The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (14 page)

* * *

The port of Veracruz boasted nothing similar to the comforts they had
left behind in Sevilla. The
Niña Linda
had anchored beside the island of
San
Juán
de
Ulúa
and a host of small boats waited to transport their
cargo and men across the stretch of water to the Mexican shore.
A stone warehouse was the largest building
in sight on the mainland. Beyond it, a cluster of small wooden buildings formed
the city which
Hernán
Cortés had named
Villa Rica
de la Vera Cruz
, the Rich Village of the True Cross, because of the
discovery of gold in the area and to make certain that the Church’s influence
would not be forgotten. Otherwise, there seemed nothing rich about the sad village
where palm trees hung limply in the stifling heat and dark-skinned workers
rolled barrels along a series of makeshift ramps that seemed flimsy for the
burden they had to bear. Rodrigo stumbled from his cabin when he heard the
shouts of his jubilant sailors.

Rough seas and days on end of rain had left every man queasy and
disoriented, and in the distance he could see the first to disembark as they
wove unsteadily on their feet, working to regain their land legs. For his own
part, Rodrigo knew that his malaise went beyond unsteadiness. A fever had
wracked his body for most of the voyage and when he emerged from the darkness
to stand on deck, the tropical heat hit him in the face like a hot, wet
blanket.

A shout from the captain drew his attention. “All hands make ready to
offload the cargo!”

Rodrigo wove his way back to his cabin to retrieve the manifest pages.
In his strongbox he spotted the carved box from Ireland and picked it up.
Clutching it to his chest with both hands he felt its warmth travel up his arms
and into his body. Within minutes he felt better, with some of his old energy
returning. He carefully set the box back in its safe place and gathered the
papers to complete his duties.

Above decks, the crew had already begun bringing crates and barrels up
from the cargo hold. A small mountain of them were stacked near the gangway and
Rodrigo quickly made his way there.

Item by item, he confirmed the delivery of each barrel, box and crate
they had loaded aboard back in Sevilla, all these necessities brought with them
that could not be obtained here. He felt a sense of otherworldliness, the fact
that he was on a new continent, in a place where few of his countrymen had
ever, or would ever, set foot.

“Señor del Fuentes.” The captain’s voice caught his attention. “Are you
well? You look very pale.”

Rodrigo realized that he was clutching the manifest pages to his chest
and that he was leaning against the ship’s rail. “Um, I believe so. Yes, sir,
muy
bien
.”

The captain gave him a hard stare. “Go to the galley and get something
to eat. I will see to this until you return.” He took the pages from Rodrigo
and gave his shoulder a gentle push.

The minute Rodrigo took a step he realized the captain was correct. His
legs barely held him as he crept down the ladder into the belly of the ship. A
piece of cheese and a hunk of hard bread did nothing to revive his energy, but
he knew what would help. He struggled up the ladder and made his way to his own
cabin. A short time later he emerged and took his place at the gangway.

“Ah, I thought some food would set you right,” said the captain.

If only you knew, Rodrigo thought, as the man gave a quick salute and
descended to one of the ferry boats to ensure that the offloaded supplies were
being properly handled within the large warehouse.

The midday sun became intolerable and several times Rodrigo thought he
might have to excuse himself to revisit his private source of energy or risk
collapsing right there on deck. At one point he noticed that even the natives
had disappeared. He spied two of them sneaking off into the thick growth of
leafy plants, and another man was openly sleeping with his back against the
base of a palm tree and his wide-brimmed hat pulled over his face.

“I do not see why we cannot rest also,” grumbled one of the Spaniards
who had paused for Rodrigo to check the contents of his crate.

Rodrigo shrugged. He was barely staying upright but as an officer he
could not admit as much to a crewman.

“The captain wants this work completed quickly,” was all he could say.
They all had their orders.

The man hefted the crate once again and placed it in the net to be
lowered to the transport boat. Another sailor, this one with a barrel of wine,
approached and Rodrigo flipped to another page. They were less than halfway through
the cargo list.

At last a blessed darkness fell, cooling the temperature only a little
but at least the blazing sun was gone. The mood among the men lightened and
became jubilant.

“We have leave to go ashore,” said one of the crewmen, part of a group who
had washed their faces and put on clean shirts. “Come with us, Señor del
Fuentes?”

“Go ahead. I shall catch the next ferry.” Rodrigo felt torn. All he
really wanted was to go to bed for a week. But he wondered if part of his
malaise was due to the close, airless quarters and nonstop motion of the ship.
Perhaps he would indeed feel better if he were to walk on solid ground again
and partake of food that was not dried or salted. Surely there would be fruit
and fresh fish in a place like this.

An hour later, with his first steps on dry land, he realized that it
would take some practice to remain steady on his feet. He slowly walked past
the customs warehouse where guards stood at every door of the dark, hulking
building. The fortress-like place probably already held quantities of the
precious metals the
Niña Linda
would take back across the Atlantic. In
two weeks’ time, most of it spent unloading the European commodities they had
brought with them and refilling the ship with the king’s treasure, the galleon would
once again be eastbound. Rodrigo closed his mind to the prospect of being
underway again. Beyond the coming hours he could only focus on Cordoba and a
vision of his lovely mother’s face. Home.

Sounds of revelry interrupted his thoughts. He followed the noises
toward a lighted area where, in an open square, small fires blazed and the
smells of food wafted on the night air. A black woman wearing brightly colored
loose clothing was frying something in fat, stirring and turning the little
packets with two wooden sticks. Next to her was a man with rounded, indigenous
features who called out to the sailors in a curious mixture of Spanish and some
other tongue. Several of the
Niña Linda
’s crew held out cups to the man
and he filled them with clear liquid from a barrel.

“Best Caribbean rum,” the man said, turning to Rodrigo. “Will make you
feel very happy.”

Judging by the level of raucous laughter from the rest of the men, that
was seemingly true. But Rodrigo’s stomach was not yet ready. He declined when he
spotted another little stand where the meat and vegetables simmering in a
savory sauce caught his attention.

The man cooking the meat concoction spooned a portion of it onto a
piece of flat, soft bread and handed it to Rodrigo in exchange for a couple of
reales
. He found a seat on a rough-hewn bench and
sat down with his meal.

“There’s more fun to be had for your money than that!” called out one
of the sailors who had clearly partaken of the rum already and was now hanging
onto the hand of a flamboyantly dressed woman.

Rodrigo watched the two disappear into a narrow alleyway between blocks
of the low wooden houses. He didn’t envy his captain trying to keep order among
this crew and assure that all reported back to the ship for the return voyage.
Three sailors stumbled by, clearly having been at the rum for some hours now,
and another had his face buried in a woman’s cleavage in a dark corner at the
edge of the small plaza. For all Rodrigo knew, no one checked on their
whereabouts. Maybe it was every man for himself when it came to returning home
safely. He finished the burrito and sat for another half hour, observing.

The following night he followed the same ritual, coming ashore for a
meal after a day during which he felt nearly overcome with exhaustion. He’d
handled the wooden box several times, but its powers were becoming less
effective. He knew he wasn’t well and, from his seat on the bench, he debated
whether he should seek out a doctor. If this city had doctors.

The
Niña Linda
was due to sail in a week’s time and he could not
fathom the misery of being aboard for several more weeks feeling this way. He
scanned the area, his vision not quite right, but did not see any sign of a
medical facility. When he returned to the ship he would ask the captain for
advice. The burrito in his hands had lost its appeal; he set it aside and wiped
his hands on a corner of his cloak.

When he stood, sparks appeared before his eyes. He blinked. Then his
vision narrowed and the world went dark.

* * *

An angel’s face appeared above him—so young, so beautiful with her halo
of white. He smiled and drifted into a pleasant sleep.

Voices entered his consciousness. A man saying, “… cannot wait …” A
woman, “condition is grave …” Another long, dark period.

“… better today, padre. See for yourself.” It was the voice of the
angel this time.

He smiled and slept again.

The next time he heard the voices he struggled to open his eyes. A
small sound came from him but he could not form words—it was more of a moan.
His eyes felt crusty and stuck shut; he saw light and shadow through the fringe
of his lashes.

“Señor del Fuentes? You are waking up?” Her Spanish was soft and
welcome to his ears.

A gentle hand with a cool, wet cloth dabbed at his eyelids. He wondered
how the angel knew his name. Of course, God had told her. How silly of him not
to realize that. He smiled again and this time managed one word. “
Agua
.”

A trickle of tepid water ran over his tongue. Little of it touched his
throat.

“
Más
agua
,
por
favor
.” His words came a little easier now.

Another trickle. This time he swallowed.

His eyes opened, only a slit; the
light was too bright, although he could tell that it came from a single candle.
“
¿
Dónde
estoy
?
”

This time a male voice responded. “My son, you are at the clinic in
Vera Cruz. You have been very ill.” A priest in brown robes stepped into his
field of view.

Rodrigo puzzled over that for awhile. He remembered nothing beyond a
very hot day where he stood at the rail of a ship with a handful of papers. He
looked at the priest’s kindly face. Movement on the other side of him drew his
attention to the white-clad angel. She patted his hand and agreed with the
priest. Rodrigo closed his eyes again.

When he woke the room was very light—a new day. He heard more sounds
than before, the moans of others followed by reassuring words from the nurse.
He lay very still and flat, staring toward the wood-beamed ceiling. Other
noises intruded. Wind, howling through tight spaces. A patter of rain, silence,
more rain, heavier this time. He groaned and rolled to his side.

Less than a meter away was another bed where a man lay with a terrible
wound to his head. A white strip of bandage was wrapped around his matted hair
and blood had soaked through it in a circle the size of a saucer. He let out a
continuous moan but no one came to attend him. Rodrigo raised his head and saw
that the entire room was filled with beds, probably twenty of them, all
occupied. Was this the extent of the town’s medical facility?

The nurse turned quickly away from another patient, a wad of bloody
cloth clutched in one hand. She dropped the messy bandages into a pail and went
to the next bed where it appeared that she applied an ointment to a woman’s
forehead. Clearly, she was too busy to come to the side of a man who was not presently
in pain. Rodrigo let his eyes close once more.

His mind became too active for sleep. When had all these other sick
people arrived? Had they been here all along but he was so deeply unconscious
that he never heard them. The noise of their cries and pleas was nearly
intolerable. He raised his hands, looked at them (the thin bones showed quite
clearly now), and placed them over his ears.

A touch to his forehead startled him and he opened his eyes again.

“Your fever is gone, Señor del Fuentes,” said the nurse, with a gentle
look on her face. “If you lived here in the city we would be ready to send you
home.”

“The city?”

“You are still in Vera Cruz, but I am sorry to say that your ship
sailed away without you.”

He raised up on his elbows. “What?”

“The captain was here, asking about you, worried at your condition. But
he informed us that he could not delay on account of one crew member. The ship
had to go, to meet its schedule.”

Rodrigo remembered the sailors talking, before they left Sevilla, about
the huge celebrations upon their return, the fireworks, the fine wine and the
fiestas all over the city. He would now miss it all.