Dr. Fuentes had boiled his instruments clean while he’d awaited the priest’s return, a peculiar precaution he’d learned from a Moorish physician he’d met in many his travels, and he now took up a large glass syringe with which to purge the wound, and filled it with sherry. But before washing the torn flesh with the fortified wine, he turned to Father Lezcano and Manuel and said, “Hold him firmly.”
Father Lezcano took a position that would provide him leverage and grasped the captain-general’s shoulders well above his wounded arm as Manuel captured his thighs. Though the medication had allowed Cabrillo’s mind to drift deeply into another realm, he could still feel too many of pain’s sensations. His body tolerated Dr. Fuentes’ cleaning without dangerous protest, but when this step was finished and the doctor lowered his knife and began to cut skin and muscle, the captain-general gave a sudden lurch in an attempt to shift out of reach, which might have done much damage if strong men hadn’t restrained him. For some time afterward Manuel had to use much of his massive body to pin Cabrillo’s legs to the table. Rather than crying out the patient muttered breathless, incomprehensible words as his semiconscious body rebelled with each new attack of the physician’s tools.
Dr. Fuentes had worked carefully to wash the wound free of dirt, but his cleaning had set off a new surge of blood that he was forced to continually dab away. Soon the floor was strewn with sodden, red rags. Minutes trickled away as the doctor worked to remove what was irreparable and repeatedly tried to compress the useful pieces of shattered bone back into their proper positions. His fingers grew slick with blood, and every time he attempted to clear the sweat from his eyes he left another red streak across his face.
When Dr. Fuentes had nearly finished, he ordered Manuel to hold the set bone while he stitched the muscle and skin in place. At last he began to wind the bandages around the leg and splint it tightly to wooden slats. Exhausted, his shirt and face awash in sweat and blood, the doctor straightened his stiff back and lifted his head. Arching his back for a moment to relieve the muscles, he then sank into the nearby chair and let his chin sag to his chest. Manuel stayed at the table with his own bloody arms hanging heavily at his sides. He took a deep breath, and as he let it out he turned his head to stare out the portal toward the harbor’s mouth. For a moment Father Lezcano seemed unwilling to release his hold of Cabrillo, not yet trusting that he would keep calm and still. He stared at Cabrillo’s face, his closed eyes still pinched with pain, and marveled that his body, any body, could withstand such torture. Praise God and Taya for her medicine, which had surely eased the worst of it. At last the priest moved his hands away and walked slowly to the door. As he opened it, his eyes fell on the tear-streaked, fearful face of Mateo. Against every dictate chiseled through the ages by stalwart men of the sea, he bent down, picked up the child, and held him. “You may see him soon, my boy.”
As Cabrillo slept fitfully during the hours that proceeded the surgery, the fleet seemed to be held in a hushed and anxious spell. Hasty movements were suspended and thoughts turned inward. The afternoon waned and still he did not awaken, and Dr. Fuentes began to recall again and again the death of the native boy. The physician’s memories were not alone. Father Lezcano had also seen Shuluwish die, and that scene haunted him as he sat beside Cabrillo, now lying in his bunk.
The table and floors had been scrubbed clean, and all signs of the operation had been removed excepting the patient. Paulo hovered about looking so pathetically forlorn that he had been sent out to prepare a meal in case Cabrillo awoke hungry.
Manuel was lighting the lamps in the cabin when Father Lezcano smelled the aromas coming from Paulo’s cooking pots and said to Pilot San Remón and Dr. Fuentes, “It smells like Paulo is preparing quite a dinner. Perhaps it will coax the captain-general to take some nourishment.”
Their heads swung around as a voice cracked from the bunk, “I prefer wine first. My mouth feels as if it has eaten an island fox.”
There he lay, pale and drawn but wearing a tremulous smile.
“Praise the Lord!” shouted Father Lezcano while Mateo let out a halloo of joy.
His pilot came to his side and said warmly, “Welcome back, Captain-General.”
Cabrillo tried to shift his position and had to bite back a curse as the sudden pain raked him. “If I could erase the days until this leg firms up, Pilot,” he said weakly, “I could accept your welcome with a little more grace.”
“They will pass, sir, with many prayers to speed them along,” said Father Lezcano.
Cabrillo muttered softly, “Thank you, Father.” He accepted the glass Manuel held out to him, their eyes meeting meaningfully for a moment, and then he asked his pilot, “Any word or action from the islanders?”
“None, sir. All has been quite still, there and here.”
“All but you, sir,” said Dr. Fuentes, his expression more cautious in its optimism than those around him possessed. “Even after surgery you tried to speak to us, though we could not understand much of what you said.”
Cabrillo paused, remembering. “Perhaps it was the concoction Taya sent, but I dreamed many strange things, far stranger than usual.” Resting his gaze on his physician, he said, “I am grateful to you, doctor.”
“I will feel most appreciated, sir, if my patient obeys me well during his recovery.”
At Cabrillo’s feigned look of innocence, everyone in the room chuckled, their relief at last able to voice itself. These sounds and their implications traveled with the usual speed throughout the rest of the ship, as well as the two vessels floating nearby, and from Cabrillo’s cabin those within could hear footfalls lighten and voices hearten.
Pilot San Remón smiled down at Cabrillo and said, “It seems less than necessary, sir, but I should go report your condition to the rest of the crew.”
“Yes, Pilot. Tell them I look to the day when I shall again pace the stern deck.”
“With pleasure, sir,” he said as he left them.
Dr. Fuentes still eyed Cabrillo closely, noting how the drug’s effects lingered. Cabrillo confirmed this when he said, “My head still swims a bit, and sleep wants to retake me. Perhaps I should eat something before my eyelids grow too heavy.”
Paulo appeared even before he was summoned, his eyes brimming as he glanced toward Cabrillo. In a quavering voice he asked, “May I serve you now, sir?”
“Serve him at his bunk, Paulo,” said the doctor authoritatively while carefully avoiding eye contact with the captain-general. “He is not to leave that bed for several days.”
Paulo aimed questioning raised eyebrows at Cabrillo, received a nod, and left to prepare a plate holding three times the food that could be eaten. When he returned Cabrillo did manage to fill his stomach enough to stop its rumblings and please both his servant and his physician. Little coaxing was needed to get him to rest again, and those who cared for him now allowed themselves a meal of their own.
Cabrillo’s sleep became so uneasy, his pain level rising so high, that by midnight Dr. Fuentes was sorely tempted to give him more of Taya’s brew. Father Lezcano was in favor of this as well, but in the end the physician decided it would be taking too great a risk to give the second dose this soon after the first. The night was long and grueling for them all, and Father Lezcano’s rosary was kept in constant use.
Daylight brought Cabrillo awake more fully, with his mind much clearer and the pain even worse. He opened his eyes to find Dr. Fuentes asleep, slumped in his own chair just three feet away. Father Lezcano, who was watching him, smiled tiredly and said, “May I wish you good health on this final day of the year, sir?”
“Indeed,” said Cabrillo with as much normalcy as he could gather, “yes, a new year comes tomorrow.”
“May 1543 bring us all to Asia, and the next year bring us home again.”
Dr. Fuentes, wide awake now, bent close and asked what every physician through every age has asked on such occasions, “How do you feel, sir?”
“Hopeful, doctor, though this splin
t feels far too tight. The ache rivals any I have suffered before.”
The doctor checked his bindings at once, loosening them slightly as he said, “The second day is always the worst, sir, and then improvement begins. We have been debating over whether to give you a little more of Taya’s medicine. What do you advise?”
“The devil himself seems to have possessed this leg, and I would very much like him dispelled, but I am wary of how the potion overpowers my mind.”
“Perhaps, sir,” offered Father Lezcano, “a weaker dosage would be more suitable.”
“Yes, but I will try some breakfast and sherry first.”
The sherry helped very little even when dispensed in more and more generous quantities, and Cabrillo finally refused to drink another glass. Those who looked after him did what they could to distract him: Father Lezcano by reading, Mateo by describing every detail of Viento’s grooming, and the officers of all three ships by appearing and reporting on any small thing that might cheer him. This continued until Dr. Fuentes called a halt to the visitors, declaring that the captain-general needed rest.
Throughout the day the doctor moved the onlookers aside to lift Cabrillo’s covers and examine the bandages. Twice, he had changed the outermost layers when they’d become dampened by blood, gently shifting those securing the splints, but he’d dared not remove the inner bandages that held the bone segments in place.
Cabrillo chose to avoid mentioning the ache in his arm, which was far outweighed by the stabbing sensations in his leg and for which little could be done anyway. When Taya’s medicine was offered a second time, he accepted it. Watched over attentively, he finally let slumber claim him, waking only in spurts throughout the night. He didn’t stir with the rising sun.
Dr. Fuentes, attending in shifts with Manuel and Father Lezcano, had also managed to get some sleep. He was roused from his bed, however, in the light of early dawn.
“What is it, Father?”
There was no softening of the words he came to deliver, and his face told a great deal even before he said, “He has a fever, doctor. Please come at once.”
Already dressed, the doctor threw back his bedcovers and hurried to Cabrillo’s cabin. He touched the captain-general’s cheeks and forehead and whispered, “How long?”
“His face began to redden just minutes ago. It was only then that I touched his skin and felt the heat.”
Cabrillo opened his eyes halfway and turned his face to them. “I am not so bad yet, gentlemen, that I can not hear you. I am very thirsty.” He took a drink from the glass Manuel placed in his hands and then said, “Please send for my officers.”
They both stared, motionless.
“Please, gentlemen, do not make me ask again.”
“But, sir,” said the doctor, “this fever was to be expected with such a wound, with almost any wound. I see no need to...”
“I intend to hand over this command only temporarily, doctor, until I am well.” When they still stood as if nailed to the decking, he turned a weak, beckoning gaze to Father Lezcano.
The priest’s own stunned expression calmed, and he said, “I will tell Pilot San Remón to send for them, sir.”
It took only a few minutes before every officer in the fleet crowded into his cabin. Cabrillo forced himself up on his bent elbows, Manuel helped brace him with a pillow, and he said to the glum faces before him, “Thank you, gentlemen. It seems providence has determined that we shall start this year with a temporary new commander. Until I am well, under the authority granted by my royal commission, I hereby name Captain Ferrelo as captain-general of our fleet. I know you will all serve him with the high loyalty you have shown me.” Settling his eyes on Captain Ferrelo, he added, “You will be in excellent hands, gentlemen. He is as fine an officer as I have ever known.”
Captain Ferrelo spoke up with such adamant sincerity that it made his tone sound harsh. “I am confident that I speak for us all, Captain-General Cabrillo, when I tell you that we all pray for your prompt recovery. And, sir, we want no commander but the one before us.”
Cabrillo closed his eyes and took a moment to master his voice. “I thank you, gentlemen. Now, I wish to speak with Captain-General Ferrelo in private. Forgive me, Dr. Fuentes, but I ask that you leave us for a time as well.”
They filed out bowing and muttering their good wishes until only Ferrelo remained behind with Cabrillo.
When the door closed, Ferrelo asked, “What do you wish to say to me, sir?”
“We have discussed the winds and currents often, Bartolomé. You are still the fleet’s chief pilot. Describe to me, without our charts, how you would sail from this harbor to Asia.”
Not wanting to pursue a conversation that implied what this one did, he nevertheless said, “If you insist, sir. I would, and we shall, sail clear of these reefs and obtain new supplies on the mainland before heading back up California’s coast. Although we have calculated our present location to be roughly 625 miles east of the Moluccas, our orders are to follow the coastline, which cannot run much farther northward before we reach Asia.” He speculated briefly on conditions they might encounter, speeds they might maintain, and several other matters Cabrillo might be concerned about. “Once we arrive in the East we will sail south toward the Spice or San Lázaro Islands. With luck, along the way we will discover the location of the Strait of Anián and claim its access to the Atlantic.”
“Very good, Bartolomé.”
Ferrelo could maintain his stiff compliance no longer. “Damn it all, sir, I may accept this command before the men, but, no. No, curse it! I will not recognize the possibility of your leaving us. You will get well!”
“I have already promised to do my best not to die, and I shall, but we must be prepared. All of us, Bartolomé.”
With a stubbornness that could no longer be reasoned with, born of emotions stronger than logic, Ferrelo repeated, “No, sir. Not all of us.” Then he took a long stride to reach Cabrillo’s side, clasped his hand tightly as his eyes glared defiantly at the fever in his cheeks. “Tomorrow, sir, you shall be better.”
Cabrillo smiled weakly up at him, his manner gently teasing as he said, “Yes, Captain-General, tomorrow. But now I must rest.”
Seeing the energy it had cost Cabrillo to maintain even so short a conversation, Ferrelo repented instantly. “Of course, sir. Please forgive me. I will send for your physician.”
“Bartolomé,” Cabrillo said, forcing him to pause at the door, “I am very grateful my men have you to look after them for this short time.”
“...I will speak with you in the morning, sir.”
“Yes.”
Cabrillo slept again, and for several hours his fever seemed to hold steady. His men moved around the ships quietly, keeping their hands busy with any activity they could find and repeating silent prayers as they worked.
That afternoon Cabrillo felt strong enough to ask Father Lezcano to pull his chair close and talk for a while. “Well, my dear friend,” he said to the priest, “I find myself dwelling on questions I have never asked.”
“About what, sir?”
“Well, you, for example.” His words were a bit slow, his tongue heavy, but he was determined to discuss things other than his injuries. “I have always wondered why the viceroy sent you to join us, especially after the lashing I gave you. How you must have fought his order. Would he not listen?”
Father Lezcano glanced down at his hands. “The viceroy has never learned what took place in Santiago, sir.”
Even through the fog of fever this surprised Cabrillo greatly. “You did not tell him?”
“I told no one.”
They studied each other for a moment before Cabrillo said, “Then, when you received your orders, what reason did you give him for objecting?”
“Sir,” said Father Lezcano, revealing the secret he’d held for so long, “he did not order me here. I requested to sail with you.”
“You requested—”
“Yes, I did, sir.” He smiled gent
ly. “I wish I could say I had foreseen or even guessed all that I would learn from you, how fond of you I would become, but I have never been that wise. Perhaps I wanted to see what you were really like. I had never met anyone like you.”
Cabrillo shook his head slowly in wonder. After a thoughtful moment, he turned his feverish eyes to Father Lezcano again and said, “I want you to know that the young man I have so often called father I would willingly and proudly call my son.”
They let their gazes and the stillness hold them for a little longer, and then Father Lezcano leaned back in his chair and said, “There is something I have long wanted to ask you, sir. When and how did you learn to lead men?”
“I learned out of necessity, and the lessons took many years. It is a long story.”
“If you feel able, I would love to hear it.”
“Well then,” Cabrillo said slowly, closing his eyes, “I suppose it started when I was a boy of twelve, when I came from Spain to Cuba. I served as a page for one of Narváez’ officers.” He sighed heavily. “Our commander’s butchery of the natives horrified and sickened me: women, children, all slain without mercy. I was a boy, but I learned to use the sword and crossbow to survive.” He tried not to remember those days as he went on. “Later, when I fought with Cortés, there was at least a measure of sanity in the slaughter; he had a goal beyond outright extermination. Before the battles at Tenochtitlán I was made captain of a small force of crossbowmen. Many smaller tribes of Indians, who’d been brutalized by the Aztecs, joined us. We could have done little without them.”
“I have heard, sir, that you were badly wounded during that fighting.”
“Yes,” Cabrillo said and then glanced at him searchingly. “Have you also heard of the orders I received before the final battle, orders to build the boats?”
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