Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (4 page)

“Beatriz, my lady and my wife, I will never find another such as you. That I know without looking at others. Wherever I am, I will carry you in my thoughts.” Drawing her close, he kissed her deeply, lingeringly.

She almost surrendered again to his questing mouth and hands and to the desires of her own body, but she gradually drew back. With a sigh, she said, “There is not much time, and I must speak to you.” Reluctantly standing, she moved slowly from his side.

“Please do not scold me for asking this, Juan, because I must.” She took a steadying breath. “If you find the island of Calafia, will you go ashore?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Diego told me about her and her land.”

“Your brother is a dreamer.”

“He said the island is inhabited by women with gleaming black skin and great stature, who guard mountains of gold and pearls. He claimed that the women will kill any man who comes near unless he impresses them with his looks and intelligence, and even such a man is permitted to live only long enough to mate.” Cabrillo tried to forestall her with another shake of his head, but she pushed on with rising emotion. “Any male infants born from their couplings are also killed, Juan. Only female babies are permitted to live.”

“My dear wife,” said Cabrillo, trying not to grin, “you sound as susceptible to myths and superstitions as my sailors. Those tales of Calafia come from a novel written long ago. There are no giant women, no mountains of gold.”

“But Cortés himself named the land you will sail to
California
, after Calafia.”

“His fleet found pearls in the bay where they anchored, and he probably recalled the novel's descriptions. Believe me, Beatriz, Calafia is no more than a legendary creature. She poses no threat to either of us.”

“Very well,” she said, slightly less than convinced, “but the dangers you have encountered in the past were not based on legends. What if you meet warriors like the Aztecs or the Maya, people who cut the hearts from living men?” She momentarily stilled her words, trying to reign in her fears. “Please forgive my lack of courage, Juan, but that thought chills me to my soul. I need to believe that this fate does not await you.”

“Beatriz, what brings such things to your mind now? You know those practices were stopped long ago.”

She bit her lower lip as she read his face, knowing she was about to stretch his tolerance, and then admitted hurriedly, “Yesterday Diego told me what you and he saw after the battle of Tenochtitlán. He described the inner chamber of the pyramid you entered with Cortés, and what it was like to stand before the altars of their gods.”

At the mention of that dreadful place Cabrillo instinctively worked to suppress his memory but failed. “Those altars have been torn down. Those days are gone.”

“Are they, Juan? Everywhere? I pray that is so, but do you truly believe it?”

“I do, Beatriz, and you must not dwell on dangers that cannot be predicted.”

“I try desperately not to think of those frightful things, but you have never spoken of that day, or about any of your battles. I needed to know, and Diego told me many things.”

She didn't confess that her brother had disclosed enough to chill her soul and begin to regret her questioning. She now knew that Cortés' army had been helpless to change the fate of the Spanish soldiers taken by Montezuma's warriors, some of them Juan's own crossbowmen. The captives had been marched up the pyramid steps to the sound of drums, and her husband and the others could only watch from a distant hill as their men were butchered one by one, and each terrible death was triumphantly cheered by the Aztec crowd below. Picturing Juan meeting a similar doom fed the trepidation now reflected in Beatriz' eyes.

Seeing the intensity of her apprehension, Cabrillo growled inwardly at his brother-in-law's foolishness. He was thankful, however, that even if Diego tried he could never have fully disclosed what it had been like to stand in that accursed chamber the day after the final battle had been won: how the ears rang with the buzzing of a million flies, the stomach churned from the smell of putrefying blood that had accumulated on stone floors and walls from hundreds of thousands massacred there, or how the mind revolted at the sight of the freshest of the human hearts, Spanish hearts, still obscenely exposed within the limestone basin, left there to placate their insatiable deity. He forced aside these images and relaxed his tensing features, fervently hoping that Diego had stilled his thoughtless tongue before telling his sister of the avenging slaughters conducted by their own conquistadors. During the dozen years that followed, too many battles, too many horrors had been inflicted by both sides.

This time Cabrillo took hold of both Beatriz' hands and said sternly, “Diego should never have shared anything that could have troubled your heart.” His words tightened slightly as he added with more sincerity than his wife guessed, “If I did not need him here to look after you, I would take the time to find him and beat the breath out of him.”

“Do not be angry with him, Juan. Diego is not the only one who has revealed a little of your past hardships. I seldom mention the nights you cry out in your sleep or the times you rise and wander about the room, never waking but always on guard against some threat.”

Apologetically, he said, “I have never been a restful sleeper.”

“You have faced many enemies, and you fight them still in your dreams. I just pray you meet no more at sea.” At sea, she thought. She was well aware of Juan's capabilities as a commander, but could even he keep a crew under control during so long and uncertain a voyage? She unwillingly recalled the Becerra voyage, and how a mutineer named Jiménez had killed Captain Becerra and others. Other voyages too had set out from Mexico, all meeting terrible trials and all failing to reach the East. And even if Juan's fleet reached the Spice Islands safely, what of the Portuguese? Did they not seize any Spanish ship sailing near their waters? Giving herself a sharp mental shake, Beatriz managed to keep at least these last fears to herself.

Cabrillo watched her fight to withhold unanswerable questions. Releasing her hands, he held her shoulders at arms' length. “Listen to me now, Beatriz. While I am away I will be cautious. You must trust that I will lead these ships and these men well regardless of what comes. I want nothing more than to return to you, to our home.”

“Yes, I know that. I know you do not wish to leave at all.”

“If we had not lost so much in the earthquake, or if Alvarado had lived long enough to settle his debts with me, perhaps another man could have taken my place on the voyage. As things are, I have little choice but to sail.”

“You do this for me and the children, for all who depend on you.”

“And for my own honor.”

To hide the sudden welling of traitorous tears, Beatriz locked her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. She said hoarsely, “I will trust that you will return to us, sound and whole.”

It took a moment to loosen his own throat enough to say, “Do you think I would leave that rascal Diego to take my place with our boys, to teach them how to become men? They might grow up knowing no better than to frighten their wives and sisters with ghastly stories.” He heard Beatriz try unsuccessfully to muster a laugh. She was only able to lift her face and offer him a wobbly smile as she said, “Oh, Juan, I will miss coaxing you from your dark moods, and steering you back to bed when bad dreams haunt you. And who will be nearby to see that you do not work yourself to the edge of illness?”

“Paulo and Manuel will be with me, and all my men.”

She huffed softly. “Men. Men have not an ounce of skill at such things.” She pulled him close again and held on tightly, memorizing the feel of him. “Just come home to me again.”

The squeal of young voices and the scampering of small feet reached them from another room. These sounds were followed by a shushing, scolding female voice that reduced the level of joyful noise only briefly.

Gently, Cabrillo said, “Come now, the boys will be in to greet us soon. This morning, madam, as soon as I am clothed I will serve as your maid.” Beatriz brightened somewhat at this uncommon offer, and her eyes followed his every move as she brushed the lengths of her dark auburn hair.

By the time he had washed, shaved, and dressed Cabrillo had abandoned all previous intentions of discussing his will and how to settle their accounts in the improbable event of his not returning to Santiago. Beatriz was obviously in no state of mind to deal with the practical side of the unforeseen. Besides, all the required papers had been properly drawn up and witnessed. Now they must depend on destiny as God designed it and on his own abilities. These had been tested too many times for him to lack confidence in both.

While tying the laces at the back of Beatriz' pale green bodice, he said, “With our share of the voyage's profits, there should be enough for the girls' dowries as well as to replenish our needed stores, and complete our home and outbuildings. With luck, we may even be able to take the boys to visit Seville and Narváez. It would be wonderful for our families to meet them. I want you to imagine such a trip while I am away. Will you do that?”

“It
would
be wonderful to see them all.” With her bodice now laced, Beatriz turned to him and asked, “Juan, will you reconsider your decision and allow your daughters to see you off?”

“Lucia thinks it will be easier on them this way. They were very upset when I left them last night.”

Beatriz accepted this decision under the influence of her own memories. “When we are young our emotions are very raw. The girls are not much older than I was when you left me for the first time. It was your letters that sustained my hopes enough to turn away other suitors. Juan, you must write to us as often as you can.”

“I shall.”

There was a knock at the door. “Señora, the sun is rising.”

Beatriz smoothed her skirt as Cabrillo stepped to the door. He pulled it wide open and pretended to be surprised when his two sons leaped from hiding behind Lucia's plump body, shouting, “Good morning, Papa! Good morning, Mother!”

Lucia, standing with evident composure in the doorway, said something to the boys in her Indian dialect and they both chirped, “Breakfast is ready!”

Cabrillo spread his arms wide and the boys, small male images of their mother, ran to him. He scooped them up, demanding, “Who are these young pirates?”

The boys laughed with delight. Juan, six years of age and just 11 months older than his brother, said, “I am captain of the pirate ship. Diego can be shipmaster.”

“
I
want to be captain!”

Grinning, Cabrillo said, “You must follow the orders of the more experienced pirate, Diego.”

“I may not be as tall as Juan, sir, but I am
fierce
.”

“Diego, you sound more like your uncle every day,” their father accused. Beatriz raised an eyebrow at the charge, but her expression was warm and approving. “Well, my sons,” said Cabrillo, “shall we accompany your mother to the table?”

Although white streaks peeked from Lucia's braided and coiled black hair and the years had added breadth to her bosom and waist, her beauty had not fully faded. Revealing no sign of either longing or grief, she acknowledged the morning greetings of Cabrillo and Beatriz with a familiar nod and stood back so the family would precede her down the hallway to the dining room. Once there, she seated the boys and slipped quietly from the room.

When a bare-footed Indian girl placed dishes of food before the family, the three males ate heartily. Cabrillo soon noticed that Beatriz was merely pretending to eat the eggs, beans, and maize on her plate, but she never lifted the fork to her mouth. When he cast her a searching glance she forced a weak smile, and he didn't question her. This new attempt at courage from his wife struck Cabrillo once more with how deeply he hated the necessity to leave, and his own appetite waned along with the already limited conversation. The boys, beginning to sense their parent's growing sadness, became quieter too, and their stillness only added to the melancholy in the room.

Suddenly the imminence of Cabrillo's departure was undeniably announced by the sound of approaching riders. He rose from the table and was met at the door by Francisco de Vargas, the sergeant major of his guards, who would not only accompany him to the coast but would also act as leader of the fleet's marines.

“We have been given a fine day, Captain-General,” said Vargas in a voice as big and burly as the man himself.

“Welcome, Vargas.” Cabrillo pointed to a chest nearby. “There are the last of my things.”

Vargas waved two of his men in that direction and the chest was picked up and moved toward one of the packhorses. “I have rechecked our weapons and supplies, Captain-General. All is ready.”

All is ready.
Cabrillo had overseen every preparation, given every instruction, and his men had carried them out. Now he had only to go. He turned back to find Beatriz and the boys close behind him. Lucia stood at the far corner of the room, her eyes expressing what her voice could not, asking nothing from him but the knowing glance he now gave her in farewell.

Little Juan's face had turned a shade paler than usual and Diego's lower lip began to quiver.

Understanding that it took every bit of his wife's will to keep her expression reassuring, Cabrillo soaked in the steady smile she now shone upon him. Without taking her gaze from his, she said to her boys, “Wish your father well, and show him what brave sons will await his homecoming.”

They ran to him then, saying, “Farewell, Papa!” and threw their small arms around his waist. Cabrillo crouched down and pulled them closer still, all the while speaking to his wife with shining eyes. Finally, releasing the boys, he stood and went to Beatriz. He held her hands and touched his forehead to hers. “You will be in my prayers, every day and night.”