Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  —SPENSER

  Spring — The Past

  “This is a strange, peculiar land,” Sotil murmured as he stared at the wall of mangrove encircling the bay they were about to enter. The pilot’s voice sounded apprehensive.

  “The Calusa are dangerous,” Juan Ponce said. “They must learn the power of our fire and steel if we are to establish ourselves. They must learn to fear us.”

  “Always the conquistador, Don Juan?” las Casas said bitterly, “raining havoc and war upon innocent people before they can learn the mercy of Christ.”

  The three men stood on the aft castle as their ship ploughed slowly through aqua-tinted waters. Sand below on the bottom. Sotomayor’s caravel followed. The breeze was light. They moved slowly. The crew hoped for commands to turn toward shore but their captain-general was occupied in yet another dispute with the friar.

  “You forget I’ve been here before. There were priests with me then. One of them died; had his head cut off. The Calusa chief is revered as a god. There will be no conversions here.”

  “Yet your woman listens,” the friar said with a hint of mockery.

  “She indulges you,” Juan Ponce responded harshly.

  “What begins as condescension often ends in conversion.”

  “Or Inquisition,” the old man said flatly.

  “Nonetheless” — las Casas’ voice became brittle — “I prevail upon you to leave your old custom. Indeed, the Church commands such. This is a new land, untouched but for your brief incursion. Let the Church do its work, Don Juan. I will quell the savagery of these Calusa. Given time they’ll welcome even you.”

  “You’ll die in the process.”

  “Then I am martyred in service to Christ. What better death can there be?”

  “And when you die you must be avenged. For the sake of our Lord, fray Bartolome, it seems the Church has ever been on the side of the strong.”

  “What are your plans for the landing, captain-general?” Sotil said, sensing the conversation grow dangerous. He could not comprehend his leader’s predilection for conflict with the Church. It was a battle no man could win.

  “We’ll set up at Mantanca,” Juan Ponce replied, unaware of the favour bestowed. “I know the area. It’s defensible. The island’s pines will provide us materials to build a stockade. Alvarez will see to its construction. He’s experienced in such matters and will ensure it’s done quickly. Two shifts of men. We’ll build night and day. Ships’ boats will patrol offshore. You and Miruelo will assume that responsibility.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I will take Sotomayor, the Calusa woman and a handpicked scouting party. We’ll try to determine a suitable place for the colony on the mainland. We’ll go up river to where the water is fresh.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous, Don Juan? I mean, if these Calusa are what you say, you could be placing yourself at risk.”

  “I’ve done this before, Sotil,” the old man said, smiling. “Each man with me will be a veteran. At times a prepared few may venture safely where an army cannot. You are a good pilot. I’ve trusted you with this voyage and you’ve brought us to our destination. Now it is time for me to lead.”

  And so he had done it, quite easily, with a logical plan and the rationale to support it. Sotil had accepted it. And if he would, bright as he was, so would the others. Under Alvarez, Miruelo and Sotil, the colonists would be safe enough. And he would be free to find his dream and return to them a new man, with tidings that would change the world.

  “Of course, I will accompany you,” las Casas said, disturbing his brief reverie.

  “Impossible!” he barked. “You stay with the ships.”

  “You haven’t listened to what I’ve been saying?”

  “Be reasonable, friar. This will be dangerous. Have you any idea how rigorous such a mission can be? You would hold us up. You would be a distraction.”

  “Nonetheless, your patents state my inclusion in all exploration. You forget that I too was once a soldier, serving under you. I am no stranger to hardship, Don Juan. You trained your men well.”

  “This is ridiculous. Sotil, tell this man he’s being ridiculous!”

  “Your woman has promised me a visit to her village,” las Casas said.

  “What?”

  “Indeed. I will seek out this Calos she’s spoken of, this chief who considers himself a god, and I will convert him before all the others.”

  “She’s misleading you, friar. She’s a native and, like all of them, she lies. Has she told you how she came to us? She was sacrificed by this Calos!”

  “Exactly. And that is why I am going with her, and you.”

  “I’ll have you placed in chains!”

  “As I expected. This time your temporal powers, as you called them, have been curbed by the Viceroy. This is one decision which has already been made. Would you like me to go below and retrieve the papers? The days of Higuey and Boriquen are long gone. Why do you think you were relieved of your offices? Your methods must change as the world does.”

  “As Cortez did?”

  “He was an aberration. You yourself call him a mutineer. You will not be given the same opportunity.”

  “You threaten me?”

  “I do and, if you will not comply, my report to the Inquisition will be scathing, I assure you. Your patents will be revoked.”

  For an instant there was an awful silence. Sotil watched his captain-general seethe. He saw his hand stray toward his sword’s hilt. He thought the monk very near to his death. Then Juan Ponce breathed deeply, holding himself in check, and backed away.

  “When I return from my reconnaissance I’ll give you the woman. Do what you wish.”

  “Unacceptable. The patents state clearly ...”

  “God damn you, las Casas, for an interfering fool!”

  “You dare curse a priest?”

  “Gentlemen ...” Sotil tried once again to interrupt but the old warrior was livid, staring murderously at the friar. He shook off Sotil’s warning hand. This time he did not stop himself, but his weapon was not his sword; rather he screamed into the friar’s face.

  “Why do you think we are in this New World? Have you no comprehension at all, las Casas? Men have come here to escape the old one, to leave the past behind them! Columbus had a vision and you are denying it! You and all the functionaries and courtiers and parasites have taken his dream and twisted it. Perhaps Cortez was right after all!”

  “And your way,” the friar said, “is better? The deaths of thousands, the enslavement of whole populations. This is new? You are a murderer! You are here in this new land because in the old one you’d be locked up, you and the other misfits. You are a danger to civilization!”

  “I’ve had enough of this! Alright then. You’ll accompany the reconnaissance. But you do so at your own risk. Neither I, nor any man under me, will protect you.”

  “I ask no more.”

  “And as for me, I’ve done what I’ve done. Once I was revered for it. Now I am cursed by the very people I once protected. Answer me this, fray Bartolome: would there be a New World at all if I, or men like me, had not paved the way?”

  “That is between you and God.”

  With that final pretentious sanction, so judgmental, so impervious to response, Juan Ponce snorted, turned on his heel and departed. He went below deck. Sotil watched him go and wondered again what so occupied the old man with that diary in his cabin.

  A tumbler of brandy trembling in his hand, Juan Ponce de Leon sat again at his table, the secret journal in front of him, pen grasped like a dart between his thick fingers. He dipped the quill into its ink well and wrote furiously.

  I am at this again where I no longer expected to be and this time not to unearth the past, but to quell the choler of the present. Oh, these seditious vermin who plague me at every turn! I must be calm. I must. To defend my vision from those who obstruct it.

  After my return from Spain with the patents for Florida, I learned that Don Pedro Nu
nez de Guzman had died. Set upon by the dogs of the Inquisition, in one year a life of honour was turned into shambles by their accusations. There was no recourse. He killed himself rather than submit. His final act set him free.

  And so I lost the last links with my past: my surrogate father, the mentor and arbiter who had always looked after my interests and protected me at Court, and found myself once more at war but not, this time, with Moor or Carib but against my own people. Colon’s minions attacked with a campaign as vicious as any battle. Their weapons were charters, patents and registers that cut more deeply than steel. I was besieged, living lonely and outcast in my island fortress at San Juan de Puerto Rico. I saw no one but my retainers and the notaries who made up my army. I could not lead. I could merely seek their advice. And given it, only half knowing, I would proceed with my next stratagem on a battlefield made of parchment. In the end my ink bulwarks were breached. I was summoned by Viceroy Colon to his lair, to the audencia at Santo Domingo. I had no choice but to appear.

  Diego Colon held audience in his great hall, built for him at massive expense to the Crown. He positioned himself on a dais, upon an intricately constructed throne, which placed him above the rest of us both figuratively and literally. The boy I had once dandled on my knee was a man now: a lolling functionary who did his best to appear uninterested in the ceremony which was to play out before him. He was a stranger to me.

  After the recitation of titles, most of which were those of Colon, I was called to face the accusations. The Viceroy delivered them himself, simpering with secret pleasure.

  “Don Juan Hernando Ponce de Leon, Governor of the repartimiento of San Juan, formerly Boriquen, holding the patents to said San Juan and the islands of Beniny and Florida, you are accused by the Crown and its Vice regal Deputy of fiscal irresponsibility, disobedience, and petulance in your rule as Governor. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

  It rings in my ears even now.

  The case had been decided in Spain. This performance was mere formality. My only alternative was submission: abject servitude to Diego Colon. Civilization, as las Casas calls it. I swallowed my pride.

  An old man knows when to cut his losses.

  Colon had wanted to make an example of me to flaunt his authority: strip me of everything, put the old warhorse out to pasture, take his brash powers and reduce them to curiosity, mere legend to meet young men rising and offer advice which would never be taken; to grow soft, malleable and expedient; to age and die gracefully.

  But I have never been graceful.

  22

  Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.

  —JOHNSON

  Spring — The Present

  St. Augustine. It is here in a town which has made history a business — excavating, researching, re-building the look of a Spanish colony five hundred years later — that Ross Porter expects some answers. There are archives here and specialists in Spanish-American history. Someone will know something. But he realizes despite his excitement that he must be careful. He knows his requests will sound strange. He must couch them in historiography. He must conceal his true search.

  After multiple phone calls he connects with Professor Alice Bush. He has read her book: The King’s Treasures, a series of articles recounting Florida’s early history; nothing more than a mention of Ponce de Leon but she would have researched him at some point. No one can write about the Spanish in Florida without annotation of the founder. Ross makes an appointment for that afternoon. The genteel southern drawl has assured him he is welcome. No trouble at all.

  He hangs up the phone. Almost trembling with anticipation he leaves his hotel room to go to lunch. He has a celebratory meal at an expensive restaurant in the old quarter on St. George Street. The narrow street with its weathered stone buildings remind him of old Quebec. He takes one glass of wine; no more, for he must be sharp this afternoon. As he holds the glass just before he drinks, he can almost see Emily touching her glass to his. Images of their time together glide into his mind. The crystal glitters in restaurant candlelight. A fireplace crackles at one end and there is a wafting of Brahms from concealed speakers. The waiter deftly serves their braised rabbit. Emily looks enchanting.

  “Here’s to Quebec City,” she says playfully, “and the success of your paper. This city is so lovely.”

  He recalls being pleased with himself. He had spent the day going over his paper, dealing with historians and archivists as an equal. He remembered feeling quite important. It appeared in his confident smile and the studied scholastic fashion of his tweed suit and military tie and, of course, in the beauty of the woman sitting across from him. They will be seen, he’d imagined, by others as a successful, cultured couple.

  “And to you, Mrs. Porter,” he’d replied suavely, “the most stunning woman in the place.”

  She’d blushed.

  I love her blush.

  That evening, after cognac and coffee, they’d taken a walk along the edge of the Cap aux Diamants. He’d offered Emily his knowledge. He’d told her of 1759 when the basin below had filled with English ships and the battlements had thundered with French cannon. He’d told her of his day with the scholars, of his acceptance as though he’d always expected it. Forgotten in the moment, conveniently by both of them, was his anxiety of the morning when Emily had straightened his tie and told him things would be fine. There were lovers kissing in the shadows of the parapets as they had strolled past. Ross drew Emily inside an alcove.

  “There isn’t much on the second voyage, I’m afraid. It ended badly, you see; a shambles really. Whatever journals there were have been lost. All we have is secondary accounts.” Professor Bush speaks precisely; her dialect is melodic but the words are disappointing.

  “Nothing at all?” he asks.

  The historian is an attractive woman, fortyish, wearing a soft peach suit with a snowy, high collared blouse beneath. Her spectacles hang from a beaded chain round her neck and, when she reads, she places them delicately on the end of her nose.

  “You say you’ve read Herrera’s work?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could try Davis. He analysed a great deal of Ayllon’s material. Did a wonderful job. He translated the Capitulations, the patents, between the Crown and Ponce de Leon. But I recall very little of anything directly relating to the second voyage.”

  “I see.”

  “Your interest is the landing point, is it not?”

  “Of the second voyage, yes. I understand the first landing was near here.”

  “Oh, that’s another little myth we all perpetrate for the tourists. Far as anyone can tell, old Juan Ponce came ashore fifty miles south of here. That particular voyage, the first, is well documented by Herrera. There would have been mention of the St. John River if he’d come this far north. Rather an obvious landmark for explorers.”

  “Yet in the second voyage he didn’t stop on the east coast at all. It seems such a natural location so much closer to Hispaniola. Why do you think he’d travel around the Keys and up toward the Caloosahatchee River?”

  “Why that’s obvious to a sailor, Mr. Porter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “First and foremost he was a soldier but he must have known a great deal of the sea; after all, he’d travelled it often enough. Now the east coast of Florida faces the ocean but the west coast is on the Gulf. It’s known for its placid waters. And the area he is thought to have landed ...”

  “I surmised Sanibel Island, or thereabouts. Perhaps even Pine Island.”

  “That’s not ascertained but it’s probable he was near the mouth of the Caloosahatchee. That area has many fine harbours, deep enough for his caravels. He was planning to set up a colony, as you are aware. His people would have needed fresh water as well as access to the Gulf. He would have thought the islands offshore would provide shelter for safe anchorage. Still, we both know what happened there. He would have to have been ne
ar a Calusa settlement of some size. Just south of there are the remains of Mound Key. Theoretically, at least, that place seems the best alternative. But I’m no specialist in that field. You said you’d happened across something in your research. Are you planning a dig?”

  “No. I’m retired. But I’m afraid I’ve become a little obsessed.”

  He shifts in his seat uncomfortably aware of where he must lead the conversation. She has treated him well. She has answered his questions and tried to help. He feels for a moment suddenly foolish then quickly discards his self-doubt.

  “You see, Dr. Bush,” he says, “I’ve been studying this for some time now and I’ve come to the conclusion, supported by certain documentation, that Juan Ponce de Leon was not merely colonising. I believe he was searching for something else.”

  “Gold or silver, of course,” Dr. Bush said. “He’d lost nearly everything when he was relieved of his offices. He went west as Cortez had done, to a land for which he already possessed the patents. I’m sure he expected to find his fortune as well as land suitable for a colony. Clearly he meant to begin one, then become its Governor. Regain his powers.”

  “Oh, no doubt. But Florida contains many freshwater springs and rivers. I know he was after gold, land, power; that’s obvious. But what I’m suggesting is something a little less ...”

  “You aren’t actually suggesting the fountain of youth are you, Mr. Porter?”

  He can hear the disdain in her voice. Her eyes glitter warily as her mouth sets itself in a tight, thin line. Her next words are curt and offer no compromise.

  “I’m not in the business of romantic history, Sir. I’m afraid you’ve fallen under the spell of another tourist myth.”

  “But Peter Martyr’s writings talk about ...”

  “Hogwash. In those days people believed in witchcraft, relics, miracles and a great deal of other nonsense. I don’t see how you could prove Ponce de Leon actually searched for a fountain of youth. It could only be conjecture and in history, as I’m sure you’re aware, conjecture has little domain.”