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My Shipmate-- Columbus
By STEPHEN WILDER
_We've been taught from childhood that the earth is round and that Columbus discovered America. But maybe we take too much on faith. This first crossing for instance. Were you there? Did you see Columbus land? Here's the story of a man who can give us the straight facts._
The laughter brought spots of color to his cheeks. He stood there for awhile, taking it, and then decided he had had enough and would sit down.A whisper of amusement still stirred the room as he returned to his seatand the professor said,
"But just a moment, Mr. Jones. Won't you tell the class what makes youthink Columbus was not the 'bold skipper' the history books say he was.After all, Mr. Jones, this is a history class. If you know more orbetter history than the history books do, isn't it your duty to tellus?"
He clutched at his slashed veins and snarled into theface of death.]
"I didn't say he _wasn't_," Danny Jones said desperately as the laughterstarted again. Some profs were like that, he thought. Picking on onestudent and making the rest of the class laugh and think what a greatguy the prof was and what a prize dodo the hapless student was. "Isaid," Danny went on doggedly, "Columbus might not have been--maybewasn't--the bold skipper the history books claim he was. I can't proveit. No one can. I haven't a time machine."
Again it was the wrong thing to say. The professor wagged a finger infront of his face and gave Danny a sly look. "Don't you," he said,"don't you indeed? I was beginning to think you had been willed H. G.Wells' famous literary invention, young man." That one had the class allbut rolling in the aisles.
Danny said desperately, "No! No, I mean, they don't even know for sureif Columbus was born in Genoa. They just think he was. So they alsocould be wrong about--"
Abruptly the professor's face went serious. "My dear Mr. Jones," he saidslowly, acidly, "don't you think we've had enough of fantasy? Don't youthink we ought to return to history?"
Danny sat down and for a moment shut his eyes but remained conscious ofeveryone looking at him, staring at him, evaluating. It wasn't so easy,he decided, being a sophomore transfer student from a big city college,where almost everything went and there was a certain amount of anonymityin the very size of the classes, to a small town college where everyface, after a week or so, was familiar. Danny wished he had kept his bigyap shut about Columbus, but it was too late now. They'd be ribbing himfor weeks....
On his way back to the dorm after classes he was hailed by a student wholived down the hall from him, a fellow named Groves, who said, "How'sthe boy, Danny. Next thing you'll tell us is that Cortez was really asexy Spanish broad with a thirty-eight bust who conquered Montezuma andhis Indians with sex appeal. Get it, boy. I said--"
"Aw, lay off," Danny grumbled.
The other boy laughed, then shrugged, then said, "Oh yeah, forgot totell you. There's a telegram waiting for you in the dorm. House-mother'sgot it. Well, see you, Vasco da Gama."
Danny trudged on to the Georgian-style dormitory and went inside,through the lobby and behind the stairs to the house-mother's office atthe rear of the building. She was a kindly-looking old woman with a haloof white hair and a smile which made her a good copy of everyone'sgrandmother. But now her face was set in unexpectedly grim lines."Telegram for you, Danny," she said slowly. "They read it over thetelephone first, then delivered it." She held out a yellow envelope."I'm afraid it's some bad news, Danny." She seemed somehow reluctant topart with the little yellow envelope.
"What is it?" Danny said.
"You'd better read it yourself. Here, sit down."
Danny nodded, took the envelope, sat down and opened it. He read, MR.DANNY JONES, WHITNEY COLLEGE, WHITNEY, VIRGINIA. REGRET TO INFORM YOUUNCLE AVERILL PASSED AWAY LAST NIGHT PEACEFULLY IN HIS SLEEP LEAVINGUNSPECIFIED PROPERTY TO YOU. It was signed with a name Danny did notrecognize.
"I'm terribly sorry," the house-mother said, placing her hand onDanny's shoulder.
"Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Grange. It's all right. You see, UncleAverill wasn't a young man. He must have been in his eighties."
"Were you very close to him, Danny?"
"No, not for a long time. When I was a kid--"
Mrs. Grange smiled.
"Well, when I was eight or nine, I used to see him all the time. Westayed at his place on the coast near St. Augustine, Florida, for ayear. I--I feel sorry about Uncle Averill, Mrs. Grange, but I feelbetter about something that happened in class today. I--I think UncleAverill would have approved of how I acted."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Well, it's just he always said never to take any so-called fact forgranted, especially in history. I can almost remember his voice now, theway he used to say, 'if ever there's an argument in history, sonny, allyou ever get is the propaganda report of the side which won.' You know,Mrs. Grange, I think he was right. Of course, a lot of folks thought oldUncle Averill was a little queer. Touched in the head is what theysaid."
"They oughtn't to say such things."
"Always tinkering around in his basement. Funny, nobody ever knew onwhat. He wouldn't let anybody near the place. He had a time lock andeverything. What nobody could figure out is if he was trying so hard toguard something that was in the basement, why did he sometimes disappearfor weeks on end without even telling anybody where he went. And Iremember," Danny went on musing, "every time he came back he went intothat harangue about history, as if somehow he had confirmed hissuspicions. He was a funny old guy but I liked him."
"You remembering him so vividly after all these years will be the bestepitaph your uncle could have, Danny. But what are you going to do?About what he left you, I mean."
"Uncle Averill always liked promptness. If he left something for me,he'd want me to pick it up immediately. I guess I ought to go down thereto St. Augustine as fast as I can."
"But your classes--"
"I'll have to take an emergency leave of absence."
"Under the circumstances, I'm sure the college will approve. Do youthink your uncle left you anything--well--important?"
"Important?" Danny repeated the word. "No, I don't think so. Not by theworld's standards. But it must have been important to Uncle Averill. Hewas a--you know, an image-breaker--"
"An iconoclast," supplied Mrs. Grange.
"Yes'm, an iconoclast. But I liked him."
Mrs. Grange nodded. "You'd better get over and see the Dean."
An hour later, Danny was at the bus depot, waiting for the Greyhoundthat would take him over to Richmond, where he would meet a train forthe south and Florida.
* * * * *
It was a rambling white stucco house with a red tile roof and a pleasantgrove of palm trees in front and flame-red hibiscus climbing the stucco.The lawyer, whose name was Tartalion, met him at the door.
"I'll get right down to business, Mr. Jones," Tartalion said after theyhad entered the house. "Your uncle wanted it that way."
"Wait a minute," Danny said, "don't tell me they already had thefuneral?"
"Your uncle didn't believe in funerals. His will stipulated cremation."
"But, it was so--"
"Sudden? I know, the will wasn't officially probated. But your uncle hada judge for a friend, and under the circumstances, his wishes weregranted. Now, then, you know why you're here?"
"You mean, what he left me? I thought I'd at least get to see his--"
"His body? Not your uncle, not old Averill Jones. You ought to knowbetter. Sonny," the lawyer asked abruptly, "how well did you know theold man?"
The sonny rankled. After all, Danny thought, I'm ni
neteen. I like beerand girls and I'm no sonny anymore. He sighed and thought of his historyclass, then thought of Uncle Averill's opinion of history, and feltbetter. He explained the relationship to Mr. Tartalion and waited forthe lawyer to speak.
"Well, it beats me," Tartalion admitted. "Why he left it to a nephew hehasn't seen in ten or eleven years, I mean. Don't just look at me likethat. You know that contraption he had in the basement, don't you? Howhe wouldn't let a soul near it, ever? Then tell
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