Mendoza paused and I could have sworn his face colored under the light of the lanterns. “Our master was caught, how shall we say—flagrante delicto—in the arms of his lover, an apprentice seaman.”
On each ship, the master was second in command to the captain. To accuse the master of such a crime brought immediate silence to the Trinidad’s crew. We had all been warned. This crime, described to me in repulsive detail by Rodrigo, was punishable by death. I crossed myself and saw the movement of other arms in the darkness.
Magallanes sighed, and his face seemed to sag even more. “Very well. I shall arrange a court-martial with all captains and pilots for the morrow.”
VII
November 24-25, 1519
The
Trinidad
hummed, vibrating like the strings of my guitar. It was the hum of voices, of cautious whispers.
“The Spanish captains could not have asked for a better opportunity,” whispered Rodrigo later that night as a group of us crouched under the fo’c’sle. “At the court-martial, they will spring their trap.”
I glanced around the circle of shadowed faces, remembering the letter, knowing Rodrigo likely spoke the truth.
Rodrigo continued, “Cartagena will simply stab Magallanes with his knife. It will be as simple as—as—well, I don’t know. But it will be simple. I can tell you that.”
“But the penalty for mutiny is death,” I reminded him.
“Only for the loser, Mateo.”
“Ah, don’t be so reckless.” A sailor stabbed his finger into Rodrigo’s chest. “For whether you live or die depends on which side you choose. So choose wisely. It might be the last choice you ever make. As for me, I shall choose Magallanes, for the power of Espinosa and the marines lies behind him.”
The men in the circle grunted in agreement. But I could smell the uncertainty. Even from Rodrigo.
During the night someone shook me awake. It was Espinosa. He held a lantern and his face glowed with an eerie light. Beside me, Rodrigo leaned on one elbow, his hair disheveled.
“No doubt the court-martial is a trap,” Espinosa said, handing each of us a dagger. “I’ve arranged for the two of you to serve the wine and refreshments. It will be your duty to protect Magallanes.”
I fingered the dagger, remembering how I had been caught spying, how Espinosa had questioned me afterward. Then you do trust me, I thought. But what about Rodrigo? Do you also trust him?
I glanced at Rodrigo. His face was masked and his eyes slitted.
Espinosa seemed not to notice, his voice heavy and grim. “I tell you, I would fill the cabin with marines if I could, but then the Spanish captains would not dare enter for fear of their lives. But the moment the door closes behind the Spanish captains, my marines shall be outside, ready to enter. Even now, they await my command. Naught shall come of this if we are prepared.”
I did not admit my fear. I merely nodded, stuffing the dagger in my waistband under my shirt, feeling the press of cold steel against my skin. Until morning then.
The court-martial was swift and brutal.
Death. To be carried out once the fleet reached the shores of Brazil.
Upon hearing the sentence, the master stood immovable, while his young lover, a pimply boy with darting eyes, screamed and crumpled to the floor. “Have mercy!” he shrieked. “In the name of the Blessed Virgin, have mercy! I don’t want to die!”
Four marines entered the cabin and hauled them away. Long after the door closed behind them, the shrieks continued, “Mercy! Mercy!” until the captains and pilots shifted in their seats. Then came a thud and an animal grunt. Then silence. A silence that lingered like death.
From across the room I saw Cartagena stare at Magallanes, unblinking. Behind him stood Rodrigo.
Magallanes cleared his throat. “Shall we continue? We have much to discuss and the hour grows late. There is still some confusion over the evening’s salute. Perhaps we should review it again.”
Cartagena yawned loudly. He
On each ship, the master was second in command to the captain. To accuse the master of such a crime brought immediate silence to the Trinidad’s crew. We had all been warned. This crime, described to me in repulsive detail by Rodrigo, was punishable by death. I crossed myself and saw the movement of other arms in the darkness.
Magallanes sighed, and his face seemed to sag even more. “Very well. I shall arrange a court-martial with all captains and pilots for the morrow.”
VII
November 24-25, 1519
The
Trinidad
hummed, vibrating like the strings of my guitar. It was the hum of voices, of cautious whispers.
“The Spanish captains could not have asked for a better opportunity,” whispered Rodrigo later that night as a group of us crouched under the fo’c’sle. “At the court-martial, they will spring their trap.”
I glanced around the circle of shadowed faces, remembering the letter, knowing Rodrigo likely spoke the truth.
Rodrigo continued, “Cartagena will simply stab Magallanes with his knife. It will be as simple as—as—well, I don’t know. But it will be simple. I can tell you that.”
“But the penalty for mutiny is death,” I reminded him.
“Only for the loser, Mateo.”
“Ah, don’t be so reckless.” A sailor stabbed his finger into Rodrigo’s chest. “For whether you live or die depends on which side you choose. So choose wisely. It might be the last choice you ever make. As for me, I shall choose Magallanes, for the power of Espinosa and the marines lies behind him.”
The men in the circle grunted in agreement. But I could smell the uncertainty. Even from Rodrigo.
During the night someone shook me awake. It was Espinosa. He held a lantern and his face glowed with an eerie light. Beside me, Rodrigo leaned on one elbow, his hair disheveled.
“No doubt the court-martial is a trap,” Espinosa said, handing each of us a dagger. “I’ve arranged for the two of you to serve the wine and refreshments. It will be your duty to protect Magallanes.”
I fingered the dagger, remembering how I had been caught spying, how Espinosa had questioned me afterward. Then you do trust me, I thought. But what about Rodrigo? Do you also trust him?
I glanced at Rodrigo. His face was masked and his eyes slitted.
Espinosa seemed not to notice, his voice heavy and grim. “I tell you, I would fill the cabin with marines if I could, but then the Spanish captains would not dare enter for fear of their lives. But the moment the door closes behind the Spanish captains, my marines shall be outside, ready to enter. Even now, they await my command. Naught shall come of this if we are prepared.”
I did not admit my fear. I merely nodded, stuffing the dagger in my waistband under my shirt, feeling the press of cold steel against my skin. Until morning then.
The court-martial was swift and brutal.
Death. To be carried out once the fleet reached the shores of Brazil.
Upon hearing the sentence, the master stood immovable, while his young lover, a pimply boy with darting eyes, screamed and crumpled to the floor. “Have mercy!” he shrieked. “In the name of the Blessed Virgin, have mercy! I don’t want to die!”
Four marines entered the cabin and hauled them away. Long after the door closed behind them, the shrieks continued, “Mercy! Mercy!” until the captains and pilots shifted in their seats. Then came a thud and an animal grunt. Then silence. A silence that lingered like death.
From across the room I saw Cartagena stare at Magallanes, unblinking. Behind him stood Rodrigo.
Magallanes cleared his throat. “Shall we continue? We have much to discuss and the hour grows late. There is still some confusion over the evening’s salute. Perhaps we should review it again.”
Cartagena yawned loudly. He
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