Monday, December 30, 1529
This was the wrong harbour, the wrong land. It was even the wrong hemisphere. But that didn’t matter any more. Francisco de Hoces would die on this beach. Destiny had decided that for him.
The San Lesmes struck a rocky reef as they entered the harbour. The fragile wooden vessel could not be saved, but they had been blessed enough to limp closer to the coast as it went down. A few of the men had made it to shore, Francisco among them. The rest had gone down with the ship and all of their supplies, somewhere in the harbour. Their fleeting joy of reaching dry land was short-lived, however, since they were immediately taken upon by the local Indians. Some of the men ran to hide, but that was fruitless, these cannibalistic murderers would find them in minutes. Their noses were well trained, they were hunters. Francisco stood alone on the beach and stared into the eyes of three fearsome looking Indians. He knew death was before him.
This land had been his home for four years, he knew the people. He had been welcomed by the tribes of the south, those he now called family. But this tribe, the tribe at the southernmost point of Isla del Norte, they were different, they weren’t his family. Francisco stood strong. His duty as one of the king’s men was to be steadfast and fight for his nation, even though he hadn’t seen Spain for so long. Today, home was on a quiet beach on the southern part of Isla de Sur. He and his crew had built simple homes in the ways shown to them by their tribal family. They built their lives in this land and hoarded treasures, expecting more of their countrymen to come and join them.
One of the Indians leapt toward him, he grunted and panted, a long club dancing between his hands. With the same pace, the Indian jumped back into place. They were taunting him, death would have to wait.
Their treasures, worthless, he realised. The gold and stones were as valuable as dust now. Only his journal might hold some worth. It revealed an incredible journey. A wondrous truth. Someone had to find this treasure. They could keep the gold too, but his legacy was his most valuable possession.
In a flash, another of them jumped at him. He stared into the huge white eyes which bulged out of dark skin. That was the look of death and Francisco was ready to die. He saw the blur of movement. Then nothing.