Godin sat on a bed and started fumbling among the items behind him. “We’ve lost entire days in this—” a fit of cough cut his words short. He’d just taken a dusty tome from underneath a pile of discarded clothes.
Mutis waved the dust from this sight and glanced at the cover. “Décadas da Ásia. I know that one.”
“History?”
“Yes. Mostly Portuguese.”
Godin coughed some more before asking, “Is it interesting?”
“It’s very complete, but I wouldn’t lose time in studying it now. Its content is not exactly relevant to our present problem.”
“I dispute that,” said Godin, as he drew a handful of loose sheets from within the book’s cover.
Mutis opened his eyes wide. “Is that…?”
Godin spread the papers on the floor, straightening the wrinkles with care not to break the precious drawings. “Indeed. This is the design he completed.”
Knowing that the question was redundant, but still needing to hear someone voice the answer, Mutis asked, “What’s the queen going to do with it?”
“Build it, of course. And go to war.”
Mutis looked at the machine, which resembled others they’d seen during their research, but this version contained more notes, explanations, measurements, and instructions. “Something so beautiful, turned into a weapon.”
“That’s what’s beautiful about it.”
“I was thinking you’d prefer to use it to get a better view of the sky.”
The idea seemed to please Godin. “That would be useful; I’ll grant that. But this, José,” he pointed at the papers, “is how we’re going to kick the Dutch out of Brazil and the Danish out of the southern tip. This is how we’re going to reconquer the colonies that have declared independence. This is how we’re going to claim the world for Spain.”
Midnight, June 2 (Gregorian), 1756
Atlantic Ocean
Mars had gone below the horizon, but Jupiter was clear and bright, three of its satellites fully visible. At the other side of the sky, Saturn and its crown shone mysterious in the moonless night. With Godin’s telescope, Mutis had tried his hand at the observation of the heavenly bodies, finding them more interesting than he’d expected. They were on a ship bound for Lisbon, relieved that they’d succeeded at finding the information the queen had demanded, but apprehensive about the fact that they weren’t relying on the Dutch to keep them safe this time. On that matter Godin had insisted, and Mutis had, after lengthy discussion, had to admit, that they couldn’t board an enemy ship with the secret they were carrying. They told themselves that they would have to trust that their return was pleasing to God, but after the earthquake, such reassurances were no longer enough. Stargazing had become their main means of distraction from the sense of dread that followed them all the time.
“How many moons does Saturn have?” asked Mutis, as entranced by the halo surrounding the planet as every observer since Galileo.
“Five. But it wouldn’t surprise me if more are found.”
He looked at Jupiter again. “Which moon am I not seeing?”
“Its name is Io. Give it a few hours; it’ll show up.”
Mutis put down the telescope. “How do you even tell them apart?”
The question made Godin chuckle. “How do you tell varicella and variola apart?”
“Oh, they look nothing alike.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But to me,” said Godin, pointing his finger up, “each of those dots of light might as well have its own face.”
Mutis put the telescope to his eye again. “Well, God may know each star by name, but I only know one. Where’s Polaris?”
“That’s to the north, of course.” Then, seeing what his partner actually meant, he added, “North is that way.” While Mutis changed his position, he took his notebook from his satchel, consulted his calculations for that month, and compared them to the visible constellations. “We’ve already crossed the equator, so Polaris must be visible by now, even more so given that we’re in summer. But it’s going to be very close to the horizon.”
Lowering the telescope to the northern horizon, Mutis searched for the north star, unable to ascertain which of the millions of lights it could be. “All I see is waves.”
“Look for a group of stars arranged like this,” said Godin, holding a lantern over his notebook. “Polaris is the last in this line.”
Mutis nodded and looked again. “I see nothing that looks like that drawing.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“I’m seeing the edge of the sea, and… an entire family of flying fish just jumped.”
“Just now?”
Mutis shrugged. “They must be running from a shark.”
Godin took the telescope, followed the shape of Ursa Minor to its end, almost touching the horizon, and saw, too, the fish jump. “Something is disturbing the fish.” He followed the trail of the fish and saw a piece of driftwood moving slowly.
All he had was starlight to go by, but he was sure he recognized that shape.
“José, point the telescope at the log next to those fish and tell me what you think.”
Mutis obeyed, found the innocent-looking driftwood, and had the same thought. Then he looked at the sea without the telescope and gave up any hope of estimating the distance by himself. “How much time do we have?”
“Minutes, at best. Don’t lose heart, José. This advance notice may make us the first travelers to ward off a submarine attack.”
“What? What do we do?”
Godin loosened the belt of his satchel. “Go to our room. Whatever happens, don’t let these papers leave your sight. Everything depends on this. I’m going to wake up the captain.” He fastened the satchel around Mutis’s shoulder and went off running inside the ship.
Mutis followed the stairs to the lower decks, walked into their room, and sat on his bed. His hands grasped Father Bartolomeu’s work with desperation. He’d grown up on a town of sailors, and believed he still remembered how to swim, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay afloat while carrying a satchel that must stay dry. To his horror, he noticed his mind had started weighing how much more worth his own life was than the papers, and discarded the whole chain of thought.
After another minute, Godin entered the room, looking upset. “The captain won’t believe me. Come with me. You have to tell him what you saw in Cádiz.”
Mutis opened his mouth to ask something, but the entire ship was shaken by a sudden jerk. “They… they’ve started shooting.”
The next cannon ball let in a stream of ocean, and the rest of the night was chaos.
Morning, June 3 (Gregorian), 1756
Saint Peter and Saint Paul Archipelago
Mutis was still hungry, but he couldn’t stand eating another raw crab.
The submarine had pursued their ship relentlessly all night, launching shot after shot until there was no recognizable piece left for salvaging. Holding on to pieces of the hull, the two of them had been carried by the waves to a group of islets frequented by birds, where they had slept for less than an hour until the sun rose and they could take the true measure of their plight. Over the course of the morning, more pieces of the ship had been pushed to the shore. Once it was half a mast. Then it was two tables. Later, a sail wrapped around its own ropes. Every part had been destroyed.
They didn’t see any other survivors. Miraculously, Mutis still had the satchel.
Hopelessness descended over them as they walked around the small island and found it empty of humans. They were thousands of miles from the Brazilian coast, thousands of miles from Africa, and impossibly far from home. They were alone.