"There's a place on that hellhole of an archipelago where the natives fought and won against the hordes of the moorish sultans with only their bravery and cunning. They call the place Zubu, it means scorched earth."
-CAPT. SEBASTIAN DELCANO (The first Spanish sailor to circumnavigate the world.)
"Tell the men to prepare the cannon and fire it when we give the signal."
"I'll make sure that these runts do their job properly, Capt'n General."
"So this is it, sergeant?" The Captain General sighed. "It's a bit disappointing compared to what I imagined."
"Our guide said it's the best he could think of," the sergeant lied. "If this is the place he's talking about then our fortune might finally take a good turn."
"I'm seriously in doubt of his judgement," the Captain General said, followed by another lazy dissatisfied sigh.
"Yes, Capt'n Magalhaes. Um, if I may confide sir, I quite distrust our guide too. He is, after all, a brown-skinned indio."
"Yes, he is sergeant. Yes, he is."
"Should we dispose of him, Capt'n?" Sergeant Mortez said, as he shaded his eyes with his pudgy hands, all the while adjusting his collar for the third time. The scorching heat of the sun wasn't even at its peak but the flabby sergeant already started to melt on the ship's deck. His breast plate could barely keep his leaking sweat in check.
"No, my promise to him will stand. For now."
Sergeant Mortez nodded. "Ah, admirable... Capt'n. Few men nowadays keep their word, very admirable indeed."
Captain General Fernao' de Magalhaes sighed again and sipped the cup of sour wine, his other hand struggling to hold his battered telescope in position. A drop of sweat fell from his temple. "If this is it then let us not waste any time. More importantly let us not waste any of my time, Sergeant Mortez." Magalhaes wiped the wine from his thick black beard with his linen sleeve.
Sergeant Mortez saluted. "Aye, Capt'n General!"
It wasn't what Captain General Magalhaes expected. But it will do. It had to or they'll be setting themselves for another delay. And he can't afford another step back from his goal. He'd rather die than postpone his destiny.
Mortez turned and signaled the caravel's crew to hasten. His high pitch voice jarred every ear within hearing proximity and like the malcontented soldier that he was, he unsheathed his dueling sword and began threatening the slacking sailors.
Sergeant Diogo Mortez reminded Magalhaes of his late uncle back in Potugal, back home in Sabrosa. Maybe it was one of the reason he still kept the man. After all, Mortez was a man of few redeeming qualities. The old potbellied and balding sergeant nodded back to him as he doubled his efforts, droning on and on just like Magalhaes' drunkard uncle. Mortez was ungentlemanly as he was annoying, but compared to the mutineers they left behind, he was at least dependable and easily predictable, thought Magalhaes. But the man looked more like a baker than a Rodelero knight. The Captain General sighed. Good men were scarce in his fleet, but good men was not what he needed.
The ship's white sails fell as Mortez gave another litany of threats, this time, louder and with more spittle, making the sailors scamper to their places much faster. All the while, Captain Magalhaes ordered the trumpeter to signal Concepcion and Victoria to follow them. Their ship, Nao Trinidad turned port side and cruised towards the unsuspecting island like a shark smelling a drop of blood. The other cassack class ships soon trailed behind it with haste through the clear and calm blue waters.
Surprisingly, the far horizon was a white canvass that day, with not a single seagull in sight. All through out their journey, it was by far the most peaceful– perhaps too peaceful for the tired and rugged crew mates. Quite honestly, it was a tad bit ominous too for most of them. But the men moved with practiced efficiency, as they followed every command of their leader. Even with the scarce breeze, all three ships rose and fell with the white foamy waves like galloping horses, feeding Magalhaes' eagerness even more. He gritted his teeth. Faster, damn it, can you not go any faster? he thought to himself.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"Is this wise... Captain?" a voice croaked behind him, startling the man from his reverie.
Magalhaes turned and saw Antonio, his ghost-white face still quivering. Antonio Pigafetta's droopy eyes shifted back and forth to the Captain General and his fingers. He looked tired and weary but he seemed fully recovered from his fever. Magalhaes didn't expect the man to be up on the deck, but here he was, quite tough for a man from Italia. Magalhaes collapsed his telescope. "Ah, what brings you up here. I told you to rest." He patted the man's shoulders. "You have nothing to do or to worry about... my young chronicler."
"I was awakened by the sound of the trumpet, so I went here out of curiosity, Captano." Antonio coughed. "I was also looking for Mallaca, so we could resume our lessons," the chronicler said with a sing-song tone.
"How's your progress?"
"Slow and steady, Captain General. The Mollocan dialect is a bit difficult than I imagined, but I'm hoping I'd learn the basics within a month's time."
"Good," the Captain General said followed by a curt nod. "Very good."
"Umm... if I may ask, do we have to do this, Captain? Is there any other choice?"
Magalhaes replied with a hearty laughter. "Yes, young chronicler. If we want to continue our merry expedition without further delays we have to do this."
These are the price of leaving an indelible mark on history itself, thought Magalhaes. This is not only for a country's glory, this is for the world.
The chronicler only nodded as the Captain General passed the telescope to him. Antonio stood like a gentlemen with his loose white shirt, peering through the eyeglass just like a proper sailor should. Magalhaes turned towards their destination. Perhaps sailing may actually be a career for Antonio after all, he thought.
The sound of splintering wood accompanied with a violent jolt slowed their advance and ended their conversation. Their ship suddenly staggered and halted near the shallows. Magalhaes had to hold on to the wooden railing to steady his footing as the ship shook and its wooden haul creaked. Antonio, on the other hand, fell down on his back side, face contorted in pain. Magalhaes chuckled. Definitely not a sailor, not yet. But his amusement was cut short as the ship shook, making the Captain General whirl up to the crow's nest, "What in the holy hell?"
"Corals captain! Slow down, there's corals all over the place!" the spotter answered high above the crow's nest.
Magalhaes regained his composure and ordered his small fleet to a halt. The other two ships complied, but things were far from settled for a few of the crewmates had started to squabble. It was perhaps, because no one would take the blame for their abrupt and violent pause. But the Captain General would not have any of it, and so with a nod, he gave Mortez the chance to chastise them. The sergeant started with a roar and then proceeded to verbally castrate each men. But the rowdy crew still did not relent, murmuring vile curses against each other.
Magalhaes sighed and collected himself, watching his cup of spilt wine roll on the wooden deck. He cursed, knowing exactly who to blame. Things must move. It just had to, he thought. So, Magalhaes decided to choose an example among the crew. He was already pale white with anger when he grabbed the poor man by the collar, "Go and fetch our freeloading guide!"
"But he's still sleeping, Captain–" the trembling crewman said, but before he could continue the Captain General already booted him in the backside.
"Go wake him then, and don't forget to call Mallaca, hijo de puta!" Magalhaes shouted through his spit speckled beard, making the crewman careen towards the dark entryway leading to the lower decks like a scared sheep.
Captain General Magalhaes breath out heavily. "Sergeant Mortez kindly tell your men to suit up and lower the boats, and please don't forget the chest," the Captain General added but in a calmer tone.
Like some feral ape from the deep tropical jungle, red-faced Mortez shrieked, "You heard the man! Go, go suit up and lower them blasted boats!" Then, Mortez went his way to get the chest. The soldiers obediently followed the sergeant, knowing the cruel consequence of hesitating or refusing him. They all busied themselves by wearing their armor, loading their muskets, sheathing their swords, preparing their halberds and silently cursing their obese officer.
"Look! Captain Fernao' come here!" the chronicler said as he leaned on the wooden railing.
Magalhaes followed Pigafetta's finger down the lapping waters below and saw the damage the corals did to his ship.
The captain pounded the railing with his huge fist, frustration painted all over his face. "Dammit." He gritted his teeth. Damn him, damn that idiot, Magalhaes thought. He spun around. "Where's that damned freak of a man? Where's Siagu?"
No one answered from the five dozen or so Spaniard sailors. All of them, crewmen and soldier alike stared at the end of the deck as a figure shambled from the dark entryway that lead to the lower decks. Every step he took made the wood creak in protest. And there was an aura of strangeness around him that everyone felt the instant they saw his looming physique. The figure, a titan of a man named Siagu, only smiled a most vicious smile as he saw that the pale men's eyes were glued at him...
Did you like the chapter?
