A Singular Captain

by John Regan

  Chapter 7

  The Armada sailed from Tenerife at midnight, when a wind came down the hill, setting off the land. It died soon after dawn when the roosters caged on deck began to crow. The fleet drifted for a couple of hours but then the breeze picked up from eastwards and the island hid its head in cloud. The captain general glanced astern to ensure his ships took station in his wake, and then he handed the watch to Gomez and went below.

  Pigafetta got out his watercolours to paint a picture of the island in support of an ancient story concerning the Fortunate Isles, as they were known. Since childhood, he had been fascinated by the tales of Marco Polo’s travels in the Orient although he found some of them hard to believe. Here was evidence before his eyes confirming another such tale from history and Pigafetta had found his vocation: the truth; the truth of the whole world.

  ‘In the Great Canaries there is an island that has no water at all coming from a river or spring, except that at noon a cloud descends from the sky and surrounds a large tree, and its leaves and branches distil a great quantity of water, and it gathers at the foot of said tree like a fountain. And from it comes all the water, of which men as well as animals, both domestic and wild, take their fill.’

  Magellan came on deck again in the afternoon, when the wind had strengthened and backed a point or two to the north. Gomez retired respectfully to the leeward side of the poop as the captain general eyed the surface of the sea, the traverse board and the trim of the sails. He had set a lookout in the crows nest to watch for Portuguese but there had been no report.

  “Gomez, you may alter course south by west, if you please.”

  The pilot looked startled. “South by west, Captain General? Do you not mean west-sou-west?”

  “No, I do not mean west-sou-west; I mean south by west.”

  “But surely the course from here is west-sou-west, Captain General.”

  “Do what you’re told!” Magellan snarled. “When I say south by west I mean south by west. Do I have to beg and plead to get my orders obeyed?”

  “At once, Captain General.”

  Gomez crossed to the binnacle, shouting orders to the quartermaster, the ships boys and the watch on deck; first to light two lanterns at the stern to signal the change of course and then to trim the sails. “Steer south by west. Braces and sheets! Look lively there on deck.”

  Trinidad came around and heeled, the luffs of her sails beginning to flutter as the breeze drew ahead. The manoeuvre completed, Gomez reported, “South by west she is, Captain General, but may I point out this course will lead us into the doldrums.”

  “Indeed it will, Gomez. It is the only place we’ll escape the wrath of Dom Manuel, who pursues us in the guise of four men of war.”

  Next ship in line was Concepción and the captain general watched as her yards swung across and the sails filled on the new course. Then Victoria and Santiago followed suit but San Antonio laced bonnets on her main course to increase the sail area. She began drawing ahead and within the hour was sailing abreast of Trinidad. Cartagena stamped up and down his poop dressed, as usual, in fine clothes more fitted for a court reception than a ship’s deck.

  “What means this alteration of course?” he called across the water.

  “Follow me and ask no questions,” the captain general bawled back at him.

  A moment’s astonished silence and then Cartagena let forth a torrent of abuse more fitting for a gutter urchin than a man of his refinement. Pigafetta was impressed he even had such words in his vocabulary. Magellan turned his back on him and went back below.

  Over the next week the breeze grew fitful and then gave out. The ships rose and fell on a low, oily-looking swell rolling in from the vastness of the Ocean Sea. The equatorial Sun blazed down from a steamy sky and reflected from the water so the same furnace twice scorched the gasping, sluggish sailors. Sails slatted against masts and rigging with an endless, irregular rhythm; enough to send a man mad. The pitch in the deck seams melted and stuck to bare feet; barrel staves expanded and precious water leaked out of butts lashed to the rail.

  To keep the men occupied and their minds off mutiny, the captain general had them man the boats and tow. Unseen currents were at work pushing the ships in the desired direction and Magellan reminded them at morning prayers each day that they must have faith in invisible forces, in this as in all aspects of life.

  Although the Armada de Moluccas offered skilled seamen like carpenters, coopers and sailmakers as much as five ducats a month, few Spaniards had applied. They preferred to sail to the Indies with better prospects than the Moluccas. Greeks, Italians, French, Sicilians and Germans made up the numbers and a fair proportion were criminals escaping justice and others fled debtors’ prison or demanding wives. The one common factor was their religion. There were no Moors or Jews and only one worshipper of volcanoes: Henrique.

  The doldrums also brought squalls that screamed out of nowhere, whipping the sea to steam with torrential rain, lashing ships and men and thrashing sails to ribbons before they could be furled. At the height of these brief storms streamers of sparkling light hung from the mastheads and the ends of yards like ribbons of fire so bright it left them blinded for a quarter of an hour. Led by the chaplain, Padre Valderrama, men fell to their knees and offered thanks to God for this portent of their deliverance. This was the spirit of St Elmo, a sign of grace from Our Saviour.

  When the storm passed, the wind fell calm and the fleet drifted again, abandoned in God’s great wilderness. Prowling sharks were their only companions. Between squalls, the Spanish captains paid social calls on one another, which the captain general observed and was not pleased. What plots were hatched while Quesada’s boat hung off of San Antonio’s stern by a long painter?

  To make the evening salute and receive their orders for the night, the ships now had to man their sweeps and pull alongside. The captain general waited in expectation that this duty, this courtesy or acknowledgement of his rank as captain general, would be neglected. One night when San Antonio drew abreast, the salute was delivered not by the captain but the quartermaster, who omitted the captain general’s rank and called him only ‘captain.’

  “Cartagena,” the captain general called across the gap between the ships, “I have told you before that my correct title is captain general or admiral, and the hail is to be made by yourself, not your crewman.”

  “I have sent my best man to salute you but next time, if you wish, I shall send my valet.”

  And then he laughed. A peal of humourless, childish laughter came over the sea and titters of amusement from the common seamen, or perhaps from Cartagena’s ten servants. Duarte heard it too, and he said, “You are going to have to do something about that pup, brother-in-law. I told you you should have put him in the stocks. Look, you have common seamen laughing at you. This is intolerable.”

  “Shut up, Duarte. You talk too much.”

  The captain general turned and marched to his quarters. On the next two evenings, San Antonio omitted the salute altogether. On the third day, a boat pulled across from Victoria with Mendoza in her stern sheets. He climbed aboard to a trumpet flourish fitting for his captain’s rank, crossed himself before the shrine of the Virgin Mary and climbed the ladder to the poop.

  “Greetings and salutations, Captain General,” he said with a bow that showed his breeding and nobility.

  “What do you want, Mendoza?”

  “I wish to report a breach of discipline aboard my ship, Captain General.”

  “Yes?”

  “Two of the men have been found in foul embrace. I beg leave to request a court martial to investigate the crime and award a proper punishment.”

  The captain general fixed his eyes upon Mendoza, who could not hold the gaze and turned away. “Bring the offenders aboard. You may also summon your friends, Cartagena and Quesada, to make up the numbers of the court.”

  When Mendoza had gone, the captain general ordered Punzarol to erect two sets of stocks by the foremast.
He then ordered Espinosa, Duarte and Pigafetta to his cabin.

  “This may be their next attempt,” he said. “There may be an offence or there may not, but they know a court martial requires three judges. It may be an excuse to hatch their plot. We shall be prepared for them. Pigafetta, you must take down the evidence in writing. Duarte, you will take your position in the stern gallery but I wish you would use a sword. Those blunderbusses make a terrible noise and the powder can’t be relied upon. Espinosa, I want you standing by with four or five men-at-arms. On my signal you will enter and take whatever action is necessary.”

  “What signal, Captain General?”

  “Either my triumph or my demise. Today will be a test of loyalty to me and to your king.”

  “You have it, Captain General.”

  “I thank you. Now go, and choose your men well. Not a word to the others.”

  The captain general fell into a brooding mood as he waited for the Spanish captains and their prisoners. He despatched a boat to Santiago for John Serrano, the only other captain he could trust. He arranged the seating as before, leaving the seat at the head of the table for Cartagena, with his back to the stern gallery, where Duarte would be waiting with his blunderbuss. He still would not use a cutlass.

  The captains arrived in Victoria’s longboat with the prisoners in manacles. One was Victoria’s master, Antonio Salamón, and the other, Antonio Ginovés, about twelve years old, both bare-chested and wearing sarongs, as many did in the tropics. The captains came aboard to a trumpet fanfare; entitled to the dignity of their rank, however spurious.

  As predicted, Cartagena took the head of the table and usurped proceedings, appointing himself chief judge, while the prisoners stood with heads bowed, awaiting their fate, the younger weeping softly. Mendoza, as their captain, presented the case and the brief, indisputable facts. There was no counsel for the defence.

  “The master and the boy were found beneath an upturned boat in the midst of their vile act, both with erect members, to which I have written testaments.”

  “Is this the only example of such behaviour?” Magellan asked.

  “The only example for which we have direct evidence, Captain General, but it has been long suspected that the master preys on ship’s boys.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself Salamón? You like young boys, do you?”

  “The boy was enticing with his sly looks, Captain General He was ready and willing enough.”

  “He is twelve years old!” Magellan roared furiously. “He knows not what he does. You are despicable. It is my duty and the duty of this court to protect the young and vulnerable from scoundrels like you.”

  The boy broke down in tears while the other hung his head in shame, which only seemed to infuriate the captain general.

  “It is the oldest teaching of the Testament. Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman. You are the lowest form of serpent, the dregs of humanity, the vilest of creatures and an affront in the sight of God.”

  With a lightning storm in his eyes he berated the court, “The master is guilty of the most heinous of crimes and the boy his helpless victim. Creatures like this have no place in the Armada de Moluccas. For this unnatural act there is only one penalty, and you, the judges, are obliged to bring down that penalty upon his head.”

  The judges, the three captains, Cartagena, Quesada and Serrano, required little persuasion to this point of view and the guilty verdict was passed. Salamón was led away to be placed in the stocks and the boy released from his shackles. Still sobbing, he threw his arms around the captain general.

  “Collect yourself, muchacho; you will long remember this day,” Magellan said, not unkindly. He then called for a break in the proceedings and took a turn around the deck, breathing deeply.

  Pigafetta was surprised by the strength of the captain general’s response. Sodomy was a capital offence, a rule no more observed than the one about priestly celibacy. The highest ranking practitioner of homosexuality was Pope Leo and it was well known that sailors often yielded to the temptation of fresh-cheeked pages and cabin boys, some as young as eight years old. Some even argued this was the main duty of cabin boys.

  Pigafetta had no particular view about homosexuality, having had a couple of such encounters in his youth, but he did have a view about hypocrisy; especially the hypocrisy of popes and other clergy. The diplomatic thing for Magellan to have done was to ignore the incident, but perhaps he, too, detested hypocrisy.

  Magellan returned to the court room, which was his own cabin, signifying the resumption of proceedings, pacing up and down. The business immediately raised by Cartagena was the course alteration to south by west.

  “It is clearly laid down in the sailing directions that the correct course across the Ocean Sea is west-sou-west,” he said.

  “That is the course of the Portuguese fleet,” the captain general said. “Perhaps that is your interest in it.”

  “You insult my honour. I have no dealings with the enemy but you were born the enemy.”

  “And renounced him.”

  “You have led us into the doldrums by your incompetence. Do you know nothing about navigation? We shall all die of thirst while we drift with no wind.”

  “I hope we shall have wind soon.”

  “You hope,” said Cartagena with a sneer. “Had we steered west-sou-west as we agreed we would have wind. You have shown nothing but incompetence and stupidity from the start, señor, and I, for one, refuse to take your orders any longer.”

  These were the words Magellan had been waiting for. He reached across the table and grabbed Cartagena by the shirt front before he had time to draw the short sword at his waist. He dragged him right across the table and on to the deck, holding him down with a knee across his chest and a hand around his throat.

  “Rebel!” he cried, “this is mutiny. In the name of the king you are my prisoner. Espinosa, arrest this man!”

  Duarte stepped in from the stern gallery, dangerously waving the blunderbuss, and Espinosa stormed into the room with his men-at-arms. Mendoza and Quesada reconsidered their intention to draw their swords and immediately conceded while Cartagena thrashed about in Magellan’s iron grip.

  The captain general dragged him to his feet and wrenched an arm up behind his back holding a dagger to Cartagena’s jugular as he growled, “You all want to die together, do you? You scum, I piss on you.”

  “Not us, not us, Captain General,” Mendoza and Quesada cried together. “It was his idea.”

  “Somehow, I always knew you would turn out lily-livered piss-ants.”

  He hauled Cartagena’s arm up behind his back and, holding the point of the dagger below the ear, frogmarched him from the cabin out on to the quarterdeck. The crew were frozen in a tableau by the noises from the poop; one foot lifted in mid-stride, a ladle suspended in its journey to parched lips, conversations interrupted as mouths failed to close on the next syllable. The emergence of the captain general with flecks of spittle on his beard, shoving Cartagena across the deck with a knife at his throat, seemed to release the tension so they were able to breathe again.

  The captain general and his prisoner came to a halt against the rail at the forward end of the quarterdeck. Men with upturned faces on the main deck watched quizzically as they groped in their minds for understanding.

  “This is a mutineer,” the captain general announced. “He calls himself a captain but he is a traitor. Let it be known that mutineers will pay the price for treachery.”

  Behind him, Duarte still wrestled with the loaded blunderbuss and Espinosa menaced Mendoza and Quesada, now reduced to pitiful beggars.

  “Espinosa, leave those specimens; I think they have lost their fight. Take this one.” He shoved Cartagena towards the master-at-arms. “Release the sodomite and prepare him. Put Cartagena in the stocks in his place.”

  Cartagena was a doll in the massive paw of the master-at-arms, who propelled him down the ladder and along the deck among the crew. The sodomite w
as released and tied to the foremast with his wrists shackled before him. Cartagena replaced him in the stocks.

  The captain general crossed himself before the shrine and then strode through the gawking sailors to Victoria’s master, who watched him in fear. The captain general grasped the rod of the garrotte that hung around his neck and turned it, taking up the slack in the cords around his neck.

  “Two great crimes have been committed here today,” Magellan said, addressing the entire crew, “sodomy and sedition, both punishable under the law to the maximum degree. Our Lord Himself destroyed the cities of the plain for the sin of sodomy, and it is proper a man should walk in the ways of the Lord.”

  He took another turn on the garrotte and the cords bit in to the prisoner’s throat.

  “Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah brimstone and fire out of heaven. And he overthrew those cities and all the plain and all the inhabitants of the cities and that which grew upon the ground.”

  He took another turn and the prisoner choked and gurgled; his eyes bulged and his tongue came out of his mouth and Magellan continued to squeeze the life out of him.

  “And in the morning, Abraham looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a volcano and all was destroyed.”

  Cartagena was constrained to watch the execution and his feet, like those of the dying sodomite, beat a tattoo on the deck while the polyglot and ragtag crew gazed on in perplexed and fearful silence, except for the boy, Ginovès, who wept without restraint. The captain general placed a hand on his head and said, “Don’t weep, muchacho; it’s not your fault.”

  The boy looked up at him with imploring eyes and burst into a new round of sobbing.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

  Nothing seemed to console the boy and the captain general looked perplexed. Salamón’s body had slumped in the bonds that tied him to the mast.

  “Espinosa, cut the sodomite down.”

  Two men cut the ropes around his chest and lowered the body to the deck.

  “Overboard,” the captain general said.

  The men picked him up and heaved him over the side like a sack of wheat. The crew rushed to the gunwale and stared down at the body as the sharks closed in and began to tear it apart. No one was watching Ginovès until he let out a cry of torment, ran across the deck and leaped over the rail into the sea boiling with blood.