Prisoner of the Indies

by Geoffrey Household

  There was then a rush for the rope ladders, and I pushed my way among the first. But the Master, his mate and the bosun were on the fore castle to ensure good order and, it may be, to see that we had not helped ourselves to the ship’s stores and cargo. When I came abreast of them, the Master called me to him.

  I touched my cap and answered that I was at his service for what he might command. He looked at me closely and said, ‘You will stay aboard, Perez, and go up to Seville with me by water.’

  I knew well enough what he meant and that he would have no mercy. But I pretended innocence and replied gaily that I would be glad to stay by the ship, for it would save me the walk to Seville.

  After the soldiers and many of the seamen had gone, the San Felipe was very silent in the dusk. On the fore castle was an armed guard, and I could see another at the shore end of the jetty, so there was no escape for me by way of the ladders. The seamen who remained were gathered in the waist looking at the lights of San Lucar to larboard. No lanterns had been lit in the great cabin, and the windows of the after castle were mostly dark.

  Now, I knew the Master would have gone to rest. He had been on his feet all night and all day making his landfall and leading the fleet to its anchorage in the river. I knew also – since I had never met with any ill looks from his officers – that he had kept to himself what García told him, perhaps wishing to have the favour of the Holy Office by bringing in himself a Lutheran heretic to be burned.

  So I moved silently along the starboard side of the deck and climbed the steps to the after castle, ready to say, if I were halted, that the Master had asked me to see to the covering of the guns. But cabin servants and all were asleep, and I had the poop to myself.

  One of the ship’s boats was alongside under the larboard quarter. I let myself down by the shrouds of the main mast and dropped into it, hiding under the thwarts until I was sure that no one had heard me. Then I cut the painter, and without sound or splash hauled the boat along by the stern cable until it touched the sand. I jumped ashore, letting the boat drift where it would, and ran through the reeds and bushes until I reached the road to Seville by which I had watched my comrades march away singing.

  My arms had been left on the San Felipe and my doublet was long since empty of gold, so I had nothing in the world but my liberty. I reckoned, however, that once through San Lucar I should be safe, for there was plenty of traffic on the Seville road going to and from the fleet, and nothing to distinguish me from any other seaman tramping through the dark.

  I tried to pass by back streets, avoiding the revelry in the centre of the town; but, as bad luck would have it, I met with two seamen from our ship who were very pressing that I should drink with them. When I said that I had no money, they answered, ‘Why, nor have we! But we will pledge King Philip’s credit.’

  For all I knew of Spain – in which country I had been but ten minutes – the seamen of the fleet might indeed be allowed credit until they could draw their pay from the Navy Office in Seville. So, rather than have them running after me in the street and calling my name, I accompanied them to a tavern where they clamoured for wine. The landlord, suspecting them, asked to see their money first, whereupon they struck him down and took what they wanted. And this they called pledging King Philip’s credit.

  At the screams of his wife, four armed men in black came to the rescue. My companions shouted that it was the cuadrilla and ran for their lives, I with them. I supposed these sturdy fellows to be the watch, but the seamen let me know we were in much greater danger. The cuadrilla were constables of the Holy Brotherhood, who were employed to search out evildoers. They are no more holy than the Familiars of the Inquisition, but the Spaniards cannot so much as arrest a pickpocket without calling on the Church to help.

  We might have escaped them if they had not had their agents everywhere amongst the people, who flew into the street and surrounded us before we had gone far. Since I appeared to be the most desperate, the head man or officer chose me as his special prize and marched me off with his pistol stuck in my back. The two seamen followed, crying mercy every time they were pricked by the swords of the constables, and behind them came the crowd of onlookers.

  Now, though common men will be more afraid of a pistol than a sword, we soldiers had little regard for so poor a weapon. I had practised with pistols as a boy on the Jesus of Lubeck and again with Rafael on the San Felipe. I knew that the powder does not catch from the pan as surely as in an arquebus, and that even when the pistol fires it gives such a jerk to the wrist that a man will miss his mark. So I commended myself to God, ducked my head and took to my heels. And sure enough there were but a flash in the pan and a good round oath from the head man.

  When I was clear of San Lucar I walked at my best pace all that night and then hid myself in a thicket by the river. In the evening I ate some wild green figs and set out again, arriving at Seville in the early morning. The town was full of strangers from the fleet, which made it the safer for me so long as I did not meet some former comrade. I soon found the street where the weavers had their houses and looked for a shop which dealt in silks and fine taffetas. The first master-weaver with whom I spoke had no need of workmen or indeed of any man who looked so much like a beggar as I did; but the second received me kindly and put me to work on a loom to see what I could do. When he perceived that I knew some parts of the craft as well as he did himself, he agreed to take me on, offering me food and living space and a fair wage.

  He said that he hoped to have a good trade in his stuffs now that the fleet was in, and you may be sure I did not tell him I had arrived with it. I gave my name as Alonso Hernandez and claimed to have learned my trade in Madrid. My doleful story was that I had come south to visit my family in the Sierra Morena and been robbed on the road. So rather than beg my way to Madrid I thought I would try my luck in Seville, staying close to my work until my fortunes were restored.

  He was only too glad that I should not stir from the looms, for I was too ragged to be seen in the shop. So I laboured away and aroused no suspicion among my fellow workmen who understood very well that there was nothing to be gained by going out into the town when a man had no money in his pocket and could have no pride in himself and his appearance. Since our master laid out for us good food and drink they did not think it strange that I should stay indoors until I could call for my wages.

  Meanwhile search was being made for me in Seville. Four days after my arrival, the workmen said that an Englishman had come home with the fleet disguised as a soldier and that he was in such close league with the devil that he could make a pistol misfire.

  ‘Would to God that I knew his face,’ I cried, ‘and that I could hand over such a heretic to the Holy Office!’

  But they never dreamed that I could be the man, for the Spaniards believe that no foreigner can speak their language as they themselves, though it is as easy as can be. And who would think that such a fire-eater could be a quiet weaver in a back room?

  I had always to keep a watch on my tongue. All I knew of Spain was what I had heard from others, and of New Spain I dared say nothing. This was often hard for me when my master asked where I had won my knowledge of dyes and how I could weave strange patterns which sold very well. He thought that the designs were ferns and sprigs of flowers while what I had in mind was the featherwork of the Indians. Though New Spain had proved so dangerous to me, I continually remembered the kindness of the friars and of the men of every race who had received me as a friend. Yet I was very content that I had not married and settled like Paul Horsewell and the rest, and that I had learned this trade by which I could keep myself.

  After three months I reckoned that there would no longer be any hue and cry after me, so I called for my wages and went out to buy new clothes, all of them befitting a sober craftsman and as different as they could be from those of seamen and soldiers. I was very careful not to show myself in public places in case some former comrade such as Rafael should link his arm in mine and hail me as
Miguel Perez.

  One day I heard to my great joy that there were English ships in San Lucar. They came but seldom. Although there was still no open war between Her Majesty and King Philip, trade was unprofitable. A shipmaster could never be sure that he would not be captured on the high seas or detained in a Spanish port because some Spanish shipmaster was detained in England. Indeed all were little better than pirates, though with some semblance of legality.

  Yet the Spaniards needed to sell the silver, spices, dyes and a hundred other products of the Indies, and therefore licensed foreign ships, whether manned by heretics or not, to trade in their ports. In Seville were several English merchants, all good Catholics who had married Spanish wives and had nothing to fear from the Holy Office. Among them was one Hugh Tipton who, it was said, had done business with William and John Hawkins and had saved the lives of the hostages whom we gave before the battle of San Juan de Ulua, seeing them safely back to England.

  My case was very different, and I did not dare to approach Mr Tipton. I was no gentleman hostage whom King Philip had to release or lose his honour. I was but a cabin boy who had escaped from the Holy Office, which in itself was a crime worthy of the galleys. And, worse still, they had chosen to believe that after being converted I had returned to the Protestant faith, for which there was no other penalty but burning.

  Therefore I decided that I would secretly talk with one of the English shipmasters, letting no one else know my business. I hired a boat to take me down to San Lucar on the pretence of finding out if the English needed our taffetas. Sure enough there were three ships alongside the quay, and my heart leaped when I beheld the Cross of St George flying from the mizzen, a sight which I had not seen for fourteen years and more.

  In the town I heard English spoken again and could hardly keep myself from answering. Victuallers who sold stores to the ships told me that only one, Rose of Bristol, was commanded by a Lutheran. The masters of the other two, both Hugh Tipton’s ships, were Catholics: one an Irishman and the other a Portuguese in English service.

  I went on board Rose of Bristol and found the Master ready enough to talk of taffetas in his bad Spanish. When we had spoken of his hardships, his family and so forth, I asked him if he knew anything of the Minion and whether she had returned safely to England.

  ‘She came home close to the New Year of 1569,’ he answered, ‘with only fifteen survivors. Many more were alive, so it is said, when Mr Hawkins put in to the port of Vigo to buy fresh provisions for his starving men. But they ate so greedily that scores of them died before the Minion reached Plymouth.’

  ‘And did you ever hear that a hundred were set on shore in New Spain after the battle of San Juan de Ulua?’

  ‘Aye, and all but two or three never heard of since.’

  ‘I am one of them,’ I said, now at last speaking to him in English. ‘My true name is Miles Philips. I escaped from New Spain and the Holy Office and I am now a weaver in Seville. Will you carry me home to England?’

  ‘Willingly,’ he answered, ‘if my factor in the port tells me it is safe to do so.’

  I warned him that I was in great danger and that if he opened his mouth to the factor it could be the end of me.

  ‘It could be the end of me, too,’ he said, ‘if I am caught shipping prisoners out of Spain.’

  ‘But who would know?’

  ‘I cannot be certain. Trade is trade, Master Philips, and a poor shipmaster must do what he can. If it were discovered that I had given you a passage, the dons would have an excuse to hold me in San Lucar for a year while the ambassadors and secretaries used up more ink about me than my cargo is worth. Look you, I dare not take you on board now and I cannot send messengers after you to Seville when we are ready to sail.’

  ‘But I could hide myself near by until I see you cast off,’ I said.

  ‘No, it will not do, Master Philips, it will not do. The dons know more than we think. I tell you that neither I nor my men can go ashore without looking over our shoulders and talking in whispers.’

  I begged and begged, but all the help I could get from the man was to tell me to speak Spanish in case I were overheard by a secretary of the Customs who had come on deck. And so I left him and returned to my boat with my eyes full of tears, hardly able to believe than an English seaman would treat me so.

  CHAPTER NINE

  This sight of English ships in the Guadalquivir recalled it to my mind that they sailed also to Italy and the Levant and wherever there was trade; and I saw that instead of waiting for a chance encounter I must go in search of them. I could think of no better way of setting out again on my travels than to enlist as a ship’s soldier.

  A week later I told the master-weaver that I had a longing to return to Madrid. Though he pleaded with me to stay and swore that in a few years I might become his partner, I played the obstinate fool who did not wish to settle. So I put the little I possessed on my back and took the road to the east with the good wishes of my fellow workmen, some of whom accompanied me as far as the city gate.

  As soon as they had turned back and were out of sight, I made my way round the city into the high road for Cadiz, which is the strongest port and arsenal which the Spaniards have on that coast. It took me three days to walk there, and my journey at first seemed vain, for when I talked to the seamen of the port I learned that if I shipped as a soldier I might be sent across the Ocean and be in a worse plight than ever.

  While I was watching the ships in the harbour, which is as fine as Havana but difficult to leave unless the wind is southerly, I saw a great, low ship, like a golden water beetle, come skimming across the harbour and take in tow a ship of war as high as the Jesus of Lubeck which was ready to sail.

  I said to the seaman who was with me that her men were lucky not to have to sweat at the oars to get her out to sea, and that I had never set eyes on so grand a tugboat.

  ‘That is one of the King’s galleys from Puerto Santa Maria,’ he told me. ‘When they are in port, they sometimes practise the rowers by towing out the great galleons.’

  Then I remembered that Rafael, who had done the better part of his service in the galleys, told me that they only voyaged in the calm waters of the Mediterranean.

  So I walked around Cadiz Bay to Puerto Santa Maria. I gave my name of Alonso Hernandez to the Navy Office and said that I desired to volunteer for the galleys, being a native of Havana who had often served on His Majesty’s ships between that port and the Isthmus of Panama. They asked me only if I were trained in the use of the pike, to which I answered that I was not – wondering to myself what good a twenty-foot pike could be on shipboard – but that I could give a good account of myself with all fire-arms and had also served as a gunner. With that they were satisfied and posted me as a soldier to the galley Corona de Castilla.

  She was near one hundred and fifty feet long and low in the water. On each side were twenty-six oars with four men to the oar. At the stern was a castle, splendidly carved and shining with gold, in the upper part of which lived the Master and his officers, and in the lower part we soldiers. At the bows she had a great beak for ramming the enemy, with a fighting platform over it just as Rafael had described. Below the platform was a long cannonperier throwing a shot of twenty-four pounds, with an eight-pound demi-culverin on each side of it, all trained forward.

  The rowers were convicted felons who in our country would have been hanged. The Spaniards are more merciful or less wasteful than ourselves. Yet it was a living death to which they were condemned. They were chained four to an oar and given a daily ration of water and two pounds of biscuit. How they found strength to pull an oar day after day with such wretched food in their bellies I could not understand, though myself knowing more than most of hardship and hunger. They were given more food – and more lashes with it – when there was some great effort to be made, as if they were brute beasts. Indeed they were worse treated, and more like to the sails of a windmill than flesh and blood.

  When they were not rowing, they
had the appearance of so many friars, wearing hooded gowns to protect them from the weather. For the rest, each man had a shirt, a pair of coarse canvas breeches and a red cloth coat. Every month their heads and beards were shaved, but they were still faceless men, seldom raising their eyes from the oars.

  We soldiers, lying in idleness below the after castle, came to know the sixteen men who pulled the first four oars and we were not prevented from showing them Christian charity and giving them a piece of meat or a taste of wine when the drum was silent. This drum which beat the stroke hour after hour was hard to bear until I grew accustomed to the sound and noticed it no longer.

  One of the faces above the stroke oar to starboard seemed familiar to me. The man was called Job which was very fitting, since Job’s sufferings were little worse than his. For the most part the rowers went under nicknames such as One-eyed, Beauty, The Priest, The Gallant and so forth.

  One evening when it was the turn of his oar to sleep I stopped near him. Cutting a good piece from my sausage I gave it to him and asked whether he had robbed a bishop or merely killed a man, for they all loved to boast of their crimes, having nothing else on which to pride themselves.

  ‘No, soldier,’ he replied. ‘I was condemned as a heretic.’

  ‘And were you one?’

  ‘Neither more nor less than my countrymen. I was English.’

  I looked at him closely and was hard put to it not to weep and embrace him, for this was Job Hartop who had taught me to load and fire a gun on the Jesus of Lubeck when I was thirteen years old.

  Then I knew what my comrades suffered who had been sentenced to the galleys. I asked him whether there were many Englishmen in such misery and he answered that, for all he knew, he was the last left alive. He did not recognise me, for he had last seen me as a child and now I was bearded and moustachioed with helmet on my head, sword at my side and King Philip’s arms embroidered on my doublet.