friend from the docks. Sorry I didn’t see you at the Dark Sea. I checked in at one of Palos’s other fine establishments. One with a better selection of, ahem, barmaids.” De Cuellar scratched his graying beard. “Can’t say I remember your name, though.”
“Luis. De Torres. And this is my friend, uh, Juan.” If Jinniyah’s expression protested against her new name, I didn’t notice it. Instead I stayed focused on Antonio and Vicente.
“So did you consider my offer, Luis?” Antonio asked me. “Of being Admiral Colón’s new cabin boy?”
“Actually,” I said with a bit of pride, “Juan and I would like to join you.”
The carpenter whacked the back of his hand against the nobleman’s upper arm. “You hear that, Vicente? More members of our splendid crew!”
Vicente didn’t seem as thrilled by the news as Antonio did. “You’ll have to see Martín about that. He’s the one in charge of that sort of thing.”
“That brother of yours. Always a pain in everyone’s side.” To me Antonio said, “Don’t let it worry you, Luis. It’s just a formality. You know how these rich folk like to stand on ceremony. Come on. I’ll take you to him now.”
So Jinniyah and I followed Antonio through the chattering crowds in the direction of the Santa María. We passed a swarthy, short-bearded man, and Antonio said, “That’s our master-at-arms, Juan de la Cosa.” Next, we passed a heavy, extremely hairy man. “That’s Bartolome. He escaped from prison back in Portugal.”
As I hastened past the felon, Jinni inquired, “Who are we going to see now?”
“Captain Martín Alonso Pinzón, the one and only! He’s captaining one of the other ships — the Pinta, they’re calling it now. And his brother Vicente’s the captain of the Niña, that little stack of splinters over there.”
I could hardly believe my ears. These men were the Pinzón brothers? But they were local heroes in Palos, who had served as sailors in a recent war against Portugal. Their family had always been one of the wealthiest in town, and as fishermen and shipping magnates the brothers had amassed even more wealth. The fact that men as influential as the Pinzóns were involved in this mission was an encouraging sign. This trip had to be important if they had signed on.
“Now look, Martín’s a bit of a grouch, I’ll tell you that now,” Antonio said. “But he’s the best captain there is, and good to his crew. Every man you see here would follow him to the ends of the Earth. And they’re going to, in less than an hour.”
We found Martín Pinzón standing near the base of the Pinta. A man of about fifty, Martín sported the same rich clothing and dark hair as his brother. Unfortunately for Martín, he did not enjoy Vicente’s handsome features. Where the young Vicente enjoyed a fair but healthy complexion, Martín’s skin had a greenish undertone and dry red spots around his nostrils. Where Vicente’s mouth was mischievous, seeming to hold back an untold joke, Martín’s lips were thin from being pulled into a grimace. And where Vicente’s dark eyes twinkled with hopes for adventure, Martín’s were sunken, heavy from adventures past.
Currently Martín was being waylaid by a gangling man of about eighteen with an upturned nose, lank brown hair, and a chaotic pile of papers balanced on his forearms.
“I need you to sign here, initial here, and another signature goes here,” the gangling man said, and he attempted to adjust the papers so Martín could read the fine print.
Martín looked down on this tornado of a man with half-lidded eyes. “And what would you like me to sign them with, Señor Sanchez?”
The young Sanchez quailed when he heard that, and hesputtered something incomprehensible as he stuck his papers under his chin and hastily patted himself down in search of a quill. At last he appeared to find one in one of the many bags drooping from his belt, but as he reached for it he somehow lost his balance,
“Luis. De Torres. And this is my friend, uh, Juan.” If Jinniyah’s expression protested against her new name, I didn’t notice it. Instead I stayed focused on Antonio and Vicente.
“So did you consider my offer, Luis?” Antonio asked me. “Of being Admiral Colón’s new cabin boy?”
“Actually,” I said with a bit of pride, “Juan and I would like to join you.”
The carpenter whacked the back of his hand against the nobleman’s upper arm. “You hear that, Vicente? More members of our splendid crew!”
Vicente didn’t seem as thrilled by the news as Antonio did. “You’ll have to see Martín about that. He’s the one in charge of that sort of thing.”
“That brother of yours. Always a pain in everyone’s side.” To me Antonio said, “Don’t let it worry you, Luis. It’s just a formality. You know how these rich folk like to stand on ceremony. Come on. I’ll take you to him now.”
So Jinniyah and I followed Antonio through the chattering crowds in the direction of the Santa María. We passed a swarthy, short-bearded man, and Antonio said, “That’s our master-at-arms, Juan de la Cosa.” Next, we passed a heavy, extremely hairy man. “That’s Bartolome. He escaped from prison back in Portugal.”
As I hastened past the felon, Jinni inquired, “Who are we going to see now?”
“Captain Martín Alonso Pinzón, the one and only! He’s captaining one of the other ships — the Pinta, they’re calling it now. And his brother Vicente’s the captain of the Niña, that little stack of splinters over there.”
I could hardly believe my ears. These men were the Pinzón brothers? But they were local heroes in Palos, who had served as sailors in a recent war against Portugal. Their family had always been one of the wealthiest in town, and as fishermen and shipping magnates the brothers had amassed even more wealth. The fact that men as influential as the Pinzóns were involved in this mission was an encouraging sign. This trip had to be important if they had signed on.
“Now look, Martín’s a bit of a grouch, I’ll tell you that now,” Antonio said. “But he’s the best captain there is, and good to his crew. Every man you see here would follow him to the ends of the Earth. And they’re going to, in less than an hour.”
We found Martín Pinzón standing near the base of the Pinta. A man of about fifty, Martín sported the same rich clothing and dark hair as his brother. Unfortunately for Martín, he did not enjoy Vicente’s handsome features. Where the young Vicente enjoyed a fair but healthy complexion, Martín’s skin had a greenish undertone and dry red spots around his nostrils. Where Vicente’s mouth was mischievous, seeming to hold back an untold joke, Martín’s lips were thin from being pulled into a grimace. And where Vicente’s dark eyes twinkled with hopes for adventure, Martín’s were sunken, heavy from adventures past.
Currently Martín was being waylaid by a gangling man of about eighteen with an upturned nose, lank brown hair, and a chaotic pile of papers balanced on his forearms.
“I need you to sign here, initial here, and another signature goes here,” the gangling man said, and he attempted to adjust the papers so Martín could read the fine print.
Martín looked down on this tornado of a man with half-lidded eyes. “And what would you like me to sign them with, Señor Sanchez?”
The young Sanchez quailed when he heard that, and hesputtered something incomprehensible as he stuck his papers under his chin and hastily patted himself down in search of a quill. At last he appeared to find one in one of the many bags drooping from his belt, but as he reached for it he somehow lost his balance,
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