Chapter 1

 

August 6

 

T'was three days out of the Andalusian port town, Palos de la Frontera, and the young woman who had stowed herself away, deep in the hold of the carrack, Santa Maria, had still escaped discovery. She had suffered neither hunger nor thirst, having hidden herself fortuitously amongst the ship's stores. But her hiding place was cramped and the air stale and foul. She longed to stretch her legs and catch a bit of daylight rather than constant gloom.

She wondered what might happen if she revealed her presence. This far from land, they could hardly send her back, she reasoned. And perhaps they would just put her to work. She would make herself useful, earn her passage to wherever the carrack was destined ... just so long as she wasn't returned to the place and the circumstances she had hidden herself on board to escape.

As it were, her decision to flee and stow away on a ship had been a desperate one. The master for whom she had toiled back in Palos de Frontera as a lowly housemaid was a cruel and wicked man ... a man that demanded the impossible of her when it came to daily chores, and then expected perverse sexual favors at day's end as well ... the latter ... most disagreeably sordid ... under the very nose of his frumpy and ill-tempered wife.

And so it was in the wee morning hours, three days earlier, that she slipped naked from his bed, mopped his vile juices from her loins, donned the linen smock and simple dress she had shed in order to satisfy his depraved lust, slipped quietly out into the street and made her way down to the quay, where three vessels were being made ready to depart with the morning tide.

She made for the largest of the three, bided her time hidden amongst some casks, and when the coast was clear, scampered up the plank, spotted the open hatch to the hold, and vanished from sight. Within an hour or two the deck above was alive with activity and raised voices, and with a groan of timbers and the clank of chains the vessel cast loose, wallowed briefly and set to sea.

But that was all in the past. The fact remained ... she was a runaway and a castaway, and she was going to have to present herself on deck sooner or later, so reckoned she might as well get on with it. They were going to discover her soon enough anyway, as the odor of her toilet at the far end of the hold was becoming more noticeable with each passing day.

So she gathered herself up, smoothed her long rumpled skirt, pulled her hair back from her face and made her way to the ladder leading to the deck above. Climbing to the top of the ladder, she peered through the opening at the rigging and sails, set above against a clear blue sky. She listened, but heard only the creak of timbers, the flapping of canvas, the groan of ropes and the lapping of water against the sides of the carrack. She drank in the fresh air, smell of salt assaulting her nose.

Throwing caution to the winds, she clambered up on deck and sauntered unnoticed over to the rail. And there she stood, mesmerized by the sparkle of sunlight dancing on the crests of the swells of the sea. Looking astern she noted with surprise the two smaller caravels following at a distance. She hadn't expected a flotilla.

It was Diego de Arana, the Santa Maria's master-at-arms, who first spotted the waif-like figure, leaning against the starboard rail, wind tousling her long brown hair. Startled at first, thinking she was an apparition, he stood rooted in place ... but then took hold of himself and marched over to her.

"Wh ... who are you? What are you do ... doing here?" he stammered.

"I'm Bárbara Morales of Palos de la Frontera. I decided to come along. Tell me, what are the names of those two caravels, and what vessel is this?"

"La Pinta and La Niña, and this is the Santa Maria," he replied, a bit taken aback and flustered. His confusion was furthered by the fact that he thought her quite beautiful ... her face so innocent ... her dark eyes captivating.

"Are they ... a Pinta and La Niña ... with us? Where are we headed?"

"You ask too many questions. Come with me."

"Where to?"

"To see the Captain-General, Cristobal Colon. He's in for quite a surprise, I dare say!"

She followed him down the deck, past the main mast and toward the raised cabin area at the caravel's stern. Crew members gawked as she passed, holding her head high and swishing her long skirt as though she were royalty.

The man they approached, who was busy conferring with two others, took notice and looked up.

To Bárbara's eyes he looked rather distinguished ... a far cry from her hated master back in Palos de la Frontera. His face was smooth, his long gray hair parted in the middle. He was thin faced, with a long nose and lightly colored, dreamy eyes. His chin contained a slight dimple ... his expression serious ... intensely serious.

Slowly he took her in ... from head to toe ... his face clouding over. "Where did she come from?" he demanded, turning abruptly to his Master at Arms.

"I don't know. Apparently she stowed away when we left Palos de la Frontera."

"That was three days ago!"

"Yes, she's apparently kept herself hidden until today."

"Is this true?" he said, addressing her.

"Yes. I hid onboard to escape my evil master in Palos de la Frontera. I'm a fugitive. I can't go back. I place myself at your mercy. I just want to go wherever you are headed. I'll be no trouble. I promise."

"I'm sorry, but this is an expedition ... a voyage of discovery. We seek a new passage to the silks and spices of the East."

"Then I will go there," she replied.

"What do we do with her?" he asked, turning to his two companions, Juan de la Casa, owner and master of the Santa Maria, and Rodrigo de Escobedo, secretary of the fleet, for an answer.

"We put her ashore when we reach the Canary Islands in three days' time and be rid of her," responded the master.

"Ah, but what about the Mariner's law?" said the secretary. "She has fled her master and stowed away on this ship. That's not to be ignored. Stowaways must be punished."

"How so?"

"Ordinarily it's 30 lashes with the cat."

"I see ... so be it then." pronounced Cristobal Colon with a dismissive air and a wave of his hand. "Put her in chains and confine her below until tomorrow, Diego, and then have her brought up on deck and flogged at dawn, with the crew in attendance. Now, gentlemen, where were we before this unseemly interruption?"

 

Chapter 2

 

Diego de Arana took her by the hand and led her away. As the master-at-arms it was his duty to maintain discipline onboard and oversee corrective punishment as ordered by the captain-general. Nonetheless, he couldn't help the tinge of revulsion he felt over the prospect of having young Bárbara Morales flogged.

He sensed both her courage and her desperation ... running away in the dead of night and stowing away on a ship without even knowing where it might be headed or what might become of her was evidence enough of that. And besides, he was smitten over her beauty and appalled at the thought of witnessing 'thirty with the cat' applied to what he surmised must be a lovely bared back.

She followed him docilely to the fore of the ship where the carrack's carpenter, Antonia de Cuellar, plied his trade.

"We'll be needing to shackle this one, Antonia," he said with a grim smile.

The carpenter looked up, gazed at her, and nodded. Wordlessly he began rummaging in a wooden box, and before long produced a pair of leg irons linked together by a length of chain, as well as a pair of wrist cuffs similarly linked. Returning to the box, he also came up with an iron collar with a round ring on one side.

"Have her kneel here with her neck on the block," he grunted, gesturing to a heavy anvil-like chunk of iron bolted to the deck. "And best to have her remove her skirt and bodice first."

There was a moment's hesitation before Bárbara complied. She looked first to Diego for assurance, and only after he nodded and smiled wanly, did she proceed to remove her outer clothing, leaving her with only the thin knee-length linen chemise ... the undergarment she wore close to her skin.

The carpenter gestured impatiently toward the iron block. She stared as though she had fallen into a trance, but knelt before it as requested, leaned forward and allowed him to slip the open iron collar around her neck and hammer it shut against the block, locking it with an iron pin.

From his vantage point, Diego de Arana found himself looking, as she knelt, down the gap that had opened between her chest and the drooping front of her linen chemise. The alluring sight of her pair of creamy, perfectly-shaped, dangling breasts, tipped with exquisitely pert little pink nipples, bouncing and jiggling about with each ringing blow of the carpenter's hammer, had its predictable effect, and his attraction to her quickly rose to new and unimaginable heights.

Ordered to stand, she rose and stood with head bowed while her narrow ankles and wrists were shackled, and the length of chain connecting her wrist cuffs looped through the ring of her collar.

"Is all this necessary?" she murmured. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to try to escape by jumping overboard and swimming to land, is it?"

"Of course you won't," admitted Diego ruefully. "It's just the way this is done ... can't be helped."

At that moment a wild commotion arose astern. A seaman came running forward to announce that La Pinta was floundering, its rudder apparently broken and useless, and that Diego de Arana was needed immediately to help oversee the turning of the carrack about to go to the aid of the stricken vessel.

"Secure her to something until I return," he snapped and rushed off.

Turning to Bárbara, the carpenter shrugged, led her over to the carrack's forward mast, to which he backed her up, and forced her to raise her arms over and behind her head where her wrist chain could be secured to a belaying pin. And there she was left, forgotten, all through the afternoon and into the evening as work went on to rig ropes to La Pinta's rudder so as to enable her to make the Canary Islands for repairs.

By the time a weary Diego de Arana returned, she had all but lost feeling in her arms, and her back and legs ached.

"Sorry," he muttered as he released and supported her as they made their way below decks.

"Get some rest," he whispered as he set her down against a bulkhead.

"I'm hungry" she wailed pitifully.

"Sorry, but from what I've been told you managed to eat more than your share from the ship's stores while you were stowed away. I even had to dissuade the Captain-General from adding an additional ten lashes to your flogging. You'll just have to get by on an empty stomach tonight. Besides, it's probably best to be flogged that way too. Now get some rest!"

He left, and as she sat in the darkness listening to the creaks and groans of the carrack's timbers, she thought about Diego de Arana, and about the terrible flogging she'd face at first light.

With regard to the carrack's master-at-arms, she had to admit the deep attraction she felt toward him. She detected a kindness in his manner that she liked, and she also imagined he might have feelings for her. She had seen him look down her chemise at her breasts and was aware of his reaction. Given half a chance, she reckoned she would have him.

While those thoughts were intriguing and romantically delicious, the thought of being whipped with a cat was anything but. She had never witnessed a formal flogging, but she knew well enough what a cat was, and she knew from experience at the hands of her former master what it was like to be on the receiving end of a beating with a leather belt. Moreover, the thought of her body bared before the assembled crew ... she could well imagine that they would strip her to the waist, at the very least ... was a shamefully humiliating thought, to say the least. She could already feel their rapacious eyes upon her, and could anticipate the lurid kinds of comments that might pass amongst them.

Eventually she tired of such thoughts. She slept, but not well, and was fully awake long before they came for her. She had expected Diego de Arana, but it was not to be ... just three seaman assigned to bring her up on deck.

She emerged, blinking at the grayish-hued morning light. The sky was heavily overcast, the sea rough. The Santa Maria pitched about as she wallowed in the troughs and crashed over crests. The deck was wet from windblown spray.

They marched her to midship, where a short spar had been suspended horizontally on ropes from high in the rigging above. The ship's crew had been drawn up in ranks along both gunwales. A hundred eyes followed her as she was led forward.

Cristobal Colon stood waiting for her behind the hanging spar, hands clasped at his back, a stern look on his narrow face. He was flanked on either side by Juan de la Cosa and Rodrigo de Escobedo.

Diego de Arana was positioned a short distance before them.

But most frightening of all was the tall, muscular bare-chested seaman who waited patiently for her, a dark leather cat-o-nine held firmly in his grip, dripping from the bucket of brine from which it had just been removed.

"Prepare her," ordered Diego de Arana. She thought she detected moisture in the corners of his eyes.

Her seaman escorts took hold of her chemise and ripped it from her shoulders, baring her to the waist, torn folds of linen clinging precariously to her narrow hips. She stood with head bowed, shamed, as wind-blown spray cast a glossy sheen on her naked flesh and dampened the linen of the remains of her chemise to semi-transparency.

"Secure her," commanded Diego de Arana, the second word seeming to catch in his throat.

She could hear the murmuring amongst the assembled crew as they attached her wrist shackles, high overhead and spread wide, to the horizontal spar. The murmurs increased in volume and raucousness as the spar rose and stretched her, breasts wobbling from side to side, until only her toes touched the planking of the deck.

"When you're ready," muttered Diego de Arana to the seaman with the cat. "The count is to thirty with pauses on the sixes, a bucket of brine should she faint."