The Spanish galleon Santa Carmen advanced majestically, sailing through the turquoise waters of the Caribbean with imposing grace. Its white sails, billowing in the tropical wind, shimmered under the blazing sun, making the golden rigging and the painted Castilian crests on the fluttering flags glint with brilliance. The dark, sturdy hull cut through the waves with solemn elegance, leaving behind a trail of luminous foam.
Onboard, the ship carried valuable goods from Spain destined for the colonies, along with a distinguished passenger: the widow Doña Margarita Isabel de Peraza y Mendoza, daughter of the Marquess Don Juan Felipe de Mendoza y López, Viceroy of New Spain, lieutenant of the king, captain general of the colonial army and of Cuba and the Philippines. The ship had parted from the main fleet due to its slowness—and the insistence of the widow, who was eager to arrive in New Spain.
On the forward deck, carefully swept clean, a solemn mass was being held as part of the novenary rites and funeral honors for the soul of Marquess Don Juan José de Peraza y Escandón, the late husband of the noble lady, who had passed away a month earlier in Madrid. The lady's personal chaplain, Don Diego Alcántar Mena, clad in white and gold vestments, officiated the funeral mass beneath an improvised canopy that barely shielded him from the sun. He raised the chalice in his hands while murmuring the sacred words.
The entire crew, from the youngest deckhands to the most seasoned officers, had gathered in reverent silence. Some had uncovered their heads, others knelt on the hot deck, arms crossed over their chests in devotion. The marchioness stood upright, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, a stout woman dressed in strict mourning: Doña Cleotilde de Torroja y Santa Clara, Countess of Montemayor, who followed the service with fervor. To the young noblewoman's left stood a thin old man dressed in black, wearing a powdered wig and matching tricorn hat, dabbing his brow with a lace handkerchief. He was the notary charged with safeguarding the will and powers of the deceased marquess. The young lady, veiled in thick black lace, yawned occasionally from boredom.
The sea murmured along the ship's sides, and the warm wind carried the Latin chants heavenward, mingling with the salty air and the scent of incense burning in a small iron brazier. For one brief, sacred moment, the ship—this floating fragment of the Empire—seemed suspended between sky and ocean, as if men and vessel alike were lifted on wings of faith toward fates beyond the known horizon.
At the most solemn part of the mass, Father Diego raised the chalice and the host, and nearly everyone knelt. Then he began to say solemnly:
Per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti, in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria…
He paused to take a breath but suddenly set down the chalice and host on the altar and rushed to the rail, where he vomited noisily. Several officers rushed to his aid as murmurs rose among the onlookers.
"Poor Father Diego, he still hasn't recovered from the seasickness," said Doña Cleotilde, making the sign of the cross.
"It's not easy getting used to life aboard a ship. No matter how large it is, the sway of the sea is always a bother. And by all the saints, this infernal heat—I feel like I'm inside a boil pot," said the notary.
"He ought to be used to it by now. It's been more than three days—we've spent several weeks aboard this nutshell," the marchioness remarked with slight impatience.
"Not everyone has Your Excellency's strength and iron will," added the Fleet Admiral, Don Gonzalo de Vera y Montenegro, who stood behind her.
"Luis Carlos, go see how Father Diego is doing and whether he can continue the service. If not, we'll all return to our duties," ordered the admiral.
The young aide nodded and hurried off to obey.
The marchioness wiped sweat from her brow under the black veil and sighed with frustration.
"How much longer until we reach Cuba?" she asked.
"A few more days, Your Excellency. Once in Havana, we'll stay a couple of days before setting sail for Veracruz."
The marchioness smiled insincerely.
"I'm burning with desire to arrive in Mexico City," she said, fanning herself vigorously.
"No doubt... it will be a great relief to be reunited with your father," the admiral replied.
"Of course. My father says the climate in Mexico City is lovely, that it lies in a valley surrounded by mountains and volcanoes. It will be pleasant to be somewhere cool, and not in this humid furnace." The marchioness fanned herself and sighed again. "As for my father, it'll just be a change of guard. I suspect his intentions. I wouldn't be surprised if he plans to stick me in a convent."
The officer allowed himself a discreet smile.
"Your Excellency, don't look at it that way," said Doña Cleotilde de Torroja. "Look, here comes the father."
Father Diego approached unsteadily, supported by two officers. Weakened from retching, he paused before the assembly, who straightened to continue the service. But he merely gave a blessing and announced that the mass had concluded.
In no time, the ship's bell rang, and the entire crew returned to their posts.
"We'd best return to the cabin, Your Excellency," said the countess.
"I wish to get some air," the marchioness replied.
"Out of the question. No widow should be exposed in public; she must remain behind screens, far from worldly pleasures."
"I said I wish to stay. I feel dizzy from the heat, and in that rat trap down there it's even hotter than a bread oven. I'm sure you'll agree, Señor Don Bartolomé Ruiz de la Cueva?"
The notary dabbed his forehead with the lace handkerchief and sighed.
"I agree with Your Excellency... if only the cabins had better ventilation..." he said, using his tricorn as a fan.
"I can have some hammocks set up here on deck if you wish... though you'd be sleeping alongside the crew," the admiral offered.
"Absolutely not!" protested the countess. "I'd rather roast alive than be exposed to the eyes of the men and stir up their lewd desires."
The marchioness let out a laugh, followed by discreet smiles from the notary, the admiral, and the aide.
"In any case, you should take advantage of the moment," said the marchioness.
"Marchioness Margarita, if your father were to hear you speak that way... God knows what he'd do. We should withdraw. Will you join us, Señor Ruiz?"
The notary cleared his throat, dabbing his forehead and neck with the handkerchief.
"I'll stay on deck and seek some shade while I read for a while, if you'll excuse me," he said, then strolled away.
"Marchioness, let us return to our quarters," insisted the countess.
"I'll remain and try to cool off before going back to roast like a pig in the pot," the young Marchioness insisted.
The countess was about to reply when the admiral intervened:
"Allow me to watch over her for a moment. I'll make sure no one approaches the marchioness."
The countess pursed her lips in visible hesitation, but she knew well the young marchioness's stubbornness—an inheritance from the viceroy, her father—so she discreetly retired to her cabin, leaving the deck as the sun slowly descended toward the horizon.