and fire-wood and materials for building shelter. I assure you the shelters will be warmer than the ships, for we can relax before the fires and sup with bread and wine after our chores have been completed. Winter is almost over and—”
“No!” A sailor screamed. “You are a madman! Cartagena is right! You will kill us all! I demand you take us back to Spain!”
Magallanes whirled, his arm outstretched, his finger pointed. I saw the veins in his neck bulge as he roared, “¡Sed Preso!”
A stunned silence followed in which no one dared speak. The wind howled between us, shouting in every ear
. . . ¡Sed Preso! . . .
¡Sed Preso! . . .
The marines grabbed the sailor, who now looked about him in panic. He struggled, crying, “Help me! Someone, please! Do not suffer this fool to lead us any longer! Why do you just stand there? Why do you not help me? You are cowards, all of you! Cowards—” There was a strange smack. The sound of wood against bone. The sailor’s knees buckled and he melted to the rocks.
Magallanes’s voice was calm and untroubled once again. “As I have said, winter will not last long, and when it ends, we shall find the passage to the South Seas, where it will only be a short distance, a few weeks at most, before we shall arrive at the Spice Islands.” He limped over to stand before Cartagena.
The Castilian drew himself up and towered over the captain-general.
“I would rather die than return to Spain empty-handed,” said Magallanes. “The king has entrusted me with this enterprise, and I am honor-bound to succeed. Did not the Vikings sail to Iceland, surviving treacherous fogs and seas of ice? If I must, I will sail until my ships are encased in ice and cannot move.” His voice now boomed off the cliffs. “I have heard that Castilians are famed for their pride and courage. Would you now tremble in a brisk wind, a few snowflakes, scurrying back to Spain like a child gone too long from home?”
Although Cartagena’s face twisted with fury, he dared not move. For while the captain-general talked, Espinosa had positioned himself beside Magallanes. Even in the waning light Espinosa’s sword gleamed. Now Cartagena looked away from Magallanes, furious, saying nothing.
With that, it was decided. For the rest of the day I stumbled around in an aimless way, desperately cold, longing to return to Spain. A horrifying thought kept running through my mind. I tried to shake it, ashamed, but could not. It penetrated like a rotten stench. Perhaps, I thought, Magallanes
is
insane. Perhaps we follow the whims of a madman. Perhaps he will search for
el paso
until there are none left to search but himself, alone aboard the
Trinidad,
the rest of us long dead. Perhaps Rodrigo is right and I am a fool for believing in Magallanes. . . .
The following day was Easter Sunday, and all hands were ordered ashore for Mass.
At first it was only a few whispers. Then, spreading over the company like liquid fire, whispers burned our ears from every direction. “They are missing,” whispered Rodrigo. “The two Spanish captains are missing.”
“To not attend Mass is a grave offense,” whispered someone else.
“Not only that, but all captains, pilots, and officers are invited afterward to a feast aboard the
Trinidad
.”
“To not attend the feast is an insult.”
“Likely they plot mutiny.”
“Or murder.”
“The captain-general pretends he does not notice.”
“No doubt he is burning with fury.”
Rodrigo whispered, “I have heard a terrible thing. Someone told me that Magallanes swore to the king of Portugal that he would destroy the fleet and maroon all survivors. Perhaps that is what he intends to do in this godforsaken place.”
“But why would Magallanes do such a thing?” It made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore.
“It is what everyone says. Can so many men be wrong? Tell me, Mateo, since you are so smart, why does Magallanes not return to Spain? It is the captain-general’s pride.
“No!” A sailor screamed. “You are a madman! Cartagena is right! You will kill us all! I demand you take us back to Spain!”
Magallanes whirled, his arm outstretched, his finger pointed. I saw the veins in his neck bulge as he roared, “¡Sed Preso!”
A stunned silence followed in which no one dared speak. The wind howled between us, shouting in every ear
. . . ¡Sed Preso! . . .
¡Sed Preso! . . .
The marines grabbed the sailor, who now looked about him in panic. He struggled, crying, “Help me! Someone, please! Do not suffer this fool to lead us any longer! Why do you just stand there? Why do you not help me? You are cowards, all of you! Cowards—” There was a strange smack. The sound of wood against bone. The sailor’s knees buckled and he melted to the rocks.
Magallanes’s voice was calm and untroubled once again. “As I have said, winter will not last long, and when it ends, we shall find the passage to the South Seas, where it will only be a short distance, a few weeks at most, before we shall arrive at the Spice Islands.” He limped over to stand before Cartagena.
The Castilian drew himself up and towered over the captain-general.
“I would rather die than return to Spain empty-handed,” said Magallanes. “The king has entrusted me with this enterprise, and I am honor-bound to succeed. Did not the Vikings sail to Iceland, surviving treacherous fogs and seas of ice? If I must, I will sail until my ships are encased in ice and cannot move.” His voice now boomed off the cliffs. “I have heard that Castilians are famed for their pride and courage. Would you now tremble in a brisk wind, a few snowflakes, scurrying back to Spain like a child gone too long from home?”
Although Cartagena’s face twisted with fury, he dared not move. For while the captain-general talked, Espinosa had positioned himself beside Magallanes. Even in the waning light Espinosa’s sword gleamed. Now Cartagena looked away from Magallanes, furious, saying nothing.
With that, it was decided. For the rest of the day I stumbled around in an aimless way, desperately cold, longing to return to Spain. A horrifying thought kept running through my mind. I tried to shake it, ashamed, but could not. It penetrated like a rotten stench. Perhaps, I thought, Magallanes
is
insane. Perhaps we follow the whims of a madman. Perhaps he will search for
el paso
until there are none left to search but himself, alone aboard the
Trinidad,
the rest of us long dead. Perhaps Rodrigo is right and I am a fool for believing in Magallanes. . . .
The following day was Easter Sunday, and all hands were ordered ashore for Mass.
At first it was only a few whispers. Then, spreading over the company like liquid fire, whispers burned our ears from every direction. “They are missing,” whispered Rodrigo. “The two Spanish captains are missing.”
“To not attend Mass is a grave offense,” whispered someone else.
“Not only that, but all captains, pilots, and officers are invited afterward to a feast aboard the
Trinidad
.”
“To not attend the feast is an insult.”
“Likely they plot mutiny.”
“Or murder.”
“The captain-general pretends he does not notice.”
“No doubt he is burning with fury.”
Rodrigo whispered, “I have heard a terrible thing. Someone told me that Magallanes swore to the king of Portugal that he would destroy the fleet and maroon all survivors. Perhaps that is what he intends to do in this godforsaken place.”
“But why would Magallanes do such a thing?” It made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore.
“It is what everyone says. Can so many men be wrong? Tell me, Mateo, since you are so smart, why does Magallanes not return to Spain? It is the captain-general’s pride.
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