by Andrew Rowen
On September 19, there was a windless, drizzling rain, encouraging all that a landmass certainly was near. Sailors peered intently south, west, and north to sight Antillia or the St. Brendan islands, but did not sight them. The Santa María’s crew dropped a sounding lead to ascertain the depth, but two hundred fathoms of line did not touch bottom. Cristóbal pronounced there were islands beyond the northern and southern horizons, but that it best to continue due west to achieve Cipangu, which remained far off.
The next day—the eleventh since Hierro disappeared—some cormorants and other birds flew by, reinforcing many sailors’ belief land was near. Before dusk, Cristóbal sat on a stool at the door of his cabin, alone with his personal attendants, who reclined informally and comfortably on the deck at his feet. He sought to gauge their judgments on the morale of the Santa María’s crew, turning first to Pedro de Terreros, his steward.
“How’s the crew holding up? What are they saying?”
“They’re disappointed you didn’t change course toward the islands that seem nearby.” Pedro esteemed his master, perceiving a remarkable bent to understand the physical world and every situation confronting him and an openness to listen to all persons to achieve that understanding. “They’ve heard the Portuguese follow the birds to discover land and thought you should’ve done the same. We’ve been out of sight of land far longer than usual and they’re scared.” Pedro glanced away. “They think your decision to continue west was foolhardy.”
“I understand,” replied Cristóbal. “I expected that. But it would’ve been a mistake to search for islands and then not find them—that would’ve further dismayed them and diminished our stores in vain. It’s more prudent to pursue the course I’m certain of, west to Cipangu.” He turned to his page, Pedro de Salcedo. “What’ve you overheard?”
Pedro, but fifteen, looked to Cristóbal like a father. “The Basques and Galicians whisper that you have deceived them and are risking their lives just to become a gentleman.”
“Is that all? Do they plan to do something?” Cristóbal reflected. “Does this involve Juan de la Cosa?”
“No. It’s only sailors’ grumbling. I’ve heard no plan to do anything. Juan wasn’t involved.”
Cristóbal turned to his servant Juan Portugués. “Any thoughts?”
Juan had served masters before and found Cristóbal’s interest in his thoughts unusual and gratifying. He replied in broken Castilian, acquired by necessity, not choice. “They scared, strange things see, scared head to toe. Far land. Men no meant here. Don’t know going.” Juan gazed at Cristóbal’s feet. “Don’t share gold like you. Special voyage you, no special them, no want die for.”
“I understand.”
Juan studied his master and reflected that Cristóbal was prepared to die to achieve his Cipangu.
On September 21, the weed grew even thicker, the breeze light and variable, and the sea calm. This day, the weed inspired the crews’ fright—that its thickness would impede their progress, their ships would founder on unseen rocks, and they would perish weeks from land. The voyage’s favorable easterly wind now became a curse—it rarely blew toward Hispania and would prevent their return home, prisoning them to perish in the weird weed-bound sea. Some sailors expressed their alarm directly to Cristóbal, without concealing their simmering distrust of him. Cristóbal entreated them to be patient, to consider that they had accomplished the greater part of the voyage already, and to reaffirm their faith in the Lord that they would succeed.
Unexpectedly, the wind reversed itself and during the next two days gusted strongly from the southwest or northwest, sometimes pushing high seas, surprising Cristóbal but solacing the crews’ angst. Many were overjoyed and their mutterings and complaints ceased. Cristóbal reflected that the Lord had assisted him with the contrary wind just as he had assisted Moses by sending signals to the Jews that Moses would deliver them from Egypt.
September 24 brought more birds. This day, the birds inspired dread, as countless birds had been sighted without land appearing. The Santa María’s crew cursed that they were suicidal, madly risking their lives to follow an insane foreigner who was set on dying on a vainglorious scheme that all learned men knew ridiculous. Sailors huddled in small groups, lamenting whether the time for talk was over and if the best course was to heave the Genoese overboard at night, excusing that he had slipped while sighting the polestar. They reasoned no one would demand an accounting or bother to investigate since he was a foreigner.
Cristóbal’s steward, page, and servant kept him informed. He continued to implore the crew to remain patient. But he now also warned that the sovereigns would treat them harshly if they abandoned the voyage at this stage and that there would be punishments for those who hindered it.
The next day, Martín brought the Pinta close abreast the Santa María and, facing each on the ships’ stern decks, Cristóbal and he discussed Cristóbal’s map, agreeing they had come far enough to be among the islands that lay east of Cipangu. The ships drew apart at sunset, with the Pinta in the lead. Soon, Martín shouted that he had sighted land to the southwest. Sailors on the Pinta stampeded to the port rail to peer southwest and began to cheer wildly and sing “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” and the crews of the Niña and the Santa María heartily joined them. Overwhelmed by triumph and relief, Cristóbal fell to his knees to praise the Lord. As night descended, the ships veered southwest, and sailors proudly reflected on the wisdom of enlisting on the voyage, eagerly anticipating the riches the next days would bring.
But, as the sun rose the next morning, the horizon was but sea in every direction, and all woefully recognized the sighting had been but squall clouds or imagination. Cristóbal quietly directed the pilots to revert to the western course and, recognizing the crews’ profound dejection, proclaimed confidently they would achieve the Indies. He reminded that they had not yet sailed 750 leagues from Hierro and that he had not expected landfall this early. He announced that thereafter a false sighting would disqualify the proclaimer from later winning the queen’s pension.
On October 1, Pero Alonso estimated they had sailed 578 leagues from Hierro, the Pinta’s pilot estimated 634, and the Niña’s pilot 640. Cristóbal’s private estimate was 707 leagues, but he publicly embraced Pero Alonso’s. By October 2, Cristóbal believed they had achieved the longitude of Cipangu, and, the next day, Martín advised searching for it rather than continuing west. Both grew irritated, Cristóbal perceiving an inappropriate insistence in the tone of Martín’s shout, and Martín a disdain inherent in Cristóbal’s refusal to do so.
When he retired that night, Cristóbal’s private estimate of the distance traveled exceeded 750 leagues and, despite his self-assured demeanor, he feared they had missed Cipangu. Incredibly, they had now sailed for three weeks without sight of land, and he pleaded emphatically to the Lord to reveal it. But he continued to reject the pleas to tack north or south to follow the birds, reasoning it would be more certain to proceed to the Indian shore, which eventually had to be reached. The crews were furious.
At dawn on October 6, the crews woke with the knowledge they would surpass 750 leagues from Hierro that day—based on the Genoese’s own proclaimed estimates. Cristóbal ignored this milestone and exhorted the sailors to attend to their duties. That evening, landfall having failed, Martín recommended they veer southwest, but Cristóbal declined to do so. Martín simmered, and there were whispers of mutiny among the crews.
At dawn the next day—almost a month from Hierro—the Niña discharged its lombard and raised its flag, indicating landfall at last had been achieved. The crews peered west to clouds on the horizon, pining to discern Cipangu, only to recognize forlornly as the day progressed that this sighting, again, was false. Cristóbal sensed the crews simply would not tolerate the western course, or his disregard of Martín’s advice, any longer. Large flocks of birds were sighted flying southwest, and, with reluctance, he consented for two days to follow Martín’s recommendation that the ships sail in that directi
on. Herons, ducks, and other land birds soon filled the sky and the crews rejoiced. Martín felt vindicated.
On October 9, with the wind and sea calm, Cristóbal requested that Martín and Vicente join him on the Santa María to discuss their alternatives. While the crews were now content with the birds flying about, he knew the slightest ill portent could sway them to fury. He brought Martín and Vicente to his tiny cabin, where they spoke alone, save for Cristóbal’s steward, page, and servant, who sat outside to serve their needs and guard against eavesdroppers.
“It’s no longer easy to calm my crew,” Cristóbal began. “I believe we are among islands and perhaps close to the mainland right now— landfall could appear on the horizon as we speak. But it’s only a matter of time before my men demand we turn about.” Cristóbal paused to judge the Pinzóns’ reactions. “We must go on, at least some days, until we achieve the Indies as promised the king and queen.”
Vicente responded quickly. “We must go on. Our water and stores are sufficient to go forward and return to Hispania if necessary. I’m able to control my men.”
Cristóbal looked to Martín. Both remembered their conversations in Palos. Both recognized that Martín could end the voyage simply by telling the crews that he felt its abandonment necessary for their survival.
Martín considered the riches and glory within their grasp and was steadfast. “We can’t turn around now. We remain well provisioned and the weather has been optimal—far more favorable than any voyage I can remember. At this point, there’s not sufficient reason to forsake the sovereigns’ mission. But we must find land quickly! My word won’t calm the men’s terror much longer, and then they’ll conclude they’ve fulfilled their duty regardless of what I say. No man has ever lived to tell of sailing this far from land, or even remotely as far.” He gazed at Vicente. “I’ve known our crews’ fathers, mothers, wives, and children all my life, and this can’t be their final voyage.”
Martín grew stern and condescending, betraying contempt for Cristóbal’s relative inexperience at sea. “Let’s speak frankly—you don’t know the distance to the Indies. This map has always been but a mariner’s educated guess. It is critical that we now sail simply in that direction where the signs of land are most convincing—be it north, south, east, or west. Today, as we speak, birds appear to be flying southwest to roost, and that’s our best sign of land at this moment.”
Cristóbal looked to the deck, withholding a response to this lecture on matters he felt he fully understood, repressing the urge to remind Martín that it was Cristóbal’s knowledge alone that had bought them to this precipice of triumph. “We’ll continue southwest as you said. What’s important is what we communicate about this meeting. I suggest we tell the crews that we have agreed to sail a few more days to investigate the signs of imminent landfall.”
“I agree.” Martín also stepped back from confrontation, repressing an enmity for Colón that surged within. “And, if we encounter dissent, we should warn that it constitutes mutiny.”
Martín and Vicente returned to their ships to advise their crews that the voyage continued for some days. Cristóbal remembered Bartolomeu Dias’s experience at the tip of Guinea and reflected that, as it always had been, the voyage was in the Lord’s hand.
LANDFALL,
October 10–12, 1492
Before dawn on October 10, stronger winds arose and forcefully propelled the ships southwest and, as the day progressed, the seas grew rough. Birds flocked about. Cristóbal plead to his Lord for land, anticipating the northeasterly wind and heavy seas would renew the crew’s panic that return to Hispania was hopeless.
Cristóbal’s attendants shared that foreboding. His steward Pedro scrutinized the Santa María’s officers closely for whispers or unnecessary conversations with crewmen. The page Pedro and servant Juan hung close to Cristóbal’s quarters, reluctant to wander among the crew, grimly reconciled that as Cristóbal’s men they would share in his fate if the crew took matters into their own hands. Defending their master seemed their only defense.
The Crown representatives considered their responsibilities. Pedro Gutiérrez reflected that his duty was to stand with the Genoese unless the voyage turned hopeless, regardless of the personal consequences. But he perceived it unlikely he could be found delinquent of that duty if the Genoese failed to survive to attest to that delinquency. Rodrigo Sánchez and Rodrigo de Escobedo felt the same and resolved to retreat as mere observers if an altercation occurred.
Diego de Arana, cousin to Cristóbal’s mistress, resolved to defend Cristóbal to whatever end befell him, as Cristóbal’s knighthood was Diego’s path to fortune. Pero Alonso was torn. He had grown to admire the Genoese, but he would not be thrown overboard simply for the sake of loyalty. Juan de la Cosa felt all eyes upon him. Cristóbal had relied on him to recruit much of the Santa María’s crew and they in turn trusted him to safeguard their lives. He resolved that he would not instigate an altercation, but if it came he could not oppose it.
At midday, the entire crew was present on deck as the watches rotated. Sailors studied the landless horizons and witnessed the imposing, whitecapped swells marching west. They cursed the distance they had come from Hierro, despaired that the stores remaining were insufficient to return, anguished that return would be impossible anyway, and swore that they had been duped to enlist. Together, a group of sailors approached the stern deck, where Cristóbal stood with his attendants and the Crown representatives. He had prepared to engage them.
“Those retiring from duty should get some rest, for soon we shall achieve landfall. I have discussed the route with the captains of the Pinta and Niña, and we have decided the best course is to follow the birds southwest. You can see land birds in the sky, and you undoubtedly heard them all last night.”
A sailor spoke. “You have misled us. We have gone far beyond 750 leagues to find nothing.”
A second continued. “Our provisions have reached the point where we must stop and return home if we can. We demand we go no further.”
“I’ve determined, together with Captain Pinzón, that we’ve not yet reached that point,” Cristóbal replied. “When we do, we’ll turn around if land isn’t found, perhaps in a few days. But not now, and that is my order. That’s our duty to the king and queen. I command those on duty to take their watch and those off duty to retire.”
The men did not disperse. A sailor replied. “We’ve done our duty to you and the king and queen. We have no duty to die in vain for a scheme that has not borne out.”
Cristóbal directed Pero Alonso to order a sailor to send smoke signals to advise the Pinta and Niña to quarter so the Santa María would close with them. Cristóbal continued carefully. “I do not ask that, and I have never asked that. The Lord has shown you signs that land is near, and all three captains have agreed that. It would forsake your tremendous efforts to give up now. We have the stores to proceed further and return to Hispania, and it would be treason for you to demand return now. Captain Pinzón is agreed on this.” Cristóbal searched for more words. “There is no rebellion on his ship or on the Niña. You are alone in demanding your shameful retreat. It’s useless to complain. I will go on until I find the Indies.”
Strong winds whistled about the Santa María’s masts and rigging and spray careened over her rails onto the men confronted on her deck. The men were silent for a moment.
Cristóbal hunted for a remark to wind down the confrontation. “I have two sons in Spain myself. Those on duty should take their posts, and the rest should retire. Soon we’ll all be rich, and this moment will never have happened.”
The sailors glared at themselves exasperated, realizing an appeal to Pinzón or any other action would accomplish nothing. Slowly, a sailor departed to sleep in the hull, followed by a second and third, and gradually they all disbanded. The Crown representatives, Pero Alonso, Juan de la Cosa, and Cristóbal’s attendants were stupefied in relief. When the Santa María arrived by the Pinta, Martín shouted above the wind
that they all would fulfill their promise to the queen.
On October 11, the seas were the roughest yet encountered, and the ships took waves across the deck. But the portents were terrific. The Niña spotted and retrieved a green branch with red berries intact, fresh as if just cut. The Pinta found a piece of carved wood and another plant and the Santa María yet another green branch. Sandpipers were sighted. All realized that abandonment of the voyage now would be foolhardy, forsaking almost certain landfall for but an unknown passage home of tremendous length. After nightfall, Cristóbal reminded his crew that the Lord had favored the voyage with temperate weather and admonished them to be on lookout for shoals that night. Those off duty couldn’t sleep and all hands came on deck seeking to be first to sight land and win the queen’s pension. Cristóbal offered a silk jacket to that sailor, as well. He redirected the course due west, and no one objected.
Cristóbal stood on the Santa María’s stern deck, peering at the horizon. For a moment, he thought he saw a faint light flicker in the far distance, as if a tiny candle penetrating haze. He averted his eyes for a moment and then peered again, continuing to see it. He called Pedro Gutiérriez to look with him, and Pedro confirmed he saw a light. They called Rodrigo Sánchez to look, as well, but he saw nothing. Cristóbal decided that he was unsure of a sighting and that the Santa María’s lombard should not be discharged. Soon, one of the pardoned criminals, Pedro Izquierdo, shouted from the forecastle that he saw a light, and Cristóbal’s page Pedro advised Izquierdo that Cristóbal had already seen it. The light vanished and the ships continued west for some hours. The moon rose at the stern of the ships, with the Pinta in the fore and the Santa María in the rear.