IT was Seville, and an inn there, and the Admiral of the Ocean-Sea laid
in a fair enough room. His gout manacled him, and another sickness crept
upon him, but he could think, talk and write, and at times, for serenity
and a breath of pleasure, read. He was ever a reader.
About him, all day long, came people. They called themselves friends,
and many were friends. But some used that holy word for robber-mask.
Others were the idlest wonder-seekers, never finding wonder within,
always rushing for it without. His heart, for all his much experience,
or perhaps because of that, was a simple heart. He took them for what
they said they were, for friends, and he talked of the Indies and all
his voyages past and to come, for he would yet find Ciguarre and retake
the Sepulchre.
He had not much money. All his affairs were tangled. Yet he rested
Admiral of the Ocean-Sea, and in name, at least, Viceroy of the Indies.
He was much concerned over his mariners and others who had returned with
him to Spain. All their pay was in arrears. He wrote begging letters for
them, and with his sons forever in his mind, for himself. Don Diego, Don
Fernando, they were pleasant, able youths.
Fray Juan Perez came to Seville. He was worldly comfort, but ghostly
comfort too. The Admiral talked of Ciguarre and Jerusalem, but also now
of the New Jerusalem and the World-to-come.
Late in November, at Medina del Campo Santo died the Queen!
He told me a dream or a vision that day. There was, he said, a fair,
tranquil shore, back of a fair, blue haven, and his wife and his mother,
long dead, walked there in talk. Back of the shore rose, he said, a city
with wonderful strong walls and towers and a perpetual sweet ringing
of church bells. It seemed to climb to one great palace and church, set
about with orchards, with many doves. The whole mounted like Monsalvat.
The city seemed to be ready for some one. They were hanging out
tapestries and weaving garlands and he heard musicians. Everywhere shone
a light of gladness. He returned to the seashore, and walking with his
wife and mother, asked them about the city. They said that it was the
Queen’s City. Then, he said, he seemed to hear trumpets, and far on the
horizon made out a sail.--Then city and shore and all were gone, and it
was dark, starry night, and he was in the Azores, alone, with a staff in
his hand that he had drawn from the sea.
It was Fray Juan Perez who brought him news of her death. “Queen
Isabella!” he said and turned to the wall and lay there praying.
One day there came to see him Amerigo Vespucci who sailing with Ojeda,
knew Paria. They talked of that Vastness to the south. The Venetian
thought it might be a continent wholly unknown alike to the ancients and
the moderns. “Known,” answered the Genoese, “in the far, far past! But
unknown, I grant, for so long that it has become again new. All a New
World.”
“How should we map it?” said the other. “Faith of God! I should like to
see the maps a hundred years from now!”
He had something to say of Sebastian Cabot who was finding northward for
King Henry of England. But laying a fine small hand upon the Admiral’s
mighty one, he called him “_magister et dominus_, Christopherus
Columbus.”
Winter wore away. With the spring he seemed to be better in health.
He left his bed. But the physician, Juan Lepe, believed that ports and
havens, new lands, and service of an order above this order were even
now coloring and thrilling within.
When all spring was singing high, the Admiral, having had a letter from
the king, said he would go to court. His sons would have had him travel
in a litter, but he waved that away. The Adelantado procured him a mule,
and with his sons and brother and a small train beside he started, the
King being at Segovia. He had a hardly scraped together purse of gold,
and all his matters seemed dejected. Yet his family riding with him
rode as nobles of Spain, and his son, Don Diego, should one day become
Governor of Hispaniola. Earthly speaking, for all his feeling “All is
vain!” he had made his family. Unlike many families so made, this one
was grateful.
On the road to Segovia, stayings, restings and meetings were cordial
enough to him, for here flocked the people to see the Discoverer. If
they heard his voice they were happy; if some bolder one had a moment’s
speech with him that fortunate went off with the air of, “My children’s
children shall know of this!” There returned in this springtide travel
sunniness, halcyon weather, bright winds of praise. The last health of
the present body was his upon this journey. Health and strength harked
back. All noted it. Jayme de Marchena held it for the leap of the flame
before sinking, before leaving the frame of this world. But his sons and
Don Bartholomew cried, “Why, father, why, brother, you will outlive us
yet!”
He rode firmly; he looked about with bright, blue-gray eyes; his voice
had the old, powerful thrill. It was happiness to him when the simple
came crowding, or when in some halt he talked with two or three or with
a solitary. The New Lands and the Vast Change, and it would affect all
our life, this way, that way and the other way.
But when we came to Segovia, the King was dead, not alive, to
Christopherus Columbus. Not dead to the Indies, no! But dead to their
old discoverer. We had chilly weather, miserable, and all the buds of
promise went back. Or rather there were promises, cold smiles, but even
he, the Genoese, saw at last that these buds were _simulacra_, never
meant to bloom.
The Queen was gone. The Court wore the King’s color. Then the King went
to Laredo to meet his daughter Juana, who was now Queen of Castile. With
him went all of importance. Segovia became a dull and somewhat hostile
water where rode at last anchor the ship of the Admiral.