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  © 2013 by Christine Echeverria Bender. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to: Caxton Press, 312 Main Street, Caldwell, Idaho 83605.

  ISBN 978-087004-526-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bender, Christine Echeverria.

  Aboard Cabrillo’s Galleon / Christine Echeverria Bender.

  pages cm

  Summary: An historical fiction novel depicting Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo’s 1542 voyage of discovery to North America on his ship, the San Salvador.

  1. Cabrillo, Juan Rodr?guez, -1543--Fiction. 2. Explorers--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.E6614A26 2013

  813’.6--dc23

  2013005355

  Other novels by Christine Echeverria Bender:

  Challenge The Wind

  Sails of Fortune

  The Whaler’s Forge

  Sarah Pilar Echeverria artistically created the maps within these pages.

  Lithographed and bound in the United States of America

  CAXTON PRESS

  Caldwell, Idaho

  184125

  This book is dedicated with immeasurable love to my siblings, who have taught me a thousand lessons and brought me a million smiles:

  John Echeverria, Teresa Townsend, Debra Geraghty,

  Mark Echeverria, Felisa Wood, and Diana Echeverria.

  For each of you, I will always be grateful.

  Acknowledgements

  The conception of this story occurred amid towering shadows of historical ships gathered from around the world for San Diego’s annual Festival of Sail. As I signed books and chatted with readers, the staff and volunteers from the hosting Maritime Museum began to mention with great enthusiasm their plans to construct a replica of Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo’s galleon San Salvador. Later that afternoon the museum’s president Dr. Raymond Ashley asked if I might be interested in writing a novel about the 1542 voyage that unveiled California’s mysteries to the world. Considering such an enticing subject, and given my earlier work related to whaling galleons of this era found in Red Bay, Labrador, I was captivated, and my research began almost immediately.

  After studying maps, accounts, and analyses for months, as is my practice, I began to investigate how I might retrace this ever more intriguing protagonist’s voyage in order to gain first-hand knowledge of his experience. Good fortune provided just such an opportunity when Dr. Ashley organized a crew for the tall ship Californian and allowed me to join them on a sailing expedition up the California coast as far as Santa Barbara and, with special permission from the U.S. Navy, to all eight of the Channel Islands.

  The days and nights spent aboard that ship, working, talking, exploring, eating, and sleeping in close quarters with the other hands, fostered tight friendships and countless impressions and memories. I was able to land upon beaches very little changed from when Cabrillo set his feet upon them, and on other shores he’d have found unspeakably changed, but with each landing and every crossing of ocean stretches in between, I learned to appreciate the man and his mission more highly. This voyage aboard the Californian undoubtedly allowed me to capture Cabrillo’s tale with greater clarity than would have been possible otherwise. To Captain Ashley and the other officers, and to each of the crewmembers who offered their kind, patient instruction as generously as their camaraderie, I am deeply grateful.

  Much thanks is also owed to Robert Munson, Historian at the Cabrillo National Monument in San Diego, who met with me during my visits to that lovely city (and my former home), sharing his wealth of knowledge and insight about Cabrillo and his age, and remaining available throughout the writing and reviewing of my book. Of him and his associates at the monument, lovers of history have much to be proud.

  To the wonderful Cabrillo scholars and writers, including Harry Kelsey, Henry R. Wagner, Thomas E. Case, Paul A. Myers, Bruce Linder, and those involved in the Cabrillo Historical Association (now the Cabrillo National Monument Foundation), and to Pablo E. Pérez-Mallaína for his works related to early Spanish men of the sea, I offer my admiration and appreciation. Through the studies and teachings of past and present tribal leaders, university professors, and so many other educators, the publications by R. F. Heizer, M. A. Whipple, Ramón A. Gutiérrez, Richard J. Orsi, Robert F. Heizer and Albert B. Elsasser, and the tireless dedication of those employed at fine regional museums such as John Johnson at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History, a greater understanding of California’s native people is being fostered daily, and a debt is owed to them all.

  I am also much obliged to Fr. Dennis Gallagher, the University Archivist at Villanova University, for sending me the insightful article on Fray Julian Lezcano, without which it would have been much more difficult to gain insight into his personality.

  My husband Doug Bender, sister Teresa Townsend, and friends Alice Tracy, Sally Mendive, and Helen Berria are the treasured reviewers and proofreaders who saw to it that this book was well polished before my admirable and much appreciated editor, Scott Gipson at Caxton Press, took over its guardianship. Each of you, please accept my sincerest thanks.

  Author’s Notes

  Both singularly tantalizing and frustratingly concise, Cabrillo’s files allow glimpses of fabulous discoveries while leaving persistent mysteries unsolved. A full autobiographic account of his experiences does not appear to have withstood the passage of centuries. However, notes, maps, and Andrés de Urdaneta’s invaluable summary of the voyage (originally produced by notary Juan León from the testimonies of the newly returned voyagers in 1543) have survived. These and the short description published by royal historian Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas in 1601, along with limited court records, represent much of Cabrillo’s source material. A complete crew list also remains elusive, but the ancient record does permit Julian Lezcano, Bartolomé Ferrelo, Gerónimo de San Remón, Lorenzo Hernandez Barreda, and Antonio Correa to live on in this story. Although most of the tribal characters depicted in my novel are found in historical documentation, Taya and her family are literary creations based on my study of her people.

  Since conflicting evidence raises doubt that the debate over Cabrillo’s nationality will ever be settled fully, my description implies that he shares Spanish and Portuguese heritages.

  Another area of conjecture is whether horses were indeed aboard these ships, and if so, how many. Spanish horses were certainly brought along on many ocean crossings, but the record of this particular voyage is unable to answer this and other questions about what was actually loaded. Considering Cabrillo’s highly prized right to own horses and his war history, and that he had been ordered to seek settlement opportunities, which would have greatly benefited from the presence of horses, it seems likely that he would have wanted mounts with him. Also, he believed that throughout most of the voyage they would be sailing along a coastline that might well provide adequate feed and exercise for a small number of horses. For these reasons I chose to bring a select few into this story.

  Fascinating substantiation is still being found that gives witness to the arrival of early Spanish explorers. Opposite is the image of a petroglyph found in southern California’s Jacumba National Wilderness. Based on scientific analyses, these could well have been created around the time of Cabrillo’s voyage.

  ~Christine Echeverria Bender

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  CHAPTER 1: MARKS OF THE LASH

  CHAPTER 2: CALAFIA’S CALL

  CHAPTER 3: THE DOUBLE ANCHOR TAVE
RN

  CHAPTER 4: BLESSING OR CURSE

  CHAPTER 5: TESTING THE SHEETS

  CHAPTER 6: A QUESTION OF TRUST

  CHAPTER 7: CONTACT

  CHAPTER 8: A PRIEST WORTH BEATING

  CHAPTER 9: ATTACK

  CHAPTER 10: TRADE AND TOLERANCE

  CHAPTER 11: ISLAND ENCOUNTER

  CHAPTER 12: WOCHA’S GREETING

  CHAPTER 13: DELICATE AFFAIRS

  CHAPTER 14: CHANGE IN THE AIR

  CHAPTER 15: MATIPUYAUT’S SHORE

  CHAPTER 16: TAYA

  CHAPTER 17: CHRISTENING

  CHAPTER 18: LAND OF LUHUI

  CHAPTER 19: ELEMENTAL FURY

  CHAPTER 20: HOPES SURRENDERED, HOPES FULFILLED

  CHAPTER 21: POSESIÓN REVISITED

  CHAPTER 22: THE WARMTH OF TAYA’S LODGE

  CHAPTER 23: THE BOY WHO DREAMED

  CHAPTER 24: SNOW AND SWORD

  CHAPTER 25: A PRAYER WITH FATHER LEZCANO

  CHAPTER 26: A SMILE AT SUNSET

  CHAPTER 27: VIENTO’S RIDER

  MAP: PUERTO DE NAVIDAD NORTH TO SAN ESTEBAN

  MAP: SAN ESTEBAN NORTH TO CABO DE LA CRUZ

  MAP: CABO DE LA CRUZ NORTH TO SAN MIGUEL

  MAP: SAN MIGUEL NORTH TO PUERTO DE LAS CANOAS

  MAP: PUERTO DE LAS CANOAS, POINT SAL, ISLE DE POSESIÓN

  MAP: PUEBLO DE LAS SARDINAS TO POINT REYES

  THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  MARKS OF THE LASH

  January 29, 1542

  If fate whispered one of its rare and subtle warnings along that reckless ride, not a single cautioning word reached the young messenger. Deaf and blind to the repercussions ahead, he spurred his mount on through the pelting rain over roads pocked with puddles and sliced by gullies, flinging mud with every pounding footfall. Snapping his quirt sharply against the horse’s wet flank, his elbow clutched the pouch sheltered beneath his cloak in an effort to keep the contents dry until he could surrender them to their legitimate owner. Yet each thoughtless and impatient lash of that short whip would soon inextricably bind its wielder to a stranger who would shadow the rest of his life.

  Lifting his head and squinting into the assaulting wetness, the rider took a sweeping glance at the devastation he flew toward. He thought he’d prepared himself, but a tight exhale of, “Our Lady, save us,” escaped him as he pushed on. There ahead were the remains of what four months earlier had been the blossoming village of Santiago, Guatemala. Today it looked like the mutilated victim of a vengeful god, and perhaps it was.

  A massive wide-based volcano, its peak diminished and marred by a collapsed cone, loomed ever larger as he rode. The natives called it Hunaphu after the god that had so recently exposed his self-destructive tendencies in order to demonstrate an undeniable might. Preceded by many days of downpour, a tremor had jolted the volcano’s rain-filled crater so viciously that it had burst outward with a roar heard miles away, unleashing floodwaters upon the town and burying hundreds of inhabitants in moments.

  Like most people in Guatemala and Mexico, the rider had received word of the mountain-rattling quake and its grim aftermath, but today he was gripped by the immeasurable difference between the senses of hearing and sight. The vivid outcome, though so many days had passed since the original disaster, tightened the stomach of the uninitiated. He steadied his breathing and let his eyes take it in.

  Due to recurring rains, water still flowed from the caldera’s torn lip like blood from an unstaunched wound: a painful reminder for the humans below of the impermanence of life. Dark earthen mounds scarred the southern hem of the volcano, divulging the presence of dozens of mass graves. Here and there scavenger-picked body parts of cattle, sheep, goats, and horses protruded from the silt. The latest rain had somehow stirred to life a lingering stench that now probed the air in search of vulnerable nostrils.

  As the messenger rode swiftly on, he began to parallel intermittent lines of bent figures toiling amid broken tools, spoiled crops, bent trees, and crumbled adobe. These curving human chords of filthy peasants and slaves pointed toward the heart of town where the wealthier citizens had resided. Shortly after the quake, most local workers had taken up the task of constructing a new town four miles to the north. The laborers who still toiled under the silhouette of the volatile volcano could only be clinging to the hope, for themselves or their owners, of salvaging what lay unclaimed beneath the ruins.

  The horseman slowed only slightly when the city’s center came into clear view. There, he could see that the once dignified stone cathedral and bishop’s house now lay in crude chunks and fallen timbers, half-submerged in wandering brown pools. On the northern side of the plaza, the public buildings and governor’s residence had fared little better. A small number of ragged huts had been newly erected from salvaged planks and beams, and near one of these structures several soldiers guarded their unimpressive post. The rider drew his horse to an unsteady halt before the men and called out, “Where can I find Captain Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo?”

  “Who asks to see him?”

  The messenger stated his name and business.

  “There, sir,” said the guard, cocking his head and pointing southward, “with that group standing beside the foundation of his old home.”

  Giving a quick nod and spurring his horse toward that destination, the rider soon skirted the boulder-strewn town square and spotted a man matching the description he’d heard many times.

  At this newcomer’s approach several slaves paused in their digging. Some raised their gazes toward the courier, but any expressions of curiosity were dulled by a bleakness chiseled from the hammering of repeated tragedies. Two young pages looked on as each held a feed bucket to the muzzle of a horse tethered beside the open-walled shelter. A short, heavyset gentleman standing under the roof beside Cabrillo lowered a map they’d been studying. Cabrillo lifted his face, took in the horse and rider at a glance, and tightened his jaw.

  At forty-two years of age, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo had the facial features, shoulder breadth, and corporal bearing of one who had survived countless trials, at least in part, by sheer strength. A wild mane of black, curly hair and closely trimmed beard framed his dark, narrow face. The quality of his shirt, doublet, and boots would have distinguished him as a gentleman even without the presence of the exquisitely crafted sword at his belt. As the messenger nudged his horse close enough to observe the captain’s face plainly, he saw that the scar from an old wound trailed down his jaw line from right ear to chin. A shallower scar, roughly the size of a one-real coin, rested high on his left cheek. Any man with such a past might carry similar scars, but what surprised the rider enough to momentarily hold his stare were the deep-set and pensive eyes now aimed at him, eyes that seemed more fittingly possessed by a wizened scholar than this distinguished leader of warriors.

  The messenger was so struck by Cabrillo’s piercing gaze that he failed to notice the set of his jaw. Leaping from his mount, the youth stated officially, “I have a message for Captain Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. Do I have the pleasure of addressing that gentleman?”

  The messenger paused with the expectation of being invited into the shelter, his hand resting protectively on the pouch as rain sputtered down to drip from his hair and clothes, but he was given not a crumb of attention. Instead, all heads turned as Cabrillo stepped from his shelter into the heavy drizzle and took possession of the winded horse’s reins. One of his pages hurried forward to assume the stallion’s care, but Cabrillo waved him back. Slowly, Cabrillo smoothed his right hand over the horse’s wet-darkened bay coat and murmured unintelligible phrases. At this soft touch and calm voice the animal’s legs, all the way down to one white and three dark stockings, gradually relaxed and grew still. Coming to the horse’s head, Cabrillo took gentle hold of both sides of the bridle and peered into the great brown eyes. Through his face and body, through means too delicate to specify, Cabrillo appeared to communicate a worthiness of trust and an offer of benevolence. The horse’s nose inc
hed forward with each slowing breath, and after taking in Cabrillo’s scent its breathing eased even more. With a soft whicker, the stallion brought its ears forward and nudged Cabrillo’s offered hand. Still unhurriedly, and seemingly unaware of the drenching he was receiving, Cabrillo circled the mount a second time and finally paused beside its right flank.

  The rider betrayed his building restlessness by taking a step forward. “Sir, the message I bring—”

  “Come here,” Cabrillo ordered in a voice made more compelling by its tightly controlled faintness. The messenger obeyed.

  For the first time Cabrillo faced him directly. The slender courier was handsome, almost fair, and could be no more than twenty years of age. “What is your name?”

  Under this intense and evidently displeased scrutiny, the messenger’s expression lost a portion of its certainty. “I am Julian de Lezcano, acting as messenger for our most illustrious viceroy, Don Antonio de Mendoza.”

  Without taking his eyes from Lezcano, Cabrillo said in a more conversational tone to his companion in the hut, “Diego, the men may return to work.”

  That gentleman nodded, the overseer barked the diggers back into action, and the pages locked their eyes on the feed buckets. All ears, however, strained toward the coming exchange.

  Noting a lessening in the rain, Lezcano began to undo the pouch’s ties but Cabrillo stilled his hand with a question. “Tell me, messenger Lezcano, what have you heard of me?”

  “Sir? Well, sir, I have heard that you served the Crown with great distinction in the conquests of Tenochtitlán, Oaxaca, and Tututepec under General Cortés.” Cabrillo waited in silence so the messenger went on, gaining a little momentum as he spoke. “More recently you commanded companies under General Alvarado and won many battles in lands to the south. Also, you have overseen the construction of ships, which you then commendably captained. Your achievements have been recognized and rewarded through gifts of several valuable properties.” Cabrillo stood fixedly, obviously unimpressed by this flattering recital and apparently awaiting something of a wholly different nature, so Lezcano tried again. “Your success has earned you the right to own horses and —”