The Indians below deck lost all hope of regaining their freedom. They might drown or suffocate, far from their ancestral lands. In despair, they gathered ropes and, one by one, hanged themselves from the deck beams, “bending their knees because they had not enough headroom to hang themselves properly,” said Ferdinand. By the time they were discovered, it was too late to rescue them.
Ferdinand callously assumed that “their death was no great loss to us of the fleet, but seriously worsened the plight of the men ashore.” He believed that holding the Quibián’s children hostage had kept the cacique at bay, but now that their hostages had killed themselves, the Europeans on land and sea were vulnerable to retaliation by the Indians. The Admiral’s son lamented not the deaths of the Indians but these “misfortunes and vexations, with our lives hanging by the anchor cables, and ourselves completely in the dark on the state of affairs ashore.” Given the way the hardhearted Spaniards treated the innocent captives on their ship, it was hardly surprising that the Indians onshore responded in self-defense.
As the siege continued on land, the Spaniards realized that the men trapped in the makeshift fort had to be rescued, or they would be murdered. A few able-bodied seamen offered to be rowed in the boat—now the sole remaining launch for the entire fleet—that would take them to the bar. Columbus had little choice but to “accept the offer,” and Bermuda’s boat took them to “within a musket shot of land; closer than that they could not come because of the waves that broke on the beach.” Upon reaching this point, Pedro de Ledesma, the pilot from Seville, “boldly leapt overboard and swam across the bar to the settlement.” On arrival, he listened to the men stranded there beg for deliverance from their “hopeless situation; they begged the Admiral to take them aboard, for to leave them behind was to condemn them to death.” Some threatened mutiny; they were prepared to steal a canoe from the Indians and return to the ships that way, if need be, preferring to “risk their lives in this way rather than wait for death at the hands of those cruel butchers, the Indians.”
Considering the pitiful story brought back by Ledesma and the others, together with the threat of mutiny, the Admiral softened a bit, and decided he would grant their pleas, even if it meant “lying off the coast with no possibility of saving them or himself if the weather grew worse.” After eight days “at the mercy of the prow cables,” by which Ferdinand meant that a single anchor stood between the ship and disaster, the weather lifted, and the stranded Europeans began to “transport themselves and their gear over the bar, using their single boat and two large canoes lashed together so as not to overturn.” The transfer took two agonizing days, after which “nothing remained ashore, except the worm-eaten hulk of Gallega.”
Relieved to the point of euphoria, the survivors set sail on April 16, 1503, on an easterly course along the coast. A navigational dispute arose. The pilots, relying on their crude charts, believed that Hispaniola lay to the north, whereas the Columbus brothers “knew it was necessary to sail a good space along the coast before crossing the sea that lies between the mainland and Hispaniola.” Their decision prompted ominous grumbling among the sailors, convinced that “the Admiral intended to sail a direct route to Spain with unfit and ill-provisioned ships.”
The tiny fleet held its course until returning to Puerto Bello, where “we had to abandon Vizcaína because she was drawing much water and because her planking was completely riddled by shipworms.” Retracing the fleet’s route, the remaining ships, La Capitana and Bermuda, bypassed Retrete, and the Archipelago of Las Mulatas—130 miles east of Puerto Bello—to sail toward a mottled promontory that Columbus called Marmóreo, Portuguese for “marbled.”
Propelled by the trades, excused from misfortune for the moment, Columbus’s diminished fleet reached Cape Tiburón, Colombia, on May 1, and stood northward, “with winds and currents easterly, always endeavoring to sail as close to the wind as possible.” Again, the pilots tried to tell the volatile Admiral “that we had passed eastward of the Caribbee Islands, but the Admiral feared he would not be able to fetch Hispaniola.” On May 10, a Wednesday, they espied tiny islands swarming with turtles—“as was all the sea thereabout, so that it seemed to be full of little rocks”—and named them Las Tortugas, now the Cayman Islands, which they soon put to stern.
May 13 found Columbus approaching Cuba in a desperate state. Ferdinand catalogued their miseries: “As we lay here at anchor, ten leagues from Cuba, suffering greatly from hunger because we had nothing to eat but biscuit and a little oil and vinegar, and exhausted by working three pumps day and night to keep the vessels afloat (for they were ready to sink from the holes made by the shipworms), there came on at night a great storm in which Bermuda, being unable to ride it out, fouled us and broke our stem”—the foremost part of the hull—“nor did she get off whole, but smashed her stern into the helm.” In the midst of wind and rain lashing the masts, sail, and rigging, while the ships rode heaving seas, the men managed to separate the two ships before they did more damage.
The storm had strained the cables running to the anchors to the limit. In the morning, the crew found only a single strand intact. If the storm had lasted just an hour longer, the men estimated, that strand would have parted, and the hull would have smashed into the rocks. But the ship held on by this slender thread. “It pleased God to deliver us then,” Ferdinand gratefully noted.
Throughout the storm, Columbus appeared to be in command of his faculties, but a letter that he wrote weeks later confirmed his pilots’ misgivings. He was half-mad, half-blind, and hearing voices. His biblically inspired geography insisted that he had, in his words, “reached the region of Mango, near Cathay.” Somehow he would have to find Hispaniola from that illusory location.
He fought on. If only he could reach a more northerly latitude, he could catch the trades to Spain and safety, but, he admitted, “the rough sea had the upper hand, and I had to turn back without sail. I threw out anchor at an island where I lost three anchors at a single stroke, and at midnight, when it seemed the world was about to disappear, the cables of the other ship gave way and it bore down on me, so that it was a wonder that we were not dashed into splinters; it was the anchor and the way it held that, after God, saved me.”
When the weather lifted slightly, the fragile fleet returned to the open sea, but, Columbus wailed, “with all the rigging lost, the ships more riddled with shipworms than a honeycomb, and the crew so frightened and depressed, I got a little farther than I had before.” Foul weather forced him to return to another harbor in the island he had just left—it is difficult to specify which island, because Columbus thought he was approaching China—where he languished for eight anxiety-ridden days, at last reaching Jamaica by the end of June, “always with contrary winds and with the ships in worse condition than ever.” The vessels took on water so quickly that even with three pumps operating, the crew could not prevent the water from rising; they resorted to bailing water with kettles and tubs, all to no avail. The ships appeared headed for certain disaster.
His misery was so intense, and prospects for surviving from one day to the next so uncertain, that as his ships nosed their way toward Hispaniola, he confessed, “I wished I had never set out.” The conditions were the most adverse that he had endured during his years in the Caribbean. “The other ship, half-submerged, hastened to find a harbor. I struggled against the sea in the midst of the storm. As my ship sank Our Lord miraculously brought me to land.” He stopped scratching his pen to reflect, “Who could believe what I am writing?”
Paraphrasing Marco Polo’s celebrated remark that his Travels did not contain even half of all that had occurred to him, Columbus claimed, “In this letter, I have reported but a hundredth of what happened. Those who were with the Admiral can bear witness to it.” Even if much of the tumult had occurred in his mind, it was nonetheless overwhelming.
In these dire conditions, Columbus changed course once again. Now the fleet stood for Jamaica because, Ferdinand explained, “the easterly winds
and strong westward-running currents would have never let us make Hispaniola—especially since the ships were so riddled by shipworms.” The crew continued to work the three pumps morning, noon, and night, but by Midsummer Day’s eve, June 23, “the water in our ship rose so high that it was almost up to the deck.” The men clung to a floating wreck, capable of only rudimentary navigation. But the instinct to survive drove them on against overwhelming odds. “With great toil we continued in this state until daybreak when we made a harbor in Jamaica named Puerto Bueno” on the northern coast, later called Dry Harbour.
From the deck of his sinking ship, the broad harbor appeared benign, but no source of fresh water was apparent, nor did they see an Indian village where they could replenish themselves. Risking one more day aboard the flimsy ship, Columbus sailed eastward to a haven that he named Santa Gloria, now St. Ann’s Bay, a sequence of shallow bay, alluvial fan, and marsh. Approaching the shore, Columbus and his men beheld aromatic cedar, rosewood, ebony, mahogany, palmetto palm, coconut palm, and blue mahoe, which grows to sixty feet, whose wood contains blue, green, and yellow tints and whose flowers change color from yellow to orange to dark red. Through the trees, the men caught sight of showy parrots, iridescent hummingbirds, and cuckoos. Plump little todies, similar in shape to kingfisher birds, with green wings and crimson gorgets, flitted nervously from branch to branch.
The crew angled the boats toward the beach. “Since we were no longer able to keep the ships afloat, we ran them ashore as far as we could, grounding them both close together board and board, and shoring them up on both sides so they could not budge.” When beached, the ships were nearly swamped at high tide, but they were alive and safe—for now.
Having exhausted their usefulness at sea, the ships became makeshift fortresses. On the fore and stern castles, the exhausted men cobbled together cabins, “making our position as strong as possible so the Indians could do us no harm; for at that time the island was not yet inhabited or subdued by Christians.” A sense of loneliness and stillness descended, relieved only by the fluttering wind, the muffled crash of distant surf, and faint birdcalls. Stranded in these rotting structures only a “crossbow shot from land,” Columbus, Ferdinand, and the other crew members faced another test of survival.
“The Indians of that country, who proved to be a kind and gentle people, presently came in canoes to barter their wares and provisions,” Ferdinand remarked. Columbus designated two of his men to monitor the trading for food with the eager hosts. To keep track of his small band of survivors, and prevent mischief, Columbus endeavored to keep his men aboard the beached shipwrecks rather than wander into the woods. As he knew from experience, “Our people by nature being disrespectful, no punishment or order could have stopped them from running about the country and into the Indians’ huts to steal what they found and commit outrages on their wives and children, whence would have arisen disputes and quarrels that would have made enemies of them.” The Admiral confined the men aboard ship, and required them to sign out if they intended to go ashore. The Indians appeared so grateful for the protocol that they offered everything the sailors needed “in exchange for our things.” Colored beads, or lace, a red cap, hawk’s bells, scissors, and small mirrors fetched hutias and substantial cassava cakes for the hungry seamen.
With their most pressing needs provided for, Columbus and his men convened repeatedly to discuss their return to Spain. No ship was likely to appear on the horizon to carry them away, and they lacked the means to build a new vessel or to repair the wrecks sheltering them. A raft, or juryrigged ship, would not suffice, not with the weather and winds and currents they had to face on the return journey. “We had neither the implements nor the artisans needed for the task.”
Columbus decided to send messengers back to Hispaniola with an urgent request for a rescue ship with provisions and ammunition. The bearers of that news would have to contend with Columbus’s nemesis, Nicolás de Ovando, who would no doubt be pleased to learn that the Admiral of the Ocean Sea was stranded on Jamaica, desperate and powerless, but the castaways had no other choice but to seek help; they could not go on trading with the Indians indefinitely.
For now, the bay enclosed and protected them. The days offered reassuring breezes, calm seas, and radiant vistas. The nights revealed the immensity of the heavens, and their suspension in the sea of infinity. Like all sailors, they gazed on the flickering stars and the moon’s spectral countenance, and traced the trajectory of the occasional meteor streaking across the night sky. Beyond the harbor, moonlight glistened across the swell. The celestial spectacle revealed their insignificance in the scheme of things; God ordained their place, and Columbus urged them toward their homeland, more distant than ever. They had food for now, but if the Indians became distracted or hostile, the shipwrecked Spaniards faced the prospect of starvation on the pristine sands of a beach found on no map. Their bleached bones might be discovered a hundred years later, or never; they and their little expedition to the edge of nowhere would be memorialized, celebrated by partisans and condemned by rivals, and soon forgotten. Only by the trick of survival could they fend off the inevitable for a while, and live out the span of years left to them.
“None of my people realize the danger of our situation,” Columbus confided to his chief clerk, Diego Méndez de Segura. “We are very few, these savage Indians are very many, and we cannot be certain that their mood will not change. One day, when the mood strikes them, they may come and burn us here in these two ships.” With their straw roofs, the structures would instantly catch fire “and roast us alive.”
Columbus proposed sending “someone”—Méndez knew whom the Admiral meant—to make the risky crossing to Hispaniola in a canoe, purchase a ship, return to Jamaica in her, and rescue them all. The dutiful Méndez envisioned playing a heroic role in this assignment; he could emerge as the savior of Columbus and the voyage. Méndez aired his doubts, as Columbus listened patiently, and “firmly persuaded me that I was the man to undertake the voyage.”
Méndez worried that the other men resented him because “Your Lordship entrusts all the most honorable responsibilities to me.” He suggested that Columbus assemble his men to see if anyone else would undertake it—which Méndez doubted—“and if they all hold back, as they will, I shall risk my life once more in your service.”
When Columbus explained the mission to the others, no one came forward to offer his services and his life, and several were overheard to say that crossing forty leagues of open ocean in rough weather in a canoe was impossible. Then Méndez rose to his feet. “My Lord,” he said, “I have but one life, but I will risk it in Your Lordship’s service and for the good of all here present.”
Columbus approached him, kissed him on both cheeks, and declared, “I knew very well that nobody here except you would dare to undertake this mission.” That was how Méndez chose to remember the event; more likely, Columbus chose that moment to assign twelve or fourteen men to the rescue mission. They would occupy two canoes in all, one under the command of Diego Méndez, and the other under the command of Bartolomeo Fieschi, the Admiral’s comrade from Genoa.
Méndez set about readying the fragile craft that would carry them to rescue or disaster. He affixed false keels to the canoe for stability in the open water, covered the hull with pitch and grease, and “nailed some boards to the prow and stern to prevent water from coming in, which it might, owing to the low freeboard”—the narrow portion of the hull above the waterline. Other modifications included the addition of a simple mast and sail, and stores. Each canoe would carry six Spaniards, in addition to several Indian paddlers. They would cover approximately 124 miles.
After bidding farewell to the Admiral and putting to sea, Méndez reached the easternmost end of Jamaica. Lingering at the cape, waiting for a calm sea before commencing the crossing to Hispaniola, Méndez saw that Indians had assembled “with the intention of killing me and taking my canoe and its contents.” They even “drew lots for my life” to decide who
would carry out the deed. He and his men quietly reclaimed their canoes, beached several miles away, raised sail, and returned to Dry Harbour, where Columbus was stationed.
Relieved that Méndez and his men had escaped slaughter, the Admiral sent them all back to the cape, accompanied by seventy men under the direction of the Adelantado. The squadron waited four days for favorable seas. “When I saw the seas growing calm I very sadly took leave of my escorts and they of me,” Méndez recalled.
Ferdinand remembered watching the Indians deftly settling into the canoes with gourds of water and “native food” as the brave Spaniards took their places, carrying “swords, shields, and foods.” They launched into the sea, Bartholomew escorting them to the island’s eastern end to ward off Indian attacks. None materialized. The Adelantado waited until dark as the canoes became specks on the horizon. When they had vanished, he walked back to his men, “urging the Indians he encountered on the way to be friends and trade with us.”
The men in the canoes commenced paddling for five days and four nights. Méndez recalled “never taking my hand off the oar and steering the canoe while all my companions rowed.” They were rowing for their lives, and those of the men they left behind with Columbus. For the last two days of this marathon, with their stores of food and drink exhausted, the men aboard the canoes neither ate nor drank.
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