University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

A sight that struck our hero with a terror and awe,
almost as great as those experienced by the ignorant Haytians
at the report and effect of the arquebuse, awaited him,
as he came in view of the anchorage. The Santa Maria,
that vessel of the admiral, which he had left only four days
before in her gallant array and pride, lay a stranded wreck
on the sands, with fallen masts, broken sides, and all the
other signs of nautical destruction. The Niña was anchored
in safety, it is true, at no great distance, but a sense
of loneliness and desertion came over the young man, as

he gazed at this small craft, which was little more than a
felucca, raised to the rank of a ship for the purposes of the
voyage. The beach was covered with stores, and it was
evident that the Spaniards and the people of Guacanagari
toiled in company, at the construction of a sort of fortress;
an omen that some great change had come over the expedition.
Ozema was immediately left in the house of a native,
and the two adventurers hurried forward to join their
friends, and to ask an explanation of what they had seen.

Columbus received his young friend kindly, but in deep
affliction. The manner in which the ship was lost has been
often told, and Luis learned that, the Niña being too small
to carry all away, a colony was to be left in the fortress,
while the remainder of the adventurers hastened back to
Spain. Guacanagari had shown himself full of sympathy,
and was kindness itself, while every one had been too
much occupied with the shipwreck to miss our hero, or to
hearken to rumours of an event as common as an inroad
from a Carib chief, to carry off an Indian beauty. Perhaps
the latter event was still too recent to have reached
the shore.

The week that succeeded the return of Luis, was one of
active exertion. The Santa Maria was wrecked on the
morning of Christmas day, 1492, and on that of the 4th
of January following, the Niña was ready to depart on her
return voyage. During this interval, Luis had seen Ozema
but once, and then he had found her sorrowing, mute, and
resembling a withered flower, that retained its beauty even
while it drooped. On the evening of the third, however,
while lingering near the new-finished fortress, he was summoned
by Sancho to another interview. To the surprise
of our hero, he found the young cacique with his sister.

Although language was wanting, on this occasion, the
parties easily understood each other. Ozema was no
longer sorrowful, and borne down with grief: the smile
and the laugh came easily from her young and buoyant
spirits, and Luis thought he had never seen her so winning
and lovely. She had arranged her scanty toilet with Indian
coquetry, and the bright warm colour of her cheeks
added new lustre to her brilliant eyes. Her light, agile
form, a model of artless grace, seemed so ethereal as

scarce to touch the earth. The secret of this sudden
change was not long hid from Luis. The brother and sister,
after discussing all their dangers and escapes, and passing
in review the character and known determination of
Caonabo, had come to the conclusion that there was no
refuge for Ozema but in flight. What most determined the
brother to consent that his sister should accompany the
strangers to their distant home, it would be useless to
inquire; but the motive of Ozema herself, can be no secret
to the reader. It was known that the admiral was desirous
of carrying to Spain a party of natives; and three females,
one of whom was of Ozema's rank, had already consented
to go. This chieftain's wife was not only known to Ozema,
but she was a kinswoman. Every thing seemed propitious
to the undertaking; and as a voyage to Spain was still a
mystery to the natives, who regarded it as something like
an extended passage from one of their islands to another,
no formidable difficulties presented themselves to the imagination
of either the cacique or his sister.

This proposition took our hero by surprise. He was
both flattered and pleased at the self-devotion of Ozema,
even while it troubled him. Perhaps there were moments
when he a little distrusted himself. Still Mercedes reigned
in his heart, and he shook off the feeling as a suspicion that
a true knight could not entertain without offering an insult
to his own honour. On second thoughts, there were fewer
objections to the scheme than he had at first fancied; and,
after an hour's discussion, he left the place to go and consult
the admiral.

Columbus was still at the fortress, and he heard our hero
gravely and with interest. Once or twice Luis's eyes
dropped under the searching glance of his superior; but,
on the whole, he acquitted himself of the task he had undertaken,
with credit.

“The sister of a cacique, thou say'st, Don Luis,” returned
the admiral, thoughtfully. “The virgin sister of a
cacique?”

“Even so, Don Christopher; and of a grace, birth, and
beauty, that will give our Lady, the Queen, a most exalted
idea of the merits of our discovery.”

“Thou wilt remember, Señor Conde, that nought but

purity may be offered to purity. Doña Isabella is a model
for all queens, and mothers, and wives; and I trust nothing
to offend her angelic mind can ever come from her
favoured servants. There has been no deception practised
on this wild girl, to lead her into sin and misery?”

“Don Christopher, you can scarce think this of me. Doña
Mercedes herself is not more innocent than the girl I mean,
nor could her brother feel more solicitude in her fortunes,
than I feel. When the king and queen have satisfied their
curiosity, and dismissed her, I propose to place her under
the care of the Lady of Valverde.”

“The rarer the specimens that we take, the better, Luis.
This will gratify the sovereigns, and cause them to think
favourably of our discoveries, as thou sayest. It might be
done without inconvenience. The Niña is small, of a
verity, but we gain much in leaving this large party behind
us. I have given up the principal cabin to the other
females, since thou and I can fare rudely for a few weeks.
Let the girl come, and see thou to her comfort and convenience.”

This settled the matter. Early next morning Ozema
embarked, carrying with her the simple wealth of an Indian
princess, among which the turban was carefully preserved.
Her relative had an attendant, who sufficed for both. Luis
paid great attention to the accommodations, in which both
comfort and privacy were duly respected. The parting
with Mattinao was touchingly tender, for the domestic affections
appear to have been much cultivated among these
simple-minded and gentle people; but the separation, it was
supposed, would be short, and Ozema had, again and again,
assured her brother that her repugnance to Caonabo, powerful
cacique as he might be, was unconquerable. Each
hour increased it, strengthening her resolution never to become
his wife. The alternative was to secrete herself in
the island, or to make this voyage to Spain; and there was
glory as well as security in the latter. With this consolation
the brother and sister parted.

Columbus had intended to push his discoveries much farther,
before he returned to Europe; but the loss of the
Santa Maria, and the desertion of the Pinta, reduced him
to the necessity of bringing the expedition to a close, lest,

by some untoward accident, all that had actually been
achieved should be for ever lost to the world. Accordingly,
in the course of the 4th of January, 1493, he made sail to
the eastward, holding his course along the shores of Hayti.
His great object now was to get back to Spain before his
remaining little bark should fail him, when his own name
would perish with the knowledge of his discoveries. Fortunately,
however, on the 6th, the Pinta was seen coming
down before the wind, Martin Alonzo Pinzon having effected
one of the purposes for which he had parted company,
that of securing a quantity of gold, but failed in
discovering any mines, which is believed to have been his
principal motive.

It is not important to the narrative to relate the details of
the meeting that followed. Columbus received the offending
Pinzon with prudent reserve, and, hearing his explanations,
he directed him to prepare the Pinta for the return passage.
After wooding and watering accordingly, in a bay favourable
to such objects, the two vessels proceeded to the eastward
in company; still following the north shore of Hayti,
Española, or Little Spain, as the island had been named
by Columbus.[1]

It was the 16th of the month, ere the adventurers finally
took their leave of this beautiful spot. They had scarcely
got clear of the land, steering a north-easterly course, when
the favourable winds deserted them, and they were again

met by the trades. The weather was moderate, however,
and by keeping the two vessels on the best tack, by the 10th
of February, the admiral, making sundry deviations from a
straight course, however, had stretched across the track of
ocean in which these constant breezes prevailed, and
reached a parallel of latitude as high as Palos, his port. In
making this long slant, the Niña, contrary to former experience,
was much detained by the dull sailing of the Pinta,
which vessel, having sprung her after-mast, was unable to
bear a press of sail. The light breezes also favoured the
first, which had ever been deemed a fast craft, in smooth
water and gentle gales.

Most of the phenomena of the outward passage were observed
on the homeward; but the tunny-fish no longer excited
hopes, nor did the sea-weed awaken fears. These
familiar objects were successfully, but slowly passed, and
the variable winds were happily struck again in the first
fortnight. Here the traverses necessarily became more and
more complicated, until the pilots, unused to so long and
difficult a navigation, in which they received no aids from
either land or water, got confused in their reckonings, disputing
hotly among themselves concerning their true position.

“Thou hast heard to-day, Luis,” said the admiral smiling,
in one of his renewed conferences with our hero, “the contentions
of Vicente Yañez, with his brother, Martin Alonzo,
and the other pilots, touching our distance from Spain.
These constant shifts of wind have perplexed the honest
mariners, and they fancy themselves in any part of the
Atlantic, but that in which they really are!”

“Much depends on you, Señor; not only our safety, but
the knowledge of our great discoveries.”

“Thou sayest true, Don Luis. Vicente Yañez, Sancho
Ruiz, Pedro Alonzo Niño, and Bartolemeo Roldan, to say
nothing of the profound calculators in the Pinta, place the
vessels in the neighbourhood of Madeira, which is nearer to
Spain, by a hundred and fifty leagues, than the truth would
show. These honest people have followed their wishes,
rather than their knowledge of the ocean and the heavens.”

“And you, Don Christopher, where do you place the
caravels, since there is no motive to conceal the truth?”

“We are south of Flores, young count, fully twelve degrees
west of the Canaries, and in the latitude of Nafé, in
Africa. But I would that they should be bewildered, until
the right of possession to our discoveries be made a matter
of certainty. Not one of these men now doubts his ability to
do all I have done, and yet neither is able to grope his
way back again, after crossing this track of water to Asia!”

Luis understood the admiral, and the size of the vessels
rendering the communication of secrets hazardous, the
conversation changed.

Up to this time, though the winds were often variable, the
weather had been good. A few squalls had occurred, as
commonly happens at sea, but they had proved to be neither
long nor severe. All this was extremely grateful to Columbus,
who, now he had effected the great purpose for
which he might have been said to live, felt some such concern
lest the important secret should be lost to the rest of
mankind, as one who carries a precious object through
scenes of danger experiences for the safety of his charge.
A change, however, was at hand, and at the very moment
when the great navigator began to hope the best, he was
fated to experience the severest of all his trials.

As the vessels advanced north, the weather became cooler,
as a matter of course, and the winds stronger. During
the night of the 11th of February, the caravels made a
great run on their course, gaining more than a hundred
miles between sunset and sunrise. The next morning many
birds were in sight, from which fact Columbus believed himself
quite near the Azores, while the pilots fancied they
were in the immediate vicinity of Madeira. The following
day the wind was less favourable, though strong, and a
heavy sea had got up. The properties of the little Niña
now showed themselves to advantage, for, ere the turn of
the day, she had to contend with such a struggle of the
elements, as few in her had ever before witnessed. Fortunately,
all that consummate seamanship could devise to
render her safe and comfortable had been done, and she
was in as perfect a state of preparation for a tempest, as
circumstances would allow. The only essential defect was
her unusual lightness, since, most of her stores as well
as her water being nearly exhausted, her draught of

water was materially less than it should have been. The
caravel was so small, that this circumstance, which is of
little consequence to the safety of large vessels, got to be
one of consideration in a craft whose means of endurance
did not place her above the perils of squalls. The reader
will understand the distinction better when he is told that
ships of size can only lose their spars by sudden gusts of
wind, seldom being thrown on their beam-ends, as it is
termed, unless by the power of the waves; whereas, smaller
craft incur the risk of being capsized, when the spread
of their canvass is disproportioned to their stability. Although
the seamen of the Niña perceived this defect in their
caravel, which, in a great measure, proceeded from the
consumption of the fresh water, they hoped so soon to gain
a haven, that no means had been taken to remedy the evil.

Such was the state of things, as the sun set on the night
of the 12th of February, 1493. As usual, Columbus was
on the poop, vessels of all sizes then carrying these clumsy
excrescences, though this of the Niña was so small as
scarce to deserve the name. Luis was at his side, and
both watched the aspect of the heavens and the ocean in
grave silence. Never before had our hero seen the elements
in so great commotion, and the admiral had just remarked,
that even he had not viewed many nights as threatening.
There is a solemnity about a sunset at sea, when the clouds
appear threatening, and the omens of a storm are brooding,
that is never to be met with on the land. The loneliness
of a ship, struggling through a waste of dreary-looking
water, contributes to the influence of the feelings that are
awakened, as there appears to be but one object on which
the wild efforts of the storm can expend themselves. All
else seem to be in unison to aid the general strife; ocean,
heavens, and the air, being alike accessaries in the murky
picture. When the wintry frowns of February are thrown
around all, the gloomy hues of the scene are deepened to
their darkest tints.

“This is a brooding night-fall, Don Luis,” Columbus remarked,
just as the last rays that the sun cast upwards on
the stormy-looking clouds disappeared from their ragged
outlines—“I have rarely seen another as menacing.”

“One has a double confidence in the care of God, while

sailing under your guidance, Señor; first in his goodness,
and next in the knowledge of his agent's skilfulness.”

“The power of the Almighty is sufficient to endue the
feeblest mortal with all fitting skill, when it is his divine
will to spare; or to rob the most experienced of their
knowledge, when his anger can only be appeased by the
worldly destruction of his creatures.”

“You look upon the night as portentous, Don Christopher!”

“I have seen omens as ill, though very seldom. Had
not the caravel this burthensome freight, I might view our
situation less anxiously.”

“You surprise me, sir admiral! the pilots have regretted
that our barque is so light.”

“True, as to material substance; but it beareth a cargo
of knowledge, Luis, that it would be grievous to see wasted
on these vacant waters. Dost thou not perceive how fast
and gloomily the curtain of night gathereth about us, and
the manner in which the Niña is rapidly getting to be our
whole world? Even the Pinta is barely distinguishable,
like a shapeless shadow on the foaming billows, serving
rather as a beacon to warn us of our own desolation, than
as a consort to cheer us with her presence and companionship.”

“I have never known you thus moody, excellent Señor,
on account of the aspect of the weather!”

“'Tis not usual with me, young lord; but my heart
is loaded with its glorious secret. Behold!—dost thou remark
that further sign of the warring of the elements?”

The admiral, as he spoke, was standing with his face
towards Spain, while his companion's gaze was fastened on
the portentous-looking horizon of the west, around which
still lingered sufficient light to render its frowns as chilling
as they were visible. He had not seen the change that
drew the remark from Columbus, but, turning quickly, he
asked an explanation. Notwithstanding the season, the
horizon at the north-east had been suddenly illuminated
by a flash of lightning, and even while the admiral was relating
the fact, and pointing out the quarter of the heavens
in which the phenomenon had appeared, two more flashes
followed each other in quick succession.

“Señor Vicente”—called out Columbus, leaning forward
in a way to overlook a group of dusky figures that was
collected on the half-deck beneath him—“Is Señor Vicente
Yañez of your number?”

“I am here, Don Christopher, and note the omen. It is
the sign of even more wind.”

“We shall be visited with a tempest, worthy Vicente,
and it will come from that quarter of the heavens, or its opposite.
Have we made all sure in the caravel?”

“I know not what else is to be done, Señor Almirante.
Our canvass is at the lowest, everything is well lashed, and
we carry as little aloft as can be spared. Sancho Ruiz,
look you to the tarpaulins, lest we ship more water than will
be safe.”

“Look well to our light, too, that our consort may not
part from us in the darkness. This is no time for sleep,
Vicente—place your most trusty men at the tiller.”

“Señor, they are selected with care. Sancho Mundo,
and young Pepe of Moguer, do that duty, at present; others
as skilled await to relieve them, when their watch ends.”

“'T is well, good Pinzon—neither you nor I can close
an eye to-night.”

The precautions of Columbus were not uncalled for.
About an hour after the unnatural flashes of lightning had
been seen, the wind rose from the south-west, favourably as
to direction, but fearfully as to force. Notwithstanding his
strong desire to reach port, the admiral found it prudent to
order the solitary sail that was set, to be taken in; and
most of the night the two caravels drove before the gale,
under bare poles, heading to the north-east. We say both,
for Martin Alonzo, practised as he was in stormy seas, and
disposed as he was to act only for himself, now the great
problem was solved, kept the Pinta so near the Niña, that
few minutes passed without her being seen careering on the
summit of a foaming sea, or settling bodily into the
troughs, as she drove headlong before the tempest; keeping
side by side with her consort, however, as man clings
to man in moments of dependency and peril.

Thus passed the night of the 13th, the day bringing
with it a more vivid picture of the whole scene, though it
was thought that the wind somewhat abated in its force as

the sun arose. Perhaps this change existed only in the
imaginations of the mariners, the light usually lessening
the appearance of danger, by enabling men to face it.
Each caravel, however, set a little canvass, and both went
foaming ahead, hurrying towards Spain with their unlooked-for
tidings. As the day advanced, the fury of
the gale sensibly lessened; but as night drew on again, it
returned with renewed force, more adverse, and compelling
the adventurers to take in every rag of sail they had ventured
to spread. Nor was this the worst. The caravels, by
this time, had driven up into a tract of ocean where a heavy
cross-sea was raging, the effects of some other gale that had
recently blown from a different quarter. Both vessels struggled
manfully to lay up to their course, under these adverse
circumstances; but they began to labour in a way to excite
uneasiness in those who comprehended the fullest powers
of the machines, and who knew whence the real sources
of danger were derived. As night approached, Columbus
perceived that the Pinta could not maintain her ground, the
strain on her after-mast proving too severe to be borne,
even without an inch of canvass spread. Reluctantly did
he order the Niña to edge away towards her consort, separation,
at such a moment, being the evil next to positive
destruction.

In this manner the night of the 14th drew around our
lone and sea-girt adventurers. What had been merely
menace and omens the previous night, were now a dread
reality. Columbus, himself, declared he had never known
a barque to buffet a more furious tempest, nor did he affect
to conceal from Luis the extent of his apprehensions. With
the pilots, and before the crew, he was serene and even
cheerful; but when alone with our hero, he became frank
and humble. Still was the celebrated navigator always calm
and firm. No unmanly complaint escaped him, though his
very soul was saddened at the danger his great discoveries
ran of being for ever lost.

Such was the state of feeling that prevailed with the
admiral, as he sat in his narrow cabin, in the first hours
of that appalling night, watching for any change, relieving
or disastrous, that might occur. The howling of
the winds, which fairly scooped up from the surface of the

raging Atlantic, the brine in sheets, was barely audible
amid the roar and rush of the waters. At times, indeed,
when the caravel sunk helplessly between two huge waves,
the fragment of sail she still carried, would flap, and the air
seemed hushed and still; and then, again, as the buoyant
machine struggled upward, like a drowning man who gains
the surface by frantic efforts, it would seem as if the
columns of air were about to bear her off before them, as
lightly as the driving spray. Even Luis, albeit little apt
to take alarm, felt that their situation was critical, and his
constitutional buoyancy of spirits had settled down in a
thoughtful gravity, that was unusual with him. Had a
column of a thousand hostile Moors stood before our hero,
he would have thought rather of the means of overturning
it than of escape; but this warring of the elements admitted
of no such relief. It appeared actually like contending
with the Almighty. In such scenes, indeed, the
bravest find no means of falling back on their resolution
and intrepidity; for the efforts of man seem insignificant
and bootless as opposed to the will and power of God.

“'T is a wild night, Señor,” our hero observed calmly,
preserving an exterior of more unconcern than he really
felt. “To me this surpasseth all I have yet witnessed of
the fury of a tempest.”

Columbus sighed heavily; then he removed his hands
from his face, and glanced about him, as if in search of
the implements he wanted.

“Count of Llera,” he answered, with dignity, “there
remaineth a solemn duty to perform. There is parchment
in the draw on your side of this table, and here are the
instruments for writing. Let us acquit ourselves of this
important trust while time is yet mercifully given us, God
alone knowing how long we have to live.”

Luis did not blanch at these portentous words, but he
looked earnest and grave. Opening the draw, he took out
the parchment and laid it upon the table. The admiral
now seized a pen, beckoning to his companion to take another,
and both commenced writing as well as the incessant
motion of the light caravel would allow. The task was
arduous, but it was clearly executed. As Columbus wrote
a sentence, he repeated it to Luis, who copied it word for

word, on his own piece of parchment. The substance of
this record was the fact of the discoveries made, the latitude
and longitude of Española, with the relative positions
of the other islands, and a brief account of what he had
seen. The letter was directed to Ferdinand and Isabella.
As soon as each had completed his account, the admiral
carefully enveloped his missive in a covering of waxed
cloth, Luis imitating him in all things. Each then took a
large cake of wax, and scooping a hole in it, the packet
was carefully secured in the interior, when it was covered
with the substance that had been removed. Columbus now
sent for the cooper of the vessel, who was directed to inclose
each cake in a separate barrel. These vessels abound
in ships; and ere many minutes, the two letters were securely
inclosed in the empty casks. Each taking a barrel,
the admiral and our hero now appeared again on the half-deck.
So terrific was the night, that no one slept, and most
of the people of the Niña, men as well as officers, were
crowded together on the gratings near the main-mast,
where alone, with the exception of the still more privileged
places, they considered themselves safe from being swept
overboard. Indeed, even here they were constantly covered
with the wash of the sea, the poop itself not being protected
from rude visits of this nature.

As soon as the admiral was seen again, his followers
crowded round him, solicitous to hear his opinion, and
anxious to learn his present object. To have told the truth,
would have been to introduce despair where hope had
already nearly ceased; and, merely intimating that he performed
a religious vow, Columbus, with his own hands,
cast his barrel into the hissing ocean. That of Luis was
placed upon the poop, in the expectation that it would float,
should the caravel sink.

Three centuries and a half have rolled by, since Columbus
took this wise precaution, and no tidings have ever
been obtained of that cask. Its buoyancy was such that
it might continue to float for ages. Covered with barnacles,
it may still be drifting about the waste of waters, pregnant
with its mighty revelations. It is possible, it may have
been repeatedly rolled upon some sandy beach, and as frequently
swept off again; and it may have been passed unheeded,

on a thousand occasions, by different vessels, confounded
with its vulgar fellows that are so often seen drifting
about the ocean. Had it been found, it would have
been opened; and had it been opened by any civilized man,
it is next to impossible that an occurrence of so much interest
should have been totally lost.

This duty discharged, the admiral had leisure to look
about him. The darkness was now so great, that, but for
the little light that was disengaged from the troubled water,
it would have been difficult to distinguish objects at the
length of the caravel. No one, who has merely been at
sea in a tall ship, can form any just idea of the situation of
the Niña. This vessel, little more than a large felucca, had
actually sailed from Spain with the latine rig, that is so
common to the light coasters of southern Europe; a rig
that had only been altered in the Canaries. As she floated
in a bay, or a river, her height above the water could not
have exceeded four or five feet, and now that she was struggling
with a tempest, in a cross sea, and precisely in that
part of the Atlantic where the rake of the winds is the
widest, and the tumult of the water the greatest, it seemed
as if she were merely some aquatic animal, that occasionally
rose to the surface to breathe. There were moments when
the caravel appeared to be irretrievably sinking into the
abyss of the ocean; huge black mounds of water rising
around her in all directions, the confusion in the waves
having destroyed all the ordinary symmetry of the rolling
billows. Although so much figurative language has been
used, in speaking of mountainous waves, it would not be
exceeding the literal truth to add, that the Niña's yards
were often below the summits of the adjacent seas, which
were tossed upward in so precipitous a manner, as to create
a constant apprehension of their falling in cataracts on her
gratings; for, midship-deck, strictly speaking, she had
none. This, indeed, formed the great source of danger;
since one falling wave might have filled the little vessel, and
carried her, with all in her, hopelessly to the bottom. As
it was, the crests of seas were constantly tumbling inboard,
or shooting athwart the hull of the caravel, in sheets of
glittering foam, though happily never with sufficient power
to overwhelm the buoyant fabric. At such perilous instants,

the safety of the craft depended on the frail tarpawlings.
Had these light coverings given way, two or three successive
waves would infallibly have so far filled the hold, as to
render the hull water-logged; when the loss of the vessel
would have followed as an inevitable consequence.

The admiral had ordered Vicente Yañez to carry the
foresail close reefed, in the hope of dragging the caravel
through this chaos of waters, to a part of the ocean where
the waves ran more regularly. The general direction of
the seas too, so far as they could be said to have a general
direction at all, had been respected, and the Niña had struggled
onward — it might be better to say waded onward —
some five or six leagues, since the disappearance of the day,
and found no change. It was getting to be near midnight,
and still the surface of the ocean presented the same wild
aspect of chaotic confusion. Vicente Yañez approached
the admiral, and declared that the barque could no longer
bear the rag of sail she carried.

“The jerk, as we rise on the sea, goes near to pull the
stern out of the craft,” he said, “and the backward flap, as
we settle into the troughs, is almost as menacing. The
Niña will bear the canvass no longer, with safety.”

“Who has seen aught of Martin Alonzo within the
hour?” demanded Columbus, looking anxiously in the direction
in which the Pinta ought to be visible. “Thou hast
lowered the lantern, Vicente Yañez.”

“It would stand the hurricane no longer. From time to
time it hath been shown, and each signal hath been answered
by my brother.”

“Let it be shown once more. This is a moment when the
presence of a friend gladdens the soul, even though he be
helpless as ourselves.”

The lantern was hoisted, and, after a steady gaze, a faint
and distant light was seen glimmering in the rack of the
tempest. The experiment was repeated, at short intervals,
and as often was the signal answered, at increasing distances,
until the light of their consort was finally lost altogether.

“The Pinta's mast is too feeble to bear even its gear, in
such a gale,” observed Vicente Yañez; “and my brother

hath found it impossible to keep as near the wind as we
have done. He goes off more to leeward.”

“Let the foresail be secured,” answered Columbus, “as
thou sayest. Our feeble craft can no longer bear these
violent surges.”

Vicente Yañez now mustered a few of his ablest men,
and went forward himself to see this order executed. At
the same moment the helm was righted, and the caravel
slowly fell off, until she got dead before the gale. The task
of gathering in the canvass was comparatively easy, the
yard being but a few feet above the deck, and little besides
the clews being exposed. Still it required men of the
firmest nerve and the readiest hands to venture aloft at
such an instant. Sancho took one side of the mast and
Pepe the other, both manifesting such qualities as mark the
perfect seaman, only.

The caravel was now drifting at the mercy of the winds
and waves, the term scudding being scarcely applicable to
the motion of a vessel so low, and which was so perfectly
sheltered from the action of the wind by the height of the
billows. Had the latter possessed their ordinary regularity,
the low vessel must have been pooped; but, in a measure,
her exemption from this calamity was owing to an irregularity
that was only the source of a new danger. Still, the
Niña drove ahead, and that swiftly, though not with the
velocity necessary to outstrip the chasing water, had the
waves followed with their customary order and rapidity.
The cross seas defeated this; wave meeting wave, actually
sending those crests which otherwise would have rolled
over in combing foam, upward in terrific jets d'eau.

This was the crisis of the danger. There was an hour
when the caravel careered amid the chaotic darkness with
a sort of headlong fury, not unfrequently dashing forward
with her broadside to the sea, as if the impatient stern was
bent on overtaking the stem, and exposing all to the extreme
jeopardy of receiving a flood of water on the beam.
This imminent risk was only averted by the activity of the
man at the helm, where Sancho toiled with all his skill and
energy, until the sweat rolled from his brow, as if exposed
again to the sun of the tropics. At length the alarm became
so great and general, that a common demand was

made to the admiral to promise the customary religious
oblations. For this purpose, all but the men at the helm
assembled aft, and preparations were made to cast lots for
the penance.

“Ye are in the hands of God, my friends,” said Columbus,
“and it is meet that ye all confess your dependence
on his goodness, placing your security on his blessings and
favour alone. In this cap which ye see in the hands of the
Señor de Muños, are the same number of peas that we
are of persons. One of these peas bears the mark of the
Holy Cross, and he who shall draw forth this blessed emblem,
stands pledged to make a pilgrimage to Santa Maria
de Guadalupe, bearing a waxen taper of five pounds weight.
As the chiefest sinner amongst you, no less than as your
admiral, the first trial shall be mine.”

Here Columbus put his hand into the cap, and on drawing
forth a pea, and holding it to the lantern, it was found
to bear on its surface the mark he had mentioned.

“This is well, Señor,” said one of the pilots; “but replace
the pea, and let the chance be renewed for a still
heavier penance, and that at a shrine which is most in request
with all good Christians; I mean that of our Lady
of Loretto. One pilgrimage to that shrine is worth two to
any other.”

In moments of emergency the religious sentiment is apt
to be strong; and this proposition was seconded with
warmth. The admiral cheerfully consented; and when all
had drawn, the marked pea was found in the hands of a
common seaman, of the name of Pedro de Villa; one who
bore no very good name for either piety or knowledge.

“'T is a weary and costly journey,” grumbled the chosen
penitent, “and cannot cheaply be made.”

“Heed it not, friend Pedro,” answered Columbus: “the
bodily pains shall limit thy sufferings, for the cost of the
journey shall be mine. This night groweth more and more
terrifice, good Bartolemeo Roldan.”

“That doth it, Señor Admiral, and I am little content
with such a pilgrim as Pedro here, although it may seem
as if heaven itself directed the choice. A mass in Santa
Clara de Moguer, with a watcher all night in that chapel,

will be of more account than your distant journeys made
by such an one as he.”

This opinion wanted not for supporters among the seamen
of Moguer, and a third trial was made to determine
the person. Again the pea was withdrawn from the cap by
the admiral. Still the danger did not diminish, the caravel
actually threatening to roll over amid the turbulence of the
waves.

“We are too light, Vicente Yañez,” said Columbus, “and
desperate as the undertaking seemeth, we must make an
effort to fill our empty casks with sea-water. Let hose be
carefully introduced beneath the tarpawlings, and send
careful hands below to make sure that the water do not
get into the hold instead of the casks.”

This order was obeyed, and several hours passed in
efforts to execute this duty. The great difficulty was in
protecting the men who raised the water from the sea, for
while the whole element was raging in such confusion
around them, it was no easy matter to secure a single drop
in a useful manner. Patience and perseverance, however,
prevailed in the end, and, ere the light returned, so many
empty casks had been filled, as evidently to aid the steadiness
of the vessel. Towards morning it rained in torrents,
and the wind shifted from south to west, losing but little of
its force, however. At this juncture the foresail was again
got on the barque, and she was dragged by it, through a
tremendous sea, a few miles to the eastward.

When the day dawned, the scene was changed for the
better. The Pinta was nowhere to be seen, and most in the
Niña believed she had gone to the bottom. But the clouds
had opened a little, and a sort of mystical brightness rested
on the ocean, which was white with foam, and still hissing
with fury. The waves, however, were gradually getting
to be more regular, and the seamen no longer found it necessary
to lash themselves to the vessel, in order to prevent
being washed overboard. Additional sail was got on the
caravel, and as her motion ahead increased, she became
steadier, and more certain in all her movements.