The Boy from Brazil, Kampong Ayer
Retelling Magellan’s Southeast Asia
500 years ago, a Portuguese man sailing under Ferdinand Magellan’s command in a Spanish fleet returned to Brazil, where the man had previously managed a lumberyard. He reunited with a native Tupi woman and discovered he had a son. The boy joined his father in the expedition, which would become history’s first journey by Europeans across the Pacific Ocean. The following is a fictional story of that mestico boy in the Magellan-Elcano Voyage based on firsthand accounts and other historical knowledge.
A bell rang through the air. A moment later, a cabin boy turned over the sand clock on deck. Then they announced the hour and the watch-change with a customary tune…
“Que ya es la hora, señores de buena parte…”
From the rail of the quarterdeck, Juan de Acurio cast his eyes across the main deck below, examining the cleanliness of the floorboards, the firmness of knots in the rigging, and the tidiness of the ropes and tools not in use.
“Todo bien?” asked Michail of Rhodes, La Victoria’s Bosun, as he stepped up to Acurio’s side. His Castilian Spanish came with a sharp Greek accent.
“Sí, señor, all deck tasks on schedule,” Acurio answered without turning.
Michail leaned his head forward to peer across the rail. “How long have those ships been there?” He asked, pointing a finger.
“Since yesterday …One of them at least. The others have been coming all morning,” Acurio answered plainly, but now he too was staring at the junks. They were ships with ribbed paper sails, currently furled. And they were furled downward, at the bottom of the mast, rather than upward towards crow’s nests. As they spoke, another junk further off was joining the anchored ones from the bay.
The Bosun from Rhodes began muttering numbers next to Acurio. “Dío, tría, tésera…”
“Siete,” Acurio interrupted, presuming that Michail was counting the gathering ships. “…Mas uno,” he added. Seven plus one.
The Bosun nodded quietly. Then after a moment, he glanced up to La Victoria’s crow’s nests and ordered, “Keep the watch on alert…” And he turned and marched towards the captain’s cabin.
“Aye…” Acurio answered to the empty air where Michail had just been standing. Of course the watch had already been on alert. And Acurio too. And every man on-deck, for that matter. The junk was generally a smaller design than their Spanish nao. But they were sitting in the harbor of a sea empire built on junks, praos, and tunghuli. If it came to it, there would be no telling how many islanders might bear down on this imperial “Armada” of two.
Acurio turned his eyes to La Nao Trinidad which was sitting upriver between Victoria and the vast Water City ruled by Brunei’s sultan. He trusted that the lookouts in their crow’s nests were just as vigilant as the ones above him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carvalinho’s bare feet dangled to the water. His toes just barely touched the surface as he sat on the edge of the slats beneath him. The tide was already well high-enough for the city-dweller’s dugout boats, and yet the city’s houses stood quietly with little traffic between them. The boy looked around at the other structures all around: platforms and square walls and roofs of long dry leaves. All were standing on thick posts carved from trees.
He looked beyond the houses and far across the open water behind them at the forest along the river’s edge. After all this time, little Carvalinho had no fear of the water, but still he wondered why people would choose to live so far out from under the trees.
“πού είναι?”
Behind Carvalhinho, two crewmen were stationed in the Armada’s trading post. Carvalinho couldn’t understand their language, called Greek. But he had an ear for tones of voice. Matthaios had just asked Ioannis a question.
“Μην ανησυχείς, Πάτροκλος” Ioannis answered calmly.
The boy kept one ear open, expecting the men at any moment to order him to get up and carry something, or clean something, or tie something shut. But while business was slow he would let his mind drift off.
Across the water, a narrow hull floated into view from among the houses. Carvalinho could quickly see that it carried no cargo, so it wasn’t worth pointing out to the Griegos. It was being piloted by a woman with black hair flowing loose across her back. She was facing the other way talking to neighbors in a house further beyond.
The boats here had poles fixed to the side for balance. Sometimes one side, sometimes both sides. Where Carvalinho’s mother lived, the boats didn’t have poles on the sides. But otherwise they looked very much the same. They were tree trunks hollowed out by scraping and cutting until there was room enough for people to sit inside in a line. They looked so much the same that when they’d float in the green water under the trees, Carvalinho would see them in the corner of his eye and turn his head thinking he was about to see someone familiar.
But he would only see strangers. And he would hear strange voices. Even the birds sang different songs here. And the dogs were different colors than the ones back home. If he’d look at the forest floor and focused, he’d see that the leaves and the grasses were different. On these islands, everything was unfamiliar when he really looked. Let alone the fact these people didn’t even live on the land. He looked down again at the water rippling beneath his feet and stared hard to try to see any fish swimming there, maybe some pira nya…
Most days, even the man he called Túbété, Paí, Father was unfamiliar. By other people he was called João Carvalho. Or Juan by some. And lately, “Capitan-Heneral.” Father’s voice was always easy to hear and hard to ignore. He wasn’t the biggest, scariest man in any crowd, but he certainly was never the weakest. When João Carvalho was made commander, his son thought that was only natural. Inevitable.
Matthaios’ voice was still loud. “O Chouán Sebastián íthele pánta na eínai KAPETÁNIOS!”
Ioannis’ reply was still calm. Even soothing, almost. “Allá o Gómez den íthele poté próvlima.”
Carvalinho’s mind drifted back when he heard the Greeks mention Spanish names. As soon as he cocked his head to listen, Matthaios addressed him in Castilian…
“Niño, how long have those men been gone?”
The child glanced at the sun before he turned to answer, “at least an hour, señor.”
The Griego turned to his companion. “A Castilian plot again, eh?” He was polite enough to resume the conversation in Spanish.
Ioannis replied flatly, “Elcano’s one of the Basques.” Then he straightened up slightly, looking at something in the distance. He nodded in that direction, “there they are, finally…”
“Teliká!” Matthaios exclaimed.
When the little traveler turned his head, he saw a familiar skiff rowing towards them with the captains paddling on either side. They drifted up against the pier where Carvalinho’s feet had just been dangling. He dutifully stood up and made ready to receive a rope for mooring. But the two Spaniards didn’t move from their seats. Instead they addressed the Greeks from where they sat.
Gonzalo Gomez, who commanded La Victoria, spoke past Carvalhinho. “There’s something happening. The Moros are gathering their boats…”
The two Greeks looked at each other, then back at Gomez. Matthaios began to ask slowly, “are they…”
“They’re armed.” Gomez answered. “And not just with spears, javelins, and arrows — they also have swivel guns on their praos — “
Just then something was making a rumbling sound beyond the houses on the water. A rhythmic and metallic sound. The five voyagers all turned their heads to listen and stare back across the water that the two had just paddled.
“And the gongs,” added Juan Sebastian de Elcano, the other captain under father’s command, managing La Trinidad.
Matthaios got to his feet. He didn’t speak, he just looked at the captains as if expecting orders.
The captains were still watching the waterways. Local boats were coming into view as they passed between the houses paddling downriver. Long narrow hulls glided along with the strokes of many paddles lifting and dropping at the same time. Strong men held the paddles and sang strange words as they worked. Bigger boats with carved prows and colorful banners floated by a bit more slowly. On some of them Carvalinho could see the drummers and the gong-players. With each passing boat the songs and the gong-beats came on louder and louder, steady like a storm wind rising…
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Antonio Pigafetta absentmindedly twirled a goose feather between his fingers. He turned it over to see if the ink in the tip had dried. Then he started to move it towards the inkwell on the deck beside him. But he stopped himself, knowing that he was about to waste the ink.
He’d read back over his notes on the Moro Kingdom of Burné several times. Was there anything he’d missed? Any detail he might forget to tell the royal courts of Christendom?
A city built all on the water…
A Muslim king…
The Moros wash five times a day …Never eat with the left hand…
Pigafetta sighed and leaned his head back against the rail of the top deck. Looking around lazily, he saw João Carvalho conferring with his officers. One of them glanced out towards the water and said something about junks.
Antonio gathered himself and clambered to his feet. Leaning against the rail he peered out to see the ship that had anchored downriver the morning before. The ‘junk’ is a design of ships originating from Sinus Magnus, he recited to himself automatically.
But instead of one junk he saw several now. When had they arrived? Or rather, when would they stop arriving? Antonio watched another junk sailing in from the bay towards the others. Its painted red sails were made of paper and supported by a structure of ribs.
When he turned to look again at the commanding officers of La Trinidad they were all staring silently at the gathering fleet.
As they watched, Pigafetta remembered the welcome they had received nearly a month ago. A single prao ship had sailed out to them carrying several of their old chiefs, led by their Lord General. They had come out beating drums and Chinese gongs; the rhythm had carried across the bay while the Armada waited anxiously, not knowing if they were drums of ceremony, or drums of war.
He thought he could hear them again now: the metal gongs clanging through the wind.
“PROAS! DESDE SUROESTE!”
The officers turned their heads the other direction all at once. Pigafetta followed and to the southwest he saw hundreds of vessels spilling over the river. Sails of all sizes were emerging from the Water City and catching the morning wind: some of paper, some of canvas. Gongs were beating like unceasing metallic thunder.
“LEVAR ANCLAS!” Carvalho shouted from the top deck rail an arm’s length away from Pigafetta. And, “CARGA PASAMUROS!”
Across the deck at the bow, men climbed the steep forecastle steps carrying powder kegs. Pigafetta wanted to speak. Maybe to volunteer as an envoy. To parley. But his mouth didn’t move. His voice was silent against the Captain-General’s.
“VELA MAYOR! Y CARGA MORTEROS!”
Sailors rushed about the decks below. Their footsteps were almost loud enough to beat out the gongs of war. Above, one of the lookouts was shimmying out on a yardarm. Other sailors were climbing up the masts and the ropes to work the sails. A few clustered around the capstans to raise anchors.
Canvas rustled as it unfurled and sofly resounded as it caught the wind. Wood creaked and water splashed. Then something clapped and groaned: it was one of the anchor ropes stretching taut. The deck suddenly leaned to one side. Pigafetta reached down to catch his inkwell and stumbled down to one knee against the rail.
Downriver, La Victoria was also mobilizing and turning towards the river mouth.
Carvalho’s voice kept booming.
“PRONTO!”
A sailor somewhere below called out, “LA ANCLA ES — “
“¡PIÉRDELO!”
At Carvalho’s order, the sailors let the anchor line go. The winch rumbled and twisted as the rope buzzed against the edge of the deck. After a few long moments, the end of the line slipped out of the winch, through the hole in the rail, and into the water. The noise of hemp against wood disappeared and the leaning deck suddenly rocked over in the other direction. The sails caught the wind again with a whoosh.
The blockade of Junks waited ahead silently. Hundreds of praos thundered behind. The Imperial Armada de Molucca rushed forward having lost another anchor.
