“Well?” he said after I put down my things.
I hesitated, remembering Cartagena’s words: I can slit your throat as easily as a rat’s. I looked away, hating Cartagena for making me lie. “It was an accident.”
“Tell me, Mateo, how is spying an accident?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you make a habit of spying?”
“No.”
Espinosa was silent. I heard his breathing. The scrape of his boot against the planks. Then, “When I first met you at the inn, I felt you were a boy to be trusted. But maybe I was wrong. Tell me truthfully, young Mateo, and do not lie to me. Are you to be trusted?”
Are you to be trusted? With his words, tears filled my eyes. I blinked. It was a while before I could speak, and even then, my voice shook. “Upon the graves of my parents, you can trust me. Please—please believe me.”
Espinosa gripped my shoulder. “Then look at me.”
I did.
The ice blue of his gaze pierced me, as if he could see my bones. Read the truth upon my marrow. And the lie. I realized I was shaking but dared not look away. Then, abruptly, with a grunt, he turned and left, disappearing into the shadows of the quarterdeck.
“What was that about?” Rodrigo had come up the gangplank behind me.
I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “I don’t know, Rodrigo. Maybe they will kill us after all.”
Rodrigo stared after Espinosa. Then he yawned and stretched. “Well, if they do, we should get some sleep first. Come on. Let’s find a place.”
That night aboard the Trinidad, I dreamed a terrible dream.
Through waves of dusty heat, a horseman appeared. He was a fine noble—fair-haired, blue-eyed, haughty. “I’ve come for my daughter,” he said.
Out of the shadows of our home my father strode without a trace of limp—rugged, dark, angry.
My chest swelled with pride. My father. Tomás. “You may not have her,” he replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “She is my wife. The mother of my son.”
The nobleman spat. “Pah! What kind of life is this? Naught but toil and dirt. And you are naught but a filthy peasant. Give her to me now before I run you through.”
“Never. She does not want to leave.”
Then the sun flashed off a mighty lance as it thrust downward, downward, from a great height. My father did not move. The lance pierced him through, blood spurted, and he slumped to the ground.
I screamed and awakened. Sweat dripped from me and I trembled, remembering.
I had dreamed this dream many times. But now it was different. Always before the lance had pierced my father’s leg, leaving a great, gaping wound that caused him to limp forever. This time my father’s very life had been struck down.
And that was not the only difference. As the tall nobleman had peered from his horse at the slain peasant, his face suddenly transformed into one I recognized. Cartagena’s.
And the peasant who lay sprawled in the dirt with blood smeared on his face, over his deadened eyes, was no longer my father, but Magallanes.
The armada weighed anchor and put to sea bearing southwest. All ships followed the lantern of the Trinidad, the ship to which Rodrigo and I were now assigned.
I served as cabin boy for Magallanes. I could not bear to meet the captain-general’s gaze, for I knew what he thought of me— that I was both a liar and a spy—and I was filled with shame. During my watches, I swept the floor, aired his bedding, turned the sandglasses every half hour, polished the woodwork, opened the window hatches, and brought him his meals, all with my head hanging, my gaze glued to the floorboards.
That evening, my watch over, I stood beside the bulwarks gazing at the multitude of stars, thinking of home, thinking of my father and mother. Trying not to think of how Cartagena had used me. I heard a voice behind me.
“They are beautiful, are they not?” It was Magallanes. “Ofttimes when I am anxious, I gaze upon the stars and find peace.”
I said nothing, my shame so scalding I could not speak.
“You see that cluster of stars? That is Perseus. In one hand he holds his sword, and in the other he grasps the severed head of Medusa.”
I looked to where the captain-general pointed but, try as I might, saw neither sword nor severed head. The stars looked very much the same to me. But I nodded, wondering why he spoke to me. Me, a liar and a spy.
“And there you can see the constellation of Andromeda. It is fitting she is beside Perseus, for in Greek mythology, they were husband and wife. You have not heard of that legend? Ah, it is my favorite.” Then to my surprise, Magallanes went on to tell the story of how Perseus slew the sea monster and rescued Andromeda. Afterward, the captain-general stood silent, gazing at the stars.
Just that morning, after we were assigned our stations as cabin boys, Rodrigo had ridiculed me, saying I was cabin boy for a pig, while he was cabin boy for the tough master-at-arms, Espinosa. Now I looked at Magallanes, at his dark eyes gazing at the stars, and knew Rodrigo was wrong.
Magallanes spoke without turning. “I have ordered a space cleared for you and your friend in the storage area between the main deck and the fo’c’sle. I would advise you take it, for there are few places on this ship that remain dry in rough weather.” At that, he left me.
I wondered. If Magallanes thought me a liar and a spy, then why did he care enough to find me dry quarters? Why did he speak to me, a mere cabin boy, pausing long enough to point out the constellations? And why was I not punished for spying? Had Espinosa talked to him about me? If so, what had Espinosa said? I did not know the answers to these questions, only that I slept soundly that night. I am Mateo, I thought dreamily, Mateo Macías of the Trinidad.
I did not carry out my duties alone. Magallanes owned a slave— Enrique—a man of dark skin, a man who never spoke, as silent as shadows. Sometimes I would think I was alone, sweeping, scrubbing, when suddenly there would be Enrique.
Rodrigo told me Magallanes had captured Enrique on one of his campaigns in the Far East when Enrique was a child. It had to be true. Enrique followed Magallanes like a dog follows his master. At first this bothered me, but soon I grew so used to it I scarce noticed him at all. Besides, I was glad to have someone else share my work.
For the next two weeks we sailed between the Cape Verde Islands and the African mainland, with blue skies and a steady wind from astern. There was some talk of this being a strange course the ships sailed, that perhaps Magallanes knew not how to sail a ship, much less navigate, but I did not listen to such talk. I trusted Magallanes in a way I had not trusted Cartagena. I could not explain it, but there it was. Each night as Magallanes paced the quarterdeck, silent and alone, his hands clasped behind his back, limping, I strummed my guitar under the stars, thinking of my father and wondering if he could see me.
Come dusk, whenever it was our watch, Rodrigo and I lit lanterns and hung them on the Trinidad’s stern so that the other ships could follow the Trinidad through the night. We also used the lanterns as signals in the event of storms, sandbars, reefs, or other deadly perils. Then, every night, after the lighting of the lanterns, each ship drew alongside, and one by one, the captains hailed Magallanes. “God save you, Sir Captain-General and master and good ship’s company!” Magallanes acknowledged their salutes with a nod of his head.
And on each night as the San Antonio passed, Cartagena caught my gaze and held it, forcing me to turn away. How I hated him now. Each night I resolved again never to help him. Never. Even if he should slit my throat like a rat’s.
Then, as we approached the equator, the weather changed. To the Trinidad’s stern I hoisted three lanterns. Headwinds slowed the ships until they no longer moved forward. They struggled and bucked like untrained animals under harness. We heeled so far to the sides our yardarms skimmed the waves and our curses turned to prayers.
One week passed and still the gales pounded us. Already I had fallen to my knees again and again, waiting to be swept overboard, to be swept to
heaven, to my parents. Angry thoughts of Cartagena vanished like sea spray. The Trinidad’s bow rose to meet each wave, frantic, like an animal drowning, clawing for survival. Water crashed over the decks, tearing away anything not tied down. After each passing wave, the ship fell into the trough with a bone-crunching smack before rising with a shudder to meet the next wave. I clutched the railing and retched and retched alongside Rodrigo. He said we were “feeding the fish.”
One night I burst from sleep as someone shook me with great violence. We are going down, I thought. It is the end.
“Mateo! Mateo!” It was Rodrigo.
Bleary, frightened, and exhausted, I sat up, then realized with a dull sense that we were not sinking. Rodrigo had awakened me for nothing. Angry, I pushed him away and lay back down.
“Read this.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Read this.” He thrust a paper at me.
“What is it?”
“I believe it is the message from Spain, the message Cartagena told us to find.”
“Where did you get this?” I grabbed it from his hand.
“From the captain-general’s cabin while he was on deck. It was easy to find. You were blind not to see it. But I cannot read. You said you can, and now you must prove it.”
I glanced at the paper, but it was too dark to see. Rodrigo followed me as we made our way aft, lurching to and fro as if we were drunk. No one paid us the slightest attention when I withdrew a paper from inside my shirt and held it near the lantern light.
The wind tried to tear it from my hand, and the driving rain splotched the ink. I shielded it with my body and read aloud.
VI
October 25-November 24, 1519
Greetings, Captain-General Fernando de Magallanes,
In the name of the Most High and Mighty God Our Lord, I bring you warning. Take heed of the three Spanish captains from Castile: Cartagena, Mendoza, and Quesada. Before the fleet set sail, they openly boasted of slaying you. They despise you for receiving command of the coveted expedition and are supported in their hatred by the most powerful men in the Spanish court.
They conspire to replace you with that pup Cartagena, an untried weakling who has never before captained a ship, a weakling who will doubtless lead the fleet to disaster if given the opportunity.
Do nothing to arouse their suspicions.
Godspeed. Your father-in-law, Diogo Barbosa
As I read the last line, a fierce gust of wind ripped through the ship. I allowed it to tear the letter from my grasp and watched as the parchment disappeared into darkness, swallowed by the raging ocean.
Rodrigo railed and called me a fool—a clumsy, bungling idiot with a brain no bigger than a turd—but it did not matter what he thought. I did not want him to give it to Cartagena.
Later, huddled beneath the fo’c’sle, we discussed the letter.
“I promise you, Mateo, Cartagena shall know about the letter, lost or not.”
I snorted. “That will be quite a feat seeing as he is on one ship and you are on another. What are you going to do? Swim?”
Rodrigo glared at me, narrowing his eyes. “You mock me. You know I cannot swim any more than you can. Besides, there will come a day when we are once again on land, and it is then I will tell Cartagena everything.”
“Everything?”
“Of course I will not tell him about how you tossed the letter overboard, unless you wish your throat slit. But I will tell him that Magallanes knows of his plot and to take heed.”
“That is mutinous, Rodrigo! Cartagena is planning to murder the captain-general! You cannot possibly think of helping him!”
“Hopefully he will succeed. Then we will have a real man to lead the armada rather than this limping coward of a Portuguese.”
“Magallanes is not a coward.”
“What?” Rodrigo spat. “Are you blind? Did you not see the way Cartagena dominated the captain-general during the meeting? Did you not see my spittle on Magallanes’s boot? Spittle that Magallanes did not bother to wipe away? It proves he is a coward. The whole ship knows it.”
I nibbled on a fingernail. “I think he is a fine man.” My words sounded uncertain.
“Pah! I think you are in love with him. Cartagena is a much finer captain than Magallanes. Any fool can see that.”
“Cartagena has never captained a ship before. No more than I have. If he is captain-general, we will all sink and drown.”
“What? Are you deaf as well as blind? Can you not hear the storm around you? You see, Mateo, the moment has already come when we will all sink and drown. All because of this lunatic. It is his fault. He has plotted a stupid course, into the path of a hurricane.”
I pushed Rodrigo away and told him to leave me alone. And when he would not, I stumbled down the companionway into the hold and manned the pumps. Up, down. Up, down. Hour after hour, until my muscles screamed with pain. But I did not care. Anything to get away from Rodrigo.
Three days later, none of this mattered for we were about to die.
The storm lashed us, angry and hateful. We knelt about the padre to give confession, together vowing to pilgrimage to the shrine of Nuestra Señora de la Victoria, if we survived. Rodrigo and I waited and waited for our turn to confess but could wait no longer. The padre was too busy. We would die first. Pelted by rain, between peals of thunder and bursts of lightning, we clung to each other and hurriedly confessed. I to Rodrigo and Rodrigo to me.
“Forgive me, Rodrigo, my brother, my friend, for I have sinned. Yesterday I cursed my parents for dying of the pestilence—”
“That is nothing,” he said, his face made eerie by a flash of lightning. “Today I cursed the stupidity of God and all His useless angels who sit with their wings folded, shining their golden halos while we die.”
“Rodrigo!”
“It is true. Now His fury has been unleashed. Now we will all die. It is my fault, Mateo. Forgive me.”
I gave Rodrigo much penance. I begged God to be merciful to his soul. Rodrigo did the same with me. Then, because we were not dead yet, I promised to give half my gold, my jewels, and my spices to furthering the work of God, should I live. Rodrigo promised a third.
Then in the distance a wave moved toward us. It was a wall of water, gigantic, towering like the castle walls of Castile. It came and it came, howling with the sound of death. We stood on the open waist deck, waiting. This was the end.
The ship rose, up, up, struggling to meet the wave.
Suddenly, to my bewilderment, strange green fires erupted from the rigging and the yardarms. I felt an odd tingling and my ears filled with a crackling sound. “We are saved!” Rodrigo cried, pointing to the green fires.
He threw himself upon the deck. I cast myself beside him. And beside me, the padre. “God has heard our prayers!” he yelled as the terrible, fearsome wave washed over us, tossing us hard against the scuppers, knocking the breath from me with the power of a sledgehammer.
Then the wave was gone.
Rodrigo coughed, spat out a mouthful of water, and crossed himself.
The padre wiped his eyes. “I have seen it before. It is the saint of sailors, San Elmo. While he protects us, none of us will die. It is a gift from heaven.”
We dragged ourselves to our feet.
Then, while we watched, scarce believing our eyes, the saint disappeared. And with his disappearance, the clouds scattered, the sea grew calm, and a great multitude of birds settled upon the ship.
“It is a miracle,” whispered the padre. “By the merciful hand of God, it is a miracle.”
“Aye,” I murmured.
There was no wind. No rain. No clouds. No waves. We hung our clothing from the rigging to dry and, for the first time in almost two weeks, sunned ourselves on the deck. I said the rosary again and again. Rodrigo and I no longer argued—a miracle, too.
But day after day passed without a whisper of breeze. The sea turned to glass, a liquid mirror in which I could see my reflection.
No one said it, but we all knew. We were becalmed, as helpless on the sea as a beetle on its back, frantically waving its legs, going nowhere.
So close to the equator, the air turned damp and stifling, crushing us, as if the Trinidad were no longer a ship but an oven, roasting us alive. The ship’s wood creaked and swelled. My guitar was useless—its wood swollen with moisture, its tone flat as a puddle. I laid it aside. It did not matter. I could scarce breathe.
While the other captains rowed back and forth between their ships, visiting each other, the captain-general visited no one. Instead he paced the quarterdeck, hands locked behind him. He said nothing except to give orders.
Upon his orders, we polished the metalworks until they shone. While we slept, they rusted again, so the polishing never ended. Then the sails grew a green slime, nasty and rank, and each day we scrubbed for hours.
The water turned peculiar. It glistened like oil, and we feared to know what it was. And although there was not a wave in the ocean as far as we could see, the water swelled beneath us, lifting us up and up, twirling us around before dipping low again. The blocks rattled. The masts creaked and swayed. The yards slammed back and forth, making sleep only a dream. Men cursed each other and fistfights erupted like pox. The fights never lasted long. It was too hot.
Our rations for water, wine, and bread were cut in half. The meat turned rotten and stank. Casks of wine exploded in the hold, bursting their staves. The wheat shriveled into nothing but husks. Sharks swarmed about our ships. Espinosa caught one and cooked it and offered me a chunk. I hated the taste of its flesh. It tasted like dead men.
Normally we used a stern-slung cage as our latrine, but during the storms it had become too dangerous, tossing men about, and so we had used the bilges. Now a putrid vapor steamed from below, belching like a diseased bowel. It caught us unawares and the scuppers clogged with vomit.
We slumped in the shade, exhausted.
“Where has the captain-general led us?”
“Are we to die on this godforsaken sea?”
“Magallanes knows no more where he’s going than a blind fish.”
To the Edge of the World Page 4