All the way round.
Eighteen emaciated men staggered ashore at the Dock of Mules three years after their departure, barefoot in their shirts and carrying lighted candles. Some recited the 23rd Psalm ‘yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil…but others were unable to speak. Pigafetta could not control the tears leaking from his eyes and saw only a blur, heard only a babble, felt only the pain in his chest. The Hapsburg Eagle was a rag hanging from the masthead, sails hung in tatters from the yards and Victoria’s timbers were bleached and split.
News of their arrival had travelled up the river from Sanlùcar but the watching crowd was silent, not joyful. Some crossed themselves, some reached out as if to touch and women in black searched the faces for a husband, son or lover and, finding none, bit their bottom lips.
see:A Singular Captain