The Seven Serpents Trilogy (2 page)

“Again, may I remind you,” said Don Luis, “we leave here at noon. We sail from Seville at dawn.”

“Are you certain,” I said, “that I will have a chance to pursue my studies there on the island?”

“Certain,” said Don Luis. “Do not trouble yourself. Come, a new world beckons. You were never meant to be a village priest.”

I watched as he turned away and crossed the courtyard, walking stiffly, as if he were marching to a drum. On his long bony face was the arrogance of a young no bleman who felt that the waiting world was a toothsome peach to be plucked.

He was not tall, but his feathered hat and the extra lifts he wore on his boots gave the impression of height. He looked like one of the court dandies, but he was not. He was a man of unusual courage. As an instance, he once made a wager with King Ferdinand, his cousin, that he could swim the Guadalquivir, not in summer, mind you, at a time when the river runs shallow, but in the midst of a spring torrent.

He swam the river, all right, but he was pulled out on the far bank, a half league from where he started, more dead than alive. Once again I saw him, on a dare, leap astride the neck of a young bull and ride the beast, holding to its horns, until blood spurted from his ears.

He was a fit match for the dangers of the New World, which I had heard about many times—for its wild ani mals, its deadly insects and fatal fevers, vipers that killed with a single bite, its fierce storms that could wreck a dozen ships and drown a thousand men, its savage Indians who shot poisonous arrows and lived upon human flesh. But would I, an untried village youth, be a match for this strange new world that lay far across the ocean sea?

I took down the three-stringed gittern and wrapped it carefully in the folds of my cloak. With it I placed my Bible and a small parcel of books. I had little else to carry.

 

W
E RODE OUT OF THE COURTYARD AT NOON
. B
EYOND THE SPIRES OF
Seville, the winding Guadalquivir glittered. A drum beat. Someone blew a horn. The flag-bearer held the pennon aloft, three Spanish lancers in pursuit of a band of fleeing Moors.

We were a small army marching forth. Don Luis rode behind the flag-bearer, astride Bravo, a black stallion with a single white star on its forehead. He was followed by six musketeers, six bowmen, four cannoneers, eight soldiers, all on mules, and five horses. Then came his in terpreter and servant, Esteban, a slave from the New World whom Don Luis had bought from a trader two years before, and Juan Pacheco, his barber, surgeon, and astrologer, riding a dappled mare.

On foot, carrying my sandals because I owned only one pair, trailed by two gray mastiffs, I brought up the rear. I carried the bundle of small clothes and a parcel of books on my back, the gittern and the Holy Bible in my hands. My mother's tearful blessings rang in my ears. My heart beat loud against my ribs. Not knowing whether to weep or shout with joy, I commended myself to God.

Our little army passed through the iron gates and down the winding road. When we reached the city, storekeepers came out to cheer us on. Some shouted advice. Women waved handkerchiefs. Urchins ran along beside the cavalcade, pretending that they too were sail ing for the New World.

By midafternoon we reached the caravel, moored at the river's bank a stone's throw from the watchtower, and, to the squealing of fifes, gaily filed aboard. But no sooner were we settled and the livestock bedded down than an argument arose between Don Luis and Captain Roa.

Three other caravels moored nearby, which belonged to the Duke of Salamanca, were making ready to sail for Hispaniola within the week. Captain Roa advised Don Luis to wait and join them, since it would be safer, he said, than if we sailed alone.

Don Luis, however, was eager to depart, the stars be ing in favorable conjunction, according to Pacheco. Furthermore, he disliked the Duke of Salamanca, a dis tant cousin. Since Don Luis owned the caravel and had financed the expedition, he could do what he wished. The argument was brief, despite the fact that Captain Roa was an experienced seaman, having sailed with Co lumbus on the admiral's third voyage.

At sunrise,
Santa Margarita
left on an April freshet and swiftly made the open sea. Before she was out of sight of the river mouth, I fell sick and remained in that condition until we reached Grand Canary, seven days later. By this time the ship's routine had been well es tablished—the various stints handed out and the watches set.

At sunrise on the first day that I was again on my feet, I was sent to the sterncastle, and Captain Roa introduced me to the
reloj de arena
, a sand clock. I was instructed to turn it as soon as the sand ran from the upper to the lower section. This measured exactly thirty minutes, a figure I entered in the log. The captain cautioned me not to daydream or to read the books which I carried around with me, for the ship's direction and the knowledge of where it was on the vast ocean sea depended upon accurate time.

After giving the sand clock eight turns, thus spanning the four hours of the first watch, and handing it over to the young man who followed me, I was sent to the hold, there to help feed and water the horses and mules. This took me until past noon, when I was allowed to scavenge for something to eat—a handful of olives, a clove of garlic, a few sardines, and a biscuit—since the only cook aboard cooked solely for Don Luis and Captain Roa.

The rest of the afternoon I was set to work splicing rope until my fingers bled. After supper, which was a matter of grabbing what I could, I was free to find a quiet place to settle down for the night.

The caravel was of average dimensions—twenty-seven strides from stern to bow and seven long strides in width. Much like Columbus's
Santa María
in appear ance and, like her, carrying three masts, but with lookouts on two of them. The galley was located amidships and ran from port to starboard. She was painted black, with gold carvings on her bow and around the stern window.

To save space for cargo, the
Santa Margarita
was not outfitted with bunks nor hammocks. Except for Don Luis and Captain Roa, each man fended for himself, finding a soft plank somewhere on deck or below, if he was lucky.

This, my first official day at sea, left me barely able to walk. As I located a place to lie down between two can noneers and was settling myself to rest, Don Luis sent for me. He and Captain Roa were just beginning their supper as I entered the cabin.

“
¿Qué pasa?
What goes?” Don Luis said to me but did not wait for an answer. “I asked Captain Roa to lead you a merry pace. You have survived, I see.”

“Barely enough,” I said.

“Now you know what it is to work aboard a caravel. Something you have not known heretofore. Tomorrow I will give you tasks more to your liking.” And he went on to outline my new duties.

At dawn, in accordance with his wishes, I went to the sterncastle and there, from this high vantage point, in a loud voice so that all could hear, I sang out:

Blessed be the light of day

and the Holy Cross, we say;

and the Lord of Veritie

and the Holy Trinity.

Blessed be the immortal soul

and the Lord who keeps it whole,

Blessed be the light of day

and He who sends the night away.

The rest of the day was my own, to read, to think, to dream. Until sundown, when I again mounted to the sterncastle and this time sang the beautiful Salve Regina, in the best voice I could summon. Then I took up my gittern and went below, where Don Luis and Cap tain Roa were dining at a table set with white linen and silver.

Don Luis glanced at the gittern. “You anticipate my wishes.” On the contrary, I had not anticipated his wishes. The gittern was tucked beneath my arm because I could find no other place to put it. Like the rest of my companions, I had a parcel of deck to bed upon, where anything lying around would be stepped upon.

“Play!” Don Luis commanded me. “Nothing from the seminary. Something pleasant. Peñalosa?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A song?”

“Yes, sir.”

Don Luis turned to the captain. “Julián has much tal ent. He has taken many lessons.”

While he went on to describe my musical gifts, I settled myself in a corner of the cabin, finding bare room to pluck the gittern, and began to play. I played throughout the long meal, which consisted of excellent fare—a flagon of red wine, such things as spitted fowl and venison.

The meal at an end, I was rewarded by a generous helping, which I ate upon the deck, alone in the moonlight, gazing at the dark outlines of the island.

Trouble, which had begun between the two men in Seville, broke out again while we were making ready to leave Grand Canary. Captain Roa argued that we should follow the same course Columbus had taken on his last voyage, some fourteen years before. On the contrary, Don Luis thought we should follow a more north erly course, based upon a recent chart—one made by Miguel Peña within the last few months—which he had studied at length.

Since Don Luis owned the
Santa Margarita
and had provisioned her and hired the crew and Captain Roa himself, it gave him the right, he was convinced, to run the ship. Small matter that he had never been to sea nor knew more than he had read in books and portolans.

We were scarcely out of the harbor, on the course he had selected, than we ran into a calm that lasted three days and three nights. When the wind did blow again, it barely filled the smallest sails. Another five days of these calm airs went by, with the result that, in two weeks of sailing, we had logged less than eighty Roman miles.

At this time Captain Roa became worried about the state of our water casks. He spoke his fears at the eve ning meal.

“By my reckoning,” he said, “we need four weeks of good winds and fair weather until we can hope to make a landfall. Before that time we will run dangerously low on water. It is the mules that consume the water.”

It was true about the mules. They drank more than all the men aboard.

“What do you wish to do,” Don Luis said, “—toss them overboard?”

“No,” the captain answered. “But it would be wise to double back to Grand Canary, refill our casks, and pur chase more. A dozen casks, if possible.”

“And lose time. Days. A week,” Don Luis said. He looked at me. “Julián, I put you in charge of the casks. See that the crew gets half rations of water. The same for our men. You have good powers of persuasion.”

Captain Roa shook his head. “It will cause trouble. Not with your men, but with the crew. All are jailbirds. Within an hour they will be at our throats.”

Jailbirds they were, fresh from Seville's stone prison, men who had taken advantage of the royal edict that of fered pardons to all who enlisted for a voyage to the New World. Their leader was Baltasar Guzmán. Señor Guzmán had a round head with close-cropped hair. A thin white scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his right ear, which was adorned with a gold ring. He looked as if he had been hacked from a tree trunk. With his iron fists he kept the men in line.

As I gathered up my supper and went on deck to eat it, my appetite quailed at the prospect of facing the cut throat crew with the news that their rations of water had been reduced by half. But as events turned out, I had no need to face them.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING, SHORTLY BEFORE SUNRISE, WE SUDDENLY CAME
upon what appeared to be a rocky pinnacle. It lay directly in our path, some quarter of a league off our starboard bow, shrouded in morning mist. But as we drew close upon it, our lookout reported it to be a two-masted, square-rigged carrack drifting slowly eastward under two slack sails.

Our spirits were greatly lifted at the sight, for it was the first vessel we had seen since leaving Spain. Wild cheers went up from the crew, and at once Captain Roa called through his speaking tube a long
hola
.

There was no answer. He hailed the drifting carrack three times, but not a sound came back to us. Nor could we see a soul anywhere upon her battered and salt-encrusted decks or in her rigging. I noted her name,
Santa Cecilia
, in faded gilt across her sterncastle.

We were barely a ship's length from the carrack when Captain Roa said, “There is a look about her that I do not like. There may have been a mutiny aboard. The mutineers can be hiding below deck.”

As we moved away, Don Luis took charge and or dered the helmsman to circle back and come upon the carrack from our port side, where we had three cannon in position to fire a volley of round shot.

“I will take a few men and board her when we come around,” Don Luis said. “She seems seaworthy enough.”

“Her sails are in tatters,” replied Captain Roa. “Her masts are badly sprung. My advice is to stand off and give her a shot or two. She is not worth the risk of an ambush.”

“That risk I will take,” Don Luis said, drawing his sword. “We may have a prize in our grasp.”

At the last moment, as we came broadside and were moving away, one of the crew tossed a boarding hook over the
Santa Cecilia's
rail. The two ships bumped and then settled side to side. Don Luis leaped aboard, shout ing, “Santiago!” His six musketeers, repeating the cry, followed hard on his heels.

I could see nothing over the high bulwarks. There was the sound of scurrying boots, of voices, a deep si lence, then Esteban's name shouted by Don Luis, then my name, and the command “
¡Venga!
”

The first thing that met my eyes as I scrambled over the bulwark and set my feet upon the deck of the
Santa Cecilia
was the kneeling figure of Don Luis. (The six musketeers had disappeared, apparently down a ladder that led into the hold.) He was kneeling beside an old man, an Indian with sunken cheeks and lips that were bleeding, whose tongue as he opened his mouth to speak was swollen and black.