In reality, there was little Columbus could do with only a handful of trustworthy men at his side. He relied on the power of an empire across the ocean, but as Roldán reminded him, the rebels were genuinely Spanish, while the Columbus brothers were Genoese—outsiders.
As an added provocation, Roldán held the loyalist Ballester hostage without food or water. Sánchez de Carvajal rode to the rescue, Ballester was released, and delegates from the two sides—loyalists and rebels—became embroiled in a marathon argument, from which, miraculously, a written understanding emerged: “The agreement made with the mayor Francisco Roldán and his company for their departure and voyage to Castile.”
According to the document, dated November 16, 1498, by Roldán, and November 21, by Columbus, the Admiral would give the rebels “two good ships,” properly manned, to transport them from Xaraguá “because most of the followers are there because it is the most convenient harbor for securing and getting ready provisions” to Spain. They would receive their wages, as Columbus had offered. And the Admiral would “write to the Catholic Sovereigns attesting to their good service,” incredible as that seemed. The other concessions won by the insurrectionists were even more outrageous. They were to receive slaves “as compensation for the sufferings they have endured on this island,” although they could, if they wished, take “mates who are pregnant or have borne them children” in place of the slaves. They could even take their island-born children, who would go free the moment they set foot in Spain.
Columbus also promised to provide the rebels with sufficient food for their voyage in the form of wheat or cassava, to equip them with safe-conduct passes, to return their confiscated goods, and to arrange with the Sovereigns to repay the returning rebels the price of several hundred large and small “hogs” left behind on the island they were abandoning. The only concession that Columbus managed to wring from Roldán was minor; he and his confederates agreed not to “admit into their company any other Christian on the island,” although Indians could still join their number. Roldán promised to sail for Spain within fifty days.
“The Admiral knew how wicked were these men,” his son explained, “but he did not want to give the rebels any excuse for charging that he did not intend to give them the free passage home he had promised.” He ordered the ships to be readied for the voyage back to Spain, and sent the tireless Sánchez de Carvajal overland to Xaraguá to make certain the rebels got on board their ships and departed, as planned. Placing Santo Domingo in his brother Diego’s hands, Columbus retreated to La Isabela, and respite from the torments inflicted by Roldán’s rebels.
Columbus had demonstrated remarkable patience in his public dealings with the mayor, but in private the Admiral boiled with resentment toward “that ungrateful nobody Roldán.” Starting with nothing, he had gained “so much in so little time that he now had more than a million [maravedís].” Columbus had made him and his cohorts wealthy and confident. “Those people pain me,” the Admiral lamented.
Not until January 1499 did the ships Niña and Santa Cruz, with their roster of rebels, embark. A storm arose, and Niña sought shelter elsewhere—“another port” was all that Ferdinand had to say—for repair. Columbus sent two of his dwindling number of trusted aides, Pedro de Arana and Francisco de Garay, to guide Santa Cruz to Xaraguá. In March, Niña rejoined her sister ship there.
Meanwhile, Roldán’s rebels remained in Xaraguá to enjoy their easy life, slaves, women, and children rather than face the difficulties of reestablishing themselves in Spain. Roldán excused this reversal by claiming that Columbus had violated their agreement by delaying the ships. In reply, the Admiral sent a blunt communiqué to Roldán and Adrián de Mújica, reminding them of their promises. To reinforce the message, Sánchez de Carvajal, still at Xaraguá, went before a notary to state that Columbus had sent two ships as promised, and he urged Roldán to respect the agreement.
It was now April 25, and still the rebels had not sailed from the island. They amused themselves by claiming that the Admiral had intentionally and spitefully delayed the ships (not true), that the caravels were not sufficiently seaworthy to reach Spain (all too true, thanks to shipworms), and that they had run out of provisions amid the island’s plenty (true, but easily put right). So they decided to breach the agreement and stay at Xaraguá indefinitely. Paradoxically, Roldán and his men drew strength from the calamities. The more attention they drew to themselves, and the more anxiety they caused Columbus, the more important they became.
The familiar pattern of defiance followed by conciliatory gestures continued. Roldán sent word through the usual go-between, Sánchez de Carvajal, that he would “gladly confer” with Columbus “to reach a satisfactory agreement,” Ferdinand related, and not until May 21, 1499, did the Admiral reply, followed by a more complete answer on June 24. By delaying, he might have hoped that disease, boredom, internal dissension, or starvation would break the rebels’ spirit, but Roldán maintained his outpost and his resistance. On August 3, he received a delegation of seven loyalists, dispatched by Columbus, offering him safe conduct to a summit with the Admiral. They planned to meet at the port of Azua, partway between Santo Domingo and Xaraguá.
During these negotiations, Roldán’s partner, Adrián de Mújica, revolted once too often and finally was arrested. A brief hearing determined he was guilty of treason, and Columbus ordered him to be hanged. Mújica responded to the sentence with vituperation rather than the expected confession and penance. Las Casas claims that Columbus ordered his loyalists to thrust him to his death from the walls of Concepción, the fort to which he was confined, but it is just as likely that his partisans acted on their own. Columbus evaded the issue by stating, “Our Lord would not permit his evil purpose to be carried into effect.” Furthermore, “I had resolved in my own mind not to touch a hair of anyone’s head, and owing to his ingratitude, I was unable to save him, as I intended to do. I would have not done less to my own brother, if he had desired to kill me.” Troubled by the incident—Mújica was well born and well connected, and his death could not be dismissed—Columbus explained that Roldán’s rival for an Indian woman, Fernando de Guevara, bore responsibility for the execution, “without my having ordered it.”
At month’s end, Columbus’s two caravels arrived as agreed at the neutral port of Azua, where a large rebel delegation greeted them. The leaders energetically boarded his flagship, listened to his entreaties and promises of riches and honors, and replied with their outlandish demands, purely for the sake of argument. They wanted land grants and other entitlements for the rebels who elected to remain on the island, and a restoration of Roldán to his former role as the “perpetual mayor.” Desperate to break the back of the resistance, Columbus agreed to all of these demands, and still one more: he would announce that the misunderstanding was solely the result of “false testimony of a few evil men.”
The rebels added still another demand: if the Admiral failed to meet these conditions, they could use “any means,” including force, to compel him to comply. Sick of the rebels and their demands, which had drained his resources and credibility for over a year, Columbus signed. He appointed his antagonist Roldán mayor for life, approved the demands, and so conferred partial legitimacy on a dangerous rival.
Days later, Roldán wielded his newfound authority. He appointed a judge, Pedro de Riquelme, to sentence criminals, except for “capital offenders,” whom he would try personally. Meanwhile, Riquelme broke ground on a rebel fort in Bonao, but work came to a halt amid squabbles. Heartened by this minor victory, Columbus turned his attention to other segments of his fissured empire. Wishing to flee to the relative safety of Spain after his demoralizing spell in Hispaniola, he charged a captain and a company of men “to patrol and pacify” the island (in Ferdinand’s words), collect tributes from the Indians, and suppress revolts provoked by the rebels—all formidable tasks.
Confronting a storm or a reef, Columbus displayed an intuitive knack for tactics and an ability to learn from
experience. But his behavior on land was quite different. No matter how many uprisings he faced on Hispaniola, he failed to adapt and to acquire the skills necessary for leadership, or even survival, in his own empire. He could command the seas, master the winds, and ride the tides, but he could not fathom his fellow man. He had spent his days studying waves, not people, and knew only the crosscurrents and promptings of his own heart. At that dangerous moment, he appeared stagnant, unwilling to recognize that yielding to the rebels’ demands emboldened rather than diminished his enemies.
Then, without warning, four ships appeared on the horizon.
On September 5, the flotilla dropped anchor “in the port that the Christians call ‘Brazil,’ (and the Indians Yaquimo),” Ferdinand explained, with a simple task: to obtain wood for their ships and fires, and to enslave Indians to perform the labor. It was the identity of their leader that alarmed Columbus: Alonso de Ojeda, the reckless aide who had cut off the ears of several Indians while pacifying a settlement in April 1494. And he had been sent by Columbus’s own patrons.
Ojeda’s sudden appearance signaled the end of Columbus’s monopoly on the Enterprise of the Indies. It meant that the Sovereigns and Bishop Fonseca were now commissioning his rivals to perform many of the same tasks Columbus had set out to accomplish. “Alonso de Ojeda was well loved by the bishop,” Las Casas explained, “and after the admiral’s account arrived with the chart, Alonso de Ojeda was inclined to go and discover more land by the route that the admiral had traveled, for once the thread is found and in the hand, it is an easy thing to reach the ball.” From Columbus’s chart, crafty Ojeda learned the basics of the first voyage, what islands the fleet had visited, and other information gleaned from the Indians. Vowing to find the mainland that had eluded Columbus, Ojeda located four ships in Seville, “where he was known as a brave and valiant man,” and obtained the means to outfit them.
Violating their contract with Columbus, Ferdinand and Isabella had given Ojeda supplies and instructions; they had appointed him captain and charged him to discover and recover gold and pearls, just as the Admiral of the Ocean Sea had been doing, and on similar terms, giving the fifth part to the king and queen. And, like Columbus, he was ordered to treat the people he encountered in a spirit of peace and friendship. Bolstering his effort, Ojeda induced Columbus’s prized cartographer, Juan de la Cosa, to join the expedition, as well as a respected pilot from Palos, Bartolomé Roldán. According to Las Casas, the Sovereigns hoped that Ojeda would carry out his duties with less strife than his hardheaded predecessor.
In 1499, Ojeda’s fleet sailed to the Guajira Peninsula, the northernmost part of the South American mainland. In Sinamaica Lagoon, located in today’s Zulia state, he encountered Indians dwelling in thatched huts on stilts—palafitos—above gently lapping water. According to legend, he and his men decided to call the region Little Venice, or “Venezuela,” after the sight, and the name began to appear on maps the following year. Proceeding in a generally southerly direction, they entered brackish Lake Maracaibo, fed with seawater, and explored what is now Colombia. On their return to Spain, Ojeda’s men, dazzled by the gold ornaments worn by tribes in the area, circulated fantastic stories about the wealth that could be found inland, in a city called El Dorado—stories that lured one Spanish expedition after another to Venezuela and Colombia. El Dorado and its incredible riches remained forever elusive, and the region became colonized under the spell of this illusion.
Even as Ojeda explored Venezuela, others were challenging Columbus and outdoing his exploits. There seemed to be endless new worlds to discover, conquer, and exploit. In May 1499, Peralonso Niño, who had sailed with Columbus on the first voyage, mounted his own expedition in search of the margaritas—pearls—of Venezuela. He navigated the Atlantic with reasonable efficiency for both the outbound and inbound voyages, returning to Spain with a king’s ransom in pearls. Charged with cheating the Sovereigns of their share of the bounty, he was arrested and his property seized. He died before his trial concluded.
Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, who had sailed with Columbus on the first and second voyages, arrived at the northern boundary of Brazil on January 26, 1500. Pinzón disembarked on the magnificently desolate beach now known as Praia do Paraíso, in the present-day state of Pernambuco. He returned to Spain on June 23, 1500, having lost many men on the voyage, and taking many slaves to replace them.
Pinzón was followed by the Spanish navigator Diego de Lepe, on a copycat mission. He, too, reached Brazil, off-limits to Spain, according to the terms of the Treaty of Tordesillas.
At about the same time, Rodrigo de Bastidas, a wellborn notary from Seville, still in his twenties, sailed with two ships, San Antón and Santa María de Gracía. He was accompanied by Columbus’s mapmaker, Juan de la Cosa, and Vasco Núñez de Balboa, who was later celebrated as the first European to glimpse the Pacific Ocean. After cruising along the coast of South America, and visiting Panama’s coast, Bastidas was forced to head north to Hispaniola to repair his shipworn fleet. Shipwrecked off the coast of Xaraguá, he was charged with trading with Indians without permission and sent back to Spain for trial. Acquitted, he later became known as the “Noblest Conquistador” in recognition of the respect he accorded the Indians, who were, in any case, rapidly dying out.
Each of these expeditions both validated and threatened Columbus’s voyages of exploration. They demonstrated that it was not so difficult, after all, to sail west from Spain or Portugal across the Atlantic and, thanks to the Gulf Stream and the trade winds, land somewhere in the Americas. Locating a specific island, in this era of primitive navigation, was next to impossible, as even the Admiral of the Ocean Sea learned. With all its promise and challenges, the enterprise he had begun gradually overtook him, like the giant tsunami, irresistible and all-encompassing.
On his voyage, Ojeda brought along a forty-five-year-old Florentine named Amerigo Vespucci, the most enigmatic explorer of his era. By writing or inspiring a letter about a mythical “first voyage” of 1497 preceding his actual debut as an explorer, Vespucci guaranteed himself a controversial reputation. Las Casas, for instance, held him responsible for giving the impression that “Amerigo alone, with no other and before anyone else, had discovered it”—the mainland that came to be known, for no good reason, as America. As a result of Amerigo’s “very great fraud,” Las Casas acidly observed, “it is apparent then how much injustice was done to the admiral Christopher Columbus.” Attempting to right the balance, the chronicler noted, “It was more his due that the mainland be called Columbus, de Colón, or Colombo, after the man who discovered it, or Tierra Santa or Tierra de Gracia, which he himself named it, and not America after Amerigo.” But it was not to be. The name “America” stuck to the continent, beginning with the huge, composite Universalis cosmographia, a printed wall map of the world by Martin Waldseemüller, published in April 1507, the same year that the cartographer made corresponding globe gores—flat, approximately triangular sections designed to wrap around a ball. This is the first map to include the name “America.” For it, Waldseemüller and his assistant, Matthias Ringmann, drew on several sources, including Columbus, for their depiction of the world at the height of the age of exploration, but they decided to award Vespucci preeminence. When it became apparent that Vespucci’s role had been vastly overstated, Waldseemüller revised his map and renamed parts of it Terra Incognita; by this time, about a thousand copies of the original had been distributed, too late to correct the misimpression.
Although he gave his name to the continent that Columbus visited before him, Amerigo Vespucci’s exploits did not obliterate his predecessor’s contribution. Columbus had made such a large impression on the events of his time, and was so well known, if not admired, that the name “America” does not summon the legacy of Vespucci, but the exploits of Columbus.
Amerigo Vespucci began his career not at sea but in finance, working for both Lorenzo de’ Medici and his son Giovanni. In the year Columbus made his first voyage, Vespucc
i had been detailed to the Medici bank in Seville. Cultivating Portuguese as well as Spanish connections, he received an invitation from King Manuel of Portugal to observe a number of voyages bound for South America between 1499 and 1500. One of them, led by Pedro Alvares Cabral, bound for the Cape of Good Hope and India, visited what is now Brazil in 1500. According to the terms of a modified Treaty of Tordesillas, Portugal was entitled to this land. Then, in a situation parallel to the one in which Columbus found himself with respect to the islands making up the Indies, the Portuguese king wished to learn if this newly discovered land, Brazil, was an island or part of the same continent that Columbus had already visited. Another voyage would be required to obtain the answer.
For now, Vespucci, despite his advanced age, benefited from his prestigious connections and arranged to sail with Ojeda’s fleet, “but I do not know whether as a pilot or as a man trained in navigation and learned in cosmography,” Las Casas confessed. “And even though Amerigo stresses that the king of Castile”—that is, Ferdinand—“put the fleet together, and that they went to discover at his command, it is not so.” Instead, a small group of investors “pestered the king and queen for a license to go discover and trade.” With the tremendous advantage of Columbus’s hard-won chart, his pilots, and sailors, Ojeda stood ready to capitalize on their hunger for empire. He knew about the “Indies,” and he even knew about Columbus’s much more recent discoveries of Paria, Trinidad, and the Dragon’s Mouth. Ojeda took care not to challenge Columbus’s claim to have visited the region first; he wanted to be among the subsequent visitors included in its bounty. Imitation was the shortest route to wealth.
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