A world lit only by fire_ the medieval m - William Manchester [129]
Thus the lines of battle were drawn. In any fight Santiago—at seventy-five tons the smallest of the five—would be quickly sunk. The flagship could not continue round the world alone. The admiral seemed checkmated, but his dilemma over the paso—not to mention his temperament—meant that yielding was out of the question. Now, as so often, patience was his sheet anchor. He quietly awaited word from the rebels. When that word arrived—in the form of a letter from Quesada, speaking for the others—it revealed their pathetic weakness. Their noble birth was to be their undoing after all. The letter expressed no wrath, no piratical defiance; there was no ultimatum, nor even a list of demands. Instead the dons were submitting a suplica, a petition. On reflection they had decided to acknowledge his supreme authority, as conferred by their sovereign. In their subordinate role they merely asked for better treatment at his hands, a little respect for their high birth, and some information about his plans, particularly how he proposed to reach the Spice Islands. All this was set forth in the most florid, most oleaginous Spanish prose.
Mutineers may command, but they cannot beg. Their strength derives from force alone; if they disavow it, they are naked. Magellan now had their measure; with audacity, he could regain control of his fleet. He knew the rebel captains expected him to lunge toward San Antonio. The ship’s size argued for that; so did his cousin’s imprisonment there; so did the presence on its quarterdeck of Quesada, now the chief conspirator. Therefore Magellan, knowing the value of the unexpected, decided to retake Victoria, whose Castilian commander was the less formidable Luis de Mendoza. The counterattack would be made by two longboats. The larger boat, with the wind at its back, would carry fifteen heavily armed men led by Duarte Barbosa. To lead the other, smaller craft the admiral picked Gonzalo Gómez de Espinosa, the fleet’s master-at-arms and commander of its marine guard. Gómez’s crew consisted of only five men, but its mission was crucial—to strike the first blow and thereby create a diversion.
Piloting his boat to within hailing distance of Victoria, Gómez called ahead that he bore a letter from the capitán-general. Mendoza, feeling unthreatened by the little boat—he had sixty Spaniards behind him—gave the master-at-arms permission to board. That closed the trap, for while Gómez had the undivided attention of the ship’s crew, Barbosa and his men, unobserved in the bleak fog, slipped around the vessel’s lee side.
Magellan’s letter bluntly summoned Mendoza to the flagship. After reading it, the don, scornful of so obvious a trap, cried derisively, “You won’t catch me going there!”—“¡No me pillarás allá!” His laugh was cut off; Gómez, with one violent slash, had slit his throat. That was a signal to Barbosa and his party; they sprang on deck and attacked the mutineers from behind. Within minutes Victoria was the admiral’s prize and Barbosa was issuing orders to hoist sails. Before the other two rebel ships could grasp what had happened, Trinidad, Santiago, and Victoria had formed a rough line across the mouth of the bay, cutting off the only line of escape. Helpless, they capitulated. Mesquita, freed from his irons, chaired the subsequent