While the San Salvador lay in stillness offshore with her lamps extinguished, the landing party rowed away using oars muffled by rags. They pulled stealthily toward a well-chosen stretch of deserted shore and, reaching the sand, Father Lezcano, Manuel, Ferrelo, and three guards lifted the coffin from the boat. Followed by four more guards, and two men and Mateo bearing digging tools, they all headed up a narrow, climbing path that led inland. The group halted often to watch and listen for any sign that they’d been detected, but nothing around them stirred. When they reached level ground, an area was chosen for their purpose, the shovels and picks were handed out, and the work began. Arms moved rapidly to loosen and lift the dirt, digging deeper and deeper until Ferrelo said, “That will do, men. Climb on out.” Father Lezcano was allowed only a few brief moments for prayer before Ferrelo ordered Cabrillo’s coffin, bearing a likeness of his family’s crest, to be lowered into its resting place.
The grave was quickly filled, and as the final few shovel loads were being placed, Mateo stepped forward and said to Ferrelo, “Please, sir, may I leave this with him?” He held out a flat, roughly rectangular piece of stone upon which he’d crudely scratched the joined letters of “JRC”. Above this mark he’d carved a small cross, and beneath it, a headless stick figure. “It is a poor thing, sir,” the boy said, “and I had no time to attempt his face, but... please, sir.”
In a voice gone low with withheld emotion, Ferrelo said, “Of course, Mateo.”
The boy placed his remembrance gently atop the loose soil, and then stood back and watched his stone disappear as the final few inches of dirt fell. In order to conceal the grave the burial crew now trod upon their work place, added a little more dirt, tamped it down again, and scattered the excess soil, swept the area with brush, and finally littered it with gathered sticks and stones. When every attempt had been made to disguise the location that cradled Cabrillo’s body, Ferrelo said, “We must get back to the ship. Dawn is not far off.” They moved away, and Father Lezcano, Mateo, and Manuel each glanced back and bid a final, silent farewell before their heavy feet took them from the island.
They made good time returning to Isla Posesión and a very dull gray light was all that revealed their return to the remainder of their anxious fleet. Men lined the railings of their sister ships, their faces weary, grave, and sorrowful, but also greatly relieved to have their flagship anchoring safely beside them once again.
Ferrelo could see no natives along the shore, but he had little doubt that the San Salvador’s absence had been noted. Still, he’d done what he could for Cabrillo’s honor, for the protection of his captain-general’s body and soul, and for his own battered peace of mind.
When day broke more fully, every member of the fleet witnessed the ceremony held aboard the San Salvador to remember Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. This time, Matipuyaut and a handful of his people had been asked to attend and they had accepted. Taya stood beside her father, her face lifeless and her body weak with grief. Father Gamboa, at Father Lezcano’s request, presided over the service. While battling to keep his own bereavement in check, Father Lezcano kept close beside Mateo and Manuel.
When Father Gamboa concluded the religious rite, Captain-General Ferrelo lifted his voice and said, “Men, henceforth, this island will be called Isla Capitana de Juan Rodriguez in memory of the fine leader we have lost.”
No cheers greeted this announcement, but many of the mourners nodded and muttered approvingly, finding a measure of comfort in the news.
The rest of that day men went about their duties in a listless state, finding it difficult to convince themselves that the captain-general was truly gone. When the turnings of the sandglass had run their regular course, though it felt like many more had been added, the sun began to set beneath a sky as heavily clouded as the hearts of Cabrillo’s men.
Yet, as Father Lezcano stood alone at the stern rail, he lifted his eyes and watched the clouds at the farthest edge of the horizon begin to separate into layers. Their lower edges slowly curved and crested like inverted waves, and the underbelly of each swell gleamed with the brilliant orange-crimson of a fire’s very last embers. Spellbound, he knew he’d never seen so magnificent a sight. And as the glory of the display held him, he suddenly understood. He was beholding a parting gift. When his tears came he let them fall, and smiled even as he wept.
Chapter 27
VIENTO’S RIDER
April 29, 1543
The viceroy’s official notary, Juan León, sat back in his wooden chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he gazed in turn at Captain-General Ferrelo, Captain Correa, Pilot San Remón, and Fathers Gamboa and Lezcano. They’d been called together at the home of Puerto de Navidad’s alcalde, and now that most of their business had been completed León couldn’t help but be somewhat moved by the evidence of deprivation and grief on the weathered faces seated around the table. Even so, a few points still needed to be confirmed.
“Then, Captain-General, on the second attempt to reach Asia you sailed only a hundred miles beyond the point reached under Captain-General Cabrillo?”
“That is correct, sir,” said Ferrelo.
The notary glanced over his notes, furrowed his brows and said, “The viceroy had hoped for more.”
Ferrelo’s mouth tightened but he did not waste words on someone who couldn’t empathize with the hardships they’d survived. To say that their own hopes had been disappointed would have been too ridiculous an understatement to voice. And yet, as Ferrelo’s eyes now swept the men who shared this table, keen-eyed, thin, sunburned, and weakened, he felt a surge of love and dedication that he wouldn’t have traded for great riches. This thought he also kept to himself. What he did say was, “If any man could have taken us to Asia under the conditions we faced, sir, Captain-General Cabrillo would have. His death was most grievous.”
“Yes,” said León, “of course.” He cleared his throat, studied his notes again and, after posing a few additional clarifying questions, he concluded with, “Is there anything further you wish me to record, gentlemen?” When no one spoke, León said, “Then my orders from the Royal Audiencia and the viceroy have been fulfilled. Your testimonies and those of Cárdenas, Vargas, and the others will comprise the bulk of my report. Señor Urdaneta here,” he nodded toward the slight man sitting to his left and reviewing his own set of newly written pages, “will help you complete your illustrations and charts. I thank you for your cooperation in providing so comprehensive an account of the voyage, gentlemen. You are now free to leave.”
As they rose and began to make their way to the door, Urdaneta touched Father Lezcano’s sleeve and asked softly, “Will you stay a moment, Father?”
Father Lezcano nodded and, lowering himself again into his seat, looked into the wise eyes of the man Cabrillo had repeatedly mentioned with admiration. Urdaneta did not speak until they were alone and the door had closed. “It was not difficult to discern that during the voyage you came to care a great deal for Captain-General Cabrillo.”
Father Lezcano let his gaze soften. “He became a father to me, sir. The loss of him wounded deeply.”
“He was a rare man. I liked him immensely. Encouraged by our last talk together, I have nearly decided to sail again one day. I had hoped to journey with him as our commander.” Eyeing Father Lezcano, understanding his pain, he said, “Perhaps, instead, his son will sail by my side.”
Father Lezcano gave him a sad, grateful smile. “I am honored by your words, sir, but I intend never to sail again.”
“Ah, such an intention is to be expected, but you are very young, Father. Years ago when I sailed with Loaisa and Elcano, I never imagined being captured and held prisoner in the San Lázaros, and when I finally reached Spain again I intended to avoid ships for the rest of my days.” He shook his head slowly. “But then I sailed here to Mexico. And now that I have seen the charts and log books from your voyage, I may even consider returning to the San Lázaros.”
Father Lezcano looked at him in surprised wond
er.
“Yes, my young priest, you, the notary, the viceroy, and perhaps even the captains of Cabrillo’s fleet do not yet fully understand what you have delivered to the Spanish kingdom. With these charts,” he swept his hand toward the large sheets of parchment, “our ships may soon be able to sail to the San Lázaro Islands and safely return to New Spain, something that has eluded us until now. Our lack of knowledge of the currents and winds has destroyed many ships and sent hundreds, or more likely thousands, of men to their deaths, as I have witnessed. Your voyage has done much to dispel our ignorance, and that will make it much easier to find the trade route. When we do, our ships will bring wealth to Spain in quantities large enough to impress even our king.”
Seeing how Father Lezcano’s amazement had grown, Urdaneta chuckled softly. “Seldom is new knowledge recognized for its true worth, but the future will show us the value of what you have paid for with your efforts and tears.”
Father Lezcano stared at him, his thoughts grasping the repercussions of what such farsightedness foretold. “During one of our last discussions, Captain-General Cabrillo said that knowledge was one of God’s greatest gifts.”
“And so it is, Father, even if it produces something very different from gold and jewels.” After a moment’s reflection he said, “Who knows? One day California may even be prized as a place to settle. Based on these reports, it is beautiful.”
“But, you, sir? Will you sail to the San Lázaros with our charts?”
“Perhaps, Father, but if not I, others will. More and more lately I feel called to a quiet religious life.” Seeing that he had surprised Father Lezcano once more, he smiled and said, “Then again, perhaps I will take to the sea after I am ordained, just as you did.”
Urdaneta began to rise, and Father Lezcano stood with him. “You must be very tired, and I will not delay you further, Father, but in the days to come I would very much like to discuss the possibility of my joining the Augustinians.”
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
“Fine, fine. But for now, is there any service I can render you?”
Father Lezcano was about to decline his offer, but then he said, “There is something, sir, of a personal nature. You see, I wish very much to visit Señora Cabrillo, and it is appropriate that a letter precedes my arrival. I have tried several times to write to her only to stumble over my clumsiness with words. You were the captain-general’s friend, so I hope it will not be too great an imposition to help me compose the message. It is said that you are a gifted writer.”
“You honor me, Father. When do you wish to begin?”
“Do you have time now, sir? We have paper and ink before us.”
“I do indeed.”
In moments their heads were bent together over a sheet of parchment while Father Lezcano’s quill carefully scratched words of introduction and condolence. When three pages had been filled, he closed his thoughts with the warmest of wishes, sanded the ink, rolled the letter inside an outer sheet, and sealed it with wax.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “I am in your debt, Señor Urdaneta.”
“Not at all, Father. Will you let me know when you receive a reply?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then I advise you to hurry if you intend to reach the post rider before he departs.”
Father Lezcano bid him a hasty farewell and hurried out the door, waving his letter in a parting salute.
Not even a week had passed before the priest received his answering letter from Beatriz, inviting him to come to them as soon as he could leave Navidad. Now, after a few more weeks needed to complete the final duties to his commander and to recover his health, the priest was packing his few belongings into saddlebags slung across the top rail of the corral as Urdaneta stood patiently beside him.
“Well, sir, that is everything. I have only to saddle my horse.”
“You need not hurry your preparations on my account, Father. I have had far too little of your company lately, and I am happy to see you off.”
Father Lezcano strode into the stable and came out a few moments later leading his mount.
Rather than the dusty bay gelding the priest had ridden into Navidad nearly eleven months earlier, his horse was now a superbly appointed dappled gray Andalusian stud. The weeks since his return to Navidad had done the stallion as much good as it had his new owner, giving him back the tone to his muscles and gleam to his coat. Urdaneta’s heart warmed as he watched the man and horse, their bond obvious in the way they moved comfortably in unison. Captain-General Ferrelo had told him of Cabrillo’s leaving Viento to Father Lezcano in a written codicil, and now it was easier to understand why he had. As the two came nearer, Urdaneta noticed that the priest’s brow had furrowed. After looping the reins over the fence, Father Lezcano lowered his eyes to the riding crop in his hand, staring at it as his expression clouded.
Observing the depth of the emotions crossing the young face, Urdaneta asked, “What is it, Father?”
As if speaking to the crop itself, he said softly, “Still hanging from a peg near my old saddle. I had forgotten I left it there before we sailed.” Very slowly he tightened his fingers around the whip, silently recalling the details of a day that had altered his world. “It seems like ages ago. He told me a man’s family could not always teach him what must be learned, that sometimes essential lessons are left to others.” After a pause, he said, “So many lessons...” He looked up at Urdaneta, his eyes brightened by moisture. “How can one repay such things, especially when the teacher is no longer here?”
Urdaneta smiled with great gentleness. “The best way I have found is to share what we have learned with others, whenever we can.”
“Yes, that I will try to do. Thank you, sir.” Again glancing at the quirt, he asked, “Will you hold this for a moment?” Urdaneta accepted the whip and stood back while Father Lezcano saddled Viento and checked his hooves one more time, all the while talking to the horse in familiar, loving tones. At last, he said, “There now, Viento, all is ready.”
Urdaneta patted Viento’s neck and asked his master, “Are you still uneasy about meeting them, Father?”
“Perhaps a little, but, as you saw, her letter could not have been more welcoming.”
“She will undoubtedly embrace you with affection.”
“Mateo has been there with his family for some time, and I have missed him. I look forward to seeing Manuel at the Cabrillo encomienda as well, but it is Señora Cabrillo I long to meet. I have much to tell her, mostly words from him. Although they will be meant to comfort, I fear they will be difficult to hear. Her grief is very new.”
“Then, for now, tell her only what she asks to know.”
“Good advice, my wise friend. Take care of yourself while I am away.”
Urdaneta’s eyes shone fondly upon the priest, “I shall miss our talks. Until next month, farewell. Write to me if you find the time.”
“I will make time.” He gave Urdaneta a strong hug and then climbed into the saddle, and as he adjusted his tension on the reins to keep Viento in place Urdaneta handed him his quirt. He took and said with sudden intensity, “I have just decided what to do with this.”
“Do with it, Father?”
After tucking the crop under the flap of a saddlebag, he said, “I will bury it along the way.” The hint of a smile that had been too long absent came into his deep brown eyes. “And I know the perfect place for it to rest, a place I remember well.” He extended a hand and clasped Urdaneta’s. “God keep you well, sir.”
He loosened the reins and let Viento walk away from the corral and onto the road that led eastward. Urdaneta watched him go, speculating on possible explanations behind the priest’s strange intention to entomb the whip. At last he turned away, and with a shake of his head he muttered to himself, “Patience. He will tell the whole story when he finds the right time and place.”
THE AUTHOR
On the bowsprit of Californian while researching Cabrillo’s voya
ge, Christine Echeverria Bender, a former resident of San Diego, California, now lives with her family in Boise, Idaho.
She may be contacted at www.christinebender.com.
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Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon Page 39