Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (2 page)

M
AP
: P
UERTO DE LAS
C
ANOAS
, P
OINT
S
AL
, I
SLE DE
P
OSESIÓN

M
AP
: P
UEBLO DE LAS
S
ARDINAS TO
P
OINT
R
EYES

T
HE
A
UTHOR

Chapter 1

M
ARKS OF THE LASH

January 29, 1542

I
f fate whispered one of its rare and subtle warnings along that reckless ride, not a single cautioning word reached the young messenger. Deaf and blind to the repercussions ahead, he spurred his mount on through the pelting rain over roads pocked with puddles and sliced by gullies, flinging mud with every pounding footfall. Snapping his quirt sharply against the horse's wet flank, his elbow clutched the pouch sheltered beneath his cloak in an effort to keep the contents dry until he could surrender them to their legitimate owner. Yet each thoughtless and impatient lash of that short whip would soon inextricably bind its wielder to a stranger who would shadow the rest of his life.

Lifting his head and squinting into the assaulting wetness, the rider took a sweeping glance at the devastation he flew toward. He thought he'd prepared himself, but a tight exhale of, “Our Lady, save us,” escaped him as he pushed on. There ahead were the remains of what four months earlier had been the blossoming village of Santiago, Guatemala. Today it looked like the mutilated victim of a vengeful god, and perhaps it was.

A massive wide-based volcano, its peak diminished and marred by a collapsed cone, loomed ever larger as he rode. The natives called it Hunaphu after the god that had so recently exposed his self-destructive tendencies in order to demonstrate an undeniable might. Preceded by many days of downpour, a tremor had jolted the volcano's rain-filled crater so viciously that it had burst outward with a roar heard miles away, unleashing floodwaters upon the town and burying hundreds of inhabitants in moments.

Like most people in Guatemala and Mexico, the rider had received word of the mountain-rattling quake and its grim aftermath, but today he was gripped by the immeasurable difference between the senses of hearing and sight. The vivid outcome, though so many days had passed since the original disaster, tightened the stomach of the uninitiated. He steadied his breathing and let his eyes take it in.

Due to recurring rains, water still flowed from the caldera's torn lip like blood from an unstaunched wound: a painful reminder for the humans below of the impermanence of life. Dark earthen mounds scarred the southern hem of the volcano, divulging the presence of dozens of mass graves. Here and there scavenger-picked body parts of cattle, sheep, goats, and horses protruded from the silt. The latest rain had somehow stirred to life a lingering stench that now probed the air in search of vulnerable nostrils.

As the messenger rode swiftly on, he began to parallel intermittent lines of bent figures toiling amid broken tools, spoiled crops, bent trees, and crumbled adobe. These curving human chords of filthy peasants and slaves pointed toward the heart of town where the wealthier citizens had resided. Shortly after the quake, most local workers had taken up the task of constructing a new town four miles to the north. The laborers who still toiled under the silhouette of the volatile volcano could only be clinging to the hope, for themselves or their owners, of salvaging what lay unclaimed beneath the ruins.

The horseman slowed only slightly when the city's center came into clear view. There, he could see that the once dignified stone cathedral and bishop's house now lay in crude chunks and fallen timbers, half-submerged in wandering brown pools. On the northern side of the plaza, the public buildings and governor's residence had fared little better. A small number of ragged huts had been newly erected from salvaged planks and beams, and near one of these structures several soldiers guarded their unimpressive post. The rider drew his horse to an unsteady halt before the men and called out, “Where can I find Captain Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo?”

“Who asks to see him?”

The messenger stated his name and business.

“There, sir,” said the guard, cocking his head and pointing southward, “with that group standing beside the foundation of his old home.”

Giving a quick nod and spurring his horse toward that destination, the rider soon skirted the boulder-strewn town square and spotted a man matching the description he'd heard many times.

At this newcomer's approach several slaves paused in their digging. Some raised their gazes toward the courier, but any expressions of curiosity were dulled by a bleakness chiseled from the hammering of repeated tragedies. Two young pages looked on as each held a feed bucket to the muzzle of a horse tethered beside the open-walled shelter. A short, heavyset gentleman standing under the roof beside Cabrillo lowered a map they'd been studying. Cabrillo lifted his face, took in the horse and rider at a glance, and tightened his jaw.

At forty-two years of age, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo had the facial features, shoulder breadth, and corporal bearing of one who had survived countless trials, at least in part, by sheer strength. A wild mane of black, curly hair and closely trimmed beard framed his dark, narrow face. The quality of his shirt, doublet, and boots would have distinguished him as a gentleman even without the presence of the exquisitely crafted sword at his belt. As the messenger nudged his horse close enough to observe the captain's face plainly, he saw that the scar from an old wound trailed down his jaw line from right ear to chin. A shallower scar, roughly the size of a one-real coin, rested high on his left cheek. Any man with such a past might carry similar scars, but what surprised the rider enough to momentarily hold his stare were the deep-set and pensive eyes now aimed at him, eyes that seemed more fittingly possessed by a wizened scholar than this distinguished leader of warriors.

The messenger was so struck by Cabrillo's piercing gaze that he failed to notice the set of his jaw. Leaping from his mount, the youth stated officially, “I have a message for Captain Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. Do I have the pleasure of addressing that gentleman?”

The messenger paused with the expectation of being invited into the shelter, his hand resting protectively on the pouch as rain sputtered down to drip from his hair and clothes, but he was given not a crumb of attention. Instead, all heads turned as Cabrillo stepped from his shelter into the heavy drizzle and took possession of the winded horse's reins. One of his pages hurried forward to assume the stallion's care, but Cabrillo waved him back. Slowly, Cabrillo smoothed his right hand over the horse's wet-darkened bay coat and murmured unintelligible phrases. At this soft touch and calm voice the animal's legs, all the way down to one white and three dark stockings, gradually relaxed and grew still. Coming to the horse's head, Cabrillo took gentle hold of both sides of the bridle and peered into the great brown eyes. Through his face and body, through means too delicate to specify, Cabrillo appeared to communicate a worthiness of trust and an offer of benevolence. The horse's nose inched forward with each slowing breath, and after taking in Cabrillo's scent its breathing eased even more. With a soft whicker, the stallion brought its ears forward and nudged Cabrillo's offered hand. Still unhurriedly, and seemingly unaware of the drenching he was receiving, Cabrillo circled the mount a second time and finally paused beside its right flank.

The rider betrayed his building restlessness by taking a step forward. “Sir, the message I bring—”

“Come here,” Cabrillo ordered in a voice made more compelling by its tightly controlled faintness. The messenger obeyed.

For the first time Cabrillo faced him directly. The slender courier was handsome, almost fair, and could be no more than twenty years of age. “What is your name?”

Under this intense and evidently displeased scrutiny, the messenger's expression lost a portion of its certainty. “I am Julian de Lezcano, acting as messenger for our most illustrious viceroy, Don Antonio de Mendoza.”

Without taking his eyes from Lezcano, Cabrillo said in a more conversational tone to his companion in the hut, “Diego, the men may return to work.”

That gentleman nodded, the overseer barked the diggers back into action, and the pages locked their eyes on the feed buckets. All ears, however, strained toward the coming exchange.

Noting a lessening in the rain, Lezcano began to undo the pouch's ties but Cabrillo stilled his hand with a question. “Tell me, messenger Lezcano, what have you heard of me?”

“Sir? Well, sir, I have heard that you served the Crown with great distinction in the conquests of Tenochtitlán, Oaxaca, and Tututepec under General Cortés.” Cabrillo waited in silence so the messenger went on, gaining a little momentum as he spoke. “More recently you commanded companies under General Alvarado and won many battles in lands to the south. Also, you have overseen the construction of ships, which you then commendably captained. Your achievements have been recognized and rewarded through gifts of several valuable properties.” Cabrillo stood fixedly, obviously unimpressed by this flattering recital and apparently awaiting something of a wholly different nature, so Lezcano tried again. “Your success has earned you the right to own horses and —”

Cabrillo stopped him there. “Yes, I maintain the right to own horses, an honor I hold very dear.” The steel in his voice had begun to reveal its edge. “Any man fortunate enough to ride so proud an animal should understand its worth. Do you own this horse, Lezcano?”

He hesitated for an instant. “No, sir. It is the property of Viceroy Mendoza.”

“Look at his flank and belly. Tell me what you see?”

The quickest of glimpses revealed the swelling welts, but rather than answering directly Lezcano made the mistake of trying to explain. “As ordered, sir, I rode first to your home in New Santiago. You were not there, so I came south in all haste. I was certain you would want the message with little more delay.”

“Did you whip this horse along the entire length of that final distance, nearly two leagues?”

Lezcano's voice barely managed to hide his growing discomfort. “I meant only to deliver Viceroy Mendoza's message with the speed he bade me to maintain, sir.”

The next words were conveyed like sword strokes. “Then deliver your message.”

Cabrillo grasped the oilskin wrapped papers from Lezcano's outstretched glove and immediately handed them to Diego within the shelter. “Now you may leave.”

“May... sir, may I take your response to the viceroy?”

“I will send it with another messenger.”

Weary, hungry, heavily weighted by water and mud, and frustrated by this dismissive rebuff, Lezcano could see no possibility of mercy in the disapproving eyes that held him. He darted a glance at the other gentleman, but Diego Sánchez de Ortega merely studied his notes more closely. Now grimly resolved that no courtesies would be extended, Lezcano reached for the reins still held by Cabrillo.

“No. You will walk.”

Lezcano asked in disbelief, “Walk, sir?”

“All the way back to the garrison at Iximché. Your returning those twenty-some leagues without a mount will give your horse time to recover, and you time to reflect.”

Lezcano's body had stiffened more tautly with each word, and he now just managed to hold his voice level. “Sir, today I act as a mere messenger, as a special favor to our viceroy, but I must inform you that I am of noble blood. My family and that of our viceroy have lived near one another in Castile for hundreds of years.”

Cabrillo restrained his own anger to momentarily disarm the defensiveness rising before him. “A man's family can not always teach him what must be learned. Sometimes the most essential instructions are left to others, so hear me. In this land one horse can save the lives of ten men, twenty, if a battle is raging. You have abused a fine horse over miles of roads harsh enough to kill you both. That animal,” he said, pointing to the exhausted mount, “has the best heart among us all. If you lack the capacity to see such things for yourself, you had better learn how before speaking again of noble blood. Nobility is more than a birthright.”

As these words cascaded down upon Lezcano, causing far greater discomfort than the drops descending from the clouds, the breath left his pride-expanded chest. Yet an air of defiance remained. “Perhaps I do have much to learn, sir. My destiny has not led me to serve in His Majesty's mounted military, so some lessons are new to me. I have been trained to give service of another kind. However, on this occasion I have been especially entrusted to deliver this message and return directly to the viceroy with your response. I ask you once again, sir, if I may be allowed to fulfill that mission. I promise to heed your words and to never again misuse a horse, but I entreat you to devise another means of satisfying yourself that I will keep this commitment.”

Cabrillo considered the request as his hand gently glided around the welts on the horse's flank. At last, he said, “Very well. Count these lash marks.”

Lezcano's heart began to sink and it grew heavier with each welt he counted. After numbering them twice he said clearly, “Seventeen marks, sir.”

“Yes. Here, then, is your choice. Rather than immediately retracing your miles to Iximché on foot, you may rest and eat, and I will give you my response to the viceroy's message. You may then return riding a horse I will provide. However, if you choose to leave mounted you will be accompanied by two of my men, and at a quiet place outside of town you will halt long enough for them to mark your back with seventeen lash strokes. No one but my men will witness this punishment, and they will not recount what takes place. What you tell Viceroy Mendoza of the event will be your choice. In time, the evidence of the lash will fade, but I trust the lesson will not.”