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.”