Excerpt
Overnight we were left becalmed. Bartolomé stood beside me in
silence on the quarterdeck, watching the impressive fleet of thirty
ships. The Isabella was sailing next-to-last in the caravan of galleons
and carracks led by the Capitana. Behind her the second ship in
importance, the Almiranta, kept the formation ordered by La Casa de
Contratación, the institution overseeing the traffic between the New
World and Spain known as the Carrera de Indias.
Deep lines from years of squinting at the sun ran from the corners
of Bartolomé’s eyes and between his brows. He eyed the sea, sky and
rigging, frowning as he chewed his inner cheek.
The surface of the ocean was smooth and flat with neither crests
nor foam, suspiciously tranquil and grey, like liquid lead. The voices
aboard the ship had grown notably quiet except for the ditty of the
sailor in charge of the sandglass. The other deckhands were going
about their business as if preparing for something.
I heard Bartolomé muttering to himself. It was his first crossing as
captain, and I supposed he might be nervous. He had reason to be.
As we passed the Tropic of Cancer that afternoon, the wind had
blown from the southeast, dragging clouds that crashed and clashed
into a furious jumble of greys, unleashing thunder and lightning.
Just as quickly, the storm had abated.
As Bartolomé bent over a portulan he had spread on top of the
binnacle, I moved closer, marvelling at how sure he seemed of our
location amid the tangle of lines on the vellum chart. “We need to
keep course toward Martinica,” he said, tapping the chart with the
dividers he used to measure distances.
Libros Libertad 