Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Chapter Two

The squall gusted and churned as it struck the beach from all directions. It blew wet from the sea, then swirling warm from the north only to be met by the descending cool air falling from the treed hills along the shore. Atop a grey boulder the size of a plough ox near the water’s edge, Francisco leaned into the wind. The bottom half huge stone was crusted in white barnacles and black mussels but its top formed a perfect lookout: smooth and bare.

Francisco welcomed the wind buffeting the edges of his woven cedar bark robe. Sea spray dripped from his beard and the long braid that fell between his shoulder blades but beneath the blanket, his camisa and woollen trousers were dry. He had stopped wearing his morion during the winter. The copper did little to keep his head warm. Tsimi’la had woven him a tall, conical hat like those worn by the other men in the band. A pattern of black waves circled the brim and it was as waterproof as the roofs of their longhouses. Tsimi’la had never spoken one word to him before, but after the gift, he was rarely apart from her.

Her name meant “Muskrat” to the Siuslaw people, and like a muskrat, she was playful and shy. She called him Sku’ma which meant “Pelican” because he had come from over the sea. It was also one of the few Siuslaw words he could pronounce at first. The name had stuck.

A dog barked down the beach. A group of boys, no more than seven years old were throwing a stick into the waves for the dog to retrieve. The boys immediately pounced on the dog when he returned and fought over the stick again. The dog thought this was a great game and barked furiously, giving the boys all the encouragement it could.

Francisco thought of his own children. Would news of his death have reached them yet? Likley not since De la Huerta planned to voyage west to trade in the Philippines after abandoning him, a round trip that could take up to a year. His family might not wonder about him for some time yet. Hernando Alvar maintained a hope that the San Leandro might stop here on its return voyage. Two months ago, Francisco had accompanied Alvar back to Peidra Negro, his black rock to establish a regular watch for the returning galleon. Francisco had his doubts but wanted to humor his friend.

Alvar had not dealt with the last year well. It was one thing to be shipwrecked and blame the Will of God, the fickleness of Lady Luck or all manner of demons for your predicament. It was another to come to grips with being left behind. Hernando played the events of their abandonment over in his mind, the way a cat teases a ball of string. But he never found any answers.

After the San Leandro had first disappeared from view, they had rowed for another hour. Francisco traded places with the sailors, giving each a rest in his seat. Hernando sat nearly catatonic. His eyes begged into the distance as if willing the galleon to reappear over the horizon.

Before long, Luis spotted three tall pillars of smoke rising into the sky from the shore. De la Huerta could not have sent another a shore party this was the galleon’s only rowboat. The only possible source was local Indians. During their voyages north along the coast, the crew had observed scattered native villages with their wood plank longhouses and beach activities but there had been no contact. Occasionally a small group would silently paddle out a few hundred yards to get a better look at the San Leandro, but no attempt to communicate was ever made. This suited Francisco and the other Spaniards just fine. He had shed enough indigenous blood helping Cortez suppress the Aztecs. His place in hell could wait for now.

Despite the risk of an unfriendly welcome, Francisco had ordered they head for the encampment. They beached the rowboat hoping to be approached cautiously but prepared to fight for their lives. Neither happened. A few of the tribe members looked their way, but the glances were fleeting, with no eye contact. There seemed to be a tacit acknowledgement of the Spaniards’ presence, but no effort was made to include them in any village activity. To Francisco, it was like being a ghost, able to observe but not communicate.

A small fire smoked outside the circular door of each of the three wooden dwellings. Women talked and laughed as they busied themselves with tasks Francisco did not recognize but understood as chores. Occasionally a group of unoccupied children would gather near the rowboat. They would point at the sorry group of visitors laughing among themselves until an order was barked by a woman near the fires and they would scatter.

All afternoon the men of the community maintained the traffic of embarking in and beaching canoes big enough for ten men. As evening approached, the activities in the camp shifted from the acquisition of food to food preparation. The canoes were hauled up the beach, their paddles taken in for the night.

Vibrant red and black figures of sea creatures were painted across the broad facade of each lodge. Francisco could not identify if they were whales, seals or fish; each depiction had been sufficiently anthropomorphised. As the light from the campfires rose, the creatures appeared to dance and jump across the face of each home.

The Spaniards sat huddled by their boat, rooted perhaps more by a desire not to disturb the equilibrium then from fearing the consequences of contact. However, after three hours in damp clothes, the promise of heat from the fires and the smell of cooking lured them towards the encampment like starving cats.

Standing erect before the central house was a tall carved pole more than 20 feet high. Coming closer, Francisco could see the bottom figure appeared to be a frog, upon which sat a kneeling human, supporting a bear on his shoulders topped with a great black bird, his wings outstretched. The colors on each character were bright and fresh. If human nature was even slightly consistent, it was reasonable to believe the lack of such a marker in front of the other two buildings could only mean that someone important lived here.

Whether it was the grumbling of his prodigious stomach, or his natural bravado, Hernando awoke from his near coma and strode towards the fire pit in front of the middle building. Francisco and the marineros followed behind him, grateful for someone else to take on the role of spokesman. The general murmur of happy conversations halted around each campfire at the sounds of the six men’s boots crunched up the beach. All eyes turned towards them as they approached the edge of the light.

“Greetings,” Hernando said formally with a slight bow of his head. His hands were outstretched, palms open. “I would ask to speak with your chief.” He pointed to his mouth, then at the assemblage and lifted his hand high over his head.

The Indians seemed to understand his brief pantomime, or they simply expected such a request. An old man stood from around the ring. He was barely five and half feet tall, but then most of the villagers were not giants. His weathered face bore a thin gash of a mouth and a black hair with only few grey strands that hung below his woven cedar cone hat. His authority was in his eyes; dark, almost black, that held power, wisdom and understanding all at once. A collection of wrinkles at the side of his eyes smiled when his lips did not.

He returned Hernando’s nod and replied to him in his own language. To Francisco’s ears they were a collection of simple hard consonants and guttural vowels.

“My men are hungry,” Hernando replied, pointing to the others then grabbing at his own stomach.

The chief spoke a command and space opened up around the fire. Hernando stepped into the circle and sat down, Francisco and the others following suit. The chief spoke again and behind them from out of the darkness carved wooden bowls filled with a mix of hot mussels, smoked salmon and a warm paste Francisco could not identify were thrust into each of the men’s hands. They paused for only a moment before plunging their fingers into the food and gobbling large mouthfuls.

The gathering erupted in laughter. The conversations resumed but now with greater merriment. He did not understand a word, but Francisco felt that all was well intentioned. As the food was consumed, the families around the other two fires joined in with the main circle. The cacophony of voices rose with the smoke into the night sky.

The stars emerged in a volume that dwarfed the sparks flying up from the fire. In time, the younger children disappeared to their beds. Then the women were gone. Only the men were left encircling the yellow flames of the fire. The rhythm of their storytelling was hypnotic and eventually Francisco could no longer tell if he was awake or dreaming.

Without ceremony, the gathering ended. An elder from each of the three longhouses touched the visitors on the shoulder and led the men in for the night. The chief guided Hernando and Francisco through the door of the central building.

A wooden ladder with four steps led them down to the floor of the dwelling where they could hear only a chorus of breathing. Above their heads, the fire showed racks of indeterminate food drying with a sweet, pungent aroma. The embers of a fire pit cast a dim light from the center of the space. Shadows fell across the collection of bodies sleeping on woven mats, blankets rising and falling like waves at sea.

The chief led them to two empty mats near the back wall. Francisco lay down and crawled under the woven cedar blanket and fur pelt. Around him were the soft muttering of dreaming children. He heard the other Indian men descend the ladder, slide under their own blankets to be met by soft conversations and muffled female laughter. He fell asleep in this strange dim place and the occasional sound of love making and giggling.

From that day, Francisco and the castaways of the San Leandro became members of the Siuslaw band. There had been no ceremony or rite of passage, just an unspoken sense of belonging. Francisco found himself taken with these people, with their kindness, humility and good humor. He threw himself completely into this new life, learning their methods of hunting and gathering, adding his expertise when possible and struggling to gain fluency in a language so different from his own.

In the summer, he joined the sealing canoes as they plied the nearby waters using crude but effective harpoons to catch the seals and sea lions while being careful to stay clear of the massive grey whales making their way north to their Artic breeding grounds. In the autumn, when the band joined their cousins of the Upper Umpqua band at the salmon fishing grounds, Francisco learned the techniques of spearing the bright red Chinook. For hours he would stand on the ladders lashed across rocks as the fish jumped up the water falls , struggling to stay on when the 30 pound fish on the end of his gaff pulled him off balance and threatened to spill his body tumbling into the cataracts.

It was on this expedition that Tsimi’la appeared beside him at the fireside one night. She offered the conical hat she made, holding his gaze. He saw her eyes were so dark, they were almost black. He croaked a thank you, “Tsu’tsint.” She smiled at his accent and sat down next to him. He pulled her closer. After six months, Francisco needed the contact of a woman. He was grateful that woman was Tsimi’la.

When the meal was done, the new couple stood together and spent their first night together under the fur blanket beneath the stars. Francisco had forgotten how much warmer a bed could be with two people. With the soft skin of her legs intertwined with his, and her long black hair spread across his chest, he slept well.

The other Spaniards struggled, however. At first Hernando had tried to use his European supremacy to rise to a position of leadership within the village. When it was obvious that he would have no power with these “backward savages” as he called them, Alvar focussed on only two things: re-uniting with de la Huerta and, failing that, retrieving his portion of loot.

Eventually Francisco and Hernando grew apart. Whether it was because Francisco had assimilated himself so easily into band life of that Alvar harboured an ill-founded resentment for having been left behind on the beach, but the two men’s friendship was never repaired.

Twice the next spring, Francisco had paddled back to the island with Alvar and the marineros to stay overnight and watch for the sails of the San Leandro over the horizon. The galleon never appeared and two nights apart from Tsimi’la on a cold wet beach had helped him decide this was not a future he was interested in any longer.

Which was all the more surprising when Alvar approached him on the beach a month before. “I’ve decided to leave.”

“Leave?” Francisco stopped walking.

“It’s obvious that de la Huerta is not coming back for us, so now that summer is approaching, the time is right to abandon these savages.”

“Where would you go Alvar?”

“I have given that much thought.” They began walking down the beach. “With only the rowboat we would be limited to staying within sight of shore.”

“So you plan to head home?”

“Sadly, no. If de la Huerta wanted us dead, then New Spain will hold no welcome.”

“Then where?” Francisco asked.

“New France.”

He stopped and stared at Hernando. “New France?”

“They are the only other colony of civilized men on this continent.” Francisco looked at his old friend through new eyes. Hernando’s clothes had not survived the rigours of the past year well. His shirt was dirty and threadbare, his pants torn nearly to rags and his leather boots were now just boots in name only. The rain matting his hair to his neck and dripping from the ends of his unkempt beard. He stood before him a soggy, grimy ogre. By contrast, Francisco had fully adopted the Siuslaw clothes and was warm, dry and clean with his long hair braided. Who is the civilized man now he wondered?

“Miguel’s woman told him of a river, a great river, Nchi-Wana she called it, only three day’s journey from here.” Miguel was the youngest of the marineros marooned with them and Francisco had speculated that Ku’mit was the first woman Miguel had ever been with. “She says it flows through the mountains deep into the heart of the land. We will take the boat, row as far as we can, then walk to Cartier’s fortress. If we leave soon, we will be spending the winter in a decent bed with ale and proper white women.”

“That is indeed an ambitious plan.”

Alvar laid his hand on de Pardo’s shoulder. “And I hoped you would join us.”

“Are you all going?”

“Miguel is wavering but I think so.”

Francisco stopped walking and gazed into his friend’s face. His eyes had the gaze of an animal caged too long in a small space. Not yet crazed but willing to risk anything, even his own life to escape confinement. “Your plan is foolhardy. I know this is not a life you want, but it is better than the near certain death you will face trying to cross however many thousands of mile lie between here and the French settlement.”

Hernando looked at him but it was like he looked right through him, to the horizon miles away. “Staying here will be certain death.”

“Then think of the others, then. You cannot condemn them too.” But Hernando was already walking away.

Over the next four days, Alvar and the marineros made preparations for their journey. The rowboat, which has seen regular use since their arrival, was gone over from bow to stern, any loose joints reinforced as best they could with pine pitch and leather straps. A frame of willow bows had been fashioned with a cover of deer hide that could be drawn overtop as a makeshift cabin. Beneath the seats were stowed dried meat, smoked salmon and enough berry paste to last for several weeks.

This morning, Alvar and crew paddled for one last trip back to Peidra Negro for what de Pardo assumed was one last hopeless attempt to reconnect with de la Huerta. And now, through the steady drizzle, he saw the boat returning, the steady strokes of the oarsmen propelling the craft across the undulating ocean surface. Two gulls circled high overhead tagging along like stray dogs waiting for any dropped morsel of food.

The oars rose and were held aloft as they approached shore. With the precision that only comes with practice, the two bowmen leapt into the water and dragged the boat up on the cobble beach without slowing the momentum. Francisco strode over from his rock as the entire Siuslaw band came down the water to wish them goodbye.

Alvar jumped over the side of the rowboat and splashed up on shore. After a year of a diet of fish, roots and berries, even his prodigious stomach had been replaced by a leaner physique. He clasped Francisco’s outstretched hand and pulled him into an embrace.

“Well, old friend,” he boomed. “I suppose this is goodbye.”

“Perhaps. Remember Hernando, there is nothing to stop you from turning around tomorrow, or next week if your journey proves to be more than you hoped.”

“Nonsense. If I have to drag this boat myself across this whole godless land, I will be in New France before the snow flies!”

The marineros were less enthusiastic as they said goodbye to their friends. Several of the young women were crying. The men did their best to hide their reluctance to leave. For three for them, they were content to let their tears mix with the falling rain. Miguel had restraint as he clasped Ku’mit to his chest which was heaving with his sobs.

“I have something for you, de Pardo,” Hernando said pulling the brass braced oak poles from under the boat seats. “Luis, Carlos!” The two men stepped forward, reached into the boat and, with some difficulty, lifted an oak chest from the boat. They staggered a step from the gunnels and laid it at Francisco’s feet.

“What’s this?”

Hernando held his arms out wide and smiled broadly. “It’s yours. Your share of de la Huerta’s wealth. He was damned if he’d let the King have it and I’ll be damned to let him keep it now. You were entitled to it at some point and I didn’t think you would retrieve it on your own.” He saw Francisco look towards the rowboat. “And I got mine as well. I only wish I could haul the whole thing with me.”

The damned fool has just doomed the whole group. “I know you better than to talk you out of it.”

Hernando nodded.

“But I’d ask each of you to reconsider joining in on this foolhardy adventure,” he addressed each of the Spaniards. To a man they looked at the ground, but made no attempt to back out.

He turned to the assembled band and spoke a few words in Siuslaw. Three Indians stepped to Francisco and handed him four leather pouches.

“You amaze me with how you figured out their speech,” Alvar said as he made his way back to the boat. “It all sounded like tuk-tuk-tuk to me.”

Francisco bent down to his chest, took the butt of his knife and with a measured strike, knocked the padlock off the clasp. After little more than a year, the damp sea air in the island cave had begun to weaken the metal. He opened the lid revealing the insides heaped with gold coins, a mix of Spanish pieces and Aztec pieces. He opened the first leather pouch, dug his right hand into the gold and filled the bag with coins. He repeated the process with the three remaining bags.

“Then each of you is entitled to an equal share. I’d give you more, but I doubt you will ever be able to use it after today.” Each of the four sailors stepped forward and picked up a bag. Francisco hugged each in turn. “May God be with your souls.”

Hernando had pulled himself over the side of the boat. “Enough with goodbye. We have a long way to go, and less time to get there.” The sailors reversed their beaching process, the two bowmen being the last to re-entered the boat once it was floating free of the beach.

They fixed the oars in the oarlock, the starboard side took two back strokes, while the port side held their oars firm in the water. The little boat turned its bow north and with an easy lurch, the marineros began pulling together.

Alvar turned in the stern cupping his hands around his mouth. “When I can, I will send a ship for you!” he called across the water.

Francisco did not respond, but stood on shore and waved until they were out of sight.

The band was quite that night during the dinner. Despite the ease of his integration, Francisco felt for the first time that now he was utterly alone.

After the children had gone to bed, Francisco stepped into the middle of the firelight and in Siuslaw addressed the assemblage. “Today we said goodbye to my brothers. I know they were brothers to many of you also. And some more so. Four seasons ago, you took us in and saved our lives. I can never repay you for that. Thank you.”

There was a pleased murmur from the group. “Chief Black Otter, I wish to pay tribute to you for your kindness and leadership.” He motioned into the darkness beyond the fire light. Four men emerged, carrying the chest with makeshift cedar poles. They set it before the feet of the old man. Francisco stepped forward and opened the lid. Even with just the flames for illumination, the gold, silver and jewels inside shone brightly. “This is for you with my thanks. You can use this gold for the glory of the Umpqua people.”

He then removed his logbook from inside his cloak. It had been wrapped in a deer hide and bound with leather straps. Francisco set it in top of the cache. To become one with the people, he had decided to let the last vestige of his former life go. Francisco was no more; there was only Sku’ma.

The chief stepped forward, looked at the gold, the jewels and the book, shut the lid and nodded a thank you to Sku’ma. He motioned to the same four men who picked the chest up and brought it inside the main lodge.

Sku’ma turned to Tsi’tli. “I am tired,” he said putting his arm over her shoulder. “Let’s go to bed early for a change.”

Friday, July 8, 2011

Chapter One

The Pacific Northwest, March 28 - 1556

Four white blades plunged below the still surface, holding fast as eight weathered hands pulled the oars through the brown water. The heavy downpour striking the water’s surface provided a background hiss to the creaking of the oarlocks and the grunting that accompanied each pull. After six straight days of rain, the sediment carried down by the mountain streams had driven the river delta farther out, displacing the green ocean water.


Another few strokes and the boat entered the lee side of the island; the current from the river eased and a northward flow of the ocean pushed them back. Francisco could feel the rowboat’s progress immediately stall each time the oars came out for the next catch. The oarsmen too had grown sluggish after six days of ferrying from ship to the shore. However, their enthusiasm for rowing was buoyed by the knowledge that the task was at an end. Once they reached the island and this load was safely interred within the cave beyond, they would return to the ship and set sail again for the open sea.


Glancing sternward, Francisco Nunez de Pardo watched the galleon San Leandro pull farther away with every stroke. At 104 feet and 220 tons, the ship was not the largest built in Navidad, but the 20 cannons and 115 seasoned men aboard ensured no larger ship would accost it without paying a heavy penalty. Through the water running off the brim of his polished steel morion helmet, he could see the ship’s crew climbing the rigging of the three masts, preparing the sails. Laughter carried across the water as the marineros made ready.


“They sound glad to be leaving this dreary pile of stones,” sighed the man beside him on the wet seat. Shivering, Hernando Alvar blew into his thick hands to warm them. He tugged at the quilted cotton jacket open across his sizable stomach and hunched forward, barely avoiding the heavy knuckles of the rower facing him reaching to take another stroke.


“Yes they do Hernando,” replied Francisco. He closed his brown eyes and tilted his head back to welcome the moisture. “But it’s raining just as much on the ocean as on the beaches. God knows the stench below decks of a crew soaked to the bone is no compensation for the meagre heat from coal stoves and bodies.”


The droplets fell on his face, the skin bronzed from years in the sun. A deep scar ran from the corner of his left eye, over his high cheek bones to his jaw where it disappeared under his meagre beard. This souvenir from an Aztec warrior’s dagger collected the tiny rivulets forming on his left cheek and channelled them towards his chin.


Hernando laughed. “Don’t pretend invoking God’s name will protect you from that lie, Francisco. You haven’t relished the week conveying these chests any more than the rest of us.”


“True,” Francisco rubbed his hands against the damp and cold, his breath rising in the air. “Not this voyage, nor the four before that.” His commander was right. But there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on things he could not change. The hard work was done. The vault had been constructed, the deposit of goods nearly complete, but the voyage west to the Philippines promised only more of the same: rain and cold. The next time he would be truly warm would depended on a turn in the weather and not prayer.


The shear black stone walls of the island loomed closer. Formed millennia ago by the volcanic torsion that had pushed up, warped and remoulded much of the Pacific coast, this second stony heap in a four island archipelago sat a mere tenth of a mile west from the shore. Peidra Negro, as Francisco had taken to refer to the nameless island, was guarded on the ocean side by five smaller rock outcrops and untold reefs hidden below the surface. He told de la Huerta this natural guard would prevent any passing ships from being overly curious about it.


But to his knowledge, there were no other ships. There never had been until the San Leandro sailed north six years ago.


Then they were the first ship to sail this far up California’s coast, searching for a location to build de la Huerta’s interpretation of Cibola. The moment his boot stepped on the crushed shell and stone beach he knew it would satisfy the requirements.


“A long road, but worth every step,” Hernando mused, "If it protects all our investments from Philips's ambition." It was not so much a question, as a statement of satisfaction. "He would spend every piece of silver or pretty bauble we have to fight his war against the Protestants. They say in Castile the price of a loaf of bread rises faster than the dough itself." Francisco smiled at his friend.


Friend. He had never considered Hernando Alvar that before. Partner, yes. Hernando had done much of the detailed planning for their task and seen that his design had been carried out. Companion, yes. Two years of voyages for construction and nearly three of transport Hernando had been by his side. They had drunk together, fought together and spent the crushing hours of tedium on-board ship together. Perhaps Hernando was indeed a friend, his first.


Closer now and the fresh scent of the ocean gave way to the heady aroma of rotting seaweed on the beach and guano of generations of terns and gulls that made their home in the cliffs. The rowers eased their strokes. Within ten feet of the shore, they held their oars aloft vertically as one unit, letting the small boat glide the rest of the way. A soft scrape of stones against the wooden hull and the San Leandro’s skiff was beached.


Young Miguel leaped over the bow first, splashing in the ankle deep water to pull the rowboat higher on shore. One by one, the other marineros followed him out, the reduced mass making it easier to drag the boat up. De Pardo and Alvar stepped out last, their leather boots stepping only on the dry black sand.


“Welcome home then, my friend,” Francisco clasped his arm around Alvar’s shoulder.


“If I were to have a home away from home, I would have a prettier wife than you.”


Francisco reached over the gunnels and pulled out two long oak rods. “I may be no great beauty, but I have seen your wife and finding a prettier one would not be that hard.”


“Why do you think I spend so much time away at sea?”


For a brief moment, the rigid class barrier between marineros and the two gentlemen was broken and they all laughed loudly at Hernando’s joke. But it was short lived.


“Enough,” barked de Pardo as he pulled out the other two rods. “Hoist those last chests and be rid of this island at last.”


Inside the beached boat sat two identical oak chests. While not ornately decorated, each was varnished so thickly that the raindrops merely beaded and ran off. The bottom corners were reinforced with brass cleats and two wide brass bands encircled the middle. A heavy brass ring was fastened to each of the four top corners. The seam between the body and the lid was covered with a leather seal which had been attached to both parts with copper rivets. No lock was attached but a fastened copper crest of de la Huerta shone on top.


Two sailors crouched down, slid their hands under the edge of one chest and puffing hard, slowly brought it to the gunnels. The boat immediately pitched over with the shifting weight.


“Idiots!” shouted Alvar as he lunged forward. However, the other men were closer and they steadied the load before it tumbled to the ground. “You’d think you had not done this 100 times before.”


“Take the poles Luis,” Francisco calmly spoke as he handed two oak rods to the sailor closest to him. Luis took them from his commander’s grasp and with a grunted “Juan,” handed one to another sailor. While Miguel and Christian maintained their hold on the chest, Luis and Juan guided the end of the poles through the brass rings on either side. The four men were able to lift the chest while holding onto the ends of each pole, move the chest away from the boat and lower it to the ground.


With a thud, the dingy righted itself the moment the chest was removed.


After taking a deep breath, Francisco began climbing over the scattered rocks, his leather-bound log book clutched at his side.


Alvar shoved Juan’s shoulder. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”


Juan turned to his three companions, and wordlessly, the four men wrapped their calloused palms around the poles. A brief squat and the chest rose from the sand. The oak shafts bent under the weight of the load bet held as the group trudged after de Pardo.


After twenty minutes, the small retinue returned to the beach and repeated the process. With greater care, the last chest was lifted from the boat, the poles inserted and the procession followed Hernando one last trip into the rocks.


A finch warbled in a thicket of willow. Francisco had not noticed when the rain had stopped. The sky was clearing and the air seemed warmer. Now was as good a time as any to make his final entry to his catalogue. He unfastened the brass buckle on the book, turned the rigid yellow vellum sheets and noted the date beside the last entry of goods.


He closed the book, returned it to its sheltered spot under the rear thwart in case the rain started again. A gull cried out and Francisco looked up to study it glide across the water, its wings rigid, scooping the air barely a foot above the surface. At that moment he was completely aware of his surroundings: the mottled grey clouds, the expanse of ocean beneath, it's green so dark it was nearly black, the crunch of mussel shells under the leather soles of his boots, the light breeze tousling the hair that now fell below his collar and the smell of salt and life and death that filled every wet space on this rocky beach.


Rarely had Francisco sought quiet as a younger man, but now found he craved these moments more and more, no matter how fleeting, after a life devoid of peace of any kind.


At 44, Francisco had been a soldier nearly all his life. When he was only 11, he left his mother in Santo Domingo to join Cortes’ first expedition to the mainland. Through nerve and good fortune, he survived the siege of Tenochtitlan and the subsequent defeat of the Aztecs and returned to Hispaniola two years later only to find his mother dead. With nothing left for him there, Francisco accepted the life of the conquistador, re-joining Cortes’ forces as they conquered the lands of New Spain.


By 17, he was in command of over 100 men as Cortes defeated the rebel Cristobal de Olid in Honduras, earning his first repartimiento of land and slaves. Francisco was too young to accept life as a simple farmer. The taste for adventure had grown too strong to keep him satisfied toiling on a plot of land. He was soon hiring out his services to other wealthy landowners throughout New Spain as they put down Indian insurrections and conquered new territories.


Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo hired him to muster three crews for his exploration up the Pacific Coast in 1542, earning recognition during the Indian battle on the Channel Islands that claimed Cabrillo's life. Francisco served Bartolome Ferrer as the voyage went on for another year stretching far up to Oregon, discoveries that would prove fruitful in the future.


Additional encomiendas from the Crown increased his holdings in Guatemala. Now in his middle age, old age for a mercenary, Francisco no longer lusted for the fight that makes gods of men but the wealth that frees them from fear. The kind of wealth Gaspar de la Huerta promised him as reward for the task once he finished what he had begun here nearly five years ago.


Out of the corner of his eye, Francisco noticed the first sail unfurl atop the main mast. The boson’s orders have been confused, he thought as he pitied the poor marinero who was too hasty in unlashing the canvas. A sound beating and extra duties will ensure he does not repeating the mistake.


Refreshed from his contemplation, de Pardo turned to join Hernando, the others and the last of these damn chests.


Twenty minutes later, Francisco and Hernando emerged from the narrow cave mouth and the four marineros followed them into the light. The rain had continued to hold off but in its place was a fine mist rolling through the upper tree branches.


“Last task Francisco, then we go,” said Alvar pointing above the mouth of the narrow vault. Over the cave entrance sat several tons of rough stones. The pile was held in place by a dam constructed of two thick fir logs. The far ends of both logs were wedged into a narrow crevice in the rock wall while the near ends rested behind the trunk of a knurled cedar tree. This potential avalanche was been the key of Francisco's vault design and been erected on the last voyage of the crew eight months ago.


“This will be the test I fear,” he replied. “It is one thing to experiment with small rocks; it is another to trust in the random fall of their giant counterparts.”


He pointed to the youngest of the sailors, a young man whose olive face was now an ashen grey.


“Miguel,” de Pardo said with compassion. “Now is the time for your axe.”


Before departing from the galleon, the four sailors drew straws to see who would have the unwelcome task of scrambling up the slope and chopping down the cedar that held the rocks in place. The crew had been taking bets on whether the unlucky Miguel would survive or get swallowed up in the slide. The San Leandro's crew were a grim lot, and the odds against the young sailor returning were getting longer as the wagers were placed.


Without a word, Miguel turned to the bluff and began his ascent. Hand over hand, he climbed up the crag wall gingerly placing his toes in the rough cut footings. Much of the debris perched over the entrance had been removed and hauled up as part of their earlier excavation. It had been a minor accomplishment itself transporting each of the rocks by hand from the cavern and up the cliff.


A rough chicane had been carved with picks, but there had been several accidents. It did not take much for a man to lose his footing while carrying a 60 pound stone. Several times, more than one porter had dropped his load to steady himself only to cause another man farther down to be swept to the bottom.


Eight black stone cairns marked the graves of those who failed to carry their weight to the top.


Miguel’s foot slipped and sent a shower of stones and dirt down on the group below. Francisco’s caught his breath, but after a pause, the young sailor climbed on. With no further drama, he edged to the log jam and stood to let the cramps in his legs ease. Standing this close, Miguel could almost feel the cedar tree strain against the tons of rock braced behind it.


Propping his axe against the trunk, Miguel unwound the length of rope he had slung over his shoulder. He tied one end in a loop around his waist and lashed the other end around a fir tree that grew out of a nearby fissure in the rock. The short ten feet of rope might not keep him from falling, but if the log dam broke free, he hoped his body would not be dragged down and end up under the pile.


His line secure, Miguel wiped his palms on his wool trousers, gripped the butt of the axe and took his first swing. The axe struck the tree trunk with a dull thud. He swung again, the blade biting deeper. Another chop and a two inch wedge of wood loosened itself on the downhill side.


Miguel shifted his feet to face the jam. Raising the head of the axe over his left shoulder, he brought it down awkwardly on the opposite side of the trunk. The blade struck the trunk but it was a weak attempt. Too little of the trunk was exposed to a clean chop because of the two logs piled behind. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he tried again. This time the blade only grazed the trunk before bouncing off the rock and striking him in the ankle. He yelped and dropped the axe as he grabbed at his leg. The axe clattered down the rock face and fell at Herndando’s feet.


“Watch what you are doing you clumsy oaf!” he shouted to the young sailor. “You’re going to kill one of us before we get one rock down from there. “Christian,” he growled, grabbing the shoulder of the marinero next to him. “Get up there and finish this damned job!”


Up on the cliff, Miguel ceased his hopping and knelt down. He pulled his hand away from his ankle. From the ground, Francisco saw his palm red with blood.


“It will be faster if I do this myself,” Francisco said picking up the fallen axe. With quick, measured steps, he clambered up the path to the log dam. He leaned down to examine Miguel’s foot. The axe blade had sliced through his boot and cut an inch long gash just above the ankle. It was not deep, but the swelling would likely cause some discomfort. With a tug, Francisco tore Miguel’s left shirt sleeve off. He wrapped it around the man’s boot and tied it snugly.


“Can you make it back down without help?”


“Yes. If I go slowly.” Miguel began to shuffle back down, using both hands to brace himself.


Now to finish, Francisco thought as he picked up the axe. Either I’ll be successful in proving my plan, or we will have to let the San Leandro sail on ahead while we seal the entrance, one stone at a time.


The footing was awkward; he knew the slip had not been Miguel’s fault. The notch on the downhill side was big enough, but he still had to weaken the trunk on the other side to cause the great weight to snap the tree. Bending his left leg, Francisco levelled his hips enough get a solid swing. He chopped twice overhand, then once more underhand across his body. Chips of bark and wood flew; not many, but enough for him to hear the groaning of the trunk. Another two or three should be enough.


The underhand chop had been awkward but effective. He swung again and the axe took a good bite from the trunk. Francisco reset his feet and brought the axe head over his shoulder. He brought it down into the notch where it held firm. He couldn’t bring it back. He twisted and pulled, but the fibres of the trunk now gripped the blade as the pressure from the mass of rock started to shift. He tugged again, but it was no use.


The trunk had to be loosened just enough to overcome the binding. He grabbed the handle with one hand while he pushed on the trunk with the other.


“Hurry up Francisco’” Alvar called up. “We’re going to be old men before you get that loose.”


“I’m not a brainless ox like you. I have to think, not just push my fat ass into things!” Francisco panted back.


The marineros suppressed a laugh. Alvar gave them a sideways glance but let their subornation go as Miguel hobbled over to join the group.


Francisco replanted his feet and grabbed the trunk for another shove. He had barely managed to grip it when there was a snap from deep inside the trunk. The logs lunged forward tearing the cedar tree from his hand. The axe went too, nearly pulling Francisco into the cascade of rocks.


The pile roared forward, crashing down the cliff. Smaller rocks ricocheted above a rising plume of dust as bigger rocks smashed together. Francisco leaped back, tumbling down but just clear of the deluge. The narrow chasm at the cave mouth held the spilling rocks, but not entirely as several caromed off the walls and split apart spilling shards after Alvar and the others below. The men dove behind a nearby boulder as the blast of sand-filled air and stones blew past.


In less than three seconds it was all over. The deafening rumble eased to be replaced by the panting of the men and the odd scattered pebbles still trickling down the cliff. A cloud of fine, tan dust hung above the pile.


Francisco sat up and brushed the dirt from his camisa. He pushed himself up to his feet and stepped over to the edge. The logs and all the rocks behind had disappeared into the ravine, but he still could not see if the cave had been covered. In fact, could not see Alvar or the others. Had they been swamped in the deluge?


“Hernando!” he yelled through cupped hands. The blood in his ears was still thick making it sound as though he was calling through a pillow.


“Yes,” he replied. “We are here.” The group stepped out from behind the rock.


“Did it work? Is the cave covered?”

The three sailors stepped forward while Miguel rested his lame leg. The pebbles had stopped falling as they came around the last boulder. They cheered in unison and slapped each other on the back. Alvar joined in, nearly knocking each man over.


Francisco looked over the edge again to see the pile of rocks at the bottom of the cliff. The butt end of one the logs stuck askew three feet from the top of the pile. However, from up here, he could not see if the cave entrance itself was buried.


Grabbing the axe, he scrambled down the path, hit the ground and ran over to the pile. He pushed past Alvar and climbed the first several rocks. The pile stood a full six feet over his head completely covering the cave, at least from this side. “I need to see if the other side is accessible,” he called over his shoulder as he climbed.


“We’ll prepare the boat,” Hernando answered. “Take your time. You have done well Francisco. It is a great irony that if the results of your vision are ever seen, it will fail.”


“True,” he replied as he struggled to maintain his balance.


Alvar and the others began the short walk back to the beach with Miguel limping on his good leg. The sailors’ moods were significantly lighter knowing that the rowboat would practically fly across the water with no load greater than the weight of the six men.


Francisco puffed as he climbed on his hands and knees to the top of the pile. There was little stable footing as the rocks had just landed in place but not settled. The last thing he wanted to do was dislodge a big rock and end up on the bottom of a smaller slide. He reached the apex and gingerly shifted his weight onto the other slope.


The far side of the pile was just as dense, and the gap between the walls was even narrower. The cave entrance was also blocked on this side; if anything even more so. The job was over; De la Huerta’s secret would remain just that. He turned and straddled the big rock on the top of the pile. He pushed forward on his hands and prepared to scale down feet first when a chorus of shouts went up from the beach.


Just then, Juan raced around the rock outcrop. “The ship!” He was short of breath and pointed toward the beach. “The ship!”


“What of the ship?”


“She is under sail. They are leaving without us!” He turned and raced back to the beach.


“Impossible,” Francisco clambered down the rock pile at barely less than a falling rate. He hit the ground and tore after Juan. In mere seconds he could see across the water. The San Leandro was no longer moored the 100 yards from the beach it had been but was now nearly half a league away. His men were already pushing the rowboat toward the shore.


“Quickly!” Alvar barked as he grabbed the stern of the row boat. He dug his heels into the soft sand and heaved adding his weight to the others’. Miguel ignored the agony in his ankle as he rushed to load the oars aboard.


Francisco stood watching the galleon drift farther away. “It’s a good wind,” he whispered. The white sails swelled from all three masts pushing the ship farther towards the horizon.


They had managed to get the rowboat off the beach and were frantically fitting the oars into their locks. “Hurry Francisco” Hernando urged as he heaved his considerable bulk into the boat. “We can still catch her!”


Francisco walked to the water’s edge. He felt no sense of panic. His mind was calm, in contrast to the frantic churning of uncoordinated oars in the rowboat. They had managed merely to turn the boat in a circle as only the port oarsmen were properly set up.


“De Pardo!” Alvar yelled.


Francisco broke his reverie and ran into the water. They had managed to row a short distance by now so he had to leave his feet and swim to reach them. He threw his hands over the gunnels and pulled himself up. Hernando grabbed his shoulders and dragged him over the side.


He was out of breath but only from the swim, not panic. The oarsmen were now rowing with precision and the boat was moving well. “Faster fools!” Alvar exhorted them to pick up the pace. He took off his camisa and began waving it above his head. “Hey!” he called to the ship. “Hey! We are here!”


He rose to stand on the seat. Swinging his shirt more vigorously as he involved his hips. The rotation of Hernando’s solid girth caused the boat to rock. The starboard rower in front of Francisco pitched left and bashed his knuckles across the gunnels. Christian dropped the oar as he clutched his battered hand.


“Switch!” Francisco ordered as he grabbed the man’s shoulders pulling him up and out of his seat. The long blade of the oar skittered across the surface of the water while the bloody handle banged against the side of the boat behind him. He reached back, took control of the oar’s bloody handle and joined in with the other’s tempo.


“Sit down Hernando before you drown us all.”


Still waving the cream colored cloth above him, Alvar looked down at him. “Why don’t they see us?” he implored.


“Just sit down,” Francisco said between strokes. He glanced back over his shoulder. The San Leandro was much farther now and nearing the horizon. It was growing apparent their efforts were futile.


Alvar struggled to ease himself back down. His naked torso ran with sweat from his ministrations as he balled up the tunic and twisted it in his lap, like he was wringing wet laundry. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “How could they forget about us?”


The simple rhythm of the rowing stroke, the catch, pull and release had cleared Francisco’s mind. They had been abandoned on purpose. That was clear. Left for dead once the job was done. But why wasn’t he beside himself as Alvar was. For that matter, why did the marineros not show panic?


Francisco wondered if they had accepted a certain tragic finality to their lives that allowed them to face death, as certain death this indeed was. Accepting death must have a kind of peace to it. A lifetime as a soldier and a warrior had steeled de Pardo for the inevitable. And here it was. They would die slowly, but die they would.


“We were not forgotten,” Francisco responded. “We were played for fools. We are the price de la Huerta has paid for his Cibola. Payment with the Devil.”


“He had nothing to fear from either of us,” Hernando said his breath returning. “Our shares were so small. Neither of us would ever be able to hire our own ship and crew to come recover it” Alvar was now shivering uncontrollably. He could see ahead the San Leandro had dropped over the curvature of the earth. The hull was gone, and the mast was slowly dipping below the horizon.


They rowed on.


The thick oar handle was slick with blood, rain and sea water and the salt stung Francisco’s palms. The dull pain cleared his mind of any confusion. It was as though he had expected it, at least on some level. Abandoning the landing party made sense if you were to think about it. Why would de la Huerta leave him or Hernando alive? Aside from a handful of nameless sailors, only de la Huerta himself and the pilot of the San Leandro would know this location, and the pilot was de la Huerta’s cousin. Easy to keep him quiet, one way or another.


This was likely the plan from the beginning. There would be no promised riches. His wife and children? Perhaps de la Huerta would let them remain on his lands, perhaps not, but to return would be their death sentence.


So that was it. They were now ghosts. Not dead, but doomed.


“Where do we go now?” Alvar choked. If he had the capacity to cry, he would. “What do we do?”


Francisco squeezed the oar for another stroke. “Does it matter? For now, we row.”