The Rebirth of Tonio Herrera - Chapter 1

Era: Early 1500's

Chapter I - The Rebirth of Tonio Herrera

I stood still in the hip-deep brown water and watched as a leviathan the size of the ship's dory, sheeted in slimy green plates, slid from the muddy bank with barely a splash. I grabbed Hernan's shoulder, turned and yelled, "Lads, to dry ground! Now! Rápidamente!" Soldiers climbed frantically over each other like turtles to get to safety. Somehow we all managed. Perhaps the accursed dragon was merely taking an afternoon swim, and it was not yet time for dinner. So far none of us unfortunates had filled the belly of one of these monsters.

That damned Sargento Garcia had cornered me before we plunged into the swamps.

"Herrera, I have an important job for you and Mendiaz. Do you know what an alligator looks like?"

I didn't like the sound of this. "Aye, Sargento. Like a rowboat with teeth."

"Ah, you are not so dumb after all. Well, your job is to go first and make friends with them. Then maybe you will be smart enough not to cheat at Truco next time."

Hijo de puta! I didn't need to cheat to take Garcia's money. The idiota's cards were written all over his estúpido face.

So Hernan and I went ahead, supposedly to warn the men. I felt more like bait than savior.

The two of us, along with the rest of our miserable battalion, floundered across the malodorous marshes. We gagged on the foul gas that bubbled up around our legs from the fetid swamp floor. Our eyes stung from the sweat dripping from our heavy morion helmets. The sun was unusually oppressive for early April, even for these latitudes, and the air was thick and still enough to stop an arquebus ball in its tracks. I speak poetically, because our powder was so damp it would not flash; it could have been used for caulking. We tripped and sprawled over the impossible tangle of roots that humped and coiled, writhing invisibly like anacondas under the tea-colored brine. The only relief was when we crawled up on to one of the many treed mounds that were a mean mockery of dry land. They were more of a sodden carpet that gave way without warning to boot-sucking muck on every third footfall. Several times we had to search for narrows to ford the broad shallow rivers that webbed the marshes.

"Mosquitos de mierda!" Hernan slapped his face for the hundredth time, leaving a bloody smear the size of a vellón coin on his cheek.

I swear on my abuela's grave that the hijos de puta were the size of a Spanish hummingbird. But they brandished the teeth and temperament of a famished puma. Lucky for me they favored the bouquet of the blood of Hernan over that of Tonio. Maybe they were just entertained by his vigorous arm-flapping and cursing. I was.

We had left the Santiago lolling on the crystalline warm waters of a large southwest-facing bay. Shipwrights stayed aboard to make some repairs and take on water for the return voyage to San Juan Bautista. We rowed to a glorious sandy beach, which was swept by a fragrant breeze.  And which stretched inland for all of one hundred paces. The sand sifted into a band of tortuous trees, each of which appeared to balance precariously upon the heads of a snarl of petrified octopi, each in turn standing on its eight toes. We came to call them los manglares, because of their mangled appearance. On this coast there was not the proliferation of flowers we had encountered on our landing a month previous on the eastern coast of this land. On that landfall our captain, quite enamored of claiming and naming every piece of land larger than a turtle, had assembled his small crew between the brigantine's two masts.

"On this third day of April in the fifteen hundred and thirteenth year of Our Lord, I, Juan Ponce de León, claim this land for King Ferdinand II of Aragon. It shall be known as La Florida, the land of flowers."

Very formal. We'd heard it all before, but a cheer dutifully broke out. We were mostly happy that we could set foot on land, but overjoyed that we'd not been forced to sail on the Santa Maria. We sailors were aghast that de León had unluckily named her for his old shipmate Admiral Cristoforo Colón's ill-fated tub that had sunk on Christmas Day twenty years ago. Fate should not be tempted so. Some of us had crossed from Spain on her, and spent most of the voyage bailing, caulking and praying.

Anyway, these manglares, or mangroves, marked the border of the hellish inland swamp. But all good things must pass, and the swamp eventually gave way to more solid stuff, a marl prairie covered in knife-sharp grasses, scrubby trees and more tangled roots. The mosquitoes were no more timid here. We were additionally thrilled to frequently stumble into hollows where the ground crawled with garishly multicolored snakes, most sheathed in intoxicating geometric patterns so fantastical that they could only have been the product of a paint-raddled artist's delusions. Either these vipers were not poisonous or they had just dined, for they lazily slithered away, sometimes right across our feet. Not a man was bitten, despite the girlish prancing and squeals of terror. I challenge any man who claims that such noises emanated from my vicinity. Well, possibly from the cowardly Hernan. 

Not a man of us saw any value in this expedition, but in the manner of soldiers everywhere we knew who paid our wage. We muttered our complaints quietly into our soldiers' campfires, where they were silently consumed, and dutifully followed our captain, mostly because the cook and supplies traveled with him.

For three days we slogged inland, headed north by northeast. De León sent parties of two to meander roughly parallel paths, about 500 pasos apart, a paso being about a stride length. Instructions were to look for signs of gold and silver in the rocks and to report any springs we happened across, since potable water is always in short supply on a march across unknown country. We marked our findings on rudimentary charts so we could locate them on our return voyage. De León insisted on checking each spring himself, tasting the water with an oddly expectant expression on his aristocratic, weasel-like face. He would roll the water across his tongue as if he were assaying a fine wine, with his eyes tightly closed. After una minuto he would spit it out in disgust, though all the springs Hernan and I found tasted sweet to my palate. Muy extraño!

With every step, my infernal left leg had me close to tears. I had shattered it as a boy after I stepped on a rotten branch high in a cork oak tree in the hills of my family's farm in Andalusia. I'd been showing off for my cousin Françisca, pretending to be a mighty ape. It turns out I was more an almighty ass, and not of the flying variety. The village physician was a drunk and didn't set the bone properly. Ever since then I could not walk more than an hour without discomfort. After two days on this accursed terrain, I was in severe pain and limping like a one-legged campaign veteran on a wooden peg. 

So why did I join the Spanish infantry, you might ask. Santo nombre de Dios! I joined the Spanish navy, not the infantry! Was I to know that in el Nuevo Mundo, the sailors march and the marchers sail? So I sailed. And I marched.

At mid-afternoon on the third day of our futile sweep, the merciless sun berated our backs. Our light armor became stewing pots, and us the meat, as Hernan and I crouched to sample one more spring that would doubtless not meet our captain's standards. Without warning, a shadow crept across the trickle. An iron claw grasped my shoulder and roughly thrust me aside to sprawl indecorously in the grass. I sprang to my feet and unsheathed my rapier with a flourish. It would have been comic opera if not for the sight that greeted me. A bronze savage, all coiled muscle and ropy sinew, wearing naught but a searing glare, a hide loincloth and much fierce-looking paint. A bow and bundle of arrows tipped with vicious teeth were slung across his body and a spear was held ready in his hand. It was a standoff, if such a word can charitably describe an encounter between a magnificent warrior and a quaking Spaniard who would have had to remove his helmet and stand upon it to look his rival level in the eyes. He looked down, caught my eyes and then quickly turned his head. I followed his glance. I gasped as I saw the impossibly shiny red, yellow and black bands and the flickering tongue. The snake was neatly coiled as a ship's hawser, almost a man's height in length, and not a paso behind where I had squatted down. I readied my rapier to do battle with it, but with a quick flick of his spear hand the savage skewered it neatly through the glittering yellow band that encircled its head. He turned to me and grinned, as my sword fell with a clatter from my nerveless hand. Hernan, completely silent throughout this drama, sat down with a thud. The warrior pantomimed a snake biting his leg, following up with a very realistic death scene, replete with copious agony and much writhing on the ground. I presume he had saved me from a singularly nasty end.

This was our party's informal introduction to Yagua, a brave of the Calusa Indian tribe. Hernan and I argued on a course of action. The brave squatted as still as a marble statue with his head cocked and his eyes focused on empty air, as if it was talking to him. We finally agreed that we should take him to de León. We stumbled across the uneven terrain; Yagua glided between us as if the ground was as flat and featureless as the parquet floor of Ferdinand's throne room.

De León was flabbergasted. We had had several unpleasant experiences with the citizenry on the islands around Hispaniola, resulting in the deaths of several soldiers. I believe he had hoped to escape notice by any savages on this expedition. After hearing how the Indian had saved my life by dispatching the coral snake, he scowled at me as if I should have sacrificed my miserable existence rather than reveal that of our party. But he greeted Yagua with a flourish of his plumed hat and a formal bow, which Yagua returned quite expertly with a bemused expression. If I were blessed with the arts, I could have become as famous as the great Lluís Borrassà by painting in oils this small ceremony for the King's court gallery. But my drawing skills rival those of a blind macaque.

Yagua revealed that he had a few barely intelligible words of Spanish, that this was not the first time visitors from the Old World had visited these shores. With some broken phrases and many gestures, he reassured our captain that he intended us no harm. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them.  A wavering, haunting call sounded that was so authentic we all turned to look for the loon. At this, four more braves materialized from the scrub and grasses as if they had just congealed from the very air. Our crew reflexively drew weapons and stood to protect de León. But the Indians remained relaxed as they trotted up, bows slung and spears carried loosely, not in a throwing or thrusting grip. De León waved the soldiers to ease, and all was well.

The warriors led us back to their encampment, gracefully striding without a sound as we followed with the din of rattling armor, clanking swords and guns and pots, creaking leather, gasping breaths and a low mutter of cursing and complaining. A bystander with eyes closed would have taken us for a force of a hundred, not a small crew of fifteen. The village was directly in the path of our heading; we would have stumbled into it unannounced within the hour if Yagua and his companions had not made themselves known to us.

We exited the trees and caught our first glimpse of the village. Nonplussed, Hernan turned to me. "Look at those huts. They wobble on stilts like circus clowns!"

Indeed they swayed gently in the offshore wind, balanced on poles on the shore of what we took to be a large lake. But when I squatted to drink from the lake, I spat it out in surprise. It was saline! And the debris along the shoreline made it obvious that these were tidal waters. Stepping out of one's hut for a midnight stroll would require a good knowledge of tides or a strong swimming stroke. It struck me that we had walked "inland" for almost three days since anchoring and we were still on tidal waterways. A very odd land, this La Florida.

Twenty five or so canoes of about five pasos in length lay careened in the driftwood at the high water line. Each appeared to have been carved from one massive log, some with fierce eyes and teeth vividly painted on their prows. We watched as a canoe approached shore; the three paddlers churned the boat along at a fast running man's pace through the choppy water of the bay. Nearing shore, they changed heading with speed and agility to avoid broaching in the waves and foundering. The vessel ran in on the surf. As it grounded, all leapt out as on a signal and used the momentum to drag the heavy canoe up the beach. The men hauled nets filled with sea creatures from the hull and laid them on the sand, where they lay writhing and clicking and spitting. Village women clad in skirts made from moss swarmed in and divided the catch, with no disputation. I could only shake my head in wonder, having seen the chaos and even exchange of blows by the "gentlewomen" of our village on market day when they all set eyes on the same desirable "catch." Which were the savages, I thought?

Yagua led our party up the beach to a large structure roofed with thickly woven leaves. Rolled up hides were fastened along the edges, I suppose to be lowered in case of unfriendly weather. None of the huts were walled at this time, as conditions were clement. An older man with long greying hair perched complacently on a raised seat in the shade in this largest hut, surrounded by muscular warriors. As he rose, we saw that his strength and poise belied his age. His retinue rose with him. They preceded the older man from the dwelling and arrayed themselves around him as they stood in the gathering place at the huge fire pit in front of the hut. They squatted easily on their haunches like panthers ready to spring. The elder, whom we now reckoned to be the chief, beckoned forward our "chief', de León.

If he had claimed to be El Diablo and spouted flames I would not have been surprised. The man was a Spaniard and a half in size and his face and mostly naked body were stained entirely as black as a child-murdering Moor's soul. He could have just crawled to the surface of the earth from his quarters in the Seventh Level of Hell in the rogue poet Dante Alighieri's Inferno.

Instead he stood nose-to-shoulder with de León, pointed at his naked chest thick as a cask of Brandy de Jerez with a finger like an arquebus barrel, and thrust this word at de León as if it were a spear. "Caalus."

To his credit and the crew's admiration, de León did not expire on the spot. He hastily retreated a step and repeated the theatrical bow he had presented earlier to Yagua, pointed at own beribboned and much scrawnier chest and said, "Admiral Ponce de León."

Caalus was less than impressed. Unlike Yagua, he did not return the bow. "Hmmmph," he grunted with little enthusiasm, and turned to one of his braves. He barked a few words, and the warrior trotted off toward the huts.

We stood in silence, Spaniards squirming uneasily and watching the chief's guard from the corners of our eyes, Indians calmly and disinterestedly disregarding the Spaniards as if we were the mildly unpleasant but inconsequential deposits of the many village dogs. Momentarily the dispatched warrior returned, with a lean, ferret-faced brave at his side. Caalus spoke at length to the new arrival, who nodded. He turned to face de León and spoke. His gruff speech was difficult to comprehend, but his intentions were clear as the Caribbean waters.

"Me Tomsobe. Talk little your language. Chief Caalus want know why Espanish on Calusa land. Very angry. Not like Espanish. Kill our people."

De León had prepared a story for such an occasion as this. We knew the King had mandated him to look for gold, silver and Indians to kill or enslave. He realized this admission would likely do little to encourage friendly relations. So he had gathered his crew on deck in San Juan Bautista and instructed us as to what we should reveal in the unlikely event we were captured alive, in case we were questioned before being eaten.

We were ostensibly in this land to develop friendly relationships with Indian tribes, discover ways to make them rich by trading with them, and introduce them to the benefits of Christianity. I have been called a cynic, but I did not see how enslaving and killing them, giving them colored glass in return for gold, and replacing their gods with ours would improve their lot. I kept such thoughts between myself and Hernan.

Tomsobe conveyed de León's benevolent intentions to Caalus. The exchange was laborious, at times almost comical, with elaborately exaggerated gestures and facial expressions. De León had to beat to windward the entire time, with much changing of tacks in attempt to reach the destination. I sensed that possibly Tomsobe had more Spanish than he revealed; he made sure the wind was steady on de León's prow. I may be mistaken, but I am sure the muscles of Caalus's face betrayed his effort to maintain a stern visage. Entertaining as the whole may have been, I have not chronicled the entire scene here as it would require the talents of a playwright. The chief's face was as carved from oak. It betrayed nothing of his reactions to our captain's story. Perhaps sensing that unalloyed good will was not making an impression, de León played another card. He "revealed" that our small friendly expedition had left at anchorage a huge fighting force whose intentions were merely to protect the expedition and who would follow our trail if we did not return on schedule. I have concluded that he may have overplayed his weak hand.

In any case, the performance then came to a definite end with Tomsobe's words: "Chief say when sun rise Espanish run to big canoe, fly across water, not come back." He thumped de León's chest-plate with a bony knuckle. "See Espanish one more time, remove shells like oysters, cook on fire." 

With his message delivered clearly, Caalus's stone face finally relaxed into a devilish smile. He spoke once more to his interpreter. Tomsobe's brow furled in confusion, but he relayed the chief's words.

"Chief of Calusa people say welcome to village of Tavaguemue. Now we have understanding, Calusa feast when moon rise in honor of Espanish guests."

True to his word, under the waxing gibbous moon the Calusa women laid out a lavish meal around a raging bonfire. They had quickly transformed the slimy contents of the nets into a delicious stew of sea creatures. It lacked the Mediterranean spices, but was flavored with some kind of wild onion and wild herbs, and seaweed added both texture and salt. The soup could have been served in an inn in Seville with no complaint, save perhaps concerning the meanness of the cutlery and dining service, which were different types of shells and roughly carved wooden bowls. Only the white wine was lacking, and I confess I would have enjoyed a measure of brandy after the meal. But it was marvellous after months of tough soldier rations, and when dining away one must accept the local hospitality. Sustained entirely by such hearty fare, I could understand why these people were blessed with such strength and vivacity.

The meal passed without incident. We were not sequestered from the villagers, but the language issue and mutual distrust kept interactions to a minimum. I looked about for Yagua but could not see him. De León did accept an invitation to the chief's hut, where he and Caalus conversed through Tomsobe.  Afterwards we were shepherded to a clearing where we laid our bedrolls out under the millions of stars and the same Great Bear that looked down upon Andalusian shepherds. We posted a watch. I am sure the Calusa did the same. I thought ruefully as I succumbed to the day's exertions that, despite their common humanity, Europe and the New World would never sleep comfortably in the other's company.

At sunrise, some village women brought us remains of the previous night's feast in woven reed baskets. Caalus was nowhere to be seen, but his guard herded us toward the return trail and followed us until the sun had made a quarter of its arc. We were not aware of when they left us. They were suddenly gone, and the forest made no different sound in their absence than it did in their presence.

I know not what had transpired between our captain and the chief, but we spared no effort to put the village far behind us. We ate at the half-run. El Sargento Garcia threatened to make an example of whichever man trailed and stake him out naked for the panthers and mosquitoes. Of course no one believed him, but somehow no one remained in last position for longer than it took to overtake the second last man.

On the morning of the second day, El Sargento harangued us that we'd all regret it if we were not back on the beach where the Santiago lay at anchor by sunset. My "poor" leg complained at the jarring over the rough ground; I began to limp. To keep my mind off the pain, I kept up a conversation with Hernan, punctuated by grimaces and groans.

"Hernan, oldest friend, I wager that when we were wild ragamuffins stealing Tio Juan's oranges in the hills of Alhaurín de la Torre, you never imagined seventeen years on we'd be stumbling through jungles full of savages and serpents on the other side of the earth."

"Seventeen years! Hah! I never thought we'd live another day after Tio caught us that time."

"Ah, but those oranges were muy dulces, no?"

"Si, but we paid dearly for the sweetness."

"Tio was never one to sell his wares cheaply."  I chortled.

"You can laugh now. The pain of Juan's cane has almost worn off."

"Si, but unfortunately not in this God-cursed leg."

Hernan cast a worried look. "Tonio, mi primo favorito, I am worried for you."

"No mind, Hernan. A big snort of rum on the Santiago will restore my good humor."

"You'll get caught stealing that too."

"Not with your expert help."

"Yes, that strategy worked so well with the oranges." We both laughed.

The sun was in its last quarter when De León and el Sargento consulted the charts we had scribbled on the inward trip.

"Herrera!" Garcia barked. "Take your lazy cousin and go refill our water skins."

I replied innocently, "Will el Capitan not want to test the waters?"

His warning glare bore a sharper point than his rapier. I had no doubt it could prove as lethal. I grabbed Hernan and we hurriedly stalked off to find the spring.

We followed the gentle tinkle of trickling water to its source. I knelt down, cleared away some rocks and set to filling the bags.

"Hernan, I wonder why de León mounted this accursed mission. As much chance finding gold here as up my ass, and fifteen starving, mosquito-ravaged Spaniards will have a difficult job enslaving those Calusa demons. We would need the whole Armada."

"If you did not lose yourself in the dreamy flames of the campfires, Tonio, you would have heard. It is all over the camp."

"You know well my right ear is wooden since the damned fever almost took me in that terrible winter of illness in the village. I hear only half of what is said, and all of it is mierda de toro."

He chuckled, "Ah, Tonio the half man. One leg and one ear. Is it true you also have only one . . ." He broke off and ducked as I made to toss a handful of muck at him.

"Half of me is still twice the man you are, Hernan. So Carmencita told me."

"Hah! Then she lied to both of us, cousin. Anyway, de Villa says that de León's wife has left Hispaniola because he was no longer able to keep up his part of the contract, if you know what I mean."

"So he is taking his frustration out on us?"

"Tonio, listen. Surely you have heard of the magic waters that will restore a man to his youth and potency."

"I have also heard of a man fashioning wings from feathers and wax and flying too close to the sun."

"Maybe so. But a man in love is a man without reason. I am sure he is looking for those waters. Then perhaps he will make the wings to fly after his dear Leónora's ship."

"Call me an idiot, but I think it will take more than water to turn his sword from pudding to steel."

Hernan snorted and started to reply. "I . . . ." His words were cut short by a gasp.

I pivoted to see what was wrong and felt something brush my cheek. Hernan's hands were at his throat, weakly attempting to wrest out the arrow that transfixed his neck. I could see the shark's tooth point on the bloody tip.

"Sante Madre de Dios!" he rasped, and crumpled like an abandoned marionette.

A moment spent grieving would be my last. I looked up. And revealed my face to a painted warrior a stone's throw away. He had another arrow nocked and drawn and was sighting along his thickly corded arm. It was Yagua! I may be mistaken, but I believe I saw a flash of surprise in his fierce eyes and a momentary easing of his drawing arm. It was enough. I sprinted into the woods, dodging and darting, awaiting the shark's bite between my shoulder blades. It never came.

The woods were teeming with painted naked demons and armored men. The screams of Spaniards wounded in the ambush gave way to the rasp of swords leaving their scabbards and the hiss and explosions of arquebuses. I could hear de León and Garcia exhorting the men to fight.

I had shed my share of blood in battle and was no coward. But the awful vision of Hernan's dying gasp and the toothed arrow that carried my own imminent death had caused my mind to drag anchor. I careened madly through the forest. The searing pain in my leg came close to shattering me; only blind fear kept my sinews working. My hammering heart drowned out the fading sounds of battle as I tripped agonizingly on roots and caromed from tree to tree. I glanced back over my shoulder in dread. Suddenly I was running on air! The root mat gave way beneath me and I tumbled into a hidden fissure with walls so studded with sharp rock that I felt I was being keelhauled. A stunning impact and I descended into the black maws of hell.

Or so I thought. I struggled endlessly to tear myself free of the bony clutches of the damned. As I writhed, I became aware I was shivering. Shivering in Hades? How could this be? My mind set anchor, and I realized the clutching dead hands were in reality the choking tangle of roots I had gathered on my downward journey. And I shivered because I was half immersed in a freezing rivulet that coursed across the rough floor of my man-trap. I freed myself from the snarl, rolled out of the stream, and made a third realization. My head ached like a beaten kettle drum.

I was safe for the moment, but that was all I could place on the good side of the balance. Unfortunately my sanctuary was as dark as the womb but not nearly as warm nor nourishing. I had no idea how I was going to birth myself to the surface of the earth. I shook from hunger and my throat was parched. It cracked painfully with every swallow.

The thirst I could remedy. I cupped my hands and drank deeply from the stream. As a man who has nothing finds the cheapest bauble priceless, I found that quaff the sweetest sup of my life. In my need, it was as delicious as aged golden brandy. But I am Spanish, so I exaggerate. It was good water.

I removed my shredded tunic and hose and washed it out, lamenting now that I had chosen to doff my armor at the spring to cool myself. I had seen men whipped before the mast and I imagined similar stripes and gouges across my back. I bathed my wounds, letting the cool waters ease the fire. Then I filled my water-skin and rested my ravaged back against the wall.

I don't know for how long I had lain in Satan's embrace before awakening from my fall, but as I accustomed to the gloom I could see dim silvery light flickering through the roof far above me. The nearly-full moon had risen. The pounding in my head had dulled and my thoughts cleared. I knew that any of my companions that may have survived the attack would sail as soon as they could make the Santiago's anchorage. Trapped below ground, my chances of survival faded with every heartbeat.

I threaded my limbs through the ruins of my garments and examined the walls of my pit. I was a daredevil climber in my youth; only dumb luck and the occasional fortuitously-placed branch saw me to adulthood. In the dim light I imagined rocky protuberances winding their way up the roughly circular wall. I chose my route and began to climb.

I had to shake off the odd reticence I felt at leaving my private spring. Every precarious perch I gained on the ascent revealed another hold. I scaled entirely without thought or rest. Within minutes I thrust my head cautiously through the jagged rent my fall had made in the matted ceiling. Nothing stirred in the pale moonlight. All was silent but for the breeze softly soughing in the boughs. I emerged like a giant marmot and crept slowly away from the hole. Again, I saw no movement. The ambushing party had withdrawn.

I thought to go back for Hernan's body, but knew he'd not want me to forfeit my own life in such an impossible task. I knelt and prayed for his soul. I was overcome with despair. The wind that had filled my sails and lifted me from my prison had died. I was exhausted. I could not possibly catch my crew before they weighed anchor. But I was not nearly brave enough to sit and calmly greet death. I drank from my water-skin to raise my spirits. Then I found the Great Bear and followed its gaze across the heavens to the Pole Star. With that beacon over my right shoulder and the moon sailing before me, I set a plodding course for the coast.

Before long, I came upon signs of our inward march. We appeared to have taken particular care to trample every stick and bush that lay before us, with the daintiness of an African elephant. I could easily follow in the moon's radiance. Again I stopped to drink.

To my wonderment, my desperate situation had burnished the sharp edges from my fatigue; I grew stronger and less anxious with each hour. The moon dipped gracefully below the prairie; its ghostly silver glow melted into the first yellow rays of the waking sun. Without heavy armor, I made good headway, even breaking into a trot where the ground permitted. God answered my constant prayers and guided my feet through the clutching roots and treacherous sinkholes that had devilled our inward journey. Or perhaps they took pity on the determined traveler and made only half-hearted attempts.

An hour after sunrise I plunged into the brackish swamps that marked the last challenge of my journey. Clouds of infernal mosquitoes breakfasted on me and the humidity and stench fouled my lungs. I drank the last of my water to purge the stink from my throat and surged on through the miasma. It was then that I realized that the agony in my afflicted leg had eased. In fact, it had vanished! I had heard that the body, if driven ad extremum, can release humors that vanquish all pain, but I had never experienced such an occurrence. God willing, I should never do so again.

One mangrove is an identical cousin to every other, and I feared I was coursing in circles. Then, over the constant insect buzz and bubbling burps of swamp gases, I became aware of a faint rushing sound filtering through the trees. What poor kind of sailor would not recognize that? Surf! I flew across the last one hundred pasos of swamp and burst through the last palisade of mangroves into blinding sunlight. Reflecting from the translucent green waters of the ocean! I foundered in the soft white sand and fell headlong.

I sprang to my feet, spitting out sand. The Santiago lay at anchor at the leeward end of the bay. The last of the men were heaving the ship's dory into the surf and preparing to ship the oars. I pounded along the hard sand left by the ebbing tide, frantically waving and yelling. Too late! They couldn't hear me over the crashing surf; the dory stroked toward the ship. I stood gasping for breath in the rut left by the now rapidly vanishing boat. I could do nothing. They were too far out on the swell to see me. I sank numbly to my knees in disbelief. I reached into the remains of my shirt for the old silver crucifix my father had given me on my departure from Spain. I held it and prayed, for what I don't know.

I am a God-fearing man, but I'm no Saint Peter. My prayers had never brought instant results. But I looked up just as the dory came about and set course for the beach. They had seen me! What had happened?

I plunged into the foaming waves, clambered over the boat's gunwale and lay in the bilge staring up at the clear blue heavens.

We got under way. De Villa grabbed my shoulder and cried, "By Jesus, Herrera, you are a lucky man! Cantoya here sees something flashing on the beach. Garcia says, 'Go back! If that's a damned Calusa by himself, I'll kill the bastardo with my bare hands.' So we goes about for a look. But it's no damned Calusa. It's a damned Herrera!"

My crucifix! Cantoya had happened to look back just as it caught the sun. No miracle after all. Perhaps.

We hove to beside the Santiago and scrambled up the boarding net like spiders. After we had hauled the dory to its stowage on the stern, Garcia hailed me.

"Herrera, el Capitan wants to see you. Get some biscuit from the galley and present yourself at his cabin. But first find some decent pants to cover your bug-bitten ass, for all our sakes." If I didn't know it to be impossible, I would say his voice carried a hint of amusement.

*          *          *

I knocked timidly at de León's door in the sterncastle. He bid me enter.

"Ah. Herrera, is it?"

"Yes, Capitan. Leading Seaman Antonio Herrera, sir. I served on your crew on the voyage from Spain in '02, sir."

"Yes. A seasoned sailor for one so  young, I recall. But more importantly, this day past you managed to elude those savages and find your way here alone, Herrera. Tell me how this happened."

It came back in a rush and I felt weak from sorrow. "El Sargento sent me and my cousin, Hernan Mendiaz, to fill the skins." I prayed he had not overheard my rude comment at that time. This prayer was not answered.

"Yes, I remember you were concerned that I should taste it."

I reddened.

"No matter. Continue."

"We were ambushed and he died before my eyes, Capitan. The arrow intended for me did not fly true. I ran. I fell into a deep crevice and was injured. When I awoke, I climbed out and was alone in the forest."

"Injured, you say. You look remarkably fit for a man who has suffered as you claim. What were your injuries?"

"My head, Capitan. I was rendered senseless. And my back and legs were ripped bloody by sharp rocks in the fall."

"And yet here you are, as if by magic. An incredible story."

I am not illiterate. I know the meanings of the word "incredible." De León mistrusted me for some reason. I made no reply.

"You are sure you had no dealings with these Calusa that you are not telling me about?"

"Capitan, they murdered Hernan! They would have murdered me had they taken me. I tell you the truth. Can you not believe me?"

"It is . . . troublesome. Sit, and I will summon the ship's surgeon to examine you."

He opened the cabin door and gave instructions to the guard posted there. In moments the guard returned with the surgeon stumbling behind. If I had cut off a hand while juggling swords, I would have sewn it back myself with a dull needle rather than have this man touch it. I swear he took his wage entirely in rum.

"Doctor Serrato, examine this sailor and report your findings. In particular, his head, back and legs for abrasions."

"Aye, el Capitan," he slurred.

"Off with your shirt and trews, man."

He handled me roughly. I was surprised that I felt little discomfort at his prodding.

"Capitan. The man is sound. He has several newly healed scars and yellow old bruises in the places you mention. I find no fresh wounds and no broken bones."

If there were none before his examination, there may well have been after. The man was a hazard to health. Nonetheless, I was speechless. How could this be? The wounds should be as fresh and raw as the memory of my ordeal.

De León dismissed the doctor. I sighed with relief. Prematurely, it seems. De León tugged at the point of his beard thoughtfully and eyed me like a hawk hovering over a field mouse. 

"Herrera, my way is to speak plainly. A savage saves your life and leads us to his village. Where their chief grants us safe passage if we depart promptly. Yet we are ambushed, at a time when you are conveniently away from our party. We lose five good men. Yet you survive, and return alone as if delivered. Your good health belies your tale. I cannot divine a reason for you to prevaricate, but nor can I believe your story. You see my quandary. You are an unsolved puzzle. I am unsure whether you have befriended God or the Devil." 

"Capitan, I assure you my prayers were to God. I cannot say who answered or why. But I tell you no word of a lie."

"Hmmph. You do have an honest look about you. Very well. This shall remain a mystery. For now. You are free to go."

I saluted. As I turned to leave, he reached out and grasped my shoulder.

"One more thing, Herrera. At the first sign of horns upon your head, you will be swimming for San Juan Bautista with irons for ballast."

His sharp features displayed no hint of a smile nor of malice. He spoke only honest truth. I shivered as I softly shut his door behind me.

Favorable winds sped the Santiago on her way to San Juan Bautista over calm seas. At one point a mountainous island arose on the horizon where our charts indicated open ocean. Confusion ensued. I was glad of this reason for the crew to momentarily discuss something other than "the recovery of Herrera", described either as miraculous or diabolical depending on who was holding forth. It eventuated that a minor miscalculation of current had set us upon the northeast shores of Cuba, which Colon had claimed for Spain on his first voyage.

The encounter with de León had me balancing on a dagger's edge, rendering an easy voyage very uncomfortable. I felt constantly under close scrutiny. Heads turned and men whispered as I passed. I was certain I heard the brig mentioned several times. Was I about to be clapped in irons?

I should mention that it struck me very odd that I could decipher the whisperings. I tell no lie. One morn in July of 1512 off Hispaniola I was relieved after a middle watch. I was fast asleep in my bunk with my right ear to the pillow when we were beset by pirates. This I discovered only when Hernan shook me rudely awake. There was a jagged hole through the ship's hull just above my hammock large enough to climb through. The ball lay in the hammock across the passageway. Unfortunately so did Carreras. Or most of him. I had heard nothing.

In the days after my rescue my right ear started to buzz like an angry mosquito. It slowly came back to life and was now better than its mate around the corner. By dumb luck that damned fall must surely have rearranged the contents of my head.

The uncertainty of my fate dragged on interminably. Not until the week after our diversion to Cuba was the plot revealed. One morning Garcia had Cantoya replace me on the rigging and marched me below to the ship's brig. There de León awaited us. He could not but have heard the rattling of my knees. Lanterns brightly illuminated the dim passageway, swinging with the easy roll of the ship.

"A surprise, Herrera. Stand in the light before this cell and regard its contents."

Confused, I did so. The cell's occupants hung chained against the bulkhead. I stumbled back a step. Calusa! I counted eight fearsome glares. De León alternated his gimlet-eyed gaze between my face and those of the savages. Suddenly I understood. He wanted to catch us unaware and register the effect of the encounter. I was mortified that Yagua would be one of the prisoners and would make a sign of recognition or friendliness. My fate would be sealed in pitch. Hardly daring to look, I searched the faces. His was not among them! I thought one of them may have been Tomsobe, the chief's interpreter. None of the Calusa reacted. I was just another miserable Spaniard to them. I stood like stone for minutes. The only sounds were the eternal creaking of the ship's timbers and the rhythmic squeaking of the lanterns on their sconces.

De León broke the silence. "Garcia, take Herrera back to his post." Not a word to me.

And that was the end of that, so far as I knew. The strange events of our unfortunate excursion in La Florida slipped into the past and slowly my life on the Santiago returned to its normal drudgery, hauling in sheets, scaling rigging, manning the bilge pumps, reefing and unfurling sails, swabbing decks, oiling cannon, eating wormy hardtack and bunking amid the sweaty, reeking bodies of my fellow seamen in the bowels of the ship. It is difficult to believe I was grateful for the routine.

On October 19, 1513, we finally made port in the city of San Juan on San Juan Bautista. Most of us eagerly anticipated a stretch of shore leave before reassignment. I was gathering my kit when el Sargento approached me and sneered, "Herrera, I don't know what el Capitan wants with the likes of you, but your esteemed presence is requested in his cabin before disembarking." 

Oh no, I thought. Just when I was ready to leave this misadventure behind. I slunk miserably to the sterncastle.

I knocked. "El Capitan. Leading Seaman Antonio Herrera to see you as ordered, sir."

"Enter, Herrera. Stand at ease."

I stood so, but did not feel so. De León carefully poured the sand from the letter he was blotting into a tin on the desk. He set it down and cleared his throat.

"You will be wondering, I am sure, what came of our little inquisition earlier in the voyage. Doubtless you have realized that the meeting with the captives was staged to reveal your collusion with the Calusa. To my surprise, it did not do so. I then had words for the first time since his capture with the one who was the chief's interpreter. He swore that neither he nor his fellow prisoners had ever spoken to you. And that his chief had never any intention of allowing us safe passage but did not want to foul his village with a massacre. The performance and feast were merely entertainment for his people. Come the morning, his guard were instructed to ambush us at some distance from the village. I have no reason to doubt this account. You know the rest."

I nodded cautiously.

"Herrera, you have proven to be a brave and honorable soldier. As for your seemingly miraculous escape and healing," he sighed, "I have decided that is a secret between you and the Lord."

"Capitan, I fear this is His private joke. I am at a loss still."

"Mysterious ways, Herrera, mysterious ways. In any case, I am not in the habit of rationalizing my command to my men, but I owed this to you. I would appreciate . . . no, I command . . . that you never discuss this meeting with anyone. If it please you, I have nothing more to say. I don't imagine we shall speak again.'

"Aye, Capitan." He could not have been more wrong.

"God be with you, Herrera."

"And you, sir."

A new respect for the man accompanied me as I left the cabin.

*          *          *

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