He looked around, and then he
looked down. An undersized urchin with not much on but a pair of ragged
breeches stared up at him boldly, hands behind his back. "Do you know
what ails your ship over there?" He nodded sideways at the disgraced
_Pinta_.
The accent was that of Bilbao in the captain's own native province,
Vizcaya. Ordinarily he would have cuffed the speaker heels over head for
impudence, but the dialect made him pause. Besides, he wanted to hear
something to confirm his suspicions.
"She is no ship of mine," he growled, "and anyway, what do you know
about it?"
"I know much more than they think I do. The calkers did not half do
their work before she left port. I'd like to sail in her if she were
properly looked after. But when a man goes out on the dolphins' track he
likes to come home again, you know."
"A man! Do babes take a ship round Bojador? And who may you call
yourself, zagallo (strong youth)?"
"I am Pedro, son of Pedro who was an escaladero (climber) at the siege
of Alhama. He was killed on the way home, and my mother died of grief,
so that I get my bread where the saints put it. People say that they
unlocked all the jails to get you your crew for the Indies, and now I
see that it is true."
Juan de la Cosa knew the untamable sauciness of the Vizcayan breed, and
knew as well the loyalty that went with it.
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