A second later, as the boat of boxes completed her turn, a swell humped up and half-obscured it. Then they caught a glimpse of it lifted and borne forward on the crest of the wave, but as the swell culminated and rose to a peaked crest, the boat was hidden again, to make only one further appearance before it was shivered into pieces as the breaker thundered over the reef. As it ran on to dissipate itself upon the beach and finally lap the feet of the delighted children, they could see a brief gleam of yellow planks catching the sunlight amid the bobbing heads of the boat’s crew. The solitary Indian was seen wading up the beach, throwing his dark hair from his face.
‘My God, the soldiers!’ someone cried out and all watched anxiously as the drama was played out.
The arquebusiers had been wearing cuirasses and morions and must surely drown but then, to the intense relief of the watchers, what seemed like a spontaneous movement to assist the wretches in the water caused the people on the beach to surge forward. Fifty or sixty men waded into the sea and within a few seconds, to the accompaniment of a thin cheer from the Santa Margarita, the six Spaniards were half-dragged, or stumbled up the beach, supported by Chamorros.
‘God be praised!’ cried Marmolejo and the company crossed itself with a simultaneous rustle of ruined clothing amid cries of ecstatic joy.
Then, just as they reached safety, the situation was transformed.
‘My God, treachery!’
Huddled together on the golden sand, the six Spaniards were suddenly surrounded by their rescuers, increased now to some three or four hundred, shouting men. All waved lances or clubs and suddenly they surged forward and clustered round the Spaniards, dragging them to the top of the beach where they were swiftly bound to the palms. As the terrified victims cried for mercy, the Chamorro people began to stone and beat them to death, finishing their task by bringing burning brands and setting them on fire.
Those watching from the Santa Margarita were aghast. Without a boat they had no means of intervening and their general lassitude only added to their feeling of abject impotence. While Marmolejo summoned the Holy Ones to pray for the departing souls even as they ascended to Heaven, Calcagorta fumed at his inability to find powder dry enough to charge one of the sakers and send an iron ball or two crashing into the mass of Chamorros gleefully dancing on the beach and waving and gesticulating at the helpless Spaniards watching from the wreck of their ship.
‘They are not fools, these Indians,’ Olivera said, turning away. ‘They know what a properly fitted-out Spanish não should look like. They have seen the westbound ships with their ensigns and standards, their figures of the Virgin and the pomp of cannon fire, the glitter of arms and armour. Who knows what grudges they bear us for our possession of iron, or for any cheating in our dealing with them, real or imagined. We must appear as sacrificial victims brought to them by their own gods . . .’
‘You are gloomy, Olivera,’ snarled Calcagorta, returning to the half-deck from his futile attempt to ignite the powder in the breech of a saker. ‘Save your cavilling for another occasion. Those bloody savages need teaching a lesson and if you are not the man to do it then leave it to Joanes de Calcagorta and Pedro Ruiz de Olalde!’
Olivera said nothing, but watched the gunner join Peralta and his suite on the poop. Then, without looking at Iago, he went below.
‘Master?’ Iago took his eyes from the retreating pilot and regarded Ximenez at his side.
‘What is it?’
‘The mistress has cooked some flying fish and dressed a little rice . . .’
‘But the rice is rancid.’
‘I know, master, but, begging your pardon, your wife is a woman of determined habit and there is some fruit and coconut which she had traded.’
Iago looked at Ximenez, whose survival astonished him. ‘I am wondering, Ximenez, if you regret meeting me beneath that other palm grove and whether we shall all end up like those unfortunate men beneath the trees yonder.’
Ximenez shrugged. ‘I am certain that if God does not rule this world then the Devil does. Either way the fortunes of poor Ximenez are of little account. I can at least count myself among the fortunate in having experienced this voyage and I still live.’
‘I am not certain that I understand your argument, Ximenez,’ Iago said almost fondly, placing his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder, ‘but I shall not baulk at coconut and papaya.’
‘Do not eat too much fruit, master, it induces a looseness difficult to control.’
For five days they were prisoners aboard the ship. By degrees the Chamorros approached again in their proas and by degrees the Spaniards accepted them. There was little they could do to stop the Indians coming on board and the dead are soon forgotten. Every man thought he could negotiate his own salvation by showing cordial friendship to an individual Chamorro and nails and knives bought help with the interminable if intermittent pumping.
This chore remained essential to the saving of the ship and her intended eventual return to the Philippines but the Chamorros did not like pumping, perceiving that they were undertaking labour that brought them no advantage beyond a few nails. It was clear that the strangers should do their own pumping, and if they were too weak then the ship would soon fall into their own hands and they could have as many nails as they wished.
Then, on the sixth day, they found the Santa Margarita suddenly striking the reef.
It was a gentle bump at first, so gentle that one could almost dismiss it as a figment of an over-anxious imagination. Iago felt it and his heart missed a beat, so reminiscent was it of the fate of the Rainha de Portugal. Then a swell rolled in, lifted the ship and set her down again. This time there could be no doubt about it: they had run aground. When a third time she landed violently, the whole structure of the hull shuddered with the shock. Twice more she lifted and dropped with such force that she was quickly bilged. Thereafter, though the swells rose and fell about her, and the tide flooded and ebbed, she lay impaled upon the reef.
It was not coral, but sharp, crenated limestone, hard as adamantine and as destructive as any explosive device of Calcagorta. Even as this sequence of disastrous events was taking place, Olalde was roaring threats of death to the malefactor who had severed the cable. It was Iago that, pushed beyond the limit of his patience and anxious to bring the matter of their collective future to a resolution, shouted at Olalde to hold his tongue.
‘Can you not grasp the fact that the cable was rotten?’ he cried. ‘Go and look over the bow at the remains hanging from the hawsehole and concentrate your thoughts upon staying alive, not killing . . .’
‘What do you know about it, Don Iago,’ growled Olalde, pointing at the forecastle. ‘Those bastards forrard have compromised us because they are milksops and lack the bowels to take us back to Manila. They have cut that cable thinking to force the hand of the captain-general.’ And, he might have added, of Pedro Ruiz de Olalde.
Iago dismissed the notion. He thought it unlikely any of the marineros would cut the cable and thus deliberately deprive the ship of her one last anchor even if some among them could not face the prospect of making the long passage back to the Philippines.
‘He knows only how to shout and bully,’ Iago muttered, ‘we have need of cunning here, not bombast.’
‘You are right, Don Iago.’ Iago looked up to see Arrocheros and Ordóñez standing near him. ‘But,’ Arrocheros went on, ‘I hold you responsible . . .’
‘What? For a rotten cable?’
‘No, for everything, from Ocampo’s curse to this pass to which we have been brought.’
‘I think you overstate your case, Don Baldivieso,’ said Ordóñez hurriedly, taking the merchant’s arm and trying to draw him away as he made exculpatory faces at Iago.
Iago shrugged. Arrocheros’s mind was unhinged. He smiled at Ordóñez as Arrocheros called out, ‘We shall all die like dogs, Don Iago, and all because of you . . .’
‘Aye, he is a spy,’ put in Calcagorta from the poop but Marmolejo called them to order.
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‘What is to become of us if we fight among ourselves? We must make common cause . . .’ he began, but someone forward, a sailor it was thought, cried out:
‘What? Like the holy disciples the night Christ was crucified?’
‘God help us all, Fray Mateo,’ interjected Iago as the Discalced Franciscan passed him by. ‘We are assuredly lost now.’
‘So thinks the captain-general. You are summoned to a council in the great cabin.’
There was much arguing in the cabin. If Peralta had thought himself secure in his assumption of office as captain-general, it was clear that even within his own Basque faction others sought their own way, if not the role of leader. Calcagorta and Olalde both advised strong measures.
‘We can dry some power, I’m sure,’ proclaimed Calcagorta, ‘and then we may use both sakers and arquebuses.’
‘You cannot wipe out the entire population,’ Olivera put in wearily.
‘Guillestigui would have done,’ Olalde growled.
‘My sons,’ Marmolejo advised, ‘we must convert them to Christ and then, in all humility . . .’
‘Fuck your humility, Marmolejo!’ exclaimed Olalde. ‘If we lack cannon we do not lack swords and every mariner has a knife!’
‘Do we have the strength to fight a prolonged battle?’ Ordóñez asked.
‘Not in my opinion,’ said the hitherto silent Teniente Pedro de Guzman.
‘And every Chamorro male has a lance twice the length of your Toledo blades,’ added Olivera lugubriously.
Olalde rounded on the pilot in a fury. ‘Then what in the name of Satan do you advise, eh?’
‘I have already told the captain-general that we need to build a fort,’ Olivera explained in patiently measured tones. ‘This will secure us, and from its fastness we may trade with the Indians and await the arrival of a ship from Acapulco, which will not now be long in coming.’
A prolonged silence greeted this statement. Its obvious good sense weighed on the minds of those eager for a more active and immediate outcome.
‘I agree,’ said Iago at last, despairing of others coming to the pilot’s support.
‘You,’ said Olalde pointedly, ‘you would agree with anything Olivera said.’
‘That is because he speaks sense.’
‘Why, you damned, insolent—’
‘Don Pedro,’ Peralta said curtly, ‘this is a council, not a bear-pit. Don Iago’s right to speak—’
‘Talk not of rights, Don Rodrigo,’ cut in Calcagorta, adding with a voice envenomed with sarcasm, ‘there are those of us who believe Don Iago to be a Portuguese spy.’
‘And others who think him worse, a Protestant with a Chinese witch for a whore.’
‘Damn you, Olalde,’ Iago said, ‘I would remind you that I am a sobrasaliente and paid for my passage.’
‘That is what you would wish us to believe,’ Calcagorta said.
‘My sons, hold your peace. I can vouch for Don Iago,’ Marmolejo interjected, moving between Iago and the two men.
‘So too can I,’ Ordóñez said.
‘And I,’ added Alacanadre.
‘Arrocheros has evidence,’ Olalde said menacingly.
‘Arrocheros is insane,’ scoffed Ordóñez.
‘Gentlemen, we have weightier matters to consider!’ Peralta sought control of the council.
As they grew silent, Iago said with a stiff bow, ‘With your permission, Your Excellency, and since my honour is in question, I have no desire to express any further opinion other than to support the good sense of Don Antonio.’
Peralta nodded and Iago withdrew. Behind him as he left the great cabin, he heard a rising tide of argument above which Rodrigo de Peralta’s voice called for silence.
Iago went swiftly to his quarters. Arrocheros was hanging around listlessly, as he had done for days. He did not seem to mind, having little connection with reality. Two Chamorros watched him curiously.
‘See these devils, Don Iago?’ he said, indicating the Indians. ‘They have come to speak to you . . .’
Iago ignored the weak-minded merchant and dived under the canvas curtain. Inside Ximenez almost stabbed him with his dagger.
‘Oh, master, forgive me! I thought you were one of those Indians. Don Baldivieso encourages them, speaks of them as your familiars and calumniates against you.’
Iago put a finger to his lips and said loudly, ‘Do you clean my boots, you idle dog!’ and then as Ximenez stared at him in astonishment he bent quickly to the dwarf’s ear. ‘Clean my boots,’ he whispered, ‘overhaul the best attire for myself and for you and sing loudly while you work.’ Then he straightened up and, parting the curtain, almost fell over Arrocheros crouched outside. Iago shoved past him and went in quest of Ah Fong.
He found her trading nails and other knick-knacks for coconuts, some more of the excellent flying fish and a bag of rice. Calling her to him he led her below and here he whispered instructions into her ear while Ximenez sang an obscene song he had heard on the waterfront at Cavite. It told of the adventures of a sailor, a whore and a donkey. When it came to the sailor’s name, which in the song was Luis, Ximenez inserted his own. It ruined the scansion but gave him immense pleasure and made him seem the essence of a rollicking tar.
When he had given his instructions to Ah Fong and she had nodded her quick comprehension, Iago left them and went on deck. The Chamorros were already infesting the upper deck, mostly hanging over the after rails and advising others who clung to the Santa Margarita’s side and industriously picked bent nails from the wreckage of the stern gallery. It was almost low water and the size of the Santa Margarita was obvious as she lay broken-hulled upon the reef, her weathered sides almost devoid of the rich paint she had once borne so proudly, her bottom invisible under its thick growth of weed.
Iago marvelled briefly that they had driven that battered hull through any weather, let alone the forty baguiosas of Marmolejo’s calculations. Such a contemplation made ridiculous the proposition that they could take the ship back to Manila. But Iago had more pressing matters to consider. Inside the binnacle and untouched by the light-fingered Chamorros, Lorenzo’s telescope lay. Iago took it up and scanned the shore. A pair of Indians regarded him curiously and then resumed their work of deconstructing the ship. The ease with which the iron yielded itself pleased them and, for the moment at least, seemed to draw the teeth of their savagery.
Perhaps, Iago thought, that as long as the Spaniards remained on their ship, the Chamorros would tolerate them. It was ashore, as trespassers, that they would be in danger. And yet, if they were to preserve their own lives, it was ashore that they must go. He saw few eminences that would support a fort, even suppose they were left in peace for sufficient time to fell the requisite number of palm trees. Sighing he turned about and looked seaward, almost willing a be-pendanted não to heave in sight and relieve them of all their anxieties. Should he pray for a miracle? And if he did, should he pray as a Protestant or a Catholic? After all, he thought with an edge of gallows humour, he could claim to be both. In the end all he did was note that the wind was onshore and rising. Of course the wind would die away at sunset and come away from off the land during the night, but suppose the terral did not materialize? Suppose the onshore wind derived from some passing storm and the breakers rolled in? Inert upon the rocky reef, a few hours of pounding would see the Santa Margarita shivered into a thousand broken timbers. The sensation of the grounding had sent his heart racing as it recalled the brief and savage ordeal of the Rainha de Portugal.
God! What a terror that had been! He caught himself involuntarily crossing himself at the very thought of it. And then with a resurrection of that grim humour that consoled him at such moments of self-ridicule, he hoped one of those accusatory swine below in the great cabin would hear a report of Don Iago privately crossing himself when he thought no one was looking. That festering Arrocheros! Of all the men to be still living when so many had died! What was that if not proof that life was nothing more than a lottery?
Iago’s reflections were abruptly broken into by the emergence on to the deck of the council. Marmolejo crossed the deck towards him.
‘Don Iago, we are resolved to make the best of it ashore. We must find an interpreter and enter into negotiations.’
‘That is something, Fray Marmolejo.’
‘I am sorry for what they said about you,’ Marmolejo said consolingly.
‘Don’t be, Father. It would be blasphemy if I said that they do not know what they do, but they are short-sighted fools.’
‘That is true. I have succeeded in joining them in prayer and reconciliation.’
‘And I have been crossing myself, Father,’ Iago said wryly, but Marmolejo missed the irony.
‘I am glad to hear it, my son.’
‘And by what means do we intend to seek guarantees from these savages?’
‘We shall trade them all the iron they can recover from the ship in return for a safe passage ashore and a place where we may build a fort, though we have called it a village.’
‘Very clever. And what about water?’
‘We shall secure a spring.’
‘And food?’
‘Fish,’ Marmolejo gestured seawards and then swept his arm towards the shore, ‘coconuts, papayas and what of God’s bounty is provided for these people.’
Iago sighed and nodded. It was the best that could be hoped for. ‘Too much fruit seems to loosen the bowels.’
‘Aye, Gonzalo Manuel has a bad attack,’ Marmolejo observed, ‘as does Fray Agustin.’
‘And are we to negotiate for passage ashore?’ asked Iago.
Marmolejo nodded. ‘And we must pray for a successful outcome.’
And two days later, after scurvy had carried off three men despite all they had tried to prevent it and several others had hung their buttocks over the heads to release streams of yellow liquid, the Santa Margarita was surrounded by hundreds of proas, some said five hundred of them. The Chamorros had come, or so all on board believed, to convey the Spaniards ashore after an agreement pompously concluded upon the poop by Peralta and his suite and three Chamorros who appeared from their dress and deportment to be men of some standing in Çarpana. This ended with a blessing from the assembled Holy Ones. The psalms had intrigued the Chamorros, one of whom assiduously crossed himself in imitation of Agustin and Marmolejo, to the amusement of his fellows.
The Disastrous Voyage of the Santa Margarita Page 26