The Moor's Account (7 page)

I hope, Señor Dorantes said, his tone halfway between a warning and a threat, that you haven't been giving him some of that fruit you keep eating.

No, Señor.

A horde of mosquitoes moved drunkenly toward me, and I untied the red rag from my neck to swat at them. They were diabolically persistent, a species unlike any I had seen before, a torment for every one of us. All day long, the mosquitoes hummed and the men slapped their arms and legs, like a procession of penitents. I yearned for some lemon and garlic, a mixture my mother used to rub on me to protect me from these parasites in the summer, but despite its richness the Land of the Indians did not have any lemon trees.

That palm fruit could make him sick, my master said.

I did not give it to him, Señor.

As if to expose my lie, Abejorro's stomach growled loudly, to which my master responded by casting me a grim look. I had grown attached to Abejorro during the journey across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness, so I hated to see him remain hungry after he had finished his feed. I had given him only a small handful of fruit. Now I put my ear on his belly, just behind his ribs, but the gurgling sounds I heard seemed ordinary to me.

If anything happens to my horse, my master said, I will flog you.

The memory of the Indians being whipped came to me, unbidden. It seemed to me I could still hear their howls of pain reverberating against the walls of the storehouse in Portillo.

Just then, Abejorro defecated; Señor Dorantes and I both turned to look. It is hard and dry, I said. He needs more water, Señor. That is all.

Señor Dorantes chewed on his lower lip. Although the horses had been watered at the river, they were kept on strict rations during the march, because the porters could not carry large amounts of water and it was impossible to know how long we would have to walk before we came to another clean source.

I will find him some more water, I said.

How?

The ration master is Portuguese. I will speak to him.

Very well.

As I turned to go, my master called after me. Estebanico.

Señor?

Do not get caught.

The governor was exceedingly strict about rations, so of course I had to be discreet. I walked back to the end of the procession until I found the ration master. He was a man of middle age, with a sweaty forehead and a thick beard. I did not know him well, having conversed with him only when necessity demanded it. Still, I made my request, speaking to him not in Spanish but in his native language, which I had learned as a child in Azemmur. I hoped that this would earn me some goodwill, but his only reply was to ask me, Why should I give you more water?

I told you. My master's horse is ill.

You know the rules.

The horse could die in this heat. Have some mercy, I beg you.

Mercy is from God. I only ration the water.

But I have no money.

You have this.

The ration master reached for the hatchet I had tied around my neck, and which I had taken from the Indian who had tried to kill me. As a slave in Seville, I had not been allowed to carry a weapon, but here in the Indies, Señor Dorantes had not asked me to relinquish this native ax. Its blade was made of limestone, so finely sharpened it could easily cut through thick pinewood, and its handle was painted in a pattern of white and blue stripes. I put my hand on the weapon to stop the ration master from taking it. It was the only means I had to defend myself in case of an attack. But when I thought of what might happen if Abejorro fell ill—and what might happen to me as a result—I relented. Gingerly, the ration master put his finger on the blade, and when it cut a sliver of his skin, he whistled in admiration. Let him take the hatchet, I said to myself. Let him take the hatchet if it means I can help Abejorro and elude the whip.

Well done, Señor Dorantes said when I reported to him that I had secured a larger ration for the horse. He did not ask how I had managed that feat. Instead, he turned back toward the sunlight and I took my usual place, one step behind him, in his shadow.

T
HE GOVERNOR HAD ORDERED
the Indian captives to take us to the kingdom of Apalache, but they led us into a village of thatched-roof
dwellings, arranged in a half-moon against a horizon of pine trees. It was barely larger than Portillo, the fishing settlement where I had found the gold. Inside the firepits, I noticed, the ash was fine and white. Animal bones, all of them picked clean, were drying in the sun. A lone sandal sat in the middle of the square. The colors of the village—the brown of thatched roofs, the red of doorway blankets, the green of ripening corn in the field—seemed to blend together in the hazy heat. I felt dizzy and had to steady myself against Abejorro's saddle.

From the height of his horse, with his hand shielding his eyes from the light, Señor Narváez spoke: Search the village.

His page repeated the order in a loud voice, so that no one would miss it. Search the village!

The soldiers fanned out through the settlement. They turned the blankets upside down, patted the animal hides that hung on rails, ran their hands through stored beans, checked water urns, and looked inside cooking pots, but none of them reported any trace of gold.

By then, I had tethered Abejorro to a tree and was following Señor Dorantes and Señor Castillo as they walked about. They went in and out of a few homes—simple huts that contained little more than bedding made of animal fur, baskets for storing food, or a few children's toys. Then they entered the largest lodge, which was the temple. It had a high ceiling and a dirt floor, now covered with the soldiers' bootprints. A few wooden idols sat along the far end of the lodge, three in the shape of eagles and two in the shape of panthers. Hanging from the ceiling on opposite walls were a dozen ceremonial headdresses, of the same kind as those we had seen in Portillo.

The two señores were walking back and forth along the temple walls, looking for anything of value, when suddenly Señor Castillo stopped in front of one the headdresses; it stood out from the others because it had red and yellow parrot feathers instead of black and brown hawk feathers. The leather strap that maintained the parrot plumes in place was decorated with a multitude of beads and charms, arranged in several neat rows. Señor Castillo unhooked the headdress from its string and in a voice high with excitement he called out: Dorantes. Look at this.

In three strides, my master was standing beside his friend. Señor Castillo dislodged one of the charms with his thumbnail and held it up to the light that came in from the doorway. Motes of dust floated in the air,
which carried with it the faint smell of pine trees. In the distance, a horse moaned with exhaustion.

Gold? Señor Dorantes whispered.

His tone was conspiratorial. Instantly, I was reminded of the time he had asked this servant of God to commit a sin on his behalf: to eavesdrop on a private meeting. This happened in Santo Domingo, on the island of La Española, where the armada had stopped for supplies on its way to La Florida. Señor Cabeza de Vaca, the treasurer, had asked to speak to Señor Narváez in private, a request that made my master think he was trying to arrange for a position as lieutenant governor of the new territory. While the treasurer and the governor ate their lunch in the dining room of an inn, I sat underneath the open window and listened. If I had been found, I knew, my master would have denied any knowledge of my mission and instead would have beaten me for spying on his gentleman friends.

It was a hot, humid day, but even as sweat trickled down my back and with a fly exploring the spaces between my toes, I did not dare move a muscle. I could hear the governor complaining about how difficult it was to find an experienced pilot. None of those I have spoken to, he was saying, are familiar with the western seas.

He threw a chicken bone out of the window—uncouth behavior, but it did not surprise me coming from him—and it landed in one of the bushes on my left. I flattened my back against the wall even further.

I have heard of one pilot, Señor Cabeza de Vaca replied, by the name of Miruelo, who claims he was part of the voyage of Ponce de León, and that he can take us to La Florida.

For the remainder of the meal, they discussed hiring this man. I did not hear Señor Cabeza de Vaca ask for the position of lieutenant and I did not hear the governor promise him one, yet when I reported the conversation to Señor Dorantes, his doubts grew stronger, not weaker. My master was an ambitious man, and ambition made him suspicious of his rivals.

Señor Castillo had trouble removing the rest of the golden charms with his thumbnail, for they were sealed to the leather with glue.

Here, I said, offering him my rusty pocketknife.

Perfect, Señor Dorantes said, patting me on the back. This gesture, this little gesture, nourished the dream I had conceived when I found the pebble of gold.

Once the headdress was stripped of its spangles, we returned to the
square, just in time to hear the governor say that he had given the name Santa María to the village. He received the charms from Señor Castillo's cupped hands and examined them under the harsh afternoon sun. Then he sent spit shooting out of his mouth in a long, straight line. This is gold, he confirmed.

The charms were passed around to the handful of officers and friars who were standing near the governor. A mosquito flew into one of Señor Cabeza de Vaca's ears and he slapped himself, tilting his head sideways to get it out, but all the while he held on to one of the golden charms, turning it between his fingers. The commissary was saying something about the urgency of destroying the heathen idols in the temple. Quietly, the governor spoke. Did anyone else find any gold?

The captains stopped talking and looked at each other. One of them had found an arrowhead made of gold and another had come across what looked like a small silver earring, but no one had brought back as much gold as Señor Castillo. So this is all of it, Señor Narváez said.

Señor Castillo cleared his throat and seemed about to say something when the governor held up his palm to stop him. In a thin voice, he ordered one of the carpenters and one of the prisoners brought to him. From the carpenter, a Portuguese man with a slight limp and a bushy beard, who went by the name of Álvaro Fernándes, he borrowed a hammer and nails. Then he had two of his soldiers force the Indian prisoner to sit on his knees, with his hands before him, in a pose that reminded me of a man at prayer.

Listen to me carefully, the governor said. Is this Apalache?

The prisoner nodded. He was thin and very long-limbed, and on his right shoulder there was a birthmark in the shape of a circle.

This is Apalache? The governor crouched in front of the man, so that he could look him in the eye.

The prisoner nodded again. His eyes were like dark pools, filled to the brim with attention.

It cannot be Apalache. There is little gold here.

The man seemed to hesitate now. Then he nodded again.

Are you telling me the truth? And with this, the governor brought the hammer down on the man's little finger.

Howling with pain, the man yanked his hand, but the soldiers restrained him and put it back down on the ground. The shattered nail oozed blood, and the knuckle was broken.

Fernándes, the carpenter whose innocent tools had been turned into instruments of torture, walked away toward the huts, but all the officers stood, waiting for an answer to the governor's question. Where is Apalache?

I wish I could say that I protested. I wish I could say that I enjoined the governor to leave the poor man alone. But I was afraid to speak. I am a slave now, I told myself, I am not one of them. I cannot interfere in matters between the Spaniards and the Indians.

The governor hammered another finger, blind to the blood that now streaked the earth.

Señor, I whispered, shall I go prepare you something to eat? I wanted to walk as far away from the square as I could, to go someplace where I would not have to see what was being done to the prisoner. Señor Dorantes did not hear me or did not wish to answer. I tried again—louder this time. Señor.

My master finally turned toward me, but before he could answer, someone called out, Don Pánfilo, please. Please. It was the youngest of the friars, Father Anselmo, leaning so far forward he seemed about to fall. With all eyes on him now, his voice rose to a higher register, and he began to stutter. P-p-please stop, he said. Th-th-this man d-d-does not know a-a-anything.

The commissary gave Father Anselmo a deeply censuring look, and the red-haired friar bit his lower lip, as if to force himself to say no more. His face, already burned by the sun, turned a dangerous shade of pink. Now he cast his eyes down on his sandaled feet, like a reprimanded child. From somewhere near the village came the call of a strange animal—I could not tell if it was beast or fowl—but otherwise it was quiet, all the officers waiting for the governor to say something in return.

Señor Narváez stood up slowly and, rubbing the soreness from his knees, handed the hammer to his page. Take the prisoner away, he said.

B
UT THE INTERROGATIONS DID
not stop—they continued for several days, in the privacy of a special hut. Señor Narváez was nothing if not a patient and thorough man. In the presence of at least one of his officers, he spoke to each prisoner and then compared the prisoner's answers to the ones that had been given by the others. After he had questioned all of them, he did it again, perhaps to see if they had changed their minds. Whenever the guards walked a prisoner back to the holding cell,
the commissary and one of his friars would appear. The first would go to the governor to inquire about the progress of the investigation; the other would wash the Indians' wounds and dress them in strips of cloth.

So for a few days, I was spared the sight of pain. I heard the howling, but I did not have to see it. Still, as I swept the hut that had been requisitioned for Señor Dorantes, as I picked corn for his meals or washed his clothes with the last scrap of Castile soap I still had—women's tasks, tasks my bondage had reduced me to and from which I longed to be freed—I had ample time to imagine the prisoners' pain. I knew what it was like to be whipped, to protest, to proclaim one's innocence only to be whipped with greater fury, and to find that the beatings subside only in the face of complete and unquestioning surrender. On my neck, I still had a scar made by the heel of my first owner, a man everyone in Seville regarded as kind and devout and generous. Señor Dorantes had not beaten me, but that did not mean that he would not start—all it meant was that I had managed to avoid his ire thus far.