Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (19 page)

Cabrillo tried to lift his concentration from Manuel, and said through puffy lips that made his words less distinct, “A second time?”

“He didn't tell me, sir. Not a word, but I was there, in Santiago, when you first met Father Lezcano and—”

“Ah, yes. So you were.”

“Now, he... he is so good to Viento and the other horses, sir.” His words trailed away, and then he muttered, “I wanted to tell you of his kindness to them.”

“You need not be concerned for our young priest, Mateo. I harbor no ill will toward him.”

“Even after he—forgive me, sir, but after he struck you?”

“I was wrong to berate him as I did, Mateo. I was tired, and I was worried about Manuel and frightened for Viento, but I was wrong to take these things out on another. Father Lezcano, perhaps with God's own help, has shown me that a man should recognize his mistakes even while being punished for them.”

Amazed, Mateo said, “But you are Captain-General, sir.”

“Is a captain-general allowed no mistakes?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Ever so many as you like.”

Cabrillo smiled with his eyes. “No, Mateo, I should be allowed no more than other men. Someday you may become an officer yourself, or lead men in other ways. If you or anyone else wishes to be worthy of leadership, he too must strive to face his wrongs honestly and learn from them.”

Mateo's brows furrowed deeply as he considered these words, and his mind found a special berth within his memory where he could tuck them away, a place from which he could easily retrieve them in the years ahead. He lifted a smile up to his uncle.

After resting peacefully for a little while and drinking some weak wine that Cabrillo held to his dry lips, Manuel felt strong enough to turn his head and eye his master's swollen mouth and purple-green jaw with perplexity.

In answer to this quizzical gaze, the captain-general cleared his throat and explained with wondrous specifics that he'd gone riding that afternoon and a cursed snake had spooked Viento. Before he could rein Viento in, Cabrillo had been carried into the forest where he collided with a tree branch that slammed into his mouth and knocked him flat on the ground. Thankfully, Father Lezcano and Mateo had come to his assistance and they'd tracked Viento down together before the spooked stallion could do anything worse than cut his shoulder, which was doing fine now.

Foggy as his mind was, Manuel found it a highly curious tale, considering the horse and rider involved, and he puzzled on it hazily as he drifted into an undisturbed sleep.

Throughout and after the telling of Cabrillo's imaginary account, Mateo sat listening from the corner of the cabin, as silent and still as a hare burrowed beneath the shadow of an eagle.

Chapter 9

A
TTACK

T
he strength of Manuel and the two other sickened men returned steadily as the fleet maneuvered mile after well-earned mile against a capricious breeze. And by the time they made a landing at a place they named Cabo de la Cruz, Cabrillo dared to breathe a sigh that celebrated the end of this relatively mild rampage of fever. Since this newest site offered no extraordinary enticements and since no Indians could be spotted, the captain-general decided not to tarry here. On the morning of their departure, Cabrillo stood on the foredeck as the cape slid away behind them and said to his pilot, “I wonder how long the nature of the land, both its fruitfulness and beauty, will continue to improve as we advance northward. See, there, how the beaches are giving way to occasional bluffs of reddish soil, and the trees are becoming wonderfully large, with some groves so thick they hide whatever lies within them. I keep thinking of the giant driftwood we found on Isla San Agustin. How I would love to walk in that forest.”

“As would I, sir. But, do you imagine that the animals living there are as extraordinarily large as those trees?”

Cabrillo smiled. “If so, we had better hope they dislike the taste of red meat.”

As they stood leaning on bent elbows atop the railing, absorbed in their conversation, both men suddenly caught sight of movement up the coastline a moment before their lookout shouted, “Indians in boats, Captain-General! Heading ashore a quarter-league ahead, sir!”

There were seven canoes now being drawn from the sea and far onto the beach, each craft large enough to carry only two men. Cabrillo watched the Indians as his ships quickly drew nearer, and the natives stared back, their bodies tight with apprehension. They did not flee, but neither did they attempt to set their canoes back in the water.

“Shall we approach them, sir?” asked Pilot San Remón.

Cabrillo observed them a moment longer, then shook his head. “No, pilot, regrettably. Not in this unpredictable wind. We must sail on.”

The men of each culture continued to lock gazes until they'd completely lost sight of one another, and Cabrillo's curiosity about these people nagged at him as the fleet nosed ahead.

Not more than fifteen miles out of Cabo de la Cruz, though it felt more like ninety against the wind's bullying, they passed an island too small to coax them nearer and headed for a significantly larger, more promising harbor that beckoned from the mainland just beyond. They turned to the east and soon, lowering the sounding weights continuously and finding more than adequate depths, entered the mouth of a wide port that seemed to draw them in like an embrace. As always, they approached the anchorage site with care but saw nothing to cause concern. On the contrary, this harbor brought delight to the hearts of every man and boy who looked up from his tasks long enough to take in his surroundings.

They furled their sails, and at the northeast edge of the bay the command was given to release their anchors. With three crashing splashes the heavy iron weights hit the water, and their ships came to rest. The men readied their decks in high anticipation of going ashore, and even as hands moved and muscles strained the crews let their eyes devour this protected spot in quick, hungry bites.

Cabrillo's flat, oversized cap shaded his eyes as they skimmed the features of the beach and hills, his face breaking into a smile. With a deep-throated rumble of satisfaction, he said to San Remón, “I do like the look of that land, pilot. In fact, this place reminds me just a little of Spain. Look at those trees,” he said, pointing to a specific grove. “They resemble the floss-silk trees of home. And the colors blooming, have you ever seen such variety? This soil seems able to produce every imaginable form of vegetation. My fingers are itching to record them all.” He paused, his eyes still absorbing, and then said, “I wonder what breathing life awaits us here.”

Since no natives were visible Cabrillo had two launches quickly lowered, and he was among the first group of his men to head toward shore. Within the hour most of the rest of the crews had also landed and arrangements were already underway for the captain-general to officially claim the new port. While waiting for a felled tree to be shaped into a cross, and with soldiers forming a moving ring around them, Cabrillo hiked with Father Lezcano, Father Gamboa, Mateo, and Manuel up the slope of a hill overlooking the site chosen for the ceremony. He paused at a height of about sixty feet and turned to survey their port. A mild breeze cooled them where they stood gazing over the sun-kissed sea and coast. Cabrillo's eyes were shining when he said, “Such a perfect day. It makes the heart swell, does it not?”

All agreed, the priests giving praise to God.

After several moments Cabrillo drew his attention closer in to share a conspiratorial glance with Father Lezcano, and then asked his cabin boy, “Do you know what saint's feast arrives on Sunday, Mateo?”

“Why no, sir. I do not even know what day this is today.”

“It is Monday, the seventeenth of September, and you should know that in four days it will be the feast of the apostle San Mateo.” The boy's face lit up and Cabrillo satisfied his hopes by saying, “Fathers Gamboa and Lezcano believe it would only be right to name this harbor after him.”

“Truly, sir? It will be called San Mateo?”

“Truly, and you must remember everything about it so you can tell your family its characteristics when we return home.”

“Oh, I will, sir!”

“Now, off with you. The ceremony is about to begin.”

The rite of possession varied little from those that had come before, but anyone who happened to glance at Mateo during the ritual could read from his glowing face that this particular occasion would be recalled many times over the course of his life.

With the final words spoken and the cross resting securely on the very spot where Cabrillo had stood not long before, he sent the water gatherers out on their search and had the horses brought ashore. Upon the scouting party's successful return he allowed himself the pleasure of gathering a small company together intent on striking a different path from which to investigate the interior. As armaments and small packs were being lifted to shoulders Manuel approached his commander and asked, “Captain-General, will you allow me to come with you?”

Cabrillo could see that the thought of being left behind was painful to his former slave and newest sailor, but he said, “Less than a week ago you lay at death's gate, Manuel.”

“Yes, sir, but it would make me stronger to walk awhile.”

“I have noticed over the last few days,” Cabrillo said, considering, “that you have been eating enough for two men. You have gained back a little of the flesh the fever stole. Perhaps it would do you good to stretch your legs a bit. Very well, but carry nothing heavier than a shield, and if you start to tire return to camp at once.”

“At once, sir,” Manuel promised, letting his expression reveal how heartbreaking it would be to hold him to such a vow. Cabrillo cast him a glare affirming his intention to do just that, and then let it pass to set the party in motion.

They had advanced perhaps a mile and a half northeastward when Manuel slowly crouched down ahead of Cabrillo and said with hushed excitement, “Captain-General, strange animals straight ahead.”

They all hunched lower as word was passed back along the line, and they inched forward to scan the grassy savanna until they'd each spied the alien creatures. “Vargas,” Cabrillo called softly over his shoulder to the sergeant-major, known for his keen far-sightedness, “can you guess what they are?”

“From this distance, sir, they look something like the long-necked sheep of Peru, except for those dark, pronged horns.”

“Yes, and their different coloring.” To Cabrillo, the gleaming white of their rumps and bellies handsomely set off their rich tan backs and black throats and noses. “Come, we must get closer.”

Creeping nearer, however, was not quite as readily accomplished as he had hoped. The moment the men stepped into the open the herd of at least a hundred animals skittered several yards farther away and continued to show a frustrating talent for maintaining a distance of just beyond crossbow range. After several more increasingly exasperating attempts to reduce the expanse between them, Cabrillo said, “Perhaps we can approach them with more success from horseback.”

He left a handful of men behind to keep the four-legged beasts in sight while he and the others trotted back to the encampment. His men cleared a path for them when he returned riding his young mare, Luna, accompanied by Captain Ferrelo on Seguro.

“There,” Cabrillo said, pointing Ferrelo toward the herd of deer. The horses saw them too, and began to blow and sidle in eagerness, making their riders tighten their knees and firm their grips to hold them to a measured walk. Cabrillo ordered his men to hang back as the riders slowly advanced.

For this hunt Cabrillo had chosen to carry a long bow, as did Ferrelo, and they each already held an arrow with its iron tip pointed downward across the center of his bow. Ferrelo's horse breathed a short, anxious nicker and the heads of several grazing deer jerked up. Ferrelo leaned down slightly and whispered cautions to the gelding, and they proceeded deliberately forward.

The deer stared alertly but none moved. One of the herd's leaders took a tentative step toward the riders, and then another. Cabrillo and Ferrelo exchanged a subtle glance and brought their bows up in a careful, protracted movement.

As if warned by an abrupt cry of alarm the herd exploded. Needing nothing beyond instinct and anticipation of her master's wishes, Luna bolted after their prey. Cabrillo's mind and body screamed to let her run but, knowing that all-out exertion would be unwise for his mare after her recent periods of confinement, he held her to a swift gallop, and Ferrelo kept Segura to a similar pace. The deer had no such restraints and they flew as if weightless before them. “Look at them run!” breathed Cabrillo with both admiration and regret.

With incredible agility the deer sprang, shifted, and raced ahead. Cabrillo quickly realized they could not lessen the distance between them unless the horses were given their heads, and he refused to risk it. He suspected that the deer were beyond the range of his bow but decided to take at least one quick, desperate shot. Nocking his arrow, he pulled back on the bowstring, held his breath as he steadied his aim, and freed the shaft. Somehow the arrow flew as far as the last of the disappearing deer, but it missed its rapidly shifting mark by at least ten feet. Ferrelo too let loose an arrow but achieved the same disappointing result.