Christopher Columbus and the Lost City of Atlantis

by E. J. Robinson

  His smile was short-lived. As Columbus’s hand shot out with a blade, Vespucci clenched, as if expecting to feel its bite. Instead, Columbus’s hand came away holding Vespucci’s bulging purse.

  “Then you won’t be needing this!”

  Vespucci howled. He pulled his sword and slashed out. Columbus muscled the bronze disk to his shoulder in defense. The horses collided and shrieked as the chase led down narrow streets, Columbus shouting to prevent people from getting trampled.

  The bazaar emptied out at a stone staircase. Both men vaulted down it, colliding again and again. Their horses were wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth when they reached the main street and came into view of the river.

  Vespucci knew Columbus would likely have men waiting at the Roman Bridge, so he slapped his horse’s hindquarters with the sword until he pulled even with Columbus again. To his surprise, Columbus was smiling.

  “What are you grinning at?” Vespucci shouted.

  Columbus nodded ahead. Vespucci’s head shot up to find a large cart straight in front of him. With no room to turn, he pulled the reins with all his might. The horse’s hooves slid across the cobbles, and Vespucci flew ass over teakettle right into the cart’s prodigious payload of manure.

  Columbus wheeled to a stop as Vespucci shot up, repulsed; only the whites of his eyes were discernible through the cloak of dung.

  “Poor Amerigo,” Columbus tsked. “Once again I see your navigational skills have led you to shit.”

  Vespucci seethed as Columbus rode away, laughing.

  Once across the Roman Bridge, Columbus saw soldiers gathered at the dock entrance. Unsure if they were from the castle, he headed for the hill above the river where a wooden crane held a net full of provisions over the Santa Maria. He was trying to formulate a plan when he was spotted. Soldiers ran in his direction.

  Desperate, Columbus looked around and saw an old, rotting wooden catapult positioned toward the river.

  “As you know, Lord, I love excitement, but I’m starting to wonder what kind of point you’re trying to make.”

  A rifle shot buzzed over Columbus’s head, providing all the motivation needed to leap into the catapult’s bucket. Exhaling nervously, he made the sign of the cross, and cut the rope.

  Fanucio was pacing the deck when he heard a keening wail, followed by a grunt as something struck the cargo net overhead. He held up a lantern.

  “Oh, evening, Cap’n. No carriage to be had?”

  “No, no,” Columbus squeaked, fingers desperately locked onto the net. “It’s just such a blissful night, I thought I’d take in the stars.”

  Fanucio winced as Columbus lost his grip and fell hard to the deck.

  “Take ‘em in better down there, do ya?”

  Columbus groaned. A second later, the cargo net snapped. Columbus rolled out of the way just before the provisions crashed down.

  “Right,” Columbus said, leaping to his feet. “About that quick launch…”

  “There is the small matter of payment first,” Fanucio said, chocking a thumb toward the group of armed dockhands standing on the quay.

  Columbus tossed Vespucci’s purse. “I believe this should bring us current.”

  The harbormaster nodded, and his party walked away.

  “Now, let’s—” Columbus paused when he saw the crew. “Who are they?”

  Fanucio looked at the men, most drunk or asleep.

  “They’re the new crew.”

  “What happened to the old crew?”

  “Gone,” he said before whispering, “Pay dispute.”

  “Ahh. And you dug up this lot where?”

  “Lying about the docks.”

  “I’ll bet. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Let’s launch.”

  “Aye.” Fanucio relayed the orders. The drunken crew stumbled to their feet, listlessly drawing lines and railing sails as Fanucio looked back down the quay. He hesitated when he thought he saw a small shadowed figure move aboard the back of the ship before dismissing it as nothing more than paranoia.

  Just as Fanucio turned, a shout resounded from someone running down the dock.

  “Oy!” Fanucio suddenly cried. “It’s the visitor I’ve been waiting for.”

  Columbus turned, surprised to see only a balding old man hobbling toward them.

  “I didn’t think it was possible,” Columbus said, “but Hortencia has gotten decidedly uglier since we were last here.”

  “That ain’t Hortencia. He’s a cobbler, best in Spain. I paid him two years ago to craft me a new foot. Look, it’s in his hand!”

  The elderly man waved the wooden foot as he hobbled for them, unaware men on horseback were galloping hard across the Roman Bridge for the same destination.

  “Push off, now!” Columbus shouted.

  The new crew responded. Only Fanucio remained at the gunwale, shouting for the cobbler to throw his foot. The old man wound back, but before he could release it, he was hit by the first rider. The wooden foot sailed through the air. Fanucio lurched out to catch it, but the foot slipped through his fingers. He groaned pitifully as it splashed into the water below.

  As the ship pulled away, Vespucci’s horse skid to a halt at the end of the dock. His eyes simmered with fury. Something told Columbus he would see the man again.

  Where to, Captain?” asked a morose Fanucio, his peg leg rapping the deck as he sidled up beside him.

  “South to the Mediterranean and then west through the Pillars of Hercules. We’re heading west, my friend. Across the Atlantic.”

  “The Atlantic?” Fanucio gasped. “B-but no one’s ever crossed it and lived.”

  Columbus held up the bronze disk, his fingers running over the raised lettering. “Then, we shall be the first.”

  “But, Cap’n,” Fanucio whispered, “there be sea serpents out there. And the edge of the world.”

  “My friend, if we see a single sea serpent on this journey, I will not only buy you a new foot, but I’ll have it crafted from gold.”

  The first mate sulked. “Lot of good it’ll do me in some leviathan’s belly.” He looked back longingly over the glow of Córdoba. “Suppose we’ll be back one day?”

  Columbus shrugged. “Depends on the political climate.”

  Fanucio snorted. “Funny how every time we visit a country with a queen, I hear them same words. What’s really waiting for us out there?”

  Columbus turned hungrily toward the horizon. “Our destiny.”

  On the dock, Vespucci watched the Santa Maria depart down the Guadalquivir and slip away in the night. Behind him, one of Ferdinand’s many generals appeared, stepping only as close as the smell of dung would allow him.

  “Those ships,” Vespucci said, pointing to two small caravels nearby. “Who do they belong to?”

  “La Niña belongs to Juan Niño of Moguer,” the General replied. “And La Pinta belongs to Cristóbal Quintero. Why?”

  “I want them confiscated under orders from the king and prepared immediately for departure.”

  “Begging your pardon, Signore, but it will take days to man and provision them.”

  “Conscript the crew and appropriate everything else you need. I want to depart by dawn. First thing tomorrow we set sail, and I swear on my life, I will return with the head of Christopher Columbus or not at all.”

  Chapter Three

  The sun was stifling, and the waters becalmed from horizon to horizon. What few fibrous clouds were visible at dawn had abandoned the sky in favor of cooler climates, leaving behind an expanse of cerulean blue as beautiful and treacherous as the very sea it lorded over below.

  Columbus wiped the sweat from his brow before he trudged over the withering deck to the bitácula to flip through the pages of the sunbaked Master’s Log. Picking up quill and ink with his sweaty hands, he hastily scribbled:

  Thursday, 24 September 1492. Skies clear. Ocean still. No wind.

  It was the eighth such entry in a row.

  They had been at sea fifty-two days, and only a
handful of them hadn’t made Columbus want to pull out his hair or drink himself into a stupor. The journey began inauspiciously enough when the ship’s rudder came loose three days after they’d set sail, forcing Columbus to alter course south to the Canary Islands for repairs. Once docked, Columbus learned the rudder had been sabotaged. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The ‘misfortune’ had come shortly after announcing his intention to cross the Atlantic.

  Most sailors of the day called the Atlantic the ‘ocean dark.’ Legends said it had devoured a thousand ships since time immemorial and sent legions of men to their graves. What few men were foolish enough to speak of it claimed it was as fickle as a woman and as pitiless as a God. And though none would ever come close to grasping its vast mysteries or boundless reach, every seaman worth his salt knew a day or two on its waters without sight of land was enough to drive you mad.

  Every seaman but one.

  To Columbus, the Atlantic was no different than any of God’s great wonders. Take one of the mountain ranges of Europe, for instance. The Alps or the Pyrenees. Imposing? Yes. Challenging? Of course. But they could be conquered if one had the proper tools, a capable plan, and the will to see the job through. Throw in a dash of luck and the deed was all but guaranteed. Or at least the odds slanted in your favor. It was difficult to balance the ledger when you’d been operating on the wrong side of the books for so long.

  Unfortunately, luck had been in short supply since leaving Spain. First, the sabotage to the ship. Then, it was discovered the harbormaster had sold them spoiled provisions. If all that wasn’t bad enough, the day they reached the Canaries, their damn mountain, the Tenerife, erupted in flames, spewing volcanic ash as far as the eye could see, Talk about ill omens. Seamen were a superstitious lot. When the crew culled these ominous events together, they decided they would be better to put off in Gomera and enjoy the local wine and whores until they could hire on with whatever ships were returning to Spain. At that point, any talk of gold, gems, spices, and pearls was fruitless. Columbus was at his wit’s end.

  Ultimately, it was Fanucio who saved the day. And it wasn’t his usual verbal lashing that changed the crew’s minds. Neither did he question their loyalty or bravery, but instead, he simply raised a tankard and gave a toast.

  “To Columbus, who bedded the queen. May the king’s call for his head—and ours—fall on deaf ears!”

  As one might expect, this news didn’t exactly endear Columbus to the men. In fact, more than a few thought Columbus’s head—pinned to the bow of the ship—might have been a good show of contrition for those looking to return to the good graces of the monarchy. But, in truth, how could you not admire a man who seduced queens in every port? If the mighty Atlantic was to hold any sailor in its favor, why not one as daringly brave and as recklessly asinine as Christopher Columbus?

  And so, it was decided.

  Their departure from the Canaries began with a bang. Or several to be exact, as a cavalcade of cannonballs spotted the indigo waters all around the Santa Maria as she tucked tail and hastened away with yet another cache of ill-gotten provisions, including ten barrels of the finest African wine money could buy.

  September sixth marked their final exodus from land on what would become their grand exploration oeuvre. For a week, the men were leaping from the rigging, so laced on wine and good cheer that they sang the Benedictine hymn “Salve Regina” until their voices ran hoarse and they fell to the deck for slumber, only to wake in the morning covered in piss and vomit, eager to do it all again.

  They made good time, catching something Columbus called the trade winds. By mid-week, they were logging an average of twenty leagues a day. Once, over a twenty-four-hour period, they even did sixty. With only the occasional drizzle to wet the decks, the weather was as mild and pleasant as a seasoned Viennese whore. It reminded Columbus of Andalusia in April. Soon, the crew began calling out the sighting of birds—tunnies and wagtails. Everyone was certain land was near.

  It wasn’t until the ship came upon a fen of rockweed that the tenor of the men changed. The morass of sorrel kelp clung to the barnacles on the side of the ship, prompting more leaks in the hull from where shipworms had feasted. Almost simultaneously, the winds abated, and the supervening heat became so oppressive, no one dared to go below deck. The crew began grumbling. Optimism faded.

  Then the wine had run out.

  Columbus had been dead reckoning their course by the sun, leaving him nearly blind when he returned to his cabin each night. There, he did his best to pour over his rutter, his secret maritime handbook in which he’d calculated the path to Atlantis using the bronze disk. He hadn’t been able to decipher the words etched across it, though he had ferreted out a series of numerical values that he took as suggested longitude and latitude. When they finally arrived at the pre-determined location, Columbus ordered the sails lowered as he enthusiastically scanned the horizon for any sign of land. There was none.

  Columbus decided to wait.

  As the days passed, the grumblings grew louder. Then, the wind abandoned them completely. They were in the doldrums and the heat was rising, making it difficult for the men to sleep on deck and impossible to sleep below.

  Fanucio kept the crew busy, but even he couldn’t ease the tension that was brewing. On deck, the men deferred to Columbus as usual, but in private, they began questioning their commander’s competence as a navigator. Realizing they had been sold a bill of goods without the goods, they debated locking him in chains and returning to Spain hat in hand. A few even suggested they toss Columbus overboard to let the sea sort him out.

  Life aboard the Santa Maria was looking dour.

  Columbus began to lose sleep. He doctored the logbook in hopes the men wouldn’t think they’d come as far as they had. It didn’t work. He scoured over the bronze disk day and night, mouthing his vespers as he did. He was desperate. He needed something to happen.

  The rap of Fanucio’s peg leg echoed across the deck as he made his way to the forecastle. He whistled as he walked, using a whittling knife to fashion a new foot from a piece of wood. Several of the carpenters had offered to do it for him, but he refused for fear of being indebted to someone. He should have reconsidered. The piece he’d been working on for a month looked like two sperm whales trying to copulate.

  Fanucio cleared his throat. “A word, Cap’n?”

  Columbus looked up from the bronze disk. His first mate had dark circles under his eyes. Columbus was sure his were worse.

  “What is it?”

  “Crew’s getting antsy. Twenty-two days out, ya drop sail in the middle of nowhere. And now with the wind… We been here eight days.”

  “I can count.”

  “Aye, and so can they. Number of sleepless nights; meals ya missed. There’s been talk.”

  “Talk?” Columbus heard something in his first mate’s voice. “What about?”

  “You. Your behavior; the way you stare at that dish day and night.”

  “This dish, as you call it, holds the key to the treasure of all treasures.”

  Fanucio fought the impulse to roll his eyes. “If you say so. It’s not like we’re low on rations or morale. Or need to worry over the Spanish Navy breathing down our necks.”

  “My neck is as cold and dry as yours.”

  The truth was both their necks were covered with sweat, but Fanucio knew what he meant.

  “Sir, between you and me,” Fanucio said, leaning in after glancing around, “they keep bringing up the word.”

  “The word?” Columbus frowned.

  “The very one.”

  Columbus waited for him to elaborate. “Are we talking about the same word?”

  “Is there more’n one frightens a sailor to his roots?”

  “I can think of a few, actually.”

  Fanucio hooked his thumbs into his belt and tugged at it. “I been a sailor all my life. I know for a fact there’s just the one. But for sake of transparency, maybe we should whisper ‘em together like, to ma
ke sure we’re on the same page.”

  “On a count of three?”

  “Agreed. One. Two. Three—”

  “Sodomy,” Columbus blurted out alone.

  Fanucio blanched as if quirt-lashed. “Oh. That is terrifying.”

  “What? You didn’t say your word!” Columbus snapped. “We agreed on the count of three.”

  “I was on the cusp, but you beat me to it.”

  “How could I beat you to it? Counting to three is always the same. One. Two. Three. State your business.”

  “Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but where I come from, its one. Two. Three. Pause. Then comes the business.”

  “Pause? Pause?! I’ve never heard of any such thing. Why would anyone in their right mind pause before doing their business?”

  Fanucio mulled the question. “Gas?”

  Exasperated, Columbus said, “Tell me your word, damn it.”

  “Mutiny.”

  “Mutiny! Right. Of course. I was only joking about…” Suddenly, the gravity of that word hit him. Mutiny. His first mate was right. That was a terrifying proposition. Columbus felt like he’d been waiting his entire life for a race to get underway and here he was about to stumble within a few strides of the starting line. There was only one thing to do.

  “Assemble the crew,” Columbus ordered. “All hands on deck. We need to nip this in the bud here and now.”

  Fanucio relayed the orders. As the crew gathered, Columbus saw resentment in their eyes. He knew he would only get one chance at this. Thankfully, one man hoisted high atop the mast in a boatswain’s chair was struggling to get down. It bought Columbus some much-needed time.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Fanucio whispered.

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “‘Haps some merriment?”

  Not a bad idea, Columbus thought. “What do you suggest?”

  Fanucio nodded to two diminutive figures emerging from below deck. They were dark-skinned foreigners called Pygmies. Columbus had won them in a game of chance, and yet they didn’t crew or speak any of the common tongues.