“Stand well back, men.” He wiped the water and sweat from his eyes and said with pride to those standing soaking wet, bloody, and bruised within the dimly lit chamber, “We have plenty of line and another whipstaff but, by God, not one of you is replaceable.” To his helmsmen, he added, “Send me word of any change,” and turned to leave.
Cabrillo took three such determined strides that he almost knocked Father Lezcano down, and it was only then that he realized the priest must have been working as the second man behind him in the near darkness. “Father!” he blurted but could utter no more before the priest took a firm hold of his arm, pulled him to just under the edge of the roof, and hissed as his chest heaved, “None of us is replaceable? What about you? Just who would take your place?” In the face of such extreme impudence Cabrillo’s own anger would have flared if he had not immediately recognized the love and fear that had caused this. Father Lezcano’s face was still livid as he demanded, “If that line had exploded in your hands, if that staff—”
Despite the fact that he was being scolded like a child on his own ship in the midst of a raging storm, Cabrillo said only, “It did not explode, my friend,” and ducked out into the rain.
On the main deck, he grabbed a stair railing and barely managed to stay on his feet as the ship heeled wildly to starboard and the tip of her main yard almost sliced the peak of a colliding wave. With men sliding here and there, he hollered out an adjustment to the men at the whipstaff lines and studied the effect on the San Salvador as it was made. Master Uribe, God bless him, had the hands up in the next lightning flash to secure anything that needed tightening.
Pilot San Remón appeared before he could be summoned, and Cabrillo called out, “Take the helm, pilot. I am going below.”
He had to veer around Vargas to reach the hatch. His sergeant major had planted himself just behind the mainmast next to the boatswain, where he was organizing his soldiers to assist the sailors working in turns at the pump lever and shifting them out before any collapsed. Giving them all a nod of approval as he stumbled past, Cabrillo descended to the stairs. He paused briefly near Manuel to reassure his horses, which were straining to find footing and often slipping into the support of their huge stall slings. He checked the fit and soundness of the slings and, satisfied, turned toward the main storage area.
As he’d suspected, anything that had not been tightly fastened down, which was thankfully little, now lay strewn about. Mateo was among the hands attempting to restore order as the ship rolled and bucked, and his uncle didn’t distract him from his duties. Taking the lower flight of stairs downward and into the hold, Cabrillo paused to check the effectiveness of the pumping efforts on the main deck. For now, the water sloshed to and fro only a few inches higher than was usual. So far, so good, but it would get worse. His caulkers and their assistants were here too, holding lamps near the hull as they searched for potential breaches and putting their caulking cordage and blunted chisels to work wherever they found a leak. When they looked up and saw Cabrillo, he asked, “How is she bearing it, Señor Jimenez?”
“The best she can, sir, and that’s better than most.”
“Send me word at every rise of six-inches.”
“Yes, Captain-General.”
Making his way back to the main deck, he once again looked out to sea in search of his other ships. There, still, was the San Miguel close astern, and Cabrillo said a silent prayer of gratitude. He strained his eyes, scanning the mountainous waves all around, and then once again, but he looked in vain. La Victoria had disappeared.
His throat tightened at the thought of what this might mean, but with a great effort he shoved such a possibility out of acceptance. La Victoria and her men were safe. They had to be. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and muttered into the storm, “Holy Father, please do not let her go down.”
Throughout the night, helpless to aid his sister ship and nearly powerless to control his own, he did what he could by moving among the men with guidance and encouragement. Many hours after they’d met in steerage, he found Father Lezcano helping Dr. Fuentes treat a soldier whose arm had been badly broken in a fall. Cabrillo waited until the patient was bandaged, and then motioned the priest to his side. Cooler now, Father Lezcano had a hard time meeting his eyes, but Cabrillo asked quietly, “We have lost sight of La Victoria, Father. Will you pray for her, for all of us?”
“I have been, sir, and will continue to do so right here.” He took a breath and engaged Cabrillo’s gaze more squarely. “Sir, what I said, how I spoke to you...”
Cabrillo stopped him with a smile. “It is forgotten.” He placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder and squeezed, then left him without another word.
Through long hours of darkness they managed to resist the storm’s unceasing attempts to crush them and send them to the ocean floor. They trusted in their God, their ship, and each other, but in the blackest hours many grew weary and afraid. Father Lezcano gathered those at rest and led them in prayers to the Blessed Mother, some saying the rosary and many promising to visit her shrine at the earliest opportunity. Cabrillo prayed with them, watched over them, and worked with them as commander, father, and brother. Although there had been little doubt of it before, he became convinced that, with the exception of very few, there had never been finer men on land or sea.
The San Miguel doggedly clung close by her flagship, and Cabrillo found comfort every time he looked back and spotted her lamps swaying madly from her stern. But nowhere in the tumultuous depths of the night could any sign of his third ship be discovered.
When the hour of dawn drew near, the captain-general took advantage of the spreading light to seek a glimpse of La Victoria, but his anxious search found nothing to prove she still existed. To his further concern, as the day gained maturity so did the ferocity of the storm, driving the already weary men even more viciously than it had the night before. The San Salvador and San Miguel had no choice but to fly northwestward before the gale, each with the aid of a sail shortened in size to little more than a handkerchief.
The tempest assailed the ships as if bent on their destruction but the crews threw themselves at the pumps until arm muscles gave out and legs buckled, and whenever a man tumbled onto the sodden deck, another always took his place. Cabrillo and his officers were everywhere, navigating, heartening, and lending their own hands where needed, but after hour upon hour of battery by the unrelenting cold and wet and wind, the human energy was slowly draining. And yet it was the haunting absence of La Victoria that weighed most heavily on them all. The afternoon waned and darkness returned, and the storm still raged and howled about them as Father Lezcano located Cabrillo in steerage and asked. “May I speak with you, sir?”
With a gesture of agreement Cabrillo led the way to his cabin. Closing the door behind him, the priest wiped a hand across his face and said, “Forgive me, sir, but you are in great need of rest.”
Cabrillo raised his own dripping face and red-rimmed eyes. “We all need rest, Father.”
“You would not allow one of our men to go so long in this weather without food, warmth, and sleep, sir. They and your officers are better rested than you, and all have eaten full meals. They are capable men. If there is need, they will awaken you.” When Cabrillo made no movement to comply, Father Lezcano said softly, “We dare not lose you, sir. Please, let Paulo bring you something to eat, and then rest.”
“You, Father, are becoming a mother hen.”
“I have been called worse things, sir.”
With a weary twitch of his mouth that was meant to serve as a smile, Cabrillo tugged off his sodden jacket and let it fall to the floor with a heavy “plop.” “Poor Paulo, he bears such a burden of uselessness on my account. Very well then, please ask him to tend to me but have me wakened in two hours. And if La Victoria is spotted I am to be called at once.”
The priest left him, and he stripped off the rest of his clothing, toweled himself dry, and was pulling on a clean shirt when Paulo entered with a tray of
cold viands. With even more fastidiousness than usual, he served the sparse meal and poured a liberal tankard of sherry. His master thanked him before wolfing everything down, and then made his way to his bunk, let out a moaning sigh as he rolled under the furs, and began to dream before the table was fully cleared. In his dream the fleet was searching for La Victoria as the storm bucked and roared, the images around him diminishing and sharpening with each lightning flash. After what seemed like years of agonizing quest they suddenly came upon her, splintered and strewn along the rocky shore, her crew nowhere in sight. So a new search began for the men.
In utter disobedience to the orders Cabrillo had given him, Father Lezcano instructed Paulo not to waken his master until four hours had passed. When the captain-general was roused at that time, he surrendered the warmth of his furs with reluctance but his dreams with relief. He sat for a moment on the edge of his bunk, clearing away the demons of sleep and taking in reality. The storm’s intensity had not diminished but he could tell by the movement of the ship that her pumps were keeping the sea at bay. Feeling somewhat more rested than he ought to have been, he became suspicious and asked Paulo the hour. Hearing the answer, he let out a muted growl and said to himself with little conviction, “That young pup. A single whipping must not have been enough.” Once he was dressed and back on deck he wasted little time in finding his priest, again working at the side of a wounded man. Watching the concerned care with which Father Lezcano assisted Dr. Fuentes, Cabrillo felt his irritation draining away. Moments passed as they finished their work, and then Father Lezcano turned an exhausted smile up at his commander. Cabrillo’s intended rebuke died away completely. Instead he gave several quiet words of consolation to the injured sailor and a few more in commendation to his caregivers. He then headed to steerage, telling himself he must be getting old or soft, or both.
Throughout the remainder of that night, into the feral morning, and well past noon of the next day the elements continued to pummel the fleet and her men to respond. At last, though the wind had not yet spent its fury, the rain began to slacken. The waves, as if grudgingly relinquishing their objective to overwhelm the ships, shrank by degrees and became more uniform in their direction. When the sky finally terminated its weeping and the ocean no longer slapped the decks, Cabrillo ordered his men to change into dry clothes.
The shroud of clouds slowly lifted, and a greater distance became visible. Since the mainmast still swayed like a reed in the wind Cabrillo called out to his gathered watch, “It is time to send a man aloft. Who is willing?” No one needed to be told what the lookout was to seek, and two men stepped forward at once, the oldest saying, “I’d be proud to go, sir.”
This unhesitating courage after the men had endured so much made Cabrillo’s throat tighten. He steadied his voice and said, “Not today, Paco. This is no job for a father of six. Let young Simon have a chance.”
The sixteen-year-old lad stretched taller as he turned and made his way to the rigging, but Cabrillo called after him, “Bear a lifeline, Simon.” The youth accepted a section of line from the outstretched hand of one of his shipmates, tied it around his waist, and began to climb the rigging. One tread at a time, securing his lifeline at intervals while scaling ropes that twisted and sang beneath his hands and feet and with the wind tearing at his hair and clothes, Simon ascended to the wooden platform. With his line he snugged himself to the pendulating mast and slowly brought his gaze in a full circle, intensely scanning the waters around the San Salvador and San Miguel. As those below waited anxiously he swept the sea again, and then again, but he saw only water and sky. In a voice that cracked with painful reluctance, he said, “All clear, sir.”
The expression on every apprehensive, upturned face sagged, and each head lowered. The men silently resumed their duties, and eyes that had been so hopeful a moment before now refused to meet the gazes of their crewmates.
When the hour of vespers had passed, the wind eased and shifted to the west, and the ocean swells gradually diminished to a fraction of the former height. Cabrillo’s officers gathered around him to receive new orders, though they had little doubt as to what these would be.
“We shall sail due east, gentlemen, and hold that course until we sight land. La Victoria will seek us out at the nearest bay. Hopefully, that will not be very distant.”
Heads nodded and Master Uribe, who had just come on deck after a much needed rest, asked, “How’s the San Miguel faring, sir?”
“Her pump is even busier than ours, but she has a worthy carpenter and caulker. She will bear up for a time.”
Pilot San Remón asked, “Sir, how far north would you say the storm has thrown us?”
Staring northward, as if the answer would come from there, Cabrillo said, “With the sky clearing we might gain a reading at midnight, but my guess is near 39½°, perhaps even higher.”
“39½°, sir,” his pilot mused. “Higher than we ever dreamed of finding China.”
So softly that it was just audible, Cabrillo said, “Yes, much higher.” He looked into each of their faces, seeing the mutual understanding that time was running out, and seeing the shared dread that if they left this area their fleet’s number would be decreased by one vital ship. With an effort he straightened his shoulders and, turning toward his priest at the railing, he asked, “Father Lezcano, will you lead us all in another prayer for the safe deliverance of La Victoria?”
The priest readily agreed, the crew soon collected on the main deck, and the San Miguel hauled in close to leeward. Though these sailors and soldiers had been wrestling the storm to the point of collapse, these ragged men who had become brothers over the long months at sea, they now found strength enough to cry out “amen” with real enthusiasm as Father Lezcano pleaded to their Savior and his holy mother for the safety of their lost fellows. With the heads of the San Salvador’s men bowed they did not see the lowered heads of Father Gamboa, the officers, and crewmembers of the San Miguel but now and again their words would reach them. As Father Lezcano’s final prayer ended the men shifted, walked, or limped away, all wearing expressions of grim resolution. They must leave the fate of La Victoria and themselves in hands far more powerful than their own.
Cabrillo returned to steerage to adjust their course and then again found his well-worn planks on the stern deck. Midnight came and went, and though he ostensibly relinquished his watch at the appointed hour, he remained in the open air. Tonight, even Father Lezcano could not convince him to go inside and sleep.
The next morning’s steely sky dawned hushed but brooding, and the captain-general at last went to his cabin but only to record their progress throughout the night. Master Uribe found him there, pouring over some notes on his writing desk, and he announced excitedly, “Captain-General, land lies to the northeast.”
Cabrillo was surprised he hadn’t heard a shout from the lookout, but he was on his feet and reaching for his jacket as he asked, “Any sign of her?”
“None, sir, but we may spot her when we round the arc of the point ahead. There appears to be a cove beyond.”
They sailed on toward noon only to discover that the approaching coast rose steeply into a craggy mountain range, and the ocean still swelled much too violently to permit an anchorage near enough to shore for a landing. Before the sun’s zenith could pass, Cabrillo and San Remón gauged its altitude and agreed on a measurement of 40° north. Not long afterward Master Uribe’s earlier prediction came true, if a little farther up the coast than anticipated, in the form of a cape. As it opened before them all eyes sharpened their hunt for La Victoria, but to no avail. With heavy disappointment they anchored to rest muscle and will and to better bind the seeping wounds of their ships.
Cabrillo could not fully appreciate the beauty of the high cliffs robed in a forest of pines. Instead, every color and dimension seemed sharpened by uneasiness for his ship; every breath of the pine-scented air seemed to carry the bite of potential tragedy. Even so, he was not completely immune to this natural feast for
the senses, and he recalled his previous burning desire to see the living trees that had provided the colossal driftwood they’d stumbled across on the island so far to the south. But that aspiration could not be fulfilled now, not with such imperative matters superceding it. Mustering the hope to one day return and wander these mountains and agreeing with Master Uribe’s suggestion, he named the harbor Cabo de Pinos.
Each turning of the afternoon glass, each calling out of the half-hour, accentuated the heaviness of heart for the men yearning to spot a familiar sail on the horizon. Work went on and glances offshore became fewer. Eventually the hopes of even the most optimistic and those most determined to buoy the others began to falter. Light was fading when Cabrillo sent invitations to the officers of both ships to dine with him.
After a crowded supper marked by unfocused appetites and stilted conversations, Cabrillo sat amid the officers of the San Miguel, Pilot San Remón, Master Uribe, and Father Lezcano, while Paulo, Manuel, and Mateo attended to them. Captain Correa and the other visitors all suspected the basis for this meeting and despite several efforts to speak of other things the talk finally dwindled to an expectant hush. Correa cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on the lamp.
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 28