My face burned with shame at her undeserved trust. “I myself will accompany them,” I said, knowing my self-interest would be mistaken as self-sacrifice. “Don Francisco requested it,” I added, not daring to look up for fear Doña Teresa would see the lie in my eyes. “Natividad can take over until my return,” I proposed, anticipating a possible objection.
“Brave Isabel!” Doña Teresa was now smiling fondly at me.
I could not bear her praise. Any moment now, I would blurt out the truth. “Boys.” I turned my attention to them. “Go tell Nati Doña Teresa is here, to put on the kettle. Go on now! A warm tea, Doña Teresa?” I offered. “You have gotten wet in this rain. You must not catch cold.”
“In a bit, in a bit.” She waved my offer away. She was still in the thrall of all she had heard, just as I had been. “To think, Isabel, that there might be a cure for the smallpox.” Her pale eyes grew watery. “If only that discovery had come sooner! Consider how our own lives would have been so different.”
I thought of my parents, my dear sister, and I felt that heaviness in my heart again. Perhaps, no matter how far I wandered, there would be no escaping it.
“Now, I’m making you sad, poor Isabel.” Doña Teresa blew her nose into the kerchief she had removed from the pocket of her dress, a trumpet sound that made the boys at the door giggle, disclosing their misbehavior.
“Boys!” I chided. “What did I say? Go wash your hands for merienda!” Off they went, anticipating the snack of grapes that Doña Teresa’s coachman had carried into the kitchen earlier. “You, too, Francisco.” Reluctantly, the boy peeled himself away. But before disappearing down the corridor, he sounded his little trumpet one more time. “He came from the king—”
“Francisco!” I cut him off, but Doña Teresa had caught the one spark that could kindle her temper.
“What does that ridiculous cuckold have to do with this noble mission?” She was addressing not just me but the room itself, which had witnessed the interview with our visitor. She went on to provide the answer, sparing me another lie. “Let him try to take over this mission. Just let him! These are my boys, and I myself will help with the cost of their expenses.”
I was torn between guilt at my means and delight with the results. Although Don Francisco had not asked, no doubt he would welcome additional monies for his expedition. Excellent! he would say. You are a wonder, Doña Isabel. Provision as well as permission!
Doña Teresa stood up slowly, a pained expression on her face, which turned to fond chuckles when she noticed the seat she had chosen. “That Don Manuel,” she said, shaking her head. “We really should gift those chairs to the Royal Council!” (The council had recently voted to levy additional taxes on all church properties.) Then, gathering herself up, she hooked her arm in mine. “Let us go see to our boys’ grapes.” Doña Teresa enjoyed delivering her treats in person.
“By the way, Isabel,” she said as we came apart at the narrow corridor that did not allow someone of her wide girth to go accompanied, “you are looking quite handsome. That necklace suits you!”
My hand flew to my throat. I had forgotten to remove my beads! My face was burning again, as I fell in behind her, thinking how easily we can change our lives if we desire to do so above all other things.
WITH DOÑA Teresa’S BLESSING, I began to select the twenty-two boys who would take part in the expedition.
Each one had to be checked thoroughly to be sure that he had never been exposed to the smallpox. Suddenly, relations began stepping forward, fathers and mothers and brothers who had never existed before, wet nurses who had given the breast to this or that infant boy, all of whom had heard that the chosen boys would become the king’s special charges and so had come to claim their rightful compensation for letting His Majesty have their boys.
Once I had chosen the carriers, I began assembling what they would need from the list Don Francisco provided for me. Each boy was to have six shirts, a hat, three linen trousers and jackets, one woolen trouser and jacket; three kerchiefs for the neck, three for the nose; three pairs of shoes; one comb. So much to be bought, sewn, attended to!
The hours sped by; the days were over too quickly; September turned into October in a heartbeat; and then it was November, and we were still getting ready. A ship could not be found. Some of the instruments Don Francisco had ordered had not arrived. France and England were at war, and safe conduct for our expedition had to be sought from both countries; proof had to be presented that we were carrying boys, not munitions.
I was glad for these delays, for I had twenty-two wardrobes to assemble, not counting my own “trousseau,” as Nati had begun referring to it. “For you are bound to get married over in New Spain.” She was sure of it. I waved her off, though I admit, it pleased me to think that perhaps in America among so many survivors of the smallpox, my scarred face might blend in. A new Isabel would emerge in that new world!
“What man will take me with twenty-two boys in tow?” I challenged. Out of habit, I could not let myself hope.
Nati crossed her arms and regarded me. “You don’t know the first thing about men, do you?”
“I have been raising them for a dozen years,” I reminded her.
TODAY, FINALLY, THE HOUR of our departure had come. We assembled in the front parlor, each boy attired like a little prince. We were to parade down the crowded streets toward the docks, Don Francisco’s idea. Our departure should be accompanied by fanfare. Ours was a noble venture, which all of La Coruña should know about. And it would hearten the members of the expedition to hear the cheers and see the waving crowds.
This was probably true for his assistants and nurses, who marched ahead, accompanied by our bishop and officials from the city council. But the children were too frightened to enjoy the added commotion, even the older ones who pretended confidence, and yes, even my thorn, Francisco, who had managed to talk his namesake into allowing him to come, swearing upon several holy objects that he had “never been near no pox.” All the good-byes at the orphanage, the kisses and embraces lavished upon them, admonitions to be brave, not to fear the ocean with its great Leviathan or the savages who ate their own kind—my poor boys were beside themselves with terror. They clung to Nati and Doña Teresa, to bedposts and wall posts, to the boys who were staying. Only Benito seemed strangely calm, but, of course, he was clinging to me.
For the last few weeks on pleasant days, I had been bringing the selected group down to the dockyards to accustom them to the idea of going on a ship, crossing the ocean they knew only as a span of blue globe they could cover with their hands. A quiet stroll down to the docks and a climb aboard the ship with no ceremony would have been far better. But our director, of course, had the greater glory of our enterprise to consider and not the silly fears of little boys, fears stoked by the envy of those who were staying behind.
We must have looked a sight, dressed in the colors of Spain, the rectoress and her twenty-one boys! (At the last minute, Carlito had fallen ill and could not come along; a substitute boy I knew nothing about would be joining us on the ship.) Uniforms had again been Don Francisco’s idea. “We will be marching into villages and settlements in the wilderness and our attire must create a sense of wonder. It will impress, believe me.” Of course, I believed him. He had seen so much of the world, knew the hearts and minds of men and had ministered to their bodies. What did I know but my little round of duties, shut away in a foundling house for a dozen years? “And you, too, Doña Isabel, must wear our colors. You are now an official member of the expedition. The king has approved your appointment.”
I, who had worn only black for so many years, was now dressed in crimson and gold! Nati was speechless. “I feel like a flag.” I laughed nervously.
Nati shook her head. “You look like a lady. You will have to fight the men off with this.” She handed me the farewell gift she had purchased at the seamen’s bazaar, a hairpin with a pearl at one end for holding my veil in place. I did not have the heart to tell her that
Don Francisco had ruled against my covering my face.
At last, the boys had calmed down, lining up, an older one with a younger one at each hand. Out we went into the street, past the post where Benito had been tied, past the hospital where most of them had been abandoned, past the Carmelite convent with its grates at the window, where I perceived the vague shadows of Sisters looking out upon this commotion. I dared not glance back to where a tearful Nati and Doña Teresa stood at our doorway, calling out reminders to me and the boys. One glimpse of what I was leaving behind, and I feared that my heart, if not my limbs, would turn to stone.
What on earth had I been thinking? My poor little boys, big-eyed, trying to be brave, were about to embark on a perilous journey! Eight of them, including my Benito, were no older than three—the younger the boy, the less likely he had ever been exposed to the smallpox. They still tottered on their land legs, still wet their bedding, though even some of the oldest had been doing so with the excitement of these last few days.
I suppose I, too, was in a state. Not since my illness as a young girl had I shown my naked face in public. To my surprise, no one turned away or curled a lip in disgust. Awe had blotted out any defects. The crowd cheered for the boys! They cheered for the rectoress! “See,” I tried to rally my charges. “Everyone is so very proud of you.” They looked about warily, as if they were unsure whether they were soon to be fed cake or fed to the Leviathan.
The María Pita loomed before us. Don Francisco had called it “a modest ship,” a last-minute choice after the larger frigate he had contracted was delayed in repairs. One benefit of a smaller vessel was that it could enter the harbor and we were able to board right from the dock. I could not imagine the added trouble of a double embarkation: first onto a boat to take us out to sea, then up a rope ladder to the deck of a rolling ship, sails fluttering and filling with wind. My hands were full enough already! The boys were hanging back again, eyeing this floating house that squeaked and tilted as if one good stamp of the foot could break it apart. One thing was to have seen the ship from shore, another thing to climb on board and sail away until you could see land no more.
“What an adventure we will have!” I quickened my step to encourage them. Of course, they hurried along. I was the one bit of firm land in this sea of strangers. They dared not lose sight of me!
At our approach, a trumpet sounded. The dignitaries and other members of the expedition parted ranks. Don Francisco had already explained the protocol: we, the children and I, were to go up the gangway, as our names were called out to cheers and applause by all present. But first a herald read out the royal decree:
His Majesty, the King, considering the ravages caused by smallpox in his dominions, and being desirous of granting to his beloved vassals the aid dictated by humanity …
A strong wind was blowing upon us—why we were leaving today, finally, having waited all week for the weathervanes on the housetops to swing back round to a favoring wind. The boys were getting chilled. Pascual was hungry; indeed, the little rascal was always hungry! Juan Antonio sniffled; he was bound to catch cold. Tintín and Bello, bundled in blankets, wailed in the arms of their nurses. Little did our king guess, as he dictated to scribes in a warm chamber, that the length of his decree might imperil the very mission he was decreeing. If our first carriers fell ill, would the vaccine lose its efficacy? “Soon, soon, my little princes,” I promised the boys, hoping none would call me to account by asking, “But how soon?”
Martín! the herald finally barked out.
“Tintín,” I murmured his nickname, flashing the teary-eyed little fellow an encouraging smile.
Vicente María Sale y Bellido!
Bello. A homely boy, despite his nickname.
No doubt, Tintín and Bello were being boarded first to get them out of harm’s way right off. Three days ago, Don Francisco had vaccinated the two children with cowpox fluid from a carrier brought from Madrid. The vaccine had taken, and what a labor of Hercules that had been! The two toddlers had to be watched day and night lest they scratch their arms and destroy the vesicles that were beginning to form; nor were they to mix with the other carriers lest they vaccinate anyone accidentally and break the chain of transmission mid ocean. Of course, being toddlers, Tintín and Bello could not comprehend the caution we kept drumming into them. Their young age, which in one regard was a benefit, in another created quite a challenge. How was I going to manage on board without Nati to help me? I had commented on this to Don Francisco, who assured me that from the moment of vaccination, the task of caring for the two carriers would fall to the three expedition nurses. After the fluid had been successfully conveyed to the next pair, the immune carriers would fall back to me. He spoke as if we would be dealing with so many barrels of molasses or kegs of rum, not with lively little boys with troublesome minds of their own.
Tintín and Bello were carried up the gangway by their two nurses, kicking and screaming and reaching their little hands out to me. “Stop that!” Don Basilio Bolaños, the short, gruff nurse, snarled at little Tintín, “or I’ll throw you into the sea.” Tintín’s screams reached a feverish pitch, inciting a new round of crying among the boys left with me. I could see that the task of caring for the carriers would never be totally out of my hands.
“Now, now, boys,” I hushed them. “See, Tintín is fine. Let’s all wave to him.” From the deck of the Pita, Don Basilio grabbed the terrified child’s hand and forced a wave back, eliciting more screams, almost destroying the calm I had wrought.
Pascual Aniceto! The next child was called. I had selected each boy for Don Francisco’s examination and approval, but our director had made the final pick, writing down each name—or as much of each name as was known—that the herald was now proclaiming in a booming voice.
Cándido! Clemente! José Jorge Nicolás de los Dolores! Vicente Ferrer!
As more names were called, the boys grew bolder in their ascent up the gangway to the María Pita.
Francisco Antonio! Juan Francisco! Francisco Florencio! Juan Antonio!
I buttoned up Juan Antonio’s jacket, which had come undone, and wiped his runny nose. Perhaps, our sickly Juan Antonio had been a bad choice. But we were running out of boys whose pasts I could fully account for. And Juan Antonio had come to us from the hospital next door with his mother’s blood still caked on his scalp. I would have to watch over him carefully so he would not catch a bad cold and imperil his vaccination.
Jacinto! José!
José was the worst of my bed-wetters. Back at La Casa, we had forbidden him any drink after supper, but even so the boy inevitably wet his bed. “What is it with you,” Nati would scold him as she collected his bedding many a morning. “Do you dream every night that you’re pissing in a pot?” I would have to be sure to wake him; indeed, it would be best to wake all the boys mid-night to relieve themselves. No wonder Don Francisco had asked for additional chamber pots. He thinks of everything, I marveled once again.
Gerónimo María! José Manuel María! Manuel María!
The three brothers went up together. Indeed, they did all things as a trinity. It was going to be difficult vaccinating only two of them at a time.
Tomás Melitón!
Tomás was a swarthy little fellow; his father or mother must have been a Moor. The other boys teased him relentlessly. Doña Teresa thought he’d be snatched up by a noble family, as the fashion had become—with the Duchess of Alba’s adoption of María de la Luz—to have negritos as part of one’s retinue, along with little dogs and monkeys. But the ways of the court did not always take in Galicia.
Andrés Naya! Domingo Naya!
Too late, I noted the wet spot on the back of Andrés’s breeches. Unlike the ones who had cried loudly as we were departing from the orphanage, Andrés had clung to the leg of a table, mute with terror. Somehow that silence had been more disturbing than the din of crying surrounding him.
Benito Vélez!
Our director had been coming down from the deck to carry t
he toddlers aboard as they were called. Benito, of course, refused to go with him. The boy clung to me, burying his face in my neck, curling himself up and digging into my side like Adam’s lost rib. “Best I bring him up, Don Francisco.” Our director nodded and stretched out his hand to the last boy as his name was called.
Antonio Veredia!
Antonio was our little scholar. He had picked up reading easily and had started in on a Bible he had discovered in the chapel. But Father Ignacio had taken it away. The boy was only seven. “He is too young to be navigating these complex waters by himself,” the priest ruled. Now Antonio would be navigating real waters. Lord keep him and all the others.
Isabel López Gandalla!
Had I misheard? Our director had recorded the wrong name! He had so many important things to attend to, I excused him to myself. Still, it pained me to think that I was of no consequence to him: one more member of his expedition to discard from his acquaintance once it was over.
The wind was blowing strong. I heard the clang of a bell and the clinking sound of chains. The gangway swayed. How would I keep my footing, a child in my arms, my heart in my throat, my mind tangled with guilt? High in the rigging, sailors were cocking their heads, trying to make out the one woman who would be on board. It was bad luck to allow a woman on a ship. In fact, Captain Pedro del Barco had out-and-out refused to admit me at first, so Don Francisco had reported to me. The captain had finally come around, I knew not by what means, sending me his personal welcome and a little bag of smelling salts that would prevent any seasickness in myself or the boys. Quite the turnabout! Had Don Francisco been any other kind of man, I might have suspected him of having exaggerated his first report in order to incur my gratitude over his efforts.