Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (21 page)

Vargas strode into the water up to the guilty man and slapped him so hard across the mouth that he nearly tumbled into the fish. Struggling to keep his balance as well as his hold on the net, and knowing he had committed a punishable transgression, the fisherman clamped his stinging mouth shut.

Expecting it, yet intending to take over if necessary, Cabrillo heard Vargas order, “Get the boat into the water. This load of fish will be the only one taken tonight.”

The soldiers pushed off and rowed close to the net, steadying the boat until the fishermen could board while balancing their load alongside. When all had settled in, the soldiers began to pull at their oars and slowly set the heavily loaded launch in motion toward the
San Salvador
.

They'd rowed only a few strokes when Father Lezcano espied movement in the trees; it was bodies heading toward the boat. “Captain-General, look there!”

Seeing them at once, Cabrillo called in an undertone, “Natives approaching, sergeant-major.” But Vargas, watching from the launch's bow, was already aware of the Indians. His and two other arquebuses were now lifting and aiming as the two remaining soldiers kept rowing and four of the sailors grabbed for the free oars. With a steady voice that carried across the water, Cabrillo commanded, “At the first sign of trouble, men, let loose that net.” Glancing from his advancing boat to the shore, he headed toward his second launch. Fully knowing that Manuel would meet him there with his weapons, he hurried along signaling to several men who had lined up and in readiness to accompany him. He reached the railing of his main deck and shot a glance toward
La Victoria
, seeing that Captain Ferrelo was already sending men over the side. Captain Correa's boat was also being boarded.

Without further warning, the unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight issued from the trees, and Cabrillo heard the cries of at least two of his fishermen as arrows found them in the boat. Vargas and his men instantly lit their guns and released a volley that lacerated the brush concealing the archers. Cursing under his breath, Cabrillo ordered his master gunner to load the swivel guns and bombardeta and stand by. One sharp nod at Pilot San Remón shifted his command of the ship and hastened men already heading toward battle stations. The captains of
La Victoria
and the
San Miguel
followed these actions in quick succession.

Cabrillo threw himself over the railing, clung to the rigging to steady his landing, and dropped into his launch with a thud. Manuel, his arms loaded with his master's helmet, weapons, and leather breastplate, boarded two steps behind him. Eight more men soon found their seats near them, shoved off, and sailors sawed at the oars while soldiers aimed their weapons. Scanning the beach and straining to hear any sound from shore as Manuel deftly secured the side straps of his breastplate, Cabrillo then raised his own crossbow. His eyes could detect no movement, and all his ears could perceive were the sharp rustlings of foliage caused by men in retreat.

The three ship's boats met the launch of the fishermen at nearly the same time. Vargas tugged at an arrow protruding from his leather armor two inches below the position of his heart. He gritted his teeth and with one powerful yank he pulled the arrow free, let loose an obscene curse, gulped back a couple of breaths, and lied before Cabrillo could ask, “Nothing but a scratch, sir, thanks to this thick bull hide.”

The fishermen had had no body protection other than their linen shirts and cotton vests. Fortunately for them the arrows had managed to strike nothing more critical than a thigh and a shoulder. With gazes still scraping the shore, the crew of the other boats closed ranks around the fishing launch, and they all returned to their ships.

With double watches posted and extra lamps lit that night, the two remaining arrows were removed and awarded to the wounded sailors as trophies. Dr. Fuentes assured the captain-general that the fishermen's gashes had been neatly sewn and should heal quickly, adding his always-anticipated caveat, “barring any putrefaction.” Vargas, much to Dr. Fuentes' loud disapproval, had refused medical treatment, preferring to bathe his hurt in seawater and fresh air and to bear the relatively small wound with pride. Although released from the rest of his watch, Vargas remained on the main deck and graciously retold the story of the attack to those who had been below decks when the short burst of excitement took place. Since the wounded had received an extra ration of wine, the sergeant major's tale proved a lively diversion for the healthy, but the two wounded sailors were soon fast asleep.

Well after midnight the knot in Cabrillo's stomach began to loosen at last. He had endured this twisting sensation many times before, whenever one of his men had been hurt in battle. Though this encounter had been extremely mild compared to his past campaigns, tonight the injuries to his sailors and the potential for more pain or death tomorrow made him feel old. He felt the weight of too many battles, too many men lost. Staring at the shoreline still, he heard Manuel step to the rail beside him and saw his large dark hands wrap around the wood. He felt him studying his mood, reading his mind, so he wasn't surprised when he heard him say, “Dr. Fuentes said they will be fine, sir.”

“He did, yes.”

“What will you do, sir, when the sun comes?”

Cabrillo shook his head, and his words came slowly. “What will I do? The answer would be much simpler if I wanted to fight them, or if I did not understand why they fired upon us tonight. None of our men were lost, so the harm they inflicted was not severe. Even so, we must protect ourselves, and we should make a stand for the sake of those who may come after us. Word spreads far and quick among these people, and if we appear weak or cowardly it will only increase the risk of other attacks along our route.” He lifted his face, listening, as if the answer resided with the moon and stars. After a little time had passed, he said, “Vengeance alone is an unworthy excuse for a war. I will strive for patience, Manuel, and hope that dawn sheds a calming light on their warriors. If they do not attack again, we may be given the chance to change their opinions of us. I will try to offer proof that I meant what I said yesterday about intending these people no harm.”

“Then, sir,” said Manuel, “I will pray they can see what you offer.”

Pilot San Remón strolled over to join them and Cabrillo straightened. “Is all well, pilot?”

“Everything is quiet, sir. I take comfort in seeing no canoes near the water.”

“Well, then, I have been too long on this deck during your watch. I leave the
San Salvador
in your able hands.” He descended to his cabin without hurry, knowing he would sleep little, if at all. Manuel took up his place by the door, wrapped himself in his woolen blanket, and breathed deeply until each inhale had become a gravelly snore.

Sitting at his writing desk with a sharpened quill poised in his hand, Cabrillo heard the snoring only as a soothing hum. At the edge of his lamplight's glow he noticed the impressive thickness of the stacked letters he'd written to Beatriz. He mused about how tall that stack might grow by the time he returned to her. Lifting the lid of his bronze inkpot, dipping his quill, and tapping the tip against the inner edge of the pot, he reflected on the happenings of this day. What would he write to Beatriz about, and what would he chose to withhold so she would not worry overly? At this thought he smiled at himself, realizing how foolish it was to imagine his wife reading a letter and growing afraid for his safety before he could reassure her in person. What chance was there of encountering a homebound ship willing to deliver his written words in these far-off waters?

Chapter 10

T
RADE AND TOLERANCE

R
ed-eyed and heavy-lidded, Cabrillo met the rising sun, and its light revealed that not a soul stirred ashore. Summoning the captains of his other ships, Cabrillo communicated his intention to maintain peaceful ties with these natives. No aggressive action would be inflicted without further provocation. So the men of the fleet waited and watched, their armaments sharpened and primed, but minutes accumulated into an hour and still no Indian showed himself. Nonetheless, Cabrillo did not doubt that their every motion was being observed.

Since all remained quiet around their anchorage the officers met again in Cabrillo's cabin and agreed upon the desirability of learning more about this lush, protective port. “The governor will be hungry to learn all we can gather.” He bent over a rough map he and his pilot had already begun sketching. “The far end appears to lie at least five leagues away, and though we have seen little smoke there may be villages hidden along the length of it. Captain Correa, the
San Miguel
is best suited to tour the harbor.”

“That she is, Captain-General. And she's ready and willing.”

“If nothing delays you, report back to me before noon. Fire a bercos volley if you need aid, but Captain, try diligently to avoid any violence with these natives. We walk a delicate plank here. I want to strengthen it. God willing, while you are gone Captain Ferrelo and I will be approached by Indians more interested in trade than war.”

“I shall hope so, sir,” Correa said. His bow was returned, concluding their discussion.

Cabrillo watched the
San Miguel
lift her sails and nose southeastward into the depths of the gently arcing harbor, then grow smaller and smaller until she was completely lost from view. His inability to mark her further progress generated a feeling of uneasiness, and as the hours of her absence accumulated he had to make an ever greater effort to conceal his apprehension for her welfare. This calm façade became nearly impossible to maintain, however, when noon came and went and shadows on land and ships grew to half their full length. At last, minutes after the hour of four had been hailed, the lookout in the maintop shouted, “There she is, sir, just rounding the spit!”

Now working to hide his relief just as he had veiled his concern, Cabrillo scanned the bergantine for any signs of attack but found none. He grew even more anxious to learn what had delayed the
San Miguel's
return, and Captain Correa wasted no time in presenting himself to the captain-general. He didn't come alone. As he set foot on the flagship he presented Cabrillo with two wide-eyed Indian boys.

Correa said, “Some of my men came upon these young whelps while filling water barrels, sir. I thought they might be a means of fostering good will, just as our treatment of the women and child at Puerto de la Posesión produced friendly fruit. So here they are.”

Cabrillo eyed his captain with displeasure. How the hell would this new development play out with the locals?

He asked Captain Correa, “Did you see anyone else, there or elsewhere?”

“Not one, sir.”

“All right, Captain, we will discuss this later. First we must see to your young captives.”

He studied his new charges more closely and guessed them to be eight and ten years old. Even so young they stood uncowering before him. Calling Father Lezcano nearer and using signs and words he tried to put the boys at ease by saying, “You are welcome on my ship.”

To the surprise of all, and making it obvious that Correa had already taken steps toward détente, the older boy pointed to himself and then his brother and said, “Friend, friend.”

Cabrillo's grin couldn't have been more genuine. “Fine!” He tapped his own chest and said, “I am your friend too.”

Both boys' faces lit up with toothy smiles of their own.

“Manuel, find these young fellows some clothing. They are to be fed and treated as dignitaries. Father Lezcano, your assistance with communication would be welcome.”

In moments the boys sat upon the deck amid officers and crew almost lost in shirts far too large for such juvenile frames and wearing expressions of happy bewilderment. Cabrillo kindly presented them each with a small pouch of glass beads and a few metal fishhooks. These simple gifts delighted the youngsters enough to extract repeated gestures of gratitude. The captain-general then questioned them gently for some time about their people, but he learned little. The boys' glances toward shore were becoming more frequent, their apprehension growing.

To Father Lezcano, Cabrillo said, “Come, they must be returned to their parents before their absence causes mischief. The light is fading.”

“Captain Correa, please return the boys to the place you found them. And do not tarry. I am anxious to hear every aspect about what you saw while exploring.”

“I will return shortly, sir,” Correa promised.

Turning to the boys, Cabrillo said, “My young friends, you likely will not understand this, but I want you to take our greetings to your parents.” Father Lezcano signed these last words again and the boys bowed just as they'd seen Cabrillo's men do.

Within two hours Correa proved to be as good as his word. Upon the second reunion with the
San Miguel
, with darkness claiming its transitory right to earth and sky, Cabrillo and Correa met on the flagship, cloistered themselves in the commander's cabin, and talked into the depths of the night. Only after the captain-general had heard and recorded all that Correa could remember of that day did he bid him a good night, drag himself to his own bunk, and allow his exhausted body and mind to surrender to sleep.

Pilot San Remón made it a point, as well as an order to the men of the
San Salvador
, that the captain-general was not to be awakened before dawn. Yet, in the end, it was the pilot himself who called Cabrillo from his dreams at the first sign of light, saying, “I am very sorry to disturb you, sir, but three natives are paddling toward our ship.”

Rubbing his eyes and then yawning as he tugged on his doublet, Cabrillo asked, “Only three? This sounds hopeful, pilot. Is it the same three we spoke with on the beach?”