Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon

by Christine Echeverria Bender

  Evasively, Father Lezcano answered, “Something, sir.”

  Cabrillo turned his gaze to the ceiling above his bunk. “We had been driven from the city, many of our men captured and sacrificed to their bloody gods. Cortés commanded me to build a fleet of small bergantines so we could cross the water surrounding the capital city and retake it. I soon discovered that we had nothing with which to seal the planking. Pine resin had been collected but we still needed animal fat to bind it, and we had none. It was our Indian allies who offered the solution. They were not squeamish about such things.” He paused, recalling it all despite his efforts to block the images, and he needed another breath to go on. “They said their men would gather the dead bodies of our mutual enemies, and render the fat from them. Even after seeing the cruelty of the Aztecs first-hand, I shuddered at the thought of such use of their dead. But our allies’ kinsmen had been taken by the Aztecs year after year, their hearts cut out and their bodies dumped down the sides of the pyramid to rot in heaps. They saw only justice in the use of Aztec bodies. In the end Cortés accepted no excuses. It was done. His ships were built. The capital was taken. But that is a sin that haunts me still.”

  Father Lezcano listened to every word the captain-general was willing to share with him.

  Cabrillo sensed this and continued, “After that battle there were many more, most of them fought under Orozco and Alvarado. It is strange, but while I was fighting some tribes of Indians and making alliances with others, I came to respect many qualities of both. This respect, I believe, helped me as a commander, because I learned not to underestimate them. I began to appreciate them and my own men more.”

  “Sir, during our voyage you have avoided battles whenever possible, and we have not lost a single man.”

  “Perhaps, through so much warfare, learning to value life highly has been my most lasting lesson. A man should evade a fight if he can. People’s lives should not be wasted, ours or theirs.”

  Father Lezcano said softly, “Thank you for telling me, sir. Would you like me to pray with you for awhile?”

  “Please, Father.”

  Before the second decade of Father Lezcano’s rosary had been touched, Cabrillo had drifted off to sleep again, and soon afterward Manuel and Mateo entered the cabin to join the priest in quiet prayer.

  Chapter 26

  A SMILE AT SUNSET

  It was early evening when Dr. Fuentes returned to Cabrillo’s cabin, nodded once in greeting to Father Lezcano, and walked toward Cabrillo’s bunk. The priest and Manuel drew closer to observe as the physician lifted the covers from his patient’s bandaged leg. The sign he’d been fearing most, the smell of rotting flesh, hit him like a blow. Cabrillo’s fever had begun to rise during the last hour, but he still was able to focus well enough on the doctor’s countenance to read his thoughts.

  “Mateo,” he said to his nephew, “go and help Paulo prepare my dinner. I wish to eat early today.” When the boy left the room, he said hoarsely to Dr. Fuentes, “I smell it too.”

  The doctor could not speak, but he forced himself to look closely at blackening skin around the edge of the bandages and the red lines webbing out above and below them. It was spreading fast. At his slight touch, the flesh of the ruined leg gave out a crackling sound. At this evidence, he held no more than a grain of hope, but even that seed was blown away when Cabrillo told him, “I feel similar sensations in my arm as well.”

  Accepting the look of misery the physician could not completely conceal, Cabrillo said, “Dr. Fuentes, you have done all you could. I have sensed from the beginning that these would be my final wounds. During this voyage the sailors’ sickness has weakened us all. It has stolen some of the strength I once had.” Seeing that Dr. Fuentes was about to offer a comforting lie or voice his confidence in miracles, Cabrillo said gently, “The best of physicians cannot outmaneuver God’s will. Take heart in my feeling as much at peace as a man can at such times. I am indebted to you for your care.”

  Father Lezcano fought to find the courage Cabrillo was demonstrating. He steadied his breathing and clamped his mouth, silently commanding the unvoiced cries of his protesting mind to silence, and the tears at the edges of his stinging eyes to remain unshed. He dared not look at Manuel, but he could feel him standing a few steps away, rigid as a stone tower.

  Dr. Fuentes couldn’t keep from saying, “I will drain the wound, sir. There is still hope.”

  Cabrillo dredged up the shadow of a smile as he shook his head. “Any remaining hope for me should be directed toward heaven. I will doubtless need more than the average number of prayers to reach so lofty a destination.”

  After a moment the doctor forced himself to nod. “How bad is the pain, sir?”

  “It is terrible, and yet it seems to be coming from a distance that makes it bearable.”

  Dr. Fuentes had heard similar descriptions from other victims of corrupted injuries. “We will do whatever is possible to ease your suffering, sir. For now, will you drink some sherry before I change the outer bandages?”

  Despite the doctor’s obvious attempts at gentleness, at times this handling was excruciating for Cabrillo, and when his leg was finally at rest once more, his face was even redder than before. “How long, doctor, before the disease takes me?”

  “Captain-General, it is progressing rapidly...No more than a few days, sir.”

  For several moments Cabrillo stared out at nothing. “Then, there are things that should be addressed without delay. I thank you for your frankness.” At this the doctor stood and turned away, knowing that the toughness he’d managed to gain through years of living with pain and death would crumble if he did not.

  Cabrillo said to his back, “Dr. Fuentes, please go and privately update Pilot San Remón on my condition.” Before the physician left Cabrillo, he went to a cabinet, pulled out another bottle of the strongest fortified wine on the ship, and set it on the table.

  Manuel still stood near the foot of the bunk, his face as unmoving as his body, his eyes now gazing unseeing straight ahead. Cabrillo said, “Manuel, we must talk.”

  The black face lifted, and when their eyes met it was Cabrillo’s gaze that faltered. He strengthened his voice, however, and said, “When the voyage ends, you will have many choices as a free man. I ask that you do two things for me as my friend; first, visit Beatriz and our sons, and then take a wife of your own. You were meant to raise a family, Manuel.”

  The tightness around Manuel’s heart and mind robbed him of every word, but he nodded, went to the table, and poured out a glass of sherry.

  Taking it in a shaky hand, Cabrillo said in a diminishing voice, “Now, go and tell Mateo and Paulo. For them, this news should come from you. Keep them both with you in the open air for a while and talk with them. When they are calmer, and if they wish, they may be with me while I receive my last rites.” He looked at his priest and said, “Until then, Father, I wish to offer my confession.”

  A quarter of an hour passed before the small group huddled together inside the cabin and the most final of Catholic sacraments began. While Cabrillo received blessings and the bread and wine of communion, each of his witnesses tried but failed to conceal his desolation at the thought of what he would soon be forced to surrender. Yet their prayers on his behalf were gravely sincere, and they even managed to sing a wavering, off-key hymn as the service concluded.

  At Cabrillo’s whispered request, Paulo ushered the others and himself out of the room so Cabrillo and Father Lezcano could be alone once more. Cabrillo accepted a drink of sherry that the priest offered, and said, “And now, is there anything else you wish to ask or tell me?”

  With an openness that stripped his personal anguish bare, Father Lezcano said, “Sir, I am very afraid of losing you.”

  “You, my friend? You have a strength of spirit I have never seen in another man.”

  “I do not want to lose you.”

  “Nor I, you. But that choice is no longer ours.”

  With the ship’s moaning,
creaking murmurs all around them, they both struggled to submit to such a reality. At last Father Lezcano asked, “Are you afraid, sir?”

  “I should be. I should tremble, given the life I have led, and yet I do not. I have seen death too many times, face to face, to be terrified of my own or of its consequences. I will be granted no more opportunities to attempt things a different way, to choose more wisely, so I must trust that, in time, God will forgive my wrongs. No, it is not so much dying I mind, as failing. I have real trust in Captain-General Ferrelo, but the ships will not last much longer without being rebuilt. If he does not reach Asia without great delay, if he does not find the strait or any other treasures, the voyage will have failed.” He took another long drink, wanting to overpower the pain enough to voice his thoughts for as long as he could. “I had hoped for so much. Now, our efforts may deliver no riches beyond the knowledge of this land, its people, the winds, and the currents. I fear the viceroy and king will value these little.”

  Father Lezcano asked, “Would you blame yourself, sir, if it turns out that the river does not exist or that this coast does not touch upon Asia’s shores?”

  “I would not, and I believe there is much value in the knowledge we have gained. In the end, knowledge is the most valuable of God’s gifts. But I am neither a viceroy nor a king.”

  The priest forced a smile. “I have always suspected you of being a scholar at heart, sir.”

  “You may be right. Many times through the years I have sensed that I should have been something other than a warrior, yet a warrior I became.”

  “And a captain, and then a captain-general.”

  “Yes.” He sighed, and when he spoke again his words came even more slowly. “My greatest regret is that my lack of success will make life harder for my family. I pray that they will be treated fairly, and that they will not suffer harshly without me.”

  “With your permission, sir, I would like to visit your family. It would mean a great deal to me to know them.”

  Cabrillo’s smile, feeble though it was, was laden with affection. “It is only right that you know them well, Julian, since you have become one of my sons. They will soon come to love you, as I do.”

  His voice faded, his eyes closed, and his breathing settled into a shallow rhythm. Father Lezcano took the cup that was about to fall from his slackened hand and set it on the table. He then knelt down on the decking and remained there in prayerful, anguished contemplation throughout the longest and darkest hours he’d ever known.

  Deep in the night Cabrillo shifted his body and the merciless pain that struck him produced a shout of torment. Father Lezcano was quickly at his side, supporting his head and holding a full glass to his lips. After emptying it Cabrillo lay back, panting, his half-closed eyes unnaturally bright. When he had managed to steady his breathing somewhat, he said, “Please bring Mateo to me, Julian.”

  In moments the boy stood before him, his young face trying desperately to show nothing but courage. “Mateo,” Cabrillo said, “I must leave you soon.” The bravery on the young face wavered and his lips trembled. “Now, now, my dear nephew, it is a path we all must take.” Cabrillo glanced at the priest and said, “Father Lezcano, I ask that you be Mateo’s uncle as well as his priest. Mateo, honor this good man as you have honored me.”

  Mateo’s wet, mournful eyes gazed up at Father Lezcano and back to Cabrillo. The boy wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve and nodded.

  “When you reach home again,” Cabrillo went on, “tell my family of my deep love for them.” Again the boy nodded, and he could no longer hold back a sudden rush of tears. Reaching out a hand and clutching the blanket near Cabrillo’s hand, Mateo sobbed, “I shall miss you, uncle.” Father Lezcano gently took the boy by the shoulders and led him out the door.

  When Father Lezcano returned to Cabrillo’s side his face was pale, but he listened carefully as Cabrillo’s voice fell to little more than a whisper. “I must ask one last thing, Julian. Taya...” his voice failed him completely and he closed his eyes for a moment, then he pushed on. “There is a ruby broach in my chest. Its color matches her name. Will you give it to her?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And tell her...tell her I am sorry to leave her. Tell her I am grateful.”

  “I shall, sir, just as you ask. Now, you must rest.”

  Even faster that Dr. Fuentes had predicted, the disease spread through Cabrillo’s body, as if hurrying to deplete so great a strength of will before it could rebuild itself. Since his caregivers could do heartbreakingly little else they gave him more of Taya’s medical brew, but his fever and delirium steadily gained mastery. At times his mind pulled him into the violence of a battle fought long ago in his youth, and at others he was drawn back to the loving arms of his wife, and his painful cries would gradually die down to murmurs of longing and affection.

  Unwilling to inflict further suffering, the doctor gave up his attempts to replace the bandages. At the end of the second day of high fever, as light faded from the cloudy evening sky, all of their prayers had evolved from beseeching God for a miraculous recovery to pleading that He end this misery as soon as possible.

  Father Lezcano had also turned his prayers to the Blessed Virgin, whom he fervently believed would sympathize with the need to end a good man’s intolerable suffering. At Manuel’s request he began to softly pray aloud, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” At these words, prayed by him innumerable times during his short tenure as a priest, he glanced up and by the gentle light of the oil lamps he saw that Cabrillo’s eyes were open and focused on him. It was a sight he had not expected to behold again. No sound came from Cabrillo’s lips, but his mouth formed the words, “Take care of them, my son,” and his eyes closed very slowly.

  Father Lezcano could not breathe. He stared at Cabrillo’s face and then at his chest, watched him take one shallow inhale, one more, and then exhale and lay utterly still.

  Manuel, who had shed not a tear through the interminable trial of watching Cabrillo die, fell to his knees and let out a roar of grief so deep and loud that it reverberated off the rafters and swept through the ship, to the other ships, and across the water to the island cliffs.

  Captain-General Ferrelo burst into the cabin. He stared at the still form, the body of the man with whom he’d never again share trials, or joys, or theories. After one nearly strangling breath, he managed to contain his own grief only because he must, for the sake of the men he now commanded. His eyes found those of Father Lezcano, and the emotions of each was read by the other as clearly as if they’d been written with ink and paper. Ferrelo turned to Dr. Fuentes and said huskily, “Please prepare him, doctor. His services will be conducted as soon as arrangements can be made.” His eyes returned to Cabrillo’s face, and as if to himself, he muttered softly, “The third day of January. I shall never forget.”

  The man who now took up the burden of the fleet’s leadership left them and went to the main deck to give the crews the official word of Cabrillo’s death, but their mourning had begun the instant Manuel’s great cry had reached them. While most stared off in heart-clenched silence or wept softly in as private a corner as they could find, some turned unashamedly into the arms of other crewmembers and surrendered to their tears. The San Salvador’s two carpenters turned from the others and with unsteady voices began to plan as fine a coffin as their skills and materials could fashion.

  On shore, only moments after Captain Ferrelo had made his announcement, woeful wails rose up from some of the islanders near shore who plainly understood what had come to pass. A native runner was sent to inform Matipuyaut, and within minutes he, his sons, and a grief-stricken Taya appeared at the water’s edge. Matipuyaut would not permit any of them to board their canoes and approach the flagship. Just as Cabrillo had done when Shuluwish had left this world, he kept his people a
t a distance to allow the mourners privacy, but as the night deepened the Chumash built fires and Kipomo danced and chanted for the safe passage of Cabrillo’s spirit.

  The two groups remained apart. Hours slipped by, and the natives gradually made their way back to the village. Taya was the last to leave, and her departure was against her will. When beckoned away by Matipuyaut, she refused to move. Finally, as she protested with rising pleas, her brothers lifted her from the sand and carried her up the path.

  Earlier that evening the new commander of the San Salvador had addressed his officers aboard La Victoria, saying, “I have been wrestling with our options for what must be done next, gentlemen. The simplest choice is to bury the captain-general near our harbor, but this could bring an outcome that must be avoided. I refuse to allow for the possibility that his body will not be left in peace. If he is buried anywhere on this island his remains could be disturbed. The natives might do so without meaning any disrespect, since the possession of body parts from their departed ones is meant to show homage. I have seen the bones of dead ancestors in several of their homes, and I shudder at the thought of such a thing happening to him. He must be protected, as decency and our church dictate.”

  “Absolutely, sir. What do you propose?” asked Captain Correa.

  “We shall take him to the next island.”

  “Sir,” Father Gamboa quietly pointed out, “that island is also inhabited.”

  “We will leave tonight, before the light returns. The San Salvador will be taken out very carefully until we are well clear of the rocks. I had thought of using the San Miguel, but it seems more fitting to use his ship and his crew. They will bear him to the other island, however, no one but the few men going ashore will know the exact location of his grave.”

  Every man present agreed with this plan. So, during the very depth of that night and well after the Chumash had left the beach, with clouds filtering much of the light shed by the moon and stars, the flagship alone quietly weighed anchor and left the harbor. She made her way to the nearby island they called San Lucas, and with hushed movements lowered two boats.