To the Edge of the World (3 page)

IV

September 20-October 2, 1519

There was the constant swelling and swaying beneath my feet. I could not walk a straight line. My stomach churned. I heaved my dinner of sardines, biscuit, cheese, and raisins over the railing and into the sea, thinking, So this is it. My new life.

Rodrigo spat and called me a weakling. “This is nothing. Wait until we hit upon waters not so calm. Then you will retch your guts out and wish you were dead.”

If that was not bad enough, Rodrigo and I quartered with the rest of the crew in the exposed waist deck in the center of the ship. It was noisy and crowded. There was no such thing as privacy. There were fifty, sixty of us, elbowing each other for room. Cabin boys, soldiers, seamen, coopers, barbers, gunners . . . “What will happen when it rains?” I asked anxiously, gazing into the sky.

Rodrigo snorted with impatience. “You will get wet, of course.” Then he swaggered away, shaking his head, mumbling, “Landlubber.”

Later, before the sun sank on this, my first day at sea, I drew one of the ships—the flagship
Trinidad
—in my sketchbook. From the time I was little, my mother had taught me to draw. It came easily to me. Whenever I drew, the world became lost, as if I were elsewhere. As if I still heard her voice saying, “Find your light source, Mateo. See it in your mind. Is it the sun? The moon? A candle? Now see the shadows. Light and dark, my son, they belong together.”

With quick, easy strokes, I sketched the Trinidad’s deep-bellied hull, her colorful decorations bow and stern, her three masts, her multitude of square and triangular sails, the jumble of rigging. I drew the royal standard of Castile flying atop the mainmast and the banner of the Holy Trinity flying from the foremast. In the waist of the ship I sketched the banner of the captain-general, Magallanes.

The next day, I awoke to a seabird screeching in my ear. Ears ringing, I cuffed the empty air with my fist, cursing as the bird flew to the yard. “You’d better get up,” warned Rodrigo. “I’ve been trying to wake you, but you sleep like the dead. It’s eight bells and our watch has begun.”

I stumbled to my feet, yawning, rubbing sleep from my eyes, anxious to prove I was no landlubber. “I am ready,” I said, steeling my voice and my stomach.

And so, with Rodrigo’s help, my duties began.

Because there was no cook aboard, the apprentice seaman on watch cooked for the crew. Rodrigo and I, however, cooked the food for the captain and the high-ranking officers of the
San
Antonio
. I felt proud to have such an important job.

We lit a fire in a sandbox on the leeward side of the fo’c’sle— the side facing away from the wind. (
Leeward
. . .
fo’c’sle
. . . it was the language of sailors . . . and I was now a sailor.) The sandbox was protected on three sides by built-up walls. And although the sun shone as hot and fierce as in Castile, the ocean breeze cooled my bare back as I crouched over the open side of the sandbox, stirring stews as smoke wisped away from the ship.

During my watch, I played my guitar and sang while the men worked. When I was not singing or cooking the officers’ meals, I swabbed decks and polished the metalworks, learning the chanteys the men sang. There was a rhythm to the work. I began to enjoy it. To look forward to each morning when, at eight bells and the change of watches, we started each day with prayers led by the padre.

One evening while we cooked, Rodrigo whispered that he, along with seven other servants, waited on Cartagena at the table in his cabin, dabbing his mouth with a napkin following each bite. They polished his armor again and again. Six times a day they laid out fresh clothes for Cartagena to wear, helping their captain out of the old clothes and into the new. “In his clothing trunk there are sights to behold, Mateo. Gold-threaded jackets, velvet hats, breeches of swan skin, shirts of Castilian silk, a material so fine you would swear it was the smooth flesh of a woman. I tell you, Mateo, when I am rich, I, too, shall have such finery.”

I could scarce imagine such riches when all I had was my one shirt and pair of breeches.

On the fourth day at sea, the captain strolled from his cabin onto the sun-filled deck. I stopped polishing the metalworks to stare. Never in my life had I seen such a fine man. He was young—perhaps only five and twenty—and tall, standing with the stately bearing of one born into nobility. Like most Spanish nobles, he had fair hair and blue eyes. He sported a small, pointed mustache over full, sensuous lips. I knew the mustache was meticulously oiled and groomed after each meal, for Rodrigo had told me so.

At the captain’s side stood two dogs. A twinge of resentment stole over me, but I squared my shoulders, determined not to spoil such a moment. Cartagena’s dogs were black, square-jawed, and massive. A spiked iron collar circled each of their necks. The captain laid a long, tapering hand on their heads. They whined and their tails wagged and they smacked their lips with long tongues. “Carry on,” said Cartagena with a wave of his hand, and it was only then that I realized that our chantey had faded into silence. The entire larboard watch had ceased their work and stared at Cartagena.

I continued to polish, occasionally glancing at the captain. So this was the man who would lead the
San Antonio
. This was the man on whom our lives depended. Indeed, he was a fine man, with fine dogs. I am Mateo Macías of the
San Antonio,
I said to myself, assigned to the largest, most magnificent vessel of the fleet, where a dignified Castilian rules as captain.

The next day the captain called us aft for a reading of the shipboard rules, written by King Carlos himself and commanded to be read aloud upon departure. As I listened, the breeze blew my hair from my face. The main sail snapped. The yard groaned. Still Cartagena read. Page after page. At first, his dogs sat beside him, gazing at him, wagging their tails, but after a while they lay down and fell asleep. There were rules for the conduct of officers—how to treat native chiefs, how to trade, precisely where to set up shore camps, and how to treat the sick. There were also rules for conduct of the common crew—no molesting of native women, no swearing, no playing cards, no dice.

“. . . for from such often arises evil and scandal and strife.” Cartagena stopped reading, as if the words had suddenly lodged in his throat like a rotted hunk of food. He frowned, skimmed the last ten pages or so, and finally added, “Ad infinitum, ad infinitum.” Then, much to our relief, he dismissed us with a wave of his hand. As we walked away, Rodrigo grumbled that surely King Carlos was the Mother Mary in disguise, for no one but her could invent so many rules.

On the sixth day we arrived at the Canary Islands, a paradise of blue seas and white sands. The beaches swarmed with natives— handsome men, beautiful girls, their hair braided with flowers such as I’d never seen before. I went ashore and drew a tree in my sketchbook. The tree was stumpy, with a thick trunk that wept blood-colored sap. From the tops of gnarled branches grew clusters of sword-shaped leaves and orange berries. For a tree, it was impressive. But when Rodrigo saw my drawing, he laughed, asking why I did not draw a girl instead. I felt myself flush and told him to mind his own business. What did he know? My tree was very good.

One day while at the islands, a ship arrived. She moored at the docks, and from where I stood on the
San Antonio,
I saw the banners of Spain wave upon her halyards. What was a Spanish ship doing here? I wondered. Was she to join our fleet? Would we now have six ships?

I heard a muttered curse. Captain Cartagena was standing beside me, a full head taller than I. He paid me no attention, and I followed his gaze to see where he looked. In the waning light, a man disembarked the ship and trotted along the dock, illuminated first by one lantern, then another. Answering none of the questions darting at him from every side, he boarded the
Trinidad,
Magallanes’s flagship, and entered the captain-general’s cabin. As the door closed behind the man, Cartagena pounded his fist on the rail. “It is a message for Magallanes! This bodes not well.”

I glanced around but saw no one. Had he spoken to me? “Excuse me, Captain?”

He looked at me as if he had not known I was there. And in that brief, unguarded instant, I saw hatred in his eyes. Even as I glimpsed this, the corner of his lips curved up into a smile and his eyes softened. Now they contained no hint of hatred. Had I imagined it?

“Forgive me,” said Cartagena. “I did not know I spoke aloud.”

I said nothing, at a loss for words before the great and handsome captain.

He continued to regard me. “Your name?”

I stood as tall as I could. “Mateo Macías de Ávila.”

“Ah. A Castilian like myself. That is good. I have had quite enough of foreigners.” He leaned against the rail and twisted the point of his delicate mustache between his thumb and finger. “Tell me, this messenger, what news do you think he brings from Spain?”

Captain Cartagena was asking me—
me
—my opinion. “Perhaps they are to join our fleet. Perhaps we will now have six ships rather than five.”

“And I suppose you wish to be captain of this sixth ship?”

I reddened. “Of—of course not. I only—”

“Ah, do not be ashamed of ambition, boy. Ambition has crowned kings and emperors. Ambition, how shall I say, is capable of moving mountains when in the hands of the right man. Isn’t that right, boy?”

“I suppose so.”

“And I, I shall move mountains this voyage, else die trying.” This he murmured to himself, gazing back toward the newly arrived ship. After a minute of silence, Cartagena turned again to me. “Tell me, what is it you have ambition for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want from life, boy? Money? Power? Women? A man must know what he wants, else life becomes like water in his hands. It trickles away and still he thirsts. To know what you want, boy, that is ambition. Well?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Do you want money?”

I thought of diamond baths. Castles. Servants. Never working again. “Yes.”

“Power?”

“Of course. All wealthy men have great power.”

“Women?”

I licked my lips, remembering Rodrigo’s taunts, feeling my face redden again. “Of course. Many women. Who would not?”

“You see, boy, we think alike. Now tell me. What rumors have you heard?”

“Rumors? I—I don’t understand.”

“Everyone knows rumors fester on a ship like pox on a harlot, and a captain needs ears beyond what he himself can hear. A smart boy like yourself should catch hint of every rumor that flies by.” He patted my shoulder. “Come, boy, don’t be shy; tell me. Whatever it is, I promise, it is safe with me.”

I answered in a gush of words. “They say that we travel to the Spice Islands through waters unknown to man. That if we are not eaten by cannibals or sea monsters, it will be a quick, easy journey to a warm land of cloves, and we will return to Spain laden with chests of gold, rubies, pearls, and spices, and we will live like rich men in castles with many servants and much food and will never work again until we die.”

At this, Cartagena threw back his head and laughed. He slapped me on the back. “You have lightened my mood, and indeed you have sharp eyes and ears, and a keen tongue. I can use a boy like you.”

That night as I drifted to sleep, Cartagena’s words echoed through my head.
I can use a boy like you. . . . I can use a boy like you.
I rolled over and fell into a warm, dreamless sleep.

A few days later, as night fell, I received a summons to the captain’s cabin. Cartagena reclined in a cushioned chair, and while one servant buffed the nails of his left hand, another did the same on his right. A third servant shined the buckles on his shoes while a fourth polished the buttons on his jacket. Yet another held a plate of candied dates, which Cartagena refused. My mouth watered to see such treats, and my gaze followed the servant as he put the dates away.

Behind Cartagena I saw Rodrigo, stiff and formal, fill a goblet with wine and offer it to the captain.

Cartagena shook a servant from his hand, took the goblet, and sipped delicately, like a woman. He swallowed, saying, “Ah, Mateo, there you are. I have good news. The captains and pilots of all the ships are to meet this evening aboard the
Trinidad
. No doubt we will discover the contents of the message from Spain.” He looked around him as if to notice the flurry of servants for the first time. “Leave us, all of you. Except the boy and Rodrigo.”

Behind him, Rodrigo raised his eyebrows but said nothing as the room emptied. “I trust the two of you can follow my orders? Yes? Very well then. During the meeting, you must hide where I tell you. Follow me and I shall show you what I mean. Hurry, we are late.”

My heart racing, I jumped to do his bidding. We were going on a mission for Captain Cartagena! Together Rodrigo and I buttoned his blouse and draped his cloak about him. Before we left, Cartagena slipped a dagger into his waistband. “For protection,” he said, drawing his cloak about him.

Once on the docks, Cartagena showed us where to hide. I looked around and realized why this was important. Concealed by darkness and atop casks of cargo, we could easily see through the
Trinidad’s
window hatches into Magallanes’s lighted cabin. Once atop the casks, we edged closer. If I leaned forward over the water, I could almost touch the openings.