The Andean Cross: A Novel

By Lawrence Clayton

Ever since Europeans discovered and came to conquer and colonize the Americas, a great question occupied European Christians. Did Jesus Christ, or his immediate successors the Apostles and the first Christians who followed, cross the great Atlantic or Pacific Oceans and proselytize among the indigenous peoples of the New World? Read the story of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westwood Books Publishing
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781648038372

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Lawrence Clayton.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Westwood Books Publishing LLC

11416 SW Aventino Drive

Port Saint Lucie, FL 34987

www.westwoodbookspublishing.com

Contents

Chapter 1: The Viceroy

Chapter 2: Discovery

Chapter 3: Codes and Symbols

Chapter 4: The Traveler

Chapter 5: Madrid

Chapter 6: Greenwich

Chapter 7: Hispaniola

Chapter 8: Panama

Chapter 9: The Dive

Chapter 10: Treasure

Chapter 11: Love in the Afternoon

Chapter 12: The Love of Money

Chapter 13: Intelligence

Chapter 14: Politics

Chapter 15: Dark Waters and Embassy Lights

Chapter 16: Complications

Chapter 17: The Great Cartel Plot

Chapter 18: High Speed Chase

Chapter 19: The Cross Again

Chapter 20: Sleuthing

Chapter 21: Rocking Along on the St. Charles Streetcar

Chapter 22: New Orleans Nights

Chapter 23: Getting Closer

Chapter 24: Miami International Airport

Chapter 25: Flying South

Chapter 26: The Hotel Gran Bolívar, Lima

Chapter 27: Cuzco

Chapter 28: Travelers

Chapter One

The Viceroy

Our hope is that, as your faith continues to grow, our area of activity among you will greatly expand, so that we can preach the gospel in the regions beyond you. Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians, 10:15-16)

Y es, father? Núñez Vela addressed the friar. Núñez Vela--don Blasco Núñez Vela to be exact--missed the friar’s first words. The new Viceroy to Peru had gone momentarily for a stroll with his memory.

You were saying, Núñez Vela urged the priest to repeat himself.

Don Blasco, the friar began again. I need to speak to you in private.

Private? Núñez Vela repeated. The buzz around him died down a bit as the various onlookers listened more closely. After a few seconds, all was quiet, even the scribes were still, pens poised to copy whatever was said.

Yes Your Grace. I have a very special commission, and it is for the King’s eyes only.

But father, you can see that I am not the King, Núñez Vela said, taking a small stab at humor.

Yes Your Grace. But you are in charge of the king’s investigation, the friar continued, ignoring Núñez Vela’s remark, and now we have the gravest of problems.

Father, I have eyes and ears too, Núñez Vela said, waving around him to the crowd, now hushed but very present.

They all have the gravest of problems. In fact, Núñez Vela continued, warming up to the demands being made of him all week by loud petitioners and obnoxious claimants, it seems everyone’s problem is the gravest. That ship must have carried much indeed.

That ship was the Nuestra Señora de Los Milagros, recently shipwrecked in the Bay of Panama. It was 1544, anno dominum.

Yes don Blasco, the friar said, but it was not all earthly treasures, to be laid up for earthly honors and pleasures, the friar continued, a note of reprimand in his voice, aimed, without anyone doubting, at the conquistador petitioners, now quiet, around him.

What I carried was very special, Your Grace. It has to do with our faith and our Lord.

Our Lord, you say, father? Núñez Vela asked.

Yes, our Lord and his great mission to men, the priest responded.

How so, father?

I cannot tell you in public don Blasco. It must be secret. It already is a disaster. I can’t let more happen, the priest said, head bowed.

Father, you speak in riddles.

Many of the mysteries of our Faith are not obvious, the friar said.

I agree. Maybe you speak in parables, like our Lord, to confuse the nonbelievers, yes? Núñez Vela said, now enjoying the give and take a bit more with this friar. I have as much knowledge of the Holy Book as any priest, Núñez Vela thought. What the devil is he talking about?

In private Your Grace, the priest persisted.

Has it to do with the wreck? Núñez Vela asked, still reluctant to give up on his lawyerly training, taught to probe and question and get to the truth.

Of course, Your Grace. I was on the ship. My commission and my trunk are lost, and I fear I may be too, the friar said.

Lost?

Yes don Blasco, the priest said, and then continued after a pause, But no, not lost. I, I’m at a loss for words. I have lost something for the King Your Grace, and I don’t know what to do.

Ah, father, something was found and is now lost. And it was for His Majesty, Núñez Vela said. Yes, that can be a problem. What was it?

Something irreplaceable Your Grace, the friar said, looking down to the floor.

That is what everyone has been telling me all week, father. ‘Irreplaceable,’ ‘my life’s work,’ ‘a disaster,’ Núñez Vela said, with a trace of cynicism.

The preliminary hearing to determine the circumstances of the Nuestra Señora de Los Milagros’s lamentable accident was held in Panama City in May of 1544.

The presiding officer was the new viceroy to Peru, don Blasco, only recently arrived in the Spanish Indies. He was Viceroy by appointment by His Majesty Charles I of Spain, also Charles V of the Habsburg Empire that stretched across Europe and now reached into the former Indian dominions of America.

Charles’s subjects, the proud and haughty conquistadors, had to be taught obedience to the Emperor. Núñez Vela came armed with the New Laws of the Indies, decreed especially to bring these insubordinate conquistadors to heel and to relieve the terrible oppression on the native Americans.

But first, he had to get to Peru.

Don Blasco was put out by the wreck of the Nuestra Señora de los Milagros. That was an understatement. He was outraged that such stupidity could have prevailed. There were no storms, there was no sea battle, there was nothing but rank incompetence to account for what happened.

Don Blasco was on his way to Lima, the new capital of Peru, to assume his office. Nuestra Señora de los Milagros was supposed to transport him on the long voyage from Panama to Lima. Now she lay in a thirty fathoms of water off an island in the Bay of Panama. She had broken up, her sides and bottom inexorably ground up as the currents and tides rocked her back and forth on the razor-sharp shoals her master and pilot had sailed her on a few weeks earlier.

Don Blasco was trapped here in Panama for a few more months before he could continue his voyage.

It had begun in Seville so long ago it seemed. He was anxious to get to Peru and on with his commission to inject royal order into that rebellious colony. Short tempered by nature, now don Blasco was irritable and irascible to boot. The sweltering heat of the tropics only confounded him further.

Núñez Vela knew the litigation from this disaster would be endless as everyone with treasure aboard sought to make good their claims.

I had this on board.

I had that.

I lost everything!

That Friday in the makeshift court that Núñez Vela had set up in the quarters of the Panama City Town Council was no different than the entire preceding week. Núñez Vela had two scribes--public notaries--taking notes of everything--depositions, claims, charges, and countercharges--that were being laid and argued before him. He would leave nothing to memory or hearsay. It all would be written and duly notarized. His Salamanca legal training stood him well, although don Blasco’s fame was based more on his warring against Moors and Africans in the service of the Emperor, than on legal judgments.

When the friar appeared before him, Núñez Vela softened a bit. The friar was garbed in the simple habit of the Dominican order.

Their priorities often contrasted violently with the haughty conquistadors of Peru, many of them returning to Spain with their booty ransacked from the Incas of Peru. Rich they may be, but Núñez Vela thought these conquistadors a tawdry, bombastic lot. Now they were claiming this and that, waving sheets of paper listing their treasured booty that went down with the wreck, demanding an immediate investigation, and an even more immediate salvage effort.

So, when the friar appeared, don Blasco softened. The small silver cross hanging from a simple necklace on the friar’s breast reminded Núñez Vela of more timeless things, of battles fought and ramparts stormed recently in Moorish Africa, against the infidel Moors, in the name of the Cross and his ardent faith.

Núñez Vela drifted a moment to his boyhood long ago, serving as a mere page in the magnificent army commanded by the Catholic Sovereigns, his beloved Isabelle of Castile and her husband Ferdinand of Aragon, in the siege of Granada.

What a time to be alive! To be a Christian warrior in the final battle against the last infidels of Spain, the caliphs of Granada. To see Isabelle and Ferdinand receive the surrender of that mighty capital of the Moors.

And, of course, the Dominicans were there too. Like this humble--well, they weren’t always so humble Núñez Vela thought--friar before him this morning.

It was not mine don Blasco, the priest said, interrupting don Blasco’s reverie. It was for His Majesty. It was, it was, the priest repeated, perhaps Holy your Grace. I cannot go one in this room, the priest said, now pulling himself up, and looking directly at Núñez Vela.

The friar took the cross hanging from his neck and held it in his hand while addressing Núñez Vela. It is a matter for His Majesty and the Church Your Grace, perhaps even for the Holy Office, the priest said.

Núñez Vela said nothing for a moment, staring at the Dominican priest. The Holy Office was the short name for the Holy Office of the Inquisition, the long arm of the Church charged with maintaining the purity of the Faith.

A thinly veiled threat Núñez Vela thought. But one not to be dismissed lightly. Although his life was above reproach, as were the lives of his thoroughly old Christian ancestors, he was not interested in crossing swords, or words, with Inquisitors. And the Dominicans were the principal inquisitors in Spain.

In private father, as you wish.

Thank you, Your Grace, the priest said.

But tell me one thing, Núñez Vela asked.

Yes Your Grace.

What you lost, perhaps ‘something Holy,’ Núñez Vela repeated the priest’s phrase.

Yes Your Grace.

Was it? Núñez Vela asked, not being able to resist pursuing the enigma right then and there.

Perhaps, the priest said.

Sacred? Núñez Vela asked.

Is there a difference Your Grace? Sacred? Holy? the Dominican asked, trying to turn this querulous Viceroy off the subject, irritated by his questions.

I don’t know, Núñez Vela said.

Your Grace, the priest followed. If we are right, it will be witness to our Lord’s work in all the world, even this new world.

Our Lord’s work is already in the New World, in these Indies, father, Núñez Vela said, thinking of the scores of Dominicans, Franciscans and other clergymen ministering in Spain’s new possessions in the Americas.

No, Your Grace, the priest continued, now taking the bait, yet wishing to put Núñez Vela in his place, to get away from this public place, from the curious ears and eyes of strangers, and end the conversation, now grown more revealing than he ever wished for.

No, Your Grace, the priest repeated. Not now, but long ago.

Long ago? Núñez Vela asked.

I cannot go on, the priest said. Once again, he took the crucifix hanging across his chest in hand and looked at Núñez Vela directly.

So be it, the Viceroy said, smiling at the priest. You have brought me pleasure this morning, father. I thought we would talk of nothing but gold and emeralds, of suits and countersuits, this week. Now you remind me of other matters.

God go with you, Your Grace, the priest said.

The Viceroy closed the morning hearings and retired to his quarters for lunch. The Dominican turned and left as well, his holy mission unfulfilled, his sacred cargo on the floor of the sea.

In the investigation that followed the sinking of the ship Nuestra Señora de los Milagros, the responsibility for the disaster was first put on the pilot. The pilot, on the other hand, blamed the master of the vessel. Since both survived the shipwreck, one could not easily prevail over the other in his absence.

Don Blasco had to arbitrate. He found both men boors and grossly self-serving.

The Dominican priest, on the other hand, spoke of things of the spirit, of the faith. As don Blasco grew older, God’s promise of life everlasting became more and more the focus of don Blasco’s life on earth.

What had the friar lost on the wreck of the Nuestra Señora de los Milagros?

Chapter Two

Discovery

The difference was almost imperceptible, but Anthony Lamb recognized it. He turned the airlift once more on the ocean floor. He held the plastic pipe firmly as the lift sucked up more bottom sediment.

The principle of the airlift was simple. A wide tube is lowered to the excavation site. Into the lower end of the tube compressed air is pumped from the surface. The air bubbles up and creates suction. This pulls up water, sand, and small objects. All of this can be sifted on deck.

One hundred feet above him it was a brilliant day. Some of the sun’s light, diffused through the crystalline waters, cast a faint glow.

The sand and bits of coral loosened by the airlift clouded the scene momentarily. When it cleared, Lamb stared hard at the spot he had just run the airlift over. It looked faintly like an anchor fluke of an antique ship. He had been down for about fifty minutes and was comfortable in his wet rubber suit. Even in the tropics, divers would get chilled after prolonged exposure in the water.

Lamb scooped some possible iron fittings into his goodie bag that all divers carried. The pieces were encrusted with coral and barnacles, but, finding them so near the anchor, made him suspicious: perhaps they were human-made, some evidence that he was indeed over the old ship.

Far above him, on the surface of the sea, the seventy-foot salvage boat rocked gently in the swells. The generators and other motors droned on without a change in pitch or rhythm. It was mid-morning of the second week of the dive.

Clair Snowden, in an old one-piece bathing suit that clung to her more than she wished, knelt down beside some scuba gear listening to Manuel Prado explain the basic procedures to her again. He was delighted to serve as Clair’s instructor. She was a quick learner and a looker. These gringa women don’t age, he thought.

How do you keep track of your air? Catherine asked studiously, pushing aside a wisp of hair from her eyes.

Your watch, Miss Snowden, and your buddy. That’s all, Manuel said, pointing to his watch and to her as if she were his dive buddy in a dive. He had learned to dive with Americans working in the Canal Zone and was thoroughly familiar with their techniques and jargon.

And what things go wrong? she asked.

Manuel rocked back on his haunches for a moment before answering. Good questions from this woman.

What goes wrong? Everything! he said, laughing softly, but nothing you can’t fix, he added, without the smile. If you’re prepared you can handle everything. That’s what his old teachers always told him. Practice, practice, know your equipment, know your limits, know what to do. Remarkably, it worked most of the time.

A few feet away from Clair Captain Gomez monitored the equipment linked to Lamb on the ocean floor below. One of Gomez’s divers was down with Lamb. They had another fifteen minutes left in this dive. The organizer of the expedition, Matthew Western, sat on his haunches nearby ready to offer assistance.

They are using a lot of compressed air, Gomez said to Matthew.

How much longer will they be down asked Matthew.

Not much longer.

Clair left Manuel’s side and went inside where she put on a Jane Goodall-type shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Manuel had looked at her with much appreciation, and she knew this was not what she wanted. She liked her body, she worked at keeping it toned, but she didn’t want to send out any messages, especially on a small boat in a small expedition.

She had a light tan, and her hair was blonde in streaks from the sun. Back on shore, casual flirting by some Panamanian friends over the past two weeks had amused and flattered her.

Matthew Western, on the other hand, puzzled her. He was not indifferent to her presence, but they had not picked up easily from a night in Madrid several months ago. Everything seemed more awkward, and Clair tried to guess why. Perhaps it was the presence of all the others. She tucked the book on underwater shipwrecks by Robert Marx under one arm and joined Gomez and Matthew.

Discovered any treasure? she asked lightly.

Today’s the day, Matthew responded.

That anything should be discovered this early surprised Lamb. He lay almost motionless over the floor of the sea, suspended in time, his fingers working over the rough edges of the anchor beneath him. They were searching systematically a few miles off Point Garachiné which marked the southern shore of the Gulf of San Miguel.

Somewhere to the west of Garachiné, roughly on a northwest track through the larger Gulf of Panama, the Nuestra Señora de los Milagros had sailed innocently in 1544. She was inbound to the city of Panama, the final leg of a long voyage from Peru.

Then, on the predawn watch, something went terribly wrong.

The pilot woke with a start. He was asleep in a small cabin just forward of the high poop deck where the helmsman and mate on watch steered the ship.

As the ship slowly ground onto the reef, a fear rose up in the pilot’s throat, a choking fear that stole his breath. She was going on a reef.

The boy at the helm looked at the mate as the ship shuddered to a halt on the shoals.

What happened?

We’re aground was all the frightened mate could say.

He could see the black outline of the Pearl Islands on the dark horizon to the northwest as the palest pinkish tones of dawn colored the eastern sky.

We’re aground, but why the mate thought as men emerged on deck, still struggling to waken, wondering what catastrophe the sea had cast them into now.

The crew threw everything they could overboard to lighten her. Then they launched the long boats and tried to pull her off. But nothing could move her.

Within twenty-four hours, she started to take on more and more water as the winds and currents ground her wooden hull on the sharp rocks beneath her.

Her pilot testified at that trial long ago that he was past Garachiné and could see the small Island of Galera when they struck the shoal. He tried to blame the mate on watch, but the master would have none of that. If the mate was to blame, then the pilot had ill-trained him.

Many of the passengers, returning conquistadors from Peru, fought to get their baggage--filled with loot from the Inca Empire--into the boats and ashore before the sea claimed the ship completely.

But the sea took Nuestra Señora de los Milagros quickly. Her underwater timbers, softened by shipworms of the tropics, quickly surrendered to the invading seawater.

Native Indian divers from the pearl fisheries of Cubagua and Margarita, islands off the coast of Venezuela, were brought in to salvage the wreck. Some could dive to seventy-five and even one hundred feet and, some said, stay submerged for three or four minutes.

Later, Spanish divers, using a diving bell, joined the Lucayan Indians, themselves originally from the Bahamas, brought in to replace the rapidly dwindling natives of Cubagua and Margarita.

It was tough to keep up with the greedy Spanish demands for pearls, and even tougher to resist the onslaught of European diseases. Without natural immunities, the natives of the New World died by the hundreds, then the thousands, then the millions from influenza and smallpox.

Among the divers were a few black slaves, soon to replace the dying Indians across the Caribbean. One has only to look at the average Panamanian today to know that Africa runs deeply through their veins.

Lamb used a magnetometer to search for telltale evidence of metal underwater. The magnetometer, developed during the Second World War to find sunken submarines, detected ferrous-magnetic materials, such as cannon and anchors, which subtly altered the earth’s magnetic field with different gradients.

They were pretty rudimentary machines when treasure salvors first started using them. Advances in magnetometers, combined with the sophisticated Global Position System (GPS) made available to the public in the 1990s, produced remarkably accurate maps of the underwater surface. A GPS derived one’s position with precision by measuring angles and distances from satellites orbiting overhead. One could take a navigational fix with a degree of error of less than five or ten feet. Long hogged by the military and NASA which had developed the system for space-age navigation and warfare, it now was everywhere. What was once a super secret was now even on rental cars, perhaps the ultimate gizmo for those who wanted everything.

So far Lamb on this dive had discovered several fishing boats and a few coastal steamers that foundered and sank over the years. This morning they moved the boat to another quadrant, just south of a reef marked on modern charts and named Milagros reef.

Was it named after the wreck long ago? The magnetometer spiked and wobbled, prompting this dive. It didn’t register wildly. In fact, they almost passed on, but Lamb’s intuition kicked in. Check it out. He wished he had a side scan sonar to map the floor of the sea with more accuracy. But, at $50,000 a shot, Matthew had vetoed the expenditure.

Do we absolutely need it? Matthew had asked.

No, not absolutely.

"Can we find the Milagro with it?"

Maybe.

I vote to stay out here longer.

Now Lamb vacuumed the sand away more carefully with the airlift. His companion, a young diver named Martinez, combed the area with his hands. An encrusted loop of coral jutted out next to where Martinez probed. Lamb pointed to it, and he and Martinez pried it loose. He popped it into his goodie bag.

Lamb turned his attention to what looked like an anchor fluke. He pointed to it, grabbing Martinez by the shoulder as if to say, do you see that! do you see that!

Martinez nodded, not altogether sure of what he was looking at, but sensing Lamb’s excitement. The young Panamanian glanced at his watch and pointed to the dial. Lamb nodded. They had about another ten minutes of diving. Then back to the surface.

Lamb continued with the airlift, now revealing more and more of the curved end of the fluke.

He was giddy from the discovery. Calm yourself old man, he told himself. How many times have you been this near to glory, only to have the bubble burst? Nonetheless, he couldn’t suppress his excitement.

He turned to Martinez and signaled for the ascent. The sand and particles vacuumed loose by the airlift had not settled sufficiently to examine the areas cleared. He and Martinez began rising slowly, stopping at different points on the line that led up to the surface. Too fast a return from the bottom of the sea might trigger the bends and Lamb, no matter how excited, was too experienced a diver to put himself in danger of that painful and sometimes disastrous injury. Years ago he had a close encounter with the bends. Once was enough.

He studied the phenomenon as if his life depended upon it--which, in fact, it did. As one