Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (12 page)

      
Several of the gentlemen were still in the grip of violent nausea and could hold down little food. All things considered, Aaron decided he had been fortunate at that. “I know you have been short-reckoning the leagues we have covered each day so as not to frighten the men with how far we sail west, but how long until we can stand on solid earth again? I promise to bear up,” he added, forcing a smile.

      
Colon chuckled now. “At first you feared you would die. Now you fear even more that you will not. That is common among young men when first they go to sea. As to how soon we reach landfall—with good fortune and faster winds,” he paused as Aaron groaned, “it should be a fortnight, no more.”

      
“Then let us hope we sail directly into the golden harbor of Cipangu.”

      
“Would you rather not pause for respite on the small islands that dot the waters of the Indies first?” the admiral asked. “In truth, I know not if we can reach the land mass first. My charts are greatly at variance and the accounts of overland travelers do not give much detail but to say there are many islands, large and small.”

      
“Perhaps I shall purchase a camel, or if fortune smiles on me, a fleet horse and ride home overland once we reach the mainland. It only took Marco Polo twenty years,” Aaron added hopefully.

      
“I have need of your skills aboard
Santa Maria
, my young friend. There are few enough men I can trust. As marshal of the fleet, you must keep discipline among the crew.”

      
“The estimable captain of
Pinta,
Martin Alonzo Pin-zón gains adherents,” Aaron said, scratching his bearded chin in consideration. “He is over-eager to reach the prize first and thence sail back to the Majesties and heap all the glory on himself.”

      
Colon snorted in disgust. “
Pinta
is a far faster ship and he a good sailor, I give the devil his due.
Nina
can keep up with her, but
Santa Maria
is a wallowing giant, not their equal in Atlantic waters. We must endeavor to keep the
Pinta
with us. Perhaps Martin will not desert his brother Vincente Yañez, aboard
Nina
. I trust Vincente far more than Martin, but I rely on you, Diego, to watch both Pinzón brothers closely.”

      
Aaron grunted. “I will keep an eye on the Pinzons.”

      
Colon observed the weathered look of the young soldier, now bare-footed and bearded as were all the men while at sea. There were no facilities for the niceties of toilettes. Razors were reserved for landfall. On the slippery wet decks, bare feet gripped far more surely than boots. The court officials on board were aghast at such unseemly habits, but when the royal butler nearly washed overboard one night, he too grudgingly shed his elegant high-heeled slippers.

      
“The beard suits you well, even if the food does not,” Cristobal said to Aaron, admiring the thick golden bristles on his face. “By the time we reach landfall you should have a handsome growth of whiskers.”

      
“Do not even say it,” Aaron replied, thinking of long weeks at sea. He stared out as the
Santa Maria
cut through the sargassum. Wanting to take his mind off that dismal prospect, he said, “I see some of our malcontents are gathering. I will go down and break up the useless fretting.”

      
“I rely on you, Diego,” the admiral said serenely.

      
As was the usual custom aboard all ships, prayers were said at day's end. The Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the Creed were spoken, then the Salve Regina was chanted. With his dinner of hard biscuit and a mouthful of salted anchovies sitting ill in his stomach, Aaron stood respectfully for the rote observance, not joining in. Here and there among the Castilians, Catalans, and Galicians of the crew a man remained quiet. The New Christians, although ostensibly converted, were uncomfortable with the ritual. There were no clergy on the voyage and the admiral, although fervent in his own devotions and strict about the custom of the men standing at attention morning and evening for the service, did not command participation of those with no heart to give it.

      
Aaron looked about the faces of the men, the grizzled common seamen with their red wool caps doffed respectfully, the coolly elegant royal officials mouthing words unconsciously, the Basque ship's master, Juan de la Cosa, himself craftily watching the others. Then Aaron's eyes caught those of Luis Torres, the Arabic translator and scholar. Although sharing a surname, they were not related, but both were
conversos
.
He too wonders if we will find the legendary wealth of the East and with it a place of freedom
. As if in answer, Luis' dark brown eyes looked toward the promise of the setting sun and Aaron's gaze followed.

* * * *

      
“The ninth day of October and all we have are false sightings of land, endless sea birds and clumps of driftwood,” the Basque boatswain said. Barrel chested and oddly pale for a sailor, Chachu sat cross-legged on the deck, stabbing a piece of salted mutton with his knife. He gnawed the meat as he studied the clique of men seated about him sharing the noonday repast. The crew ate the day's main meal scattered about the deck near the crude, wood-burning firebox amidships where the cook fried the dried meat in olive oil and his helpers dispensed biscuit, raisins, wine, and other stores. The officers, the admiral, the master, the pilot, the marshal, and various other gentlemen volunteers and royal appointees ate on the quarterdeck, well away from the conversations of the sailors.

      
Chachu had a small group of Basque compatriots gathered about him as well as several men from Palos. One looked up at the admiral's cabin. “I say if we see no land by day's end, we confront the Genoese.”

      
Another, lounging against the railing, spat overboard contemptuously. “Hah. What would that avail us? The man has said he will sail on no matter how long it takes. I say we make common cause with those Castilians from Palos. If we join ranks, we will outnumber followers of the Genoese. Then we will demand he turn back while there is food and water left to see us to the Canaries.” He flashed his knife before plunging it meaningfully into the pile of fried meat.

      
“I do not know,” a youthful seaman said uneasily. “The admiral's marshal is—”

      
“But a Jew,” Chachu interrupted. “Would you fear that yellow-haired boy?”

      
“Torres fought under the king in the Moorish wars. He is young, but dangerous,” another seaman put in. “But he likes to walk a turn from the quarter to the foredeck each night. Perhaps an accident could be arranged...”

* * * *

      
The moon suddenly vanished behind the clouds and the ship pitched to starboard. Cursing, Aaron reached out toward the railing and felt cold steel as a knife slashed through his tunic, missing his back by a scant layer of cloth. He whirled, his own dagger instantly in his hand. His assailant had two advantages—the darkness and steady sea legs. Aaron could see by the man's clothes that he was a common seaman, but could not make out his face. The knife in the sailor's hand glowed evilly as he lunged with it. Fright lent him courage, but he was clumsy. As he came at Aaron, the young soldier simply ducked aside, letting the sailor's own momentum carry him forward. Aaron's knife found his target, the soft exposed expanse of throat. With a small, muffled gurgle, the assassin fell against Torres, nearly carrying them both overboard as the ship rolled again.

      
The moon reappeared, lighting the macabre scene. The man was not one of the Basques, but a sailor of Palos.
So, the mutiny has spread
. With a silent oath, he consigned the body to the sharks, then considered what to do as he walked aft. The men slept sprawled hither and yon across the ship's deck. He looked at the hatch cover the boatswain usually favored when not on watch. Chachu was not about.

      
Aaron made his way cautiously between the sleeping bodies, heading toward the ladder that led upward to the quarterdeck. A thin light flicked beneath the admiral's door. He rapped lightly and Colon's steward opened to admit him. The room was small, crowded with charts and papers piled on the crude wooden table. Cristobal sat writing in his log book, looking careworn and weary.

      
“We have trouble brewing, I see,” Cristobal said, eyeing Aaron's blood-spattered tunic. “Are you unharmed?”

      
“I am fine, but we are one gromet fewer.” Aaron sat as the steward withdrew, closing the door. “We must lay plans for the morrow.”

      
October 10th dawned with golden brilliance. A young gromet of the dawn watch sang in a clear sweet trill the ritual morning salutation:

Blessed be the light of day

and the Holy Cross we say;

and the Lord of Veritie

and the Holy Trinity.

Blessed be th'immortal soul

and the Lord who keeps it whole,

blessed be the Light of Day and
 

He who sends the night away.

      
Colon paused at the door of his cabin, looking out across the breaking waves. He could see the sails of the Nina off starboard, close at hand, but as usual
Pinta
was far ahead on the horizon. Turning his attention to the men below, he noted a milling cluster gathered about the five Basques—all in all, fifteen malcontents. Out of a crew of thirty-nine, the odds seemed in his favor, but the Genoese had been at sea most of his life and knew how quickly loyalties could switch under the grinding duress of isolation, fear, and even boredom. And there had been much of all three during the past five weeks since their departure from the Canaries.

      
The admiral looked across to where the ship's master, Juan de la Cosa, stood. His compatriot, Chachu the boatswain, was with the muttering seamen a distance away. Catching the master's eye, Colon signaled for Aaron to step from his cabin. The marshal was fully armed with sword and dagger, wearing leather armor and a steel helmet. He walked across the deck and leaned casually against the rail where the swivel gun, called a falconet, was mounted. Cosa's obsidian eyes grew round for an instant when he saw Torres, then narrowed, but it was enough to satisfy both men on the quarterdeck that the master was part of the conspiracy.

      
“The morning watch has been set. There are tasks enough for all to be busy now that the night's fast has been broken. Have you some reason for gathering, Boatswain?” Colon's calm words rang clearly, and the Genoese accent of his Castilian lent them a deceptive geniality. His pale blue eyes shifted from Chachu to Cosa meaningfully.

      
Finally, the master walked amidships to stand in front of the group led by Chachu. “We have sailed from September ninth, over a month out of the Canary Islands. This is the tenth of October, and we have journeyed farther west than any ships have ever done.”

      
“Least those that lived to return and tell of it,” a gromet muttered.

      
“The men want to turn back while there is still provision to reach the islands off Africa,” Cosa continued.

      
“And a whisper of a southeast wind to carry us home,” the boatswain finally chimed in. His surly look scanned the rest of the crew, most of whom were finishing the morning's light repast and preparing either to begin the chores of their watch or to find a shady spot out of the traffic and go to sleep. The royal officials, the Jewish scholar, and the ship's surgeon stood apart, beneath the shelter of the quarterdeck near the pilot who held the tiller steady against the wind. None of them was a part of this dispute, which they obviously felt was the responsibility of the admiral and his marshal to handle.

      
“There will be winds blowing from the southeast to carry us on a more northerly course home. We have provender enough for months yet and many heartening signs—island birds and fresh driftwood. We are nearing our goal. As I am the representative of the Majesties, King Fernando and Queen Ysabel, I mean to do what I have been commissioned to do. We sail on to the Indies.” The admiral paused and looked about the men below him.

      
Now it was Chachu, not Cosa, who seemed to take charge, shoving his big muscular body ahead of Cosa's slight frame. “And if we like it not and want a conference with the captains of
Nina
and
Pinta
?”

      
“Yes, let us confer with the Pinzons, good men of Palos,” one man shouted in a strident voice. Several other of the locals from the seaports of Andalusia joined in.

      
“As marshal of the fleet, I command all arms, dispensing them to the crew when needed...or using them against mutineers...when needed.” Aaron spoke clearly as he turned the barrel of the small swivel gun attached to the rail. Its mouth, which could belch forth scrap iron in widely spread blasts at close range, was now pointed into the center of the group of Basques and their cohorts from Palos. “Have I your leave to demonstrate, Admiral?” He looked at Colon, his face hardened and cold. Now, not even the arrogant boatswain mistook Diego Torres for a boy.

      
“I do not believe such an extreme measure is necessary, Marshal,” Cristobal replied. “There will be no conference with the officers aboard
Nina
and
Pinta
. They, like all of you, have their orders. After the attempt on my marshal's life last night, I instructed him to take certain precautions.” A soft murmur of shock rippled around the deck. “The next time anyone raises a hand against royal authority and this enterprise, I will not be so lenient. Don Diego has already dispensed justice to his attacker.” Colon's piercing blue gaze riveted on the ship's master first, then on the boatswain. He paused, watching all of the milling, mumbling men.