Casca 10: The Conquistador Read online

  Taking his time, arms and legs trembling from the strain, Casca began the climb back down to the deck. No sooner had his feet touched down than the second mate yelled for him to go to his quarters and remain there until the captain sent for him. He received several pitying glances from the crewmen who had been aloft with him. De Castro went with Casca to where he shared his quarters with three others in the cramped space of the lower foredeck.

  Once inside and out of the rain, all they had to contend with was the heaving of the ship itself. Rummaging through his bag, Casca found a semidry shirt that was only a bit green from mold. Drying his upper body as best he could with it, he ignored de Castro's look of wonder at the scars on his torso. He was used to the effect his body had on others. They sat side by side on his bunk, feet resting against the other side to stabilize them. Casca waited for whatever it was de Castro was going to say. Clearing his throat, the smaller man tried to put his words in order. He was a man of good though poor family and, like most of those born to Castile, had an overdeveloped sense of pride.

  "Senor...?" He paused, not knowing Casca's name. Adjusting his body to where it rested more securely against the ship's planking, Casca told him, "Romano, Carlos Romano."

  De Castro tried once more: "Señor Romano, I wish to thank you for your noble gesture, but I assure you, I was quite capable of performing the task myself."

  Casca smiled at him. "That's bullshit, and you know it. Look at your hands. Those wet lines would have ripped them apart, and from the color of your face, you don't handle rough seas very well to begin with. Let us just say I performed a service for a gentleman, and one day you may have the opportunity to return the favor."

  De Castro accepted the terms; at least it returned some of his pride to him. "That is a duty I shall consider an honor from one caballero to another. Will you take the hand of Juan de Castro on it as a pledge of my friendship?"

  Casca looked the smaller man over. Although the face was thin and drawn, with no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years in it, there was a sincerity to it that touched him. De Castro was obviously one who had come upon bad times and was going to the New World to rebuild his life. While his body was not that of a strong man, there was a litheness to it, and the wrists had strong bands of tendons that showed that this was one who had spent his youth mastering the sword.

  Casca took Juan's hand. "I accept your offer gladly and return your pledge with my own. In these new lands, who can know when it will be good to have one at your side or back you can trust?"

  With those words the men made a bond to be compadres, sharing whatever came against them.

  Captain Ortiz had no such feelings for the two men. He was master of his ship, and every word he spoke was the law. There was no other way to control such animals as he had in his crew. They respected only power and fear. Absolute obedience was the only true law of the sea. The wind shifted again, and he called out new orders to compensate for it. From the taste of the wind, he knew that they had reached the peak of the storm. From here on out, it would diminish; then he would see to the men below.

  By sunfall the following day, the storm had passed over, leaving the seas glassy smooth and calm, with just enough wind to fill the sails gently. Ortiz went to his cabin. He would see to his problems in the morning, after he had slept. He turned control of the caravel over to his second mate, Luis Vargas, a man who had risen to his current position primarily because of his ability to get the most out of his crew. When Vargas swung the lash or knotted piece of ship's rope, it left a lasting impression on both the body and the soul of the man who experienced it. Short in size, he was nearly as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, and he could perform any task on the ship faster and better than any of the crew. He drove those in his charge to meet his standards, which they never did. He and his captain made a perfect team. Ortiz, with his fine manners and disdain for those beneath him, gave Vargas all the opportunities he needed to enforce his own manner of discipline on the crew, a task Vargas took great pride in. Never in his twenty-two years at sea had there been a man under him whom he could not beat at any game of strength.

  Shortly after dawn, Casca and Juan were sent for. Luis Vargas escorted them personally to the captain's cabin. Knocking on the door with calloused knuckles, Vargas was given permission to enter. He let the two men enter first and then followed after them, closing the door behind him. The captain's cabin was much the same as the captain himself. It was spare in creature comforts; the only furniture was a single narrow bunk and a desk with two chairs in front of it. The rest of the cabin was lined with racks for his charts and ship's papers. Near his bed was a small altar on which an image of the Blessed Virgin waited patiently for his prayers.

  As always, Captain Ortiz was dressed in a black suit with a single white ruff around his neck. He motioned for Casca to take one of the two chairs. When Juan started to take the other, he was brought up short by a jerking motion of the captain’s hand; “Señor de Castro, you are not a paying passenger; therefore, you will remain standing." Casca saw the flush of embarrassment rush to Juan's face, but Juan did as he was ordered, for the captain was correct. Ortiz turned his attention to Casca. "As for you. You, señor, are a passenger. That entitles you to certain privileges aboard my ship, but it does not permit you to interfere with my lawful commands to a member of my crew."

  Juan started to protest, extending his right hand out to draw the captain's attention. This was halted by the thick meaty fingers of Vargas grasping his wrist. An involuntary grunt of pain broke from Juan's lips as Vargas increased the pressure. Vargas was concentrating on the force he was applying and didn't notice Casca rising from his chair until his own wrist was trapped in the sinewy, knotted hand of the one-time galley slave. From Vargas there came an involuntary grunt of pain. Casca sent strength down his arms to his fingers, forcing Vargas's hand open until he released Juan's wrist.

  Vargas tried to twist out of the grip only to find that he was being forced to his knees; tears welled up in his eyes. He could feel the bones in his wrist starting to rub together. If the pressure increased, the bones would snap like green twigs.

  Ortiz rose from his chair only to sit back down once more when Casca pointed his free hand at him, speaking very quietly and gently: "I believe that our problem stems from Juan de Castro not being a paying passenger. Am I correct?"

  Ortiz nodded his head in affirmation. Casca gave Vargas's wrist a bit more of a squeeze, forcing another groan from the man.

  "Then, Señor Captain, I propose that we put this unpleasantness behind us by your permitting me to lend Señor de Castro enough money to pay for his passage from the day we left port in Spain. By doing this, Señor de Castro would have to be considered as a full fare from that time and there could be no hint of disrespect to you or your command."

  One of Vargas's wrist bones began to crack. The pain was so great, he couldn't even strike at the hand holding him. Captain Ortiz made up his mind quickly. After all, money was worth more than another nearly useless mouth to feed. In addition, the logic of the argument was irrefutable. It would save his pride, and he was certain that no word of what had happened in this cabin would be bandied about.

  "Señor Romano, I accept your offer – trusting, of course, in your discretion concerning this matter."

  Casca agreed and released Vargas, who rolled away quickly to rest on his haunches, holding his nearly broken limb with his good hand. From the look in Vargas's eyes, Casca knew that there probably would be trouble yet to come. To try to avoid this, before leaving the cabin, he gave a veiled warning to Ortiz.

  "There is yet a long way to go before we reach Cuba, Captain. I would hate to have our journey interrupted by any further unpleasantness. For if that did happen, I would feel compelled to address the matter to you personally in the strongest manner I am capable of."

  Ortiz knew exactly what the scar-faced man meant. He nodded his understanding as the door closed behind them.

  Vargas made no overt move a
gainst Casca and Juan, but he never stopped watching them or remembering the humiliation of the way he had been treated in front of his captain. Ortiz had not said anything to him; he merely looked at him with contempt and dismissed him as he would a common deck hand. As the days passed, the fair winds did nothing to decrease the growing hatred he felt for the two men. In time he had found a dozen reasons for his not being able to break the steel grasp of the one called Romano. His treatment of his crew became even harsher as he fought to regain his self- esteem by abusing those beneath him. And with each act of domination, his courage began to return. Hate combined with renewed confidence gave him all the more reason to take revenge. He knew that Captain Ortiz would not be displeased if the two somehow met with a fatal accident before they reached Havana. He would wait and mark time until the proper opportunity presented itself.

  Casca and Juan spent their hours in swordplay, as did most of those who planned on winning their fortunes in the New World on the point of their weapons. Juan had a good wrist and used it to his advantage, often parrying Casca's strong thrusts with little effort. Casca didn't let him know that this was done with his help. He wanted to build the smaller man's confidence in himself. Subtly, he let Juan learn techniques that he had not been taught in the fencing schools of Spain, techniques that could well mean the difference between life and death for the young man. Only Casca had any idea of what they might have to face if things went as he thought they would and the Spanish at last found their way to the lands where dark-skinned warriors wore the bright, rainbow-colored feathers of rare birds and human sacrifices had been and might still be made on stone altars to terrible and bloody gods.

  He liked the young man, though he knew that pride such as Juan felt had led to thousands of deaths in the past and would cause even more in the future. He knew better than to try to change the customs and teachings of generations overnight. But if Juan survived, time might be the best instructor of all. Juan's physical strength was not great, but he wasn't lacking in courage. He would do. If he lived long enough, he might even achieve that which he sought; namely, to rebuild his family's fortune and return to Spain in the manner befitting a grandee of Castile.

  They reached the southern waters, where the sky and winds grew warmer and dolphins raced in front of the ship as if they were welcoming or guiding the caravel to a safe harbor. The waters became crystal clear, where a man could look down through the depths over thirty meters and see the animals of the warm seas as clearly as if they were in a fishbowl. Islands appeared with increasing frequency, green palm-dotted spots of land that beckoned them to stop and rest. But Ortiz had no mind for such things and made only one short detour to a flat, isolated island less than two miles around. This was done only to replenish their supply of fresh water, and no one other than the landing party was permitted to leave the ship. Once the kegs had been filled at a spring and brought back on board, they set sail for the last leg of their journey. Cuba was now only a three-day sail.

  Luis Vargas had observed his quarry long enough to know their patterns. Juan and his ugly friend had made a habit of rising with the predawn to come on deck and take the morning air. It was their custom to sit on the railings by the bow and face into the path of the ship. It should not be too difficult to arrange an accident. He was not concerned about Casca; he knew that he could take care of him. If he waited in the shadows, two quick strikes with a belaying pin would take care of them, and both would be over the side in less time than a heartbeat. He'd take out the scarred one first and then the youngster. With surprise on his side, he had no doubt about his ability to accomplish his desire. Let them swim to Cuba.

  The nights had become heavy and oppressive in the small confines of the tiny cabin. Casca had always been an early riser and used this as a chance to go to the upper decks, where the breeze from the sea could wipe away the cobwebs of a troubled sleep filled with night sweats. Juan had taken to accompanying him. It seemed as if the hours before the dawn were when the soul was most awake. They'd sit on the bow and talk of many things, some in the past and some yet to come. De Castro was amazed at how much history his new friend knew. Although much of what this man, Romano, said was near heresy or even treason, there was something in the voice that said he was telling the truth or at least the truth as he believed it.

  Vargas stood by the sail locker, hidden in the shadows, waiting for his quarry to present itself. He enjoyed the anticipation of the coming event. He would redeem himself in the eyes of Captain Ortiz, and then all would be well. A head came up from the stairwell leading below deck. It was joined by another. Casca and Juan took their time walking with the roll of the ship toward the bow. Vargas sucked in his breath, holding it in as his heart began to beat faster. As the two men neared him, his hand gripped the belaying pin tighter. His muscles tensed, his legs beginning to tremble at the strain of containing his desire. He wanted Romano; the other was just an added bonus. Casca was in the lead. That was good. He'd brain him first and then smash the smaller man before he had time to react or cry out.

  It would have gone as he planned if fate hadn't taken a hand. As Casca passed him, Vargas moved out to strike, his arm rising to crush the belaying pin down on the skull of his prey. Unfortunately for him, when he raised his arm up with the pin, he hit the side of the sail locker. Casca turned in time to catch the blow on his left forearm. The heavy hardwood pin nearly broke the bone. He turned under the blow, dropping his body and shoulder down at right angles to his attacker. Casca lowered his body to where his shoulder was on a level with Vargas's waist. Vargas's own momentum threw him onto Casca's shoulder. Grasping Vargas by the tunic with his free hand, Casca thrust back up with his leg muscles, raising Vargas off the deck, waist over his shoulder.

  When his shoulder hit Vargas in the gut, it took the air out of the second mate. He was still trying to suck in a breath as Casca twisted and turned, heaving him into the air. The second mate just had time to take one quick breath before he hit the water. Juan never had time to do anything. The whole event was a blur. When all this was over, Casca had a feeling that the events were vaguely familiar, and he recalled a distant moment when he had performed much the same act while passing through the Straits of Messina.

  The watch on the quarterdeck heard a cry for help come from the starboard side. He knew the voice well; it had chewed him out more than once and mocked him as it meted out twenty lashes with the knot. The seaman rushed to the side and looked down. He saw Casca and Juan standing there, looking back to where the voice now cried less loudly for help. The watch had a pretty good idea of what had taken place. He looked about to see whether anyone else had heard Vargas's cry. There was no sign of it. He returned to his watch rather pleased that he had been able to settle the score with the second mate at no risk to himself.

  Juan knew that Vargas had been trying to kill them, and he considered the man no great loss. One who came from the shadows at night was most certainly a person without any sense of honor and therefore deserving of his watery fate.

  In the morning, without having any witnesses to call on, Captain Ortiz had to enter into his log that the second mate, Luis Vargas, had been lost overboard some time during the night. He tried to read the expressions of Juan and Casca, who merely smiled and winked at him. Ortiz felt quite uneasy at that and was glad that they would be in the safe port of Havana in only two more days. Then he would be rid of his troublesome cargo. As for Vargas, there was something about the man he would miss, but there had never been a shortage of those with the same qualities. Vargas's position would not be very difficult to fill.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In color and design, Havana was much like any town of Spain. Only the tropical winds from the warm seas gave the air a heavy feel that was not of Castile. Near the tavern of the Dos Dracos, two men pushed their way through the early evening crowd of soldiers, sailors, Indian slaves, and mestizo whores. They were going to the inn for a particular purpose. Hernan Cortes was outfitting an expedition to the New World
. He was signing on men for that adventure now.

  Casca Longinus, now called Carlos Romano, took his place in line at the doorway to the Dos Dracos, standing behind a sailor with bare feet and calloused broad hands suited for raising a sail or swinging a cutlass. Over the mass of heads, he could see the interior of the tavern. It was crowded with all that was the best and worst of Spain, men of great pride and quick tempers who prided themselves on their piety and fear of God as they did on their ability to lie and kill. Most of those signing the articles were much like him. They brought their own weapons and armor if they had it. There would be no pay, only a share of the loot if there was any. Casca was one of the few who had no real interest in the gold of the Indians nor in their silver and women. Neither did he have the burning desire to save their souls by bringing the cross to replace their heathen idols. His was another purpose, a reason that came from centuries before.

  Juan stood behind his larger friend near the rear rank of the soldiers and sailors gathered to hear Cortes make his speech. The man had a way with words and men; Casca would give him that. But he had a premonition that Cortes was not one who would let much, if anything, stand in the way of his desires. Cortes removed his polished steel helmet as he began, his voice reaching easily over the heads of those assembled on the docks.

  "Certain it is, my friends and companions, that every good man of spirit desires and strives by his own effort to make himself the equal of the excellent men of his day and even those of the past." At this, Casca barely controlled a derisive laugh, not that it would have stopped the words that followed. "And so it is that I am embarking upon a great and beautiful enterprise, one which will be famous in times to come, because I know in my heart that we shall take vast and rich lands, peoples such as have never before been seen, and kingdoms greater than those of our monarchs. Certain it is also that the lust for glory extends beyond this mortal life and that taking a whole world will hardly satisfy it, much less one or two kingdoms.