To the Edge of the World Page 2

  Now we were quite alone.

  The woman returned with a pot of rabbit stew, bubbling and fragrant.

  As if loathe to come too close, she flung the pot on the table, along with bowls and utensils. We jumped back as stew slopped onto the planks. “Serve yourselves,” she snapped. “That’s six reals you owe me. I should charge you double, triple even. Thanks to you, I’ve lost my best customers.”

  Espinosa tossed the coins at her, and she scooped them off the dirt floor, muttering curses under her breath.

  The stew tasted delicious. I closed my eyes to savor its goodness. Food, I thought. I finally have food. Real food. Food like my mother used to prepare. For a moment I pretended I was home and that her voice danced as she read me poems.

  Instead of my mother’s voice, I heard Espinosa’s. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry?” I opened my eyes.

  “About your parents.”

  A sudden lump formed in my throat, and I blinked back tears. That he should see me like this made me ashamed. My father never cried. Never. And I could not stop the grief inside my chest, bubbling like rabbit stew, hot and scalding.

  “Have you no other relatives?”

  I shook my head and tears fell like rain.

  “Your father’s family?”

  “They are dead, too.”

  “Your mother’s family?”

  “I do not know who they are.” I hesitated. “There is no one.”

  With a square, scar-ridden hand he reached out and patted my shoulder. For a long while he said nothing and I began to eat again.

  “You are hungry, and yet you grieve. It is a hard combination for any man. I am sorry life has dealt you such a cruel blow, Mateo. But perhaps I can help you. I do seek men for a voyage. Strong, courageous men like you, built hard and tough, able to raise sail if need be or row a boat through rough waters. It matters not that you have no experience, for I need you also for your music. For your guitar.”

  I wiped my nose on my sleeve and looked at him.

  “That will be your job. Cabin boy, yes, but also musician. During such a long voyage, the men need music.”

  “How long a voyage?”

  “Some recruiters tell the men four months. But, like you, I will be honest.” Espinosa took a deep drink of his wine, paused, and looked straight at me. “I require two years of your life, Mateo Macías de Ávila. Two years that I cannot say will be easy, for we go to a destination unknown. You will have no luxuries. No special privileges. But you will have food, companionship, and work, and that is more than you have now. Perhaps you will forget your sorrow. I leave in the morning for Seville, and by then you must decide.”

  III

  August 10, 1519

  The heat rose in waves and sweat trickled down my chest and under my arms. The stench of sewage hung in the air. Five ships, their hulls freshly blackened with tar, creaked and swayed.

  Beside me, Ugly stretched and yawned, then sat on his haunches and looked at me, panting. I stood on the docks of Seville in a crush of men. I had been told there were Africans, Portuguese, Sicilians, French, Germans, Greeks, Flemings, English, Genoese, and Spanish—a crew more than two hundred and seventy strong.

  All of us faced an altar, and upon its surface burned many candles. Black smoke disappeared into the cloudless sky. Wax melted and puddled. Before us stood the archbishop of Seville, dressed in his colorful vestments, waiting as we waited. It was the day decreed by King Carlos for the departure of the armada. The captains of the voyage had yet to arrive.

  For a long time the only movements were the seabirds as they swooped overhead or strutted among our legs, screeching whenever Ugly growled.

  Then, in the distance, I heard thunder. The thunder grew until it became the roar of many hooves pounding the streets.

  “They come,” the man beside me whispered.

  I made the sign of the cross.

  Now they appeared. The glint of armor, of lances. The colorful banners whipping on the ends of long poles. The people of the streets pressed against the buildings to allow them passage. The darkened, foaming flanks of horses. Hard faces under helmets of steel.

  In a hollow clatter of hooves, they wheeled to a stop on the docks. Dismounting, they handed the reins to servants who led the horses away. Each in full armor, the captains knelt before the altar. Those who had ridden with them now held the banners aloft, and upon each banner waved a coat of arms.

  I recognized Espinosa, suited in dazzling armor that reflected the light of the sun. While at the inn, he had told me his position aboard the fleet. He was master-at-arms. It was he who was in charge of all the marines; it was he who would lead any attacks ordered by the commander. Today, lines of marines stood at attention behind him, and my chest swelled with pride. I knew this man.

  “In nomine Patris,” intoned the archbishop, making the sign of the cross, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  With those words, the Mass began.

  I glanced at the man next to me. He was, perhaps, only a couple of years older than I, trim and lean, with brown hair and a nose curved like a blade. As if feeling my gaze upon him, he hacked and spat and glanced at me, his eyes in a squint, penetrating and mean. But when he spoke, he sounded ordinary enough. “To what ship are you assigned?” he asked.

  “The San Antonio.”

  He grunted and spat again. “Likewise.”

  Together we watched the Mass, murmuring our responses, kneeling when required.

  “Your position?” he asked.

  “Cabin boy and musician. Yours?”

  “Servant to Captain Cartagena of Castile.”

  We talked in hushed voices while the archbishop gave his sermon. The servant’s name was Rodrigo Nieto, and like me, he hailed from Castile. He had run away from home for an adventurous life at sea.

  “Have you been to sea before?” I asked him.

  “Just returned a week ago.”

  “Someone told me yesterday that I am an idiot for going to sea. That I would have been better to stay home, pestilence or not.” I leaned toward him. “Is it true what he said, that every hour is spent swabbing decks? That it is backbreaking and boring? Is it true that it is not as adventurous as is told?”

  Rodrigo regarded me. “Do you see all these men before you?”

  I nodded.

  “If we are lucky, half of us will return. It is the way of the sea. And that, my friend, is what I call adventure.”

  A silver bell jangled. I turned from Rodrigo and focused on the wafer that the archbishop held high. “Hoc est enim corpus meum. . . .”

  Rodrigo’s words rang in my head like the silver bell of Communion. Is this true? I wondered. Did I stand only half a chance of setting my feet once more upon the soil of Spain?

  Again Rodrigo spoke, “It is whispered we sail to the Spice Islands through waters never before seen by civilized man. Dangerous waters where cannibals roast a sailor’s skin while he is yet alive, where two-headed monsters spit flame from their mouths and backsides.” In answer to my look of disbelief he added, “Why do you think so few Spaniards have signed for this voyage? And why do you think there are so many stupid foreigners?” He spat again, and his voice hardened. “Even the captain-general, the captain of all captains, is Portuguese.”

  “Portuguese? How can that be? This is a Spanish expedition!”

  “Hush. Keep your voice low. We do not want to draw attention.” Rodrigo paused as we both went forward and took Communion. Returning to our places, he continued quietly, “It is true. The captain-general is Portuguese. See? He is over there. Fernando de Magallanes is his name. Nothing but a petty nobleman.”

  I watched as the man Rodrigo pointed to knelt before the altar and swore an oath of allegiance to King Carlos of Spain. The captain-general was suited in armor, and from a distance away, it was difficult for me to see what he looked like. I knew only that he was swarthy and seemed old—forty, perhaps. A Portuguese to lead the Spanish armada? A petty nobleman, only? And
old, besides?

  Rodrigo was whispering, “I tell you I would not have signed for the voyage were it not for the riches promised at the end.”

  “Riches?”

  “Aye. Enough spices—cloves, nutmeg, pepper—to fill every pocket of every man, each grain worth more than life itself. Not only that, it is said there will be so much gold and rubies, diamonds and emeralds, that those of us who return will bathe in them each day as if they were water. That we will live in castles with many servants and eat spicy foods and never have to work again.”

  My jaw dropped and I stared at Rodrigo. I tried to imagine such riches, gold and jewels, but could not. In my mind I saw only my mother’s faded dresses, trimmed with yellowed lace and stitched with dirty, knotted, golden threads. My tongue could not imagine spices either, for I had never tasted such things. Spices were for kings and princes. Even so, I thought, Today I am lucky. I leave on a voyage and shall return a wealthy man. I will bathe in diamonds, eat spices, and never work again.

  Rodrigo caught me staring. “Remember, my friend, we must battle two-headed monsters and escape from cannibals before we live like kings in castles. It is said cannibals love the taste of the human tongue. And if you think you will just chop out your tongue and give it to them, sailing away mute but rich, let me tell you what else they love. . . .”

  As Rodrigo filled my ears with a list of body parts, I turned back toward the altar. Magallanes stood proudly and received the silken royal standard. Steel clashed against steel as the four other captains and the officers of the fleet knelt before him. In one voice they swore obedience to him, their captain-general. To follow none but him. To Magallanes they gave the power of life and death. Power “of the knife and the rope.”

  “. . . and finally,” whispered Rodrigo, “they will grind your bones to powder and drink the powder mixed with your blood. Bone soup, they call it. It is their favorite. A delicacy.”

  “Ite, Missa est,” said the archbishop, dismissing us.

  “Deo gratias,” I replied, shivering as if someone already drank my bones.

  I was issued a sea chest and a roll of bedding, the cost of which would be taken from my pay. Into the sea chest I placed my belongings—my sketchbook and inks, my book of poems, my goatskin, my rosary—all I owned except my guitar, as it was too big.

  My sea chest looked empty, but Rodrigo said to take heart. Soon it would fill with rubies and diamonds, pearls and emeralds, gold and silk. Already Rodrigo was hurrying up the gangplank of the San Antonio, urging me to follow. “Hurry. Before all the good spots are taken.”

  I paused and knelt beside Ugly. “And you, my friend, shall have a new rib bone each day to chew. You will fatten with fresh meat, and we will never be hungry again.”

  As if he understood, Ugly licked his lips and thumped his tail upon the dock.

  “Come, boy,” I said, slinging my guitar across my back. “Before they leave without us.” Giddy with adventure, I followed Rodrigo up the gangplank. Ugly trotted behind me.

  “Are you crazy?” Rodrigo hissed once I stepped aboard. “You can’t bring the dog! Get rid of him now before we’re both in trouble.”

  I set down my things, blinking with surprise. “Who says I can’t bring him?”

  “How should I know? Only that you can’t. No one has before.”

  “Then I shall be the first,” I said, thumping my chest. “Besides, I cannot leave him behind. He’s my friend. He follows me everywhere.”

  “That mangy thing? Your friend?” Rodrigo burst into laughter and slapped his knee.

  I shifted my feet. Men from all over the ship now stared at me—and at Ugly. My ears burned with embarrassment. “Stop laughing, Rodrigo. Everyone stares.”

  But it was too late. A marine approached us, and I could tell by the set of his jaw and the churning in my stomach that I was already in trouble.

  “No dogs.” His voice was clipped and heavy with importance, his face pockmarked like a rutted road.

  I faced the marine, drawing myself up to my tallest. Even so, the top of my head came no higher than his chin. “You do not understand,” I replied. “My dog is special. He is a very good hunter, and he—”

  “No dogs.”

  “—but—but he won’t be any trouble. He does everything I tell him, and he’s very smart—”

  The marine drew his sword, lowered his face into mine, and barked, “Take him off the ship now or I will skewer him like a pig!” Flecks of spit landed on my face.

  I stood, speechless. The world seemed to have stopped. Every sailor, every captain, every man in Seville, everyone in all of Spain, for that matter, stared at me, breathless, to see what I would do.

  Into that silence, Ugly bared his teeth, growling. His hackles raised.

  For a brief moment in which every muscle of my body tensed, I considered giving Ugly the signal to attack. To sink his fangs into that pockmarked throat. It would be so easy, so satisfying. But, angry as I was, I knew Ugly would only die for it. If the marine did not slay him, someone else would. Instead I clenched my jaw, turned, and marched down the gangplank, followed by the patter of dog paws, hot tears pressing against my eyes.

  I left him on the dock, lost in a swirl of people. “Stay,” I told him. “Stay here. I have a different life now. Very different.” Then I walked away without looking back.

  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 langu
age 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.