The Butcher's Daughter, page 15
The famous Hernán Cortés had named the place Veracruz, meaning true cross, because he and his band of conquistadors had landed there on a Good Friday in the year of our Lord 1519. Many of the locals prefer to call their town the City of Tables because when you peer down on the flat, thatched-roof houses made of wood from the nearby heights, they resemble tables set out in neat rows and columns resembling a chequerboard. Veracruz is not like the poorly protected settlements of crude huts and dirt pathways we had seen elsewhere. Veracruz is a true city with well-constructed buildings, exotic gardens, wide, cobblestone avenues and streets paved with stone and gravel. From what we had seen so far, she surpassed all others in the New World in wealth and commerce. Wherever we turned, we saw well-to-do merchants and bustling shops. Veracruz was a place of opportunity and money, a place where we could do some business. The city intrigued me and had made, or so I hoped, our expedition around the Caribbean worthwhile.
We found a tavern favored by gentlemen of substance and mingled with the local merchants there for a day or two. We introduced ourselves as honest traders looking for new markets and probed potential partners for information but, to my dismay, we soon discovered that Veracruz no longer welcomed smugglers. Spain’s King Phillip II and his ministers, forever craving tax revenues to pay-off Spain’s horde of voracious bankers, had decided to crack down on smuggling in the Americas and chose to make a royal example out of Veracruz first. To enforce his will, the king had commanded his subjects to build the impressive citadel of daunting stone armed with heavy cannon at San Juan de Ulúa - as much to collect his taxes as to protect the city from marauders.
All ships entering Veracruz had to stop first at the island of San Juan de Ulúa to be inspected by agents of the Casa de Contratación who, we were informed, could not be bribed. No vessel could land goods in Veracruz or carry cargo out until the quinto had been assessed and paid in full.
And then we heard two familiar names again. We learned that the Spanish Royal Navy had only a few years back in 1569 cornered a small English squadron led by John Hawkins - the same Englishman who had tried to take Cartagena, along with his younger cousin Francis Drake, the same fellow who had only a few months before visited the Name of God looking for Spanish treasure - against the walls of San Juan de Ulúa while Hawkins and Drake were on shore with a raiding party sacking Veracruz. The Spanish captured all but two small ships, the Minion and the Judith, which Hawkins and Drake commandeered and used for their escape. Mischief seemed to follow these two troublemakers wherever they traveled. The Spanish wanted them dead.
We spent a week in Veracruz exploring, quietly learning what we could about possible opportunities and about the politics of the region. I made liberal use of Don de Villanueva’s good name and that of the Governor-Captain General, Gregorio González de Cuenca, though I had never met the governor. We even entertained a number of Veracruz’s more distinguished citizens aboard the Falling Star one evening. We treated our guests to Irish music, dance and supper. I spared no expense and entertained the Spanish lavishly. The evening was a grand success and we made a new friend or two worth having.
With our mission more or less accomplished, and restless to get underway, we purchased fresh supplies, raised anchor and pointed our ships due east, setting out for Havana some three hundred leagues away. Havana was where I hoped to find Hunter waiting for me if God, in His mercy, saw fit to return my lover to me.
Ducking in and out of light squalls barely strong enough to be annoying, we sailed across a rough and troubled sea. I spent my evenings standing at the helm, alone, lost in anxious thought. Every league we sailed east brought me one league closer to Hunter. During the day I found myself pacing up and down the deck impatiently, brooding more often than not. I had ample time to let my mind wander. I told myself over and over again that Hunter was just a man, a man with a pretty face and strong arms, but he just a man all the same. I tried to convince myself that if he did not return to me, I could easily find another. But that, I knew, was untrue.
I wanted to harden my heart. I tried and tried again but could not. And that annoyed me greatly. The little girl I had once known, the little girl who could purge any emotion at any time she wished to with little effort, was little more than shadow now.
Chapter Seven
Fortune’s fool am I. Pride. Pride walks hand-in-hand with Arrogance and Arrogance, well, she never wanders far off without her favorite handmaiden, Carelessness. Pride is a most dangerous, volatile, troublesome flaw. It is the flaw of kings and queens. It is the flaw of countless fools. Her majesty, a most attentive listener, had graciously allowed me to describe my gifts to her, of which there are but a few. But to render my story whole, I needed to confess certain imperfections in my nature as well.
I began with pride. I can no more set aside my pride than I can set aside my heart or brain. It is an inseparable part of me. There were other sins I confessed to her majesty too, including the sin of vanity, though, perhaps, this is not so great a flaw for a woman who men are easily drawn to. The queen had readily agreed.
It was pride that let me soar. It was pride that laid me low.
I was careless in my arrogance. I failed to read the signs.
Even now I weep.
“What vexes you, Mary?” Gilley asked me as we strolled up and down the gun deck together, casually inspecting the rope and tackle securing the guns to the bulwark. “You’ve been oddly quiet these past few days.”
“Why all is well, Tom, truly,” I said. “I’m grateful for your concern.”
“Ah, my mistake then,” Gilley offered graciously, but with little sincerity in his tone.
“You look about as brown as a coconut, Tom,” I said and laughed, wanting to change the subject. “Have the tropics done the same to me?”
Gilley turned and smiled. “God forbid. No worries, Mary. You are an exquisite beauty and Hunter will think the same.”
“I was not thinking of Hunter.”
“My dear, my dearest Mary, lest you have forgotten: the captain of this ship, under our sacred Ten Rules, is forbidden to lie to the crew as I recall.”
“Hmmm,” I offered. And then Henry caught my attention. I watched him take the chip log with a length of line and walk over to the rail.
“Henry, what the devil are you doing there?” I asked him.
The Carib turned to face me and broke into a wide grin.
“He knows quite well what he is doing,” Atwood said as he walked towards Gilley and me to stand with us. “I taught him. Henry, be a good fellow and explain the chip wood to Lady Mary.”
“Yes, yes, I use the chip log,” Henry answered excitedly, speaking through his smile with remarkably good English. He held the block of wood, tied to a reel of rope knotted at intervals of fifty feet, up to show me.
“Henry has a keen passion for learning and an uncanny knack for remembering things, all manner of things,” Atwood said. “Never seen anything quite like it. He’s an unusually bright and industrious fellow. Henry, if you please, show our good lady.”
“Step one, drop chip log in water,” Henry said, still smiling. Then he stepped up on the ship’s rail and tossed the wood block over the side. After he jumped down from the rail, he reached for the sand glass sitting on top of the bittacle. “Step two, set sand glass,” he said as he flipped the glass over, allowing the sand to flow freely. And then, after carefully setting the glass on the rail, he watched the line play out. “Step three, count knots.”
As the chip log floated away from the ship the line went with it and Henry counted the knots as they slipped through his fingers. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Step four, sand glass empty, Atwood, Master Atwood, sir. Henry stop counting. Eight it is. Eight knots I count.”
“Very well, Master Henry, eight knots it is. How many seconds in the sand glass?”
“Thirty, Atwood, Master Atwood, thirty seconds, sir,” Henry answered proudly as he began pulling the line back in.
“That is good, Master Henry. That is very good. I’ll note the log book for you. One day I’ll teach you how to write with pen and paper so you can make entries in the log book yourself. Off you go then. Report to Master Caputo at the tiller and see what you can learn from him. Be sure to tell Caputo I sent you.”
Henry offered us another grin before he scampered off.
“Most impressive,” Gilley remarked. “But do you think he knows what he is truly measuring?”
“I do. I do indeed. I think he comprehends the concept quite well. The Carib are accomplished sailors I hear and must have some knowledge of speed and distance, however crude, to move among the islands as they do.”
“And our Ethiopian friends, how do they fare?” I asked.
“More than one longs to see his family and home again,” Atwood answered. “As for learning shipboard tasks and work, I’ve got no complaints. Every one of them has pulled his weight and I didn’t see one man shrink back during the Battle of Cartagena. They’re a tough and loyal lot.”
Gilley had been the one who had insisted on giving our victory over the mystery pirate ships a proper name. We had all agreed on the Battle of Cartagena.
“Good,” I said. “What kind of work did they do back in Africa?”
“As best I can tell,” Atwood said, “two or three were warriors and hunters back home, wherever home is. The rest were farmers, craftsmen or shepherds and the like.”
“Well, let’s teach them how to shoot and fight. Muskets, swords, knives, cannon - all of it. Henry too.”
Gilley cleared his throat. “Ahem, Mary, I’m not certain that is wise.”
“Oh? And why is that not wise? Are you afraid one of them might shoot you or slit your throat one night, Tom?”
“Mary,” Atwood interrupted. “The Spanish will not take kindly to seeing armed slaves.”
“They are not slaves. I purchased their freedom.”
“So you did, Mary, so you did,” Gilley readily agreed and nodded. “But I doubt very much the Spanish will see things quite the same way.”
“Gentlemen, my mind is firm on this matter. Are these twenty Ethiopians members of our crew or not?”
“Aye, Mary, but.”
“But, Tom,” I said, cutting Gilley off. “According to the Ten Rules these men must be willing to fight and die to protect this ship, to protect their mates.”
“I don’t think,” Atwood said, “they know anything about the Ten Rules.”
“Then teach each them,” I replied with too much irritation in my tone.
Gilley shook his head. “Mary, please. This New World is not our world. Let’s remember we are guests here. This world belongs to the Spanish and to the Portuguese. We must respect their ways. Slavery is a part of life here. If you openly flaunt your disdain for Spanish rule, well, we might need to find ourselves a new home.”
“Tom, are you not the one who is fond of telling us from time to time that a man must “live tall?””
“Aye, but.”
“But Tom Gilley, and you too Jacob Atwood, I’ll not debate the matter further. We are not some toothless packet ship ferrying passengers and their sea trunks around. These men are soldiers and our brothers or they are not and if they are not, then we best put them ashore and be done with it...”
“LAND!” the lookout shouted down to us from the crow’s nest and pointed to a spec of green off the starboard bow. We had finally reached the western tip of Cuba.
My mood instantly improved. My heart began to flutter.
My heart sank when I did not see the Phantom, Westport or the Fair Irish Maiden anchored in Havana’s fine harbor, known as Puerto de Carenas, or Careening Bay, because it is an excellent place to beach a ship at low tide to mend their bottoms. Our voyage around the Caribbean had taken ten weeks. Even if all was well, Hunter could still be a month or two away. I was foolish to have had any hope of finding him or the others in Havana waiting for us.
I gave the crew their liberty and went into town to find Cortés. But Cortés wasn’t in Cuba, he was in Santo Domingo I learned and so I passed the time sampling different taverns with little to do. And then the spring rains came, monsoon-like rains. Every day it rained. Havana’s streets turned into muddy streams, the town turned into a bloody quagmire and my mood turned foul. I returned to the ship and to pass the time I busied myself with menial work, with long baths in a special barrel my men had made for me and with reading books. I had copies of The Prince by an Italian named Niccolò Machiavelli, Jules César by a Frenchman named Jacques Grévin, and Martin Luther’s Disputatio pro Declaratione Virtutis Indulgentiarum, his Ninety-Five Theses, which men say ignited the Reformation. I found them all mildly entertaining.
Midway through our third week in Havana, Cortés found me at the tavern he had first brought us to. Gilley, Atwood, Ferguson and I were sitting together eating supper.
“Mary!” Cortés cried out with genuine delight. He clasped my shoulders, leaned down, and kissed me on the cheek. “How lovely to see you again. And Masters Gilley, Atwood and Ferguson, welcome back to Havana. I heard you tried your luck exploring the Spanish Main?”
“Rodriguez,” I said, smiling sweetly for him. “Welcome back to Havana. Sit and join us, please, and we shall gladly tell you our story. We’ve missed your good company.”
“Gracias,” Cortés replied and moved a chair over to our table. “Tell me my friends, tell me about your grand adventure sailing around the Caribbean!”
We ate and drank and told Cortés our story with pleasure. We told our story the Irish way, leaving no point unsaid. And to our delight, Cortés was a good and thoughtful listener.
“These pirates who attacked you,” Cortés remarked after we had finished recounting our tale, “could have been anyone. We have so many scoundrels in the West Indies. I cannot help you there. As for the fever that hit you and your men, this could have been caused by many things. Did any of the monks at Cumaná administer a medicine called cinchona to you, Mary?”
“Cinchona?”
“Sí. It is good for lowering fevers. It is especially good for the malaria sickness carried by the mosquito bug. Malaria is common here. Cinchona is a tree found in Peru and the bark from this tree, this fever tree as it is known, can be ground into a fine powder and mixed with wine or water for consumption. It is a very effective remedy for malaria. I know a good apothecary in Havana and I will see that you and your men are supplied with sufficient quantities.”
“We are grateful, Rodriguez. Thank you. And your voyage to Santo Domingo was fruitful?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Routine business matters to attend to, nothing more. And I had no difficulties selling-off what you sold to me three months ago. I turned a modest profit. Your ships from Ireland have not yet returned?”
“Not yet, but soon I should think.”
“I trust you will look to me as your agent, your exclusive agent, when they do, Mary.”
“For only modest profits, Rodriguez? Are you sure it is worth your efforts?”
Cortés chuckled. “Well… I heard you did not do badly either. As I recall you purchased two new ships?”
“Well…”
We all laughed, raised our tankards high and tapped the pewter together with a toast to modest profits.
Cortés took a sip of ale and nodded his approval. “Ah, that is good. In a few months the treasure fleet will pass through Havana. I will sail with it. I must return to Spain. I have a wife and two young daughters with a modest estate near Barcelona to look after. If all is well at home, I hope to be back in the Caribbean before winter.”
“You will bring your wife and daughters to the New World?” Gilley asked.
“No, no. The colonies are expanding rapidly. People are coming over to the Americas by the thousands. The king I’ve heard desires to accelerate his plans to build more permanent roads, government buildings and even new and powerful fortresses, like the one you saw at San Juan de Ulúa, all along the Spanish Main and on the islands. The Church has already constructed a number of fine churches and our new Pope Gregory intends to build a cathedral or two in honor of our Lord and Savior. They’ll be glorious structures I have no doubt. Someday we shall have cities in the New World to rival any of the grandest cities of Europa. But, as you have all witnessed, life in the New World is hard and can be most cruel. My wife is a lovely woman, but she is fragile too and she would, I fear, wither and die here. A harsh land needs harsh men and strong women to tame it.”
“What are the names of your daughters?” I asked.
Cortés’s lips curled into a smile, into a father’s proud, smile and his eyes sparkled as he spoke about his daughters. “Ah, Isabella is my oldest and Elizabeth is my youngest. Isabella favors her mother, Marie, and she is a gentle soul. And Elizabeth, well, she favors her papa. Elizabeth reminds me of you, Mary. She will be a rare beauty someday. But she is tough like iron and clever too. She would thrive here in the New World.”
“Men,” I offered, “are easily disposed to underestimate the fairer sex, the more so when the woman in question is pretty. My guess is that your wife and Isabella are stronger than you know. I will look forward to the day we meet.”
“Fair enough my dear lady. I’ve been properly admonished. And while I stand corrected, even humbled, I know three women in Barcelona who would proudly stand with you.”
A few days after our reunion with Cortés, my officers and I received an invitation to dine at the Castillo de la Real Fuerza as Don Villanueva’s guests. Villanueva was a gracious host, was thoughtful in his questions and kept the conversation light. What Villanueva knew or didn’t know about the particulars of our business was not yet clear to me and I was grateful he gave me no cause to be evasive with him.
When we returned to the ships the hour was late and I was exhausted and ready for bed. I had spent the afternoon before our supper with Villanueva with Atwood on the main deck training and practicing hand-to-hand fighting with our Ethiopians in the sweltering heat. The exertion had drained me.
