The Butcher's Daughter, page 12
Cortés led us to the Castillo de la Real Fuerza in the heart of Havana where the Capitán General of Santo Domingo kept his residence when visiting Cuba. A conquistador in gleaming armor, the captain of the guard, recognized Cortés and snapped to attention as we approached the fort’s main gate. The air beyond the fort’s massive stone walls was filled with dust and with the sounds of men hard at work with heavy tools. After Cortés and the captain of the guard exchanged pleasantries, the captain allowed us to pass through two enormous double doors made from unhewn logs standing fifteen feet high or better. A matching pair of large, bronze shields inscribed with the king’s coat-of-arms, one blazon for each of his four kingdoms: Castile, León, Aragon and Navarre, hung from the center of the doors.
Once we stepped inside the castle appeared to be about half-built. Its walls were encased in scaffolding and we saw an army of Negro and Indian slaves, along with many prisoners, mostly French, moving huge limestone blocks into place or applying mortar to new walls. Beyond the unfinished ramparts we saw another one hundred men or more digging a moat around the fortress’s parameter using pickaxes, shovels and wheelbarrows.
In the center of the castle was a courtyard with six modest but quaint wood-framed houses enclosed by a decorative redbrick wall. The courtyard, with its pretty gardens and stone walkways lined with shade trees, stood like an oasis in stark contrast to the grim, grey walls of the fortress surrounding it. Cortés led us into the courtyard and had us wait outside while he slipped into the largest house. We parked ourselves on a stone bench in the shade underneath a clump of palm trees and watched the construction all around us until Cortés popped his head out a few minutes later and waved us inside.
We followed Cortés into a small parlor where a pale-faced man, seated behind an ornate desk, rose to greet us. The fellow was as thin as a reed, all bones. One good gust of wind could have carried him away easily. Whether the man was naturally frail or ill, I could not tell. His face was unremarkable except for a striking red goatee with a shock of grey running down the middle.
“Don Miguel de Villanueva, may I present to you Capitána Mary of the Falling Star and her two officers, Señors Thomas Gilley, the ship’s first officer, and James Hunter, the ship’s second officer. The young man waiting in the garden is the ship’s boy.”
Villanueva offered me a friendly smile. He leaned over to kiss my hand. Exceedingly tall for a Spaniard, I needed to look up at him to nod my appreciation. His teeth were badly stained and he reeked of tobacco.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, dear lady,” Villanueva said slowly in English with a heavy accent. “Capitána, gentlemen, welcome, welcome to Cuba!”
“Mary, his Excellency is not here at present,” Cortés explained. “But no matter, meeting his Excellency is simply a formality and he would have directed us to meet with Don Villanueva in any case.”
“You were most fortunate,” Villanueva said as he smoothed down the red whiskers on his chin, “to have met Señor Cortés in Trinidad. He is held in high esteem by many in Havana, including his Excellency. Too many in the West Indies, I am sorry to say, do not share Cortés’s respect for integrity in business. I would be honored if you would permit me to be your host this evening for supper but, regrettably, urgent business requires my prompt attention in Santo Domingo. A ship is waiting for me down by the pier and I must depart with haste. You are, I assure you, in good hands with Señor Cortés.”
Villanueva turned to Cortés and clasped his shoulders. “Rodriguez, my friend, it is always good to see you. Perhaps we can all meet again in Santo Domingo soon? It is not often we have guests from Ireland in the West Indies. With our abiding love for the Holy Church and our abhorrence of English tyranny, the people of Ireland and Spain have much in common. Buenas tardes.”
“At your convenience, as always,” Cortés replied and bowed.
After Villanueva stepped outside and into a waiting carriage, Cortés led us on foot to a nearby inn to enjoy a noon-day meal. The establishment was well-furnished, clean and catered to men of substance.
“So my friends,” Cortés began to say, pausing to let the innkeeper set a basket of bread and a platter of assorted cheeses on the table. “The ports at Havana, Santo Domingo and the Port of Spain are now open to you. Provided you pay a modest gratuity, your ships fall under the protection of the Capitán General. I would, of course, be pleased to act as your agent.”
“And why,” I asked, “do we need the Capitán General?”
“It works like so, Mary. You and I will agree to a price, a fair price, for your cargo. You will take your ships to a certain wharf used by the navy. From there, the cargo will be off-loaded, inspected and inventoried by my people and transported inland by mules and wagons. No agent from the Casa de Contratación will be present to interfere with our business. No official inventory will be taken. No taxes will be assessed or collected. I will take care of the costs of administration, transportation and distribution. For this, for this preferential status, you will pay me twenty pesos, or in thales if you prefer, for every ton your ship weighs regardless of the value of your cargo. The Godsend is two hundred and fifty tons I believe you said, so the cost to you would be five thousand pesos. Now let us suppose your cargo had a value of one hundred thousand pesos. If you brought your goods in through the king’s customs house the quinto, the tax, would be at least twenty thousand pesos, perhaps as much as thirty thousand pesos depending on the kind of cargo you wished to import and declare. This private arrangement I am suggesting, I must tell you, is more generous than what Villanueva customarily agrees to. He offers you this discount because you are bringing in so much material at once.”
“An attractive offer to be sure, Rodriguez,” I said with a touch of diplomacy. “But why shouldn’t we simply smuggle in our goods into the islands without Villanueva and pay no fees at all?”
“You can. Some do. You, of course, would then be sailing without the Capitán General’s blessing, without his protection, and fair game for the Royal Navy, the Casa de Contratación and for any cutthroat pirates who take an interest in you. The other problem you have is this: you sail with large ships carrying substantial cargoes. Smugglers throughout the Caribbean use small coasters carrying small cargoes, cargoes that can be quickly and efficiently brought on shore and hauled-off with only a few resources in men and pack animals. Once inland, these small caravans must travel across narrow, often difficult footpaths through the jungles as we have few roads in the West Indies. It will not be easy, but I can help you solve this logistics dilemma.”
“I see. And what arrangement did you make with Villanueva for exporting goods out of the Caribbean?”
Cortés smiled. “Why none. That is not his concern. Exports are our business. Unless you wish the protection of the king’s war galleons while crossing the Atlantic, or you intend to sell your cargo in Spain or Portugal, we do not require the Capitán General’s blessing for our exports to Europa.”
“Master Gilley here,” I said, “has had a yearning to wet his whistle with Caribbean sweet wine since we left Ireland. Shall we seal our pact with a drink?”
“Sí, sí, but of course! I much prefer Spanish and Italian wines, but let me introduce you to some of the New World’s best. Among the sweet wines, Guancapo is the most popular. It is made from different fermented fruits such as pineapples, bananas and plums. The Caribs also make a wonderful drink they call mobbie from fermented potatoes or sometimes with cassava, which we call perino or ouicou. Mobbie, I must warn you, is a potent brew.”
“What’s your pleasure, Master Gilley?” I asked with a playful smile.
“What do you intend to do with twenty slaves, Mary?” Hunter asked as we pulled leisurely at the oars of the ship’s small boat on our way back to the Star.
“I don’t have the faintest notion. You and Tom can sort it out. Let them know they are free, certainly. Perhaps some will wish to try their luck with us and learn about the sea. There are worse ways to make a penny. You must explain to them that we have no means of returning them back to Africa if that is their desire.”
“You paid the Spaniard good money for these men and now you want to set them free?” Hunter asked.
“No, I paid Cortés in pearls.”
“Ah, well that explains things proper. Pearls. Do you mean to purchase all the slaves in the West Indies and set them free, Mary?”
“Ahem, not sure,” Gilley interrupted, “how the lads will take working alongside a Moor.”
“Look around us, gentlemen,” I replied. “We are in the New World, a world of many peoples. I’m certain I even saw a Chinaman earlier this morning walking down the streets of Havana. If we are here for any time, we are bound to have some Negroes and Indians and God only knows who else sailing with us. If they are good sailors, if they can learn and honor the Ten Rules, I welcome any who wish to join us.”
“Very well, I’ll see to it,” Hunter said. “We already have one Indian on board and the man insists on pulling his own weight! The lads say he is clever. They say he has taken to his new duties without complaint, eagerly in fact, and his English is improving quickly. They’ve taken a liking to the fellow and have named him Henry after, I think, the dead Tudor king.”
“Why King Henry?” I asked.
“Not sure. I suppose our lads assume he’ll be the King of Guadeloupe someday as Paka Wokili, his uncle, has no sons. And what about Cortés?”
“Yes, indeed, what about Cortés? My own sense of it is that we may not do much better than Cortés and I think it wise for us to employ an agent. We need someone who knows these waters and understands the politics here. So far Cortés has proven himself to be who he claims to be. And he seems astute. I invite any contrary thoughts on the matter though gentlemen.”
“Perhaps we should hedge our bet a little,” Gilley offered. “We give Cortés cargo from one or two ships and see what we can do without him or his Excellency, the Governor-Captain General, with the rest. But Cortés did make a fair point about the risks if we try working around the Spanish.”
Hunter nodded. “I think that is a sound suggestion, Tom. Send Godsend into port Mary and then Phantom next if all goes well with Godsend. Star is carrying the least amount of tonnage. Perhaps we should visit our friends in Guadeloupe. Perhaps they can help us sell off Star’s cargo on other islands, or we can try our luck in Trinidad again.”
“Gentlemen, I think we have ourselves a plan,” I said. “What say you Master Billy, our ship’s boy par excellence?”
The boy of quiet temperament for once let down his guard. He giggled.
Then Hunter suddenly turned green, leaned over the side and retched.
Gilley howled with laughter at Hunter’s expense. “I’ve never known an Englishman who could hold his liquor. I tried warning him about mobbie. Tasted like turpentine to me. Nothin’ ever good comes from making liquor out of potatoes.”
Hunter put his head between his legs and ignored us. We let him moan, we let him wallow in his misery in peace.
On the first day of the New Year, on the Feast of the Circumcision of our Lord, we offloaded Godsend’s cargo in Havana at the wharf used by the Spanish navy. Cortés’s men accepted all of it without exception and hauled the goods off in wagons and on mules. His foreman paid Green the agreed price on the spot in chests of silver and gold bullion. A few days later we sent Phantom in with the same result.
With Cortés’s help, I took our profits and purchased two fine brigantines, displacing one hundred and fifty tons apiece. I named one ship Westport and gave Green command and named the other Fair Irish Maiden and handed her over to Fox. After taking measurements and calculating the capacity of both ships, Cortés went out and brokered deals on our behalf for lumber, silk, tea, coffee, cocoa, tobacco, sugar and spices like pepper, vanilla and cinnamon. Within a month my men were cramming New World goods into both ships until the cargo holds were stuffed full.
The success of our first voyage into the New World had so far exceeded all my expectations. I was amazed by our good fortune. But as any sailor knows - especially if his roots are Irish - a man’s good luck will carry him only so far before the bitch deserts him.
Gilley set his cards down and shook his head crossly at me as we sat around the table in my great cabin. Except for Hunter and me, the others had all retired for the evening.
“God’s wounds, Mary, no!” Gilley said sternly. “Hunter or I should lead the ships back to Ireland. Green and Fox are good lads, but they’re young and lack experience.”
“They seem capable enough to me,” I shot back in a haughty tone, more annoyed with myself than Gilley because I knew that he was right. But I was in a feisty mood. “Let Ben and Alby do it.”
“Mary, please, Thomas is right,” Hunter offered softly. “Tom or I should go with the lads. Tom is the better sailor but I am good enough, good enough leastwise to cross the Atlantic and find Ireland. And I’m the better soldier. No offense, Tom. I should be the one in command should trouble find the lads. Four or five weeks over to Ireland, a week or two to sell our New World cargo, another few weeks to purchase finished goods and then an eight, perhaps a nine week voyage back to the West Indies, God willing.”
Gilley roared with laughter. “Aye, plainly I am the better sailor, James! Four weeks over, nine weeks back you say? Ha! Columbus had better times with slower vessels! I’d wager all I have the Trojans fleeing burning Ilium, Priam’s pride and joy, could’ve rowed faster in their high-beaked biremes than you can sail!”
“Even if such a race were possible, you’ve got nothing left to wager with old man,” Hunter said and pointed to Gilley’s pitiful pile of coins.
Gilley considered his meager holdings and sighed.
“Very well, it is settled then,” I said. “But take Mustafa with you, James.”
Hunter didn’t argue. Efendi was like having a guardian angel at your side.
In the morning Gilley and I stood at the ship’s aft rail locked arm-in-arm, quietly watching our small flotilla set off under a dark and threatening sky. Phantom took the lead, struggling to make headway against a punishing sea. Westport followed close behind her with Fair Irish Maiden chasing after both of them. Sea foam exploded up and over the bows of the three ships as they plowed through towering rollers without end.
I missed Hunter already. I quickly brushed away a tear before Gilley could see it. My tiny ships looked so vulnerable out on the vast and hostile sea. Then it began to pour and as sheets of pelting rain swept over us, my ships disappeared in the mist. The darkness swallowed them whole.
“No worries, Mary,” Gilley said, sensing my apprehension. “Your precious Hunter will return to you within three months’ time or less.”
“I pray they all make it safely back.”
Gilley gave me a reassuring hug and kissed me on the forehead. “With God’s good blessing, child. With God’s good blessing.”
Cortés’s African slaves, all twenty souls, chose to stay with me, agreed to learn how to work the ships that skim across the briny sea. They seemed a willing and eager people and I was glad to have my new apprentices. Billy, a curious but difficult young man, insisted on returning to Ireland with the flotilla for no particular reason I could discern. I had gladly given the moody lad my consent and didn’t expect to ever see the boy again. Henry, our Carib envoy turned sailor, and turning more Irish each day, convinced Gilley and me to avoid involving his kinsmen on Guadeloupe in our business and urged us to return to the Port of Spain instead where, he promised, he could introduce us to buyers for the rest of our contraband cargo. I agreed.
And so we pointed Star’s nose south towards Trinidad with Godsend following in our wake. We fought through heavy seas at a slow but steady pace. I had handed Ferguson command of Godsend and promoted a feisty Scotsman who called himself Jacob Atwood, a tall and handsome fellow with a wild mane of thick, red hair, as my second officer to replace Ferguson. Atwood had signed aboard with us back in Westport and though I had never sailed with him before, he showed great promise.
Once we reached the Port of Spain the skies began to clear and the days turned hot and humid. I paid the men their wages and Gilley gave them their liberty to go ashore.
The port was just as putrid as we had left it. Gilley and I were nearly overcome by the nauseating stench poisoning the air all around us. As we walked down the port’s narrow streets and alleys we passed by luckless beggars and desperate tricksters, we passed by sick and dying men. One wretched soul who approached me looking for alms was covered from head to toe in open sores oozing puss and had chunks of flesh hanging off his face like wax dripping down a candle. I shuddered as we walked by him. He was, no doubt, a victim of the great pox, or perhaps he was a leper. Many would claim he was a living testament of God’s wrath over man’s promiscuity on earth, though I think it more likely the poor fellow’s luck had simply ran out.
Hunter had been right. The New World was no paradise and kind to precious few.
We easily found the town’s square and found the tavern where we had left it, the tavern where we had first met Cortés. I declared this to be our safe haven, our rallying point if trouble found us, and passed the word along to the men. Gilley and I took a small table in a dark corner where the air was slightly cooler. We sat and had a drink or two to whittle away the hours.
And that became our routine over the next few days. We spent a miserable week in sweltering heat in the Port of Spain. Our Carib Indian, Henry, proved most resourceful though. Thanks to Henry, we sold the rest of our Old World cargo off to various merchants and smugglers around the island for very good prices. The king’s good agent responsible for accessing and collecting import taxes, the quinto, had no objections to our business after I paid the man a gratuity - a fortune to him, a trifling sum to me - to look the other way.
