Caribbean (13 page)

The courtiers laughed. The royal couple looked at him in dismay and shook their heads. The wise men congratulated themselves on having helped Spain avoid error. But Colón marched out of the court still determined to pursue the great adventure in which he had unfaltering faith.

^*1
From Tula in central Mexico, during the years 920–1205.

^*2
When in the summer of 1959, I came upon this newly discovered wall, its glyphs were still undecipherable, for the Rosetta stone which would unlock the secrets of Maya writing has not yet been found. Recently, however, scholars in various countries, aided by computers, have begun to make translations.

^*3
Cuba.

^*4
She was justified in her fear, because on 12 July 1562 well-meaning Diego de Landa, Fourth Bishop of Yucatán, seeking to protect Catholicism from Maya heresy, gathered all known copies of scrolls like the ones Ix Zubin and her grandfather Cimi Xoc had collected and burned them in a great bonfire. Only three in all Mayaland survived and it is from them that we know the history of this great civilization.

I
N THE SPRING OF
1509
THE COURTIERS ATTENDING THE
K
ING OF
Spain in his temporary headquarters at Segovia just north of Madrid awaited anxiously the arrival of a caped horseman who had been expected some hours earlier. When he came clattering into the paved courtyard they rushed to help him dismount, but he vaulted from his horse, ignoring the offers of help.

“How dare you keep the king waiting!” they cried.

“Gypsies camping under a bridge,” he said curtly. “Set it afire cooking their stolen meats.”

“Three times the king has summoned you.”

“And I wasn’t here to answer, was I?” he snapped, but then as he brushed himself and discarded his cape, throwing it across his saddle, his momentary brusqueness dissolved into a gracious smile: “He’ll understand,” and he headed for the palace door.

He was a tall man, with a small patch of red and gold brocade covering his left eye and a long-healed scar crossing his weathered cheek. He was Don Hernán Ocampo, forty-seven years old and a veteran of the triumphant wars Spain had recently waged to expel the Moors from Europe. His protracted military service in battle had been unusual in that as a young man he had been trained in law, not warfare. Following his military successes, he had proved so able
at his chosen profession that he had become a
licenciado
practicing in Sevilla, where he had met and married a granddaughter of the Duke of Alba, and he had helped Ferdinand of Aragon consolidate so much scattered power that the latter ultimately became King of Spain. Since Ocampo had also helped arrange Ferdinand’s masterful marriage to Isabella of Castille he had reason to trust that the king would forgive his tardiness today. But when he was ushered into Ferdinand’s presence, he found the handsome monarch, a year older than himself and much more corpulent, in an ugly mood: “I’ve needed you, Ocampo. You must perform a major task on my behalf.”

Ocampo bowed with the lean grace of a gallant courtier and waved his left hand toward the king: “As always, Majesty.” The familiar manner in which he moved and spoke, avoiding the word
king
as improper to be used among two men who had long worked together, almost said in words what each knew: Did I not lose this eye and gain this scar in your behalf?

Ferdinand nodded slightly to acknowledge his friendship but he did not relax his sense of irritation and urgency. Throwing his arms about Ocampo’s shoulder, he led him to a divan covered with gold and purple embroidery and pulled him down beside him: “It’s those damned Colón heirs. They’re driving me crazy with petitions and noisy claims.”

“Still? I thought that had long been settled.”

“No. When their father died three years ago they began pestering me in earnest. Said that since he had discovered the New World for Isabella and me, I owed them, as his heirs, huge amounts of gold. More than the treasury has!”

“I am a lawyer, Majesty, but I do not bemire myself in family inheritances. In such battles honest men always lose.”

“That’s my problem, Ocampo. Yours is to sail out to Española and ascertain the truth as to how Cristóbal Colón discharged his duties there in my behalf.”

Ocampo moved away from the king, and placing his left thumb under his chin, he began, with the forefinger of that hand, to stroke his right cheek, closing his good eye; in this posture which he often used when trying to delay a decision, he gave the strong impression of a man immersed in deep thought. The king, seeing this, allowed him time to reflect, and when Ocampo finally spoke he surprised the monarch: “But didn’t you send an inquisitor out there eight or ten years ago to do the very thing you’re now asking me to do?”

The shrewdness of this response pleased the king and caused him to relax. Clapping Ocampo on the knee, he said: “You have a long memory. Yes, nine years ago I dispatched Francisco de Bobadilla to Española to check on Colón. Gave him five extraordinary powers.”

“Didn’t he do a good job?”

“That’s what this problem is about. Isabella and I accepted his report, and we thought that finished the matter. But now the Colón heirs are claiming that Bobadilla was both prejudiced against their relative and a liar. If so, their pleas for more rewards might be justified.”

“What kind of man was Bobadilla?”

In answer the king rose, took Ocampo by the arm, and walked with him out into the garden of the palace, and there, among the spring flowers and budding trees, he gave a sharp summary of his onetime secret agent: “As different from you, Ocampo, as a man could be. Where you are slim, he was so fat he was almost ridiculous. Where you have a cautious, well-trained mind, he was impetuous. And where you bear the scars of honorable service to your country, he was terrified of a mouse, and the sound of a cannon sometimes unhinged him.”

“Why did you give such a man an important job?” and the king said: “Isabella favored him, and I could deny her nothing.”

These words produced an astonishing result, for as the king walked beside a line of tall, thin cypress trees, reminding him of those that had marked the cemetery where funeral rites for the great Isabella had been held, he broke into tears. Turning to Ocampo, he clutched his trusted friend to him and sobbed: “I have been desolate since her death. Ocampo, she was the finest queen the world has produced. None ever served their king more graciously …” He stopped abruptly, then said in a much different voice: “She was in many ways more brilliant than I am. I work hard, keep my eye on the task, adjust to the storms about me. She was calm and steady, like a flower-filled meadow when the wild storm passes.”

They had reached a point in their walk from which, across fields, the famous Roman aqueduct of Segovia could be seen, and this notable structure, now almost fifteen hundred years old and still delivering water to the city, reminded them of empire and government and the powerful things they themselves had helped create in Spain. Sitting on a wooden bench, the king said: “We united this country. No one thought it could be done, all those warring principalities. But we triumphed.”

“What I have always admired about you, Majesty, was your willingness to make bold moves. To do vast things that others would have shied away from.”

“You mean like throwing the Muhammadans out of Spain and Europe?”

“But also evicting the Jews.”

“That was a strong move,” the king agreed. “But you must remember, we did give them a fair chance. If they converted to our religion, we allowed them to stay. If not …” He hesitated ominously, then fingered a gold medallion that hung suspended upon his chest by a silver chain: “I am as proud of this medal as anything I have in the world. The pope gave it to me when he awarded me the title El Católico. Said I was the premier Catholic in the world, because I strive to see that all my realms—Castille, Aragon, Sicily and New Spain across the seas—are as Catholic as I am.”

The two friends were particularly proud of their role in establishing the Holy Inquisition to defend the church. Its task, under the directions Ferdinand had spelled out when instituting the office, was to root out heresy wherever found in the world: “The priests have been doing a splendid job, Ocampo, and when you reach Española you must harass the infidels there—atheists, pagans, Jews, stamp them out!”

Before Ocampo could affirm his determination to support the faith in the New World as he had in the Old, the two men were joined by a sprightly Frenchwoman, Germaine de Foix, niece of the King of France and Ferdinand’s new wife. He seemed pleased to see her, but after she had led the men into a salon where a tasty repast awaited—meat, cheese, chewy bread and strong Spanish wine—she left them, and when Ocampo asked: “Has she adjusted to Spain comfortably?” the king said brightly: “Oh yes! Better than any of us could have expected. And our friendship with France is stronger, thanks to her.” Then he paused, looked toward the door to be sure she was out of earshot, and said: “But she does not compare with Isabella.”

Ocampo saw that the great man, who had accomplished so much good in Europe, was about to break into tears again, so he started to turn away, but Ferdinand, seizing control of himself, caught Ocampo by the arm and swung him around: “Please, trusted friend, uncover the truth about Colón.”

“I shall, I promise you. But before I leave, can we not agree that Colón did the major things he promised? Did he not find new lands
of enormous value? Did he not complete successfully three later voyages, in 1493, in 1498 and in 1502, to demonstrate to others how easy it was to cross the ocean?”

“We know what he did at sea. I want to know what he did on land.”

“Which land? If we can believe him, he touched on many lands, perhaps China, Japan, India, but for sure, the islands he named, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Jamaica …”

“We’re interested only in Española. He served us there as our viceroy, and it’s from there the charges against him came.” As the king bade Ocampo farewell and God’s speed he said with great warmth: “Solve this problem for me, Hernán, and any position in the kingdom is yours, any title you choose,” and they embraced.

When the lookout called “Land!” to the ship’s captain, the mariner hesitated briefly to assure himself that Española
^*1
did lie ahead, then summoned his important passenger to his side: “There lies your island!” and for the next hour Hernán Ocampo stood spread-legged in the prow of the ship, watching the miracle of an island rising slowly from the sea. The captain, noting with approval the one-eyed man scanning the horizon, said to the sailor at the wheel: “He’s making believe he’s Colón, arriving to take command of that island and this sea.”

“Why’s he wear that eye patch?”

“Lost his eye fighting the Moors.”

“I know. But why red and gold?”

“I’ve wondered myself.”

“Ask him.”

“You don’t ask a man like him a question like that.”

“I would.”

“Then give me the wheel, because I’d like to know too,” and the young fellow went directly to Ocampo, coughed to make his presence known, and asked, deferentially: “Excellency, can I ask you a question?”

“I’m not an excellency. Just another
licenciado
.”

“Why is your eye patch that mix of red and gold?”

Ocampo took no offense; instead, he smiled at the sailor: “Don’t you know?”

“I’m completely lost.”

“When an army fights, it must have a banner that all can recognize, a signal of our side against theirs. Have you never seen the banner we Spaniards used against the Moors? A red and gold flag, two magnificent colors, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“So when I lost my eye in the siege of Granada, I swore: ‘I shall proclaim the colors of Spain until I die.’ And here I am.” With that he resumed his watch on the waiting land.

Española was a big island offering a hilly profile, and as it grew clearer Ocampo detected an appealing aspect: it contained numerous white-sand beaches edged by palm trees dancing in the breeze. He would always remember that first poetic image: a curving beach, inviting and clean, with a ballet of swaying palms.