To the Edge of the World Read online

  “It would be better if Cartagena were captain-general rather than this limping fool.”

  “I would sooner have the storms back and die in an instant than waste away until the birds pick the flesh from my bones.”

  Only Espinosa remained loyal, his face rugged and lined, his voice low yet as commanding as if he were on the battlefield. He said the next man who reviled the captain-general would find his privies skewered on the point of a knife and tossed to the sharks. That silenced the men. After that they waited until Espinosa slept or went to the latrine before again reviling the captain-general in hoarse, throaty whispers.

  For myself, I knew not what to think. I knew only that I was sick with misery.

  Even the ship sickened. Tar oozed from the seams. Water seeped through the timbers. We manned the pumps in the hold, panting, sweat pouring from us as the stifling heat sucked the marrow from our bones. Ten minutes was the longest anyone could pump. I hated the hold. I hated the pumps. I hated the raw blisters on my hands. But I hated the thought of drowning even more.

  Two weeks after our misery began, clouds gathered. For a moment the pumps stopped. We gathered in the waist deck, breathless, waiting, hoping. The clouds opened, spattering us with hot, fat raindrops. After a few seconds, it was gone, and along with it our hope. We swelled with sticky moisture and despair, more miserable than before. Back we went to the hated pumps.

  Then one day as I sat listless upon the deck, cursing the day I met Espinosa, I felt what I had not felt in weeks. A breath of wind.

  It was almost a strange feeling, as if it did not belong. I raised my head. Did the others feel it, too? We looked at one another, startled. Then, above my head, the sails rippled. I slowly rose to my feet. Across the water I saw the sails of the four other ships snap, then billow, then tighten.

  I raised my arms as a gust of wind blew the hair from my face, as the clouds opened with a burst of rain, sweet-smelling and cool. Then Rodrigo was beside me. Naked from the waist up, we looped our arms and danced—laughing like children, whooping like savages.

  After we crossed the equator, our troubles began anew.

  Each evening Magallanes waited on the quarterdeck for each ship’s salute. But on this night, Cartagena’s ship, the San Antonio, kept her distance, the large ship mocking us with each dip of her bow. Cartagena stood on the quarterdeck with his dogs, smiling at the captain-general across the waters. Finally Magallanes left the quarterdeck, saying nothing, doing nothing, his hands linked behind his back as he limped to his cabin.

  “Coward!” muttered Rodrigo to his back.

  I could not meet Rodrigo’s eyes. Perhaps he had been right all along. Any honorable man would demand retribution at such an insult. If it were me, I would have leaped across the space between us and impaled Cartagena on the point of my sword . . . if I had a sword.

  Whispers spread among the crew like fire in the wind. What does this mean? Such open defiance. Did you see the way Cartagena looked at him? Is our captain-general a coward?

  Then Rodrigo did something foolish. He told someone about the letter. Within minutes, everyone knew. . . .

  Cartagena plans to kill Magallanes!

  Did you hear?

  Cartagena plans to kill Magallanes!

  Again, the next night, the same thing. Cartagena refused to salute. And again. How much longer would Magallanes allow this to continue? The very air seemed to shout, “Our captain-general is a coward!”

  On the third night, as stars clustered in the heavens like shells on the shore, the small ship Victoria pulled abreast and gave her salute. Captain Mendoza, one of the Spanish captains, then shouted, “Captain-General, sir, we have had an incident aboard.” Mendoza paused and I could have sworn his face colored under the light of the lanterns. “Our master was caught, how shall we say—flagrante delicto—in the arms of his lover, an apprentice seaman.”

  On each ship, the master was second in command to the captain. To accuse the master of such a crime brought immediate silence to the Trinidad’s crew. We had all been warned. This crime, described to me in repulsive detail by Rodrigo, was punishable by death. I crossed myself and saw the movement of other arms in the darkness.

  Magallanes sighed, and his face seemed to sag even more. “Very well. I shall arrange a court-martial with all captains and pilots for the morrow.”

  VII

  November 24-25, 1519

  The Trinidad hummed, vibrating like the strings of my guitar. It was the hum of voices, of cautious whispers.

  “The Spanish captains could not have asked for a better opportunity,” whispered Rodrigo later that night as a group of us crouched under the fo’c’sle. “At the court-martial, they will spring their trap.”

  I glanced around the circle of shadowed faces, remembering the letter, knowing Rodrigo likely spoke the truth.

  Rodrigo continued, “Cartagena will simply stab Magallanes with his knife. It will be as simple as—as—well, I don’t know. But it will be simple. I can tell you that.”

  “But the penalty for mutiny is death,” I reminded him.

  “Only for the loser, Mateo.”

  “Ah, don’t be so reckless.” A sailor stabbed his finger into Rodrigo’s chest. “For whether you live or die depends on which side you choose. So choose wisely. It might be the last choice you ever make. As for me, I shall choose Magallanes, for the power of Espinosa and the marines lies behind him.”

  The men in the circle grunted in agreement. But I could smell the uncertainty. Even from Rodrigo.

  During the night someone shook me awake. It was Espinosa. He held a lantern and his face glowed with an eerie light. Beside me, Rodrigo leaned on one elbow, his hair disheveled.

  “No doubt the court-martial is a trap,” Espinosa said, handing each of us a dagger. “I’ve arranged for the two of you to serve the wine and refreshments. It will be your duty to protect Magallanes.”

  I fingered the dagger, remembering how I had been caught spying, how Espinosa had questioned me afterward. Then you do trust me, I thought. But what about Rodrigo? Do you also trust him?

  I glanced at Rodrigo. His face was masked and his eyes slitted.

  Espinosa seemed not to notice, his voice heavy and grim. “I tell you, I would fill the cabin with marines if I could, but then the Spanish captains would not dare enter for fear of their lives. But the moment the door closes behind the Spanish captains, my marines shall be outside, ready to enter. Even now, they await my command. Naught shall come of this if we are prepared.”

  I did not admit my fear. I merely nodded, stuffing the dagger in my waistband under my shirt, feeling the press of cold steel against my skin. Until morning then.

  The court-martial was swift and brutal.

  Death. To be carried out once the fleet reached the shores of Brazil.

  Upon hearing the sentence, the master stood immovable, while his young lover, a pimply boy with darting eyes, screamed and crumpled to the floor. “Have mercy!” he shrieked. “In the name of the Blessed Virgin, have mercy! I don’t want to die!”

  Four marines entered the cabin and hauled them away. Long after the door closed behind them, the shrieks continued, “Mercy! Mercy!” until the captains and pilots shifted in their seats. Then came a thud and an animal grunt. Then silence. A silence that lingered like death.

  From across the room I saw Cartagena stare at Magallanes, unblinking. Behind him stood Rodrigo.

  Magallanes cleared his throat. “Shall we continue? We have much to discuss and the hour grows late. There is still some confusion over the evening’s salute. Perhaps we should review it again.”

  Cartagena yawned loudly. He propped his booted feet on the table and leaned back, looking disdainfully bored while the captain-general outlined proper procedure of the salute. When Magallanes finished, Cartagena heaved a sigh, removed his feet from the table, and said, “Finally. On to more important matters. There is still some confusion over the proper route agreed upon at the last council meeting. Perhaps we sh
ould review it again.”

  Magallanes seemed unperturbed. “As you wish.”

  I poured more wine while the captains and pilots spread charts upon the table, pointing and murmuring.

  A nervous atmosphere pulsed through the air, tense and waiting. I met Rodrigo’s gaze across the cabin. He looked away.

  I scanned the room, my hand sweaty, itching to grasp the hilt of my knife.

  Mendoza, captain of the Victoria and one of the three captains named in the letter, observed Magallanes with small, watchful eyes. Balding and stout, he groomed his beard with stubby fingers, each laden with a jeweled ring that flashed in the candlelight. Occasionally, he spoke a word or two, but mostly he watched the captain-general. It seemed to me his eyes grew smaller as he did so; perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I stood behind him anyway for I did not trust him.

  Opposite Mendoza sat Captain Quesada of the Concepción, a man younger than Cartagena. He was monstrous and pale, his bull-like neck corded with blue veins. Hair the shade of alabaster flowed past his shoulders, and he stared at Magallanes with eyes of winter, as if he were sculpted not of flesh and bone, but of marble. The letter had warned against Quesada, and I knew that he, like Mendoza, would side with Cartagena.

  But the letter had not mentioned Serrano, captain of the smallest ship, the Santiago. He, too, was Castilian. As I observed him, I wondered where his loyalties lay. He was the oldest of all the captains, older even than Magallanes. Unlike Quesada’s face, which was cold and hard, Serrano’s was soft and rounded, as if so many years of service had worn him down.

  Now, with the pilots and various others, the captains hunched over the charts. Cartagena’s comments, quiet at first, grew louder and louder. He glanced at Mendoza and Quesada as if gathering courage. “We would now have reached Brazil but for the bungling course chosen by the captain-general.”

  Again, the silence.

  Magallanes shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “If you had listened to me, we would not have spent two weeks caught in a gale, nearly losing our lives, and then three cursed weeks becalmed, wasting precious time and supplies.” Cartagena began to strut around the room. On his head perched a feathered cap, the brightly colored feather as haughty and gloating as Cartagena himself. “And tell me, mighty Captain-General, since you know all there is to know, what will we do once we reach Brazil? For all this time you have refused to disclose the route you plan to take. It is knowledge that until now you stubbornly have kept to yourself, but it is time to share it. After all,” Cartagena paused and glared at Magallanes, “what if something unfortunate were to happen to you?”

  There followed a silence. All stared at Cartagena and Magallanes. I reached into my shirt and grasped my dagger. I shall strike Mendoza first, I thought, realizing blankly that I had never before raised a hand against another human being. My heart hammered in my chest. I blinked sweat from my eyes.

  Finally, Magallanes raised his hand limply. “I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot share that information with you.”

  “I demand to know. Is there a secret passage through the southern continent?”

  Magallanes cleared his throat. “I must apologize, but as I said, I cannot share that information with you.”

  Cartagena’s face deepened in color, as scarlet as the feather. “And why, pray tell, can you not?”

  Magallanes sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have shared my intended route with King Carlos, and knowing the route, he authorized the expedition. That should be enough.”

  Cartagena’s mouth fell open. “Enough?” He laughed. A harsh, ringing laugh. “Enough? To know that the king, a feeble, pale boy of nineteen, a boy scarce strong enough to hold up his head, much less his crown, has agreed to your secret route? Pah! His chin is so large he can scarce chew properly or even close his mouth. A fly could penetrate the king’s lips without difficulty! Of course he would agree to any folly! He is a moron. No doubt if you planned to sail your ships over dry land, he would applaud your genius. Ah, the great Magallanes has done it again. He has reached the Far East by sailing westward over a vast continent whereas all other men who walk the earth must sail east around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope. He has snatched the spice trade from Portugal’s greedy fingers and delivered it to the king of Spain. Once again, he has achieved the impossible!”

  Cartagena’s voice hardened and he pointed to the other men. “But we, Captain-General, are not untried fools of nineteen. We are men who follow you on a dangerous voyage, and we demand to know! Is there, or is there not, a secret passage?”

  Magallanes brushed his dark beard and said nothing.

  Cartagena stood before Magallanes. He gazed about the room, pausing in turn to look at each of us. “You see this man before me? He is nothing.” Cartagena spat. “I will no longer obey the orders of a fool like Magallanes!”

  Suddenly, the captain-general sprang from his seat, grasped Cartagena by the front of his shirt, and slammed him into the bulkhead. “¡Sed Preso!” he hissed.

  Shaking with fury, Magallanes pulled Cartagena’s surprised face down until it was level with his own. “You have insulted me for the last time, Spaniard. Your insubordination has been witnessed by these men. By rights, I can order you killed. Here. Now.”

  Cartagena’s eyes widened. He licked his lips with a quick dart of his tongue. “Quesada, what are you waiting for, you idiot fool! Seize him!”

  Quesada flushed and his pulse throbbed in the blue veins of his neck. But he sat rooted, motionless. Behind him, Rodrigo paled, and I saw indecision in his eyes.

  Cartagena turned to Mendoza. “Mendoza, seize him, I say! Now is the chance we have been waiting for! It is three against one!”

  In front of me, Mendoza said through clenched teeth, “You are a fool, Cartagena.” And he turned his head away.

  “Indeed,” said Magallanes, spitting his words into Cartagena’s face. “A fool. You have just admitted to plotting mutiny.”

  Cartagena turned white. “But—I—I—”

  Magallanes barked an order and the door flung open. Espinosa and his marines crowded into the room. “Arrest Cartagena for mutiny. Put him in the stocks.”

  Four marines grabbed the struggling Cartagena. “I did not mean it the way it sounded!” he cried. “Please!” His face was no longer the face of a proud Castilian captain, but the face of a frightened young man. “It was a mistake! Forgive me! Captain-General, forgive me!” As the marines pulled him through the door, Cartagena’s feathered cap dropped to the floor.

  VIII

  November 25-December 22, 1519

  Ha!

  I laughed to see Cartagena in the stocks, his head and hands thrust through the openings as if he were a common sailor punished for swiping a hunk of cheese. Standing with my arms crossed, I gloried to see him brought low, to see him looking away from me for once, unable to meet my gaze.

  “Are you crazy? Are you completely insane?” Rodrigo asked me later, grasping the front of my shirt with his fist. “Remember the words Choose wisely? Cartagena is not a man to make your enemy. I hear he is the son of the most powerful bishop in Spain. I tell you, if you make him angry, Cartagena will not hesitate to kill you.”

  “That would be incredible, since he is in the stocks and cannot move.” I tried to pry off Rodrigo’s hand, but he refused to let go.

  “You laugh, Mateo, but this is not funny. You are an idiot if you think Cartagena will be in the stocks forever and a double idiot if you think there are not men who will do his bidding at the snap of his fingers.”

  His words rang true and I grew suddenly alarmed. I did not go around Cartagena anymore and felt only a grim relief when I learned he was stripped of his captaincy. On the San Antonio, his flag was lowered and the flag of a new captain raised to take its place. It was whispered that only his father’s high position as a bishop had prevented an execution.

  With Cartagena in the stocks, the fleet hoisted every scrap of sail and made good speed to Brazilian waters. On the sixth d
ay of December the crew of the Trinidad burst into cheers when a brightly colored land bird settled on the quarterdeck railing.

  All the next day, I smelled the scent of land. Rodrigo said it was the fragrance of jungle. I awakened the following day to the cry “Land ho!” We had been eleven weeks at sea.

  For five days we hugged the coastline and headed south. We dared not land, for this part of Brazil belonged to the Portuguese and we feared for our lives lest we fall into their hands. From the railings we watched as the land rolled by. Monkeys swung from tree to tree. Flocks of parrots sprang into flight, clouds of red, green, yellow, and blue. Insects swarmed aboard, buzzing and biting.

  “Do you think we will ever find a secret passage?” I asked Rodrigo. “Someone told me that the southern continent stretches both north and south forever and that it is impossible to go around.”

  “If no such passage exists, then this will be a short voyage. Unless we can sail over the jungle, that is.” Rodrigo walked away, muttering, “Only a Portuguese would think of sailing west to reach the east.”

  On the feast day of Santa Lucia, when the heat smothered us like fires from a blacksmith’s forge, we anchored in a bay surrounded by lush hills. Once ashore, I fell to my knees and crossed myself. It began to rain, a great rain that made my hair hang in strings. Beside me knelt Rodrigo, and for the first time in many days we smiled at each other.

  Crowds of natives swarmed the beach.

  We stared at one another. The natives and we, the men from across the sea. We stared while the rains poured and the dirt beneath us turned to mud.

  I stared at the women. How could I not? I had never seen a naked woman before. And there were hundreds of them. All naked. Beautiful and naked.

  “Paradise,” whispered Rodrigo, his eyes huge. “We’ve landed in paradise.”

  Trade began immediately. One of our men served as interpreter. A king of clubs or a queen of spades bought seven pineapples, a fruit both sweet and sour at the same time. A mirror bought ten chickens and two geese. A handful of beads bought a basket of fresh fish. Once it was discovered the native men had no metal tools, a hatchet bought one woman. If the sailor was lucky or the daughters especially ugly, one hatchet bought two. Trade was very brisk. Many men left their chores and could not be found.