The Seven Serpents Trilogy Read Free Page B

repeating the cry, followed hard on his heels.
    I could see nothing over the high bulwarks. There was the sound of scurrying boots, of voices, a deep si lence, then Esteban’s name shouted by Don Luis, then my name, and the command “
¡Venga!
”
    The first thing that met my eyes as I scrambled over the bulwark and set my feet upon the deck of the
Santa Cecilia
was the kneeling figure of Don Luis. (The six musketeers had disappeared, apparently down a ladder that led into the hold.) He was kneeling beside an old man, an Indian with sunken cheeks and lips that were bleeding, whose tongue as he opened his mouth to speak was swollen and black.
    I thought first of finding water; then I saw that the cask the Indian leaned against was full and that he had already drunk from it. His voice was coming from a far-off part of his body, a thin croak like that of some forest animal. I took his hand in mine. It was like a bundle of dry sticks, only wet with blood that did not have the look of blood but more that of thick, dark syrup.
    Don Luis called Esteban, the slave, to his side and asked him to interpret what the old man was saying. Es teban put his ear close, as the Indian rocked his gaunt head slowly back and forth, and tried to find Spanish words for what he heard from the shriveled lips.
    It appeared that the
Santa Cecilia
had sailed from an island near Hispaniola in the New World, carrying many slaves and commanded by a Spanish captain. This was some time in the past. It could have been two months ago or six; Esteban was not sure. The slaves mutinied and killed the captain and all the members of his Spanish crew.
    The slaves tried to run the ship but failed. For this reason they wandered over the sea for a long time, swept by contrary winds. Water they had in plenty from frequent rains, but food ran low. They ate the leather chafings on the masts. They ate the dust the rats left. They ate the rats. From what the old slave said, they ate each other. Then some sort of plague struck them, and their limbs turned black and gangrenous. Their gums grew over their teeth.
    I called to one of the crew, and he brought a cup of leftover soup. I held it to the Indian’s lips, but he turned his head away.
    Don Luis stood up and together with Captain Roa went aft to inspect the carrack’s sterncastle. At that mo ment the musketeers climbed out of the hold and stood still at the top of the ladder, their faces white as chalk.
    A sudden breeze started up, and with it, from the bowels of the ship, came a stench that buckled my legs. One of the men pointed below, two quick thrusts of his hand.
    Thinking that someone was in need, I clambered down the ladder into the dimly lit hold. What I saw I cannot describe. If I could describe what I saw, I would refrain rather than to relive it here.
    Suffice it to say that bodies were piled high against the sides of the ship. No one was alive. No one could be alive in that place. The body of a long-haired Indian that I stepped over when I came down the ladder I stepped over again as I left. The soles of the man’s feet had been gnawed away by rats, which were scurrying here and there.
    We moved the old Indian to our ship and tried to get him to eat. He refused everything we offered, continuing to babble about the mutiny, how fortunate it was that he alone of all the crew had been spared. He died shortly before sundown, and as he was dropped over the side, I commended him to God.
    Meanwhile Don Luis, against the objections of Cap tain Roa, decided to lay claim to the
Santa Cecilia.
The crew spent the afternoon hauling her water casks aboard and securing a rope to the carrack’s bow. There was talk of putting a helmsman aboard her, but it was finally decided to lash the rudder. Near dusk we set off with the slave ship in tow, moving westward in a fresh ening wind.
    At supper, while I was playing a group of gay Andalusian songs, Don Luis said, “We will have the crew clean the ship