other documented wishes are carried out, Dr. Fuentes.”
The physician paused as he laid out the last of his wooden and iron tools and said, “Forgive me, sir, but that is quite enough of such talk. Manuel and I will see you dancing again in Santiago and likely many other places besides. However, to put your mind at rest, if for whatever reason God grants me and Manuel a very old age that happens to extend beyond your own, I will honor your wishes.”
“I thank you, doctor.”
Dr. Fuentes had Manuel help him as he slid a square of canvas beneath Cabrillo’s leg, and he was just rearranging his cleaning cloths, bandages, and splints, when Mateo stepped inside and announced the arrival of three sailors toting a small barrel filled with hard-packed snow and ice. They explained that they’d dug it from a deep crevice in the rocks and informed the doctor that there were three more barrels outside the cabin, which Mateo would watch over. Though it seemed much longer, Father Lezcano returned only minutes later and began to brew Taya’s herbs just as she’d instructed him.
“Is she well?” Cabrillo asked.
“She is concerned for you, sir,” he said, although this was an extreme understatement,
“but she is otherwise well.” He did not mention that she’d pleaded with Matipuyaut to allow her to come aboard the ship, or that her father had instead posted three men to guard her just before Father Lezcano had left the lodge. Though she neither screamed nor lashed out at those keeping her from Cabrillo, the emotional distress she was suffering was terrible to behold.
Although Taya had been very specific in her directions for the quantity of water and herbs to be used, under Dr. Fuentes’ watchful eye, Father Lezcano took the precaution of adding a measure less of the potent plant mixture than she’d described. The priest didn’t know how Cabrillo’s body might react to a drug it had no resistance to, and he took the easy choice of erring on the side of pain versus possible death. He’d been allowed to question Taya only in the company of her father, Kipomo, and several other men, and he knew that it was forbidden for anyone to administer Datura but the shaman, so he dared not ask her if she’d added this plant to her mixture. Instead, he questioned her about its curative powers, how it was to be prepared, and how often it should be administered. Something in her manner told him that she was measuring her responses carefully, and when she held his gaze and said that her husband was to be held down tightly while his leg was treated, and that he must be watched closely during his recovery, the priest’s suspicion that the hallucinogen was present in her medicine was strengthened.
The brew was soon ready, and Cabrillo emptied the cup in three swallows. Its strange tanginess hung at the back of his throat and almost made him cough, but he felt its first effects very quickly. Within minutes his eyes began to dull and his responses to slur.
Watching the patient intently, waiting just a little longer to allow the drug to gain its full power, Dr. Fuentes lay one end of a long leather strap across Cabrillo’s waist, passed it under the table, and brought it up again, where he buckled both sides together, cinching his commander in place. He had Manuel and Father Lezcano lift Cabrillo’s leg, quickly scooped snowy ice from the barrel onto the canvas, and placed a woolen blanket atop the snow before allowing the leg to be lowered. During these movements Cabrillo moaned loudly, and those tending to him heard Mateo’s back bump in empathy against the cabin door. Dr. Fuentes then removed the bandages and dropped the blood-soaked strips on the floor.
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 36
