Saving the World (22 page)

Evenings in the aft part of the ship, with these many men writing, one would think one was in a schoolroom rather than in the wardroom of a ship crossing an ocean.

Until the floor tilts and the ink spills and the quill slips!

I, myself, cannot join these scribblers. For after I have put the boys to bed, I visit with our carriers in the sick bay: little José and the captain's cabin boy, Orlando, whose vaccine has not yet taken. Thank goodness, José's vesicle proceeds apace.

From the sick bay, I then rock back to these quarters—I cannot call the stumbling perambulation that takes place upon this rolling ship “walking.” I barely have the energy to eat my own supper, do whatever mending and care the boys' clothing requires, arrange for the next day's meals, confer with Don Francisco about the condition of our carriers and the health and spirits of all the other boys, but I am ready to retire. I open the door of this small cabin, tumble upon my bed, taking care to drink my half cup of salt water courtesy of Lieutenant Pozo's cask, and I do not sleep, no, not immediately. Instead, I lie, resting, listening to the voices in the wardroom. Perhaps it will get easier as I become accustomed to performing
all these duties myself, without the expert help of another woman's hands, in this floating world in which we are all truly orphans of the land.

Only on Sundays am I to have this brief respite of the morning to myself. We have no priest on board, so we shall not have Mass, only a reading from the gospels by the captain in the evening. We are all Catholics, though the mate claims we have a Lutheran or two among the crew, but that said, the name of God and the Virgin are taken so many times in vain they might as well all be heathens. I worry that despite all my efforts, the boys will have forgotten how to say the Our Father or make the sign of the cross by the time we make landfall.

Today, especially, I am glad for this morning of rest, having just begun my menstrual flow yesterday, so that between my menses and mild seasickness, I am feeling quite indisposed. And, of course, now a new problem presents itself: What to do with my sullied napkins? Whom to ask? Where is there privacy to wash them or sun to dry them out in this rainy weather? My hope is that in a month's time when I shall need them again, we will be safely landed in San Juan, my bloody bundle discreetly smuggled ashore to whatever convent we will be housed at. Or will it be a convent this next time? Perhaps I am imagining a future for myself after all, not dazzling with promise, but provident with clean napkins and terra firma under my feet. Indeed, such a future seems much to be desired at present, and the mere act of setting it down on paper seems to draw it closer. All the more reason to continue navigating my way through my blank book on my Sunday mornings.

Blank no more! How odd just now to look back on pages I have filled with my own hand. So this is the way our poets and philosophers write their great works!

Sunday, January 15, lashing rain, frightful wind

We have been nine days at sea and it is still squally, everything wet from the quantity of rain which keeps falling. At the very least, we will not have to worry about water, as the barrels are overflowing. There has been such an excess that I was able to soak my rags, now a damp bundle stowed in the far corner of my sleeping closet. Nothing dries aboard. Soon, we shall all have webbed fingers and toes.

I also attempted to wash the boys' hair, or rather heads, for the boatswain, who doubles as barber, shaved them so closely they look like newborns with their bald pates. Better a shorn head than one full of the lice which had begun afflicting
some of the smaller boys. I am tempted to cut off my own hair, for I can see it will be difficult to wash it on board. Where is there privacy (my baths are cat washes in my cabin) and when is there time? I have been applying pomade and keeping it combed under my lace cap, but it is beginning to feel as stiff as a cap itself. And yet I waver. How I miss having Nati to consult!

Yesterday, before dinner I finally steeled myself and approached the boatswain-barber, but the gruff man refused to do the honors. He stammered that my long hair was too pretty. Later, I heard from Don Ángel that a bidding war was in progress in the galley. The boatswain had been offered as much as six pesos—by the steward!—for a bracelet made of the lady's braid.

That settles it. I will keep my mane for now. Better dirty on my head than binding the wrist of that lusty, pesky man. Nati's pin is close at hand should the man dare approach me again. A bidding war indeed! And yet, I confess, hearing such compliments, I take even more pains, busy as I am, to keep my hair nicely braided, the coils looping around my ears, the ends gathered under my cap. Ah, the vanity of those who have nothing else to be vain about but a shank of lustrous hair or a nice turn of the foot or a handsome set of shoulders! (I wonder if these are the sorts of things one writes down in a book?)

We had our new round of vaccinations on Tuesday—little José passing the cowpox on to Tomás Melitón and Manuel María, two of our three-year-olds. (Orlando's vaccine never took, though the boy and captain swore he had never been exposed to the smallpox.) What a heartbreaking task it has been to separate one out of the trinity of María brothers. The little one wails all night in the sick bay like a lone puppy, and his two brothers call out from the front of the ship when they hear him. But we cannot risk vaccinating two brothers at a time, as our most vital concern is sustaining the chain of vaccinations across this ocean. Indeed, no one sleeps well the days after a transfer, all of us waiting anxiously for the first sign of a vesicle forming on the arms of the new carriers.

Yesterday evening, to raise our spirits, Dr. Salvany read us a poem he had written about twenty-two miniscule volcanoes erupting with mankind's good fortune. I had to drink a full glass of salt water to regain a settled stomach. (Are these the sorts of verses poets write down in their books, I wonder.)

I am happy to report that now on the fifth day, Manuel María's vesicles are defined and growing. But our little Moor shows no sign of forming a vesicle. Don
Francisco has questioned me repeatedly, and I can only repeat that Tomás came to us as a mere infant, deposited in the hospital drawer next door, and he was never ill with the smallpox at the orphanage. Our director has finally sent him back to the other boys, though I asked the nurses not to mention why. I dread to think of the mistreatment Tomás would endure if the word got out that he failed to make a
vehicle
, as the boys mistakenly call it.

Orlando, too, never developed a reaction, and we did not lose the vaccine, I keep reminding Don Francisco. But our director does not easily accept events not going according to his plan. Presently, he checks the boys so continually that they are more worked up than they should be. I dread to think what would happen to our director if for any reason the expedition should fail. What an intense man! He aims everything at the stars and keeps nothing to light his own lamp. But is this not why I, and others, are drawn to him?

His special worry is that Manuel María will scratch his vesicles and the precious fluid be lost from our only carrier. To guarantee the safety of these vesicles, I myself have kept vigil over the boy these last few nights. Over and over, I promise the bereft child that if he is very good and does not disturb his vaccine, he will be reunited with his brothers. But this consolation only works for a short while.

I will be very relieved when this round is over.

Orlando. The boy is not well, his skin has a deathly pallor, and there is a general feverish cast to his whole appearance. Our captain has made insinuations that the boy's illness is a result of the vaccination. Don Francisco keeps reminding him that the boy was ill in Tenerife before he was ever vaccinated. Our captain is keeping the boy on a bland diet of biscuit and broth. How foolish of the captain to persist in a regimen that is not working. Don Francisco has asked permission to dose the boy with his special concoction against scurvy, which he is giving to all our carriers, but the captain refuses. God grant that Orlando be back in good health soon, for our captain seems quite attached to him.

“I do wish the captain would allow Don Francisco complete charge of the boy,” I confess to Lieutenant Pozo, as he pours out my first dose of salt water this morning. I am on my way back from the sick bay, weary from lack of sleep, glad to have this morning to myself.

The lieutenant seems uncomfortable with my implied criticism of his superior. “The boy is a bit better today. You need not worry, Doña Isabel.”

“One worries so much when any child is ill.”

The mate bows his head as if he has had direct experience of the truth of my remark. He is still holding on to my cup, so I cannot leave him alone with his memories.

The wardroom is empty but for some members of our expedition engrossed in a card game at one end of the long table. Most of the officers not on duty are catching a few hours of sleep before their watch begins. Everything on board is timed by watches, four hours the length of any responsibility, barring a call for all hands on deck in an emergency.

Finally, the mate stirs himself from whatever recollection had drawn him away. “Where will all the boys go once the journey is over?” Before I can begin to explain His Majesty's arrangement, he stammers on. “I ask because … perhaps I could, as you have done with your little Benito, take some boys to raise.” I am touched by his sweetness, though I wonder how a man who is always at sea can raise boys? Some wife on shore will no doubt be saddled with the work. Shouldn't he confer with her first? “Do you have a family, a wife with whom to leave the boys?” I ask.

The lieutenant sighs and shakes his head. He seems ready to say more, but just that moment Don Francisco comes down the companionway. He looks oddly from one to the other. “Doña Isabel, just who I wanted to speak to,” he says, as if wanting a word with me privately.

My heart lifts—as if the matter our director wishes to discuss were something other than the condition of our carriers, their appetites, the state of their vesicles, the movements of their bowels. After my disappointment with him in Tenerife when he sought to amend our agreement and send the boys who had already served their purpose back to Spain, alone and unprotected, I confess I have been wary with him. But his intense passion for his mission and his thoughtfulness toward me have won back my good opinion. For a moment he faltered. How many times don't we all do so in the course of some enterprise far less noble?

I notice too late that the mate has let go of the cup before I have hold of it. It tumbles to the floor, spilling its contents upon Don Francisco's and my own clothes. Quickly, the mate bends to retrieve it, all apology as if my clumsiness were his doing.

“The ship could use some spirits,” Don Francisco jokes, believing the contents of the cup to be rum. The men get a pint a day in two servings, the crew's watered
down but the officers' undiluted. Often Don Francisco foregoes his own portion in favor of doling it out to this or that expedition or crew member who has done him some small favor.

“It's not rum, sir. Just some salt water.” The mate is honest to a fault. “Good for seasickness,” he goes on to explain. I am tempted to poke the man in the ribs to quiet him. But I do not have that kind of intimacy with anyone on board except my little boys. I look down at the wet floor and wait for trouble to unfold.

“Seasickness? I hope you are not giving this out as a
remedy
?” Don Francisco scowls at the empty cup in the mate's hand. “I especially caution you not to give such an unwholesome drink to Orlando, for it could very well be aggravating his condition.” Don Francisco's tone is that of an adult chastising a child.

I glance up, wondering if the mate has taken offense. His face is flushed, as if he is indeed perturbed to be given this interdiction by a mere
passenger
.

“The captain has always dosed with salt water,” the mate speaks up, reminding Don Francisco who is the ship's, and therefore his, commander.

“The captain is not a doctor,” Don Francisco reminds the mate in turn. “I am not trying to sail this ship. The captain should not attempt to heal the sick.”

The mate stiffens, at a loss for words, holding my cup like a mendicant awaiting alms. If he is anything at all like me, he will wake in the middle of the night or some other inconvenient time with a whole volley of words to shoot back at his adversary.

“I say this only for the child's good,” Don Francisco goes on more kindly. Then bidding the lieutenant farewell, he leads me away by the elbow. At my door, he bids me good day as well. Has he forgotten his greeting: he needed to speak with me?

“Wasn't there something you wanted to tell me, Don Francisco?”

Our director looks at me a long moment, then makes a curious remark. “Doña Isabel, you might put some distance between yourself and Lieutenant Pozo. Any impropriety, do not hesitate to inform me.”

Surely, our director does not suspect the kindly lieutenant of any indiscretion! What would he do if he knew about our steward? Have him flogged? Punishment is harsh on board. That much I know. Men grow bestial at sea, the mate himself has warned me, separated for long periods from the beneficent influence of female company. Perhaps that is why our director grows more and more protective of me.

I doubt any of the men have much in mind at the present but the storm we are expecting. A moment ago, I heard the mate announce to the wardroom that a swirling tempest is bearing down upon us. I will soon have to put book and quill away for the agitation of the ship is making it near impossible for me to proceed. And yet I cling to my quill as a sailor might to a floating beam from a sinking ship.

Cries and the sounds of running above, the bell clangs frantically, all hands on deck. The wind is howling about us like a crazed evil spirit, lifting the ship like a plaything and dashing it against the water. I hear the horrible sounds of cracking timbers, glass shattering. I can only imagine how terrified all my small boys are. My poor little Benito! I should not have left him behind with the others, but at the time it seemed unfair to single out one boy, even if he is my son. I must somehow make my way to their quarters and offer what comfort I can. Though I doubt any story I tell the boys now will calm their terror, or mine.