The central administration building, built of fine tan stone more than two hundred years earlier, sat adjacent to the cathedral. The affairs of Church and State were closely entwined and the proximity of these seats of power only reinforced the fact. Rodrigo walked down the same corridor and into the same office he had visited four years earlier when he enlisted. As before, a man sat at a bulky desk in the anteroom. He barely looked up from writing notations in a large book of thick, bound pages.
Rodrigo asked to speak with the military commandant and received a nod toward an open door on the right. He started to introduce himself to the commandant inside, a man who obviously ate well and dressed in fine embroidery from foreign lands.
“I know who you are, Señor del Fuentes. Word of your mission in Ireland and your contribution directly to the king has reached my ears. His Majesty was most impressed.”
Truly? Rodrigo had assumed that the king barely noticed his presence.
“The armada is sailing very soon for the British Isles …”
For a moment Rodrigo had a horrible feeling that he was about to be asked to dash back to the coast and report for duty, to go along and fight.
“Meanwhile, once they go, the king has other needs. We shall be outfitting another treasure fleet to travel to the New World, carrying supplies to the Church missions there and returning with the, shall we say, items we need here in Spain. Your experience as a supply officer and your proven honesty will be needed for the mission. Rich veins of silver in Mexico are feeding our economy now, and the man I choose will supervise the loading of the silver bars, keep careful logs down to the ounce, and see that the convoy returns safely.”
“But, my father—”
“I want you for this duty, del Fuentes. You will be gone fewer than six months. I’m sure your family will understand. Especially when you come home with the large bonus which is given each year for the autumn delivery of these riches to your homeland.”
Patriotism, God, duty, financial gain. The man had hit upon all the points that could convince Rodrigo to accept the assignment.
“See to your family’s needs for the next two months—then report to Sevilla, prepared to sail.” The commandant picked up a quill and dipped it into his inkwell. “That is all.”
Dismissed, Rodrigo left the building in a daze. Mexico! For twenty years now, Spain had been reaping the rewards of having established a trade route to the New World. He’d heard men in Cordoba brag about the vast amounts of gold and silver that were routinely being mined by Indian slaves and carried back to his own country. Now, it seemed, he was to be a part of it.
His steps slowed as he approached his mother’s home. He’d gone this morning with a promise that he would be there to fill his father’s shoes, to watch out for the women and make their lives easier. Now he was to be gone again. He did not relish telling her the news.
By the time he walked into the salon at home he had decided upon his approach to the subject. He was man of the house now; he would inform the women rather than apologize.
* * *
Sevilla’s central district teemed with life like nothing Rodrigo had ever experienced. Merchants and bankers attired in fashionable clothing strolled along with women of unimaginable beauty. Shops displayed piles of food, fine gold jewelry and rich cloth. He walked until his feet burned and the bag slung over his shoulder grew wearisome, unable to take in all that glory. That the port city received shipments directly from the New World and was connected to the major ports on the Mediterranean was obvious. When he returned from the voyage he would buy some of these fineries for himself, he decided.
Gradually, he made his way to the docks along the Rio Guadalquivir where he had been assigned to one of the galleons in the Flota de India, the Indies Fleet. The captain of the Niña Linda (an auspicious sign, Rodrigo thought, that the ship bore a version of his sister’s name) greeted him almost as an equal. Being supply officer aboard one of the treasure ships was a prestigious position.
He was shown to his quarters, a cabin shared with no one since he would keep the logs and private records of the shipment’s contents there. The cabin contained a bed nearly as large as his at home, a desk, oil lamp, a large supply of quills and paper, and a strongbox in which he was to store the sensitive information whenever he was not physically present. He dropped his bag on the bunk, taking out only the carved box and locking it into the strongbox before he headed above decks again.
At the gangway, the captain handed him a sheaf of pages tied at the top with a leather thong.
“The manifest. Check off each item as it arrives and order the crew to properly stow everything in the hold.”
The man walked away, leaving Rodrigo to familiarize himself with the list: Food, cloth, nails and other construction implements, weapons and ammunition, canvas, rope and tar for ship repairs, even paper. Apparently, nothing was manufactured in the untamed place across the sea. His new job had begun.
He quickly realized that many of the ordinary sailors were far more experienced at making this journey so he began shamelessly listening to their conversation.
“Enjoy the ham and bread,” one commented to another as they handed crates down to the hold. “Coming home, the only thing they send back with us is corn, maybe some potatoes. Once, I got a taste of that Indian drink—chocolate, they call it. But mostly they save that because they can sell it to rich people.”
Rodrigo checked off the items on his sheets.
“It’s stupid to fill the hold with food on the return trip,” a tall, thin sailor added. “The whole ship will be full of silver and gold!” A lascivious look crossed his face before he caught sight of Rodrigo.
“Stop and open that crate,” Rodrigo ordered. “I want to count the contents.” Impossible that he would let the men think they could pilfer, not when it would brand him as an easy mark. His bonus was on the line when it came to arriving at each end of the trip with everything the manifest called for.
The skinny man frowned but pried the lid off a wooden crate of candles and another of rosaries for the mission priests. Rodrigo made a show of counting them and watching as the man nailed down the lids once more. He ordered them to open several more crates and a few barrels, randomly. It slowed progress but showed that he was diligent in his work.
As the hold filled and the day wore on, Rodrigo realized they had several more days ahead of them before the entire shipment would be aboard. This was a far bigger undertaking than he’d ever imagined. When cook called time for supper, Rodrigo turned to the crew who’d been under his supervision all day.
“There’s a cup of wine for each of us. Let’s relax now.”
The tall, thin sailor stayed aloof but the others soon warmed up, seeing their superior officer was not above dining with them.
“Wait until we come back,” said a stocky man with muscles of iron. “Sevilla calls a public holiday, there’s fireworks and wine—a lot better than this—” he held his cup high. “And we all go home to our wives for a bit of a good time!”
“Until the next ship sails,” muttered another.
“I didn’t say I don’t take my good times elsewhere too,” said the first one with a chuckle.
Rodrigo left them to their banter and went up to the deck for fresh air and a view of the city while he had the chance. Soon, there would be nothing but water to look at in any direction. Not that he couldn’t handle it, but endless days at sea were not his idea of a good time. Again, he mentally counted on his bonus from this trip to get him established in something more enjoyable back at home.
Down at the dock level he saw a boy of twelve years or so, running through the crowd and making his way toward the gangway. The lad was flushed and breathing hard as he said something to the guard at the lower end. Whatever it was, he convinced the guard to escort him aboard the Niña Linda.
“Where’s the captain?” the guard demanded of Rodrigo.
“Probably dining in his quarters—I don’t know.”
T
he two started to rush off but the captain appeared just then in the doorway to his cabin.
“The Armada went down,” the young boy said before the guard could steal his thunder in making the announcement.
“What? Niño, what did you say?”
“Off the coast of Ireland. The invasion failed and our ships got off course. Most all of them went down and our sailors were captured or killed.”
The captain’s face went pale but he thanked the boy and ordered the guard to go down to the galley and get him some food.
“Do not speak of this. I must make the announcement myself. Muster the crew as quickly as possible.”
Within minutes he had sent the messenger away with a piece of bread and some ham. Rodrigo watched silently as their leader disappeared into his cabin and reappeared wearing his dress coat and medals, taking his place at the railing of the forecastle and gathering his thoughts. The ship’s bell rang and men began pouring up to the assembly.
* * *
The port of Veracruz boasted nothing similar to the comforts they had left behind in Sevilla. The Niña Linda had anchored beside the island of San Juán de Ulúa and a host of small boats waited to transport their cargo and men across the stretch of water to the Mexican shore. A stone warehouse was the largest building in sight on the mainland. Beyond it, a cluster of small wooden buildings formed the city which Hernán Cortés had named Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the Rich Village of the True Cross, because of the discovery of gold in the area and to make certain that the Church’s influence would not be forgotten. Otherwise, there seemed nothing rich about the sad village where palm trees hung limply in the stifling heat and dark-skinned workers rolled barrels along a series of makeshift ramps that seemed flimsy for the burden they had to bear. Rodrigo stumbled from his cabin when he heard the shouts of his jubilant sailors.
Rough seas and days on end of rain had left every man queasy and disoriented, and in the distance he could see the first to disembark as they wove unsteadily on their feet, working to regain their land legs. For his own part, Rodrigo knew that his malaise went beyond unsteadiness. A fever had wracked his body for most of the voyage and when he emerged from the darkness to stand on deck, the tropical heat hit him in the face like a hot, wet blanket.
A shout from the captain drew his attention. “All hands make ready to offload the cargo!”
Rodrigo wove his way back to his cabin to retrieve the manifest pages. In his strongbox he spotted the carved box from Ireland and picked it up. Clutching it to his chest with both hands he felt its warmth travel up his arms and into his body. Within minutes he felt better, with some of his old energy returning. He carefully set the box back in its safe place and gathered the papers to complete his duties.
Above decks, the crew had already begun bringing crates and barrels up from the cargo hold. A small mountain of them were stacked near the gangway and Rodrigo quickly made his way there.
Item by item, he confirmed the delivery of each barrel, box and crate they had loaded aboard back in Sevilla, all these necessities brought with them that could not be obtained here. He felt a sense of otherworldliness, the fact that he was on a new continent, in a place where few of his countrymen had ever, or would ever, set foot.
“Señor del Fuentes.” The captain’s voice caught his attention. “Are you well? You look very pale.”
Rodrigo realized that he was clutching the manifest pages to his chest and that he was leaning against the ship’s rail. “Um, I believe so. Yes, sir, muy bien.”
The captain gave him a hard stare. “Go to the galley and get something to eat. I will see to this until you return.” He took the pages from Rodrigo and gave his shoulder a gentle push.
The minute Rodrigo took a step he realized the captain was correct. His legs barely held him as he crept down the ladder into the belly of the ship. A piece of cheese and a hunk of hard bread did nothing to revive his energy, but he knew what would help. He struggled up the ladder and made his way to his own cabin. A short time later he emerged and took his place at the gangway.
“Ah, I thought some food would set you right,” said the captain.
If only you knew, Rodrigo thought, as the man gave a quick salute and descended to one of the ferry boats to ensure that the offloaded supplies were being properly handled within the large warehouse.
The midday sun became intolerable and several times Rodrigo thought he might have to excuse himself to revisit his private source of energy or risk collapsing right there on deck. At one point he noticed that even the natives had disappeared. He spied two of them sneaking off into the thick growth of leafy plants, and another man was openly sleeping with his back against the base of a palm tree and his wide-brimmed hat pulled over his face.
“I do not see why we cannot rest also,” grumbled one of the Spaniards who had paused for Rodrigo to check the contents of his crate.
Rodrigo shrugged. He was barely staying upright but as an officer he could not admit as much to a crewman.
“The captain wants this work completed quickly,” was all he could say. They all had their orders.
The man hefted the crate once again and placed it in the net to be lowered to the transport boat. Another sailor, this one with a barrel of wine, approached and Rodrigo flipped to another page. They were less than halfway through the cargo list.
At last a blessed darkness fell, cooling the temperature only a little but at least the blazing sun was gone. The mood among the men lightened and became jubilant.
“We have leave to go ashore,” said one of the crewmen, part of a group who had washed their faces and put on clean shirts. “Come with us, Señor del Fuentes?”
“Go ahead. I shall catch the next ferry.” Rodrigo felt torn. All he really wanted was to go to bed for a week. But he wondered if part of his malaise was due to the close, airless quarters and nonstop motion of the ship. Perhaps he would indeed feel better if he were to walk on solid ground again and partake of food that was not dried or salted. Surely there would be fruit and fresh fish in a place like this.
An hour later, with his first steps on dry land, he realized that it would take some practice to remain steady on his feet. He slowly walked past the customs warehouse where guards stood at every door of the dark, hulking building. The fortress-like place probably already held quantities of the precious metals the Niña Linda would take back across the Atlantic. In two weeks’ time, most of it spent unloading the European commodities they had brought with them and refilling the ship with the king’s treasure, the galleon would once again be eastbound. Rodrigo closed his mind to the prospect of being underway again. Beyond the coming hours he could only focus on Cordoba and a vision of his lovely mother’s face. Home.
Sounds of revelry interrupted his thoughts. He followed the noises toward a lighted area where, in an open square, small fires blazed and the smells of food wafted on the night air. A black woman wearing brightly colored loose clothing was frying something in fat, stirring and turning the little packets with two wooden sticks. Next to her was a man with rounded, indigenous features who called out to the sailors in a curious mixture of Spanish and some other tongue. Several of the Niña Linda’s crew held out cups to the man and he filled them with clear liquid from a barrel.
“Best Caribbean rum,” the man said, turning to Rodrigo. “Will make you feel very happy.”
Judging by the level of raucous laughter from the rest of the men, that was seemingly true. But Rodrigo’s stomach was not yet ready. He declined when he spotted another little stand where the meat and vegetables simmering in a savory sauce caught his attention.
The man cooking the meat concoction spooned a portion of it onto a piece of flat, soft bread and handed it to Rodrigo in exchange for a couple of reales. He found a seat on a rough-hewn bench and sat down with his meal.
“There’s more fun to be had for your money than that!” called out one of the sailors who had clearly partaken of the rum already and was now hanging onto the hand of a flamboyant
ly dressed woman.
Rodrigo watched the two disappear into a narrow alleyway between blocks of the low wooden houses. He didn’t envy his captain trying to keep order among this crew and assure that all reported back to the ship for the return voyage. Three sailors stumbled by, clearly having been at the rum for some hours now, and another had his face buried in a woman’s cleavage in a dark corner at the edge of the small plaza. For all Rodrigo knew, no one checked on their whereabouts. Maybe it was every man for himself when it came to returning home safely. He finished the burrito and sat for another half hour, observing.
The following night he followed the same ritual, coming ashore for a meal after a day during which he felt nearly overcome with exhaustion. He’d handled the wooden box several times, but its powers were becoming less effective. He knew he wasn’t well and, from his seat on the bench, he debated whether he should seek out a doctor. If this city had doctors.
The Niña Linda was due to sail in a week’s time and he could not fathom the misery of being aboard for several more weeks feeling this way. He scanned the area, his vision not quite right, but did not see any sign of a medical facility. When he returned to the ship he would ask the captain for advice. The burrito in his hands had lost its appeal; he set it aside and wiped his hands on a corner of his cloak.
When he stood, sparks appeared before his eyes. He blinked. Then his vision narrowed and the world went dark.
* * *
An angel’s face appeared above him—so young, so beautiful with her halo of white. He smiled and drifted into a pleasant sleep.
Voices entered his consciousness. A man saying, “… cannot wait …” A woman, “condition is grave …” Another long, dark period.
“… better today, padre. See for yourself.” It was the voice of the angel this time.
The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 11
