And, such is the perversity of human nature, there came a thin cheer from those gladdened by the sight of a discomfited friar, notwithstanding the nature of his mission.
Ten
The Pilot-Major
Iago, Ah Fong and Ximenez were settling for sleep, huddling into their blankets for the damp chill of the fog penetrated their quarters, when the canvas screen was torn rudely aside. Pedro Ruiz de Olalde led two armed men into the small space, their heavy leather boots trampling on Ximenez’s blankets.
‘Hey, you dogs!’ the dwarf began remonstrating as he tried to tug the captured bedding from under the heavy boot-sole.
Olalde silenced him with a single swipe of a short switch. Ximenez recoiled with a sharp yelp, his hand going to the weal rising across his cheek and his eyes glaring with cold fury at his tormentor who stood above him, the faint light gleaming on the sergeant-major’s half-armour.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Iago cried, throwing his legs out of the hammock.
‘Stay where you are, Don Iago,’ Olalde ordered sarcastically. ‘I have come for your sword.’
‘My sword? What is my sword to you?’
‘The captain-general has given instructions to collect all weapons.’
‘I am a gentleman, confound it!’ protested Iago.
‘So you say. I obey orders.’
‘You dishonour me!’ Iago exclaimed.
Olalde turned and nodding to the two men beside him pointed to the katana hanging under the beam-knee above Ah Fong’s bed-place. ‘One cannot dishonour that which is devoid of honour,’ he said conversationally, bending down and lifting the corner of Ah Fong’s bed covering as he awaited the removal of the sword. His insult conveyed two different and distinct meanings and he seemed pleased with his wit. Ah Fong snatched the bedding from the prying hand. ‘I cannot think how you deceived us into thinking this was a boy, Don Iago. Was that not a dishonourable thing to do, eh?’
Having helped themselves to the Japanese sword the two men withdrew, leaving Olalde to regard the three of them discomfited in the relaxed moments before sleep. He looked at Iago.
‘¡Buenas noches! Don Iago, and do not think that I shall not be watching every move you make.’ He next shook his head at Ah Fong and smiled. ‘A boy, eh? What a fool you made of us.’
Then he turned, deliberately trod upon Ximenez’s bed, leaving a boot-print on the blanket, and, just before letting the canvas fall behind him, he emitted a loud fart.
‘¡Tirarse un pedo, asqueroso!’ Ximenez fulminated, holding his nose while his master above him stared at the swinging canvas curtain.
Iago slumped back into his hammock with an oath, wondering what to do. Should he go in pursuit of his sword at once? He had smelt liquor on Olalde’s breath and knew that at this hour those about Guillestigui would be awash with wine. If he were to be admitted to the captain-general’s presence, he would almost certainly be humiliated. And yet he knew too, that if he did nothing he was already humiliated in the eyes of Ah Fong, for he had lost face in front of her. He looked down at her and she was staring at him.
‘I am not going after those men, beloved,’ he said. ‘They are drunk, the night is cold and Iago is not a fool.’
She nodded, a brief accommodation of his sometimes incomprehensible behaviour. Ximenez spoke. ‘Forgive the presumption, master, but to be humbled by men such as those is no dishonour. It is better to make a time of your own choosing to take revenge.’
‘You have some experience of such matters, eh?’ Iago said, grinning despite his anger.
‘Oh yes, master. It is a natural consequence of dwelling so close to the earth.’
‘Then let us bide our time and hope . . . Put out the light.’
It grew colder towards dawn. Iago woke to hear the chatter of Ximenez’s teeth. ‘Are you frozen, Ximenez?’ he hissed.
‘Like to a corpse, master.’
Iago swung himself out of his hammock, dragged his blanket after him and covered the dwarf.
‘Master . . .’
‘Shh . . . Do not wake Ah Fong. I am going on deck,’ he said in a low voice, dressing. Ah Fong lay curled up, fast asleep. Sometimes, he thought pulling his doublet on, she did look like a boy. She was from a hardy breed, better used to enduring hardship than poor Ximenez.
On deck the pallid light of dawn made the fog glow with a faint luminosity. The decks were sodden and moisture dripped incessantly from the ropes, sails and spars above them, where it condensed in such a profusion of droplets that they fell like a lazy drizzle. Olivera had the watch and nodded to Iago.
They exchanged greetings. ‘Buenas días.’
‘Buenas días.’
‘There is a swell building,’ Olivera said, ‘and the wind has yet to come away again from the westward in strength . . .’
Iago divined the anxiety in the second pilot’s mind. The swell presaged more bad weather, the failure of the westerly wind any release from this interminable northerly drift. Yet the direction of the swell seemed . . .
But no, in this fog and with the ship wallowing under so little sail, it was impossible to be certain where the wind would come from when it freshened.
‘My God, but it is chilly . . .’ Iago shivered. He had been too long in tropical climes.
‘I hear the captain-general’s Negroes are near frozen,’ Olivera remarked indifferently as though the shuddering blacks were, like the mysterious column of mercury, merely an indication of temperature. A thought struck Iago and he stared at Olivera; it was simple to ascribe the second pilot’s indifference to the customary contempt meted out to the black slaves, but Iago thought he detected something else underlying his attitude, something profounder and therefore disquieting. He sought an answer in the older man’s eyes and Olivera noticed the inquisition.
‘We are going to the Devil, Don Iago,’ he said in a low and confidential tone. ‘You, me, that girl of yours, the dwarf, the captain-general, his swinish following, the religious, that fornicating rabble that call themselves marineros, the whole damnable lot, benighted Negroes included.’
‘Come, this is not cheering . . .’
‘Do you think we can sail the great ocean under this pathetic rig, our rudder suspect, our stores spoiled, our ship divided into more factions than the Christian kingdoms of Europe? Why, we are incapable of laying our course!’
Iago gave a reluctant nod. ‘That swine Olalde forced his way into my quarters last night and took away my sword.’
‘That curious and murderous weapon from Cipangu?’
‘The same.’
‘That is monstrous!’
‘Oh, I am offended, mi amigo, but I knew them to be drunk and only a fool remonstrates with drunks in authority.’
‘But you are a gentleman. A sobrasaliente.’
‘I might as well have been a Negro.’
‘The man has . . .’ Olivera bit his lip and changed tack. ‘He favours his Basque henchmen. Blood is ever thicker than water. I believe they would do murder for one another and call it friendly obligation.’
‘Or loyalty.’
‘Ties that bind, eh?’ Olivera paused, then added, ‘Emotion overrules reason: man’s perennial curse.’
They fell silent for a moment and then the second pilot said, ‘I think that we should put back to the westward. Lorenzo is of like mind and will speak with the captain-general this forenoon.’
‘You think it our only chance?’
Olivera nodded. ‘Aye, and a slender one at that.’
‘But Cipangu lies to the west,’ Iago began.
‘I know,’ Olivera interrupted, ‘and the fate of the San Felipe is uppermost in my mind, but that was four years ago.’
‘A people with a taste for massacres do not change in four years.’
‘Perhaps a cut with a sword such as yours is a swifter, pleasanter death than slowly starving among this shit, like a dog in the gutters of Madrid.’
‘I do not think of myself,’ Iago said in a low voice, ‘but of
my wife.’
‘A woman makes a man hostage to fortune. Even while she accepts his seed she rips the very manhood from his bowels.’
‘God ordained it thus.’
Olivera shook his head and with a short laugh said, ‘Oh, no, my friend, it was Adam who caused this misery, the damned fool.’
‘Whomsoever. It is thus.’
‘You will tell me she is with child next.’
‘God forbid,’ Iago replied fervently.
They fell silent again and then Olivera asked, ‘Have you come to relieve me?’
Iago nodded. ‘As you wish.’
‘Does a man die best tired or alert?’
‘Since the when is unknown to us, and the why is obvious, the how can hang uncertain between the two.’
‘Faith, Don Iago, you are too sharp. I shall sleep. She keeps before the wind. Anything else is beyond our crippled state.’
Iago grunted. Perhaps he might haul a brace and make it otherwise, but not much. Besides, if they were to run for Cipangu, what did it matter? He fell to pacing the deck, matching the sluggish wallow of the rolling ship. Dawn grew into daylight, lightening the fog so the Santa Margarita swam in a damp, cold and tiny world of her own misery. The watch change which should have seen the oncoming men cheered by having broken their fast and the off-going eager to break theirs was a shambling, resentful milling of chilled and miserable men. Here and there the abusive calls of a hungry shrew followed them on deck.
Hunger and cold are dangerous enemies to discipline, Iago mused. He feared the sullen marineros more than all the yellow tribes of Cipangu and wondered if they still had their knives. Looking closer he saw that not one single sailor bore a knife at his belt, only empty sheaths. This, he realized, added reason to the black looks cast aft where, he sensed, they were disappointed to see himself – a volunteer – upon the half-deck.
‘Is the helm relieved?’ he asked, as much to test their mood as to determine whether the whipstaff was properly manned.
‘Aye, sir,’ a voice responded, ‘but there the matter ends, for there is no breakfast.’
‘No, I know. I too am hungry. The pilot-major intends addressing the captain-general in an hour or so.’
A murmuring met this information. ‘I understand,’ someone concealed from Iago’s line of sight called out, ‘I understand the captain-general dined well last night.’
‘He may well have done but I was not invited. Now boil some water, there is surely some tea.’ Iago temporized in face of the ugly mood of the men.
‘I would rather drink Chinese piss from thy wife, Don Iago. It would refresh better.’
Iago ignored the coarse slight, though his heart beat faster, for a danger lurked in that mass of discontented men and he knew the direction it would take. ‘Tea will console you a little and the Chinese take it to stay the pangs of hunger, pangs with which they are familiar.’
‘We are not Chinese. We are Christians . . .’
‘Then you must exercise some Christian fortitude,’ began Marmolejo, who appeared on deck amongst them. ‘We shall fish again, like the disciples on Galilee, and God will reward us if we have faith.’
At the sight of the friar the men broke up and went about their business with a sullen acquiescence.
‘Your appearance is most fortuitous, Fray Mateo,’ Iago remarked as Marmolejo joined him on the half-deck.
‘I heard them baiting you. This all bears an ugly stamp.’
‘Aye.’
‘There are a score of Negroes freezing half to death in this damp chill.’
‘I know. Lorenzo means to speak to the captain-general later.’
‘To what purpose?’
Iago shrugged. ‘To turn back, to divert our course to Cipangu. Perhaps to land at the first island we encounter.’
‘How far may that be?’
‘I do not know. I have not been keeping a reckoning. Perhaps two hundred miles.’
‘I hear the dogs conspire, Don Iago, I hope you have sent them about their business.’
Both Iago and Marmolejo turned at the interruption. Neither had heard the captain-general come on deck but Iago bowed.
‘A passing mood, Excellency. The men are hungry, that is all.’
‘We are all hungry,’ Guillestigui said, turning to Marmolejo. ‘At least you religious can tolerate it. The mariners, I presume, cannot.’
‘The mariners, Excellency, have much to do,’ Iago said. ‘The ship still needs regular pumping and our lack of progress is demoralizing . . .’
‘Do you presume to tell me my business, Don Iago?’
‘I presume nothing, Excellency.’
‘That is well . . .’
‘I shall presume, Excellency,’ said Marmolejo. ‘We must turn back, or make for the nearest land.’
‘Must we, Fray Mateo Marmolejo? And when did you acquire expertise in these matters?’
‘As any man knows . . .’
‘Do you, Fray Mateo, go below and gather up all the Negroes and move them into the warmth under the half-deck. Gather them to you religious and warm them lest they freeze to death.’ Guillestigui glared at Marmolejo until the Franciscan bowed his head and went below. Then the captain-general turned to Iago.
‘Well, señor, Pedro de Olalde tells me you have a remonstrance for me.’
‘You have no right to deprive me of my sword, Excellency.’
‘It is not, I think, a gentleman’s sword.’
‘In Cipangu it is the mark of a knight.’
‘But we are not in Cipangu, nor were you when you acquired it.’
‘Is Your Excellency implying I am not worthy of wearing it?’
‘You understand me perfectly, señor. You are a marinero . . .’ And there, it seemed, Guillestigui would leave the matter, with Iago gaping after him as he strode away. He passed a seaman who had been coiling a line down on the poop and, having finished, was coming forward. In passing Guillestigui, the man failed to salute the captain-general.
Guillestigui’s gauntleted hand shot out and seized the man’s arm. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Enrique, señor.’
‘Is that the way to address His Most Catholic Majesty’s captain-general?’
The man pulled himself defiantly away from Guillestigui’s grip. ‘I am hungry, señor. An empty belly lacks respect.’
With a rasp Guillestigui had drawn his sword.
‘Excellency!’ Iago cried, fearful at what the captain-general might do, but Guillestigui was beside himself.
‘Let me see this empty belly of yours!’ he cried and struck at the seaman, who drew back and parried the disembowelling blade with his right arm. Guillestigui took the arm off above the elbow and Enrique fell back, pumping arterial blood over the deck and crying out with the shock of the assault. The incident had occurred so quickly that few saw it, but those who had stared in stunned silence. Turning forward and wiping his sword blade through his gloved left hand, Guillestigui gathered their attention.
‘See there! That is what insolence receives! Think well on it and render to Caesar that which is Caesar’s!’ Catching Iago’s eye and gesturing to the twitching Enrique, he said, ‘Throw that thing overboard, Don Iago. We must maintain discipline at all costs.’
The captain-general shot his sword into its scabbard. As he turned to leave he was met by Peralta coming on deck, clearly in quest of his master. Peralta stared for a moment at the scene before him, then Iago heard him tell the captain-general, ‘Two of them are dead. Quite frozen.’
‘¡Dios!’ exclaimed Guillestigui, and Iago guessed the expression was wrung from the captain-general on account of the fiscal loss of two black slaves. It scarcely mollified his own resentment at the treatment he had just received, or the supposed punishment and outrageous summary execution of the wretched seaman Enrique.
Guillestigui had led Peralta to the rail where they remained deep in conversation and ignoring Enrique as he lay in a spreading pool of blood. Iago went to the man and lifted him a lit
tle but it was too late. He recognized the marinero as one of those prominent in the orgy. Now Enrique’s face was set in a snarling rictus as his body emptied of blood. A moment later Iago heard the death rattle in Enrique’s throat and felt life leave him.
Iago was consumed by a sudden, panicky terror: what would become of them? Yet Enrique’s unpredictable death seemed a catalyst, for Iago emerged from his shock aware of a subtle change in the very air about them. The breeze was filling in, the fog lifting. He could see the end of the bowsprit extemporized by the cadet Silva, and the lift in the sails seemed to animate the ship. Iago stared at the weft lifting from the stump of the mainmast and called down to the duty mate to alter course a point to the eastward.
Perhaps . . .
Like the proverbial drowning man, Iago grasped at the passing straw.
The change in the weather brought the ship to life, for the wind continued to shift and before the end of his watch the Santa Margarita’s head had been brought round a further five points to the eastward. When, in the wake of Enrique’s death, Lorenzo sought an audience with the captain-general, he was refused on the grounds – or so Peralta said – that matters would now swiftly mend themselves and they would soon be heading due east. No argument from the pilot-major would remove Peralta’s objection, for his master had retreated to the great cabin.
Also below, but forward, under the half-deck, the Negroes thawed out amid the protests of Arrocheros, who complained of sharing the space with them. Here Iago found Marmolejo praying over the bodies of the dead black slaves and the mutilated Enrique as two nuns prepared them for burial. Any intention to bury them formally was wrecked by Guillestigui, who with his officers now occupied the poop fully armed and dressed in half-armour. The captain-general, angry that his original instruction to toss Enrique’s body overboard had been ignored, ordered the corpses thrown over the side – unless, he added, their fellow blacks wished to eat them and thus stay their hunger.
That evening, as the sun set in a lurid chaos of cloud, three of the seamen were reported sick with scurvy and another was said to be close to death. ‘Let them die in order that we may live,’ the captain-general was heard to remark. ‘Go and search the seamen’s quarters again for any hidden food. No man should eat that cannot work.’
The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita Page 19