‘We are being taunted,’ he said with the wonderment of youth that could not quite believe that he too might shortly be confronted by his own death.
‘The sea knows too much of our hearts are in those boxes and is extracting its own ruthless tribute,’ Olivera replied, clinging on to a starboard backstay, his perception heightened by a ravenous hunger and the wild look of an ascetic.
‘You are right, Don Antonio. It has come to get them,’ Silva shouted, his eyes wide.
‘There were forty cases in there and now look – all are gone!’ Olivera said.
‘Oh, God, Don Antonio,’ Silva cried out pointing, ‘see what else has been taken!’
For a moment Olivera was at a loss and then, following the cadet’s straightened arm, he saw the empty niche: the votive statue of the saviour’s Holy Mother had been carried away by the cruel sea. ‘¡Dios!’ he cried, crossing himself. ‘First Juan and now this!’
The Santa Margarita was subject to this assault for the remainder of the day, mocked not only by the sea but by the circle of cloudless blue sky high above them while all about the horizon, where they could see it beyond the flying, high-flung crests of the waves, the cloud ringed them. Shortly before sunset, or before the dying of that dreadful day – for the sun made no appearance – the fore-part of the ship received as a heavy a blow as had assaulted the poop a few hours earlier.
The crushing weight of water dragged the ship’s head down, tore one of Calcagorta’s sakers from its lashings and smashed the Santa Margarita’s beakhead with a concussive blow that sent shudders throughout the structure of the entire ship. When her bow rose from the roil of white water that swirled about the destroyed forward section, it bore little resemblance to its previous appearance. Falling from the forecastle, the mighty mass of solid water had swept across the waist, tearing the tarpaulin stretched and battened across the square of the hatch, snapping the two chains which had been padlocked across it. Floating the hatch-boards beneath, it swept five men and a single woman over the side as the Santa Margarita lolled over to her larboard beam ends.
Under the half-deck bodies and artefacts fell indiscriminately to the low side. On the half-deck above, Olivera and Iago grabbed at ropes to hold on and watched in stupefied helplessness as the hapless individuals went overboard in a cascade of white water. Waving arms above their drowning heads their screams and cries were cut off as they vanished.
The Santa Margarita recovered slowly; filled with water she might have lain there until finally overwhelmed, but such was the furious unpredictability of the upsurging sea that she rolled back to starboard. Olivera and Iago stared at each other.
‘I thought—’ Olivera said, cutting himself short rather than actually mention their shared fear of capsizing.
‘’Tis a miracle!’ they heard someone cry, and looking round saw four of the five men and the woman gasping like landed fish as the water that had washed them back on board slowly drained away through the gun-ports in the waist.
‘We are saved!’ one shouted, but at this a shriek went up from alongside and, rushing to the rail, Olivera called for help.
‘Fetch a line, here, help!’
Iago ran across the deck, scooped what had once been a neat coil of topgallant brace on a pin-rail from the scupper and began to re-coil it, staring over Olivera’s shoulder as he did so. A few yards off the ship’s side the fifth man lay spread-eagled and clinging to a hatch-board for dear life. A moment later one end of the line snaked out from Iago’s adept hands and landed smack across the man’s back. Holding on to the iron staple in one corner of the board with one hand, the seaman caught a hitch round its neighbour in the opposite corner. Then, throwing the bight of the line into the low waist, Iago and Olivera tumbled down the ladder and began to haul the hatch-board in, hand over hand. Within a few moments the sodden and wretched man lay on deck, gasping at their feet.
‘You should have left me to drown,’ he managed at last as Olivera barked orders for the hatch-board to be replaced and for other timber to be found to nail down over the partially open hold.
‘And rouse out some canvas to replace the tarpaulin. Where’s that lubber Llerena?’
Iago left Olivera to secure the hatch and helped the half-drowned marinero to his shaky feet. ‘Had you not called for help we should have left you, my friend,’ he remarked in a croak, feeling the salt sharp on his parched and cracking lips. ‘What is your name?’
‘Luis Rodriguez,’ the sailor replied, coughing the last of the water from his throat.
‘Well, Luis Rodriguez, perhaps you may yet be glad that you were saved.’
‘What chance have we, señor, in all honesty?’
‘In all honesty, I have no idea, but we are not yet dead.’
‘We might as well be. They say drowning is a pleasant way to die.’
‘Yes, but I have never quite understood how this is known as a fact.’
‘You think it a story, like those of Hell-fire, to give us comfort for the troubles of the world.’
‘I think it very likely . . .’ And Iago watched as, shaking his head, the philosophical sailor went below. ‘Though what comfort you will find there, Luis Rodriguez,’ Iago muttered to himself, ‘I am equally at a loss to know.’
‘Stop talking to yourself, amigo,’ Olivera said sharply, tugging the corner of a sodden but recently sewn topsail over the half-secured hatch-square. ‘Where the Devil is that pig of a boatswain?’
‘He may be among the dead,’ Iago said, picking up a corner of the sail and feeling the canvas as hard and resistant as a wooden board. Christ, but they were as weak as babies. And now, childlike, those below decks were appearing as if by common consent despite the seas still thundering about them. Here came Arrocheros and his wife, the Holy Ones, Ximenez and Ah Fong, the sailors that had sheltered below along with their women and, out on the half-deck, came Guillestigui and his entourage, most of whom lurched as much with the wine they had swallowed as with the extreme motion of the Santa Margarita. It was clear that no one felt safe below, that word had been put about that even the Holy Virgin had deserted them and the ship was lost. As Olivera and Iago, having finally battened and nailed down the hatch, came up from the waist, those remaining alive aboard the Santa Margarita stood lined up along the higher, starboard side of the ship.
Oddly, it seemed as though they had found a form of sanctuary, for while the ship lay on her beam ends and the sea beat all about her, the high starboard side was like a reef just above the level of the raging tide. Although the confused sea seemed to have died down, the respite was only temporary and already the sky was clouding over. Within an hour they would have drifted out of the centre of the typhoon and would again be battling winds of hurricane force.
Olivera sensed this brief respite; turning to Iago he called out, ‘God damn Llerena! We must right the ship and remove such of the top hamper as we may!’ Casting about him Olivera began bawling orders and such was the power of his personality that many men, even in the extremity of their exhaustion, hunger and thirst, rallied to his cry. Others did not, many lying down where they stood, to be kicked and trodden upon by those bold spirits who undertook the dangerous work of cutting away the remaining masts.
One man, more energetic than most and better fed owing to being Guillestigui’s steward, ascended the slope of the main shrouds, drew his sword and hacked at the jeer tackle of the main yard. He was halfway through the heavy ropes when the wind rose again. Within a minute it blew a furious gale that tore at his clothes as he clung on with one hand and hacked at the tackle with the other. At the pin-rail below half a dozen men stood poised with axes, ready to cut away the shrouds the instant the steward had eased the weight of the massive main yard aloft. No one had laid a blade against the straining shrouds when, as if anticipating events and entirely of their own accord, they began to strand. It was impossible to ensure they each bore an absolutely equal strain and, in recent weeks, they had been under incalculable loads. First the one bearing the
greatest weight gave way, whereupon the shock ran successively from one to another. The heavy ropes parted, their deadeyes fell and, as the last gave way, the mast itself cracked six feet above the deck. Before the courageous steward had severed the main yard from its jeers, he, the yard and the remains of the mainmast went over the side, sweeping a train of heavy tarred hemp in their wake.
As this ripped across the deck waist-high it tore open the belly of the nephew of the Bishop of Manila, dragging his guts after it in a steaming stream. A deadeye struck his cousin Francisco, smashing his femur so that the stump protruded from his upper thigh and sent both men screaming to the wet deck where they rolled in their separate agonies.
As the mainmast fell the strain on the standing rigging fore and aft brought down what remained of the fore and mizzen-masts. The bowsprit, already wounded by the flying saker and the wreckage of the forecastle, snapped off short and fell under foot so that the ship lost her spritsail and in the general mayhem – as the foremast rigging tore at the channels – two of the Santa Margarita’s remaining anchors lashed in the forechains were torn away to fall into the sea.
From the moment the steward had begun work to cut away the huge main yard to the ship becoming a derelict wreck had taken less than three minutes. As they digested the state to which they were reduced it became apparent that they were not about to sink. In fact they could take some cheer from the fact that the Santa Margarita had slowly returned to an even keel. And with that realization, despite the continuing howling of the typhoon, Marmolejo led them in a prayer of gratitude which culminated in a begging of the Lord God to have mercy upon them. Even Guillestigui, whose appearance seemed much changed, participated with a fervid enthusiasm.
‘God have mercy upon us. Christ have mercy upon us . . .’
Olivera, Iago and a handful of men which now, to Iago’s intense gratification, included Ximenez, managed to get a shred of canvas hoisted on the short stump of the mizzen-mast which, adding to the greater height of even her wrecked poop, forced the ship’s head round a little and eased her rolling. Although much reduced forward and with little freeboard in her forepart, the worst damage was aft and it was here that water still poured into the ship. Bringing her head up a little into the increasingly regular sea caused the Santa Margarita to ride more easily. Thus she lay hove-to without recourse to her helm, a hulk peopled by a hungry and despairing company. Slowly her anxious population gave up their tenure of the deck, making their way below again where, amid the chaos of debris, bedding, clothing, jars, pots and cases of cargo, they tried, half-heartedly, to make sense of their several existences.
But though the typhoon was passing slowly over the Santa Margarita it had not yet quite finished with her. Returning to their cabins aft, Guillestigui and the other gentry sought some comfort. While one or two already recanted of their promises to God and sought out a bottle, others fell upon their knees, rosaries, psalters and missals in hand. A few, like the captain-general and the foppish young master-of-camp, Miguel de Alacanadre, fell upon their bed-places. Alacanadre’s tiny cabin was immediately below that of the late pilot-major Lorenzo on the extreme starboard quarter of the vessel, just off the great cabin and built in point of fact as a privy. Its structure had suffered initially from the tearing off of the stern gallery while the demolition of Lorenzo’s quarters had further opened the timbers of the upper transom. Alacanadre had filled this space with his private trade goods among which were a number of glass jars containing aromatic oils of Chinese origin and, more importantly, considerable value. As he lay on his bunk a sea struck the Santa Margarita’s starboard quarter, springing the planking and bodily lifting the athwartships beams so that Alacanadre’s cabin split open and half its contents fell out of the ship. A second sea, bursting in through the holes thus opened, floated the glass jars and dashed them to pieces against each other and their surroundings. Bathed in escaping oil, Alacanadre was slashed by the fractured glass and lay in his own gore upon his sodden mattress.
It was ironic that this accident to the one member of his entourage who had opposed the eviction of Ocampo from the Santa Margarita should bestir the captain-general, but so it was. Hearing the screams of the master-of-camp as he bled profusely, Guillestigui appeared in the damaged doorway of Alacanadre’s wrecked cabin. Seeing the result of Alacanadre’s trade goods breaking loose Guillestigui spun round, infused with a startling resolution. Later there were those who said the sight of the bloody youth pricked his conscience and that he finally realized the ship lay in mortal danger through being overloaded with his own private cargo. Others thought this was a sign of encroaching madness. Whatever the cause he rushed out into the gloom of the half-deck, half-dressed, his hair loose and a wild look in his eyes. This was a place he had not visited since the ship cleared the Embocadero, the now lethargic inhabitants of which regarded the unseemly invasion of their miserable privacy by the captain-general as untimely. Those recumbent upon the relics of their straw palliasses looked up in astonishment while the rough curtains of the passengers were lifted to discover the source of the noise.
‘Wake up, damn you! Clear away the hatches!’ He indicated the two hatches that opened into the half-deck and whose enclosed situation both made the ship awkward to load and protected them from being stove in like those exposed in the waist. Looking wildly about him, Guillestigui caught sight of a clutch of wet seamen huddled forward. ‘Come you, here!’ he beckoned them urgently. ‘Clear away these hatches!’ He began tearing at the wooden wedges and, such is the nature of mankind that at the sight of the hidalgo commander of their failed expedition ineptly doing the work of a common sailor, the marineros gathered round. Within fifteen minutes the cases and bales, jars and mat bundles of Guillestigui’s private cargo were being brought up on deck, passed forward and out into the waist. From here they were thrown overboard to the number of four hundred, each one tallied over the side by the captain-general’s secretary.
It was by now evening and the sun was setting, appearing as a brazen ball through rents in the clouds shredding away to the west as the typhoon passed on and left them in the minor turmoil of a mere gale. By midnight, as the last of the boxes went overboard, the ship seemed to ride easier, the wind and sea were down and, as if by a miracle, chorizo and wine were circulated among the entire company. And far from evoking curses, since these provisions were clear evidence of hoarding by the captain-general and his staff, Guillestigui earned the plaudits of the wretches he thus saved from starvation.
After they had eaten this meagre meal they were rounded up to man the pumps. The carpenters had reported some nineteen palms of water in the hold, amounting to a little over fourteen feet, and while every fit man and several of the women took their turn at the monotonous chore, others caulked and plugged the obvious leaks by lantern light. Not a soul aboard the Santa Margarita had a shred of dry clothing on, everything was wet without exception, but a little more food was found among the officers’ cargo and was saved from going over the side.
All night they toiled, dragging a sail under the hull to reduce the ingress of water and lifting hope itself from the very bilges of the wallowing hulk.
Twelve
A Day of Miracles
It was remarkable what a revivifying effect a morsel of sausage and a little wine achieved, even to the extent of extracting from some of the less reflective of the ship’s company words of praise for the wisdom of the captain-general. Others found no good in Guillestigui’s harbouring of provisions, only a cynical manipulation for, without the help of the marineros, the Santa Margarita would assuredly founder. This opinion was proved right in the coming hours when the limited rations were dispensed by the captain-general’s armed guard and it was noted that nothing was given to those of little use. Thus, but for a meagre dole, the Holy Ones were forced to continue their fast and the passengers were limited to half-rations unless they undertook to pump.
Pumping was the main occupation of the mass of the men; others, under the direction of Ol
ivera and the carpenters, sought out leaks and plugged them. In this way, with a sail under the hull, the hatches again secured and most of the damage to the upper works patched up, the Santa Margarita’s watertight integrity improved. There remained one problem, for the sea still poured into the stern of the ship and it took some time to locate the leak. It was Olivera who found the source. In the late afternoon he came on deck, his clothes soaked through, his hair streaked down on his head like lank weed, his face grimy and his hands cut.
Iago was on deck, ostensibly keeping what passed for a watch, and loosely supervising a gang of seamen forward who had effected repairs to the stump of the bowsprit and were fishing a broken spar to what remained of the foremast in order to contrive yet another jury rig. Diego de Llerena was the moving spirit behind this labour, fired with an energy that suggested he must make amends for his unexplained absence. For the last few days the boatswain had been below, having been struck on his head when asleep by a heavy cask during the worst of the typhoon. Reduced to a stupor by the severity of the injury, he had remained inert through pain, fear, hunger and despair, but finally revived at the prospect of meat and drink as the weather moderated and the Santa Margarita refused to founder. His reappearance on deck galvanized several other men and whether or not conscience played its part in his heroism, he was now to demonstrate the fullness of his recovery.
The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita Page 21