by Shirl Henke
“The beard suits you well, even if the food does not,” Cristobal said to Aaron, admiring the thick golden bristles on his face. “By the time we reach landfall you should have a handsome growth of whiskers.”
“Do not even say it,” Aaron replied, thinking of long weeks at sea. He stared out as the Santa Maria cut through the sargassum. Wanting to take his mind off that dismal prospect, he said, “I see some of our malcontents are gathering. I will go down and break up the useless fretting.”
“I rely on you, Diego,” the admiral said serenely.
As was the usual custom aboard all ships, prayers were said at day's end. The Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the Creed were spoken, then the Salve Regina was chanted. With his dinner of hard biscuit and a mouthful of salted anchovies sitting ill in his stomach, Aaron stood respectfully for the rote observance, not joining in. Here and there among the Castilians, Catalans, and Galicians of the crew a man remained quiet. The New Christians, although ostensibly converted, were uncomfortable with the ritual. There were no clergy on the voyage and the admiral, although fervent in his own devotions and strict about the custom of the men standing at attention morning and evening for the service, did not command participation of those with no heart to give it.
Aaron looked about the faces of the men, the grizzled common seamen with their red wool caps doffed respectfully, the coolly elegant royal officials mouthing words unconsciously, the Basque ship's master, Juan de la Cosa, himself craftily watching the others. Then Aaron's eyes caught those of Luis Torres, the Arabic translator and scholar. Although sharing a surname, they were not related, but both were conversos. He too wonders if we will find the legendary wealth of the East and with it a place of freedom. As if in answer, Luis' dark brown eyes looked toward the promise of the setting sun and Aaron's gaze followed.
* * * *
“The ninth day of October and all we have are false sightings of land, endless sea birds and clumps of driftwood,” the Basque boatswain said. Barrel chested and oddly pale for a sailor, Chachu sat cross-legged on the deck, stabbing a piece of salted mutton with his knife. He gnawed the meat as he studied the clique of men seated about him sharing the noonday repast. The crew ate the day's main meal scattered about the deck near the crude, wood-burning firebox amidships where the cook fried the dried meat in olive oil and his helpers dispensed biscuit, raisins, wine, and other stores. The officers, the admiral, the master, the pilot, the marshal, and various other gentlemen volunteers and royal appointees ate on the quarterdeck, well away from the conversations of the sailors.
Chachu had a small group of Basque compatriots gathered about him as well as several men from Palos. One looked up at the admiral's cabin. “I say if we see no land by day's end, we confront the Genoese.”
Another, lounging against the railing, spat overboard contemptuously. “Hah. What would that avail us? The man has said he will sail on no matter how long it takes. I say we make common cause with those Castilians from Palos. If we join ranks, we will outnumber followers of the Genoese. Then we will demand he turn back while there is food and water left to see us to the Canaries.” He flashed his knife before plunging it meaningfully into the pile of fried meat.
“I do not know,” a youthful seaman said uneasily. “The admiral's marshal is—”
“But a Jew,” Chachu interrupted. “Would you fear that yellow-haired boy?”
“Torres fought under the king in the Moorish wars. He is young, but dangerous,” another seaman put in. “But he likes to walk a turn from the quarter to the foredeck each night. Perhaps an accident could be arranged...”
* * * *
The moon suddenly vanished behind the clouds and the ship pitched to starboard. Cursing, Aaron reached out toward the railing and felt cold steel as a knife slashed through his tunic, missing his back by a scant layer of cloth. He whirled, his own dagger instantly in his hand. His assailant had two advantages—the darkness and steady sea legs. Aaron could see by the man's clothes that he was a common seaman, but could not make out his face. The knife in the sailor's hand glowed evilly as he lunged with it. Fright lent him courage, but he was clumsy. As he came at Aaron, the young soldier simply ducked aside, letting the sailor's own momentum carry him forward. Aaron's knife found his target, the soft exposed expanse of throat. With a small, muffled gurgle, the assassin fell against Torres, nearly carrying them both overboard as the ship rolled again.
The moon reappeared, lighting the macabre scene. The man was not one of the Basques, but a sailor of Palos. So, the mutiny has spread. With a silent oath, he consigned the body to the sharks, then considered what to do as he walked aft. The men slept sprawled hither and yon across the ship's deck. He looked at the hatch cover the boatswain usually favored when not on watch. Chachu was not about.
Aaron made his way cautiously between the sleeping bodies, heading toward the ladder that led upward to the quarterdeck. A thin light flicked beneath the admiral's door. He rapped lightly and Colon's steward opened to admit him. The room was small, crowded with charts and papers piled on the crude wooden table. Cristobal sat writing in his log book, looking careworn and weary.
“We have trouble brewing, I see,” Cristobal said, eyeing Aaron's blood-spattered tunic. “Are you unharmed?”
“I am fine, but we are one gromet fewer.” Aaron sat as the steward withdrew, closing the door. “We must lay plans for the morrow.”
October 10th dawned with golden brilliance. A young gromet of the dawn watch sang in a clear sweet trill the ritual morning salutation:
Blessed be the light of day
and the Holy Cross we say;
and the Lord of Veritie
and the Holy Trinity.
Blessed be th'immortal soul
and the Lord who keeps it whole,
blessed be the Light of Day and
He who sends the night away.
Colon paused at the door of his cabin, looking out across the breaking waves. He could see the sails of the Nina off starboard, close at hand, but as usual Pinta was far ahead on the horizon. Turning his attention to the men below, he noted a milling cluster gathered about the five Basques—all in all, fifteen malcontents. Out of a crew of thirty-nine, the odds seemed in his favor, but the Genoese had been at sea most of his life and knew how quickly loyalties could switch under the grinding duress of isolation, fear, and even boredom. And there had been much of all three during the past five weeks since their departure from the Canaries.
The admiral looked across to where the ship's master, Juan de la Cosa, stood. His compatriot, Chachu the boatswain, was with the muttering seamen a distance away. Catching the master's eye, Colon signaled for Aaron to step from his cabin. The marshal was fully armed with sword and dagger, wearing leather armor and a steel helmet. He walked across the deck and leaned casually against the rail where the swivel gun, called a falconet, was mounted. Cosa's obsidian eyes grew round for an instant when he saw Torres, then narrowed, but it was enough to satisfy both men on the quarterdeck that the master was part of the conspiracy.
“The morning watch has been set. There are tasks enough for all to be busy now that the night's fast has been broken. Have you some reason for gathering, Boatswain?” Colon's calm words rang clearly, and the Genoese accent of his Castilian lent them a deceptive geniality. His pale blue eyes shifted from Chachu to Cosa meaningfully.
Finally, the master walked amidships to stand in front of the group led by Chachu. “We have sailed from September ninth, over a month out of the Canary Islands. This is the tenth of October, and we have journeyed farther west than any ships have ever done.”
“Least those that lived to return and tell of it,” a gromet muttered.
“The men want to turn back while there is still provision to reach the islands off Africa,” Cosa continued.
“And a whisper of a southeast wind to carry us home,” the boatswain finally chimed in. His surly look scanned the rest of the crew, most of whom were finishing the morning's light repast and pr
eparing either to begin the chores of their watch or to find a shady spot out of the traffic and go to sleep. The royal officials, the Jewish scholar, and the ship's surgeon stood apart, beneath the shelter of the quarterdeck near the pilot who held the tiller steady against the wind. None of them was a part of this dispute, which they obviously felt was the responsibility of the admiral and his marshal to handle.
“There will be winds blowing from the southeast to carry us on a more northerly course home. We have provender enough for months yet and many heartening signs—island birds and fresh driftwood. We are nearing our goal. As I am the representative of the Majesties, King Fernando and Queen Ysabel, I mean to do what I have been commissioned to do. We sail on to the Indies.” The admiral paused and looked about the men below him.
Now it was Chachu, not Cosa, who seemed to take charge, shoving his big muscular body ahead of Cosa's slight frame. “And if we like it not and want a conference with the captains of Nina and Pinta?”
“Yes, let us confer with the Pinzons, good men of Palos,” one man shouted in a strident voice. Several other of the locals from the seaports of Andalusia joined in.
“As marshal of the fleet, I command all arms, dispensing them to the crew when needed...or using them against mutineers...when needed.” Aaron spoke clearly as he turned the barrel of the small swivel gun attached to the rail. Its mouth, which could belch forth scrap iron in widely spread blasts at close range, was now pointed into the center of the group of Basques and their cohorts from Palos. “Have I your leave to demonstrate, Admiral?” He looked at Colon, his face hardened and cold. Now, not even the arrogant boatswain mistook Diego Torres for a boy.
“I do not believe such an extreme measure is necessary, Marshal,” Cristobal replied. “There will be no conference with the officers aboard Nina and Pinta. They, like all of you, have their orders. After the attempt on my marshal's life last night, I instructed him to take certain precautions.” A soft murmur of shock rippled around the deck. “The next time anyone raises a hand against royal authority and this enterprise, I will not be so lenient. Don Diego has already dispensed justice to his attacker.” Colon's piercing blue gaze riveted on the ship's master first, then on the boatswain. He paused, watching all of the milling, mumbling men.
“I say, let us stand with the admiral!” one seaman from Huelva cried.
Another two from Cadiz joined in, “Yes, yes, onward for gold and the Indies!” Soon others scattered about the deck took up the chorus, drowning out the dissenters. All of them began to disperse, each seaman going off to begin his duties or take his rest.
Aaron waited until everything was quiet, then swi-veled the gun to face the open sea and locked it in place, pocketing the key. He walked over to the admiral and smiled grimly. “For now at least, we have weathered the storm.”
“I know you will be doubly wary in the future, lest you indeed be swept overboard,” Cristobal said with a worried smile. “I shall pray fervently that we sight land soon.”
The admiral's prayers were answered. Just after ten in the dark of night on the eleventh day of October, Cristobal himself, looking from the small window of his cabin, saw a light flickering on the horizon. The king's butler, who had been sitting discussing how they might greet and convey messages and gifts to the Eastern rulers, agreed it might be land.
“It looks to be a candle or a torch, perhaps, being passed from one house to another. Summon the watch and have them signal the Nina and Pinta. Let us see if they can sight it as well,” Colon commanded.
A sailor from the Pinta called out even before being signaled that they, too, had noted the light, but no further sign was seen through the midnight hour. The deck of the Santa Maria crackled with tension as every sailor, on watch or not, sat up with straining eyes on the western horizon. Then at two in the morning, a cry went up as land truly reappeared, far more clearly this time. The prearranged signal, a cannon shot, thundered from Pinta, once again far ahead of the other two ships. Martin Alonzo Pinzón, too, had sighted the dull white gleam of sand cliffs in the moonlight. Three small vessels saw both the end and the beginning of a dream.
Colon estimated the distance to be about six miles. As they neared the shore, the admiral ordered all ships to trim their sails and wait for daylight. The roar of breakers signaled shallows that might run the fleet aground. Best to hold off until they could see where they were. No one slept.
Aaron, on edge for days since the first whispers of mutiny, finally felt a respite. As the ships jogged south and west around the curve of the land mass, awaiting morning's light, he sat on his cramped berth beneath the quarterdeck writing in the diary he kept at his father's behest. Upon his return, it would be more treasured by Benjamin Torres than all the gold and pearls of the Indies. Aaron dated his entry October 12, 1492.
My Dearest Father,
Land has been sighted. All the admiral's doubters are now rejoicing in his genius. When we go home, all his detractors across the Spains will sing his praises. As for me, I care only to return to the arms of my family, having served you by serving our Sovereigns. Surely this Enterprise will assure a place for the House of Torres alongside the most revered in the royal court. We land at dawn. Although we come in peace, I have armaments to prepare as a precaution. I will write more of the landing as time allows me. Give my love to Mother, Ana, Mateo, Rafaela, and the children.
As he signed his name with love, Aaron suddenly found the vision of teary, luminous green eyes in a small, heart-shaped face dancing in his mind. Preoccupied in recent weeks as the tensions of the voyage mounted, Aaron had not had time to dwell on Magdalena Valdés or her motives for ingratiating herself with his family. Still, often in the depths of troubled sleep, over the long celibate months, she had come to him with the siren's song of her sleek little body. Memories of the sweet surcease he had found there haunted his dreams. Shoving such thoughts aside, he closed the diary and placed it beneath his bed with his writing instruments. He would watch the sun rise on the Indies with the rest of the fleet.
The admiral ordered the ship's boat hoisted over the side and the royal standards to be brought forth. He was dressed splendidly in a scarlet cloak and a deep green brocade doublet, with dark woolen hose and fine black kidskin boots. The large black velvet turbaned hat increased his already imposing height. This morning Cristobal Colon, son of a Genoese wool trader, looked every inch the Admiral of the Ocean Sea.
Following him toward the ship's boat, Aaron smiled as he recalled the shoddy, much-mended clothing his friend had worn in years past as he went from court to court as a supplicant.
The young marshal took his place in the boat behind the admiral, having instructed two trustworthy men to man the ship's lombard and falconet in the unlikely event that the local populace proved hostile. The translator, royal inspector, and other functionaries took their seats, and two sailors began rowing. From Nina and Pinta the Pinzóns did likewise with smaller complements of men.
“I shall be amazed if Martin Alonzo does not try to make this a race to see who lands first,” Aaron murmured low for Cristobal's ears alone. He was rewarded with a smile.
“The royal secretary to record the landing rides in this boat,” was all Colon said.
Aaron scanned the low, flat land mass which, after the night of circling off shore, they had ascertained to be a small island. The beaches were snow white and the vegetation wondrous. Palms swayed high against the azure dome of sky and lush flowers in brilliant fuchsias, golds, and lavenders dotted the dark primal greens of the forest. The waters of the shallow cove the ships had entered at daybreak were a luminous bluegreen color unlike any Aaron had ever seen off the coast of Castile or Catalonia.
“This is truly a whole new world,” he murmured in awe as he watched the dense vegetation for signs of men or animals. Nothing stirred.
“When they beached the boats, the Pinzóns showed remarkable restraint, following protocol as they waited for the admiral to step ashore first. Striding boldly through the shall
ow water, the Genoese traversed the firm, white sand twenty feet or so and then knelt with all reverence and touched the ground, making the sign of the cross and praying fervently and silently for a moment. Then his words rang out clearly. “I name this island San Salvador, after our Holy Redeemer without whose guidance we would never have found our way. I claim it under the temporal banner of my Sovereigns Fernando of Aragon and Ysabel of Castile.”
He motioned then for all those poised in the boats to come ashore with banners unfurled. The huge flags of Aragon and Castile carried the initials F and Y emblazoned in green and gold. The royal officials, the ships' officers, and the seamen, as many as could fit in the boats, all knelt and touched the ground with great cries of joy and thanksgiving.
Aaron held back from joining the joyous melee, seeing a series of movements in the underbrush at the edge of the beach. He walked swiftly to Colon's side as the admiral supervised the erection of the large wooden cross he had brought for the first landing. Placing a hand on his commander's shoulder, he nodded to the brown-skinned men with round dark eyes and straight shaggy hair. Three of them stood partially visible in the bushes, watching the celebration on shore. Although adorned with feathers, shells, and gold and copper jewelry, they were completely naked. One carried a crude wooden spear, but none seemed hostile.
Colon opened his arms, sweeping back his blazing crimson cape as he signaled for them to approach. Luis Torres, the interpreter, stood on the admiral's left side, observing the natives, who seemed timid but curious as they approached the men on the beach.
After a few moments of sign language, an exchange of simple trinkets was made for cotton skeins worked in elaborate patterns, darts, and other implements, as well as small pieces of gold jewelry.