 | CHAPTER IX. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
They drove uncertain o'er the pathless deep;
Nor gave the adverse gale due course to steer,
Nor durst they the design'd direction keep:
The gathering tempest quickly raged so high,
The wave-encompass'd boat but faintly reach'd my eye.”
Vision of Patience.
Such was the state of things on the morning of the 15th,
and shortly after the sun arose, the joyful cry of land was
heard from aloft. It is worthy of being mentioned that
this land was made directly ahead, so accurate were all the
admiral's calculations, and so certain did he feel of his position
on the chart. A dozen opinions, however, prevailed
among the pilots and people concerning this welcome sight;
some fancying it the continent of Europe, while others believed
it to be Madeira. Columbus, himself, publicly announced
it to be one of the Azores.
Each hour was lessening the distance between this welcome
spot of earth and the adventurers, when the gale
chopped directly round, bringing the island dead to windward.
Throughout a long and weary day the little barque
kept turning up against the storm, in order to reach this much
desired haven, but the heaviness of the swell and the foul
wind made their progress both slow and painful. The sun set
in wintry gloom again, and the land still lay in the wrong
quarter, and apparently at a distance that was unattainable.
Hour after hour passed, and still in the darkness the Niña
was struggling to get nearer to the spot where the land had
been seen. Columbus never left his post throughout all
these anxious scenes, for to him it seemed as if the fortunes
of his discoveries were now suspended, as it might be, by
a hair. Our hero was less watchful, but even he began to
feel more anxiety in the result, as the moment approached
when the fate of the expedition was to be decided.
As the sun arose every eye turned inquiringly around
the watery view, and, to the common disappointment, no
the admiral believed they had passed the island in the
darkness, and he hove about, with a view to stand farther
south. This change in the course had not been made more
than an hour or two, when land was again dimly seen
astern, and in a quarter where it could not have been previously
perceived. For this island the caravel tacked, and
until dark she was beating up for it, against a strong gale
and a heavy sea. Night again drew around her, and the
land once more vanished in the gloom.
At the usual hour of the previous night, the people of
the Niña had assembled to chant the salve fac, regina, or
the evening hymn to the Virgin, for it is one of the touching
incidents of this extraordinary voyage, that these rude
sailors first carried with them into the unknown wastes of
the Atlantic the songs of their religion, and the Christian's
prayers. While thus employed, a light had been made to
leeward, which was supposed to be on the island first seen,
thus encouraging the admiral in his belief that he was in
the centre of a group, and that by keeping well to windward,
he would certainly find himself in a situation to reach
a port in the morning. That morning, however, had produced
no other change than the one noted, and he was now
preparing to pass another night, or that of the 17th, in uncertainty,
when the cry of land ahead suddenly cheered
the spirits of all in the vessel.
The Niña stood boldly in, and before midnight she was
near enough to the shore to let go an anchor; so heavy
were both wind and sea, however, that the cable parted,
thus rejecting them, as it were, from the regions to which
they properly belonged. Sail was made, and the effort to
get to windward renewed, and by daylight the caravel was
enabled to run in and get an anchorage on the north side
of the island. Here the wearied and almost exhausted mariners
learned that Columbus was right, as usual, and that
they had reached the island of St. Mary, one of the Azores.
It does not belong to this tale to record all the incidents
that occurred while the Niña lay at this port. They embraced
an attempt to seize the caravel, on the part of the
Portuguese, who, as they had been the last to harass the
admiral on his departure from the old world, were the first
however, and after having the best portion of his crew in
their power, and actually having once sailed from the island
without the men, the admiral finally arranged the matter,
and took his departure for Spain, with all his people on
board, on the 24th of the month.
Providence seemed to favour the passage of the adventurers,
for the first few days; the wind being favourable
and the sea smooth. Between the morning of the 24th and
the evening of the 26th, the caravel had made nearly a
hundred leagues directly on her course to Palos, when she
was met by a foul wind and another heavy sea. The gale
now became violent again, though sufficiently favourable to
allow them to steer east, a little northerly, occasionally
hauling more ahead. The weather was rough, but as the
admiral knew he was drawing in with the continent of Europe,
he did not complain, cheering his people with the
hopes of a speedy arrival. In this manner the time passed
until the turn of the day, Saturday, March 2d, when Columbus
believed himself to be within a hundred miles of
the coast of Portugal, the long continuance of the scant
southerly winds having set him thus far north.
The night commenced favourably, the caravel struggling
ahead through a tremendous sea that was sweeping down
from the south, having the wind abeam, blowing so fresh,
as to cause the sails to be reduced within manageable size.
The Niña was an excellent craft, as had been thoroughly
proved, and she was now steadier than when first assailed
by the tempests, her pilots having filled still more of the
casks, than they had been able to do during the late storm.
“Thou hast lived at the helm, Sancho Mundo, since the
late gales commenced,” said the admiral cheerfully, as,
about the last hour of the first watch, he passed near the
post of the old mariner. “It is no small honour to hold
that station in the cruel gales we have been fated to endure.”
“I so consider it, Señor Don Almirante; and I hope
their illustrious and most excellent Highnesses, the two
Sovereigns, will look upon it with the same eyes, so far as
the weight of the duty is concerned.”
“And why not as respects the honour, friend Sancho?”
since the rescue of the rocks.
“Honour, Señor Master Pedro, is cold food and sits ill on
a poor man's stomach. One dobla is worth two dukedoms
to such a man as I am, since the dobla would help to gain me
respect, whereas the dukedoms would only draw down ridicule
upon my head. No, no—Master Pedro, your worship,
give me a pocket full of gold, and leave honours to such as
have a fancy for them. If a man must be raised in the
world, begin at the beginning, or lay a solid foundation;
after which he may be made a knight of St. James, if the
sovereigns have need of his name to make out their list.”
“Thou art too garrulous for a helmsman, Sancho, though
so excellent otherwise,” observed the admiral, gravely.
“Look to thy course; doblas will not be wanting, when
the voyage is ended.”
“Many thanks, Señor Almirante; and, as a proof that
my eyes are not shut, even though the tongue wags, I will
just desire your excellency, and the pilots, to study that rag
of a cloud that is gathering up here, at the south-west, and
ask yourselves if it means evil, or good.”
“By the mass! the man is right, Don Christopher!” exclaimed
Bartolemeo Roldan, who was standing near; “that
is a most sinister-looking cloud, and is not unlike those that
give birth to the white squalls of Africa.”
“See to it—see to it—good Bartolemeo,” returned Columbus,
hastily. “We have, indeed, counted too much on
our good fortune, and have culpably overlooked the aspect
of the heavens. Let Vicente Yañez and all our people be
called; we may have need of them.”
Columbus now ascended to the poop, where he got a
wider and a better view of the ocean and the skies. The
signs were, indeed, as portentous as they had been sudden
in their appearance. The atmosphere was filled with a
white mist, that resembled a light smoke, and the admiral
had barely time to look about him, when a roar that resembled
the trampling of a thousand horse passing a bridge at
full speed, came rushing down with the wind. The ocean
was heard hissing, as is usual at such moments, and the
tempest burst upon the little bark, as if envious demons
glorious tidings she bore.
A report like that of a heavy discharge of musketry,
was the first signal that the squall had struck the Niña. It
came from the rent canvass, every sail having given way
at the same instant. The caravel heeled until the water
reached her masts, and there was a breathless instant, when
the oldest seaman feared that she would be forced over entirely
upon her side. Had not the sails split, this calamity
might truly have occurred. Sancho, too, had borne the tiller
up in season, and when the Niña recovered from the shock,
she almost flew out of the water, as she drove before the
blast.
This was the commencement of a new gale, which even
surpassed in violence that from which they had so recently
escaped. For the first hour, awe and disappointment almost
paralyzed the crew, as nothing was or could be done
to relieve them from the peril they were in. The vessel
was already scudding — the last resource of seamen — and
even the rags of the canvass were torn, piece by piece,
from the spars, sparing the men the efforts that would have
been necessary to secure them. In this crisis, again the
penitent people resorted to their religious rites; and again
it fell to the lot of the admiral to make a visit to some favourite
shrine. In addition, the whole crew made a vow to
fast on bread and water, the first Saturday after they should
arrive.
“It is remarkable, Don Christopher,” said Luis, when the
two were again alone on the poop, “it is remarkable that
these lots should fall so often on you. Thrice have you
been selected by Providence to be an instrument of thankfulness
and penitence. — This cometh of your exceeding
faith!”
“Say, rather, Luis, that it cometh of my exceeding sins.
My pride, alone, should draw down upon me stronger rebukes
than these. I fear me, I had forgotten that I was
merely an agent chosen by God, to work his own great
ends, and was falling into the snares of Satan, by fancying
that I, of my own wisdom and philosophy, had done this
great exploit, which cometh so truly of God.”
“Do you believe us in danger, Señor?”
“Greater hazard besets us now, Don Luis, than hath
befallen us since we left Palos. We are driving towards
the continent, which cannot be thirty leagues distant; and,
as thou seest, the ocean is becoming more troubled every
hour. Happily, the night is far advanced, and with the
light we may find the means of safety.”
The day did re-appear as usual; for whatever disturbances
occur on its surface, the earth continues its daily revolutions
in the sublimity of its vastness, affording at each
change to the mites on its surface, the indubitable proofs
that an omnipotent power reigns over all its movements.
The light, however, brought no change in the aspects of
the ocean and sky. The wind blew furiously, and the Niña
struggled along amid the chaos of waters, driving nearer
and nearer to the continent that lay before her.
About the middle of the afternoon, signs of land became
quite apparent, and no one doubted the vicinity of the
vessel to the shores of Europe. Nevertheless, nought was
visible but the raging ocean, the murky sky, and the sort
of supernatural light with which the atmosphere is so
often charged in a tempest. The spot where the sun set,
though known by means of the compass, could not be
traced by the eye; and again night closed on the wild,
wintry scene, as if the little caravel was abandoned by
hope as well as by the day. To add to the apprehensions
of the people, a high cross sea was running; and, as ever
happens with vessels so small, in such circumstances, tons'
weight of water were constantly falling inboard, threatening
destruction to the grantings and their frail coverings of tarred
cloth.
“This is the most terrible night of all, son Luis,” said
Columbus, about an hour after the darkness had drawn
around them. “If we escape this night, well may we deem
ourselves favoured of God!”
“And yet you speak calmly, Señor; as calmly as if your
heart was filled with hope.”
“The seaman that cannot command his nerves and voice,
even in the utmost peril, hath mistaken his calling. But I
feel calm, Luis, as well as seem calm. God hath us in his
keeping, and will do that which most advanceth his own
but even the fatherless are not forgotten!”
“If we perish, Señor, the Portuguese will remain masters
of our secret: to them only is it now known, ourselves
excepted, since, for Martin Alonzo, I should think, there is
little hope.”
“This is another source of grief; yet have I taken such
steps as will probably put their highnesses on the maintenance
of their rights. The rest must be trusted to heaven.”
At that moment was heard the startling cry of “land.”
This word, which so lately would have been the cause of
sudden bursts of joy, was now the source of new uneasiness.
Although the night was dark, there were moments
when the gloom opened, as it might be, for a mile or two
around the vessel, and when objects as prominent as a coast
could be seen with sufficient distinctness. Both Columbus
and our hero hastened to the forward part of the caravel, at
this cry, though even this common movement was perilous,
in order to obtain the best possible view of the shore.
It was, indeed, so near, that all on board heard, or fancied
they heard, the roar of the surf against the rocks. That it
was Portugal, none doubted, and, to stand on in the present
uncertainty of their precise position, or without a haven to
enter, would be inevitable destruction. There remained
only the alternative to ware with the caravel's head off
shore, and endeavour to keep an offing until morning.
Columbus had no sooner mentioned this necessity, than
Vicente Yañez set about its execution in the best manner
circumstances would allow.
Hitherto the wind had been kept a little on the starboard
quarter, the caravel steering east, a point or two north, and
it was now the aim to lay her head so far round as to permit
her to steer north, a point or two west. By the manner
in which the coast appeared to trend, it was thought that
this variation in the direction might keep them, for a few
hours, at a sufficient distance from the shore. But this manoeuvre
could not be effected without the aid of canvass, and
an order was issued to set the foresail. The first flap of
the canvass, as it was loosened to the gale, was tremendous,
the jerk threatening to tear the foremast from its step, and
then all was still as death forward, the hull sinking so low
Sancho and his associate seized the favourable moment to
secure the clews, and, as the little barque struggled upward
again, the canvass filled with some such shock as is felt at
the sudden checking of a cable. From this moment the
Niña drew slowly off to sea again, though her path lay
through such a scene of turbulent water, as threatened, at
each instant, to overwhelm her.
“Luis!” said a soft voice, at our hero's elbow, as the
latter stood clinging to the side of the door of the cabin appropriated
to the females—“Luis—Hayti better—Mattinao
better—much bad, Luis!”
It was Ozema, who had risen from her pallet to look out
upon the appalling view of the ocean. During the mild
weather of the first part of the passage, the intercourse between
Luis and the natives on board, had been constant
and cheerful. Though slightly incommoded by her situation,
Ozema had always received his visits with guileless
delight, and her progress in Spanish had been such as to
astonish even her teacher. Nor were the means of communication
confined altogether to the advance of Ozema,
since Luis, in his endeavours to instruct her, had acquired
nearly as many words of her native tongue, as he had
taught her of his own. In this manner they conversed,
resorting to both dialects for terms, as necessity dictated.
We shall give a free translation of what was said, endeavouring,
at the same time, to render the dialogue characteristic
and graphic.
“Poor Ozema!” returned our hero, drawing her gently
to a position where he could support her against the effects
of the violent motion of the caravel — “thou must regret
Hayti, indeed, and the peaceful security of thy groves!”
“Caonabo there, Luis.”
“True, innocent girl; but even Caonabo is not as terrible
as this anger of the elements.”
“No — no — no — Caonabo much bad. Break Ozema's
heart. No Caonabo—no Hayti.”
“Thy dread of the Carib chief, dear Ozema, hath upset
thy reason, in part. Thou hast a God, as well as we
Christians, and, like us, must put thy trust in him; he
alone can now protect thee.”
“What protect?”
“Care for thee, Ozema. See that thou dost not come to
harm. Look to thy safety and welfare.”
“Luis protect Ozema. So promise Mattinao—so promise
Ozema—so promise heart.”
“Dear girl, so will I, to the extent of my means. But
what can I do against this tempest?”
“What Luis do against Caonabo?—kill him—cut Indians
—make him run away!”
“This was easy to a Christian knight, who carried a
good sword and buckler, but it is impossible against a tempest.
We have only one hope, and that is to trust in the
Spaniard's God.”
“Spaniards great—have great God.”
“There is but one God, Ozema, and he ruleth all, whether
in Hayti or in Spain. Thou rememberest what I have
told thee of his love, and of the manner of his death, that
we might all be saved, and thou didst then promise to
worship him, and to be baptised when we should reach my
country.”
“God! — Ozema do, what Ozema say. Love Luis's
God already.”
“Thou hast seen the holy cross, Ozema, and hast promised
me to kiss it, and bless it.”
“Where cross? See no cross — up in heaven? — or
where? Show Ozema cross, now — Luis's cross — cross
Luis love.”
The young man wore the parting gift of Mercedes near
his heart, and raising a hand he withdrew the small jewel,
pressed it to his own lips with pious fervour, and then
offered it to the Indian girl.
“See”—he said—“this is a cross; we Spaniards revere
and bless it. It is our pledge of happiness.”
“That Luis's God?” inquired Ozema, in a little surprise.
“Not so, my poor benighted girl”—
“What benighted?” interrupted the quick-witted Haytian,
eagerly, for no term that the young man could or did apply
to her, fell unheeded on her vigilant and attentive ear.
“Benighted means those who have never heard of the
cross, or of its endless mercies.”
“Ozema no benighted now,” exclaimed the other, pressing
the bauble to her bosom. “Got cross—keep cross—
of those mistakes that are not unfrequent in the commencement
of all communications between those who speak different
tongues, the young Indian had caught the notion,
from many of Luis's involuntary exclamations, that “Mercedes”
meant all that was excellent.
“I would, indeed, that she of whom thou speakest had
thee in her gentle care, that she might lead thy pure soul
to a just knowledge of thy Creator! That cross cometh
of Mercedes, if it be not Mercedes herself, and thou dost
well in loving it, and in blessing it. Place the chain around
thy neck, Ozema, for the precious emblem may help in
preserving thee, should the gale throw us on the coast, ere
morning. That cross is a sign of undying love.”
The girl understood enough of this, especially as the direction
was seconded by a little gentle aid, on the part of
our hero, to comply, and the chain was soon thrown around
her neck, with the holy emblem resting on her bosom.
The change in the temperature, as well as a sense of propriety,
had induced the admiral to cause ample robes of
cotton to be furnished all the females, and Ozema's beautiful
form was now closely enveloped in one, and beneath its
folds she had hidden the jewel, which she fondly hugged to
her heart, as a gift of Luis. Not so did the young man,
himself, view the matter. He had merely meant to lend,
in a moment of extreme peril, that which the superstitious
feeling of the age seriously induced him to fancy might
prove a substantial safeguard. As Ozema was by no means
expert in managing the encumbrance of a dress to which
she was unaccustomed, even while native taste had taught
her to throw it around her person gracefully, the young
man had half unconsciously assisted in placing the cross
in its new position, when a violent roll of the vessel compelled
him to sustain the girl by encircling her waist with
an arm. Partly yielding to the motion of the caravel,
which was constantly jerking even the mariners from their
feet, and probably as much seduced by the tenderness of
her own heart, Ozema did not rebuke this liberty, the first
our hero had ever offered, but stood, in confiding innocence,
upheld by the arm that, of all others, it was most grateful
to her feelings to believe destined to perform that office for
and her face was turned upward, with the eyes fastened on
the countenance of the young noble.
“Thou art less alarmed at this terrific storm, Ozema,
than I could have hoped. Apprehension for thee has made
me more miserable than I could have thought possible, and
yet thou seemest not to be disturbed.”
“Ozema no unhappy—no want Hayti—no want Mattinao—no
want any thing—Ozema happy now. Got cross.”
“Sweet, guileless innocent, may'st thou never know any
other feelings!—confide in thy cross.”
“Cross, Mercedes — Luis, Mercedes. Luis and Ozema
keep cross for ever.”
It was perhaps fortunate for this high-prized happiness
of the girl, that the Niña now took a plunge that unavoidably
compelled our hero to release his hold of her person,
or to drag her with him headlong towards the place where
Columbus stood, sheltering his weatherbeaten form from a
portion of the violence of the tempest. When he recovered
his feet, he perceived that the door of the cabin was closed,
and that Ozema was no longer to be seen.
“Dost thou find our female friends terrified by this appalling
scene, son Luis?” Columbus quietly demanded, for,
though his own thoughts had been much occupied by the
situation of the caravel, he had noted all that had just
passed so near him. “They are stout of heart, but even
an amazon might quail at this tempest.”
“They heed it not, Señor, for I think they understand it
not. The civilized man is so much their superior that both
men and women appear to have every confidence in our
means of safety. I have just given Ozema a cross, and
bade her place her greatest reliance on that.”
“Thou hast done well; it is now the surest protector
of us all. Keep the head of the caravel as near to the
wind as may be, Sancho, when it lulls, every inch off shore
being so much gained in the way of security.”
The usual reply was made, and then the conversation
ceased; the raging of the elements, and the fearful manner
in which the Niña was compelled to struggle literally to
keep on the surface of the ocean, affording ample matter
for the reflections of all who witnessed the scene.
In this manner passed the night. When the day broke,
visible that day, the dark vapour driving so low before the
tempest, as to lessen the apparent altitude of the vault of
heaven one-half, but the ocean was an undulating sheet of
foam. High land soon became visible nearly abeam of the
caravel, and all the elder mariners immediately pronounced
it to be the rock of Lisbon. As soon as this important fact
was ascertained, the admiral wore with the head of the
caravel in-shore, and laid his course for the mouth of the
Tagus. The distance was not great, some twenty miles
perhaps; but the necessity of facing the tempest, and of
making sail, on a wind, in such a storm, rendered the
situation of the caravel more critical than it had been in all
her previous trials. At that moment, the policy of the
Portuguese was forgotten, or held to be entirely a secondary
consideration, a port or shipwreck appearing to be the alternative.
Every inch of their weatherly position became of
importance to the navigators, and Vicente Yañez placed
himself near the helm to watch its play with the vigilance
of experience and authority. No sail but the lowest could
be carried, and these were reefed as closely as their construction
would allow.
In this manner the tempest-tossed little barque struggled
forward, now sinking so low in the troughs, that land,
ocean, and all but the frowning billows, with the clouds above
their heads, were lost to view; and now rising, as it might
be, from the calm of a sombre cavern, into the roaring,
hissing, and turbulence of a tempest. These latter moments
were the most critical. When the light hull reached
the summit of a wave, falling over to windward by the
yielding of the element beneath her, it seemed as if the next
billow must inevitably overwhelm her; and yet, so vigilant
was the eye of Vicente Yañez, and so ready the hand of
Sancho, that she ever escaped the calamity. To keep the
wash of the sea entirely out, was, however, impossible; and
it often swept athwart the deck, forward, like the sheets of
a cataract, that part of the vessel being completely abandoned
by the crew.
“All now depends on our canvass,” said the admiral,
with a sigh; “if that stand, we are safer than when scudding,
the wind was a little less violent than in the night.”
“Perhaps it is, Señor. I believe we gain on the place
you pointed out to me.”
“It is you rocky point. That weathered, and we are
safe. That not weathered, and we see our common grave.”
“The caravel behaveth nobly, and I will still hope.”
An hour later, and the land was so near that human
beings were seen moving on it. There are moments when
life and death may be said to be equally presented to the
seaman's sight. On one side is destruction; on the other
security. As the vessel drew slowly in towards the shore,
not only was the thunder of the surf upon the rocks audible,
but the frightful manner in which the water was tossed upward
in spray, gave additional horrors to the view. On
such occasions, it is no uncommon thing to see jets d'eau
hundreds of feet in height, and the driving spray is often
carried to a great distance inland, before the wind. Lisbon
has the whole rake of the Atlantic before it, unbroken by
island or headland; and the entire coast of Portugal is one
of the most exposed of Europe. The south-west gales, in
particular, drive across twelve hundred leagues of ocean,
and the billows they send in upon its shores, are truly appalling.
Nor was the storm we are endeavouring to describe,
one of common occurrence. The season had been
tempestuous, seldom leaving the Atlantic any peace; and
the surges produced by one gale had not time to subside,
ere another drove up the water in a new direction, giving
rise to that irregularity of motion which most distresses a
vessel, and which is particularly hazardous to small ones.
“She looks up better, Don Christopher!” exclaimed Luis,
as they got within musket-shot of the desired point,—“another
ten minutes, of as favourable a slant, and we do it!”
“Thou art right, son,” answered the admiral calmly.
“Were any calamity to throw us ashore on yonder rocks,
two planks of the Niña would not hold together five minutes.
Ease her — good Vicente Yañez — ease her, quite a
point, and let her go through the water. All depends on
the canvass, and we can spare that point. She moves,
Luis!—Regard the land, and thou wilt now see our motion.”
“True, Señor, but the caravel is drawing frightfully
near the point!”
“Fear not; a bold course is often the safest. It is a deep
shore, and we need but little water.”
No one now spoke. The caravel was dashing in towards
the point with appalling speed, and every minute brought
her perceptibly nearer to the cauldron of water that was
foaming around it. Without absolutely entering within this
vortex, the Niña flew along its edge, and, in five minutes
more, she had a direct course up the Tagus open before her.
The mainsail was now taken in, and the mariners stood
fearlessly on, certain of a haven, and security.
Thus, virtually, ended the greatest marine exploit the
world has ever witnessed. It is true that a run round to
Palos was subsequently made, but it was insignificant in
distance, and not fruitful in incidents. Columbus had effected
his vast purpose, and his success was no longer a
secret. His reception in Portugal is known, as well as all
the leading occurrences that took place at Lisbon. He anchored
in the Tagus on the 4th of March, and left it again
on the 13th. On the morning of the 14th, the Niña was
off Cape St. Vincent, when she hauled in to the eastward,
with a light air from the north. At sunrise on the 15th
she was again off the bar of Saltes, after an absence of
only two hundred and twenty-four days.
| CHAPTER IX. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay | |