I judged the veneer of Spaniard over the ruffian might prove very thin. But the game was on. I named a price double what I had just paid.
He laughed. "You have cojones, lad. At that price, I may decide there is no need to pay after all."
Under his piercing glare a cold sweat trickled down my back. I stood silent with my arms folded, though I felt as brave as pudding. Calmly, he named a price three fourths of what I had asked. He also knew the game.
After a show of deliberation, I allowed, "Done. . . . If you take all ten barrels."
His hand rested idly on the hilt of his sword.
"Be aware that dangling cojones can be easily cut off, boy." But he looked pleased. "We have a deal."
The best of results. We had both won.
"Deliver the barrels to the Santo Domingo, the carraca at the end of the dock. I'll take this one as surety and pay you when I see the rest. Ask for Capitán Velazquez."
Before I could protest, he hoisted the keg onto his shoulder with a grunt and sauntered off as if it was a barrel of feathers. I could not have rolled it two pasos without help, and I was not a small man.
And that was my first encounter with Capitán Diego Velazquez. Who became a close friend and whom I never again charged more than I had paid for any goods. His word was gold and he directed many clients to my establishment. We have unstoppered and had our way with many an innocent bottle of rum in the years since while solving the problems of the Spanish Realm many times over. He also purchased all my hempen rope that day, leaving my fledgling enterprise entirely without stock for the first time.
* * *
I mention my establishment. By 1515, Herrera Ships' Chandlers was known throughout the Spanish Main. And I had to graduate from the stable to my newly-built premises on the approach to the docks. My Taíno mule cart driver, Cayacoa, became my most trusted employee and friend. After eleven years of the tedium of swabbing decks and blindly obeying orders, the tedium of a successful business on dry land was a welcome exchange. The following six years of my life in the New World were unremarkable. Or perhaps I should say they were remarkably unremarkable.
I must explain. A port city is nothing if not a wonderful place for foreign diseases and blights to get together and exchange clients. At any given moment, at least one vessel at anchor flew the Yellow Jack. The plague-ridden ship was given a wide berth. But in blue-balled desperation at least one doomed sailor would find his way ashore to share his bounty. As well, conquistadores would often blow in from a Caribbean venture with some colorful new pestilence that would not catch fire until the sailors had spread their cheer throughout San Juan. Generally, at any moment half the populace of the town was either recovering or dying or a bit of both. But, as God is my witness, I never so much as sneezed while poor wretches collapsed all round me.
It may have been the easy life after the punishing lot of the marine, but my "bad" leg never again gave me the least twinge. I can barely remember which it was now. I got in the habit of leaving Cayacoa in charge of business and taking brisk hikes in the mountainous country above the town. And I enjoyed the physical labor of lifting and hauling the heavy crates, barrels and coils that constituted my trade. I had not felt so vigorous since my youthful days in Andalucía.
One sultry afternoon a shaven-headed lout bumped shoulders with me on the street. The man had the breadth of a bull. I picked myself up from the ground.
I threatened, "Watch your step, man. Are you drunk?"
He made as if to strike me, then suddenly broke into a stupid grin.
Chapter 2 - A Spanish Inquisition
Start from the beginning
