High Seas Stowaway. Amanda McCabe
and shops, but they were cobbled like those of any European city. In the morning light, the yellow stones and red brick of the buildings gleamed, and the air was cool and clear with the tang of salt. Only later, when the sun rose overhead, would the thick heat set in and the shutters of the houses be drawn closed.
She descended the sloping streets, answering the greetings of her neighbours as they opened their shops for business. Later she would have to stop at the bakery, and look in at the office of her sugar supplier, who brought in goods from the inner-island plantations. But for now she was intent on her errand. The cathedral bells had rung out long ago, and soon the plaza would be crowded and the best meat and vegetables gone.
At last she emerged from the maze of streets into the open, central part of town. Santo Domingo was built atop a hill, to give a natural defensive position against any who would try to attack. The governor’s fortress, the storehouse of treasure and seat of the cabildo, sat at the highest point, locked behind thick walls and guarded walkways. There was no sign of any Spanish contessa there this morning, though, as Delores claimed. As Bianca gained the ramparts, she could see the ragged, green-black mountains that hid the island’s jungle interior, which she had never visited. A soft breeze swept down from the lush mountains, carrying her on her way.
She hurried past the gallows, blessedly empty of swinging bodies today, and found herself gazing down at the harbour. The mouth of the Rio Ozama formed a natural port, with anchorage for dozens of ships. Usually, unless the flota was in on its way to Spain, there were not so many vessels as that. But the storm had driven many to seek shelter. The sapphire-blue waters were crowded with a forest of masts, the ships’ decks crawling with the rush of activity. From her place on the ramparts, Bianca could hear an indistinct chorus of shouts and sea ditties.
She paused to stare down at the crowd of vessels, wondering which one was the famous Calypso. They had said the mainmast was damaged, but many of the ships were undergoing such repairs. Surely such a one would stand out, like the flagship of a mighty fleet. It would bear the mark of magic.
Yet she saw no such thing, only the usual caravels and carracks, tiny pinnaces, weary after the storm. As she watched men climbing the riggings, swabbing down the decks, she remembered her voyages with Juan Montero. The endless creaks of a vessel at sea, the wide open vistas of the shimmering water. It had not been an easy life, but the freedom of it all, the vast mystery—oh, it had been glorious!
“Señora Montero?” she heard someone say, the words jolting her from her daydream of the high seas. She turned to see Mendoza, Balthazar’s quartermaster, hurrying towards her.
“Ah—Señor Mendoza, yes?” she said.
“Yes, indeed. I was just on my way to your tavern. How fares the captain?”
“Well enough. He was sleeping when I left, and has no sign of fever. My maidservant is watching over him.”
A smile actually broke across Mendoza’s glum, rough countenance, glowing through his thick beard. “That is excellent news, señora! The men will be relieved to hear it. They have been praying for the captain through the night.”
“Have they?” Bianca said. “No doubt they fear to lose their wages and their posts, if the captain were to die.”
Mendoza looked startled. “Not at all, señora. The men will be paid no matter what, and there is always a berth for an honest sailor in the Velazquez fleet. But there’s no other captain we’d be as proud to serve under as Balthazar Grattiano.”
Bianca gazed down at the bustling port, remembering the near-mythic tales she heard whispered of the Calypso and her captain. “He cannot have been a captain for long,” she murmured.
“Nay, he first went to sea near seven years ago, apprentice to the navigator on the Elena Maria,” Mendoza said. “He bought the Calypso two years ago, and his crew has followed him ever since. With a fair wind, he can see us to Spain in three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Bianca said, startled. “He must be a magician.”
Mendoza laughed. “So some people say. But it’s only if charts and astrolabes be magic. He can steer a ship through any storm, too. He’s one hell of a sailor, señora. The crew would follow him anywhere.”
“Not everyone, so it would seem. What of that man who tried to kill him in my tavern?”
A dark scowl obliterated Mendoza’s grin. “Diego Escobar.”
“Was that his name, then? Who is he? Why did he want to kill your captain?” Bianca thought of the cloaked man, of the dead darkness in his eyes. Had he, too, lost something precious to the Grattianos? She could well believe that an entire crew of men would follow Balthazar; his charisma had been such in Venice, too. But she could also believe that someone sought revenge for some insult or crime.
“He was a navigating officer, come aboard a year or so ago from Vera Cruz,” Mendoza said, his tone reluctant, as if she forced the tale from him. “He and the captain were friends, until…”
“Until what?” Bianca urged impatiently, taut with suspense.
“’Twas a woman.”
“Oh.” Of course. A woman. Somehow, Bianca was rather disappointed it should be something so sordid, so ordinary. “No doubt some doxy this Diego thought was his, until she transferred her affections to the captain.”
“No, no, señora! It was not like that.”
It was always like that. Bianca saw it in her tavern every week, and cleaned up after it, too. But she gave Mendoza an encouraging smile, hoping he would continue with his tale. “Then how was it, pray tell?”
“Diego had a wife, a native woman he met before he joined the Calypso. Esperanza. We all knew about her, but we didn’t think anything of it. Lots of the men…” His voice trailed away, as if he was embarrassed to speak of such things with a European woman.
“Lots of the men have sex with native women, with their wives back in Spain all unknowing,” Bianca said.
“Yes,” Mendoza answered, still obviously uncomfortable to be gossiping about such things with her. Yet she found she could not let him squirm free. She had to know what happened.
“But Diego married the woman, in the church in Havana,” he went on. “She had been baptised and everything. Afterwards, we put out to sea, heading to Peru for a shipment of silver. That was when it happened, a few days out of Cuba.”
“What happened?” Bianca whispered.
“The captain found that Diego had his wife aboard, in the hold. She was pregnant, and ill.”
Bianca could imagine. The ceaseless pitch and roll of the waves, the dank stink of the hold. It was surely no place for a pregnant woman. “What was he thinking of?” she muttered.
“It was like he’d gone moon-mad, señora,” Mendoza said. “The captain insisted on setting the woman ashore, but Diego argued. Threatened, even. But Captain Grattiano wouldn’t hear him. He made to turn back to Cuba, even as we lost precious time, and he left her there with a nurse, in a house of her own.”
For once, Bianca thought Balthazar was quite right. “What else could he have done?”
“Naught, of course. But she died anyway, poor soul, and her baby, too. Diego vowed to kill the captain, to have revenge for what he had done.”
“And he happened to catch up with him in my tavern.” Bianca shook her head at the madness of it all. The whole blood-soaked scene had not been for money or position, then, but for love. The greatest insanity of all.
“Captain Grattiano will pay for any damage, señora,” Mendoza hastened to say. “We’re all very grateful for what you’ve done.”
“You shouldn’t thank me yet,” she said. “Go, see to your captain. I must finish my marketing.”
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