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.”