Then came through every peril that might be Pedro
Ledesma, from the ships. They waited! Break
through— come down!
The Margarita could never pass the bar that
now the falling water left exposed. We made rafts,
we dismantled her and took what we could; we left
her in Veragua for Quibian to walk her deck and sail
her if he might. Through danger in multitude,
with our rafts and two boats, with the loss of six
men, we went down the Bethlehem. Some of ours
wept when they saw the ships, and the Admiral wept
when he and the Adelantado met.
Away from Veragua!
Is it only the Spaniards who suffer, and for what
at the last, not at the first, did Quibian fight?
In that strong raid when we thought Quibian perished
had been taken captive brothers and kinsmen of that
cacique. These were prisoned upon the Juana,
to be taken to Spain, shown, made Christian, perhaps
sold, perhaps—who knows?—returned
to their land, but never to freedom.
While the Juana tossed where Bethlehem met
the sea, these Indians broke in the night time up
through hatchway and made for the side to throw themselves
over. But the watch gave a great cry and sprang
upon them, and other Spaniards came instantly.
All but two were retaken. These two, wrenching
themselves free, sprang away into rough water and
dark night, and it is most likely that they drowned,
being a mile from shore. But the others were thrust
back and down under hatch which then was chained so
that they might not again lift it. But in the
morning when the captain of the Juana went
to look, all, all were dead, having hanged themselves.
WE left one of our ships in the Bethlehem and we
lost another upon this disastrous coast ere we got
clear for Jamaica.
We were sea specters. We had saved our men from
the San Sebastian as from the Margarita.
Now all were upon the Consolacion and the Juana.
Fifty fewer were we than when we had sailed from Cadiz,
yet the two ships crept over-full. And they were
like creatures overcome with eld. Beaten, crazed,
falling apart.
On the Eve of Saint John we came to Jamaica.
The ships were riddled by the teredo.
We could not keep afloat to go to Hispaniola.
At Santa Gloria we ran them in quiet water side by
side upon the sand. They partly filled, they
settled down, only forecastle and poop above the blue
mirror. We built shelters upon them and bridged
the space between. The ocean wanderers were turned
into a fort.
Jamaica, we thanked all the saints, was a friendly
land. They brought us cassava and fruit, these
Indians; they swarmed about us in their canoes.
The gods in trouble, yet still the gods!
We were forty leagues from Hispaniola, and we had
no ship!
Again there volunteered Diego Mendez. We ourselves
had now but one Christian boat. But there existed
canoes a-plenty. Chose one, with six Indians
to row! Leave Diego Mendez with one other Spaniard
of his choice to cross the sea between us and Hispaniola,
get to San Domingo, rouse all Christian men, even
Don Nicholas de Ovanda, procure a large ship or two
smaller ones, return with rescue!
