Perro de Mar (Novel Excerpt)

By Eduardo Jáuregui Martínez

Somewhere along the Gulf of Mexico, May 18th, 1683.

A gentle knock on the door brought Don Fernando to the present. He took a long sip from his glass, letting the cheap wine bought in Santo Domingo settle down his throat, before answering.

“Who is it?”

“Captain.”

A man waited at the entrance of the captain’s cabin. He was clad in a dirty blue jacket, his face sharp and wrinkled before his years, and tufts of dirty blonde hair sticked to his skin, camouflaged by his tanned complexion.

“Don Heriberto, please come in!” Fernando signaled from his chair, his face returning, hesitant, to the map displayed on his dining table.

“Sir.”

The officer stood close to the table set on the back of the captain’s left wall. It wasn’t a particularly large piece, six chairs total surrounding its sides. All of them empty, besides the one heading the table, with a direct view to the gallery at the back end of the room. The vastness of the evening seas dominated the sight, nothing but a dark blue chasm filling the horizon, save for the white foam rising up with the waves, the spare stars sneaking away from the clouded veil, and the yellow beams signaling other ships trailing them from behind.

“Is there any news outside, First Officer?”

“Nothing but calm waves and good wind, Captain. Nuestro Señor has blessed us with good weather.”

The captain nodded his head. His face didn’t relax. Instead, he continued studying the map of the Caribbean displayed from side to side on his table.

“And is there any news from the rest of the fleet?”

“Nothing so far.”

Another unconvinced nod.

Don Heriberto revolved on his place. “God forgive me for my impertinence sir, but if I may, is there anything occupying your mind?”

The Captain elevated his face towards his subordinate, examining him closely. Then, without words, he signaled to the sailor to take a seat, and observe the leather map at hand.

A scale model galleon sat between Cuba and New Spain. Fingers away, a spot in the Mexican coast could be distinguished among the candlelight, labeled Veracruz in red ink.

But the scale ship was not alone.

“Here. When we were passing through the Cuban coastline two days ago.” The Captain pointed at another scale ship northwest of the first, merely a half-moon shape with a stick for a mast and some cheap cloth for a sail. “Our navios de aviso caught eye of a ship en route to Veracruz.”

“Are we thinking pirates, Captain?”

“Or French, or Dutch ships…all the same in the end.”

The First Officer eyed the map again, the two ships, and their positions. He sighed, a bare grin of satisfaction drawing on his lips.

“They have never dared to attack Veracruz, not in all of my years of service, sir. Those heathens only venture into unguarded ports and islands; that city is too much for them.”

“I pray that you are right, First Officer.”

“God protects the men who do His will, Captain.”

Don Fernando rose from his chair and walked in direction of the gallery. The oil lamps hung on the walls shone on his face, revealing dark circles that only served to burn brighter his almond eyes. He had a rather fair physique, with red blotches of burnt skin pullulating his neck and face, emphasizing more his youth.

He opened the glass doors of the gallery, letting in the evening breeze, allowing himself to breathe for a moment. God knew he needed it.

The lanterns of the ship directly behind them shone like an oasis amidst the blue desert. The San Joaquín. The flickers of distant lights lined up far into the horizon, until the Captain’s eyes caught none but a speck.

New Spain’s Fleet.

Just a handful of hours, Don Fernando thought, and this flock of wooden pilgrims from the other side of the seas would reach their promised land: New Spain. Soon enough, their bellies would bulge with the expected share of golden and silver fruits of the earth.

And in the blink of an eye, they would leave back to were they came from, under the renewed promise to come back the next year, and all the years to come.

Just a handful of hours, and all would be done. But this short timeframe didn’t help to alleviate the young captain’s fears. Something was about to happen; he could feel it in the stillness of the night.

Voices rumbled outside. The planks creaked under the pass of heavy thuds. The bell rang, signaling alarm. By this point, both captain and officer were on edge, and before there was a chance for them to scourge to the deck and see what in all Heavens was happening, the cabin’s door opened again. In its wake, a sailor, pale even under the dusk of night, his eyes open in full plates, his mouth, trembling but ready to bolt out the news.

“Captain!”

“What happened?!”

“The port!”

Don Fernando thundered out of his room, his stomach turning, leaving the two other men to follow after him. He didn’t want to hear more, he didn’t want to confirm what he

already knew had happened, what had been buzzing in his mind, pinching in his heart for two long days.

The upper deck was wide awake. Sailors and tercios de marina both crowded the ship’s waist, ever more souls coming through from the lower decks, all pushing for extra room that wasn’t there to waste. But aside from the rumbling of coming and going, everyone was silent after the first rupture into the night. Nothing but a silent gasp, a silent murmur traversing through the entire ship, traversing the waves, traversing through the next boat in line, and then to the next, and the next.

A deafening silence, only waiting for an acknowledgement that none wanted to announce.

In the distance, against the blue abyss laying vast through the eyes, yellow flicks came to life among the sea of darkness. A city. But something was amiss. With the faintest of traces from the coming sun turning the sky into a vapid pink, Don Fernando noticed grey columns rising up from those sprinkled lights, rising up into the skies, and joining into a crown of smoke sitting before the celestial spheres. A sacrifice of fire and ash.

Veracruz was burning.

Eduardo Jáuregui is an international student from Irapuato, Mexico, now finishing his undergraduate degree on Creative Writing at John Paul the Great Catholic University in Escondido, California. When not worried by college assignments, he enjoys brewing coffee with his espresso machine, reading books of long-dead authors, and writing about faraway worlds and melancholic protagonists. You can follow him on Instagram at @eduardo_ajm.