In the end, we the going forth, kneeling, made general
confession and the priest’s hands in the dusk
above absolved us. There was solemnity and there
was tenderness. A hundred and twenty, we came
forth from church, and around us flowed the hundreds
of Palos, men and women and children. All was
red under a red sunset, the boats waiting to take
us out to the Santa Maria, the Pinta and the
Nina.
We marched to waterside. Priests and friars moved
with us, singing loudly the hymn to the Virgin, Lady
of all seamen. Great tears ran down Fray Juan
Perez’s checks. It was a red sunset and
the west into which we were going looked indeed blood-flecked.
Don Juan de Penelosa, harking us on, had an inspiration.
“You see the rubies of Cipango!”
It is not alone “great” men who bring
about things in this world. All of us are in
a measure great, as all are on the way to greater
greatness. Sailors are brave and hardy men; that
is said when it is said that they are sailors.
In many hearts hung dread of this voyage and rebellion
against being forced to it. But they had not
to be lashed to the boats; they went with sailors’
careless air and dignity. By far the most went
thus. Even Fernando ceased his wailing and embarked.
The red light, or for danger or for rubies in which
still might be danger, washed us all, washed the town,
the folk and the sandy shore, and the boats that would
take us out to the ships, small in themselves, and
small by distance, riding there in the river-mouth
like toys that have been made for children.
The hundred and twenty entered the boats. It
was like a little fishing fleet going out together.
The rowers bent to the oars, a strip of water widened
between us and Spain. Loud chanted the friars,
but over their voices rose the crying of farewell,
now deep, now shrill. “Adios!” The
sailors cried back, “Adios! Adios!”
From the land it must have had a thin sound like ghosts
wailing from the edge of the world. That, the
sailors held and Palos held, was where the ships were
going, over the edge of the world. It was the
third day of August, in the year fourteen hundred
and ninety-two.
PALOS vanished, we lost the headland of La Rabida,
a haze hid Spain. By nightfall all was behind
us. We were set forth from native land, set forth
from Europe, set forth from Christendom, set forth
from sea company and sailors’ cheer of other
ships. That last would not be wholly true until
we were gone from the Canaries, toward which islands,
running south, we now were headed. We might hail
some Spanish ship going to, coming from, Grand Canary.
We might indeed, before we reached these islands,
see other sails, for a rumor ran that the King of Portugal
was sending ships to intercept us, sink us and none
ever be the wiser, it not being to his interest that
Spain should make discoveries! Pedro it was who
put this into my ear as we hauled at the same rope.
I laughed. “Here beginneth the marvelous
tale of this voyage! If all happens that all
say may happen, not the Pope’s library can hold
the books!”
