To the Edge of the World (6 page)

VII

November 24-25, 1519

The
Trinidad
hummed, vibrating like the strings of my guitar. It was the hum of voices, of cautious whispers.

“The Spanish captains could not have asked for a better opportunity,” whispered Rodrigo later that night as a group of us crouched under the fo’c’sle. “At the court-martial, they will spring their trap.”

I glanced around the circle of shadowed faces, remembering the letter, knowing Rodrigo likely spoke the truth.

Rodrigo continued, “Cartagena will simply stab Magallanes with his knife. It will be as simple as—as—well, I don’t know. But it will be simple. I can tell you that.”

“But the penalty for mutiny is death,” I reminded him.

“Only for the loser, Mateo.”

“Ah, don’t be so reckless.” A sailor stabbed his finger into Rodrigo’s chest. “For whether you live or die depends on which side you choose. So choose wisely. It might be the last choice you ever make. As for me, I shall choose Magallanes, for the power of Espinosa and the marines lies behind him.”

The men in the circle grunted in agreement. But I could smell the uncertainty. Even from Rodrigo.

During the night someone shook me awake. It was Espinosa. He held a lantern and his face glowed with an eerie light. Beside me, Rodrigo leaned on one elbow, his hair disheveled.

“No doubt the court-martial is a trap,” Espinosa said, handing each of us a dagger. “I’ve arranged for the two of you to serve the wine and refreshments. It will be your duty to protect Magallanes.”

I fingered the dagger, remembering how I had been caught spying, how Espinosa had questioned me afterward. Then you do trust me, I thought. But what about Rodrigo? Do you also trust him?

I glanced at Rodrigo. His face was masked and his eyes slitted.

Espinosa seemed not to notice, his voice heavy and grim. “I tell you, I would fill the cabin with marines if I could, but then the Spanish captains would not dare enter for fear of their lives. But the moment the door closes behind the Spanish captains, my marines shall be outside, ready to enter. Even now, they await my command. Naught shall come of this if we are prepared.”

I did not admit my fear. I merely nodded, stuffing the dagger in my waistband under my shirt, feeling the press of cold steel against my skin. Until morning then.

The court-martial was swift and brutal.

Death. To be carried out once the fleet reached the shores of Brazil.

Upon hearing the sentence, the master stood immovable, while his young lover, a pimply boy with darting eyes, screamed and crumpled to the floor. “Have mercy!” he shrieked. “In the name of the Blessed Virgin, have mercy! I don’t want to die!”

Four marines entered the cabin and hauled them away. Long after the door closed behind them, the shrieks continued, “Mercy! Mercy!” until the captains and pilots shifted in their seats. Then came a thud and an animal grunt. Then silence. A silence that lingered like death.

From across the room I saw Cartagena stare at Magallanes, unblinking. Behind him stood Rodrigo.

Magallanes cleared his throat. “Shall we continue? We have much to discuss and the hour grows late. There is still some confusion over the evening’s salute. Perhaps we should review it again.”

Cartagena yawned loudly. He propped his booted feet on the table and leaned back, looking disdainfully bored while the captain-general outlined proper procedure of the salute. When Magallanes finished, Cartagena heaved a sigh, removed his feet from the table, and said, “Finally. On to more important matters. There is still some confusion over the proper route agreed upon at the last council meeting. Perhaps we should review it again.”

Magallanes seemed unperturbed. “As you wish.”

I poured more wine while the captains and pilots spread charts upon the table, pointing and murmuring.

A nervous atmosphere pulsed through the air, tense and waiting. I met Rodrigo’s gaze across the cabin. He looked away.

I scanned the room, my hand sweaty, itching to grasp the hilt of my knife.

Mendoza, captain of the
Victoria
and one of the three captains named in the letter, observed Magallanes with small, watchful eyes. Balding and stout, he groomed his beard with stubby fingers, each laden with a jeweled ring that flashed in the candlelight. Occasionally, he spoke a word or two, but mostly he watched the captain-general. It seemed to me his eyes grew smaller as he did so; perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I stood behind him anyway for I did not trust him.

Opposite Mendoza sat Captain Quesada of the
Concepción,
a man younger than Cartagena. He was monstrous and pale, his bull-like neck corded with blue veins. Hair the shade of alabaster flowed past his shoulders, and he stared at Magallanes with eyes of winter, as if he were sculpted not of flesh and bone, but of marble. The letter had warned against Quesada, and I knew that he, like Mendoza, would side with Cartagena.

But the letter had not mentioned Serrano, captain of the smallest ship, the
Santiago
. He, too, was Castilian. As I observed him, I wondered where his loyalties lay. He was the oldest of all the captains, older even than Magallanes. Unlike Quesada’s face, which was cold and hard, Serrano’s was soft and rounded, as if so many years of service had worn him down.

Now, with the pilots and various others, the captains hunched over the charts. Cartagena’s comments, quiet at first, grew louder and louder. He glanced at Mendoza and Quesada as if gathering courage. “We would now have reached Brazil but for the bungling course chosen by the captain-general.”

Again, the silence.

Magallanes shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“If you had listened to me, we would not have spent two weeks caught in a gale, nearly losing our lives, and then three cursed weeks becalmed, wasting precious time and supplies.” Cartagena began to strut around the room. On his head perched a feathered cap, the brightly colored feather as haughty and gloating as Cartagena himself. “And tell me, mighty Captain-General, since you know all there is to know, what will we do once we reach Brazil? For all this time you have refused to disclose the route you plan to take. It is knowledge that until now you stubbornly have kept to yourself, but it is time to share it. After all,” Cartagena paused and glared at Magallanes, “what if something unfortunate were to happen to you?”

There followed a silence. All stared at Cartagena and Magallanes. I reached into my shirt and grasped my dagger. I shall strike Mendoza first, I thought, realizing blankly that I had never before raised a hand against another human being. My heart hammered in my chest. I blinked sweat from my eyes.

Finally, Magallanes raised his hand limply. “I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot share that information with you.”

“I demand to know. Is there a secret passage through the southern continent?”

Magallanes cleared his throat. “I must apologize, but as I said, I cannot share that information with you.”

Cartagena’s face deepened in color, as scarlet as the feather. “And why, pray tell, can you not?”

Magallanes sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have shared my intended route with King Carlos, and knowing the route, he authorized the expedition. That should be enough.”

Cartagena’s mouth fell open. “Enough?” He laughed. A harsh, ringing laugh. “Enough? To know that the king, a feeble, pale boy of nineteen, a boy scarce strong enough to hold up his head, much less his crown, has agreed to your secret route? Pah! His chin is so large he can scarce chew properly or even close his mouth. A fly could penetrate the king’s lips without difficulty! Of course he would agree to any folly! He is a moron. No doubt if you planned to sail your ships over dry land, he would applaud your genius. Ah, the great Magallanes has done it again. He has reached the Far East by sailing westward over a vast continent whereas all other men who walk the earth must sail east around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope. He has snatched the spice trade from Portugal’s greedy fingers and delivered it to the king of Spain. Once again, he has achieved the impossible!”

Cartagena’s voice hardened and he pointed to the other men. “But we, Captain-General, are not untried fools of nineteen. We are men who follow you on a dangerous voyage, and we demand to know! Is there, or is there not, a secret passage?”

Magallanes brushed his dark beard and said nothing.

Cartagena stood before Magallanes. He gazed about the room, pausing in turn to look at each of us. “You see this man before me? He is nothing.” Cartagena spat. “I will no longer obey the orders of a fool like Magallanes!”

Suddenly, the captain-general sprang from his seat, grasped Cartagena by the front of his shirt, and slammed him into the bulkhead.
“¡Sed Preso!”
he hissed.

Shaking with fury, Magallanes pulled Cartagena’s surprised face down until it was level with his own. “You have insulted me for the last time, Spaniard. Your insubordination has been witnessed by these men. By rights, I can order you killed. Here. Now.”

Cartagena’s eyes widened. He licked his lips with a quick dart of his tongue. “Quesada, what are you waiting for, you idiot fool! Seize him!”

Quesada flushed and his pulse throbbed in the blue veins of his neck. But he sat rooted, motionless. Behind him, Rodrigo paled, and I saw indecision in his eyes.

Cartagena turned to Mendoza. “Mendoza, seize him, I say! Now is the chance we have been waiting for! It is three against one!”

In front of me, Mendoza said through clenched teeth, “You are a fool, Cartagena.” And he turned his head away.

“Indeed,” said Magallanes, spitting his words into Cartagena’s face. “A fool. You have just admitted to plotting mutiny.”

Cartagena turned white. “But—I—I—”

Magallanes barked an order and the door flung open. Espinosa and his marines crowded into the room. “Arrest Cartagena for mutiny. Put him in the stocks.”

Four marines grabbed the struggling Cartagena. “I did not mean it the way it sounded!” he cried. “Please!” His face was no longer the face of a proud Castilian captain, but the face of a frightened young man. “It was a mistake! Forgive me! Captain-General, forgive me!” As the marines pulled him through the door, Cartagena’s feathered cap dropped to the floor.

VIII

November 25-December 22, 1519

Ha!

I laughed to see Cartagena in the stocks, his head and hands thrust through the openings as if he were a common sailor punished for swiping a hunk of cheese. Standing with my arms crossed, I gloried to see him brought low, to see him looking away from
me
for once, unable to meet my gaze.

“Are you crazy? Are you completely insane?” Rodrigo asked me later, grasping the front of my shirt with his fist. “Remember the words
Choose wisely?
Cartagena is not a man to make your enemy. I hear he is the son of the most powerful bishop in Spain. I tell you, if you make him angry, Cartagena will not hesitate to kill you.”

“That would be incredible, since he is in the stocks and cannot move.” I tried to pry off Rodrigo’s hand, but he refused to let go.

“You laugh, Mateo, but this is not funny. You are an idiot if you think Cartagena will be in the stocks forever and a double idiot if you think there are not men who will do his bidding at the snap of his fingers.”

His words rang true and I grew suddenly alarmed. I did not go around Cartagena anymore and felt only a grim relief when I learned he was stripped of his captaincy. On the
San Antonio,
his flag was lowered and the flag of a new captain raised to take its place. It was whispered that only his father’s high position as a bishop had prevented an execution.

With Cartagena in the stocks, the fleet hoisted every scrap of sail and made good speed to Brazilian waters. On the sixth day of December the crew of the
Trinidad
burst into cheers when a brightly colored land bird settled on the quarterdeck railing.

All the next day, I smelled the scent of land. Rodrigo said it was the fragrance of jungle. I awakened the following day to the cry “Land ho!” We had been eleven weeks at sea.

For five days we hugged the coastline and headed south. We dared not land, for this part of Brazil belonged to the Portuguese and we feared for our lives lest we fall into their hands. From the railings we watched as the land rolled by. Monkeys swung from tree to tree. Flocks of parrots sprang into flight, clouds of red, green, yellow, and blue. Insects swarmed aboard, buzzing and biting.

“Do you think we will ever find a secret passage?” I asked Rodrigo. “Someone told me that the southern continent stretches both north and south forever and that it is impossible to go around.”

“If no such passage exists, then this will be a short voyage. Unless we can sail over the jungle, that is.” Rodrigo walked away, muttering, “Only a Portuguese would think of sailing west to reach the east.”

On the feast day of Santa Lucia, when the heat smothered us like fires from a blacksmith’s forge, we anchored in a bay surrounded by lush hills. Once ashore, I fell to my knees and crossed myself. It began to rain, a great rain that made my hair hang in strings. Beside me knelt Rodrigo, and for the first time in many days we smiled at each other.

Crowds of natives swarmed the beach.

We stared at one another. The natives and we, the men from across the sea. We stared while the rains poured and the dirt beneath us turned to mud.

I stared at the women. How could I not? I had never seen a naked woman before. And there were hundreds of them. All naked. Beautiful and naked.

“Paradise,” whispered Rodrigo, his eyes huge. “We’ve landed in paradise.”

Trade began immediately. One of our men served as interpreter. A king of clubs or a queen of spades bought seven pineapples, a fruit both sweet and sour at the same time. A mirror bought ten chickens and two geese. A handful of beads bought a basket of fresh fish. Once it was discovered the native men had no metal tools, a hatchet bought one woman. If the sailor was lucky or the daughters especially ugly, one hatchet bought two. Trade was very brisk. Many men left their chores and could not be found.

Rodrigo gave me ten small bells to trade. Going into the village, I bought a shell necklace from a sag-breasted old woman who had but two blackened teeth in her mouth. She followed me around then, laughing behind her hand, pinching my backside if I turned away. I bought other things, too—pineapples, sweet potatoes, and a basket to store them in—meanwhile always followed by the old woman. Later, she sat staring at me, giggling as if I were the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen, as I spent the rest of the day drawing in my sketchbook. I sketched her as well. She would make a fine addition to my collection.

When I returned to the
Trinidad
and Rodrigo saw my purchases, he laughed and called me a weakling, asking why I did not buy myself a woman. I shoved him to the deck. “I am not a weakling!” I yelled. We fought until his eye was blackened and my ribs bruised, until we both lay on the deck panting.

The natives lived together in long houses called
boii,
each housing more than one hundred people. The next day, the old woman yanked me inside and proudly showed me their fire pit while tugging me toward her bed, a netting stretching from one log pole to another. I heard soft giggling and noticed a group of young women watching me. I flushed to the roots of my hair. Wrenching my wrist from her grasp, I backed out of the
boii,
smiling and bowing like an idiot while fending off her pinching, groping hands. Giggles erupted into laughter. Horrified, I fled back to the ship and said nothing to anyone, especially not Rodrigo.

On the twentieth day of December, the master of the
Victoria
was executed. All ships’ companies assembled. The master stood tall. He looked at no one, said nothing, as Espinosa removed his shackles.

Once, when I was very young, I had seen a public garroting. I had forgotten the horror. The master was led to a post in the ground. To the post was attached a metal collar, which Espinosa affixed around the condemned man’s neck. Espinosa turned screws on the garrote and the collar slowly tightened.

The master gazed above our heads, toward the heavens. His eyes began to bulge. His tongue protruded, turning blue. I stood there, admiring his courage.

It was over. The master was dead.

The pimply-faced boy was not to be executed. He had appealed the sentence of death, saying the master had forced him. I despised him for his weakness.

One night, in a secluded clearing between palm trees, I played my guitar around a fire with Rodrigo and some other cabin boys. Because there was much joking and laughing between us, it was some time before we realized we were being watched. When we turned to investigate, the bushes rustled and we heard a chorus of giggles. Immediately my friends sprang to their feet and dashed into the bushes. There followed a great commotion of giggling. Of chases that crashed through the underbrush. Of shrieks and laughter. Then silence.

I sat alone before the fire. Why, I asked myself, why do I not follow? I knew the answer. I was afraid. Never before had I been with a woman. I grew angry and said to my feet, Take me into the bushes. Find a native woman.

But my feet would not move.

Then I heard a noise, quiet as a whisper of wind in the sails. A young woman, younger than I, slipped into the circle of light and sat upon a rock. Her brown eyes stared at me shyly. I stared back. Like the other natives, her skin was bronze-colored. Intricate designs swirled over her body, designs painted beneath her skin. She was tiny, slender. Her long black hair shimmered in the firelight.

She began to talk, but I could not understand. Then she laughed, a soft laugh like the tinkle of water poured from a jug. The next thing I knew, she was sitting beside me and her hands were upon my face—stroking my cheeks, touching my lips. I caressed her smooth cheeks with trembling fingers. Her lower lip was pierced with three holes threaded with round pebbles. I traced the holes, wondering if it hurt. Then she laughed and I laughed with her.

Her name, I learned, was Aysó.

Sitting there that evening, she taught me a few words of her language, and I taught her to say
boy
and
song
and
girl
and
love
. I played my guitar and sang to her. I tried to teach her to play the guitar, my fingers clasped over hers. We laughed at her fumbling attempts. I showed her my sketchbook and then drew a picture of her. After she saw my drawing, she looked at me in amazement. I read her some of my mother’s poems while she caressed the paper, nodding and smiling.

It was late before I left, the other cabin boys long gone. I dreamed of her that night, dreams soft as her skin and shining as her eyes.

The next day I rushed back to the same spot. My heart leaped when I saw she had returned. She smiled. “I’m back,” I said happily, knowing she could not understand. We played the guitar and sang and drew pictures in the dirt, each of us talking, wondering if the other could understand. “Ship,” I said, tracing the
Trinidad
in the sand. “Ship,” she replied.

It was late afternoon when, after eating some fruit together, she took my hand and began to lead me through the jungle. “Aysó? Where are you going? Where are you taking me?” A wave of giddy happiness rushed over me and I thought, It does not matter. I would follow you anywhere.

After a while I realized we walked a trail. A tiny thread of earth snaked up the side of a mountain. We walked a long time, our hands entwined, no longer talking. We pushed gigantic leaves aside and stepped over branches and fallen logs. Frogs chorused and butterflies danced just out of reach. We crossed creeks, leaping from stone to stone, giggling when I slipped in the mud.

Suddenly there it was. A waterfall. It tumbled from a rock cliff and cascaded into a pool of water below. Water misted the air in a rainbow. Aysó slipped into the pool and then swam under the waterfall, beckoning me to follow.

“I cannot swim,” I said, hungering to follow her.

When she motioned again, I could no longer resist. I turned away from her to undress, knowing it was ridiculous. Aysó never showed embarrassment over her nakedness. But I had never been naked in front of a woman, even if it was just for a swim. Had Rodrigo ever felt this shy?

Covering myself with my hands, I crept over the rocks and waded into the pool, going deep as quickly as I could, hoping my face was not as red as it felt. To my relief, the water was only chest-deep. Water rained on my head, streaming down my face, into my eyes and mouth. I spit out water, laughing, and when Aysó laughed, too, I pulled her toward me. “Waterfall,” I said, pointing up.

Then, to my surprise, she reached up and pressed her lips to mine. Her lips, so soft. She tasted like rainbows of mist. My body melted into her kiss. My heart thundered. But when I tried to wrap my arms around her, she slipped away, under the water. “Aysó, come back!” My voice echoed through the jungle and up the cliff. Birds scattered from nearby treetops.

Now she was in the middle of the pool, laughing, shaking water from her long black hair. You are so beautiful, I thought. Just as I neared her, she dove, gliding past me under the water. I tried to catch her, but she slipped away, nimble as a dolphin.

It became a game. Each of us laughing, breathless, joy bubbling within me like fresh rain. Whenever she surfaced, I lunged after her, hoping to catch her, to kiss her. On and on we played for what seemed hours, until Aysó pointed to the sinking sun.

I sighed.

It was time to return.

Later, as we arrived at where I’d left my guitar and things, a new and surprising warmth overwhelmed me. It is love, I realized. My heart bursts with love. “You are so beautiful, Aysó. You make me so happy. I—I love you.” I took her hands in mine, my heart racing, hoping she understood.

Aysó brushed her lips across my cheek. “Waterfall,” she whispered in my ear. Then she was gone.