sweated in a damp berth that he shared with his novice, Henri, and three of the seven Portuguese monks.
The monsignor seemed to have no difficulty adjusting to the harsh conditions. With the skills he had learned during his past expeditions to Annam, he used folk medicine to treat such ailments as headache, stomach troubles, and kidney complaints. Seeing that François and the others were seasick, he introduced a remedy to strengthen their bowels.
“The treatment is simple,” he explained one morning after catechism. “One must cut and search into the bellies of large fish for the smaller fish they have consumed but not yet digested. Remove one of these fish, clean it well, then cook it in a broth of fish sauce and pepper. Eat it with rice at supper. This will impart vigor to the stomach so that you will feel no nausea while crossing the ocean.”
He nodded at François. Henri, wrapping his arms around a wooden column twenty paces away, looked on with a frown.
Miraculously, the medicine worked. After his first meal of the fish-within-a-fish, François suffered no more seasickness. During the day, he strode the length of the ship with his novice. He scanned the horizon, looking for land. But all he could see was an empty sapphire sea stretching out to infinity.
Behind their vessel were the
Saint Raphael
and the
Saint Ignatius Loyola,
each floating a half league from the other—close enough for François to see the figures on the other boats, but too far away for him to hear their conversations. Ahead was the
Hercules,
leading the way.
At night, the air turned chilly. Tucked under a blanket on a hammock slung between coils of rope, Henri tossed and sniffled in his sleep. Sometimes the priest would find tears on the youth’s cheeks, which he wiped gently with his thumb. François found himself caring for the boy as precisely as he tended to his paintbrushes.
Like the Portuguese Dominican monks, he was bearded now. His wavy brown hair was shoulder length. The two younger nuns, Sister Natalia and Sister Lucía, had abandoned their black wimples and habits. Instead, they wore short, sleeveless dresses that they had made from a bale of cloth—a gift from Monsignor de Béhaine from the market in Pondicherry. With the leftover fabric, they cut triangular scarves and wrapped them around their shaved heads to ward off the blazing sun. Despite the heat, the oldest nun, Sister Regina, hid herself in the heavy folds of her order’s prescribed garb.
The constant exposure to salt air and heat, the cramped space onboard, and the excessive humidity drained the energy from the passengers. The oldest monk, Brother Jorge, battled scurvy and exhaustion. During his last hours, he shrank in a corner of the deck as though trying to hide in a crack in the gunwale. François watched the monk’s rotting teeth, blackened like segments of a leech, drop from his mouth. Monsignor de Béhaine tried to heal the dying man with spiritual communion and folk medicine. In the end, the captain and two of his seamen shrouded the monk’s still body in a canvas sheet and tossed it overboard, while de Béhaine chanted a prayer. The others surrounded him, heads bowed.
The following morning, the captain announced that they had not far to go. The world around François was a hazy mist, vague and formless. Just when he thought he could no longer endure the incessant rocking of the ocean, he was roused by the lookout’s excited cry of “Land, ahead!” Straining into the glare from his hammock, François made out a series of gray lumps in the distance.
The captain heaved a sigh. He had utilized every inch of caulk available onboard to repair the ship. The white sails were tattered and mended in layers of large, discolored patches. The names of the ships had been washed by the seawater until only an outline was visible. As they drew nearer, the phantom flicker of approaching bamboo trees, the green of the rice fields, the dark figures of water buffalo
The monsignor seemed to have no difficulty adjusting to the harsh conditions. With the skills he had learned during his past expeditions to Annam, he used folk medicine to treat such ailments as headache, stomach troubles, and kidney complaints. Seeing that François and the others were seasick, he introduced a remedy to strengthen their bowels.
“The treatment is simple,” he explained one morning after catechism. “One must cut and search into the bellies of large fish for the smaller fish they have consumed but not yet digested. Remove one of these fish, clean it well, then cook it in a broth of fish sauce and pepper. Eat it with rice at supper. This will impart vigor to the stomach so that you will feel no nausea while crossing the ocean.”
He nodded at François. Henri, wrapping his arms around a wooden column twenty paces away, looked on with a frown.
Miraculously, the medicine worked. After his first meal of the fish-within-a-fish, François suffered no more seasickness. During the day, he strode the length of the ship with his novice. He scanned the horizon, looking for land. But all he could see was an empty sapphire sea stretching out to infinity.
Behind their vessel were the
Saint Raphael
and the
Saint Ignatius Loyola,
each floating a half league from the other—close enough for François to see the figures on the other boats, but too far away for him to hear their conversations. Ahead was the
Hercules,
leading the way.
At night, the air turned chilly. Tucked under a blanket on a hammock slung between coils of rope, Henri tossed and sniffled in his sleep. Sometimes the priest would find tears on the youth’s cheeks, which he wiped gently with his thumb. François found himself caring for the boy as precisely as he tended to his paintbrushes.
Like the Portuguese Dominican monks, he was bearded now. His wavy brown hair was shoulder length. The two younger nuns, Sister Natalia and Sister Lucía, had abandoned their black wimples and habits. Instead, they wore short, sleeveless dresses that they had made from a bale of cloth—a gift from Monsignor de Béhaine from the market in Pondicherry. With the leftover fabric, they cut triangular scarves and wrapped them around their shaved heads to ward off the blazing sun. Despite the heat, the oldest nun, Sister Regina, hid herself in the heavy folds of her order’s prescribed garb.
The constant exposure to salt air and heat, the cramped space onboard, and the excessive humidity drained the energy from the passengers. The oldest monk, Brother Jorge, battled scurvy and exhaustion. During his last hours, he shrank in a corner of the deck as though trying to hide in a crack in the gunwale. François watched the monk’s rotting teeth, blackened like segments of a leech, drop from his mouth. Monsignor de Béhaine tried to heal the dying man with spiritual communion and folk medicine. In the end, the captain and two of his seamen shrouded the monk’s still body in a canvas sheet and tossed it overboard, while de Béhaine chanted a prayer. The others surrounded him, heads bowed.
The following morning, the captain announced that they had not far to go. The world around François was a hazy mist, vague and formless. Just when he thought he could no longer endure the incessant rocking of the ocean, he was roused by the lookout’s excited cry of “Land, ahead!” Straining into the glare from his hammock, François made out a series of gray lumps in the distance.
The captain heaved a sigh. He had utilized every inch of caulk available onboard to repair the ship. The white sails were tattered and mended in layers of large, discolored patches. The names of the ships had been washed by the seawater until only an outline was visible. As they drew nearer, the phantom flicker of approaching bamboo trees, the green of the rice fields, the dark figures of water buffalo
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