“Double the anchors, Master Uribe,” Cabrillo shouted as they huddled before the whipstaff. The hail pinged and pattered above their heads like the mad hammering of a hundred carpenters, yet the boatswain somehow heard the shipmaster as he relayed Cabrillo’s order, and then bellowed it out so loudly that it reverberated across to the other two ships. Anchormen danced and skidded to their stations upon the rolling decks while defending themselves against pelting ice balls the size of a four-real coin. After the additional anchors had been released and their lines tightened, Pilot San Remón appeared in steerage sporting a grandly swelling right cheek. Resisting the temptation to rub the two lumps paining the back of his own head, Cabrillo said to his officers, “Post a man to watch each anchor line, gentlemen, and have them keep beneath a thick canvas or half-barrel for protection. I will not have the life beaten out of them by this cursed hail. While all is secure, let the other men stay under what cover they have found.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cabrillo stepped to the porthole, glanced at the white-speckled waves climbing and colliding near the beach, and knew that there was no hope of going ashore until this storm broke. As protective as their small bay had been, even it could not fully rebuff a wind that hounded them relentlessly. He peered through the white onslaught until he could see Manuel, Mateo, and two islanders struggling to drape the horses with what must have been their own blankets, and hurrying to shelter them up against the side of the cliff. They were all being cruelly pounded, and Cabrillo’s heart ached as he helplessly watched.
Thankfully, the hail lasted only another ten minutes, but the wind grew colder with such speed and ferocity that it sent the bruised men scrambling for their warmest coverings. Within six hours the temperature had dropped thirty degrees, and by that evening snow was swirling around them. Whipped by the wind, the snowflakes found and clung to every board, brace, line, and body they touched. Before long the decks were slick with ice and the bobbing ships looked as if they’d been seized by a giant hand, inverted, and dipped in white paint. Though the sentries took advantage of what little cover they could find in the form of a mast, railing, or overhang, they stood their watches in frigid misery. Somehow, Manuel, Mateo and the two native grooms managed to keep the horses covered and out of the worst of the wind.
An hour after midnight the clouds finally emptied of snow, and Cabrillo hoped the wind would concede an end to its assault. Instead it stubbornly screamed, whipped, and chilled for three more interminable days, and during that time not a soul could safely go ashore. Only Manuel and Mateo, emerging from their tiny shelter to care for the horses, and a very few islanders made appearances on the beach, and those emergences were fleeting. The storm held them all captive.
For Cabrillo the storm had made sleep an illusive visitor as well, and when the wind finally relented on the fourth night, he fell into a slumber so profound that it took a few moments for him to perceive that it was Captain Correa trying to wake him. On the second attempt, louder now, his words reached Cabrillo’s groggy mind.
“Forgive me, Captain-General, but I said there’s devilry afoot!”
Cabrillo sat up and blinked at Correa, trying to gather up full consciousness as he weighed the anger in his officer’s tone and expression. From Paulo’s outstretched hand he accepted his breeches and pulled them on, noting the bright light of a well risen sun, and asked, “Just what devilry, Captain?”
“That cursed Gaspar! He left the ship without my leave, sir, and he took that big Aztec and a handful of other men with him. I fear they’ve gone to the women.”
This brought Cabrillo fully awake as he tugged on the rest of his clothes. “How long ago?”
“Just before dawn, sir. He told the men on watch he had orders to collect water, even loaded the launch with a few barrels, but I gave him no such orders. And if water was really what they sought, they would have been back by now.”
It took but a glance outside for Cabrillo to know they’d been gone at least an hour. “Do you think they might harm the women?”
“Gaspar is a firebrand, sir, and he’s owed a beating for more than one mischief done aboard the San Miguel, but even he’s not that big a fool. He was promised leave days ago and was kept on the ship by the storm. He has doubtless gone to take what he feels he’s owed, but by God, he knows what leaving without my order means, as do the others. I’ve been too light on them, and I intend to put an end to such insubordination once I get them back to my ship.”
Holding a lesser degree of trust in Gaspar than Correa, Cabrillo asked, “Will you need assistance?”
“My men can handle this lot, sir. But perhaps I should take the war dogs, in case there is trouble with the natives.”
“Definitely not, Captain. If there has been no difficulty, the dogs might create it, and if trouble starts, they will only make things worse.”
“Then, sir, may I take Father Lezcano? He can speak to any islanders we encounter.”
“If he accepts the request willingly, yes. I suggest taking a few of Vargas’ soldiers also.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And, Captain, retrieve them as quietly as you can.”
“I’ll do that, Captain-General. Their hides won’t bleed ‘til they’re back on my decks.”
They quickly emerged from his cabin and within moments Correa, Father Lezcano, and enough armed men to fill Correa’s two launches were heading toward the beach.
Watching them land, Cabrillo damned Gaspar under his breath. Things had been too tense with the natives even before this. He could only hope that the disobedient men would exercise better sense ashore than they’d used getting there. Intending to prepare for a case that proved otherwise, he turned to his shipmaster and said, “Lower both our boats, Master Uribe, and pray we do not need them right away.”
“At once, sir.”
“And, Master Uribe, please have Sergeant-Major Vargas sent to me.”
“Yes, Captain-General.”
Vargas soon appeared and Cabrillo had just begun discussing the situation when a shout from one of the San Salvador’s lookouts brought their heads sharply around. Several of Correa’s men were stumbling hurriedly backward toward their launches with swords drawn and muskets pointed back at the sand dune. Gaspar and his band of followers appeared, being driven ahead of Correa and his guards who had formed an arc behind them. An unseen archer fired an arrow from the direction of the dune, and it bit the sand two yards from Gaspar’s feet. The next one imbedded into his thigh. A cry of pain rang out but Correa shouted for his men to hold their fire. The next arrow bounced off the leather vest worn by one of Gaspar’s friends.
Viento reared and bucked in his corral, setting the other horses in motion as well. Manuel and Mateo appeared with ropes to secure Viento so he didn’t break down the fence. The stunned island grooms, momentarily frozen in place, began to climb the hill behind the corral.
During these brief seconds Cabrillo had set his gunners in motion and waved for Vargas and his men to follow as he rushed toward his boat. He paused only long enough for their arms to be quickly loaded and to glance toward La Victoria. Captain Ferrelo stood waiting for his order: his face tight but otherwise calm. La Victoria’s cannoneers were already working as busily as those aboard the flagship. Cabrillo called out, “Remain aboard and cover us, Captain.” He knew that no additional orders were needed. His and every other gunner in the fleet would soon be ready, but they’d be held in check with the tightest restraint. Master Uribe was already overseeing their master gunner’s preparations.
As Cabrillo reached his railing and was about to descend to his launch he turned and faced Pilot San Remón. In less than a breath, a year’s worth of understanding passed between them, but Cabrillo said only, “Take the ship, Pilot.”
While his rowers pulled frantically toward the beach, Cabrillo saw one of the deserters grab a musket from a guard and lift it, but Correa fiercely batted the gun away before it could discharge. The natives must have observed this beca
use, though several more arrows flew into the air, they plummeted just behind the retreating men, aimed to warn rather than wound. Cabrillo leaned forward, silently willing his soldiers to cling to their discipline. Hold your fire, men. By heaven, hold your fire!
Now he could see the Chumash warriors emerging into the open, thirty or so, and he could hear the angry shouts hurled at the sailors. To his rowers he said, “Faster, men!”
They found more speed by pulling with all their strength. Vargas sat tense as a drum but steady as a rock beside him. They aimed for the shore on the side of the already beached launches that was away from the natives and Correa’s party, but the sweeping tide brought Cabrillo’s boats farther than intended to the northwest and nearly onto the rocks. Vargas and two other men leaped into the sea first and tried to angle the boat away from the water-slickened boulders. On the other side of the launch, Cabrillo jumped clear and fought a wave as he scrambled ashore. Manuel was there waiting, his crossbow at his back, his shield in one hand, and the other stretched out to help Cabrillo onto the sand. They exchanged grim smiles and began to move. Finding his footing, Cabrillo climbed to the top of a boulder and in the midst of his jostling men hurried toward Correa by leaping to another rock and another. As he advanced he glanced repeatedly at the pending battle, until the sand where the two cultures faced each other lay just yards away. On his final bound, he felt his falling foot slip from the wet rounded surface it sought, and he fell hard between two rocks. A grinding crack ignited his right leg and his growl of pain and frustration stopped Vargas and Manuel in their tracks. They pivoted and rushed back to his side.
Cabrillo struggled to free his leg as the pain shot all the way up his back. “Get me loose!”
They did so as gently as they could, but Vargas took one look at the crooked boot and said, “Sir, it’s broken. We must take you back to the ship at once.”
“No, damn you! Help me get to Captain Correa.” At Vargas’ hesitation, Cabrillo hissed, “At once, Sergeant-Major!”
So Vargas and Manuel each lifted an arm and placed it around their necks. As they lifted him, he bit back another cry of pain and they paused, but the captain-general shouted, “Move!” and they set out. When they reached the level sand Cabrillo’s sailors formed a protective circle with their small round shields held before them.
Viento had seen his master’s fall, had heard his cry, and he now neighed loudly over the din, rearing so wildly that he pulled Mateo off his feet.
Father Lezcano had spotted them too. He broke from Correa’s ring and rushed to meet the three men, his worried glance darting to Cabrillo’s leg. “Sir.”
“Father, we must speak to the Chumash.”
“I have tried, sir.”
“Is Matipuyaut or his sons with them?”
“No, sir.”
“Take me forward,” he commanded, and his voice allowed no objection, but at Father Lezcano’s insistence, Vargas gently surrendering his support of Cabrillo’s right side so he could guard his commander with his own sword and shield.
The Chumash had also seen Cabrillo land, seen him slip, and now watched him draw fearlessly toward them. One of their leaders raised an arm and his men lowered their bows. Many infuriated warriors, however, kept their arrows nocked and ready.
When Cabrillo reached Correa, he ordered, “Get every man to the ships, Captain.”
Correa’s eyes fell to the captain-general’s leg, but he held his tongue and moved at once to obey.
As his men eased away, Cabrillo had Manuel and Father Lezcano lower their holds on him to around his waist so he had use of his arms to communicate. Pale and sweating as he fought the pain, he faced the warriors and said, “Warriors, I wish to speak with you.”
Their evident leader, a man Cabrillo knew only by sight, stepped forward. “That man,” the native said, pointing to Gaspar, “he has defiled one of our married women, and the others have abused young women not given to them. We must have more than words.”
“I understand your anger. I too am angry at these crimes. The men who have wronged your women will be punished.”
This evoked stony expressions and grumblings of doubt, and the Chumash leader said, “Give them to us. We will punish them.”
Cabrillo shifted slightly, and Manuel and Father Lezcano steadied him as he fought to keep his mind clear of the wisps of gray and sparks of silver that began to cloud his vision. He gulped a breath and said, “I ask you to come to the great ship and watch their punishment. You will see by what we do to them that they will not harm your women again. Nor will any of our other men.”
The natives seemed to waver in their determination, but as Correa’s crewmen began loading Gaspar and the others into the boat, bows swung in their direction and the island sub-chief took a step in their direction.
Intent on preventing bloodshed, Cabrillo called out, “Hold the boats, Captain Correa.”
When even more Indians lifted their bows, and Cabrillo sensed that they would not be robbed of an immediate revenge, he decided to give it to them but only in the form of one man. He turned to Father Lezcano and said softly. “Go with Captain Correa, Father.”
“I will not leave you, sir.”
He firmed his tone and commanded. “I order you to go.” Father Lezcano looked straight ahead and stood like a statue, his grip even tighter around his commander’s waist, Cabrillo said in a low and urgent voice. “If you care for me, go now!”
His friend’s gaze returned to him, holding tenderness more overpowering than his strength. “Because I care, I will not.”
Glancing at Manuel and then Vargas, Cabrillo could see that they would obey this particular command no more willingly than Father Lezcano had. Against the growing agony of his leg, he stiffened his back and called out to the sub-chief, “I ask the brave Chumash to come and see these men punished for their wrongs. I ask them to take the word of one who has never lied to you.”
Once more their leader hesitated. At last he scowled and said and signed a single word to Cabrillo, “When?”
“Today, when the sun is highest. I ask that Matipuyaut and his sons come also.”
The slightest of nods from the warriors brought the bows down, some very grudgingly.
Vargas could no longer remain still. “Now, sir, we must return you to the San Salvador.”
Manuel and Father Lezcano were already bending down to lift Cabrillo, but he said through gritted teeth, “Not yet, please. Not until the rest of the men are away.”
They knew no argument would supercede this wish, so Father Lezcano prayed as Vargas ordered his guards to move off ahead of them, and all boats but Cabrillo’s to push off.
This time, the warriors made no moves to stop the departing sailors, and after moments had passed with the slowness of decades, all three launches were rowing toward their ships.
Manuel and Father Lezcano slowly moved away from the clustered warriors. As they drew closer to the boat, which Correa’s men had moved to within easier reach, Viento whinnied loud and long from where Mateo had staked him within the corral. Cabrillo looked that way and saw Mateo at the gate. “My nephew,” he said before his voice faded away, and Vargas called out for the boy to join them.
The next time Cabrillo lifted his head, it was to gaze at his beloved horse, but it was now Father Lezcano’s turn to insist. He gave Manuel a look, and they crossed the final distance to shoreline. When the captain-general tried to protest, the priest said, “There can be no more delays, sir. Not even for him.”
“But, he knows...”
“I will come back for him, sir, for all of them. The Chumash will not harm your horses.”
His bearers waded into the water and lifted him to the boat. As diligently as they tried, they could not keep from causing further misery as they loaded him, and he was panting heavily as the boat began to pull away. Through the curtain of pain he heard Viento call again. He told himself, and sincerely believed, that the natives honored the horses too highly to hurt them, but at this partin
g, this abandoning, he felt anguish strong enough to rival his physical pain.
Seeing his injured master being rowed away with Manuel and Mateo was too much for Viento to remain where he was. He bugled fiercely, lunged against his staked rope until it pulled free, and knocked the top railing off the fence as he leaped to freedom. With Seguro close behind Viento raced toward the water, the mares neighing and circling their separate and still intact coral in panic. Their equine cries brought the native grooms hurrying in the direction of the enclosure to calm them. Viento hit the water at a gallop, stumbled against the waves until he found his swimming legs and churned after Cabrillo’s boat, his rope trailing behind. Seguro, more cautious but just as determined, came after him. Cabrillo watched them worriedly, but could see that their powerful legs and the relatively calm sea would allow them to reach the ship with little trouble. They would soon be harnessed by their best swimmers and hauled aboard.
A dreadful silence held his crew as Cabrillo was carefully lifted to his flagship. Captains Correa and Ferrelo were also there to meet him. All continued to hold their mouths tightly in check except young Mateo, who let out a single sob. Paulo quickly took the boy aside and assigned him a list of duties that would keep him busy for hours.
Once Cabrillo had been settled on his bunk, he spotted Captain Correa among the throng and said to him, “Return to your ship, Captain, and set the punishment for your men. It will be carried out on the San Salvador at noon. Several islanders will be here to witness it.” He took a steadying breath, and said, “Captain Ferrelo, will you see to the mares. Bring them to La Victoria as soon as you deem it safe. Afterward, please return to me.”
Both captains bowed and left him.
At Dr. Fuentes’ insistence the crowded cabin was cleared of everyone else but Pilot San Remón, Master Uribe, Paulo, Manuel, and Father Lezcano. The physician leaned over Cabrillo and asked, “Will you drink some brandy, sir?”
Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 35