Santiago's Sword

January 3, 1543; California Coast

Waves thrashed a fleet of Spanish Galleons laboring on a restless Pacific Ocean. The San Salvador, Victoria, and San Miguel protested Neptune’s attempt to master their adventurous spirits. Their sails struggled against the masts that bound them. A winter storm was blowing in from the north and whipping the Spanish military banners. The crossed red branches on the flag’s white background looked like dueling swords.

In contrast, a lone canoe skimmed the mountains of water, defying its pull. Ten men paddled in unison, their long, dark hair blowing across their round faces. Salt-water spray dusted the bearskin capes that shielded them from the biting wind. They beached their vessel, and a regal-looking woman stepped from the tomol, chaperoned by ten distinguished young men, the Brotherhood of the Canoe. An otter skin wrapped Tukutuk’s shoulders and a matching skirt draped her hips. A band of seashells crowned her brow, and matching strings hugged her neck and ankles. She took a prominent place among an assembly of mourners and solemnly watched the proceedings.

The cold wind whistled through the low brush of the island and as it flowed over the mouth of the cavern, a somber tune escaped. It seemed nature also mourned the demise of Capitán Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. The white pallor of death tainted his skin. Tukutuk’s deceased companion lay dressed in leather boots and gloves. Neglect had dulled the bronze armor. Age had yellowed the velvet blouse beneath. Abuse had frayed the lace trim.

The sailors unloaded cannons at the mouth of the cave and faced those outwards towards the sea. Cabrillo’s crew, dressed in military attire, formed a hedge around his corpse—helmets removed, heads bowed in reflection. Fray Julian de Lescano stood over Cabrillo. His prayer beads draped over a prayer book in his left hand. They swung back and forth in a hypnotizing journey. His right hand drew invisible symbols over the corpse while he whispered a prayer. Finally, the holy man took a flask of clear liquid and sprinkled it over the walls of the sepulcher.

Six soldiers lifted the woolen blanket on which the body lay. They bore the burden into the cavern and gently lowered the corpse to the ground. Tukutuk voiced something to the priest in her native tongue. She pointed at the corpse and made a swirling motion with her right index finger. She pointed towards the westward horizon with her left hand.

“She wants us to turn the body so it faces the sunset,” Lescano guessed.

The men adjusted the body. Then each in turn approached and saluted their captain. Finally, a gunner stationed at each cannon volleyed a ball over the prow of one of the three ships in the harbor. The natives stopped their ears and cried out at the thunder claps escaping the cannons.

Tukutuk slowly advanced to the corpse. She covered her husband’s face with a square of deerskin. She knelt at his feet and sang a song. Her bodyguards wailed as she did so. One mourner lit a stone tobacco pipe and began to smoke. He circled the body, followed by the other five celebrants. Tukutuk’s song ended. The smoker lifted the face covering and blew a cloud onto Cabrillo’s head. One by one, each of The Brotherhood presented Tukutuk with a string of shells. These she placed around Cabrillo’s neck and covered his head with his bronze helmet and face covering.

Before they sealed the cave, Tukutuk ordered her chaperones to carry in a cash of golden items. She meant for Cabrillo to take the treasure with him on his journey to the next world even though he had bequeathed it upon the child in her womb. Bartolomé Ferrelo, who had been Cabrillo’s chief pilot, advanced towards the tomb carrying Cabrillo’s diamond-studded sword. The handle of the weapon cast tiny sparkles of light onto the rocks beside the entry. Ferrelo entered to lay the weapon under the crossed arms of the corpse.

“No,” objected Lescano. “We’re taking that with us,” and he grabbed hold of it.

When they rolled the last rock over the mouth of the cave, Tukutuk held back any display of the emotions she felt. The priest sang a hymn, nodded at the widow and walked solemnly with the soldiers to their boats. The priest cradled the sword close to his body.

Tukutuk and her guardians lingered until the Spaniards had sailed away. Then she hurried over to the tomb and fell on her hands and knees before it, rocking back and forth and singing to herself. Her parents had prophetically named her, for Tukutuk means “Mourning Dove.” Betrothed at age fifteen, widowed a month later, now widowed a second time at age twenty, Tukutuk was not a stranger to sorrow. Her tears left black streaks down her round face.

“Your father was a great man,’ she told her unborn child. She rubbed her swollen belly when the baby kicked. “On his deathbed, he requested that we bury him here—close to us. We will take care of him when all others have sailed into the rising sun. You will be a man of the sea like your father and mine.” She pressed her fists to her chest.

Tukutuk rose to her feet. An inspiring thought had roused her and she had work to do. She located the flat, squirrel-sized grave marker on which one of the sailors had engraved the letters JRC. She found two rocks. A thick one she used like a hammer and the sharp one as a chisel. After an hour’s labor, she rocked back on her heels to examine her work. She had carved a stick figure onto the stone. She laid it before the burial chamber and released a sigh of satisfaction...