Aboard Cabrillo's Galleon (51 page)

Unwilling to inflict further suffering, the doctor gave up his attempts to replace the bandages. At the end of the second day of high fever, as light faded from the cloudy evening sky, all of their prayers had evolved from beseeching God for a miraculous recovery to pleading that He end this misery as soon as possible.

Father Lezcano had also turned his prayers to the Blessed Virgin, whom he fervently believed would sympathize with the need to end a good man's intolerable suffering. At Manuel's request he began to softly pray aloud, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” At these words, prayed by him innumerable times during his short tenure as a priest, he glanced up and by the gentle light of the oil lamps he saw that Cabrillo's eyes were open and focused on him. It was a sight he had not expected to behold again. No sound came from Cabrillo's lips, but his mouth formed the words, “Take care of them, my son,” and his eyes closed very slowly.

Father Lezcano could not breathe. He stared at Cabrillo's face and then at his chest, watched him take one shallow inhale, one more, and then exhale and lay utterly still.

Manuel, who had shed not a tear through the interminable trial of watching Cabrillo die, fell to his knees and let out a roar of grief so deep and loud that it reverberated off the rafters and swept through the ship, to the other ships, and across the water to the island cliffs.

Captain-General Ferrelo burst into the cabin. He stared at the still form, the body of the man with whom he'd never again share trials, or joys, or theories. After one nearly strangling breath, he managed to contain his own grief only because he must, for the sake of the men he now commanded. His eyes found those of Father Lezcano, and the emotions of each was read by the other as clearly as if they'd been written with ink and paper. Ferrelo turned to Dr. Fuentes and said huskily, “Please prepare him, doctor. His services will be conducted as soon as arrangements can be made.” His eyes returned to Cabrillo's face, and as if to himself, he muttered softly, “The third day of January. I shall never forget.”

The man who now took up the burden of the fleet's leadership left them and went to the main deck to give the crews the official word of Cabrillo's death, but their mourning had begun the instant Manuel's great cry had reached them. While most stared off in heart-clenched silence or wept softly in as private a corner as they could find, some turned unashamedly into the arms of other crewmembers and surrendered to their tears. The
San Salvador's
two carpenters turned from the others and with unsteady voices began to plan as fine a coffin as their skills and materials could fashion.

On shore, only moments after Captain Ferrelo had made his announcement, woeful wails rose up from some of the islanders near shore who plainly understood what had come to pass. A native runner was sent to inform Matipuyaut, and within minutes he, his sons, and a grief-stricken Taya appeared at the water's edge. Matipuyaut would not permit any of them to board their canoes and approach the flagship. Just as Cabrillo had done when Shuluwish had left this world, he kept his people at a distance to allow the mourners privacy, but as the night deepened the Chumash built fires and Kipomo danced and chanted for the safe passage of Cabrillo's spirit.

The two groups remained apart. Hours slipped by, and the natives gradually made their way back to the village. Taya was the last to leave, and her departure was against her will. When beckoned away by Matipuyaut, she refused to move. Finally, as she protested with rising pleas, her brothers lifted her from the sand and carried her up the path.

Earlier that evening the new commander of the
San Salvador
had addressed his officers aboard
La Victoria
, saying, “I have been wrestling with our options for what must be done next, gentlemen. The simplest choice is to bury the captain-general near our harbor, but this could bring an outcome that
must
be avoided. I refuse to allow for the possibility that his body will not be left in peace. If he is buried anywhere on this island his remains could be disturbed. The natives might do so without meaning any disrespect, since the possession of body parts from their departed ones is meant to show homage. I have seen the bones of dead ancestors in several of their homes, and I shudder at the thought of such a thing happening to him. He must be protected, as decency and our church dictate.”

“Absolutely, sir. What do you propose?” asked Captain Correa.

“We shall take him to the next island.”

“Sir,” Father Gamboa quietly pointed out, “that island is also inhabited.”

“We will leave tonight, before the light returns. The
San Salvador
will be taken out very carefully until we are well clear of the rocks. I had thought of using the
San Miguel
, but it seems more fitting to use his ship and his crew. They will bear him to the other island, however, no one but the few men going ashore will know the exact location of his grave.”

Every man present agreed with this plan. So, during the very depth of that night and well after the Chumash had left the beach, with clouds filtering much of the light shed by the moon and stars, the flagship alone quietly weighed anchor and left the harbor. She made her way to the nearby island they called San Lucas, and with hushed movements lowered two boats.

While the
San Salvador
lay in stillness offshore with her lamps extinguished, the landing party rowed away using oars muffled by rags. They pulled stealthily toward a well-chosen stretch of deserted shore and, reaching the sand, Father Lezcano, Manuel, Ferrelo, and three guards lifted the coffin from the boat. Followed by four more guards, and two men and Mateo bearing digging tools, they all headed up a narrow, climbing path that led inland. The group halted often to watch and listen for any sign that they'd been detected, but nothing around them stirred. When they reached level ground, an area was chosen for their purpose, the shovels and picks were handed out, and the work began. Arms moved rapidly to loosen and lift the dirt, digging deeper and deeper until Ferrelo said, “That will do, men. Climb on out.” Father Lezcano was allowed only a few brief moments for prayer before Ferrelo ordered Cabrillo's coffin, bearing a likeness of his family's crest, to be lowered into its resting place.

The grave was quickly filled, and as the final few shovel loads were being placed, Mateo stepped forward and said to Ferrelo, “Please, sir, may I leave this with him?” He held out a flat, roughly rectangular piece of stone upon which he'd crudely scratched the joined letters of “JRC”. Above this mark he'd carved a small cross, and beneath it, a headless stick figure. “It is a poor thing, sir,” the boy said, “and I had no time to attempt his face, but... please, sir.”

In a voice gone low with withheld emotion, Ferrelo said, “Of course, Mateo.”

The boy placed his remembrance gently atop the loose soil, and then stood back and watched his stone disappear as the final few inches of dirt fell. In order to conceal the grave the burial crew now trod upon their work place, added a little more dirt, tamped it down again, and scattered the excess soil, swept the area with brush, and finally littered it with gathered sticks and stones. When every attempt had been made to disguise the location that cradled Cabrillo's body, Ferrelo said, “We must get back to the ship. Dawn is not far off.” They moved away, and Father Lezcano, Mateo, and Manuel each glanced back and bid a final, silent farewell before their heavy feet took them from the island.

They made good time returning to Isla Posesión and a very dull gray light was all that revealed their return to the remainder of their anxious fleet. Men lined the railings of their sister ships, their faces weary, grave, and sorrowful, but also greatly relieved to have their flagship anchoring safely beside them once again.

Ferrelo could see no natives along the shore, but he had little doubt that the
San Salvador's
absence had been noted. Still, he'd done what he could for Cabrillo's honor, for the protection of his captain-general's body and soul, and for his own battered peace of mind.

When day broke more fully, every member of the fleet witnessed the ceremony held aboard the
San Salvador
to remember Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. This time, Matipuyaut and a handful of his people had been asked to attend and they had accepted. Taya stood beside her father, her face lifeless and her body weak with grief. Father Gamboa, at Father Lezcano's request, presided over the service. While battling to keep his own bereavement in check, Father Lezcano kept close beside Mateo and Manuel.

When Father Gamboa concluded the religious rite, Captain-General Ferrelo lifted his voice and said, “Men, henceforth, this island will be called Isla Capitana de Juan Rodriguez in memory of the fine leader we have lost.”

No cheers greeted this announcement, but many of the mourners nodded and muttered approvingly, finding a measure of comfort in the news.

The rest of that day men went about their duties in a listless state, finding it difficult to convince themselves that the captain-general was truly gone. When the turnings of the sandglass had run their regular course, though it felt like many more had been added, the sun began to set beneath a sky as heavily clouded as the hearts of Cabrillo's men.

Yet, as Father Lezcano stood alone at the stern rail, he lifted his eyes and watched the clouds at the farthest edge of the horizon begin to separate into layers. Their lower edges slowly curved and crested like inverted waves, and the underbelly of each swell gleamed with the brilliant orange-crimson of a fire's very last embers. Spellbound, he knew he'd never seen so magnificent a sight. And as the glory of the display held him, he suddenly understood. He was beholding a parting gift. When his tears came he let them fall, and smiled even as he wept.

Chapter 27

V
IENTO
'
S RIDER

April 29, 1543

T
he viceroy's official notary, Juan León, sat back in his wooden chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he gazed in turn at Captain-General Ferrelo, Captain Correa, Pilot San Remón, and Fathers Gamboa and Lezcano. They'd been called together at the home of Puerto de Navidad's alcalde, and now that most of their business had been completed León couldn't help but be somewhat moved by the evidence of deprivation and grief on the weathered faces seated around the table. Even so, a few points still needed to be confirmed.

“Then, Captain-General, on the second attempt to reach Asia you sailed only a hundred miles beyond the point reached under Captain-General Cabrillo?”

“That is correct, sir,” said Ferrelo.

The notary glanced over his notes, furrowed his brows and said, “The viceroy had hoped for more.”

Ferrelo's mouth tightened but he did not waste words on someone who couldn't empathize with the hardships they'd survived. To say that their own hopes had been disappointed would have been too ridiculous an understatement to voice. And yet, as Ferrelo's eyes now swept the men who shared this table, keen-eyed, thin, sunburned, and weakened, he felt a surge of love and dedication that he wouldn't have traded for great riches. This thought he also kept to himself. What he did say was, “If any man could have taken us to Asia under the conditions we faced, sir, Captain-General Cabrillo would have. His death was most grievous.”

“Yes,” said León, “of course.” He cleared his throat, studied his notes again and, after posing a few additional clarifying questions, he concluded with, “Is there anything further you wish me to record, gentlemen?” When no one spoke, León said, “Then my orders from the Royal Audiencia and the viceroy have been fulfilled. Your testimonies and those of Cárdenas, Vargas, and the others will comprise the bulk of my report. Señor Urdaneta here,” he nodded toward the slight man sitting to his left and reviewing his own set of newly written pages, “will help you complete your illustrations and charts. I thank you for your cooperation in providing so comprehensive an account of the voyage, gentlemen. You are now free to leave.”

As they rose and began to make their way to the door, Urdaneta touched Father Lezcano's sleeve and asked softly, “Will you stay a moment, Father?”

Father Lezcano nodded and, lowering himself again into his seat, looked into the wise eyes of the man Cabrillo had repeatedly mentioned with admiration. Urdaneta did not speak until they were alone and the door had closed. “It was not difficult to discern that during the voyage you came to care a great deal for Captain-General Cabrillo.”

Father Lezcano let his gaze soften. “He became a father to me, sir. The loss of him wounded deeply.”

“He was a rare man. I liked him immensely. Encouraged by our last talk together, I have nearly decided to sail again one day. I had hoped to journey with him as our commander.” Eyeing Father Lezcano, understanding his pain, he said, “Perhaps, instead, his
son
will sail by my side.”

Father Lezcano gave him a sad, grateful smile. “I am honored by your words, sir, but I intend never to sail again.”

“Ah, such an intention is to be expected, but you are very young, Father. Years ago when I sailed with Loaisa and Elcano, I never imagined being captured and held prisoner in the San Lázaros, and when I finally reached Spain again I intended to avoid ships for the rest of my days.” He shook his head slowly. “But then I sailed here to Mexico. And now that I have seen the charts and log books from your voyage, I may even consider returning to the San Lázaros.”

Father Lezcano looked at him in surprised wonder.

“Yes, my young priest, you, the notary, the viceroy, and perhaps even the captains of Cabrillo's fleet do not yet fully understand what you have delivered to the Spanish kingdom. With these charts,” he swept his hand toward the large sheets of parchment, “our ships may soon be able to sail to the San Lázaro Islands and safely return to New Spain, something that has eluded us until now. Our lack of knowledge of the currents and winds has destroyed many ships and sent hundreds, or more likely thousands, of men to their deaths, as I have witnessed. Your voyage has done much to dispel our ignorance, and that will make it much easier to find the trade route. When we do, our ships will bring wealth to Spain in quantities large enough to impress even our king.”