To the Edge of the World Read online

  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.

  “Stay here until I fetch you.” In a few moments we saw Cartagena enter Magallanes’s cabin. Apparently, he was the last to arrive, for once he entered, the meeting was called to order.

  We heard nothing of what they said.

  A cold sweat came over me. I suddenly realized what we were doing. We perched atop casks of cargo, a cabin boy and a servant, spying on a meeting between captains and pilots. Why had Cartagena ordered us to spy? What would happen if we were caught? Too late I wished I hadn’t agreed to go on the mission, but now I had no choice. And a cabin boy does not refuse to obey his captain. I glanced around nervously, but the darkness shrouded us like Cartagena’s cloak, the water black as ink, and I saw nothing beyond the casks.

  I turned back toward the light and peered into the room. The only time I had seen the other captains and pilots, they had been suited in full armor. Now, studying their faces, I recognized the captain-general. He was short and swarthy, a typical Portuguese with a black bushy beard, dark brooding eyes, and legs bowed like a peasant.

  Beside me, Rodrigo whispered, his voice so soft I scarce heard him amid the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the soft slap of water against the hull. “Magallanes looks like a sorry rat compared to our fine captain.”

  Magallanes circled the table, a table heaped with maps and charts, around which the captains and pilots were seated. The captain-general had a pronounced limp and suddenly reminded me of my father, the memory so sharp that for a moment I almost called his name. Idiot! I told myself. This dark, limping foreigner is not your father! Your father was Castilian, not Portuguese! Your father was a good man, a brave man, a righteous man! Yet my heart felt drained.

  Magallanes stopped circling the table and sank into a chair. He looked tired, defeated. The captains and pilots around the table stared stonily at the captain-general. It looked to me as if they all hated Magallanes.

  Now Cartagena commanded everyone’s attention. He strutted about the table in a manner worthy of a Castilian, glancing with scorn at the captain-general. Finally, Cartagena stopped in front of Magallanes and leaned over him. He sneered and spat words at the little man. Magallanes raised his hands helplessly.

  Rodrigo snarled through clenched teeth, “If Magallanes was truly a man, he would run Cartagena through with his sword. As anyone can see, Magallanes is a coward. He has no pride. No honor. It is well Cartagena has brought his dagger. He will skewer Magallanes like a pig, and then we will have a true man to lead the armada.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Magallanes, for I agreed with Rodrigo. Such a weak, sniveling man, I thought. He is nothing like my father.

  I continued to watch. Although Cartagena’s hand moved toward his dagger many times, he did not draw it, for with each weak gesture from Magallanes, Cartagena seemed unsure. It was as if he wished for Magallanes to give him a reason to stab him. Cartagena’s gaze flicked to others around the table as though asking what he should do.

  It was then the casks beneath us began to shift and rock. While I yet wondered what it was, a hand wrapped itself around my ankle.

  “Spies! I’ve found spies!”

  V

  October 2-25, 1519

  Horror spread through my body with a sickening wave as both Rodrigo and I were yanked by our ankles from the casks.

  I found myself gasping, lying flat on my stomach upon the dock, but before I could gather my wits, someone hauled me to my feet and dragged me by my ear toward the Trinidad. I had no choice but to follow.

  From the light of the lanterns, I glimpsed Rodrigo’s face and knew him to be as terrified as I. The man who held our ears was the marine with the pockmarked face. His eyes glittered in the lamplight.

  “Idiot boys,” he hissed under his breath.

  The marine thrust us into Magallanes’s cabin. The door closed. Light from candle flames flickered off the faces of captains and pilots. Faces that stared at me. The cabin reeked of candle smoke. Of dinner. Of sweat. Even of fear. A heavy silence pressed upon me, hot as my shame.

  The captain-general, who had sat in his chair regarding us with a brooding, unreadable expression, now sighed and rose to his feet. His shoulders drooped and he scowled, his dark brows drawing together. “Spies?” he asked.

  Desperate, I looked to Cartagena. My heart swelled with horror when he regarded me coolly, as if he had never seen me before, as if he knew not my name.

  Magallanes faced me, and suddenly he did not seem the weak, sniveling creature I had observed through the window hatch. And although my knees quaked, I thrust up my chin. “I am not a spy,” I said, surprised my voice sounded so calm.

  “Perhaps,” he replied softly, “you are a spy and a liar as well.”

  I made no answer, fearing what he might say next.

  His gaze darted from me to Rodrigo.

  Rodrigo stared unblinking into the captain-general’s eyes. And when Magallanes began to turn away, Rodrigo spat, the spittle landing on Magallanes’s boot.

  An unearthly silence filled the room.

  Magallanes stared at his boot, blinking, making no move to wipe the spit away.

  Then for the first time since our entrance, Cartagena spoke. “Kill them.”

  I was grabbed and my arms thrust behind me. The marine bound my wrists with strong cord. I should have spoken aloud. I should have told them that Cartagena had commanded us to spy, but my mouth filled with dryness and I could not speak. My pride was too great. And in that moment, I hated Cartagena.

  The marine pulled us toward the door.

  “Wait,” said Magallanes, with a wave of his hand. He turned to gaze at me. “These boys. To which ship are they assigned?”

  “The San Antonio,” someone replied.

  Magallanes closed his eyes and sighed. We waited while he said nothing, his forehead creased with thought. Finally, he spoke, “My cabin boy jumped ship yesterday.” He paused before continuing. “Reassign these crewmen to the Trinidad. Captain Cartagena should no longer be burdened with such scum. Their conduct shall now be my responsibility.”

  I glanced at Cartagena. A look of triumph spread over the young captain’s face, a look which he quickly masked. His lips curled slightly. “As you wish, Captain-General.” In a swirl of Castilian wool, he gathered his cloak about him, bowed to Magallanes, and left.

  Rodrigo and I returned to the San Antonio for our possessions.

  “Why didn’t Cartagena tell him we were only following orders?” I asked angrily, kicking my bedding.

  Rodrigo smiled. “Did you see the way I handled the captain-general?”

  I slammed my sea chest closed and cinched the straps tight. “And why did Cartagena order us killed? What would have happened if Magallanes had agreed? What then?”

  Rodrigo folded a shirt and placed it in his sea chest. “I would spit on his boot again if I had the chance. A hundred times. A thousand. Portuguese pig.”

  “Rodrigo! You’re not listening to me!”

  “Why should I? You’re boring and have only one thing to say. Besides, you have not said anything about how I humiliated the captain-general.”

  “What do you want me to say? That you are a fine spitter and have great accuracy?”

  “All right,” answered Rodrigo.

  “All right, what?”

  “All right, you may say that.”

  “For the sake of God, Rodrigo, this is serious!”

  Just then, a dog growled, low and deep-chested. I turned, startled. Cartagena stood stooped under the shadow of the quarterdeck. Now he stepped into the lantern light of the waist deck, along with his two massive dogs. “Congratulations. You managed to fool a crusty old commander. You played your parts to perfection, as I had hoped. My compliments to both of you for a job well done.” Cartagena made a sweeping bow as a mocking smile played at the corner of his lips.

  I narrowed my eyes. “We coul
d have been killed! Why did you—”

  “Mateo!” hissed Rodrigo, a look of caution blazing in his eyes.

  One of the dogs growled. Cartagena laid a hand upon its head, sighing heavily. “Listen carefully, both of you, I’ve not much time. You must find that message from Spain. When I questioned Magallanes about it, he said it was of a personal family nature, but he is a liar. You must find it and report to me all you see and hear.”

  So that was it! He had planned the whole thing so we could become his spies aboard the Trinidad! “I will not spy for you,” I said. “You used us.”

  With a look of irritation, he waved his hand to silence me. “No harm would have come to you, I assure you. Come, boy, what do you think of me? Do you think me a murderer?”

  I crossed my arms.

  “Believe me, boy, it was a calculated risk. I knew Magallanes would save you. He is weak. He cannot stomach harsh penalties. Pah! Clubfoot showed no spirit. I truly believe that had we spat in his face he would scarce have dared raise a ’kerchief to wipe the spittle away.”

  Suddenly Cartagena’s face hardened, and he leaped over and grabbed my arm. He squeezed so hard I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. “Do not disappoint me, boy. Remember, though you now serve aboard the Trinidad, I am still your captain. I can slit your throat as easily as a rat’s.” He shoved me away. “Now be off, and remember what I said.”

  As I trudged up the Trinidad’s gangplank with my possessions, my heart sank. Espinosa was waiting for me, his arms crossed. No doubt he had heard what had happened at the council meeting. That I was a liar. A spy. Not to be trusted.