“I had better see them first.”
García’s thick brows came together with irritation.
“This is not the moment for wasting time,” he said. “Hoist sail at once — you can do the rest when we are on our way.”
García’s little eyes were like an angry pig’s. He glowered at Rich, his hands on his hips and his body inclined forward, towards him.
“I know enough about navigation,” he said, menacingly, “to know we must sail westward along this island before we turn north. I might find I could do without a navigator altogether, and in that case — ”
He took his right hand from his hip and pointed significantly overside. Rich could not meet his gaze, and was ashamed of himself because of it. He turned away.
“Very well,” he said faintly.
And even then the prayer that he began to breathe was cut short without his realizing it by the way the problem of getting under way captured his interest — if his active mind was employed it was hard for him to remain frightened. He looked up at the masthead; the pennant there was flapping gently in an easterly wind; the land wind had dropped and the sea breeze had not begun yet to blow. The ship was riding bows on to the wind; he had to turn her about as she got under way. The theory of the maneuver was simple, and he had often enough seen it put into practice. It was an interesting experience to have to do it himself.
“Tomas,” he said. “Set the Indians to up-anchor. And I want the foresail ready to set.”
Tomas nodded at him, blinking in the sun.
“Who’ll take the tiller, sir? It’ll take the four of us to set sail.”
“I will,” said Rich desperately. He had never held a ship’s tiller in his life before, but he knew the theory of it.
He walked aft and set his hand on the big lever, swinging it tentatively. It seemed easy enough. Tomas had collected a band of Indians at the windlass — from the docility with which they obeyed him it was obvious that they were already accustomed to working under him, presumably during the business of provisioning the ship. The windlass began to clack, the Indians straining at the handles as they dragged the ship up to her anchor against the wind. The seamen were ready to set the foresail — two of them had just finished casting off the gaskets.
“Straight up and down, sir!” shouted Tomas, leaning over the bows to look at the cable.
“Hoist away!” shouted Rich; he swallowed hard as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
The anchor came up, and Tomas rushed back to help with the foresail. As the ponderous canvas spread, Rich felt the tiller in his hand come to life; the ship was gathering sternway. He knew what he had to do. He put the tiller hard over, for the ship had only to lie the tiniest fraction across the wind for the big foresail to swing her round like a weathercock. She lurched, and hesitated, and Rich in a sudden panic brought the tiller across to the other side. Tomas was watching him, apparently awaiting more orders, but Rich had none to give. Nevertheless, Tomas kept his head — he saw on which side Rich had at last decided to hold the tiller, and ran with his men to brace the yard round. Rich felt the motion of the ship change as she swung across the swell; a glance at the island revealed the shore to be slowly revolving round him. He struggled wildly to keep his head clear; it was the ship that was turning, not the island. The big foresail was doing its work, and he flung his weight against the tiller to catch the ship lest she swing too far. There was some new order he ought to give to Tomas, but he did not know what it was, so he took one hand from the tiller and waved it in the hope that Tomas would understand.
Fortunately Tomas did so; he braced the yard square and the ship steadied on her course before the wind with no more than a lurch or two. Rich looked up at the masthead pennant — it was streaming ahead. The shore lay on his right hand, and the ship must be pointing west nearly enough. As he centered the tiller he glanced at the compass, but that was still chasing its tail round and round in its basin; it would be several minutes before it settled down. He experimented timidly with the tiller as soon as he saw that the ship was heading a trifle inshore; the ship answered, but with more of a sullen obstinacy than he expected. It was only with a considerable exertion of strength that he was able to hold her on her proper course.
“Set the mainsail, sir?” asked Tomas. He was so obviously expecting an affirmative answer that Rich was constrained to give him one, but it was with an inward qualm — he had as much as he could do to steer as it was, and he doubted his strength to hold her if more canvas were spread. But the mainsail expanded inexorably while the ropes squealed in the blocks; Rich distinctly felt the ship under his feet gather increased speed as the mainsail bellied out in the wind and it seemed to him as if the tiller would soon pull his arms out of their sockets. And then, as Tomas took his men to the braces, Rich suddenly felt the ship become more manageable. The tiller ceased to be a thing to be fought and struggled with. It became a sweet tool of whose every motion — as his tentative experiments soon proved — the ship was immediately conscious.
Of course, he told himself, he should have expected that. Mainsail and foresail were designed to counterpoise each other almost exactly, so that the tiller and rudder held the delicate balance between two nearly equal forces. A touch, now, and she swung to the right. A touch, and she swung to the left — the feeling of mastery was most impressive. Rich came back to his senses with a guilty start; Tomas was looking at him curiously as he swayed the ship about in unseamanlike fashion, and he hurriedly steadied her. The wind blew on the back of his neck, and he was unconscious of the heat of the sun or of his fatigue. In that triumphant moment he felt as if he could steer the ship forever. He would rather steer a ship than ride a horse any day — never in the saddle had he felt this superb confidence.
But he felt he could not indulge himself at present. He had to make up his mind what course to steer, and as the numerous factors governing that problem came tumbling into his mind he felt the need for giving it his undivided attention.
“Send a hand to the tiller, Tomas,” he called.
One of the seamen came shambling aft, and took over the steering. He looked at Rich inquiringly for the course; Rich took a stride or two up and down the deck as he made his calculations. He remembered the glimpses he had had of the Admiral’s chart — somewhere not far ahead, the cape of Alta Vela trended far to the south and would have to be circumnavigated, while soon the wind would shift so as to blow direct upon the shore. It would undoubtedly be as well to get as far to the southward now as he could, so as to have a reserve in hand. And the needle in these waters pointed to the east of north — he would have to allow for that, too. On the other hand, if he set too southerly a course it might take him out of sight of land. Rich suddenly realized that he was not nearly as afraid of that as he was of finding himself on a lee shore during the night. He yearned to have plenty of sea all round him, and it was delightful to discover that he was quite confident of finding Española again should he run it out of sight. He bent over the compass and took in his hand the white peg which marked the course to be set, hesitated for a space, and then with decision put it into the next hole to the east of south.
“So!” he said.
The helmsman brought the tiller over, and the ship began to swing round. Rich knew that the sails must be trimmed to the wind, but he was vague about the exact wording of the orders necessary. He looked over at Tomas, and saw with pleasure that he was making ready to brace the yards round without orders. Rich nodded for him to continue.
The Santa Engracia now had the wind almost abeam; she was lying over to it, with plenty of spray coming over the weatherside, making music through the water, and all the rigging harping together, and the green mountains of Española falling fast astern. Rich looked round to find García staring fixedly at him.
“Our course should be west, along the island,” said García, suspiciously. “Why are you going south?”
“Because it is necessary,” said Rich crossly, “because . . .”
As soon a
s he had begun upon it he gave up, before the prospect of all the difficulties, the attempt to explain his technique. He had just performed successfully the feat of getting the Santa Engracia under way and on her course, and perhaps his feeling of achievement gave him sufficient elation, combined with his annoyance, to answer García with spirit.
“You want me to navigate this ship,” he said. “Then allow me to navigate her. If you could do it better yourself there was no need to kidnap me to do it for you.”
“Holy Mary!” said García. “How quick we are to take offense!”
But he himself had taken none, apparently, and Rich actually forgot him, momentarily, as he looked round the ship of which he was in charge. The feeling of elation still persisted, despite his fatigue — or perhaps because of it, for he was a little light-headed through lack of sleep. The beginning of his captaincy had been marked with brilliant success. Perhaps this business was not nearly as difficult as he had thought it to be. Perhaps he would steer the Santa Engracia safely to China and home again to Spain. Perhaps . . .
The cold fit of common sense broke over him again in a wave. He had been thinking nothing but nonsense — he must beware of these fits of misguided enthusiasm. One such, during his conversation with the King, had been responsible for his ever coming to the Indies. He was acting like a hot-headed boy instead of like a man of a mature forty who had already risen to the topmost height of his own profession. He was quite as mad as García, who was setting out with a single caravel, with twenty men and four horses, to find and conquer the Grand Khan. And — it was extraordinary how muddled his mind was now — he had been on the point of forgetting again that he himself was just as involved as García in this mad attempt. Sick despair closed in upon him again.
Tomas had come aft; he hesitated for a moment between García and Rich, and then finally addressed himself to Rich.
“Shall I start the Indians bailing, sir?” he asked. “She hasn’t been bailed today, and she makes water fast. And there’s the stores we put in the forehold, sir. I don’t like . . .”
Apparently Tomas had a great deal on his mind regarding the condition of the ship. He talked volubly, while Rich only half heard him. Rich remembered how the captain ought to make a tour of inspection round his command every morning and settle the day’s work. He allowed Tomas to lead him forward, and below. He agreed about the necessity for bailing. He looked dubiously at a pile of stores in the forehold, packed in queer containers, half sack, half basket, peculiar to Española, and he left it to Tomas to decide how they should be restowed. What with weed and worms and wear and tear the Santa Engracia was in poor condition, he was told — Tomas went as far as to say, when they were in the solitude of the afterhold, that he would be dubious about sailing her from Palma to Barcelona on a summer’s day.
But Rich was growing more and more dizzy with fatigue and lack of sleep. He tried to display an owlish intelligence as Tomas poured out his troubles, answering his remarks with noncommittal monosyllables. He escaped from him in the end and found his way to the captain’s cabin under the poop. In the drawer of the little table there he came across the late captain’s papers and instruments. There was a roll of accounts of one sort and another, all dealing with the outward voyage and apparently of no more importance. There was a paper of sailing instructions in the handwriting of the Admiral himself, dealing with the problem of finding Española from Spain — Rich’s swimming eyes could not struggle with that now. There was a rough chart of the Indies, apparently by the same hand; that might be useful. There was astrolabe and cross staff, and, in a leather pouch, a table of the sun’s declination at weekly intervals throughout the year. That was all Rich wanted to know. He pushed the other things aside, and laid his head upon his arms on the table as he sat on the stool screwed to the deck. And in that attitude, despite the rolling of the ship, he slept heavily for a couple of hours.
Chapter 21
The voyage went on, somehow. On the third day they doubled Cape Alta Vela and were able to set a westerly course along the southern coast of Española, the old Santa Engracia, leaking like a sieve and encumbered with weeds a yard long on her bottom, lumbering along before the persistent urging of the wind. Far on the horizon to the north rose the green mountains of the island. Each day brought its scorching sunshine and its torrential rain, its blue skies and its rainbows.
Each day brought afresh to Rich the strange feeling of the unreality of it all, despite the harsh realism of the ship’s routine, the bailing and the constant repairs. He practiced diligently each day with astrolabe and cross staff — he told himself that his very life might depend on his skilful use of them, while at the same time he found it impossible to believe it. He worked out the little calculation necessary to ascertain the speed of the ship by measuring, with his pulse, the time taken by an object thrown overboard from the bow to reach the stern. He pored long and diligently over the Admiral’s chart of the Indies, at the long sweep of islands at its eastern end, where — as the last voyage had ascertained — lay Trinidad and the mysterious country of the Orinoco and the Earthly Paradise. Westernmost of the chain lay Española, divided by a narrow strait from the long peninsula of Cuba which jutted out two hundred leagues or so from the unknown mainland of China or India. So the Admiral had drawn it; Rich was aware that there had been whispers that Cuba was merely another island, the vastest of them all. The Admiral had silenced the whispers by decreeing that any such whisperer would lose his tongue.
But whether Cuba were an island or not, the task García had laid upon him was to steer the Santa Engracia up through the strait between Cuba and Española, and then north-westerly, on and on until they reached the country el Baboso knew of, the land where the temples reached the sky and where worked gold was to be seen everywhere. Rich fancied it must be the land of the Great Khan where Marco Polo the Venetian had visited, but he occasionally had doubts. It might be some new unvisited empire, if it existed at all. If it existed at all — Rich could picture the Santa Engracia sailing on and on over the blue sea until her motley crew died of hunger and thirst and disease, himself among them. Or perhaps in that direction there really was an edge to the earth, despite the Admiral’s denials, and the Santa Engracia might find herself hurtling over it to plunge into the depths. He tried to hint at his fears to García, but García only shrugged his shoulders and laughed callously. Despite his comfortable plumpness, García was a man of iron will and quite without fear — without a heart in his body, Rich came to think.
Certainly without a heart in his body. . . . Three of the sailors — not Tomas — and four Indians were caught the second night by Julio Zerain trying to desert in the longboat; Rich heard the judgment which issued from García’s lips the next morning, and heard the wild screams of the wretched men as their punishment was dealt out to them. He could not bear to listen — more especially as he would certainly have joined in the attempt if the sailors had taken him into their confidence. He might be screaming there on the deck now, in that case. It was something to thank God for, that he had not been allowed the captain’s cabin, but had had to sleep in the ’tween-decks with a dozen Spaniards. That had kept him from any such perilous endeavor. He would die — he was sure of it — if ever he were punished in that manner. That morning he knew worse misery of soul than ever since he had left Spain; more could not be said than that.
There was other bloodshed on board. Rich did not know how the quarrel started, but he heard shouts and the clash of steel forward; Fernando Berrocal and Pablo Mourentan had their swords out — the blades flashed fiercely in the sunshine — and were fighting out their quarrel in the manner of hot-blooded youth. García came up from below on the run; he roared like a bull and dashed forward drawing his sword. Tarpia appeared from nowhere, sword drawn too. Berrocal’s blade was beaten out of his hand; Mourentan, thrusting wildly at García in his excitement, received a sword-cut on his shoulder which sent him staggering and helpless to the rail.
“Fools!” bellowed Garc�
�a. “I will have no fighting in this ship. That fool there has less than he deserves. The next man to draw steel will hang. I swear it by the Holy Sacrament.”
He glowered round at the silent crowd and pointed to the yardarm, magnificently animal despite his fat and his rags. Perhaps he remembered the rules on board the Holy Name, of which Acevedo had once reminded him. He needed every fighting man in the campaign he was planning, and he had come to appreciate not only how easily quarrels may arise in the cramped life aboard ship, but also how easily the whole ship’s company might become involved. Rich thought bitterly of the time when he had believed himself to be acquiring the art of managing men — including this same García. He knew now that he could never compare himself with him. He was no man of action; in a great shaking-up like this expedition to the Indies every man found his own level in time.
Seventy leagues to the west of Alta Vela lay Cape San Miguel, the westernmost point of Española; it interested Rich to find that they reached it at the very moment which he predicted. His dead reckoning had been correct, and so was the Admiral’s chart — or else they both contained the same error. Rich might at one time have speculated deeply on the philosophy of compensating errors, but nowadays he was too engrossed in hourly problems to waste time. He accepted God’s mercy with gratitude and left it at that; as soon as he saw the shore of Española trending away back to the eastward from the bluff green eminence of San Miguel, and knew he had made all the westing necessary, he had to lay a fresh course through the straits, for there was no leeway to spare at all on this next leg of the passage.
To the Indies Page 22
