FRI 29 MAY: Went walking on the deck with Señorita Inés, but when Uncle Will saw us he scurried like a tattletale to Fray Baltazar, who rushed out to whisk her away. Later my uncle apologized: ‘I suppose she’s better than that Mompox. But you’ve got to remember she’s papist and will cheer when her priest burns you as a heretic … if he gets the chance.’
THU 25 JUNE: At sea, 2° 13′ South off the renowned city of Guayaquil, we captured a big Spanish ship heading north to Panamá, with no loss of life to us and only three of them. Same as before. Everyone into small boats with the masts chopped off. Head for the mainland and good luck while we transfer all goods to the Giralda, set fire to the Spaniard and continue south. While rejoicing at this good luck, I found myself once more alone with Señorita Inés, and she said she was most grieved to see those good men who had done no harm set adrift with no mast or sails, and although I agreed with her, I suddenly found myself defensive, for I could not tolerate any Spaniard criticizing English sailors: ‘You must ask my uncle. When your Spaniards captured his ship they burned our sailors alive and were about to do the same to him, when he escaped.’ She could not believe that her people had so behaved, and when the ever-watchful Fray Baltazar came as usual to rescue her from me, she asked: ‘Good priest, tell me if it is true that we have in Spain an Inquisition that burns Englishmen?’ and it was then that he began his effort to educate me. ‘Yes,’ he told us, ‘the Holy Church had to establish a group to protect it from the heretic and the infidel, and yes, sometimes the punishments had to be cruel, but no more so than what your uncle does when you Englishmen take a ship and shoot the wounded or drown those who fought with extra vigor against you. The spirit of man is rude, and it requires constant taming.’
He told us that on the Spanish Main the Inquisition did not burn people, for which he was grateful, but that the fight against heretics had to continue lest the one True Church be what he called ‘contaminated.’ And he added: ‘We protect it for your interest as well as ours.’ This I could not understand, so he explained: ‘Less than a hundred and twenty years ago you Englishmen were all Catholics, and one of these days, when a proper king occupies your throne, you’ll be so again.’ Before I could protest, he asked: ‘You’ve seen most of the North Sea, Ned. Wouldn’t it be simpler and better if we were all one group of islands, all Catholic and subject to one king in Spain and one pope in Rome?’
I was so astounded by such an idea that when he took Inés away I sought my uncle, and said: ‘Fray Baltazar says that a hundred years ago all Englishmen were Catholics,’ and he growled: ‘Not my people. Back to the time of Jesus Christ himself, we was always Church of England,’ and I did not know who to believe.
MON 13 JULY: On this day I gained much respect for our captain, because at latitude 12° 05′ South we stood off Lima’s great port of Callao in Peru, and when I saw the multitude of ships there, with fleet war vessels among them bristling with guns, I thought: Dear God, protect us if we try anything here. They know that one Englishman is worth ten Spaniards, but those ships are too many, even for us. And to my eternal thanks, Captain McFee must have had the same idea, for when he dropped the glass from his eye he turned to Master Rodrigo and said: ‘Carry as she goes,’ and the navigator saluted and replied: ‘A very good decision, sir.’
I am confused about this Rodrigo. He’s a loyal Spaniard and must hope to see us taken by some warship of his country, but he is first of all a responsible seaman and as such he wants to preserve his vessel and put her into safe waters. I saw how he was hurt, terribly, when we chopped his proud galleon to pieces, but now he is equally proud of her performance as a sleek ship that performs wondrously in our battle actions. We in turn trust him, for as Captain McFee says: ‘What else can we do? He knows these waters and we don’t.’
WED 22 JULY: Of Arica, I can say only this. Richest port in Peru, for all the silver of Potosí ships from here. Defended by the best Spanish troops. Crafty swine, allowed us to storm ashore like we were going to capture Madrid. Waited till we were far from our ship, then sent cavalry at us, knocked us galley-west. When we regained our ship, Uncle Will told me: ‘See! You can never trust a Spaniard.’
TUE 28 JULY: We gained our revenge for the loss of three good men at Arica, but I was not much impressed with our triumph. At a good distance south of that port we anchored off the town of Hilo and stormed ashore to capture a sugar mill, where we held the plantation manager hostage. Sending a sharp message to the owners out in the country, which I delivered under the protection of a white flag, we said we would burn the sugar mill to the ground unless a ransom of one hundred thousand pesos was paid within two days. The owners assured us they had the money in Arica, but it would require two days’ travel time. I told them: ‘Two days, you bring us the money or we burn your mill,’ and two days later they came to us under their white flag and we were overjoyed that we would be getting the hundred thousand pesos. But they brought us nothing, said that the messenger from Arica had been delayed, but please don’t burn our mill because two days hence we will be back with the money. Two days passed, no money, so back I went with my white flag, and they told me that since the money had reached the next village it would be delivered tomorrow, so please don’t burn our mill, and I promised. But when yesterday came and went with still no money, Captain McFee said in anger: ‘They’ve been toying with you, Ned. Burn everything.’ And we rushed to all corners of the plantation, burning houses and barns and destroying machinery until there was nothing standing over six inches high. As we retired from the place my uncle told me: ‘Well, you’ve seen how untrustworthy the Spaniards are. Have nothing more to do with that girl and her priest.’
FRI 28 AUGUST: My magical backstaff tells me we’re now well below the equator at 26° 21′ South, and I’ve been having a fine time on land hunting wild pigs along the shores of the bay and catching sea turtles. We’ve eaten well on this buccaneering trip. We’re now careening the Giralda, which means that stout ropes have been attached to our mast so that the ship can be pulled over on its beam ends one side at a time, which allows us to work with bars and axes, chopping away the barnacles that cover the bottom, some as big as a man’s hand, and then scrape off the seaweed that clings like wavy hair. These things slow a ship tremendously, as if big hands held us back in the water, and old sailors tell me that if the barnacles are allowed to grow undisturbed, the day will come when the ship won’t be able to move forward at all.
But the most important part of careening is not merely clearing the bottom, but scraping off the worms that multiply in warm waters and dig into wood so fast they can eat away a bottom in one year. We dug out a small mountain of worms and chopped in half as many again, providing food for a hundred gulls who swarmed about us without saying thanks.
During the two weeks we spent at this necessary job, with our cabins tilted this way and that, we slept ashore, and several times I was able to take long walks with Señorita Inés. We spent such happy moments at the edge of the bay, watching the fish and the turtles, that I became convinced she had developed an interest in me. After all, every time I had seen her aboard ship, she had also seen me, and if I grew mightily attached to her, is it not reasonable I asked myself, that she might feel the same about me?
One afternoon when I was hard at work scraping the bottom and preparing it for the metal sheathing we had found in the hold, I saw Inés walking by the shore without the customary protection of her mother or the priest, that careful watchdog, and as I continued looking after the girl I had grown to love during our long passages, I spied one of our rascally hands, a gross fellow of filthy tongue named Quinton, trailing her, and as she passed from sight I heard her scream. Rushing pell-mell to where I had last seen her, without hesitation or thought I unlimbered my pistol and shot him dead. The noise attracted both Señora Ledesma and Fray Baltazar, who wrapped the fainting girl in their arms and bore her to the tent they were occupying during the careening.
There had to be a meeting of the crew, for one o
f their members had been slain, and I was quickly absolved, but my uncle took the occasion to reprove me: ‘You should not waste a bullet killing an Englishman who is assaulting a Spaniard. Save it to kill a Spaniard who affronts an Englishman.’
Now that our crew was already gathered at one place, someone remembered the tradition: ‘Buccaneers have always elected their captains,’ and soon many were complaining of the way McFee had behaved at various points, and so many others voiced their displeasure that the first man made a motion, like we were in Parliament: ‘I move to elect a new captain,’ and before I knew what was happening, we had deposed Captain McFee and elected a sailor who spoke loud but did little.
THU 3 SEPTEMBER: Today my uncle, in a show of temper, bawled me out: ‘You give me nothing but headaches, Ned. Stay away from that Inés. She’ll bring you only trouble.’ And when I started to protest, he actually roared: ‘And stay away from that Mompox, too. He’ll bring you even greater trouble.’ When I asked why this sudden outburst, he said almost plaintively: ‘You were intended for some fine English girl in Barbados, and by the horns of hell, I’m going to see you delivered safely home.’
MON 14 SEPTEMBER: Our new captain has made the big decision: ‘We shall return home by way of China, India and Good Hope,’ and in pursuit of that goal we have sailed far to the west on latitude 34° 07′ South and have come to an island called Juan Fernández, in whose principal bay we rest tonight, and for me, who aspires to become a skilled navigator, the visit to this lonely island has been a kind of gift, because in the heavens, which have magically cleared of storms as if in my favor, I saw tonight for the first time those great concentrations of stars which mariners have named the Clouds of Magellan, for he was the first civilized man to see them. How mysterious, how wonderful they were, hung in the southern skies like a collection of celestial flowers. But while I stood gazing in awe Master Rodrigo came to stand by me, and said glumly: ‘Beautiful, yes, but not one-tenth the value of our North Star which tells us where we are.’ And then he showed me how, using the Southern Cross, which is certainly as beautiful as any constellation we have in our northern seas, a sailor can construct in his imagination a southern substitution for the North Star. It was a clever mental exercise and I thanked him.
When he was gone a much different night wanderer took his place and I felt my hand gently held in hers. It was Señorita Inés, come to see the Clouds of Magellan, and as she joined me she whispered: ‘Ned, I’m glad to be with you,’ and before I really knew what was happening we kissed, and it was more pleasant than any kiss I had known in Port Royal. We remained thus for the better part of an hour, looking at Magellan and kissing, and then we heard a vast commotion on the deck below, and here comes Señora Ledesma and Fray Baltazar, running here and there, now together, now with her in one direction, him in another, and each shouting: ‘She’s not here. Is she over there?’ As they ran, Inés stood always closer to me, holding my arms about her waist, until we seemed one person, and then she would kiss me again and laugh at the noises her mother and the priest were making. Finally Fray Baltazar spotted us on the high deck. ‘Just as we suspected! She’s with him!’ And together the two wild searchers rushed up the ladders to rescue Inés, who remained in my arms until they arrived.
‘You naughty child!’ her mother cried as she tore Inés from me. ‘You ugly boy!’ Fray Baltazar added, elbowing me away from the two women. But after Inés had been safely stowed below, Baltazar returned to stand with me and watch the stars. We talked most of the night away as he told me of his boyhood in Arévalo and of how he had been permitted in his life to watch a dozen marriages between couples who were not suited and of how each had ended in misery at least and sometimes tragedy. There was always a lot of human tragedy when Fray Baltazar talked.
‘What do you mean, not suited?’ I asked, and he had a dozen examples: ‘A lady of noble bearing married a Moor, different color, different religion, very bad. She stabbed him with a dagger. A lady in our town of some quality married a Portuguese of low estate. Strangled her for her money. I accompanied him to the scaffold and am glad to say he died in repentance.’ He gave three instances in which Spanish ladies of what he called ‘some repute’ married Protestants, and their experiences were downright pitiful. So at the end of this narration I asked: ‘Who should marry who?’ and he said firmly: ‘A fine Catholic girl like Inés of notable family must marry only a young man of equally good family, who is also Catholic. What you do, as a heretic, is of little matter.’ When he left me alone, staring at the stars, it was almost dawn and I could still feel the arms of Inés about me and I went to bed satisfied that she loved me.
WED 30 SEPTEMBER: Amazing events. During our long stay on Juan Fernández our crew tired of the silly ways in which our new captain gave orders exhibiting his power over us, and there was also serious criticism of his decision to take us home by way of China, so last night a meeting was held and we told him he was no longer our captain, and when he asked: ‘Well, who is?’ we had an election, and our old captain, Mister McFee, was restored to office. I don’t like this. Ordinary sailors should not go around discharging and rehiring captains. The English way is a lot better. Appoint a man captain and keep him there until he sinks his ship. Of course, if he goes down with her, as he is supposed to, that ends that.
Captain McFee’s first decision was not a happy one. He decided, with our approval, not to pursue our course across the South Sea but to head for Cape Horn and home. However, he left Juan Fernández so quickly, we had no time to search the beach for members of our crew who might be still ashore, and when we were at sea some hours, my uncle came crying: ‘Go back! The Miskito David is still ashore!’ but Captain McFee would not listen: ‘We’re too far on our way,’ and we plunged toward the Strait of Magellan. I spent many hours brooding about David and what his fate might be. Imagine, alone, all by himself on that forlorn island. How will he eat? What if he gets sick? Poor David, poor Indian, I weep for him.‡
The next excitement on this memorable day came when we sighted a Spanish ship heading north and decided to give chase. Many sailors, including me, argued against capturing another ship and one so far south that it could not have carried gold or silver, but Captain McFee said: ‘A sailor on a long voyage can never have enough food or gunpowder,’ so we closed upon her, boarded without the loss of any of our men, put nine of theirs to the sword, pillaged their ship of all goods worth taking, saved her longboats, and set her afire. We loaded most of our Spanish captives and all of hers into the longboats, threw away their masts, and sent them on their way to the mainland, which is by my reckoning a long way off. I asked my uncle: ‘Do you think they’ll ever reach shore?’ and he said: ‘I hope not.’ I have risen from my hammock to add these sentences. I could not sleep from thinking of David the Miskito marooned on that island and the Spanish sailors trying to reach shore with no sails and little food or water. I find that I am tired of killing. I am weary of shooting unarmed Spanish prisoners or setting them adrift to perish. Capture their ships, yes, and fight valiantly if we have to, swords and pistols, but this continued slaughter? No. I shall participate no further. Of course, such regrets do not bother Uncle Will, who is asleep in the hammock above me and snoring.
TUE 13 OCTOBER: Day after day of dull nothing heading south for Cape Horn. No fish to catch, no birds to follow, no Spanish ships to chase, nothing. These must be the loneliest seas in the world. But today things livened when Master Rodrigo challenged me to a test: ‘Well, muchacho, to be a navigator, let’s see if you can take a proper sight,’ and he gave me a slip of paper, himself another, and he said: ‘It’s about noon. We’ll both shoot the sun, tell no one our reading, and figure our latitude on these papers, them compare them.’ He allowed me to go first, and with feet steady and arms firm, my back to the sun and the magical staff held tight, I calculated a latitude of 39° 40′ South and wrote this on my slip. Then he took his sighting, much more rapidly than me, and wrote it down. ‘Now we’ll compare,’ he said, and when m
y slip was laid beside his they both read 39 degrees and were only twelve minutes apart: ‘Muchacho, you’re a budding navigator. Nine more years.’
I then asked: ‘Master Rodrigo, if we can tell so accurately where we are north and south, why can’t we do so east and west?’ and he stopped whatever he had been doing and gave me a long lesson in which he compared the two problems: ‘For latitude, we have two fixed marks, the sun at noon, the North Star at night. God hung those two for us, steady forever. One shot of either, you know exactly how far you are north or south of the equator.’ He then said something that Fray Baltazar would not have approved: ‘But God was careless about His east and west. We have no fixed beacons. As to our longitude, the best we can do is guess.’ And he spent more than an hour instructing me in the secrets whereby practiced navigators guess where they are. ‘Suppose I know where Cádiz is as we start to sail, and I know how fast my ship is traveling and in what direction. At the end of twenty-four hours I can make a pretty good guess as to where we are. From there we make new calculations of tide, wind, drift, supposed speed, and twenty-four hours later we again guess where we are then. And so it goes. We guess our way around the world. Right now, because we have charts and know what we’ve been doing, I’d say we were about sixty-nine degrees of longitude west of Cádiz.’ At the end of his lecture he frowned: ‘It’s infuriating to have no reliable system. Maybe someone will invent a chain we’ll drag in the water and it will tick off the miles. Or a new way to shoot the sun sideways instead of up and down. Or a clock which tells you always what time it is in Cádiz so you can compare noon there with noon here.’ Pointing to the ivory backstaff, he told me: ‘If men can invent this so late in the day, they can invent other useful devices too.’ And by making shrewd guesses together about tides and winds and whether our charts were reliable or not, we calculated that on some of these tedious days south we covered as many as ninety miles, which would be about four English miles an hour, and on one day we made well over a hundred, but on others when winds were adverse, only twenty or even less.