A world lit only by fire_ the medieval m - William Manchester [128]
In dismal, chilly, miserable Puerto San Julián, having inched down 1,330 miles since leaving the Río de la Plata, Magellan decided to hole up in winter quarters. They had reached the forty-ninth parallel—the forty-ninth degree of south latitude. There, on Saturday, March 31, he told his royal captains that he meant to continue south until he had found the strait, even if it took them below seventy degrees. Some thought they heard him promise to turn back if their frustration continued as far down as seventy-five degrees south latitude, but if he said it, he cannot have known what it meant; at that parallel the fleet would have been frozen fast in what is now the Antarctic’s Weddell Sea. Nevertheless his mood was undeniably implacable. Sunday morning—Palm Sunday—he reduced bread and wine rations for all hands. Almost certainly he intended to provoke revolt. He was aware that the tinder was there, awaiting a spark. There were Spaniards in the crews who were loyal to their Castilian officers. And the dons, he knew, were in an ugly mood. On Monday he summoned them to dine with him. Their refusal was curt. It was a desafio, a challenge; in effect they had thrown down the gauntlet. And that evening, April 2, 1520, they mutinied.
THEY CAME AT NIGHT—thirty armed Spaniards in a longboat, led by Juan de Cartagena, Antonio de Coca, and Gaspar de Quesada, rowing with muffled oars toward San Antonio, the largest ship in the fleet. King Carlos’s privy council would have been surprised to know that Cartagena no longer commanded the ship. In Valladolid the planners of the expedition had envisaged the capitán-general on the quarterdeck of the flagship Trinidad, with the Castilians commanding the other four. But once at sea, Magellan, exercising his supreme powers as admiral, had begun switching skippers. Now, six and a half months after their departure, a Portuguese officer, Álvaro de Mesquita, one of Magellan’s cousins, conned San Antonio. Only Concepción and Victoria remained in the hands of the dons. If Cartagena could regain his old command, however, the mutineers, controlling three vessels, could bar the way to the open sea and hold their admiral at bay. And aboard San Antonio, all hands were asleep. Why Magellan had not alerted Mesquita and ordered him to post guards is puzzling. Ordinarily he was the most vigilant of leaders, and the omens of trouble had been unmistakable. Perhaps he could not believe they would actually rebel. They were, after all, well-bred aristocrats, who had sworn holy oaths of obedience in Seville. And treachery was not only a capital offense; it was also shameful. He may also have doubted their resolve. In the coming days they were, in fact, to prove irresolute, but at the outset they moved with confidence, swarming up rope ladders and boarding the big ship, which quickly became their prize. Mesquita awoke to find himself surrounded by men with drawn swords, and, moments later, manacled and confined to the purser’s cabin. Until now the coup had been bloodless. Then Mesquita’s officers, wakened by the tumult, demanded an explanation, and one of them, the ship’s master, Juan de Elorriaga, roughly challenged the mutineers. Quesada and his servant knifed Elorriaga six times; the officer fell to the deck mortally wounded. That ended the resistance. After clapping all crewmen loyal to Magellan in irons, the mutineers broke into the storeroom and issued wine to the rest of the men. Quesada remained aboard and brought Juan Sebastián del Cano over to serve as master. The others quietly returned to their own ships.
Tuesday morning Magellan rose as usual, unaware of any change in his command. He was