The boatswain stood unmoving until Iago, as though just aware of the man’s immobility, swung upon him. ‘At once!’ he commanded with an imperious tone he had long forgotten he possessed. ‘Don Iago Fernandez,’ he repeated.
For just long enough to make the encounter memorable, the boatswain remained stationary, then he turned away, called a boy and sent him aft with the information, disdaining the errand himself. Without thereafter regarding Iago he resumed his duties in the waist, bellowing even louder to emphasize his own importance in the process of preparing the ship for sea.
Iago followed the boy up the first of two ladders and on the half-deck, clear of the labour of loading, he assumed a pose, his weight on his right leg, his left hand upon the hilt of the katana slung at his waist.
What dogs these Spanish devils are, he thought wryly to himself.
The boy had disappeared through a door under the high poop by which means he could reach the great cabin on the deck below. A few moments later he emerged followed by a richly dressed young man and, throwing a quick and curious glance at Iago the stranger, vanished among the bales, boxes, noise and chaotic movement of the sunlit waist.
‘Your name is unknown to us, señor,’ the young officer said and Iago favoured him with a deep bow.
‘I shall not take offence, señor,’ Iago responded. ‘I have but recently arrived at Cavite and I am seeking a passage eastwards. I have been a victim of misfortune, señor, and spent time among the Chinese. I am offering my services and am a competent pilot.’
‘We have both a pilot-major and a second pilot, señor,’ interrupted the other with a pleasantly insolent smile.
‘I can pay,’ Iago said pointedly. ‘I merely wished to indicate my familiarity with,’ he gestured expansively forward, ‘the business of a ship, should you think I might be useful.’
‘You do not seem to understand, señor, the Santa Margarita is full. We have little space left for passengers.’ The young officer smiled and gave a helpless shrug. ‘I am sorry.’
‘I see your dilemma,’ Iago said quietly, smiling back, ‘she is certainly nearing her full lading but,’ and he paused for a second to lend emphasis to his intention of insisting, ‘I can pay.’
‘You would not displace some poor friars.’
‘Not willingly but,’ it was Iago’s turn to shrug, ‘accommodation is something one may reach as well as occupy.’
The young man stared at him, saw the pun and grinned. ‘You are persistent, señor.’
‘Then you will press my suit with the captain-general,’ Iago said smiling back and bowing with a finality that, almost against his will, compelled the young officer to retreat into the fastness of the poop. Just as he reached his hand out to open the door, it was flung open and a figure emerged, thrown out in a swirl of black robes. He was followed by two men. One was as tall as the boatswain, though leaner in figure with a clean-shaven, pock-marked face, whose purple and black doublet was echoed in his slashed breeches and dark hose.
From the bow given him by the young officer, who stepped adroitly back from the reeling priest, Iago guessed him to be Juan Martinez de Guillestigui, the captain-general. The other, who appeared to have been responsible for the physical eviction of the priest, was clearly a man of temper. Less gorgeously dressed than his superior, Iago afterwards knew him as Pedro Ruiz de Olalde, the expedition’s sergeant-major and Guillestigui’s familiar.
‘Señor! I protest! In the name of Mother Church!’ The priest caught his breath and his balance, outrage stiffening him as all work ceased in the waist and men started with unconcealed curiosity at the scandalous incident on the half-deck above them. At this point the boatswain roared at them and they bent again to their task.
‘It is not a matter for Mother Church, padre,’ the captain-general announced as Olalde advanced intimidatingly, ‘and in invoking her you blaspheme! You have neither the authority nor the skill necessary for the conduct of this or any other vessel and you are insubordinate! Did not our Lord Jesus Christ abjure his flock to render under Caesar those things which are Caesar’s? Then remember that here, aboard the Santa Margarita, I am like unto Caesar!’
Cowed by this physical and verbal onslaught, the Franciscan friar retreated towards the poop ladder. Those seamen he passed drew aside and crossed themselves. Guillestigui turned away and was then made aware of Iago’s presence by the young officer.
He bent his head for a moment, heard what the younger man had to say and then looked up, directly at Iago.
‘Who are you and what is your business?’
Iago bowed. ‘I am Iago Fernandez, Your Excellency, originally from Seville and hapless from shipwreck upon the China coast where I was compelled to languish before purchasing my liberty. I am but recently come here by way of a junk from Guandong, Excellency, and am anxious to offer my services in order to return to Seville. I am an adept in matters of navigation and might assist your pilot . . .’
Guillestigui turned aside, apparently uninterested, but Iago heard him address the young officer, saying, ‘He might be useful; have Lorenzo examine him.’ Then the great man vanished below, followed by Olalde. The young officer turned and asked Iago to wait. Then he too disappeared, a few moments later emerging with a heavily bearded, plain-dressed man whose skin was burnt dark by the sun and wind and who was obviously one of the ship’s standing officers.
‘I am Juan Lorenzo, the pilot-major,’ the dark-visaged officer introduced himself with a tired expression. ‘I am told you seek a berth aboard this ship?’
Iago introduced himself. ‘I am from Seville, Señor Lorenzo, and have been some years at sea. I am a competent pilot and was engaged, in the interest of the House of Gomez of Seville, aboard the trader Rainha de Portugal of Lisbon. The brothers Gomez had chartered her on a voyage intended to open trade with his house and Macao—’
‘I know the Gomez brothers,’ broke in Lorenzo, ‘that would be a bold move on their part.’
‘Indeed,’ added Iago, ‘since the two countries were united they saw no reason why, as Spaniards, they might not profit from the Portuguese monopoly.’
‘And you,’ Lorenzo said, giving Iago a shrewd look, ‘must have been placed in a position of some trust.’
Iago inclined his head. ‘I was regarded as a confidential servant but was also to learn what I could of the navigation of the Bocca Tigris – in the interests of the House of Gomez.’ The two men smiled, understanding each other.
‘But you failed to complete the voyage . . .’ Lorenzo frowned.
‘Yes, señor. The Rainha de Portugal struck a reef in the Chinese Seas when she was overwhelmed by bad weather. Although several of us escaped the wreck I am, I am certain, the only survivor. I was fortunate to be picked up by a Chinese fisherman and have spent three years in virtual captivity.’
‘In a cage?’ asked Lorenzo, who had heard rumours of what the Chinese did to the occasional occidental who fell into their hands.
‘Fortunately not.’ Iago shook his head, smiling wryly. ‘I made myself useful and in due course I found work aboard a large trading junk. That is how I came here.’
‘You did not think of going to Macao?’
‘I was not master of the junk’s trading. Besides I was uncertain as to whether the Portuguese would believe my story, for there is supposed much hostility to us still, especially in Macao. Here I am among Spaniards.’
Lorenzo gave him a rueful look and, lowering his voice, said, ‘I hope for your sake that your choice proves wise. Divisions there may be between Portugal and Spain, but perhaps they are preferable to those which divide Castilian from Basque.’
Iago shrugged. ‘Like you, Señor Lorenzo, I am a seaman. I can determine latitude, work a traverse and reckon the day’s work; I am not ungifted at reading the sea and the sky and know as well as the next man the time to haul in a reef.’
Lorenzo stared at Iago for a moment, then said, ‘That popinjay Miguel de Alacanadre, the master-of-camp, said you were able to pay for your pass
age.’
Iago shrugged. ‘Yes, I am able, and would ship as a gentleman – a sobrasaliente – but I thought to make myself useful. I understand that the ship is new and that you are having difficulties in recruiting a competent crew. I find, however,’ he remarked looking about him, ‘the ship seems full.’
A shadow fell over Lorenzo’s face. ‘Aye, full and overloaded, which was the chief complaint made by the discalced friar you saw so rudely put ashore a moment ago. He also objects to the women . . .’ Lorenzo shrugged. ‘But you know that a crew without women is a crew who will make trouble. The holy friar will be back, of course, along with all the other useless mouths we are shipping for New Spain, for, in truth, we have few among the three hundred souls presently named for embarkation who can call themselves seamen.’
Iago sensed Lorenzo, who had already confided his anxieties as to the state of the Santa Margarita’s lading, was seeking him as an ally. Was he in need of a competent colleague in face of tyrannical power? It certainly seemed so and Iago knew only too well the internal tensions arising aboard ship between the sea-wise professionals and the ambitious hierarchy who commanded her. From what little he had seen of Guillestigui and his henchman, Caesar’s rule seemed arbitrary enough.
‘Is the captain-general a Basque, then?’ he asked quietly.
Lorenzo shot a glance at him, relaxing a little as he realized that Iago had divined his intentions, and nodded.
‘Could you then find a berth for me? I am not a Basque,’ he added with a heartening smile.
Lorenzo nodded, seeming relieved of some anxiety. ‘I shall try. Do you wait here a moment.’ And with that the pilot-major disappeared, leaving Iago on the half-deck from where he watched the rising tide of boxes and bales mount and overflow the waist.
He was not left long. After a few moments Lorenzo re-emerged with Miguel de Alacanadre. The two men suppressed what was clearly a difference of opinion between them. Alacanadre addressed him: ‘The pilot-major has put in a strong claim for you against which the captain-general has ruled. He is, however, prepared to admit you as a sobrasaliente on payment of seventy-four maravedis and the sworn undertaking that you will assist the pilot-major in all things that he demands, standing a watch should he so wish. If you agree, I shall allocate you a place on board; if not I shall require you to leave.’
‘I accept,’ Iago responded, aware that he had committed himself to a bargain all the advantage of which lay with the captain-general. ‘But as a sobrasaliente I shall require berths for my two servants,’ he added.
‘Ah!’
‘That is my condition and it goes without saying that a payment of such magnitude is not demanded from a man of mean birth.’
Though he held the gaze of Alacanadre, out of the corner of his eye he saw something like admiration cross the face of Lorenzo. Certainly he had discomfited Guillestigui’s chief of staff. The master-of-camp was compelled to hide his irritation with a bow as Don Iago Fernandez, born Jacob van Salingen, joined the Santa Margarita shortly before she sailed from Cavite in July 1600.
Used as he was to the life of a dog, Ximenez was unsparing in his condemnation of the conditions he found himself forced to endure in the overcrowded ship. Despite the station of his master, they had been allocated a small area under the half-deck which was curtained off by rough canvas and which, subject constantly to challenges as to its boundaries, never seemed to occupy the same space for two consecutive minutes. When Ximenez complained Iago bade him be silent, explaining that the prevailing confusion would ease once they had put to sea. However, much of Ximenez’s anxiety arose from the fact that Don Iago had decided that it would be prudent to pretend that the Chinese girl, Ah Fong, was a boy. Iago knew of the customary prejudice against women which would be aired by any priests making the voyage and he wished to be free from any possible contention that might arise. Moreover, while a degree of tolerance might be extended to the presence of native Filipinos, Ah Fong was Chinese and this might count against her. The matter of her disguise as a boy, Don Iago also asserted, would not prove difficult, citing several cases where Spanish girls had passed for boys. How much easier with a bud-breasted Chinese? Less confident of the shipboard world, Ximenez protested his doubts.
‘But, master, how can she make water like a boy? Or shit but on the heads with her arse exposed to any passing glance?’ Iago had brushed these apparently insuperable obstacles aside, attesting to Ah Fong’s ingenuity. ‘I know I am a fool, master,’ Ximenez persisted, ‘but even a fool knows that a woman is subject to the moon. How shall she disguise her lunar periods?’
‘She will manage, Ximenez,’ Iago said curtly.
‘Happen she is not a girl anyway,’ Ximenez muttered, shaking his head and turning away, ‘and that you are a pederast . . .’
He got no further. Iago’s raised eyebrow, as powerful as the grip Ximenez recalled about his throat, stopped him from further insolence.
‘Do not behave like the idiot others take you for, Ximenez, and do not seek to find out the truth, which is as I have told you,’ Iago said in a low voice. Then he said: ‘If small arses are fancied aboard here, and there will be those who favour them I have no doubt, it will likely be yours that attracts attention.’
‘Jesus protect me,’ breathed Ximenez, crossing himself vigorously.
‘Then hold your tongue and help Ah Fong when she needs it.’
‘Of course, master, forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. Your apprehensions on Ah Fong’s behalf do you credit. Now stow our gear, stand guard upon it and pray that soon we depart and rid this ship of its parasites.’
Iago went on deck. As a paying gentleman he felt no obligation to assist the final preparations for departure and joined the assorted group of officers upon the poop. One or two of them, he noted, had women with them, trulls like those others forward, although better dressed in tawdry silken finery.
Iago soon struck up a tolerable acquaintanceship with Alacanadre and liked Lorenzo and his mate, Antonio de Olivera, a small, active man. Olivera shared Lorenzo’s anxiety as to the over-laden state of the ship and lost no time in remonstrating – to no apparent effect – with the huge contramaestre, or boatswain, whom, Iago learned, was a Basque known as Diego de Llerena. To Lorenzo and Olivera were attached a handful of young cadets led by an active young man named Silva. Among the other officers with whom Iago became familiar in those first days were Joanes de Calcagorta, the Santa Margarita’s gunner, another Basque adherent of the captain-general; Rodrigo de Peralta, like Alacanadre an aide to Guillestigui; and two military officers Capitános Manuel and Ordóñez. Among his fellow passengers was a richly dressed merchant, Don Baldivieso de los Arrocheros, and his wife, Doña Catalina, a good-looking woman who was heavy with child.
At the time most of them were on the poop, a few armed with telescopes, and all watching as another ship, the galleon San Geronimo, anchored close to the Santa Margarita off Cavite to take aboard a few last consignments from a handful of junks. The San Geronimo was to accompany them on the eastern passage across the Pacific and had been loading off Manila, a few miles across the great bay. Several small guns were fired in welcome by Calcagorta from the Santa Margarita. The San Geronimo responded, saluting the captain-general’s standard which was raised at that moment with her own gunfire. Iago watched the pomp, seeking in Guillestigui’s face something of the inner man, desirous of determining the quality of this self-styled Caesar. But the captain-general’s expression was hidden in the shadow of his morion, and concealed behind the heavy beard he wore. What Iago noticed chiefly about him was the size of the gloved fist that reposed confidently upon the hilt of his long Toledo rapier, and the richness of the rings he wore outside the glove. It seemed an odd thing to wear gloves on so hot an afternoon.
The day before they sailed a large entourage of friars arrived, led by Fray Geronimo de Ocampo, who was accompanied by a handsome youth, Pedro de Guzman. Guzman bore a commission as lieutenant and proved to be the govern
or’s nephew. Another gubernatorial appointee, Capitán Ayllon, accompanied Guzman. Iago also recognized the friar whom Olalde had kicked unceremoniously ashore on the occasion of his first visit to the Santa Margarita and whose name, he afterwards learned, was Fray Hernando. With them, though chastely separate, came a handful of nuns. The wimpled, heavily robed figures seemed ungainly under the burning sun and, as though seeking their natural habitat, soon scuttled away into the shadows under the half-deck. These late arrivals only added to the confusion and chaos that reigned between decks as each fought for living space. Even the discalced friars seemed to have accumulated a disproportionate amount of this world’s goods for their mendicant status.
The next morning, before the sun had burnt off the mist that lay low over the marshy land which stretched away towards the line of Manila’s walls, the last junks were emptied. It was said that no ship had previously loaded so rich a cargo, that among the cases carried below into the after lazaretto were chests of gold – certainly several men attested to their extreme weight – and that the Chinese merchants resident in the port, in partnership with the Spanish compradors who mutually arranged the cargo, had vested an immensity of credit in the Santa Margarita’s freight. It was also rumoured, and in sincere anxiety by Lorenzo and Olivera, that the ship was overloaded and bore too much weight for her burthen. This fear was contemptuously and publicly dismissed by Pedro Ruiz de Olalde and Diego de Llerena as ridiculous. Those who made it were marked as pusillanimous; was not the Santa Margarita a ship of such size that she might embark a cargo that filled her to overflowing as the present one most certainly did by the bales and boxes lashed upon her open deck? Was she not built of the finest hardwoods the Philippines could produce and under the supervision of first-class Spanish shipwrights brought from the east? Were not the hundreds of labouring Filipinos and Chinese providentially cheap and therefore God-given? Had she not been rigged with the hemp derived from the abaca palm, found in the archipelago in such profusion that, like the endless supply of timber, it too was ordained by God? And, given their scriptural significance, was it not also a mark of God’s favour that their five fine iron anchors had come from Spain, great marks of trust from the distant homeland, symbols of hope, reliability and salvation to be sought only from Christendom itself?
The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita Page 3