The Moor's Account (19 page)

I
T WAS THE SMELL
of smoke that reached us first, making our eyes water and our throats itch. As the day wore on, it covered the foul odor of unwashed men, the sweat of horses, the stench of corruption. The men coughed and covered their noses with rags; the horses whinnied and snorted and had to be whipped to compel them to continue. As we approached Aute, spires of black smoke appeared before us, each rising neatly into the gray sky like the towers of a city in Jehennam. Señor Narváez raised his right arm and we all stopped. Ahead of us, the world was made of shades of gray and black. No one spoke. When the governor pointed the way forward again, the gray metal of his armor seemed to disappear in the air around him.

By the time we reached Aute, the sun, barely visible in the smoke, was making its way to the edge of the horizon, taking with it the little light there was. What awaited us was a vision of hell, like something the men
trembling with fever must have seen just before they closed their eyes. All of the houses in the village, some twenty of them, had been burnt to the ground, their beams broken and their thatched roofs reduced to mounds of ash. In the trees, the birds had deserted their nests. The only sound was the faint rustling of a river I could not see yet, somewhere farther ahead.

The smell of burning wood and singed fur sat heavy in my throat. In spite of the sandals I wore, I could feel the heat rising from the ground beneath my feet, and the smoke all around me made it painful to breathe. I was overcome with the desire to give up. Yet even in my exhaustion I felt something else, something like respect for the people of Aute, who would rather burn their village than let the Castilians take it. Perhaps if my people had done the same, the Portuguese would have left Azemmur for good and I would not have sold myself into bondage. A useless thought now. A tormenting thought. I leaned against Señor Dorantes's horse; I felt I had endured all I could. I could not know that this was just the beginning.

Quietly, without waiting for an order, the soldiers spread out through the village. With their walking sticks, they poked at the ruins to see if anything of value could be rescued. One of them returned shortly to report that he had found large reserves of beans in an underground hut and that there were fields of corn and squash, most of it ripe and ready to be picked, but the governor paid no mind to the statement. Instead, he cantered about the village on his white stallion, his gaze fixed on some point far in the distance, as if he were chasing after something that only he could see. The captains watched him with dismay, until at last Señor Cabeza de Vaca rode up beside him and whispered something to him. Then the treasurer announced that it was not safe to stay in Aute and we would continue to the river farther ahead.

So we marched to the river. Like condemned men, we were now in a state of fear and denial—fear of the plague that was spreading through our company, and denial that the burning of Aute was a harbinger of worse things to come. It was dark by the time we began to set up camp and, although none of us could stand the smell of smoke any longer, we had to light torches to do our work. We were completely covered with ash, which turned yellow in the glow of the fires, making us look like strange creatures from another world. Even the Apalaches, who had pursued
us relentlessly for ten days, stayed away from us that night. The friars began to attend to the men suffering from fever, the soldiers lined up to receive their rations of corn, and in hushed tones the captains debated what to do next.

The governor's white tent had been set up for him, with his bedding and worktable visible through the open flaps. His standard hung limply from the pole outside and a pit was ready for his evening fire. When he dismounted, all the captains gathered around him, each ready to ask a question or offer an opinion, but Señor Narváez raised his hand to stop them from speaking. At first light, he said, we will go look for the port.

Don Pánfilo, the commissary said pleadingly. The fever is spreading. Some of the men will not be able to walk.

The governor uncorked the water flask his page had handed him and drank in big, noisy gulps. He looked beyond the captains at the men spread out in clusters beneath the trees. How many are sick?

Forty-two, the commissary replied.

If this continues, Señor Dorantes said, we will not have enough horses to carry the sick.

The governor's eye glazed in the yellow light. I need only take a few men for a reconnaissance mission. Each of you should pick the healthiest men you have. He interrupted himself to wipe his nose, then stared with confusion at the streak of blood that appeared on the back of his hand.

Don Pánfilo, the commissary said, do you have the fever?

Señor Narváez put his hand to his forehead, then let it drop quickly.

Are you afflicted?

It is nothing, Señor Narváez said. Just a cold. Dorantes, Castillo, Cabeza de Vaca: I want the three of you to take thirty men and go look for the port. The rest of us will wait here by the river.

For once, his orders were greeted with no quarrel, just silent agreement. Señor Castillo had always insisted, alone at first and then with the support of Señor Dorantes, that the armada should not have been split; no two men in the company would have been more eager to find the ships now and return as saviors. Señor Cabeza de Vaca had stood by Señor Narváez and argued the opposite, but he was just as eager to find the ships, if only to prove that leaving them behind was not a foolish gamble but a measured risk. This was what made the governor's choice so clever. If the mission succeeded, our struggles would be forgotten when the history
of La Florida was told; if the mission failed, he would not be alone to bear the responsibility for its failure.

W
E DEPARTED AT FIRST LIGHT
, with dew still dripping from the petals of magnolia flowers, leaving behind us men wrapped in their blankets, dreaming of food and relief. The horses bore their riders obediently, but their pace was slow and their breath heavy. As we advanced into the wilderness, their hooves kicked up the gray ash that had settled overnight on the ground, so that we were soon covered with it again. Fortunately, when we had gone about two leagues away from the camp, the wind picked up and the air became freer of dust and ash. Before long, the captains began to chat amiably with one another. Once we return to the ships, Señor Cabeza de Vaca said, I want to pick up a charm my wife gave me for good luck. I left it behind on the day we disembarked. I hope it was not stolen.

Señor Dorantes sniffed. How strange that you forgot this charm, and yet remembered your books of poetry.

For some time, there had been a muted antagonism between Señor Cabeza de Vaca and Señor Dorantes, but now, away from the camp and from the governor, they were finally free to take a jab at each other.

It was an innocent oversight, the treasurer replied. You make too much of it.

I did nothing of the sort, my master said. I merely expressed my surprise at the strange work of memory.

My wife gave me that charm when we married, six years ago. I kept it in a silk pouch, which I packed inside my writing case. But the governor discouraged me from bringing the case; he said that the notary had all the writing implements I might need and that I could borrow them if I needed them. That was how I left it behind.

I did not know the governor took such interest in your luggage.

Friendship. Loyalty. You should try them sometime.

A blinkered horse is loyal, too, Álvar.

The sun had reached its zenith now and there was a great stillness in the air. The ground was dry and cracked under our feet. One of the horses moaned, shaking his head against the sweat that rolled down his sides. Farther ahead, the sky slowly melted into the green horizon.

In any case, Señor Cabeza de Vaca said suddenly, we will find the ships.

Is that a promise or a prayer? Señor Dorantes asked.

Neither, said the treasurer. But at least I never blame other people for honest mistakes.

Señor Castillo had not taken a side in this quarrel, but now that the two men had at last fallen silent, he tried to diffuse the tension. Everyone makes mistakes, he said, I make them all the time.

Señor Dorantes did not reply, and neither did Señor Cabeza de Vaca, but their bitter argument had cleared the air between them and for the rest of the day they seemed much more cordial to each other, like two men who now knew exactly what to expect from one another. They began to talk about the most efficient way to transport the sick men, while also limiting the risk of contamination.

At sunset, we reached a very large bay. It was as calm as a lake, with few waves disrupting the surface. Here and there, oyster beds of various shapes jutted out from the water. These oysters were a welcome change from the corn and beans we had consumed for so long. We ate them straight from the grill; the men who owned small knives pried the shells open for those who did not, so that the warm, slippery food was passed from hand to hand regardless of rank.

The meal greatly revived our spirits and we set out early the next morning to explore the areas around the bay. The first trail we took led us inland—the air grew drier, with no scent of salt in it, and the trees were taller and leafier—so we retreated, for fear of coming across any Indians who dwelled in these parts. From our starting point, we took a second trail, and a third, but each one led us to a small and shallow inlet, where the water rose no higher than a man's knee. Our search went on like this for two days. Whenever we returned to our camp in the bay, we looked hopefully at the horizon, but there was no sign of the ships.

S
O OUR MOOD WAS
somber when we returned to Aute. None of us felt at ease with himself; any private jealousies or ambitions had disappeared from our minds as we pondered the full extent of our joint predicament. I think, too, that we were filled with doubt that we had missed some clue along the way, something that could have led us to where the ships were waiting for us. When we reached the edge of the camp, we found one of the friars standing by himself in a clearing, his head bowed in prayer, the bottom of his robe soiled with mud. A dozen graves surmounted by
wooden crosses lay at his feet. Hearing our approach, the friar turned toward us, raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. It was Father Anselmo. Capitán, he said. His gaze drifted from Señor Dorantes to Diego and back again. Welcome back.

What happened here, Father? Señor Dorantes asked.

The fever, Father Anselmo replied. Some of the sick men did not have the strength to eat or drink, he explained, and they had begun to die on the day we left.

Who died?

We lost fourteen Christians. And, pointing to each grave, the friar gave the full name of the man who had died, his voice slow and solemn.

We all grew quiet as we contemplated the mounds. It was one thing to lose men to a swamp, a river, or a battle with the Indians, and quite another to lose them to the fever. An accident could be easily dismissed as a rare occurrence, a stroke of bad luck. As for combat, we had each conceived a reason why we had been spared: we had fought valiantly or had better weapons or had found a good place to hide. But disease did not discriminate—it could strike the rich as well as the poor, the brave as well as the coward, the wise as well as the fool. Disease leveled all the differences between us and united us in a single abiding fear.

We walked in a slow procession toward the camp. A guard with wild eyes, eyes like a jinn's, sat in the dirt, his musket trained on five soldiers whose hands had been tied behind their backs. As we passed by, Señor Cabeza de Vaca recognized two of his own men and asked the guard what it was they had done. Deserters, the guard spat. We caught them trying to leave with their horses in the middle of the night.

My first thought upon hearing this was: leave to go where? We did not know how to get to the ships, so this desertion was nothing more than the last rebellion of the doomed, like the lambs that stagger back on their feet after their throats have been cut.

In the camp, the men were huddled in small groups along the river, talking or praying or napping under the shade of poplar and cedar trees. The soldiers in our company recounted the story of our failure to those who had stayed, and the news spread quickly from group to group. Their disappointment made the men critical: How well did you look? they asked. Did you take every trail? Was there not one you missed?

Faced with so many questions, those of us who had gone on the mission
were tormented by even greater doubt. So when the three captains went to the governor's tent to give their report, they spoke with urgent voices. Don Pánfilo, Señor Dorantes called. We are back.

The governor did not come out of his tent to greet the captains. Instead, he threw open the flap and spoke to them through this opening. He had traded his formal doublet for a simple cotton shirt and plain breeches, with no embellishments of any kind.

We found only a shallow harbor, Señor Dorantes said, but nothing resembling a port.

A port, the governor said, sounding like an echo from an empty well.

We will have to send a second mission, Señor Dorantes said.

A smaller group of men, this time, Señor Cabeza de Vaca added, all of them on horses, so that we can cover greater distances.

There was no response from the governor.

Don Pánfilo? Señor Cabeza de Vaca asked.

When the governor's voice finally came, it was very low. Five of the horsemen tried to desert me, he said.

Yes, we saw them on our way here, Señor Dorantes said.

And do you know that the Indians attacked us while you were gone?

No. The friar did not speak of it.

They killed one of the horses. We cannot stay by the river any longer. We will go with you to the bay you found.

Señor Dorantes exchanged a thoughtful look with Señor Cabeza de Vaca. The Bay of Oysters would provide safer camping ground than the river, and missions could more easily be mounted from there. For the first time, their bitter rivalry had given way to agreement.