Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (46 page)

The feasting lasted until the munificent sun at last grew weary and began to descend toward its nightly repose. When the sated sailors at last returned to the ships after bidding Christmas farewells to the islanders, Cabrillo guessed that they would sleep with a peace few had known in many weeks.

Even after midnight he and Father Lezcano were in no hurry to seek their bunks, preferring to extend their stay outside on so fair a night, and when the watch was relieved they merely moved to the taffrail to allow the pilot to officiate over the ship from the front section of the quarterdeck. They watched the constellations and listened to the settling of the crew in friendly silence. After a while, Cabrillo gazed at the priest questioningly, but he did not ask.

Father Lezcano told him anyway, “I am thinking of my mother, sir.”

“That is a proper thought on such a day. No doubt she was a good woman.”

“A fine woman, sir.” His voice grew wistful. “I was very young when my parents died, but I can clearly picture her praying at our Christmas table, her five children gathered around, my father sitting with unyielding severity in his tall chair.” He looked at Cabrillo and confessed, “You are somewhat alike, you and she.”

Surprised, Cabrillo asked, “I, like your mother?”

Almost regretting he'd started, Father Lezcano pushed on. “She had the same eyes, sir, and some of the same expressions. And she often thought far ahead, as you do, and...”

“And?”

“She too held inside the deep things that others would not understand.” While Cabrillo considered this, Father Lezcano smiled and admitted, “I have often wondered if you might be a distant cousin of hers.”

The captain-general liberated a smile of his own, one that was mellow and reflective. “If I ever found that to be true, I would be honored.”

“It is a strange world, sir, is it not? Ten months ago I would never have imagined that today, Christmas Day, would find me grateful for the scars on my back, and for the man who had them put there.”

They studiously looked at the sea rather than each other. Reflected there, the stars were numerous enough to do the speaking until they finally wished each other a good night.

Christmas had left them only hours earlier when a clap of thunder erupted like cannon fire and rolled toward them from the southwest, its echoing rumble strengthening as it came. Cabrillo yanked on his clothes while Paulo swiftly tied back his hair, and climbed to the quarterdeck to be met by the clout of an unusually warm wind and the first pellets of hail. Within moments men were pulling their jackets over their heads and sliding across the decks in search of shelter. Cabrillo found his own refuge in steerage.

“Double the anchors, Master Uribe,” Cabrillo shouted as they huddled before the whipstaff. The hail pinged and pattered above their heads like the mad hammering of a hundred carpenters, yet the boatswain somehow heard the shipmaster as he relayed Cabrillo's order, and then bellowed it out so loudly that it reverberated across to the other two ships. Anchormen danced and skidded to their stations upon the rolling decks while defending themselves against pelting ice balls the size of a four-real coin. After the additional anchors had been released and their lines tightened, Pilot San Remón appeared in steerage sporting a grandly swelling right cheek. Resisting the temptation to rub the two lumps paining the back of his own head, Cabrillo said to his officers, “Post a man to watch each anchor line, gentlemen, and have them keep beneath a thick canvas or half-barrel for protection. I will not have the life beaten out of them by this cursed hail. While all is secure, let the other men stay under what cover they have found.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cabrillo stepped to the porthole, glanced at the white-speckled waves climbing and colliding near the beach, and knew that there was no hope of going ashore until this storm broke. As protective as their small bay had been, even it could not fully rebuff a wind that hounded them relentlessly. He peered through the white onslaught until he could see Manuel, Mateo, and two islanders struggling to drape the horses with what must have been their own blankets, and hurrying to shelter them up against the side of the cliff. They were all being cruelly pounded, and Cabrillo's heart ached as he helplessly watched.

Thankfully, the hail lasted only another ten minutes, but the wind grew colder with such speed and ferocity that it sent the bruised men scrambling for their warmest coverings. Within six hours the temperature had dropped thirty degrees, and by that evening snow was swirling around them. Whipped by the wind, the snowflakes found and clung to every board, brace, line, and body they touched. Before long the decks were slick with ice and the bobbing ships looked as if they'd been seized by a giant hand, inverted, and dipped in white paint. Though the sentries took advantage of what little cover they could find in the form of a mast, railing, or overhang, they stood their watches in frigid misery. Somehow, Manuel, Mateo and the two native grooms managed to keep the horses covered and out of the worst of the wind.

An hour after midnight the clouds finally emptied of snow, and Cabrillo hoped the wind would concede an end to its assault. Instead it stubbornly screamed, whipped, and chilled for three more interminable days, and during that time not a soul could safely go ashore. Only Manuel and Mateo, emerging from their tiny shelter to care for the horses, and a very few islanders made appearances on the beach, and those emergences were fleeting. The storm held them all captive.

For Cabrillo the storm had made sleep an illusive visitor as well, and when the wind finally relented on the fourth night, he fell into a slumber so profound that it took a few moments for him to perceive that it was Captain Correa trying to wake him. On the second attempt, louder now, his words reached Cabrillo's groggy mind.

“Forgive me, Captain-General, but I said there's devilry afoot!”

Cabrillo sat up and blinked at Correa, trying to gather up full consciousness as he weighed the anger in his officer's tone and expression. From Paulo's outstretched hand he accepted his breeches and pulled them on, noting the bright light of a well risen sun, and asked, “Just what devilry, Captain?”

“That cursed Gaspar! He left the ship without my leave, sir, and he took that big Aztec and a handful of other men with him. I fear they've gone to the women.”

This brought Cabrillo fully awake as he tugged on the rest of his clothes. “How long ago?”

“Just before dawn, sir. He told the men on watch he had orders to collect water, even loaded the launch with a few barrels, but I gave him no such orders. And if water was really what they sought, they would have been back by now.”

It took but a glance outside for Cabrillo to know they'd been gone at least an hour. “Do you think they might harm the women?”

“Gaspar is a firebrand, sir, and he's owed a beating for more than one mischief done aboard the
San Miguel
, but even he's not that big a fool. He was promised leave days ago and was kept on the ship by the storm. He has doubtless gone to take what he feels he's owed, but by God, he knows what leaving without my order means, as do the others. I've been too light on them, and I intend to put an end to such insubordination once I get them back to my ship.”

Holding a lesser degree of trust in Gaspar than Correa, Cabrillo asked, “Will you need assistance?”

“My men can handle this lot, sir. But perhaps I should take the war dogs, in case there is trouble with the natives.”

“Definitely not, Captain. If there has been no difficulty, the dogs might create it, and if trouble starts, they will only make things worse.”

“Then, sir, may I take Father Lezcano? He can speak to any islanders we encounter.”

“If he accepts the request willingly, yes. I suggest taking a few of Vargas' soldiers also.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And, Captain, retrieve them as quietly as you can.”

“I'll do that, Captain-General. Their hides won't bleed ‘til they're back on my decks.”

They quickly emerged from his cabin and within moments Correa, Father Lezcano, and enough armed men to fill Correa's two launches were heading toward the beach.

Watching them land, Cabrillo damned Gaspar under his breath. Things had been too tense with the natives even before this. He could only hope that the disobedient men would exercise better sense ashore than they'd used getting there. Intending to prepare for a case that proved otherwise, he turned to his shipmaster and said, “Lower both our boats, Master Uribe, and pray we do not need them right away.”

“At once, sir.”

“And, Master Uribe, please have Sergeant-Major Vargas sent to me.”

“Yes, Captain-General.”

Vargas soon appeared and Cabrillo had just begun discussing the situation when a shout from one of the
San Salvador's
lookouts brought their heads sharply around. Several of Correa's men were stumbling hurriedly backward toward their launches with swords drawn and muskets pointed back at the sand dune. Gaspar and his band of followers appeared, being driven ahead of Correa and his guards who had formed an arc behind them. An unseen archer fired an arrow from the direction of the dune, and it bit the sand two yards from Gaspar's feet. The next one imbedded into his thigh. A cry of pain rang out but Correa shouted for his men to hold their fire. The next arrow bounced off the leather vest worn by one of Gaspar's friends.

Viento reared and bucked in his corral, setting the other horses in motion as well. Manuel and Mateo appeared with ropes to secure Viento so he didn't break down the fence. The stunned island grooms, momentarily frozen in place, began to climb the hill behind the corral.

During these brief seconds Cabrillo had set his gunners in motion and waved for Vargas and his men to follow as he rushed toward his boat. He paused only long enough for their arms to be quickly loaded and to glance toward
La Victoria
. Captain Ferrelo stood waiting for his order: his face tight but otherwise calm.
La Victoria's
cannoneers were already working as busily as those aboard the flagship. Cabrillo called out, “Remain aboard and cover us, Captain.” He knew that no additional orders were needed. His and every other gunner in the fleet would soon be ready, but they'd be held in check with the tightest restraint. Master Uribe was already overseeing their master gunner's preparations.

As Cabrillo reached his railing and was about to descend to his launch he turned and faced Pilot San Remón. In less than a breath, a year's worth of understanding passed between them, but Cabrillo said only, “Take the ship, Pilot.”

While his rowers pulled frantically toward the beach, Cabrillo saw one of the deserters grab a musket from a guard and lift it, but Correa fiercely batted the gun away before it could discharge. The natives must have observed this because, though several more arrows flew into the air, they plummeted just behind the retreating men, aimed to warn rather than wound. Cabrillo leaned forward, silently willing his soldiers to cling to their discipline.
Hold your fire, men. By heaven, hold your fire!

Now he could see the Chumash warriors emerging into the open, thirty or so, and he could hear the angry shouts hurled at the sailors. To his rowers he said, “Faster, men!”

They found more speed by pulling with all their strength. Vargas sat tense as a drum but steady as a rock beside him. They aimed for the shore on the side of the already beached launches that was away from the natives and Correa's party, but the sweeping tide brought Cabrillo's boats farther than intended to the northwest and nearly onto the rocks. Vargas and two other men leaped into the sea first and tried to angle the boat away from the water-slickened boulders. On the other side of the launch, Cabrillo jumped clear and fought a wave as he scrambled ashore. Manuel was there waiting, his crossbow at his back, his shield in one hand, and the other stretched out to help Cabrillo onto the sand. They exchanged grim smiles and began to move. Finding his footing, Cabrillo climbed to the top of a boulder and in the midst of his jostling men hurried toward Correa by leaping to another rock and another. As he advanced he glanced repeatedly at the pending battle, until the sand where the two cultures faced each other lay just yards away. On his final bound, he felt his falling foot slip from the wet rounded surface it sought, and he fell hard between two rocks. A grinding crack ignited his right leg and his growl of pain and frustration stopped Vargas and Manuel in their tracks. They pivoted and rushed back to his side.

Cabrillo struggled to free his leg as the pain shot all the way up his back. “Get me loose!”

They did so as gently as they could, but Vargas took one look at the crooked boot and said, “Sir, it's broken. We must take you back to the ship at once.”

“No, damn you! Help me get to Captain Correa.” At Vargas' hesitation, Cabrillo hissed, “At once, Sergeant-Major!”

So Vargas and Manuel each lifted an arm and placed it around their necks. As they lifted him, he bit back another cry of pain and they paused, but the captain-general shouted, “Move!” and they set out. When they reached the level sand Cabrillo's sailors formed a protective circle with their small round shields held before them.

Viento had seen his master's fall, had heard his cry, and he now neighed loudly over the din, rearing so wildly that he pulled Mateo off his feet.

Father Lezcano had spotted them too. He broke from Correa's ring and rushed to meet the three men, his worried glance darting to Cabrillo's leg. “Sir.”

“Father, we must speak to the Chumash.”

“I have tried, sir.”

“Is Matipuyaut or his sons with them?”

“No, sir.”

“Take me forward,” he commanded, and his voice allowed no objection, but at Father Lezcano's insistence, Vargas gently surrendering his support of Cabrillo's right side so he could guard his commander with his own sword and shield.