After leaving Venezuela’s Paria Peninsula, Columbus had seen the islands of La Asunción (now Tobago) and Concepción (now Grenada). On August 14, 1498, he discovered Margarita, located in the Caribbean Sea between latitudes 10°52’ N and 11°11’ N and longitudes 63°48’ Wand 64°23’ W. He named the splendid, mountainous island, about fifty miles long and twelve miles across, in honor of Margarita of Austria. The name also punned on the Spanish word for “pearl,” in recognition of the nacreous objects scattered about the region.
As his westward cruise lasted into mid-August, he heard reports of the gems from others on his ships, but as his son Ferdinand revealed, “The Admiral . . . could not give as full account of it as he wished because continual watching had made his eyes bloodshot, and therefore he had to write down what he was told by his sailors and pilots.”
Later that August, as Columbus gave orders to proceed north and west toward Santo Domingo, the crew spied a small caravel approaching them, the first ship they had seen since their departure from Spain. The approaching craft fired a warning shot, the jolt reverberating across the ocean. Only when she drew alongside the flagship, sails luffing, did Columbus realize that the captain was his brother Bartholomew, also serving the Spanish crown on Santo Domingo. The two Columbus siblings joined forces and sailed into Santo Domingo harbor. Later, a third Columbus brother, Diego, joined them. The Admiral eagerly imagined telling his Sovereigns of his marvelous findings, and the rapid expansion of the Spanish empire that he had brought about.
On the last day of August, the Admiral led his convoy up the Ozama River to Santo Domingo, where he expected a thriving colony to greet him. Instead, “When I arrived from Paria, I found almost half the people in Hispaniola in rebellion, and they have made war on me,” he lamented. Their leader was Francisco Roldán, or, as he was now known, the Rebel Roldán, and in Columbus’s absence, he had been sowing mayhem.
CHAPTER 9
Roldán’s Revolt
It was only a matter of time before Francisco Roldán, or someone like him, appeared on the scene to bedevil Columbus’s Enterprise of the Indies. The conditions in Hispaniola were so extreme and uncertain, the temptations so alluring and numerous, the vision of a Spanish empire so vague and unrealistic, and the men who participated in the voyages so casually selected, that discipline was bound to break down during Columbus’s prolonged absences, when any kind of mischief was not only possible but also consequence-free.
For a time, his son related, Santo Domingo had remained “fairly peaceful.” The settlers expected Columbus’s early return from Spain with supplies, weapons, and news from home. “But after the passage of a year, with their provisions running short and suffering and sickness growing, they became disoriented with their present lot and despaired of the future.” Appointed by Columbus as the mayor, or chief official, of the colony, Roldán had enjoyed the cooperation of Spaniards and Indians alike, or as Ferdinand put it, “he was obeyed as if he were the Admiral himself.” But this eminence led to conflict with Bartholomew Columbus, who, as governor, considered himself the supreme arbiter. As the Admiral’s absence stretched on, and it began to seem that he would never return to this little outpost of empire, “Roldán began to dream of making himself master of the island.” His scheme was profoundly disloyal: he intended to execute both Bartholomew and Diego. With Columbus’s brothers out of the way, Roldán would rule. And he had a plan for bringing Spain to his side.
When Bartholomew traveled to Xaraguá to quell an Indian rebellion and exact tribute, fortune appeared to favor Roldán’s plan. Xaraguá, a sprawling, mostly level expanse carpeted with thick shrubs, and bordered by a beach of glistening, powdery sand, occupied a promontory extending to the south of the island. Its serene aspect proved deceptive; Xaraguá became synonymous with the rebel Spanish forces occupying it, with wicked and dissolute behavior, and with indolence. For those seeking shelter, it held strategic advantages, for it was two hundred miles from Santo Domingo, and the sails of approaching ships could be seen for miles. Las Casas paid tribute to the Indians of the district. They were “not to be equaled for fluency of speech and politeness of idiom or dialect by any inhabitants of the other kingdoms” of Hispaniola. They “excelled in stature and habit of body. Their king was Behechio by name and who had a sister called Anacaona”—the “Golden Flower”—who treated the rude, rapacious Spaniards with “civility, and by delivering them from the evident and apparent danger of death, did signal services to the Castilian Sovereigns.” A Taíno cacique, Anacaona was also the wife of Caonabó, who had both challenged and joined forces with Columbus.
Bartholomew Columbus placed his brother Diego in charge, with Roldán serving beneath him, secretly seething and fomenting a mutiny. Bartholomew’s attention alighted on a caravel lying on the beach at La Isabela; he planned to use the vessel as an escape from the island, if necessary.
Roldán and his supporters insisted that they wanted to launch the caravel as soon as possible, and when they reached Spain they would announce “the news of their distress.” Diego Columbus was having none of it; the caravel lacked tackle and supplies. Defying his superior, Roldán ordered the ship to make ready to sail, telling his followers that the Columbus brothers wanted to block their mission, keep them all under their control, and prevent Spain from learning of the evil and corrupt Columbus regime in Hispaniola. Roldán stirred resentment by recalling how callously the three Columbus brothers had treated the settlers, who had toiled in the suffocating heat, erected forts against their will, and exposed themselves to unnecessary dangers. Columbus and his brothers were foreigners, Roldán reminded like-minded Spaniards, and worse, foreigners who had never paid them even though they had made them all work like donkeys. Now it seemed that the Admiral was unlikely ever to return with the supplies and reinforcements.
To remedy their predicament, Roldán proposed that they divide “all the wealth of the island” among themselves, and, just as important, “they should be allowed to use the Indians as they pleased, free from interference,” in Ferdinand’s words. Many Spaniards had already taken one or more Indian women for pleasure or companionship, despite restrictions. Now anything was possible, even if the men had to suffer the symptoms of syphilis for their excesses.
Bartholomew attempted to restrain this licentiousness, insisting that his men “observe the three monastic vows,” as Ferdinand phrased it: obedience, stability (observing the vows indefinitely), and fidelity to the monastic way of life, including the renunciation of private property and strict celibacy. Roldán, in contrast, held out the promise of a commune teeming with easy riches and plentiful women. The riches remained elusive, but, Las Casas reported, “each one had the woman that he wanted, taken from their husbands, or daughters from their fathers, by force or willingly, to use as chambermaids, washerwomen, and cooks, and as many Indian men as they thought necessary to serve them.” He reminded the men of the severe rations imposed by Columbus and his brothers, the barbaric floggings, the heartless and humiliating punishments and confinement for the slightest infraction, real or perceived. In contrast to this reign of tyranny under which they had all suffered, Roldán promised that if they followed his leadership, he would protect them from harm. His pandering, combined with his resolute manner, proved effective, and he attracted many, and eventually most, of the disaffected Spaniards to his camp.
By the time Bartholomew Columbus, “the Advancer,” returned from his pacification mission in Xaraguá, Roldán’s followers had concocted a scheme to stab him and string him up with a rope. Acting on hints of a conspiracy, Bartholomew hastily jailed one of the rebels, Barahona, and condemned him to death, but later changed his mind. “If God had not inspired the Adelantado not to carry out Barahona’s death sentence,” Ferdinand maintained, “they doubtless would have killed him then and there.” Instead, Bartholomew uncovered the full extent of Roldán’s plot, in which the rebels would convert a fort named Concepción into a bastion from which they could launch attacks at will across Hisp
aniola.
Roldán was already familiar with this fort, having once been assigned there by Diego Columbus to pacify surrounding Indians, and while in attendance, he pretended to follow orders. However, the fort’s commander, Miguel Ballester, was not taken in by the deception and warned the Adelantado of the mutiny-in-the-making. Bartholomew then sequestered himself in the fortress, thinking his presence would repel Roldán. But the unpredictable rebel went straight to the fort and, as if he had every right to do so, insisted on readying the caravel to carry him and his men away to the relative safety of a voyage to Spain. Although Roldán was better off in his kingdom in exile, he pursued his conflicting strategies at the same time, much to the confusion of his superiors.
Impossible, Bartholomew said on hearing the demand. Roldán was not capable of sailing the caravel to Spain, nor were his followers. They might be able to launch her, but they did not know the sea, and they would perish. Bartholomew spoke as an experienced navigator, “but they were landlubbers who knew nothing,” said Ferdinand.
Bartholomew ordered Roldán to resign his office as the mayor; predictably, Roldán refused to comply until King Ferdinand himself so commanded. He declared that he could “expect no justice from the Adelantado,” that is, Bartholomew, who would only find some way to kill or harm him. Enraged, Roldán insisted he was a “reasonable man,” and to prove it, he would postpone sailing off in the beached caravel and instead coexist peacefully on the island at a place of Bartholomew’s choosing, but Roldán expected concessions in exchange for the offer. When he learned the Adelantado wanted to install an Indian who had converted to Christianity and was loyal to Columbus, Roldán rejected the idea, claiming the settlement lacked sufficient supplies. Instead, they would live somewhere else, of Roldán’s choosing.
The contest of wills between the two adversaries ended only when the rebel leader stomped off.
Despite his angry demands for a safe haven on Hispaniola, Roldán still yearned for the caravel and the promise of escape to Spain. He returned to La Isabela to take possession of the vessel, but even with sixty-five men at the ready—more than enough to operate the ship—Roldán could not launch it. Instead, they looted the crown’s arsenal, equipping themselves with weapons, and the storehouse, commandeering food, clothing, and anything else they desired. While they raided the storehouse, Bartholomew looked on, powerless to stop them. Fearing for his life, he went into seclusion within the fortress, taking a few servants as bodyguards, but not before Roldán tried to lure him to his side to take a stand against the Admiral himself. That, of course, Bartholomew would not do.
Learning that Bartholomew had dispatched armed men to protect Diego from further abuse, Roldán summoned his rebel force, and left La Isabela, and for the time being, the plan to return to Spain. They moved steadily through the thick tropical undergrowth, slaughtering cattle for food as they went, and taking other beasts as needed for the long trek to Xaraguá, the province that Bartholomew had recently pacified. They had their reasons for selecting this remote location as their destination. “It was the pleasantest and most fertile part of the island,” Ferdinand explained, “with the most civilized natives and especially the best-looking and best-natured women in the country: This last was their strongest motive for going there.” With these seductive promises Roldán, the Lucifer of the Enterprise of the Indies, offered the men everything Columbus withheld: wealth, women, a life of ease, and a sense of control over their own destiny. Roldán’s way offered no promise of redemption, no official recognition, and no titles, only a pleasurable limbo.
On their way to Xaraguá, Roldán’s men planned one last, murderous scheme. They would overrun the little hamlet of Concepción, and, if they found Bartholomew, the Adelantado, they would kill him. If he was absent, they would lay waste to the town. When word of the plot reached Bartholomew, he countered with a strategy of his own, promising his men “two slaves apiece,” said Ferdinand, in exchange for their support. It was a desperate maneuver, but he realized that even those who nominally supported him were tempted by Roldán’s offer. Bartholomew summoned his willpower and kept his followers’ loyalty. If he could not maintain his rule by the power of logic, he was prepared to fight.
He assembled his men, and set off with determined swagger to face the forces of Francisco Roldán, who, intimidated by this convincing show of force, retreated to Xaraguá, dispensing anti-Columbus propaganda as he went. With some justification, Roldán claimed that Bartholomew was cruel and greedy in his treatment of both Indians and Christians; he demanded impossible tributes and broke the spirit and drained the resources of everyone with whom he came into contact. Even if the Indians complied with the onerous tributes, the vicious Adelantado would only demand more, despite the Sovereigns’ objections—an unlikely scenario. Roldán, in contrast, proclaimed himself the Indians’ champion; if they were unable or unwilling to stand up for their rights, he and his supporters would take up their cause. His unjustified promises persuaded the Indians to defy the tribute system. In reality, Bartholomew received nothing from distant villages, and he was afraid to demand it from those nearby and so push the Indians even deeper into Roldán’s camp.
Roldán found a potent ally in the chieftain Guarionex, who formed clandestine alliances with the other caciques and pledged to kill the Spanish invaders. The Indians felt confident that they could exterminate the outsiders who had come from the ships in a series of coordinated surprise uprisings. “Their only way of reckoning time or anything else being their fingers,” Ferdinand explained, “the Indians agreed to launch the attack on the first day of the next full moon.”
All was ready, until one of the chieftains decided to attack prematurely, either to portray himself as a hero to his people, or, less likely, because he was “too poor an astronomer to know for sure the first day of the full moon.” The attack failed miserably. Seeking safety, the disgraced chieftain skulked back to Guarionex, who had him executed for carelessness.
The reversal of fortune reached all the way to Roldán, whose men had expected the Indians to do the slaughtering. Scuttling the pact with Guarionex, they retreated once again to Xaraguá, where they maintained the pretense that they, the Spanish rebels, protected the Indians from the predatory colonial policies of Columbus. “Actually, they were naught but plain thieves,” observed Ferdinand, although much the same thing could be said of many of the men who served under Christopher Columbus, men who had exploited and underestimated the Indians for nearly eight years, and counting.
Roldán’s misstep occurred when he renewed his promise to protect the Indians from Bartholomew’s demands for a tribute, and then seized an even greater tribute for himself. He insisted that the chieftain Manicaotex offer “a calabash filled with gold dust worth three marks every three months,” in Ferdinand’s words. To ensure that Manicaotex obeyed, even though the supply of gold dust was nearly depleted by this time, Roldán took the chieftain’s son and nephew hostage. With characteristic duplicity, he maintained that his gesture demonstrated friendship.
Faced with an impossible situation, Bartholomew and his allies stood by helplessly as their support from their Indian and Spanish allies wilted in the tropical heat. It appeared increasingly likely that either the Spanish rebels or disenchanted Indians, or perhaps an unholy alliance between the two, would wipe out Bartholomew and the loyalists, and claim the island of Hispaniola, bringing a violent end to the Columbian experiment.
Amid the gathering despair, the men at Santo Domingo spotted two Spanish ships on the horizon. They constituted the supply fleet from Spain, carrying food, men, weapons, and provisions needed for survival in the Indies. Roldán and his men intended to plunder the new arrivals as soon as they reached Santo Domingo, but Bartholomew had the advantage of superior intelligence, and he happened to be closer to the port. He placed sentries along the paths leading to the little town to deter Roldán’s men so that he, not the rebels, would welcome the supply ships to the troubled realm. And so he did.
E
ven then, Bartholomew tried to improvise a fragile, temporary peace with the rebels to present a unified front to the newcomers. He dispatched one of the captains, Pedro Fernández Coronel, reputed to be “a man of worth and honor,” according to Ferdinand. From the moment he confirmed that Christopher Columbus had safely arrived in Spain, where he received an enthusiastic reception from the Sovereigns, he had won Bartholomew’s trust. The Adelantado sent Coronel to convey the situation to Roldán’s rebels, but the newly arrived capitán found himself staring at the tips of crossbows and arrows. His prepared speech went undelivered. Instead, he spoke privately with a few of the insurrectionists, who made no promises and hastened back to their stronghold at Xaraguá to await the Admiral’s return to Hispaniola.
Bartholomew’s men learned that Roldán and others planned to tarnish Columbus’s name in Spain by means of poison-pen letters. Peter Martyr, from his vantage point in Italy, later wrote that “the rebels, complaining seriously about both [Columbus] brothers, called them unjust, impious, enemies of the Spanish blood”—code for their Genoese origins—“and squanderers, because they took delight in torturing over trifles, hanging, slaughtering, and killing in all kinds of ways.” The rebels, he continued, “depicted them as ambitious, arrogant, envious, unbearable tyrants: so they deserted them, being just wild animals thirsty for blood and enemies of the Sovereigns.” Roldán’s men claimed that they had seen Columbus and his two brothers plotting obsessively to take over the islands, and they claimed that the Columbus brothers “would allow no one but their own men to reach the gold mines or gather it.” From the Sovereigns’ perspective, that was precisely what Columbus should have been doing.
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