The Adelantado said, “Both you and the Queen
will get well. What, brother, your voyages are
just begun! But let us sail now for Spain.
I think well of that.”
And the son Fernando, Yes, yes, let us go home, father,
and see Diego!
IT was Seville, and an inn there, and the Admiral
of the Ocean-Sea laid in a fair enough room.
His gout manacled him, and another sickness crept
upon him, but he could think, talk and write, and
at times, for serenity and a breath of pleasure, read.
He was ever a reader.
About him, all day long, came people. They called
themselves friends, and many were friends. But
some used that holy word for robber-mask. Others
were the idlest wonder-seekers, never finding wonder
within, always rushing for it without. His
heart, for all his much experience, or perhaps because
of that, was a simple heart. He took them for
what they said they were, for friends, and he talked
of the Indies and all his voyages past and to come,
for he would yet find Ciguarre and retake the Sepulchre.
He had not much money. All his affairs were tangled.
Yet he rested Admiral of the Ocean-Sea, and in name,
at least, Viceroy of the Indies. He was much
concerned over his mariners and others who had returned
with him to Spain. All their pay was in arrears.
He wrote begging letters for them, and with his sons
forever in his mind, for himself. Don Diego,
Don Fernando, they were pleasant, able youths.
Fray Juan Perez came to Seville. He was worldly
comfort, but ghostly comfort too. The Admiral
talked of Ciguarre and Jerusalem, but also now of
the New Jerusalem and the World-to-come.
Late in November, at Medina del Campo Santo died the
Queen!
He told me a dream or a vision that day. There
was, he said, a fair, tranquil shore, back of a fair,
blue haven, and his wife and his mother, long dead,
walked there in talk. Back of the shore rose,
he said, a city with wonderful strong walls and towers
and a perpetual sweet ringing of church bells.
It seemed to climb to one great palace and church,
set about with orchards, with many doves. The
whole mounted like Monsalvat. The city seemed
to be ready for some one. They were hanging out
tapestries and weaving garlands and he heard musicians.
Everywhere shone a light of gladness. He returned
to the seashore, and walking with his wife and mother,
asked them about the city. They said that it
was the Queen’s City. Then, he said, he
seemed to hear trumpets, and far on the horizon made
out a sail.— Then city and shore and all
were gone, and it was dark, starry night, and he was
in the Azores, alone, with a staff in his hand that
he had drawn from the sea.
It was Fray Juan Perez who brought him news of her
death. “Queen Isabella!” he said and
turned to the wall and lay there praying.
One day there came to see him Amerigo Vespucci who
sailing with Ojeda, knew Paria. They talked of
that Vastness to the south. The Venetian thought
it might be a continent wholly unknown alike to the
ancients and the moderns. “Known,”
answered the Genoese, “in the far, far past!
But unknown, I grant, for so long that it has become
again new. All a New World.”
