Port of San Julian. Winter Quarters. April 14, 1520.

My name is Mendoza. I am writing this at the request of the Captain General Magellan, as part of my tutelage in Navigation under his guidance.

As Magellan said to me when he gave me this book (one of his own blank logbooks), AA good navigator must be able to record his journey so that others may follow in his footsteps. Use this book to practice writing.@

AWhat should I write about, Captain?@ I asked.

AAnything you like. A history, a journal like your friend Pigafetta. Just fill the book, Mendoza.@

A history? Of what? My history, perhaps. A journal. Though just past my 20th birthday, I have already lived through many different experiences and this voyage promises to add many more. A history of myself and my experiences on this voyage. It seems a self-centered thing to do but Magellan has promised that no one else, not even he will read it. I am sitting on the deck of the Trinidad and can see on shore the gruesome evidence of mutiny and my own actions to prevent it. And in doing so, I have been indirectly responsible for the death of my last living relative. Perhaps, in writing these things, I can lay to rest some ghosts of my past and move on.

But where should I begin? With the start of Magellan=s expedition and how I came to be a member of his crew? Or should I begin with my uncle, Luis de Mendoza, whose remains I can, even now, see on the shore? No. Maria, who raised me like I was her son after the death of my mother, told me once that there is only one beginning in our lives. So I will start with her, my parents and my birth.

Spain 1480-1512.

I was born in a small village near Seville in 1500. My father, Diego de Mendoza, was a ship=s Captain and expert navigator. A native of Granada, my father left the home of his father and a position as the second son of a struggling family to go to Barcelona to become his own master. Though he owned no vessels himself, my father=s services were highly sought after. But for many years he sailed for only one man. Don Antonio de Medina, a respected gentleman and wealthy merchant, helped my father study his trade to become a captain rather than remain a common seaman. They were friends for years until my father and Don Antonio=s daughter, Elena, announced they wished to be married. Despite their friendship, Don Antonio forbade the marriage and refused to continue employing my father. He believed Diego=s station in life was beneath his daughter. But Elena, my mother, defied Don Antonio and married Diego. In retaliation, Don Antonio disowned her and would not give them her dowry or inheritance. Only Elena=s servant and friend, Maria Zuñiga, who had grown up with my mother, came with her.

Don Antonio used his influence to prevent anyone in Barcelona from employing my father. Unable to find work, Diego was forced to return to Granada and to his older brother Luis. So as not to be close to Luis (with whom my father had never gotten along), Diego, Elena and Maria settled near Seville in Arroyo, a pueblecito of only about a hundred people. Soon after, my father began sailing again with his brother. Columbus had discovered the New World only a few years before and experienced sailors were highly sought after. Because of this, my father was away from home for long periods of time. He was even away on a voyage when I was born and, later, when my mother died. I was six.

I remember little of her but know she was very beautiful. Her hair was long and dark but her eyes were blue. She had a gentle disposition and was well educated. I remember her trying to teach me numbers and letters (Maria, who had learned with my mother, had better success later but was less gentle).

An epidemic of fever had swept through Seville and its surrounding villages. Many children were sent to the Cathedral to protect them from the sickness. When my mother became ill, I too was sent away. At the Cathedral, I met another boy from Arroyo whose father had fallen ill. His name was Julian Escobar and he became my best friend.

A few days later, a friend of my family came to the Cathedral with news that my mother was worse and that a priest should go to our home. I, not by accident, overheard and asked if my mother was going to die. The woman took hold of my shoulders and saying, ALet us pray for her,@ tried to lead me away. But I broke free and ran all the way back to my home.

I burst into my mother=s room but stopped just short of her bed. I thought she had already died. She was so pale and still but, after a moment, I saw that she was still breathing. I moved close to her side and took her hand. It was cold, no longer burning with fever or warm with life.

AMadre! Mother, please don=t die!@ I whispered, not sure if she could even hear me. APlease, mother, I need you!@

Her eyes fluttered open and she held onto my hands with surprising strength. ADon=t be too sad.@

APlease, mother, you must get better. I will be alone without you.@

She smiled but her eyes were sad. AYou have your father and Maria.@

At that, I felt Maria=s hands on my shoulders. She had been standing nearby but I had not noticed her until that moment. I stiffened, expecting her to pull me away. But she only stood by me, comforting me with her presence.

AAnd I will always be with you.@ My mother then turned to Maria. ATake care of him. Please, my friend. Please take good care of him.@

AI will, I promise you Elena. I will love him like my own son.@ As she said this, I felt something wet fall against my cheek. I glanced up. Maria was crying softly. I had never seen her cry before.

My mother smiled again, this time content and looked back to me. AI love you,@ she whispered, and her hand fell from mine. I was crying to hard to reply. Moments later the priest arrived to administer the Last Rights and in the early hours of the following morning, my mother died.

*****

A few weeks later, my father returned home and received the news that mother was gone. I wanted to be angry with him for not being there but I couldn=t. Looking back he punished himself more than I ever could have. He visited her grave only once, with me. AYou must always be strong, Blas,@ he said while we were there. ASometimes, you have to keep busy just to survive.@

I believe he was saying this more to himself than to me. I didn=t think it was possible for him to be away more than he had been but, somehow, he managed it. I saw him maybe once or twice a year until I was nine when he began allowing me to come with him on short voyages. When I didn=t accompany him, it was our tradition to say farewell on the dock before his departure.

While at home, Maria had managed kept me busy and, for the most part, out of trouble.

*****

As I said before, Julian and I became friends. When I wasn=t at sea with my father, I was with him. His own father had died in the same epidemic as my mother. His mother never recovered from her illness or the loss of her husband. Don Flipe, the wealthiest man in our village made it possible for Julian to attend the seminary at St. Jude=s. What Maria couldn=t teach me in reading and writing, Julian did. And in return, I made sure he didn=t always have his head in a book and taught him to fight and swim (a little). We were as different as night and day. About the same size (though I was two years older than him), he was blond, blue eyed and fair while I was dark haired with eyes that were nearly black and skin many shades darker than his. We also had very different dreams.

*****

When I was eleven, nearly twelve, my father and uncle were hired be captains in a fleet being sent to the New World. For some time, my father had promised to take me on a longer voyage and I was excited when he said I would accompany him as his ship=s cabin boy. But days before we were to sail, he changed his mind. He explained, AThis voyage is too long and too dangerous for you, Blas. You are still too young.@ ABut I will be twelve soon,@I argued, Aand I know many cabin boys are younger than I am now when they begin sailing.@ AI=m sorry, maybe next time,@ my father replied. I was so angry with him that I didn=t go to the docks to see him off. Instead, I stood on a hill over looking the Guadalquivir river and watched until his ship disappeared. Little did I know that it would be my last chance to see him.

*****

That summer began typically for Seville, that is to say, hot and humid. I usually spent the mornings helping Maria or on the docks watching the ships and listening to the sailors= stories. Later, I would walk back to the village just when Julian was coming home from the Seminary. We tried to stay cool swimming in the river and passed time dreaming of our futures. I tried to convince him to join me in the adventures I had planned.

AWe will sail to New World and discover strange lands. We will find gold and other treasures and become famous through out Europe.@

AI don=t want to be an adventurer,@ Julian replied. AI want to become a priest and serve our village.@

ABut you could still come to the New World, Julian, and be a priest there,@ I said, trying to persuade him, as I had many times before. AYou could convert the people there.@

AYou know me, Blas. I could never sail on a ship. I get seasick standing on the beach watching the waves.@ We both laughed and I gave up the argument for the day. We both wanted to go home.

*****

The summer was passing and my father didn=t return when we expected. It is not unusual for him to be delayed but June through October can be a dangerous time to sail to and from the West Indies. His fleet must sail before September, I thought, or risk violet storms. Time passed. Maria and I grew more concerned with each day. Had they been forced to stay in Hispaniola for some unknown reason? Or were they even then trying to sail across the Atlantic. Each day I walked to the docks in Seville hoping that my father had arrived and each night I returned home disappointed and afraid. Another month passed. The summer grew hotter and hotter. I continued dividing my time between the docks and our home. Maria tried to keep me distracted with studies and chores. I was a poor student and helper, having little patience for anything or anyone, even Maria and Julian.

Finally, in early September, I returned home on a dark, cloudy evening that threatened rain, to find a familiar carriage (which belonged to my uncle) at our gate. I rushed inside, believing that my father had returned. I found instead my uncle alone, besides Maria who looked far older than her thirty years. Dread filled me. I would have turned and run but my legs would not obey me. My uncle was a hard man. Tall, with deep-set dark eyes and strong features. He resembled my father physically but my father never had the cold, cruel gaze that was now fixed on me.

ABlas, come here,@ he commanded.

I stood were I was, my legs seemed to have taken root on the threshold.

ACome here,@ he repeated. I could feel the threat in that command but still couldn=t move.

My uncle came towards me. I wet my dry lips and tried to speak. AMy father...@ I croaked.

A...is lost, along with his ship,@ Luis de Mendoza said, his tone cold with anger. I flinched as if he had struck me. As he took another menacing step towards me, I forced my legs to work. I turned and stumbled into the night, my tears blinding me more than the dark. My father was lost! Lost! I vaguely remember hearing the angry calls of my uncle and the pleading ones of Maria but I couldn=t stop. It began to rain and I was forced to take shelter in the hallow of a dead tree. I passed the night cold and shivering, alone with my thoughts and memories. The dawn was grey and dreary. I didn=t come out until the following evening when hunger and thirst forced me from my hiding place. I found myself near the banks of the river, swollen from the heavy rain. I wandered, not knowing where I was going until I found myself in the village. I had no choice but to return home. I didn=t see any sign that my uncle was there as I approached the house. I went inside and found it silent as a tomb.

AMaria,@ I called. My voice, though weak from weariness, echoed through the empty rooms. I searched each of them, calling for Maria, but I was alone. In despair, feeling abandoned by everyone, I collapsed on my bed and fell into a troubled sleep. I was awakened by a hand pulling me roughly to my feet.

AHow dare you,@ a voice growled. Looking up, I stared into the cold eyes of my uncle. AHow dare you disobey me and run away.@ I had no voice with which to reply, not that it would have made a difference. The back of his hand struck me across my face, knocking me to the floor. I remember little of what followed. It was the first beating I received at my uncles hand.

The first but not the last.