To the Edge of the World (4 page)

“Stay here until I fetch you.” In a few moments we saw Cartagena enter Magallanes’s cabin. Apparently, he was the last to arrive, for once he entered, the meeting was called to order.

We heard nothing of what they said.

A cold sweat came over me. I suddenly realized what we were doing. We perched atop casks of cargo, a cabin boy and a servant, spying on a meeting between captains and pilots. Why had Cartagena ordered us to spy? What would happen if we were caught? Too late I wished I hadn’t agreed to go on the mission, but now I had no choice. And a cabin boy does not refuse to obey his captain. I glanced around nervously, but the darkness shrouded us like Cartagena’s cloak, the water black as ink, and I saw nothing beyond the casks.

I turned back toward the light and peered into the room. The only time I had seen the other captains and pilots, they had been suited in full armor. Now, studying their faces, I recognized the captain-general. He was short and swarthy, a typical Portuguese with a black bushy beard, dark brooding eyes, and legs bowed like a peasant.

Beside me, Rodrigo whispered, his voice so soft I scarce heard him amid the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the soft slap of water against the hull. “Magallanes looks like a sorry rat compared to our fine captain.”

Magallanes circled the table, a table heaped with maps and charts, around which the captains and pilots were seated. The captain-general had a pronounced limp and suddenly reminded me of my father, the memory so sharp that for a moment I almost called his name. Idiot! I told myself. This dark, limping foreigner is not your father! Your father was Castilian, not Portuguese! Your father was a good man, a brave man, a righteous man! Yet my heart felt drained.

Magallanes stopped circling the table and sank into a chair. He looked tired, defeated. The captains and pilots around the table stared stonily at the captain-general. It looked to me as if they all hated Magallanes.

Now Cartagena commanded everyone’s attention. He strutted about the table in a manner worthy of a Castilian, glancing with scorn at the captain-general. Finally, Cartagena stopped in front of Magallanes and leaned over him. He sneered and spat words at the little man. Magallanes raised his hands helplessly.

Rodrigo snarled through clenched teeth, “If Magallanes was truly a man, he would run Cartagena through with his sword. As anyone can see, Magallanes is a coward. He has no pride. No honor. It is well Cartagena has brought his dagger. He will skewer Magallanes like a pig, and then we will have a true man to lead the armada.”

I narrowed my eyes at Magallanes, for I agreed with Rodrigo. Such a weak, sniveling man, I thought. He is nothing like my father.

I continued to watch. Although Cartagena’s hand moved toward his dagger many times, he did not draw it, for with each weak gesture from Magallanes, Cartagena seemed unsure. It was as if he wished for Magallanes to give him a reason to stab him. Cartagena’s gaze flicked to others around the table as though asking what he should do.

It was then the casks beneath us began to shift and rock. While I yet wondered what it was, a hand wrapped itself around my ankle.

“Spies! I’ve found spies!”

V

October 2-25, 1519

Horror spread through my body with a sickening wave as both Rodrigo and I were yanked by our ankles from the casks.

I found myself gasping, lying flat on my stomach upon the dock, but before I could gather my wits, someone hauled me to my feet and dragged me by my ear toward the
Trinidad
. I had no choice but to follow.

From the light of the lanterns, I glimpsed Rodrigo’s face and knew him to be as terrified as I. The man who held our ears was the marine with the pockmarked face. His eyes glittered in the lamplight.

“Idiot boys,” he hissed under his breath.

The marine thrust us into Magallanes’s cabin. The door closed. Light from candle flames flickered off the faces of captains and pilots. Faces that stared at me. The cabin reeked of candle smoke. Of dinner. Of sweat. Even of fear. A heavy silence pressed upon me, hot as my shame.

The captain-general, who had sat in his chair regarding us with a brooding, unreadable expression, now sighed and rose to his feet. His shoulders drooped and he scowled, his dark brows drawing together. “Spies?” he asked.

Desperate, I looked to Cartagena. My heart swelled with horror when he regarded me coolly, as if he had never seen me before, as if he knew not my name.

Magallanes faced me, and suddenly he did not seem the weak, sniveling creature I had observed through the window hatch. And although my knees quaked, I thrust up my chin. “I am not a spy,” I said, surprised my voice sounded so calm.

“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “you are a spy and a liar as well.”

I made no answer, fearing what he might say next.

His gaze darted from me to Rodrigo.

Rodrigo stared unblinking into the captain-general’s eyes. And when Magallanes began to turn away, Rodrigo spat, the spittle landing on Magallanes’s boot.

An unearthly silence filled the room.

Magallanes stared at his boot, blinking, making no move to wipe the spit away.

Then for the first time since our entrance, Cartagena spoke. “Kill them.”

I was grabbed and my arms thrust behind me. The marine bound my wrists with strong cord. I should have spoken aloud. I should have told them that Cartagena had commanded us to spy, but my mouth filled with dryness and I could not speak. My pride was too great. And in that moment, I hated Cartagena.

The marine pulled us toward the door.

“Wait,” said Magallanes, with a wave of his hand. He turned to gaze at me. “These boys. To which ship are they assigned?”

“The
San Antonio,
” someone replied.

Magallanes closed his eyes and sighed. We waited while he said nothing, his forehead creased with thought. Finally, he spoke, “My cabin boy jumped ship yesterday.” He paused before continuing. “Reassign these crewmen to the
Trinidad
. Captain Cartagena should no longer be burdened with such scum. Their conduct shall now be my responsibility.”

I glanced at Cartagena. A look of triumph spread over the young captain’s face, a look which he quickly masked. His lips curled slightly. “As you wish, Captain-General.” In a swirl of Castilian wool, he gathered his cloak about him, bowed to Magallanes, and left.

Rodrigo and I returned to the
San Antonio
for our possessions.

“Why didn’t Cartagena tell him we were only following orders?” I asked angrily, kicking my bedding.

Rodrigo smiled. “Did you see the way I handled the captain-general?”

I slammed my sea chest closed and cinched the straps tight. “And why did Cartagena order us killed? What would have happened if Magallanes had agreed? What then?”

Rodrigo folded a shirt and placed it in his sea chest. “I would spit on his boot again if I had the chance. A hundred times. A thousand. Portuguese pig.”

“Rodrigo! You’re not listening to me!”

“Why should I? You’re boring and have only one thing to say. Besides, you have not said anything about how I humiliated the captain-general.”

“What do you want me to say? That you are a fine spitter and have great accuracy?”

“All right,” answered Rodrigo.

“All right, what?”

“All right, you may say that.”

“For the sake of God, Rodrigo, this is serious!”

Just then, a dog growled, low and deep-chested. I turned, startled. Cartagena stood stooped under the shadow of the quarterdeck. Now he stepped into the lantern light of the waist deck, along with his two massive dogs. “Congratulations. You managed to fool a crusty old commander. You played your parts to perfection, as I had hoped. My compliments to both of you for a job well done.” Cartagena made a sweeping bow as a mocking smile played at the corner of his lips.

I narrowed my eyes. “We could have been killed! Why did you—”

“Mateo!” hissed Rodrigo, a look of caution blazing in his eyes.

One of the dogs growled. Cartagena laid a hand upon its head, sighing heavily. “Listen carefully, both of you, I’ve not much time. You must find that message from Spain. When I questioned Magallanes about it, he said it was of a personal family nature, but he is a liar. You must find it and report to me all you see and hear.”

So that was it! He had planned the whole thing so we could become his spies aboard the Trinidad! “I will not spy for you,” I said. “You used us.”

With a look of irritation, he waved his hand to silence me. “No harm would have come to you, I assure you. Come, boy, what do you think of me? Do you think me a murderer?”

I crossed my arms.

“Believe me, boy, it was a calculated risk. I knew Magallanes would save you. He is weak. He cannot stomach harsh penalties. Pah! Clubfoot showed no spirit. I truly believe that had we spat in his face he would scarce have dared raise a ’kerchief to wipe the spittle away.”

Suddenly Cartagena’s face hardened, and he leaped over and grabbed my arm. He squeezed so hard I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out. “Do not disappoint me, boy. Remember, though you now serve aboard the
Trinidad,
I am still your captain. I can slit your throat as easily as a rat’s.” He shoved me away. “Now be off, and remember what I said.”

As I trudged up the Trinidad’s gangplank with my possessions, my heart sank. Espinosa was waiting for me, his arms crossed. No doubt he had heard what had happened at the council meeting. That I was a liar. A spy. Not to be trusted.

“Well?” he said after I put down my things.

I hesitated, remembering Cartagena’s words:
I can slit your
throat as easily as a rat’s
. I looked away, hating Cartagena for making me lie. “It was an accident.”

“Tell me, Mateo, how is spying an accident?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Do you make a habit of spying?”

“No.”

Espinosa was silent. I heard his breathing. The scrape of his boot against the planks. Then, “When I first met you at the inn, I felt you were a boy to be trusted. But maybe I was wrong. Tell me truthfully, young Mateo, and do not lie to me. Are you to be trusted?”

Are you to be trusted?
With his words, tears filled my eyes. I blinked. It was a while before I could speak, and even then, my voice shook. “Upon the graves of my parents, you can trust me. Please—please believe me.”

Espinosa gripped my shoulder. “Then look at me.”

I did.

The ice blue of his gaze pierced me, as if he could see my bones. Read the truth upon my marrow. And the lie. I realized I was shaking but dared not look away. Then, abruptly, with a grunt, he turned and left, disappearing into the shadows of the quarterdeck.

“What was that about?” Rodrigo had come up the gangplank behind me.

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “I don’t know, Rodrigo. Maybe they will kill us after all.”

Rodrigo stared after Espinosa. Then he yawned and stretched. “Well, if they do, we should get some sleep first. Come on. Let’s find a place.”

That night aboard the
Trinidad,
I dreamed a terrible dream.

Through waves of dusty heat, a horseman appeared. He was a fine noble—fair-haired, blue-eyed, haughty. “I’ve come for my daughter,” he said.

Out of the shadows of our home my father strode without a trace of limp—rugged, dark, angry.

My chest swelled with pride. My father. Tomás. “You may not have her,” he replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “She is my wife. The mother of my son.”

The nobleman spat. “Pah! What kind of life is this? Naught but toil and dirt. And you are naught but a filthy peasant. Give her to me now before I run you through.”

“Never. She does not want to leave.”

Then the sun flashed off a mighty lance as it thrust downward, downward, from a great height. My father did not move. The lance pierced him through, blood spurted, and he slumped to the ground.

I screamed and awakened. Sweat dripped from me and I trembled, remembering.

I had dreamed this dream many times. But now it was different. Always before the lance had pierced my father’s leg, leaving a great, gaping wound that caused him to limp forever. This time my father’s very life had been struck down.

And that was not the only difference. As the tall nobleman had peered from his horse at the slain peasant, his face suddenly transformed into one I recognized. Cartagena’s.

And the peasant who lay sprawled in the dirt with blood smeared on his face, over his deadened eyes, was no longer my father, but Magallanes.

The armada weighed anchor and put to sea bearing southwest. All ships followed the lantern of the
Trinidad,
the ship to which Rodrigo and I were now assigned.

I served as cabin boy for Magallanes. I could not bear to meet the captain-general’s gaze, for I knew what he thought of me— that I was both a liar and a spy—and I was filled with shame. During my watches, I swept the floor, aired his bedding, turned the sandglasses every half hour, polished the woodwork, opened the window hatches, and brought him his meals, all with my head hanging, my gaze glued to the floorboards.

That evening, my watch over, I stood beside the bulwarks gazing at the multitude of stars, thinking of home, thinking of my father and mother. Trying not to think of how Cartagena had used me. I heard a voice behind me.

“They are beautiful, are they not?” It was Magallanes. “Ofttimes when I am anxious, I gaze upon the stars and find peace.”

I said nothing, my shame so scalding I could not speak.

“You see that cluster of stars? That is Perseus. In one hand he holds his sword, and in the other he grasps the severed head of Medusa.”

I looked to where the captain-general pointed but, try as I might, saw neither sword nor severed head. The stars looked very much the same to me. But I nodded, wondering why he spoke to me. Me, a liar and a spy.

“And there you can see the constellation of Andromeda. It is fitting she is beside Perseus, for in Greek mythology, they were husband and wife. You have not heard of that legend? Ah, it is my favorite.” Then to my surprise, Magallanes went on to tell the story of how Perseus slew the sea monster and rescued Andromeda. Afterward, the captain-general stood silent, gazing at the stars.

Just that morning, after we were assigned our stations as cabin boys, Rodrigo had ridiculed me, saying I was cabin boy for a pig, while he was cabin boy for the tough master-at-arms, Espinosa. Now I looked at Magallanes, at his dark eyes gazing at the stars, and knew Rodrigo was wrong.

Magallanes spoke without turning. “I have ordered a space cleared for you and your friend in the storage area between the main deck and the fo’c’sle. I would advise you take it, for there are few places on this ship that remain dry in rough weather.” At that, he left me.

I wondered. If Magallanes thought me a liar and a spy, then why did he care enough to find me dry quarters? Why did he speak to me, a mere cabin boy, pausing long enough to point out the constellations? And why was I not punished for spying? Had Espinosa talked to him about me? If so, what had Espinosa said? I did not know the answers to these questions, only that I slept soundly that night. I am Mateo, I thought dreamily, Mateo Macías of the
Trinidad
.

I did not carry out my duties alone. Magallanes owned a slave— Enrique—a man of dark skin, a man who never spoke, as silent as shadows. Sometimes I would think I was alone, sweeping, scrubbing, when suddenly there would be Enrique.

Rodrigo told me Magallanes had captured Enrique on one of his campaigns in the Far East when Enrique was a child. It had to be true. Enrique followed Magallanes like a dog follows his master. At first this bothered me, but soon I grew so used to it I scarce noticed him at all. Besides, I was glad to have someone else share my work.

For the next two weeks we sailed between the Cape Verde Islands and the African mainland, with blue skies and a steady wind from astern. There was some talk of this being a strange course the ships sailed, that perhaps Magallanes knew not how to sail a ship, much less navigate, but I did not listen to such talk. I trusted Magallanes in a way I had not trusted Cartagena. I could not explain it, but there it was. Each night as Magallanes paced the quarterdeck, silent and alone, his hands clasped behind his back, limping, I strummed my guitar under the stars, thinking of my father and wondering if he could see me.