Cross the Vatican Line; The Search for the Mahogany Ship

By Peter Mulready

It's 1521 in northern Sumatra, part of the far flung empire of Portugal. Three of the King's Caravels sail on a mission to find and sink the ships of Portuguese traitor, Ferdinhand Magellan. Their secret destination, the fabled 'Isles of Gold', said to exist down in the deep south of the world. Along this coast Magellan may fast approach to plunder Portuguese waters. The traitor must be stopped or more Spanish invaders will follow, with sword and cannon to steal the rightful possessions of King Manoel of Portugal.

To find Magellan's ships they must cross the line, and so risk the vengeance of the Pope, the Spanish, and the loss of their own country's protection. The Vatican Line has divided the world in two, and for Portugal's ships to cross the Spanish oceans could bring total war and the ultimate destruction of their kingdom by a deadly enemy. Utmost secrecy is the Portuguese sailor's greatest defence.

But the centuries pass and no trace of this grand adventure survives, until one old man searches the lonely dunes. One old man seeks to discover the 'Mahogany Ship'. A wreck long buried in the sands between Warrnambool and Port Fairy in south eastern Australia. At the very bottom of the continent.

Some indefinable link to the past drives Jake onward despite his failing health. In his quest he is joined by a young archaeologist who shares his thirst to uncover the truth and courage of these sailors from another time.

Will the old man uncover the mystery which proves to be a vital part of another man's pledge? A man who lived five centuries before.

Cross the Vatican Line bridges the centuries between two great adventures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Mulready
• Release date: Feb 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9780646544052

Peter Mulready

Peter Mulready served for eight years in the Royal Australian Navy before pursuing a corporate and business career. The ocean has always enthralled Peter. As a young boy he was captivated by the story of the Mahogany Ship in a junior encyclopaedia. It was not until much later that he visited the site, hoping to stumble upon the mythical wreck. While on the dunes Peter met a lone searcher armed with an auger. This man was his inspiration for Jake Gibson in Cross the Vatican Line. Peter lives with his wife in Buderim on Queensland's Sunshine Coast.

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CROSS THE VATICAN LINE

By

Peter Mulready

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Peter Mulready

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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"6685 years had passed since the creation of the world,

1485 since the birth of Christ, when His Most

Illustrious and Serene Highness King João of Portugal

ordered this pillar to be erected here by his knight,

Diogo Cão."

Inscription on a stone cross called a Padrão erected by Diogo Cão on a prominent headland in Africa at Kaap Kruis at 21° 50' South latitude on the Skeleton Coast, Namib Desert. The noble knight then disappeared and is thought to have perished near Kaap Kruis. Cão was still 720 miles from his destination ─ the elusive Cape of Good Hope ─ the gateway to the Indian Ocean. The Padrão was found in the late 19th Century and was brought to Berlin.

Such individual stone padroes marked Portugal's tentative and bold explorations along the coast of Africa and beyond during the late 15th Century.

Dedication

To my wife Lorraine for her courage and her love

CROSS THE VATICAN LINE

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Residence of the Portuguese Governor of Ormuz, Persian Gulf 1532…Early morning 27th April 1521: Mactan Island, 3 leagues north of Cebu Port…Northern Sumatra March 1521.

Chapter 2: A Beach between Port Fairy & Warrnambool: South-East Australian Coast (Present Day).

Chapter 3: Port Fairy Hotel: Lounge Bar.

Chapter 4: Malacca Straits April 1521; 'In the name of God make sail!'

Chapter 5: The University Search: Present Day.

Chapter 6: Cincapura and the Jave Sea.

Chapter 7: The Arafura Sea: May 1521.

Chapter 8: A Meeting of Minds in Port Fairy.

Chapter 9: The Point of No Return: June 1521.

Chapter 10: The Shipwreck Coast.

Chapter 11: Discovery at Port Fairy and Warrnambool Dunes.

Chapter 12: Coste des herbaiges: Scorbutus & Death: July1521.

Chapter 13: Spanish Abandoned: Cap Fremose August 1521.

Chapter 14: A Conspiracy Revealed.

Chapter 15: Beyond Cap Fremose to Baie Gouffre.

Chapter 16: Cerberus Barks.

Chapter 17: Welcome the Portuguese!

Chapter 18: The Gates of Hades.

Chapter 19: Neptune’s Sentinel.

Chapter 20: Padrão of Oak.

Author’s acknowledgement.

Glossary.

The Crew of São Vicente & Ship's Officers.

Epilogue: Mouth of the Hopkins River: 16 miles east of the Moyne River Whaling & Sealing Depot, Port Phillip District, British Colony of New South Wales 1836.

Prologue

The Lord Almighty may part the Red Sea but His representative on earth once had the political power and the will to part the globe. In 1494 an imaginary line divided the world between the rival maritime powers, Spain and Portugal. Known as the Pope's line, it lay along the eastern portion of South America, around both poles and across the undiscovered continent of Australia: roughly just east of where the state border of Western Australia now exists. The Treaty of Tordesillas ratified by the Pope vested all non-Christian lands discovered in one half of the globe to Portugal, and in the other half to Spain. It was not intended to confer any territorial rights over the oceans, although both countries were to use the treaty for that very purpose.

Portugal’s claim to the great prizes of India, Africa and her recently acquired Spice Islands was assured ─ as were Spain’s territories in the New World and America, which had been discovered only two years before by Christopher Columbus. Of these Spice Islands, the Moluccas, around the present-day eastern region of Indonesia, were considered to be of great wealth. However, because of the difficulty of accurately measuring longitude and hence the uncertainty of plotting the position of the line, both countries claimed the Moluccas as their own. They lay on the extreme western edge of the vast Pacific Ocean, not yet discovered but open, by decree of the Pope, to the Spanish.

The Treaty of Tordesillas expressly forbade either party to cross into the other’s zone, or risk jeopardising the entire treaty. Portugal, as the weaker military power of the two, stringently abided by this for 25 years. That is, until an unforeseen threat appeared from the east. The Portuguese soldier of fortune, Ferdinhand Magellan quarrelled with his king and consequently turned his back on his country of birth by commanding a Spanish expedition. Its mission was to cross the Pacific westwards from the Americas and claim the Moluccas. If he succeeded, the Portuguese route around Africa to India, and eastwards to the lucrative Spice Islands would no longer be the only passage. Spain would have the key to the eastern door, and much of Portugal’s hard-won discoveries and monopoly in the Moluccas, on the eastern fringe of the Spice Islands, could be disputed ─ particularly since the actual location of the demarcation meridian depended upon the dubious fixing techniques available in 1519. (The accurate determination of longitude whilst at sea would not be available for more than two and a half centuries.)

Magellan had to be stopped and this was the task that fell to the Portuguese military. History shows that they failed. But despite this failure one man commanding a small Portuguese flotilla was to complete a voyage of discovery to rival Columbus or even Magellan himself; that is the discovery and coasting of Eastern Australia 250 years prior to the celebrated voyage of Lieutenant James Cook R.N.

The eastern coast of Australia lay on the Spanish side of the meridian. The discovery could not be shared with anyone beyond the Portuguese court ─ to do so would have meant admitting to Portugal’s transgression of the treaty. Open war with Spain may have resulted. The Portuguese knowledge of the east coast of Australia thus remained a closely guarded secret, shared by a select few. Those few died and with them all knowledge faded, the historical records hidden, lost, and forgotten.

Chapter One

The residence of the Portuguese Governor of Ormuz, Persian Gulf 1532

My Captain General has died ─ my liege and compass. No longer will I take his wine and hear him speak of our days on the deep blue, of the storms and gales, of sea birds and creatures of the deep, and of lands; lands of which I cannot speak, lands of which any knowledge of our visit would place my people and country in great peril.

Many voyages we took but there is one of which we always spoke until the dawn light touched the eastern sky ─ one which enabled his illness and suffering to fade as our words removed the chains of time ─ one which caused his bearing to straighten and his voice to once again ring with the timbre of command. I can still see him on the deck of his caravel, legs braced against the incessant roll and pitch. No man other than my Captain General possessed the wisdom and courage to take us beyond the far lands ─ beyond Jave O Grande, and back to our homes in Portugal.

I have a story to tell….

Early morning 27th April 1521: Mactan Island, East Cebu

‘Castillians ─ On me! On me!’ The Captain General’s armour mirrored the orange rays of the rising sun. Flickering tongues of fire engulfed the houses, and glowing embers drifted across the beach. A gentle breeze churned the choking black smoke around the enraged ranks of Lapulapu’s warriors. My senses filled with their screams of wild vengeance, and the stink of burning bamboo. The threshold of Hades gate must be such as this.

Poisoned arrows struck my Lord’s armour from three sides but deflected harmlessly off the burnished metal. Our legs were partially protected from the missiles by the flooding tide which now reached to the knees. The tide came too late ─ just an hour too late; for the boats were too far. It was still too shallow for the boats to row in-shore, and so they stayed where we had left them before the dawn. Out of reach, and at least a full crossbow flight further on.

The cold water splashed everywhere as we desperately ran for the boats, drenching us all. We stumbled on the rocks underfoot, and then scrambled to our feet to face the hordes, or flee to the boats. Each man made his own choice and so lived or died. The ordered retreat disintegrated, but still the Captain General held his ground though most men fell back in panic.

‘Castillians ─ On me! On me!’ Our Captain General rallied us. ‘Lock shields ─ Face them down ─ Face them down!’ Another missile struck my helmet. Whether arrow or bamboo lance I knew not, for so many deadly darts fell among us. Juan de la Torre was down; a lance pierced his face, opening his cheek. There was no time to render aid, and the advancing ranks consumed him. The boats, the boats we must make the boats! But the boats lay useless, far across the shallows. Their swivel guns peppered the water with shot as our gunners desperately tried to help. The crack of their fire was lost in the mêlée on shore. They were too far; the shot fell well short of the thousand Mactan warriors who hemmed our flanks and charged our front. Salvation beckoned to seaward over rising tide and sharp fanged corals.

Just before dawn we had clamoured over the exposed coral and mudflats; two crossbow flights from the boats. We should have waited for the tide; should have brought the boats closer in-shore. The eastern horizon glowed to welcome the sun as morning stars twinkled; their beauty mocking our true purpose. And so we trudged through soft mud and coral outcrops. Our boots sunk into the soft slime as we laboured beneath our weapons. As the orange rays painted the flats and silent trees beyond, we already laboured and sweated, before the fight had even begun. Roosters crowed, a child cried, and the sounds reminded me of home, of Lombardy and the villages and country farms of Italy. But now we stood in the shallows, fighting for our lives against the warrior battalions of Mactan, driven by cold fury and hatred.

We fired their houses of wood and bamboo until they burned with savage intensity. Women and children fled crying and screaming into the crops beyond. Some too slow were consumed by the flames. But the men, the warriors were so quick to arm. Poisoned arrows, bola scimitars, bamboo spears and iron tipped lances thrust out of the darkness or hurled into us. First the flames marked our presence, and then the day dawned to light their aim.

We rallied to our commander’s call, standing shoulder to shoulder, flimsy wooden shields locked. Men-at-arms loosed volleys of crossbow bolts, and the harquebusiers rained shot into the Mactans. The powder exploded, and flame erupted from the muzzles. They cursed, but still the shot kept them at bay. The stink of burnt gun powder and the inferno in their village, seemed to feed their rage. As blood spilt in their ranks frustration ignited, and they hungered, above all else to kill. But once a bolt is loosed it is lost, and once a ball is fired the harquebusier is exposed ─ until he loads shot, fuse and powder and re-arms his weapon. And so Lapulapu’s warriors crept closer, more than a thousand, with one common purpose to destroy, and cast us back into the sea.

Our retreat became a rout; we threw aside the harquebuses and crossbows to draw cold steel. Spanish lances parried the bamboo spears, and our swords rang against the Mactan scimitars. Flights of poisoned arrows hammered into us, and stones flew like rain. At first our armour stopped their flight. But many more missiles fell to tear and slash.

Cristovão Rebêlo remained steadfast with his father, as men-at-arms fell back between their ranks with the heathens in hot pursuit. Some Castillians stumbled on the submerged coral, which tore their flesh as ship mates pulled them to their feet, and dragged them toward the waiting boats ─ still too far. The Mactans realised there was no more crossbow bolts, no more harquebus balls. They sensed their advantage as would a beast driven forward by a common will.

A massive warrior broke ranks, and the brute drew his scimitar from a grass scabbard that hung from a belt of twine. His teeth were white ivory and his muscles were knots of sinew. He raised the heavy iron blade above his head to hammer it down on my own short sword. The clash of blows rang as only metal on metal can. But the death struggle all around narrowed my focus to this single threat. I never saw the heathen on my left, but I felt his bamboo lance pierce my armpit. At first there was no pain, but the blood was sucked from my wound when he twisted and pulled it clear. And then agony exploded across my chest. Feebly I raised my sword to parry a scimitar as it thrust at my throat. The warrior pressed his advantage to send this Frank back to his infidel God.

But another blade struck it aside and the Mactan was thrown off balance by this unexpected attack. The Captain General and Cristovão stood over me, and with sword, shield and lance they parried the blows of a half dozen warriors, thrusting and slashing. One of the heathens fell, his throat gaping with bright crimson blood, and another’s arm was almost severed, by the slash of my Lord’s heavy sword.

‘For Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, for the Lord God Almighty!’ he cried. ‘Castillians ─ Back to the boats, get back to the boats.’ But rank upon rank of Mactans overwhelmed those of our comrades who fought alone. Their heads were smashed by heavy war clubs and their bodies stabbed between breast plate and gusset, by beserker warriors bent on vengeance.

Cristovão feinted, and thrust his lance at the heathens, as they probed for brief seconds and readied to attack en masse. Just then my Lord Captain General pulled me roughly to my feet. His flowing black beard dripped with sweat, and his brown Iberian eyes held my own for the briefest of seconds. I knew then, what dire peril we faced, for I saw the desperation in those eyes. The calm countenance that led us for so many months across great oceans had vanished.

‘Antonio’, he commanded. ‘Get back, go with the others ─ now Pigafetta ─ Go!’ He parried another blow with his short sword, deflecting the lance thrust, and then countered yet another scimitar attack launched by a second Mactan to his right. I could do nothing, my arm was limp and blood flowed hot and thick beneath my gauntlet. I stumbled seaward towards the boats. I did not want to leave him, I should not have left him, but by then I was a burden. I could not even lift my sword. Or perhaps my desire to live, and not die on this wretched shore so far from home, pushed me away from the fight. At the very last I failed him. As I glanced back I saw too few standing with the Captain General and his son. They would not leave his side, for they’d sailed too many leagues in his service, and braving sea and tempest for countless months forges bonds of iron.

And now they were here, on this remote, heathen beach ─ but a fight such as this, such a fight ─ these Castillians would never yield. These Christian knights formed a solid rampart, standing firm in the shallows of the flooding tide, to face down the heathen battalions of Mactan Island. It was as if they were cliffs of stone impervious to the raging sea.

Our mirror, our light, our true guide fought on and I saw him glance astern to gauge our retreat to the boats. A poisoned arrow grazed his leg without lodging in the flesh. The noblest of knights, the greatest mariner to ever sail in the dominion of Charles the first, King of Aragon and Castile, gave no quarter, and stood against the thousand who clamoured across the shallows to tear him apart with iron blade, sharpened lance, and poisoned arrow.

Northern Sumatra March 1521

Our caravel São Vicente lay careened at Pedir in Northern Sumatra. The tidal flat supporting her exposed hull was a plain of soft mud, black sand and mangroves. Stout hemp rope secured to each masthead, was reeved through wooden blocks fixed to thick tree trunks ashore. As the tide reached low water the crew hauled the rope; the pull of advantage granted by the blocks, heeled the caravel over, and allowed us access to the hull. We caulked the planks with molten pitch and oakum, the labour intensified by the sheer effort of walking ankle deep in the soft mud.

The shore stank of rotting vegetation, foul, stagnant mud and decay. Shadowy deep green forest draped by creeping vines fringed the beach and river as we laboured. During the day, huge flies plagued our every move, stinging and biting exposed flesh. And at night strange bird calls, the chatter of monkeys and the distant snarl of prowling tigers stole whatever hours were left for sleep. The mosquitoes, the flies, the oppressive heat, and the smell all conspired to sap a man's strength and spirit. Foul vapours carry sickness and death; the sooner we sailed, the better for us all.

Anton Gomes is my name, and I was master-at-arms on board São Vicente, under the command of my liege Lord Captain Cristóvãl de Mendonza. The date I recall was March 1521; just eleven years ago. Some memories fade ─ but all I need do is close my eyes. Those smells, sounds, and sights are as real now as the day they happened... the faces of the men, their talk, their laughter, the heat, and clamour is still there.

Caulking was almost done. For two weeks we'd laboured beneath the tropical sun preparing to sail. We had returned from a successful raid at Pacem a few leagues along the Sumatran coast. A rebellious Malaccan Chieftain ravaged the surrounding villages and challenged Portugal’s rightful claim on these lands as decreed by His Holiness the Pope. Our fleet sunk his oared galleys, or put them to the flame. São Vicente lay in the thick of battle and so earnt the Governor’s esteem. Unbeknown to us our battle honours singled us out for the coming voyage... the likes of which we could never have imagined.

Whatever the perils before us, I understood my own life, and that of every man on board, depended on the strength and seaworthiness of São Vicente. Our priest, Padre Domingo de Goa placed our deliverance in the loving hands of our Lord Jesus Christ, as one would expect from a man of God. My own creed has always been that the Lord helps those who help themselves, and so I pressed the caulkers to properly seal our hull against the sea and the ravages of the shipworm. Every man onboard already feared starvation, disease, and shipwreck, but the eating of our hull by these devil creatures, as we sailed over deep fathoms, filled me with dread. Though I believe it wise to keep the Lord on side, I’m not a strongly religious man; I've seen too many pious Christians perish while they beseeched the heavens for deliverance, calling on faith alone as their shield. My personal creed rested in the strength of my arms, the temper of our weapons, and the discipline of the crew, and if the grace of God smiled on me, then all the better.

Ship's master, Afonsa Gonçalves and I drilled the men whenever they were free from other duties, and that was rarely. Some were new to our small company and had to learn our ways. Whether it was seamanship or weapon skills, it mattered not, for we drove them hard, gauged their temper, and moulded them into a competent crew. They cursed us, as seamen do, but kept their tongues in check, learning to respect their officers and do their duty. Loyalty may come ─ in time.

On the ebb tide we replaced the damaged and rotting timbers, and caulked the hull. Our carpenter, Gonçalo Alvores used stout African mahogany, fastened with wooden treenails and iron bolts. The timber had been loaded from ports in western Africae during our voyage to the East Indiaes. Fresh planking, newly caulked with oakum, protects against the cursed worm and weed that can split the timbers, and open us to the sea. The caravel and her crew reeked of pitch; we lived and slept with it. And our skin and clothes were soiled with the same black grime that coats the hull to protect it from the ravages of the sea and weather.

Throughout our labour Cristóvãl de Mendonza encouraged the men as he walked about the deck, or through the slimy mud. Heat and mosquitoes didn't deter him, and he spoke frequently of fresh sea breezes and fortunes soon to be made. The son of Pedro de Mendonza, our Captain was a man of learning and noble born. He was stout, bearded, and swarthy, his frame hard and strong. Although born to be a knight, his father had raised him to place small stock on birth right. As a young nobleman he had learnt his trade in seamanship at the King’s college at Sagres, and long years since at sea had shaped a hard and tough countenance. But it was tempered with a wit and charm that forged loyal bonds in his crew. I served his father’s household in Mouram, before pledging myself to his son. By that day in March I had been his comrade in arms for five years.

‘Master-at-arms!’

Sweat and grime stung my eyes as I paused from my work and looked up, rubbing my face with the back of my hand. The Captain’s bulk briefly blocked the tropical sun. ‘Aye sir!’

‘Heat's like Satan's furnace. Work the men down in this slime for one glass only, and then get them back on deck ─ rotate them between the caulking and deck work. I want strong backs for storing ship so rest them as you can. And give plenty of water. Send a shore party out to the mountain springs to replenish the casks. And Anton ─ arm them so they don’t end up as dinner. Tigers lurk, I heard their growls last night.’

‘Aye my Lord!’ I stood to face him and wiped my forehead with a soiled bandanna. ‘Two more days and the caulking's finished, then we see to sails and rigging ─ we’ll need more hemp. This local stuff’s good enough.’

‘Whatever you want, see Juan ─ he’ll arrange it; once afloat we'll anchor off shore and get away from these fucking insects... might even catch some breeze to blow away the heat and these stinking vapours. When you free up some hands Afonsa will put them to good use up top. See to the armaments as well, and I want a full inventory to replace the powder and arms we used at Pacem. We need crossbow bolts, and enough pikes and shields for each man. Steal them from the Royal Armoury if you must.’

‘As you say; and where might we be sailing my Lord?’ I ventured, but feigned no real interest.

Cristóvãl laughed. ‘Not yet Anton, good try but you’ll know soon enough.’ Like every man on board I hungered to know our destination but still the Captain gave nothing away.

‘Our fortunes change Anton, for the best at last!’ He smiled reassuringly, and then returned to his labours ─ leaving me to mine. I swatted a huge black fly as it stung my arm.

I shouted after him. ‘For the best you say my Lord ─ this black slime reminds me of the hog sty I mucked out at home. I was up to my armpits in it then, and I’m up to my armpits in it now! We’ve come far, you and I.’ Cristóvãl glanced back laughing.

‘Better to come Anton. And soon! God willing!’ Leading two of our artisans aft, he trudged forward to appraise the work completed on the hull above. Each man sunk ankle deep into the ooze with each footfall. Cristóvãl examined the newly treated seams between the oak timbers and checked the lay of the oakum and pitch. Carpenter Gonçalo Alvores, and Enes Barzozabal our new caulker, stayed close, nodding and offering advice as they went. 'And make sure you load ample bamboo,' I heard Cristóvãl order. 'Use the old Cathayian trick. If we lose oakum we'll ground the bamboo fibres with linseed oil, grind shells and use the paste to caulk the hull.'

The crew of São Vicente worked into the night, under torchlight that attracted thousands of fluttering moths. The small pools of seawater stranded as the low tide swept across the exposed mudflats reflected the fiery orbs. Once the hull was repaired and the tide floated us clear of the mud, the longboat and pinnace towed the caravel into deeper water, and then ferried supplies. It soon became clear the voyage would be perilous, but still not one of us, save Cristóvãl, knew our destination.

We stored ship for months at sea, and for war; cloth and trade goods, water and wine casks, sails and sail cloth, food, firewood, harquebusiers, crossbows, bolts, lances, pikes, breastplates and helmets. I even found arrows for an English long-bowman who had recently joined the ship as an able seaman and man-at-arms. The English skill with the bow is legendary; they can easily outfly the strongest of crossbows and loose three arrows to a single bolt. We had ample quantities of lead shot and gunpowder; dried fillets of fish, bacalhau, salted meat in casks, smoke cured ham, rice, olives, olive oil, and barrels of almonds and dried fruit. Our quartermaster scrivenor, Juan de Moura purchased fresh provisions at exorbitant prices, though it would quickly spoil once at sea. For the tropical heat gave no respite, and below decks it seemed as if a blacksmith worked his furnace.

We grieved for the number of sick and dead since arriving at Pedir. The crew had been healthy when we anchored, but within five days a tropical fever struck. An apprentice seaman, Andres de Torres, succumbed first, and lasted only two days before the Holy Mother claimed him. Padre Domingo fought to save as many of our crew as God allowed. But despite his efforts, within three weeks we lost an able seaman, a caulker, an apprentice, and a crossbowman. We could ill afford the loss, and I knew this foul cesspool of Pedir was the cause. I longed for open sea and fresh breezes to blow away the foetid airs lingering around the caravel. I swatted mosquitos, and beseeched the men to redouble their efforts. The foul stink caused fever, everyone knows the effect of evil vapours in the air. I'd seen the same in the filthy seaports of Europe and Africae. Once we were at sea clean ocean breezes would put things aright. Of that I was certain. To add to our misfortunes we had already lost two hands at Pacem putting the galleys to flight. Both men had sailed from Lisboa and their proven skills as a gunner and able seaman were sorely missed.

At last São Vicente was made sea-worthy and as sound as she was when the voyage began eighteen months before in Lisboa. One of many caravels in the service of King Manoel, she was of the same type that had opened the coast of Africae and borne His Excellency, the great Vasco de Gama, to Indiae just twenty-four years previously. The vessels are agile and easy to handle, and manoeuvre like the shallops that tender the anchored carracks and naus in Lisboa harbour. On the deep sea with her lateen rigged sails, São Vicente is easily mistaken for one of the multitude of Arab dhows that ply their trade on the Mar Rubru and the horn of Africae.

From prow to stern she measured 67 feet with a beam of 19 feet. The planks of her hull were Portuguese and holm-oak, as smooth and flush as the floorboards in my father’s cottage at Mouram. São Vicente was able to ride out gales and tempests, but was still low to the water with her decks often awash. The pitch used to protect her exposed timbers from the elements was hot and sticky in the sun, and in the equatorial waters its smell and touch was our constant companion.

Her two masts were rigged with triangular lateen sails that allowed São Vicente to sail close to the wind. Once set on a course, only a sudden and unexpected backing of the wind required the crew to ‘wear’ ship; to use the tiller to bring the breeze through the stern, and refill the sails from the other beam. Sailing close hauled, she could set a course only three points off the wind.

In such a ship, stout hearted seamen can voyage to the other side of the globe and safely return to Portugal. If a tempest is unleashed, an able crew will shorten sail, take the sea on her bow, and ride the white horses until the gale abates. With a forgiving sea and a following wind she sails a steady six knots, and many leagues pass astern between sunrises. The caravel is a very different ship to the square rigged beamy carracks and naus that sail the world's oceans in search of trade and conquest; the caravel is smaller, with a shallower draught, and requires fewer hands to sail. Nor does she have the high afterdecks and foredecks of the carrack. São Vicente wasn't built to carry heavy cargo, but still had sufficient space to provision our crew of twenty five for a voyage of many weeks, though we were sorely cramped.

At 65 toneladas, her strength and seaworthiness ensured the safety of every man on-board, the stout oak was a shield against the tempest of the sea. As with the custom of Portuguese fishermen and seamen, tradition demanded our caravel have an eye emblazoned on either side of the bow. The superstitious believe the gift of sight enables the vessel to cross uncharted depths and safely return to Portugal. I ordered the carpenter, Alvores, to take out his chisel, remove the grime and tar from each eye, and grant her clear vision once more.

The Seamen

Ochote de Saldana and Luis de Barrena were Basques. They had served together for five years taking berths in Portuguese, Genoese, French or Italian ships. It mattered not which flag flew atop the mast as long it wasn't Spanish, for their people distrusted the monarchy in Castile. Aside from this, food, pay in gold coin, and good times ashore mattered before all else. Whether their billet was an oared Venetian galley, a naus, carrack or caravel mattered little. Apart from the usual royal fidelity demanded by the ship's officers, whatever distant king they served had little influence on their daily lives. Captains and ship's officers were the only nobility they must stomach; there was no need to concern themselves with more.

Other seamen from the caravel sat around a table enjoying their ale. Ochote and Luis listened while their new shipmates spoke of their lives on board. Only a week before their caravel Vigo had anchored at Pedir. São Vicente required replacements for the lives claimed by the fever, and so under the Governor’s authority the bosun immediately assigned the two troublesome Basques. Now after five days of hard labour they enjoyed a few hours ashore, sitting beneath a native lean-to, roofed with palm fronds and lashed with jungle vine. A rudimentary table lay between them, laden with locally brewed ale and baked bread. A chicken and rice meal was served upon simple earthenware plates strewn across the tabletop. As usual at this time of the afternoon and season of year, rain pelted down from the heavens and transformed the ground into a muddy quagmire. Water drifted into their makeshift refuge, so they covered themselves in cloaks and capes as best they could to keep their garments dry. Even the flies sought shelter from the torrent and buzzed beneath the fronds, drawn to the scraps of chicken bones and rice. The men waved them away.

There were important matters to discuss with their new compatriots. The supplies they had loaded aboard and their back-breaking labour on the hull suggested an imminent deep sea voyage, with future battle planned. Why else would weapons, shot and powder be loaded in such quantity? The foul vapours of Pedir, the steaming heat, the mud and torrential rain, sharpened the sailors yearning for the simple pleasures of a tavern ─ like one they would frequent in their villages back home, or in any of the ports on the Iberian coast. This establishment sufficed well enough as long as the ale still flowed and one was drunk enough.

Luis gave a young native lad a crusado to scatter the flies and mosquitos. He used a sapling branch of a species his people used to repel the insects. The boy performed the task diligently, for the cruelty of the Franks was well known... though the lad had not witnessed any barbarism as yet. A couple of young native girls sat with the sailors. The men urged them to stay with the promise of food, ale and good humour. They tittered and giggled coyly as the two young Genoans, Martin Genoves and Alonso Baresa doted on them, both men enticed by the young senhoras' exotic charms. Perhaps the senhoras would prove generous with their favours this night. The men’s longing for female companionship was heightened by the shadow of the impending voyage. It would be perhaps many months before they would taste such delights again. They each fought the melancholy that often called to the sailor on the eve of sailing.

Ochote was well used to the company of Portuguese seamen. For fifteen years he had billeted aboard their ships and King Manoel’s crusados frequently lined his purse. These Iberians had proved generous to men like himself and Luis. The expansion of Portugal's military and commercial fleets and the newly acquired territories around Africae, Indiae and the Spice Islands demanded massive numbers of competent seamen. And there were ample opportunities for rewards well beyond a common sailor's service pay. A share of trade profits perhaps, or spoils of war. Far more opportunity than the rock strewn fields of home: battling blizzards, drought and famine and scraping a living from your family's crops.

A huge well muscled man named Gonçalo da Costa sat by Ochote’s side. Gonçalo was São Vicente's blacksmith and had been on board ever since the caravel departed Lisboa to sail around Africae to Indiae, and crossed Golfo di Bengala to northern Sumatra. He’d taken part in the fight against the galleys in Pacem, and told Ochote about the spoils the crew had shared. He had the air of a man well used to the privations of life at sea. He kept his own counsel, and was well at ease with himself and his station onboard. Ochote sensed the man was a good sailor, liked and respected among his peers. His hair was long to his shoulders, the beard full and speckled with grey. The sweat and grime of Pedir clung to his skin, but little rankled him for he was well accustomed to the bellows and furnace heat of his trade.

‘And what of the officers, amigo?’ Ochote asked in low tones. He refilled the blacksmith's pewter cup from an earthenware jug. Then he appraised the two senhoras, admiring their dark beauty, their graceful shoulders and necks, as he waited for Gonçalo's reply. You're never too old for such pleasures, he mused to himself.

Gonçalo appraised Ochote and noted the Basque sailor's self-assurance. This is a seaman others would follow ─ he’d been around, this one.

‘We could do worse senhor,’ Gonçalo conceded as he nodded his thanks for the ale. They shouted above the intensity of the deluge. Grey curtains of rain closed around their crude shelter, shrouding all of Pedir. The masts of the caravels at the waterfront were lost from sight. Each afternoon it was the same. Later in the evening the downpour would cease, the steam and heat return, and the cursed mosquitoes resume their feast.

‘The Captain is a fair pilot and seaman. Not a man I would cross. He treats us fair but demands allegiance to Portugal in return. Rest assured my friend, the Captain will learn your worth quick. And he's a good fighter, I've seen him in battle – uses his head.’ Gonçalo touched forefinger to forehead, then paused and took a swig of ale. ‘Aye we could do worse than Cristóvãl de Mendonza. I signed papers with him back in Lisboa, and so here I am aboard São Vicente. The Captain broods and pushes hard to get us ready for sea... for what purpose