A Singular Captain

A Singular Captain

Mutiny, murder and mayhem on the first circumnavigation of the world.

Thank you for purchasing this book. With the 500th anniversary of Ferdinand

Magellan’s voyage coming up, you will gain an insight into what it was really like.

copyright John Regan 2016

http://talesfromthesea.com.au

A Singular Captain

Pigafetta arrived in Seville in the summer of 1518 prepared to believe everything he had been told about the city and distrust everything about its inhabitants. He was at a turning point in his life and not coping well. Friends and colleagues regarded him as an affable man, well respected and slow to take umbrage, but he’d shown signs of instability of late. Some tried to dissuade him from a reckless course of action but a few had recognised the strength of his determination. For this he was grateful but discontent still troubled his soul.

The coachman had set him down near the bridge and said this was Triana but he did not know Calle San Jorge. The coach had been delayed and he was late. He was not sure whether Ana had received his last letter. Her directions had been less than helpful: Calle San Jorge in the barrio of Triana. No number. Ana was his only point of contact in The City of Gold, which had the reputation: ‘Who has not seen Seville has not seen beauty.’ Across the river he could see ships tied up at wharves and beyond them the famous Cathedral, the biggest in Christendom, a pretty enough scene but to Pigafetta it was a symbol of much that was wrong with the world.

The heat had begun to dissipate as the sun sank low over the hills, people emerged from siesta and children came out to play. He had only one piece of luggage, having been warned to travel light, and set off along a cobbled street, a main thoroughfare through a prosperous village of whitewashed houses. His crimson tabard and his Italian shoes attracted some attention but he felt under no threat here. He accosted a family taking tapas at a table beneath a green and white canopy and asked directions to Calle San Jorge. The woman waved her hand in a general westerly direction and said Arriba! Arriba!

It’s the house of Don Francisco Velasquez, Pigafetta said.

Si, si, si. Velasquez. Arriba. Arriba.

This didn’t clarify matters much but he continued towards the setting sun. He asked directions a couple more times and eventually arrived at a substantial establishment in a walled compound. The wrought iron gate was open. He walked through into a garden of roses heady with scent but had not taken five steps before he heard a squeal and Ana came running down the path, threw her arms around him and showered him with kisses.

I thought you were lost, she cried.

No. One of the horses went lame and we had to wait for another.

Anyway, you are here now.

Yes. Wonderful.

He kissed her properly, long and sloppy, then pulled back to look at her; the cheeky, impetuous, outrageous, beautiful Ana. She wore her hair loose and her gown’s plunging neckline was scandalous. He had not seen her for two months but now, when he should be filled with joy, he felt uneasy.

I have missed you, she said. When will you go to your ship?

Tomorrow, I expect. I was hoping to stay here the night.

I have told my father about you. He says you can stay in my brother’s old room but no funny business.

No funny business, Pigafetta said with a grin. To Ana, everything was a game.

Come inside. You will have to meet my father.

She took him by the hand and led him inside; the door held open by a maid in livery who curtseyed. They passed through a hallway with a library on one side and came to a chamber that could have been a banquet hall. It had a long table and portraits of stern-looking men and frigid women around the walls. A large fireplace seemed to Pigafetta out of place in Seville. Heavy drapes blocked out the last of the daylight and the room was lit by candelabra. In one corner, as if trying to make himself inconspicuous, a grey-haired man sat in a wicker armchair with a white coverlet over his knees. He dropped the book he was reading into his lap.

Papa, this is Antonio Pigafetta that I told you about.

Sr Velasquez looked him up and down as if inspecting a work of art. His gaze lingered on the tabard that Pigafetta had chosen after careful thought. He had wanted to make an impression but perhaps this was a little flamboyant. Perhaps he should have selected the pale blue one for this meeting. Ana had described her father as a retired gentleman, a widower, a patron of the arts and a stalwart of the church.

You work for the pope, Ana tells me.

It sounded like he disapproved of something; whether the tabard or his former employer Pigafetta could not say.

Used to, señor, but now I’m going for a sailor.

A raised eyebrow was the limit of his reaction with no sign whether that meant approval or reproof. Pigafetta’s decision to resign as the Vatican’s second ambassador to the royal court of imperial Spain had not been taken lightly but he was not about to go into that matter here.

There comes a time when a man must seize the day, señor, he said to Sr Velasquez, waiting for an answer to his raised eyebrow.

Very true. Very true. The approval was less than wholehearted. Pigafetta wondered whether Sr Velasquez disapproved of him working for the pope or leaving the position.

Antonio has joined the Armada de Moluccas, Papa.

The old man seemed to brighten at this news.

"Then you will know my friend, Juan de Cartagena. He is captain of a ship called after your namesake, San Antonio."

"I am not a saint, señor. I hope to join a ship called Trinidad."

With the Portuguese, Magellan, in command.

Yes.

The old man’s mood changed again.

"Utterly disgraceful, putting a Portuguese in command of a Spanish armada. I can’t imagine what the king must be thinking.

It wasn’t the king; it was his priestly advisers – Cardinal Adrian of Utrecht, Guillaume de Croy, Chancellor Sauvage – all of them foreigners like the king himself, born and bred in Flanders. The king of Spain could not even speak Spanish; just another absurdity in Pigafetta’s view, which again he kept to himself.

I can tell you one thing; he’s thinking: to marry off his sister to Dom Manuel.

I heard that rumour. I could hardly believe it. So it’s true, is it? Is this what we are come to? A Spanish brothel for Portuguese kings? The king is a foreigner himself, a traitor. Goddammed German. Fortunately, there are still a few patriots left in the land.

Pigafetta was hearing alarm bells in his head at this kind of talk. He had heard it all too often back home during the Italian wars. When men start talking about traitors there is no telling where it might lead. It was like priests of the Inquisition talking about heresy. Pigafetta was uncomfortable with this conversation and decided to steer it in a new direction. He coughed to clear his throat.

I was admiring your rose garden as I came in, señor. I know Seville is famous for her roses but yours seem special.

Ana looks after the roses.

Yes, we have a rose competition every year around the time of the horse fair, Ana chirped with a smile. We did very well last year. We took out second prize but I hope to do better this year.

I have an aunt who is a keen rose grower, Pigafetta said. Having steered the conversation away from dangerous waters, he was determined to avoid further shoals. Fortunately, this statement was true and he was able to sustain the topic until dinner was announced and two black slaves lifted Sr Velasquez out of his chair and carried him to the table, his legs dangling like those of a rag doll.

During dinner, Pigafetta kept the conversation focused on the portraits around the walls – ancestors and family members including at least three sea captains and one colonial governor, the brother of Sr Velasquez who was the current administrator of Cuba. Pigafetta was impressed. The most recent portrait was of Ana looking demure on the occasion of her confirmation. Pigafetta joked she was much prettier than her uncle and her father, both of them with prominent noses.

Sr Velasquez picked at his food and by the end of the meal was nodding off, which was satisfactory to Pigafetta. Ana quietly got up and left the room, returning in a few moments with the two slaves.

Time for bed, Papa, she said, and kissed him on the forehead.

What? Yes, all right. The old man blinked several times as if to waken himself. This was clearly a nightly ritual in which Pigafetta was an intruder. Italians are all right, Velasquez said. Columbus was Italian. I don’t mind Italians but I can’t stomach Portuguese. We should get rid of them, like the Jews.

Good night, señor, Pigafetta said. Sleep well.

I always do. It’s all I do. Eat and sleep. You have noticed my poor legs. The idiot doctors know nothing.

The slaves picked him up and carried him away. Ana sat on Pigafetta’s lap and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

You have to excuse my father. He sometimes gets excited.

I noticed. What’s wrong with his legs?

Even the doctors don’t know. Some kind of tropical disease, they say. From Hispaniola. He says he caught it from the natives, who were dying like flies. He was captain of the ship that took my uncle out there.

You really are a seafaring family, aren’t you.

Oh yes, we know all about sailors in this family. My brother is also a sailor.

Ana had been right there in the throne room when Magellan presented his amazing proposal to the king, or at least the king’s minders: to find the Spice Isles. She was as excited as Pigafetta about the idea of sailing to unknown lands where, according to some stories, people had only one eye in the middle of their chest and ears so big they wrapped them around their bodies for a blanket. Some lands were populated by green and yellow cannibals 60 feet tall and an island called Amazon was home to a race of warrior women, an idea especially attractive to Ana. If only she were a man she too could embark on this adventure.

She kissed him on the forehead, then on the nose and then on the lips, framing his face in her hands. His hands travelled up her back, pulling her body into him and found the smoothness of her shoulders and the silky strands of her hair. Her tongue came into his mouth and explored all around it, warm and wet and slippery.

I thought your father said no funny business.

He did, but he has gone to bed and he can’t walk.

What about the slaves?

They know their place.

She stood, led him across the room and through a curtained doorway, her gown falling down around her ankles as she shut the door behind them.

Chapter 2

Ana was not strictly correct when she said he had joined the Armada de Moluccas. It was more accurate to say he hoped to join the Armada with no more seafaring experience than a trip on the Grand Canal in a gondola. Her uncle, Bishop Alonso, suggested Pigafetta’s best chance of being selected was the fact that he spoke five languages; three of them fluently. Like every other ship departing Spain these days, the crew would be a mixed bag of nationalities. Magellan spoke with a heavy accent and Pigafetta should be able to make himself useful. Bishop Alonso was one of the few religious that Pigafetta had any time for and he had some connection with the Casa de Contratación, the government department that controlled everything to do with ships in Spain. Pigafetta heeded his words.

He kissed Ana goodbye early in the morning and retraced his steps from yesterday. He crossed the bridge to the river’s eastern bank. Several ships lay alongside the docks, which already bustled with stevedores, donkey carts and pedlars. Slings of cargo were hoisted aboard by derricks and lowered down into holds to a chorus of shouted orders and wild gesticulations. To Pigafetta it all looked chaotic and the maze of masts and rigging bewildering. Especially absurd were the bowsprits sticking out of every ship like the stingers on preposterous huge black insects.

He stepped around the pats of manure and other rubbish on the dock, inspecting each ship as he walked by. He knew Magellan had sourced four of the five ships allotted to the armada but could not tell them from the others. He saw him sitting at a table on the high deck at the back of one boat, interviewing a line of tough-looking men in seamen’s garb. Suddenly nervous, he almost turned around and walked away. He hadn’t expected so many applicants. He watched Magellan ask each candidate three or four questions, look them up and down and either dismiss them with a flick of his hand or else make an entry in the leather-bound book before him. Successful candidates made their mark or thumb-print in the ledger and the failures walked away despondently.

He was encouraged by the fact that Magellan seemed to be hiring more than he dismissed. Bishop Alonso had pointed out that Magellan might actually have trouble finding crew. Criers had been sent through cities with the message, ‘Good men wanted for a voyage to the Moluccas,’ but it was the New World, with its gold, silver and slaves that men wanted to go to; not the Moluccas. No one knew where the Moluccas were, not even Pigafetta until he researched the topic in the royal library and asked around among the old sailors at court.

At his interview with the king, Magellan had said that his cousin, Francisco Serrano, actually lived there. This was a big point in favour of the king’s advisers approving the expedition. Evidently, the Spice Isles, or Moluccas, were not mere figments of the imagination like some of the creations of John Mandeville, a popular author.

Pigafetta braced his shoulders, climbed aboard by a gangway and joined the queue on deck; an unsavoury lot on close inspection – some barefoot and ragged and others clearly suffering the effects of the night before. He was sure Magellan had not even noticed him during the audience with the king and would not recognise him now. When his turn came, he presented at the captain’s table and found himself pierced by the eyes. The captain general looked him up and down as Sr Velasquez had done. He seemed most taken with the shoes, turned up at the toes in the Italian style.

What do you want? You’re no seaman.

Pigafetta had given much thought to how he would handle this interview and had rehearsed a pretty little speech but now it left him.

Indeed I am not, Captain General. I have the honour to be Antonio Pigafetta, a baronet of Vicenza, knight of the household of the Doge of Venice, special envoy to the Vatican and second ambassador from His Holiness the Pope to the court of Don Carlos, Holy Roman Emperor.

You’re lost, then. What are you doing aboard my ship?

I wish to go with you on this great venture, Captain General.

What makes you so eager to die of thirst or scurvy, assuming you don’t drown first?

I wish to write an account of the voyage for my patron and for history.

So you’re a scholar. My captains have already filled their ships with valets and barbers and tailors. We have enough useless eaters. I need proper seamen. Show me your hands.

Pigafetta presented the palms of his hands.

A woman’s hands.

It is said you plan to circumnavigate the globe, Captain General. Jason and the Argonauts never attempted as much. History will look back on this as the greatest voyage of mankind.

Who told you I plan to circumnavigate the globe?

It has been mentioned in the court at Valladolid.

Make sure it’s not mentioned here. There is nothing in the voyage plan about circumnavigating the globe. Half these fools still think the world is flat. Can you reckon?

Excuse me, sir?

Can you do the books? Keep the accounts?

I have some experience of finance, Captain General. Pigafetta hoped this point would not be pursued too deeply. I am also familiar with languages and have a fair hand of calligraphy.

The captain general looked him up and down again, once more paying attention to his shoes and running his fingers through his black beard.

Supernumerary. A thousand a month. See Punzarol, the master.

Thank you, Captain General.

You will rue the day you thanked me.

Magellan’s mouth twitched in the depths of his beard in what Pigafetta thought was meant to be either a smile or a devilish grin.

He picked up his portmanteau and headed for the ladder leading down to the main deck where men were stowing cargo into open hatches, tying knots or splicing ropes. A cooper was building or repairing a barrel and on the raised section at the bow a man sat cross-legged stitching a sail. Pigafetta approached a man with a fierce squint, or he may have been blind in one eye, who seemed to be the supervisor of this activity.

Excuse me; I am looking for Señor Punzarol.

To his surprise, the man burst out laughing.

Señor Punzarol, is it? Well, that would be me, wouldn’t it?

I am Antonio Pigafetta, señor.

Good for you.

The captain general said I should find Punzarol, the master. I am a new crew member.

In what capacity? Punzarol suppressed laughter as he inspected him again.

Supernumerary.

That could mean anything. What wages did he put you on?

A thousand maravedis a month.

That puts you between a deck boy and an ordinary seaman. Come with me.

Punzarol led the way forward to the raised section at the bow of the ship and entered the dark interior. Half of the space was given up to coils of rope, barrels of paint and pitch, rolls of tanned leather and a caged section of muskets, pikes, halberds, swords and barrels of what Pigafetta supposed was gunpowder. The other half was evidently some kind of bunk room, with a table in the middle, tiers of shelves, some of which had bedclothes rolled up on them and wooden chests with items of clothing spilling out.

Choose yourself a bunk, Punzarol said, but you will have to get rid of that portmanteau and get yourself a proper seachest.

I can’t live here. This is impossible.

Punzarol shrugged.

This place is not fit for human beings. It’s just a cattle pen.

Punzarol shrugged again.

Well, of course, you being a gentleman, you might find it a bit hard. I have sailed with gentlemen before and they usually don’t last long. You will have to see him if you don’t like it.

Pigafetta was not game to interrupt the captain general, and waited on deck for the line of applicants to dwindle. He was beginning to realise that sailing around the world might not be as glamorous as he thought and struggled to control his indignation. He’d had a shock and needed a little time to recover.

When the last was dismissed, the captain general closed the massive leather-bound journal containing brief details of each man’s name, rank, wife, if any, and wages.

Excuse me, Captain General, if I am to serve you in keeping the reckoning, I will require proper accommodation.

What?

Records will have to be kept dry and need a proper place of safe-keeping.

Keep the books under your pallet.

Not suitable, Captain General.

Pigafetta indicated the ledger under the captain general’s arm, which would make a lump in any mattress. Magellan looked at him as if seeing him for the first time but the scan did not extend down to his shoes.

Cheeky, aren’t you? All right, then. Come with me.

He led the way to his own cabin, at the opposite end of the ship from the forecastle. It was nearly as big as the bunk room, with stern windows looking out on the river, had a carpet on the deck, a polished dining table, a comfortable looking bunk and cabinets of carved cedar wood. On top of one of the cabinets was the globe that Faleiro, Magellan’s partner, had exhibited to the king.

Magellan removed a gold chain from around his neck and used the key on it to unlock one of the cabinets. He opened the door to reveal a stack of paper and hide parchments. He took one out and laid it on the table.

"This is a copy of a chart by Juan da Lisboa from his voyage to the New World. There are other charts in that cabinet from other navigators and I don’t have to tell you they are utterly priceless. They are kept under lock and key at all times. On occasions, they will be guarded by the master-at-arms. When the master-at-arms is otherwise engaged, I am going to make you responsible for them.

I am not a master-at-arms, Captain General.

I don’t expect you to be. I expect you to be vigilant. You will report directly to me any suspicious activity regarding these charts, or this cabin. The same goes for that other cabinet, which contains astrolabes, backstaffs, compasses and other things. I expect you to be my watchdog. Is that acceptable to you?

Yes, Captain General, but I need proper accommodation.

That is my next point. You may occupy the cabin next to mine. You can keep a good watch from there.

It was about the size of a prison cell and had a narrow, board bunk but it offered one priceless property: privacy. Given the circumstances, he was actually grateful for it. His first act in imposing his presence upon his new domicile was to consign the crimson tabard to the portmanteau and put on a less garish version.

He returned to the house on Calle San Jorge that evening and Ana met him with delight at his news but also a touch of melancholy. So, like all sailors you will be going away.

He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

Not tomorrow and not for quite a while as far as I can see. My heart will be with you.

Already you are talking like a sailor.

Sr Velasquez showed great interest in his appointment to Trinidad and he had a guest for dinner that night – Juan de Cartagena, captain of San Antonio, a tall and elegant man wearing a signet ring who also showed interest in Pigafetta’s appointment.

Supernumerary? What are your duties, exactly?"

I am to look after the accounts and the ship’s ledger and the charts and be an assistant or secretary for the captain general.

The charts? I assume he has many?

"Yes, quite a lot. He showed me one by a Portuguese navigator.’

And does he have the globe by Martin Behaim on board.

He has a globe. I don’t know who made it.

Sr Velasquez was following this conversation intently. He leaned forward in his chair and asked, How many Portuguese in the crew?

It was beginning to sound like an interrogation and Pigafetta glanced uneasily at Ana, beside him, but she wore her usual look of innocence.

I’m not sure about the exact number but it is strictly limited by the king’s orders.

As it should be. There are plenty of good Spanish seamen available.

That’s not what I hear. The captain general complains that he can’t find enough carpenters and sailmakers. They all want to sail to the Indies.

Sr Velasquez scowled as if Pigafetta were responsible for this sorry state of affairs and completed his meal in silence while Ana engaged Cartagena about the timing of the horse fair and chattered on about her prize-winning roses.

Pigafetta thought he would never leave, but eventually Sr Velasquez was carried off to bed and Cartagena had no further reason to stay. At last they were alone.

"Apart from being captain of San Antonio, who is Cartagena?" He seemed to Pigafetta more like a courtier than a ship’s captain, a breed of rather bluff men in Pigafetta’s limited experience.

"Just a friend of my father’s. He also knows my uncle Alonso.

During the day Pigafetta had reflected on last night’s welcome by his passionate lover and it worried him as she climbed on his lap again. Funny business was fine as long as they were careful. It had been different in Vallodolid because her aunt Isobel had neglected her chaperone duties, which had endeared her to Pigafetta.

Ana, I think we need to be careful. At least we should make sure your father is well and truly asleep and rumple the bedclothes in your brother’s bedroom.

She gave that cheeky grin of hers. She jumped off his lap and walked to her brother’s bedroom just down the corridor from hers. She reappeared and leaned against the doorjamb of her own room, lifting the hem of her gown to reveal an ankle.

You’re incorrigible, he said and wagged a finger at her.

Chapter 3

Over the next few days Pigafetta went exploring from the rank and dark bilges infested with rats and other vermin at the bottom of the ship to the top of the mast where he had a panoramic view of the city and the river and shuddered to think what it would be like up there at sea in a storm.

At the break of the quarterdeck was a figure of the Virgin Mary and he noted how many of the crew walking past it crossed themselves like some secret rite of witchcraft. He was still trying to disentangle his feelings for God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary from his view of priests, the Vatican and the Pope, whom