Chapter 9

 

 

We awake to the purple light of dawn. Pepe stretches with his hair sticking up and, with a pained expression, says, “I miss our spot under the stairs.”

Andres opens his eyes begrudgingly. “Every muscle hurts, and it didn’t help to have Luis kicking me all night.”

We tried to find a place under the stairs on this ship but found our clever spot was already occupied at every stair.

“We can go farther down into the ship, but the farther we go, the wetter it gets,” I say.

Pepe holds his nose and says in a hush to us, “I can’t stand the stink down here. They smell so bad.”

I look to the sick and wounded all sprawled about in every free space and know all too well the smell Pepe’s referring to: rot of many different kinds.

“I stopped breathing through my nose as soon as we came down last night, but I can taste it now,” Andres says with a grimace.

“Well, let’s go on deck, then.” I say as I hoist myself out from behind some of the barrels of water with a grunt.

“Hopefully we can find a better place to sleep outside the hold. The rats were especially terrible this close to the stores. I can still feel them crawling over me,” Pepe complains with a shiver.

Andres and I look at each other, knowing how Pepe always exaggerates.

“Right, Pepe, they crawled all over you but didn’t touch us.” Andres smirks.

He laughs. “I can’t help it if the rats only want me.”

Many of the ship’s healthier mates are on deck by now. No one with any strength left stays below longer than they have to. We find a place to stand on the crowded deck where we can hold the railing, since the ship’s constantly rolling on the heavy seas. We take in the surroundings, trying to see if anything has changed while we were asleep.

“I wish Alvaro was here so he could tell us what’s happening.” Andres squints his eyes at the fine mist of rain that’s plagued us for the last three days.

“Well,” Pepe says, trying to fill Alvaro’s much larger shoes, “the English are still following us.”

“Do you really think so?” I scoff, and Andres laughs.

The captain surprises us by putting his large arms on Andres’s and my shoulders, squeezing the three of us together tightly and awkwardly.

“Beautiful morning, boys!” he says, far too happy, and makes me think of his nice dry bunk in the officer’s quarters he was given.

“What are we going to do, Captain?” Andres asks.

“Well, the greatest fleet that has ever sailed to conquer will limp away like a beaten dog with its tail between its legs.”

“You think we’ll make it home before the English get us?” I ask.

“Oh, them, no, they’re just making sure we leave. They won’t attack again.” He looks toward the north with his eyes squinted at the dark clouds gathering. “Let’s see, our ships are taking on water faster than we can pump, our water is dangerously low, and most of our stores are rotted, a gale is gathering, and we’re being pushed into unknown, uncharted waters.” He let out a long breath. “It will be another miracle if we see Corunna’s coast again.” He pats our backs and walks away.

We hear him bellow almost immediately and happily, “The good judge! Shall we have tea in your cabin and discuss our plan?”

“No need to discuss, my good man. I have the orders right here.” We watch as he clears his throat with a gurgling sound. “Crew, listen now, for these are the orders for our wayward journey home. ‘Hold north-northeast until you reach sixty-one point half degrees. After that point, there is much peril of being driven onto the coast of Ireland, so take great care to run west-southwest until fifty-eight degrees, then southwest to fifty-three degrees; keep heading round the Cape of Finisterre south-southeast, and there you will be safe to land on Spanish soil at any port on the Galician coast.’”

He rolls up the note for safekeeping and grabs for the deck railing as the ship rolls unexpectedly.

As soon as he braces himself, he commands, “These are vague instructions, we all know, so we will have to do our very best to tirelessly keep this sinking ship afloat and off the pitiless Irish rocks. As dangerous as this route will be, we will never make it with the stores of water and food we have left. I hate to do this to my already starving crew, but if we have any hope of touching Spanish soil again, I must put everyone, at every rank including myself, on starvation ration immediately. Every person shall receive half a pound of biscuit, a pint of water, and a half pint of wine a day.” Everyone looks down at their already wasting stomachs. “My greatest concern is that of water. The horses and mules must be thrown overboard at once, since we cannot afford a drop to them. See to it!”

The horror of this hits me, and I can’t believe they’re going to throw the animals overboard.

The captain yells out, “The wind’s too strong to drop them in with the boom hoist! We’re going to have to take each one up on its own to be sure we don’t tear up the deck with their steel shoes!”

A sailor shouts, “We’re starving, Captain. We should butcher them instead!”

“These are the duke’s orders, my mates. Besides, our ship’s taking on water, it’ll do us good to lighten the load.”

The sailors split into groups and march to the different areas where the beasts are kept. I can hardly watch as the first beautiful and shining stallion, with dark chestnut hair comes prancing out up the plank from the stables. The horse takes in the much-needed fresh air and whinnies happily to be out of the darkness it was kept confined in for months. It steps stiffly with lean muscles as the swarthy sailor pulls begrudgingly at its reins to the stern of the ship.

I turn back around to the protests of the horseman responsible for the horse they just brought up. He’s struggling between the strong arms of two sailors. He yells out, “These are cavalry-trained Andalusians! You can’t just throw them overboard!”

The sailors look to the captain as they lift him up to keep him from running toward the horse. “Take him below, and don’t let him up until the last horse is dealt with.”

The man lets loose one final defeated scream before fading belowdecks. The railing’s unfastened and swung away, and the sailor brings the willing horse up to the edge. Men light and swing blazing torches behind and to the side of the horse, keeping it from turning around. When the poor horse sees the drop below into churning white water, it squeals and rears back, but before the horse can pull away, two thick sailors both push the horse’s hindquarters with such force that the graceful horse goes leaping off the ship.

It’s like some strange dream to see this wondrous sight—this shining beauty flying through the air, mane and tail wisping in the wind of the sea—delicate black hooves kicking to stop the fall. The shrill fearful whinny cracks the surreal fantastic slow motion and brings the horror to a climax as the dark horse breaks the even darker, angry water with a painful slap. I stop breathing, as does everyone perched over the rail staring into the ship’s wake behind. We all take in a deep breath of relief as the dark head surfaces. The frightened horse fights to stay afloat in the current of the ship and spins out in every direction frantically. Its once-calm eyes are now so wide the whites show and its nostrils flare, sucking in and snorting wet air.

As we’re watching to see if the horse will swim in the direction of the nearest coast, a voice barks out, “Out of the way!” and Pepe pulls me back just in time as another disagreeable sailor pulls up a grey mare, almost identical to the first mare I touched on the San Pedro. A tear streams down my cheek against my permission with a burn as I see my faint reflection in its dark shiny almond eye. I disappear as the animal flutters its long white eyelashes. She gives me a knowing snort and accepts her fate as she jumps off into the air with only a hind slap. She surfaces also and goes paddling off in the same direction as the bay.

We watch in horror as mythical horse after horse goes flying off the ship. Some go easy while others go rearing and kicking, but each one ends up in the wake, paddling for their lives. Ships all around us are following the bitter order, and the concert of the frightening, primitive whinnies of the struggling horses echoes over the churning sea to us.

I hope never again to see such a horrific and strange sight. After the last one goes over, I take Pepe's and Andres’s hands as we bow our heads, and I say, “Pray that each horse makes it to shore.”

At this, Andres lets go of our hands and takes out his wooden cross around his neck and begins chanting under his breath something foreign-sounding to us. A strange haze comes over his eyes as he focuses on the French coast. Without a word, Pepe points in the direction of the horses, and I watch in awe as each one turns and starts toward land. Pepe and I exchange looks as we realize we don’t know much about Andres after all.