by John Regan
Chapter 2
Ana was not strictly correct when she said he had joined the Armada de Moluccas. It was more accurate to say he hoped to join the Armada with no more seafaring experience than a trip on the Grand Canal in a gondola. Her uncle, Bishop Alonso, suggested Pigafetta’s best chance of being selected was the fact that he spoke five languages; three of them fluently. Like every other ship departing Spain these days, the crew would be a mixed bag of nationalities. Magellan spoke with a heavy accent and Pigafetta should be able to make himself useful. Bishop Alonso was one of the few religious that Pigafetta had any time for and he had some connection with the Casa de Contratación, the government department that controlled everything to do with ships in Spain. Pigafetta heeded his words.
He kissed Ana goodbye early in the morning and retraced his steps from yesterday. He crossed the bridge to the river’s eastern bank. Several ships lay alongside the docks, which already bustled with stevedores, donkey carts and pedlars. Slings of cargo were hoisted aboard by derricks and lowered down into holds to a chorus of shouted orders and wild gesticulations. To Pigafetta it all looked chaotic and the maze of masts and rigging bewildering. Especially absurd were the bowsprits sticking out of every ship like the stingers on preposterous huge black insects.
He stepped around the pats of manure and other rubbish on the dock, inspecting each ship as he walked by. He knew Magellan had sourced four of the five ships allotted to the armada but could not tell them from the others. He saw him sitting at a table on the high deck at the back of one boat, interviewing a line of tough-looking men in seamen’s garb. Suddenly nervous, he almost turned around and walked away. He hadn’t expected so many applicants. He watched Magellan ask each candidate three or four questions, look them up and down and either dismiss them with a flick of his hand or else make an entry in the leather-bound book before him. Successful candidates made their mark or thumb-print in the ledger and the failures walked away despondently.
He was encouraged by the fact that Magellan seemed to be hiring more than he dismissed. Bishop Alonso had pointed out that Magellan might actually have trouble finding crew. Criers had been sent through cities with the message, ‘Good men wanted for a voyage to the Moluccas,’ but it was the New World, with its gold, silver and slaves that men wanted to go to; not the Moluccas. No one knew where the Moluccas were, not even Pigafetta until he researched the topic in the royal library and asked around among the old sailors at court.
At his interview with the king, Magellan had said that his cousin, Francisco Serrano, actually lived there. This was a big point in favour of the king’s advisers approving the expedition. Evidently, the Spice Isles, or Moluccas, were not mere figments of the imagination like some of the creations of John Mandeville, a popular author.
Pigafetta braced his shoulders, climbed aboard by a gangway and joined the queue on deck; an unsavoury lot on close inspection – some barefoot and ragged and others clearly suffering the effects of the night before. He was sure Magellan had not even noticed him during the audience with the king and would not recognise him now. When his turn came, he presented at the captain’s table and found himself pierced by the eyes. The captain general looked him up and down as Sr Velasquez had done. He seemed most taken with the shoes, turned up at the toes in the Italian style.
“What do you want? You’re no seaman.”
Pigafetta had given much thought to how he would handle this interview and had rehearsed a pretty little speech but now it left him.
“Indeed I am not, Captain General. I have the honour to be Antonio Pigafetta, a baronet of Vicenza, knight of the household of the Doge of Venice, special envoy to the Vatican and second ambassador from His Holiness the Pope to the court of Don Carlos, Holy Roman Emperor.”
“You’re lost, then. What are you doing aboard my ship?”
“I wish to go with you on this great venture, Captain General.”
“What makes you so eager to die of thirst or scurvy, assuming you don’t drown first?”
“I wish to write an account of the voyage for my patron and for history.”
“So you’re a scholar. My captains have already filled their ships with valets and barbers and tailors. We have enough useless eaters. I need proper seamen. Show me your hands.”
Pigafetta presented the palms of his hands.
“A woman’s hands.”
“It is said you plan to circumnavigate the globe, Captain General. Jason and the Argonauts never attempted as much. History will look back on this as the greatest voyage of mankind.”
“Who told you I plan to circumnavigate the globe?”
“It has been mentioned in the court at Valladolid.”
“Make sure it’s not mentioned here. There is nothing in the voyage plan about circumnavigating the globe. Half these fools still think the world is flat. Can you reckon?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Can you do the books? Keep the accounts?”
“I have some experience of finance, Captain General.” Pigafetta hoped this point would not be pursued too deeply. “I am also familiar with languages and have a fair hand of calligraphy.”
The captain general looked him up and down again, once more paying attention to his shoes and running his fingers through his black beard.
“Supernumerary. A thousand a month. See Punzarol, the master.”
“Thank you, Captain General.”
“You will rue the day you thanked me.”
Magellan’s mouth twitched in the depths of his beard in what Pigafetta thought was meant to be either a smile or a devilish grin.
He picked up his portmanteau and headed for the ladder leading down to the main deck where men were stowing cargo into open hatches, tying knots or splicing ropes. A cooper was building or repairing a barrel and on the raised section at the bow a man sat cross-legged stitching a sail. Pigafetta approached a man with a fierce squint, or he may have been blind in one eye, who seemed to be the supervisor of this activity.
“Excuse me; I am looking for Señor Punzarol.”
To his surprise, the man burst out laughing.
“Señor Punzarol, is it? Well, that would be me, wouldn’t it?”
“I am Antonio Pigafetta, señor.”
“Good for you.”
“The captain general said I should find Punzarol, the master. I am a new crew member.”
“In what capacity?” Punzarol suppressed laughter as he inspected him again.
“Supernumerary.”
“That could mean anything. What wages did he put you on?”
“A thousand maravedis a month.”
“That puts you between a deck boy and an ordinary seaman. Come with me.”
Punzarol led the way forward to the raised section at the bow of the ship and entered the dark interior. Half of the space was given up to coils of rope, barrels of paint and pitch, rolls of tanned leather and a caged section of muskets, pikes, halberds, swords and barrels of what Pigafetta supposed was gunpowder. The other half was evidently some kind of bunk room, with a table in the middle, tiers of shelves, some of which had bedclothes rolled up on them and wooden chests with items of clothing spilling out.
“Choose yourself a bunk,” Punzarol said, “but you will have to get rid of that portmanteau and get yourself a proper seachest.”
“I can’t live here. This is impossible.”
Punzarol shrugged.
“This place is not fit for human beings. It’s just a cattle pen.”
Punzarol shrugged again.
“Well, of course, you being a gentleman, you might find it a bit hard. I have sailed with gentlemen before and they usually don’t last long. You will have to see him if you don’t like it.”
Pigafetta was not game to interrupt the captain general, and waited on deck for the line of applicants to dwindle. He was beginning to realise that sailing around the world might not be as glamorous as he thought and struggled to control his indignation. He’d had a shock and needed a litt
le time to recover.
When the last was dismissed, the captain general closed the massive leather-bound journal containing brief details of each man’s name, rank, wife, if any, and wages.
“Excuse me, Captain General, if I am to serve you in keeping the reckoning, I will require proper accommodation.”
“What?”
“Records will have to be kept dry and need a proper place of safe-keeping.”
“Keep the books under your pallet.”
“Not suitable, Captain General.”
Pigafetta indicated the ledger under the captain general’s arm, which would make a lump in any mattress. Magellan looked at him as if seeing him for the first time but the scan did not extend down to his shoes.
“Cheeky, aren’t you? All right, then. Come with me.”
He led the way to his own cabin, at the opposite end of the ship from the forecastle. It was nearly as big as the bunk room, with stern windows looking out on the river, had a carpet on the deck, a polished dining table, a comfortable looking bunk and cabinets of carved cedar wood. On top of one of the cabinets was the globe that Faleiro, Magellan’s partner, had exhibited to the king.
Magellan removed a gold chain from around his neck and used the key on it to unlock one of the cabinets. He opened the door to reveal a stack of paper and hide parchments. He took one out and laid it on the table.
“This is a copy of a chart by Juan da Lisboa from his voyage to the New World. There are other charts in that cabinet from other navigators and I don’t have to tell you they are utterly priceless. They are kept under lock and key at all times. On occasions, they will be guarded by the master-at-arms. When the master-at-arms is otherwise engaged, I am going to make you responsible for them.
“I am not a master-at-arms, Captain General.”
“I don’t expect you to be. I expect you to be vigilant. You will report directly to me any suspicious activity regarding these charts, or this cabin. The same goes for that other cabinet, which contains astrolabes, backstaffs, compasses and other things. I expect you to be my watchdog. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes, Captain General, but I need proper accommodation.”
“That is my next point. You may occupy the cabin next to mine. You can keep a good watch from there.”
It was about the size of a prison cell and had a narrow, board bunk but it offered one priceless property: privacy. Given the circumstances, he was actually grateful for it. His first act in imposing his presence upon his new domicile was to consign the crimson tabard to the portmanteau and put on a less garish version.
He returned to the house on Calle San Jorge that evening and Ana met him with delight at his news but also a touch of melancholy. “So, like all sailors you will be going away.”
He drew her into his arms and kissed her.
“Not tomorrow and not for quite a while as far as I can see. My heart will be with you.”
“Already you are talking like a sailor.”
Sr Velasquez showed great interest in his appointment to Trinidad and he had a guest for dinner that night – Juan de Cartagena, captain of San Antonio, a tall and elegant man wearing a signet ring who also showed interest in Pigafetta’s appointment.
“Supernumerary?" What are your duties, exactly?”
“I am to look after the accounts and the ship’s ledger and the charts and be an assistant or secretary for the captain general.”
The charts? I assume he has many?
“Yes, quite a lot. He showed me one by a Portuguese navigator.’
“And does he have the globe by Martin Behaim on board.”
“He has a globe. I don’t know who made it.”
Sr Velasquez was following this conversation intently. He leaned forward in his chair and asked, “How many Portuguese in the crew?”
It was beginning to sound like an interrogation and Pigafetta glanced uneasily at Ana, beside him, but she wore her usual look of innocence.
“I’m not sure about the exact number but it is strictly limited by the king’s orders.”
“As it should be. There are plenty of good Spanish seamen available.”
“That’s not what I hear. The captain general complains that he can’t find enough carpenters and sailmakers. They all want to sail to the Indies.”
Sr Velasquez scowled as if Pigafetta were responsible for this sorry state of affairs and completed his meal in silence while Ana engaged Cartagena about the timing of the horse fair and chattered on about her prize-winning roses.
Pigafetta thought he would never leave, but eventually Sr Velasquez was carried off to bed and Cartagena had no further reason to stay. At last they were alone.
“Apart from being captain of San Antonio, who is Cartagena?” He seemed to Pigafetta more like a courtier than a ship’s captain, a breed of rather bluff men in Pigafetta’s limited experience.
“Just a friend of my father’s. He also knows my uncle Alonso.
During the day Pigafetta had reflected on last night’s welcome by his passionate lover and it worried him as she climbed on his lap again. Funny business was fine as long as they were careful. It had been different in Vallodolid because her aunt Isobel had neglected her chaperone duties, which had endeared her to Pigafetta.
“Ana, I think we need to be careful. At least we should make sure your father is well and truly asleep and rumple the bedclothes in your brother’s bedroom.”
She gave that cheeky grin of hers. She jumped off his lap and walked to her brother’s bedroom just down the corridor from hers. She reappeared and leaned against the doorjamb of her own room, lifting the hem of her gown to reveal an ankle.
“You’re incorrigible,” he said and wagged a finger at her.