Over the Edge of the World: Magellen's Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe (40 page)

C H A P T E R   X I
Ship of Mutineers

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
“The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!”
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

T
he officers and seamen of the armada had long anticipated Magellan’s death. “As soon as the Captain General died,” wrote Pigafetta, “the four men of our company, who had remained in the city to trade, had our goods brought to the ships.” With the precious trading cargo—the bells, beads, and fabrics designed to entice islanders—safely stowed away, the survivors held an election to select the next admiral of the Armada de Molucca. They sought a man who would, above all, avoid high-risk endeavors similar to those that had endangered and claimed the lives of so many, and who would rededicate the fleet to its primary commercial goal: spices.

There was no discussion of disbanding the fleet or turning back. They had come too far and suffered too much for that. Nor was there any shortage of candidates to succeed Magellan; the ranks swelled with rivals and would-be admirals who had long been waiting for this moment. Although the loss of the Captain General was tragic—no one, not even his detractors, begrudged Magellan his courage—his death brought a palpable sense of relief that the ordeal of sailing under him had at last ended. When completed, the voting produced an unusual result, electing not one but two men: Duarte Barbosa, Magellan’s brother-in-law, and Juan Serrano, the Castilian captain. Even now, the sailors maintained a balance of power between the Spanish and Portuguese presences in the fleet.

Even so, this careful outcome did not satisfy everyone. Sebastián Elcano, the Basque mariner who had played a leading role in the mutiny against Magellan at Port Saint Julian, believed that Serrano was miscast as co-commander. Elcano thought Serrano a competent pilot but nothing more. Implicit in Elcano’s judgment was the conviction that he was better equipped to lead the expedition.

Magellan’s loyal servant, Enrique, was even more bitterly opposed to the new leadership of the fleet. Enrique had rendered valuable service with his ability to interpret the Malay tongue, a skill now more necessary than ever, but he refused to leave
Trinidad
as ordered, claiming that he was suffering from battle wounds. He remained in his bunk, wrapped in a blanket, loudly proclaiming that he was free now that his master was dead. He was correct on this point; in the event of Magellan’s death, his will provided for Enrique’s liberty along with a bequest of 10,000
maravedís,
but the new leaders of the expedition, accustomed to the slave’s unquestioning subservience and still in need of his linguistic and diplomatic skills, insisted that he continue to obey orders. Enrique, coming into his own after years of servitude, stubbornly refused to yield to anyone’s authority.

A loud argument between Enrique and Barbosa ensued, which Pigafetta recorded. “Duarte Barbosa, commander of the Captain General’s flagship, told him in a loud voice that, although his master was dead, he would not be set free or released, but that, when we reached Spain, he would still be the slave of Madame Beatriz, the wife of the deceased Captain General. And he threatened that if he did not go ashore he would be driven away.” Pigafetta’s rendition of Barbosa’s threats likely disguised a considerable amount of verbal abuse. But Sebastián Elcano left a more complete account of the confrontation. According to him, Serrano, and not Barbosa, abused Enrique. “Serrano, being unable to do anything without this intermediary, reprimanded him with bitter words, telling him that in spite of his Master, Magellan, being dead, he was still a slave and that he would be whipped if he did not obey everything that he [Serrano] commanded. The slave became enraged by Serrano’s threats. Ire overtook his heart.”

The harsh words succeeded in rousing Enrique from his stupor, and he furiously stalked off the ship.

Pigafetta believed that Enrique, on leaving the ship, sought out Humabon, “the Christian King,” as he was called, to scheme against the armada, even though the Cebuan leader seemed to be the Europeans’ staunch ally. On hearing of Magellan’s death, he had wept copious tears, obviously undone by the tragedy he had tried so hard to avoid. Despite these strong emotional ties, Enrique “told the Christian King that we were about to depart immediately”—this much is true—“and that, if he would follow his advice, he would gain all our ships and merchandise. And so they plotted a conspiracy. Then the slave returned to the ships, and he appeared to behave better than before.”

Elcano told much the same story: Enrique “secretly spoke with the master of Cebu”—Humabon—“telling him that the Castilians were endlessly greedy and that . . . they would come back and arrest him.” To Elcano’s way of thinking, “The slave convinced the king that because the Castilians had been plotting against them, there was no other solution for the Cebuans than to plot back against the Castilians.” With these arguments, Enrique launched his betrayal of Magellan’s memory. Enrique’s motives were powerful and probably quite complex. Perhaps he resented being a slave for his entire adult life, perhaps the rediscovery of his Filipino origins awakened longsuppressed feelings of loyalty and kinship, or perhaps he failed to realize the drastic effect his words would have on Humabon, who found himself in a desperate situation. Magellan, to whom he had been loyal, was dead, and the crew was about to depart, terminating the protection Humabon had enjoyed. In the absence of the armada, Humabon would have to contend with Lapu Lapu, whose victory over Magellan had emboldened the local chieftain. Because Humabon had sided with Magellan, it was only a matter of time before Lapu Lapu, seeking revenge, came after him. Pressure on Humabon to retaliate against the Europeans came from yet another direction. Many of the island men resented the way their women had been treated by the Europeans. For all these reasons, plotting against Magellan’s men was the most effective way for Humabon to demonstrate his loyalty to his own people and save his own neck.

O
n Wednesday, May 1, Humabon requested that the armada’s leaders attend a feast. The invitation, presumably delivered orally by Enrique, promised a lavish meal accompanied by gifts of jewels and other presents, which Humabon wished the fleet to carry across the waters as tribute to the king of Spain. The Christian king hoped that as many people as possible would partake of his hospitality and generosity. In all, around thirty men, most of them officers, decided to accept.

This was a large contingent, approximately a quarter of the entire crew; their number included Barbosa and Serrano, the new cocommanders, as well as their astrologer and astronomer, Andrés de San Martín. Antonio Pigafetta was also invited to the feast, but, as he later explained, “I could not go, because I was all swollen from the wound of a poison arrow that I had received in the forehead.” He had sustained his injury at Magellan’s side, during the battle of Mactan. This banquet promised to be another occasion for Humabon’s guests to fill their bellies and get drunk on the island’s palm wine. But shortly after the officers went ashore, Pigafetta, recovering on board
Trinidad,
was startled to hear João Lopes de Carvalho, the Portuguese pilot, and the master-at-arms, Gonzalo Gómez de Espinosa, returning unexpectedly. Pigafetta listened apprehensively as they “told us that they had seen the man cured by a miracle”— the prince’s brother healed by Magellan—“leading the priest into his house, and for this reason they had departed, fearing some evil chance.” The sight of Father Valderrama entering a Cebuan hut hardly seemed sinister, but in this charged atmosphere it was enough to send the two Europeans scurrying back to the ships for safety.

N
o sooner had those two spoken their words than we heard great cries and groans,” said Pigafetta. “Then we quickly raised the anchors, and, firing several pieces of artillery at their houses, we approached nearer to shore.”

What they saw exceeded their worst imaginings; it was worse, even, than the massacre of Juan de Solis. Ginés de Mafra, among those who had remained behind, described the murderous chaos engulfing the sailors on shore:

As the banquet was about to end, some armed people emerged from the palm grove and attacked the invitees, killing twenty-seven of them, and captured the priest who had remained there and Juan Serrano, the pilot, who was an old man; others, although there were few of them, swam to the ships and, helped by those aboard, cut the cables and set sail; the barbarians, gorging on the killing and anxious to steal whatever was in the ships, brought their armada to the sea and, in order to stop our men while they were preparing to leave, also brought Juan Serrano to the shore and said that they wanted to exchange him for ransom. The old man implored our men with words and tears to feel sympathy for his old age and not to become accomplices, lest his last days end in the hands of such cruel barbarians, but to strive so that at least he could spend what little life he had left amidst his kin.

Our men told him that they would do as they could. The ransom was discussed and they asked for an iron gun, which is what they fear the most; this was sent to them on a skiff, and upon seeing it, the Indians asked for more, and no sooner would our men grant their request than the Indians would reply asking for more, and this continued until, realizing their intention, those aboard the ships did not want to remain there any longer and said to Juan Serrano that he himself could very well see what was going on, and how the Indians’ words were all but a pretence.

Serrano pleaded for his crew members to come to his rescue, but they refused to leave the safety of their ships for fear that they would be massacred, as well. “Then Juan Serrano, weeping, said that as soon as we sailed he would be killed,” Pigafetta recorded. “And he said that he prayed God that at the day of judgment he would demand the soul of his friend João Carvalho.” Serrano’s desperate words fell on deaf ears, and his friend Carvalho refused to intervene. Pigafetta was appalled by this cowardice, but there was nothing that he, as a supernumerary, could do.

Hoarse cries from the ships floated to land. Had the worst happened? Were the men ashore all dead? Could it be possible? Summoning his last reserves of strength, Serrano, stranded on the shore, confirmed that the other men, including Barbosa and San Martín, were dead, slaughtered during Humabon’s banquet. He then watched the ships weigh anchor, preparing to abandon him to bloodthirsty island warriors seeking to reclaim their lost honor and dignity. “I do not know whether he is dead or alive,” Pigafetta wrote in anguish as the ships sailed. Left behind by his own men, Serrano eventually met the same fate as his crew members. Enrique’s revenge on the Europeans had been bloodier than anyone could have foreseen.

The three black ships of the Armada de Molucca raised anchor, set sail, and headed out of Cebu harbor with all the speed they could muster. No thought was given to sending a rescue party to stop the massacre, to recover bodies or search for survivors, or even to punish Enrique for his betrayal. Only 115 men remained of the 260 who had left Spain, and as they fled to safety, their last sight of Cebu was of enraged islanders tearing down the cross on the mountaintop and smashing it to bits.

T
he May 1 massacre claimed many of the ablest and most prominent crew members. The victims included Duarte Barbosa, who had served as co-commander for just three days; Serrano; Andrés de San Martín, the fleet’s cautious astrologer; Father Valderrama; Luis Alfonso de Gois, who had succeeded Barbosa as the captain of
Victoria;
two clerks named Sancho de Heredia and León Expeleta; a barrelmaker by the name of Francisco Martín; Simón de la Rochela, a provisioner; Francisco de Madrid, a man-at-arms; Hernando de Aguilar, who had been the servant of the mutineer Luis de Mendoza, whom Espinosa had executed; Guillermo Feneso, who operated the
lombardas;
four sailors; two cabin boys; three ordinary seamen; a servant attached to Serrano; and four men described in the roster as “servants of Magellan.”

According to some accounts, eight of these crew members survived, but were imprisoned and sold off as slaves to the Chinese merchants who regularly visited Cebu, but the rumors were impossible to confirm. Enrique, whose treachery had set the stage for the ambush, disappears from history at this point, as does the wily Humabon. Such was the tragic conclusion of what had begun as a highly promising experiment in the Philippines.

F
ive days later, and half a world away, a weatherbeaten vessel tied up at the harbor in Seville.

The arrival of a ship from distant lands was hardly an unusual event in Seville, but she was not just any vessel, this was
San Antonio,
part of the Armada de Molucca. It was May 6, 1521, and the event marked the first news of the fleet since it left Sanlúcar de Barrameda on September 20, 1519.

No one ashore knew what to make of her arrival, for the fleet had not been expected to return for months. They would soon learn that Magellan had found the fabled strait, after all, but before he could traverse it,
San Antonio
had been commandeered by mutineers fleeing Magellan’s cruelty and excessive daring. She carried her captain, Estêvão Gomes; his chief co-conspirator, Gerónimo Guerra; and fifty-five men, including Magellan’s cousin, Álvaro de Mesquita, whom the mutineers had stabbed and kept in irons throughout the return journey.

Gomes had skillfully piloted the ship across the Atlantic to Spain. There had been talk of returning to Port Saint Julian to rescue Cartagena and the priest whom Magellan had marooned, but in all likelihood the ship never attempted to rescue them. Instead,
San Antonio
made for the coast of Guinea to find water.

Despite having braved the Atlantic Ocean alone,
San Antonio’s
captain and crew felt no joy on seeing Seville’s familiar cathedral because they were returning in disgrace, mutineers who would face the prospect of an official inquiry, incarceration, and even punishment by death. They could console themselves in the knowledge that Guerra was related to Cristóbal de Haro, who had financed the expedition. They could also draw strength from Magellan’s lack of popularity in Spain, and planned to destroy the Portuguese Captain General’s reputation with tales of his poor judgment and brutal mistreatment of Spanish officers. But these stories had to be compelling because their lives depended on convincing the authorities that the mutiny had been necessary and justified. Of course, Magellan would not be present to plead his case or contradict their assertions. The only one likely to speak up on his behalf was Álvaro de Mesquita, whose wounds offered eloquent evidence of the mutineers’ tactics. And Mesquita had used the long sea journey home to prepare for an inquiry because his life also depended on how persuasively he argued his case.