“And with more titles added to our names, for what else do our sovereigns love more than gold? You will see how they shower us with honors when we bring it to them. For who is not in want of more honors? Unless, of course, you are Don Sebastian, who has title and honors enough.”
“Not to mention, gold enough.”
“And a most beautiful wife.”
“It makes you wonder why Don Sebastian ever consented to come on such a tedious journey. Tell us, Señor, what do you hope to gain from this adventure?”
My husband laughs. “Indeed, what is there for me to gain? As you say, I already have everything. But perhaps, just perhaps, I will forget.”
“Forget? Forget what?”
“Perhaps I will forget that I am still alive.”
There is an uncomfortable silence before a voice breaks it. “Do not distress yourself, Don Sebastian. Men like us do not live long enough to see our grandchildren.” The voice belongs to Arias Diaz.
“Then here is to wine, women, dice, and a short life,” Sebastian bellows.
“I will add my goblet if you include in that toast—gold and titles.”
“As will I, for who cares if life is long or short when you have all these things.”
Over my shoulder I hear the sound of laughter and cups clinking. I am still looking at the island where Admiral Columbus and his men have gathered, and my heart is heavy. The land is beautiful and fresh and new, but it appears that to this new land we have brought all our old sorrows.
The next morning we set sail, and go only about eight leagues before spotting a large island with mountains that remind me of the Sierra Morena. From the highest peak flows a waterfall that glistens like a string of diamonds as it tumbles downward. It is breathtaking. But more importantly, it is fresh water.
At once a party of sailors and soldiers are sent ashore. As soon as the island is declared safe, Maria and I will go, too. Oh, what a thought! We will take fresh clothes, a bar of good Italian soap, and scrub ourselves until we are red! It is this thought alone that makes staying on board one more day, bearable.
Maria and I are devastated. For three days we have waited for permission to go ashore, and finally we received word. We cannot and this is why: the captain of one of the caravels, sent to explore the island, has found an Indian village. The Indians, whom everyone calls “Caribs,” fled, leaving their village deserted. And in the huts, human skulls were found suspended upside down in slings and filled with all manner of dry goods! One soldier even found a human arm in a cooking pot! What kind of land is this where men eat other men? I am sickened to the core, and wonder how the Holy One could have sent me to such a place.
The one good thing is that the captain rescued nearly half a dozen Taino women—women not from the barbaric Carib tribe and victims of “bride capture,” according to one of Columbus’s Indian interpreters. And some boys were rescued, too, and all taken aboard one of the ships. Maria and I are anxious to see what the Indians look like, especially the women, but their ship is too far away. But I, for one would not care if they had two heads and three arms. Any woman, no matter how strange, will be a welcome sight.
“We need volunteers.”
My stomach lurches when I look from the captain’s troubled face to Sebastian’s, and see my husband’s eyes glow. Next to Sebastian stands Arias Diaz, eagerly fingering the hilt of his sword; and nearby, a young, handsome nobleman, Juan Ponce de Leon, one of Bishop Fonseca’s two hundred “gentlemen volunteers.”
“Who will step up and be counted?” the captain asks.
“Look no further, Sir.” It is Juan Ponce. “Before you stand three able men, all keen eyed and quick with a blade.”
The captain clasps Juan’s shoulder. “You understand the island is full of man eaters, foul creatures, lower than beasts, for what man would use human skulls as containers?”
“Indeed,” Juan Ponce says.
“Do not restrain yourselves, or fear to deal harshly. The lives of good men depend upon it.”
“I have no such fear,” Arias Diaz says stepping forward. “They will taste my steel—and without mercy—to be sure.”
The captain nods. “Yes, and justly deserved, too, but do not forget the purpose of your mission. You are to find the lost men.”
Three days ago a captain from another ship took six of his men and went ashore to explore, and no one has seen them since. One rescue party has already been sent, but has yet to return.
“Only God knows what dangers await you,” the captain says, frowning.
“We are equal to the task.” Sebastian’s eyes are blazing now. “If the men still live, we will find them.”
Other nobles add their voices, vowing to rescue the missing men and to wreak vengeance if any harm has befallen them.
I want to rush to Sebastian’s side and beg him not to go, but by his face I know he is determined. And then I feel shame, for it is not love that prompts me, but fear of being left alone without a protector and having to manage for myself.
The captain orders the marshal of the fleet to pass out weaponry to those who have volunteered. When the marshal hands Sebastian a cuirasse, I see Sebastian frown. He has fine chain mail in one of his trunks and is obviously disdainful of wearing what he believes to be an inferior leather breastplate. Arias Diaz, who wears his Brigandine plate, smiles slyly at Sebastian as though taunting him that he wears the better armor.
Then the marshal passes out swords to those without, and even hands out three long, slender arquebuses, though the nobles handle them so poorly I wonder if they even know how to fire them.
The rescue party gathers by the gunwale, ready to descend Jacob’s Ladder. Juan Ponce is the first over the side, and when Sebastian is about to take his turn, the thought of his hollowed-out skull filled with dried herbs and hanging in some hut is more than I can bear. And since I have ceased trying to be like Beatriz, I quickly squeeze through the throng of noblemen and reach my husband just as his leg straddles the gunwale.
“God be with you,” I say in a low voice. And surprisingly, Sebastian is not angry; rather he is touched by my childish display for he actually looks at me and smiles.
“Fear not, Doña Isabel. Our cause is just.” And then he disappears over the side.
Two days later, the search party, sweaty and tired but intact, returns to our ship not having sighted the missing captain and his men, and I find myself giving thanks to God.
Three days after that, just as the sun is burning off the morning mist, cheers go up all around when the missing captain and his six men appear on shore. With them are several Indian women and a few boys. Already, a boat is on its way to collect them all.
While the boat rows to shore, I watch the women. They are beautiful, the color of copper, and their bodies so firm and shapely their nudity hardly seems a sin but rather a testimony to God’s marvelous creation. I suppose they are Tainos like the other women who were rescued, and not Caribs. I have learned that Taino means “good or noble” which is what these Indians call themselves, and it must be true since Admiral Columbus himself has described how gentle and kind they are.
The women wear colorful loin clothes, and their long, coal-black hair hangs loosely down their backs though it is cut short across their foreheads, just above the eyebrows. One woman wears a shiny object in her nose, and by the way it glints in the sun I fear it may be gold. Everyone aboard ship is already crazed with thoughts of gold. Surely, this will only add to the madness.
And my fears are realized when one of the nobles, who is also watching intently by the gunwale, says to those around him, “What need have we of mining gold when we can pluck it off the Indians! Look, there, how gold hangs from the very nostrils of that beauty.”
Others crowd around, and quickly the talk of gold and the pleasures of having such women as the one on shore, abound. When I can bear it no longer, I leave my spot and return to the crowded space below the forecastle, but not before seeing Sebastian point toward shore and hearing hi
m say, “I wager I will be the first to have my way with that one.”
For seven days we sail in a westerly direction, passing numerous islands and anchoring here and there just for a few hours at a time. The only thing worth noting throughout it all is the encounter with a canoe of Indians, which I witnessed since it occurred not ten cubits from where I stood on the Tortoise.
The Indians appeared from nowhere, stumbling upon us by chance, I think, judging by the startled look on their faces. One of them, a man, was painted completely black, and had a tattooed face. The others had painted noses or eyes. They all looked as foolish as jesters. But perhaps we appeared foolish to them too, us women in long skirts; the nobles with their tight hose and codpieces and braid-trimmed doublets. We watched each other for some time, the Indians from their canoe, we from our ship. Then a battle ensued when a boatful of seamen tried to capture them. Shots were fired, and answered by a hail of arrows. Two of the arrows struck a sailor in his chest; another pierced a seaman’s side. The Indians, too, received wounds. Blood was everywhere, and I had to turn away.
Was there no place on earth where men did not war with each other?
I am weary of all this sailing, and of this ship. Oh, how I hate this ship! Today we sailed into a harbor which Admiral Columbus calls Monte Christi, and there we have anchored. The Admiral claims the large island in front of us is Española, the very island where he left the thirty-nine sailors to build La Navidad, though the settlement is still further along the coast. Further, always further.
Will we ever reach it?
The only good news is that there are no shortages of fresh water or fruit, and both keep our hunger at bay, for our food supply is completely gone, that is Maria’s and her family’s and mine. Sebastian still has a little hardtack and saltfish left. And of course we have the stores in our trunks which we refuse to touch.
Maria and I have used several bucketsful of fresh water bathing our hair and bodies, but it was necessary. My nails were as black as the wings of a swift and I could not endure them, or my smell, any longer. We have also changed our clothes, though we had to do it on deck with only a thin blanket to give us privacy. We are still not allowed ashore. Ever since the bloody encounter with the Indians, all the ship’s captains have been wary of letting their passengers disembark. Consequently, Maria and I have not seen Pasculina for some time. I pray for her continually and often wonder how she is faring. I feel pity, for she is all alone among a sea of men. At least I have Maria for comfort.
Dear Maria. What would I do without her?
To pass the time, she and I walk the deck or stand by the gunwale listening to the idle chatter of the crew or nobles. And several days ago I heard a story I wish I had not for it troubles me still because it reminds me of Sebastian’s boast as he pointed to the Taino woman on the beach. The story concerns Michele de Cuneo, one of Admiral Columbus’s lieutenants, who captured a beautiful Carib woman. And after taking her back to the Mariagalante, he proceeded to try to have his way with her. But when she resisted, he beat her with a rope until he broke her resolve, and thereafter treated her as a whore. I am still outraged that any man should mistreat a woman so, but I have not even spoken about this to Maria, perhaps because de Cuneo is a high ranking officer. It would be unseemly to speak ill of such a person with a peasant. Though I want our friendship to be genuine, custom and etiquette continue to hang heavy between us.
I am still pondering this when a boat loaded with nobles—including Sebastian, Arias Diaz and Juan Ponce, all wearing breastplates and carrying weapons—tie up alongside the Tortoise. They have been scouting the island along with sailors and soldiers from other ships. By their faces, which are furled and strained, I know something is wrong. I wait quietly by the gunwale watching the men ascend Jacob’s Ladder. Maria stands beside me. When all are on board, our captain, who had remained with the ship, approaches the boarding party.
“Bad tidings mar your faces.” He turns to the first mate, who was part of the expedition. “What has happened?”
The first mate gives no reply, but stands looking troubled. He is lean and muscular. And the scar running the length of his right cheek suggests he is not a man to shrink from danger.
“Well . . . what has happened? Speak up man!” the captain snaps.
“We buried two men.” The first mate shows no emotion, but there is a catch in his throat. “They have been dead for some time. One had his feet bound, the other, a noose around his neck. They were Spaniards from . . . La Navidad.”
The next day another scouting party finds two more dead bodies floating in the stream. We are all worried, though no one will say it out loud. But our faces reveal the truth. And certainly the same two questions that spin around in my mind also spin around in everyone else’s. Will there be any left alive at Navidad? And . . . since we are in Taino territory, was this the work of the Tainos, those good and noble people?
All night I am restless with my thoughts, and sleep little. When I do, I am plagued with unpleasant dreams of which I remember only one. In it I am walking through a barren land. League after league I walk, seeing not so much as a bird or rabbit or flower or tree, and I ache with loneliness.
“You cried out in your sleep last night,” Maria says.
We are standing in our customary place by the gunwale, and both the high position of the sun and the rumbling in my stomach tell me it must be noon. At first light the entire fleet weighed anchor and began sailing along the coast of Española. The captain has told us Admiral Columbus expects to be at La Navidad by nightfall, and since his telling I have felt an inexplicable dread.
“You must have had a nightmare,” Maria says, pressing the point.
“Why? What did I say?”
“You said the same thing over and over: ‘Where are you? Where are you?’”
I laugh to cloak the truth, for I have come to understand that my troubling dream reveals my growing fear that I will end up all alone in this strange, frightening land.
We have been sailing westward for hours. I know this for the bell telling the ship’s boy to turn the sandglass has sounded so many times I have lost count. But the sun is setting, and Columbus has finally signaled the fleet to drop anchor.
From my place at the gunwale, I gaze at the distant land. Somewhere in the shadows is La Navidad, and tomorrow we will sail into her harbor and go ashore. It is difficult to believe that after so long at sea we have finally arrived. Curiosity, and eagerness too, consume me. Oh, to be on dry land again! The ship’s boy who sailed the Pinta claims this is a land of great beauty, with large mountains, sparkling rivers and loam valleys. But in the fading light I see a high mountain range and little else.
Suddenly Maria appears beside me. “I am sure it is a fine land, Isabel, and you are young and strong. You will make a good life here.”
“I will try, for my children’s sake, should it please God to bless me with any.”
“Oh, fear not. You will have many children.”
For some reason I do not share Maria’s confidence. I glance at Sebastian who sits on the waist hatch, talking. The sun is nearly gone, and though I can barely make him out, his voice rises above the others. “I wager I will find two women even more beautiful than our good friend Michele de Cuneo has found, and I will need no rope to tame them.”
“And what need do you have for such women when you already have the beautiful Doña Isabel?” It is Juan Ponce.
Before Sebastian can answer, a ship’s boy appears, carrying the binnacle lamp signaling the beginning of evening prayers, and everyone kneels as the boy chants the Pater Noster.
This same ritual is being observed on all seventeen ships, and when it is over, I hear Admiral Columbus on the Mariagalante, for we are anchored nearby, shout an order to fire two lombard shots to alert our brethren on land.
Then we wait for the responding cannon fire. And wait. Until at long last we understand that only silence answers. And in the growing darkness we see no campfires or oil lamps. Nor
do we hear voices or the clanking of pottery or tools.
All we hear is our own breathing.
Española
“A good omen!” shouts a seaman on the ratlines, pointing to the gulls circling overhead.
I pray he is right as we navigate the harbor of La Navidad and head closer to shore. It is barely an hour into the forenoon watch but already the sun warms my head. I wipe perspiration from my brow, then remove my hood, revealing my hair, which is bound in plain netting. I have made peace with myself about this covering and uncovering of my hair, for in this strange land where air is hot and heavy with moisture, there will be many challenges. Therefore, I am determined to adapt myself by setting aside those minor traditions of my former faith—to which I am still attached. Besides, where in Scripture does it say Sarah or Rebecca or Ruth always covered their hair?
Since I have been so free with my hood, I decide to open my traveling cloak as well. Beneath the cloak, my clean skirt and bodice are plain undyed linen. Will Sebastian be angry? He has always insisted I dress according to my rank. But surely much labor awaits us at the settlement. And my practical nature shrinks from the prospect of ruining my silks or brocades.
I stand alone at the gunwale, for Maria is packing her possessions in anticipation of leaving the ship. I have been packed since dawn. The ship is strangely quiet, and through the stillness the first-mate can be heard ordering a sailor to the “chains,” and my heart jumps. Soon we will anchor. The sailor climbs the overhanging platform and takes soundings by heaving lead.
“Twain! Twain!” he shouts, pulling up his rope.
Soon we will land. I am sick with excitement and dread, both, but I think the silence on board unnerves me more than anything else. No one has forgotten last night and how our cannon shots went unanswered. And in this eerie stillness I hear my name.
The Salt Covenants Page 13