In Spain Again -1

In Spain Again -1

The loiterers about the harbour of Cadiz saw a curious sight on June 11th, 1496, when the
two battered ships, bearing back the voyagers from the Eldorado of the West,
disembarked their passengers. There were some 220 souls on board, including thirty
Indians: and instead of leaping ashore, flushed with health, and bringing the fortunes
which they had gone out to seek, they crawled miserably from the boats or were carried
ashore, emaciated by starvation, yellow with disease, ragged and unkempt from poverty,
and with practically no possessions other than the clothes they stood up in. Even the
Admiral, now in his forty-sixth year, hardly had the appearance that one would expect in
a Viceroy of the Indies. His white hair and beard were rough and matted, his handsome
face furrowed by care and sunken by illness and exhaustion, and instead of the glittering
armour and uniform of his office he wore the plain robe and girdle of the Franciscan
order—this last probably in consequence of some vow or other he had made in an hour of
peril on the voyage.
One lucky coincidence marked his arrival. In the harbour, preparing to weigh anchor, was
a fleet of three little caravels, commanded by Pedro Nino, about to set out for Espanola
with supplies and despatches. Columbus hurried on board Nino's ship, and there read the
letters from the Sovereigns which it had been designed he should receive in Espanola.
The letters are not preserved, but one can make a fair guess at their contents. Some
searching questions would certainly be asked, kind assurances of continued confidence
would doubtless be given, with many suggestions for the betterment of affairs in the
distant colony. Only their result upon the Admiral is known to us. He sat down there and
then and wrote to Bartholomew, urging him to secure peace in the island by every means
in his power, to send home any caciques or natives who were likely to give trouble, and
most of all to push on with the building of a settlement on the south coast where the new
mines were, and to have a cargo of gold ready to send back with the next expedition.
Having written this letter, the Admiral saw the little fleet sail away on June 17th, and
himself prepared with mingled feelings to present himself before his Sovereigns.
While he was waiting for their summons at Los Palacios, a small town near Seville, he
was the guest of the curate of that place, Andrez Bernaldez, who had been chaplain to
Christopher's old friend DEA, the Archbishop of Seville. This good priest evidently
proved a staunch friend to Columbus at this anxious period of his life, for the Admiral
left many important papers in his charge when he again left Spain, and no small part of
the scant contemporary information about Columbus that has come down to us is
contained in the 'Historia de los Reyes Catolicos', which Bernaldez wrote after the death
of Columbus.
Fickle Spain had already forgotten its first sentimental enthusiasm over the Admiral's
discoveries, and now was only interested in their financial results. People cannot be
continually excited about a thing which they have not seen, and there were events much
nearer home that absorbed the public interest. There was the trouble with France, the
contemplated alliance of the Crown Prince with Margaret of Austria, and of the Spanish
Princess Juana with Philip of Austria; and there were the designs of Ferdinand upon the
kingdom of Naples, which was in his eyes a much more desirable and valuable prize than
any group of unknown islands beyond the ocean.
Columbus did his very best to work up enthusiasm again. He repeated the performance
that had been such a success after his first voyage—the kind of circus procession in
which the natives were marched in column surrounded by specimens of the wealth of the
Indies. But somehow it did not work so well this time. Where there had formerly been
acclamations and crowds pressing forward to view the savages and their ornaments, there
were now apathy and a dearth of spectators. And although Columbus did his very best,
and was careful to exhibit every scrap of gold that he had brought, and to hang golden
collars and ornaments about the necks of the marching Indians, his exhibition was
received either in ominous silence or, in some quarters, with something like derision. As I
have said before, there comes a time when the best-disposed debtors do not regard
themselves as being repaid by promises, and when the most enthusiastic optimist desires
to see something more than samples. It was only old Colon going round with his show
again—flamingoes, macaws, seashells, dye-woods, gums and spices; some people
laughed, and some were angry; but all were united in thinking that the New World was
not a very profitable speculation.
Things were a little better, however, at Court. Isabella certainly believed still in
Columbus; Ferdinand, although he had never been enthusiastic, knew the Admiral too
well to make the vulgar mistake of believing him an impostor; and both were too polite
and considerate to add to his obvious mortification and distress by any discouraging
comments. Moreover, the man himself had lost neither his belief in the value of his
discoveries nor his eloquence in talking of them; and when he told his story to the
Sovereigns they could not help being impressed, not only with his sincerity but with his
ability and single-heartedness also. It was almost the same old story, of illimitable wealth
that was just about to be acquired, and perhaps no one but Columbus could have made it
go down once more with success; but talking about his exploits was never any trouble to
him, and his astonishing conviction, the lofty and dignified manner in which he described
both good and bad fortune, and the impressive way in which he spoke of the wealth of the
gold of Ophir and of the far-reaching importance of his supposed discovery of the Golden
Chersonesus and the mainland of Asia, had their due effect on his hearers.
It was always his way, plausible Christopher, to pass lightly over the premises and to
dwell with elaborate detail on the deductions. It was by no means proved that he had
discovered the mines of King Solomon; he had never even seen the place which he
identified with them; it was in fact nothing more than an idea in his own head; but we
may be sure that he took it as an established fact that he had actually discovered the
mines of Ophir, and confined his discussion to estimates of the wealth which they were
likely to yield, and of what was to be done with the wealth when the mere details of
conveying it from the mines to the ships had been disposed of. So also with the Golden
Chersonesus. The very name was enough to stop the mouths of doubters; and here was
the man himself who had actually been there, and here was a sworn affidavit from every
member of his crew to say that they had been there too. This kind of logic is irresistible if
you only grant the first little step; and Columbus had the art of making it seem an act of
imbecility in any of his hearers to doubt the strength of the little link by which his great
golden chains of argument were fastened to fact and truth.