But the war against the Moors lasted for years, and Columbus, vainly waiting at Court, seemed no nearer to getting the ships and crews that he so ardently desired than when in Portugal being cheated by the Portuguese King. He had no money, and in following the Court it was hard for him to earn anything to pay for his needs. His garments became worn and tattered,—so much so that he became known as "the man with the cloak full of holes." At one time he went into the army and battled against the Moors, but as he received no pay, he was compelled at last to take up his map drawing once again to earn enough money for food and clothing. Disappointed and discouraged he sent his brother Bartholomew to the Court of the King of England, but the ship was robbed by pirates and Bartholomew was obliged to return.
After compelling Columbus to wait for seven long years, the King and Queen of Spain went back on their word and refused to have anything to do with his adventure. Scientists had ridiculed it and told them that they might just as well cast their gold into the sea as to give it to Columbus. So the unhappy Columbus was compelled to leave Court, his hopes extinguished and plunged into the lowest depths of despair.
With him was his son who was now old enough to accompany him in his wanderings. Together they passed a monastery called La Rabida where Columbus paused to beg a mouthful of bread and a drink of water for his boy,—and here there came an absolute change in his fortunes, for here there dwelt a friar who had formerly been confessor to Queen Isabella with whom he still had a great deal of influence; and after going over Columbus' plans with a shipbuilder named Martin Pinzon and an astronomer named Hernandez, the good friar promised to ask the Queen to grant Columbus' request. At all speed he went to the Spanish Court and brought back word that Columbus was to receive another interview with the Queen, with the additional good news that he was to be of good heart in the meantime, for his request was to be granted. And Queen Isabella also sent Columbus a sum of money with which to buy decent raiment and pay his expenses in coming back to the Court.
In this way it befell that, after weary years of waiting, the great idea of Columbus was finally received, and he was allowed to set out on his wonderful voyage; and he was so sure of success that he almost seemed to see the new lands that lay thousands of miles across the Sea of Darkness.
Columbus went back to Court and made certain demands of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella that they finally consented to—namely that he was to be the "Admiral of the Ocean Sea"—for so he called the Atlantic—and should rule over all new lands that he discovered. One tenth of all future profits from these lands were to be his, and he alone should have the right to settle trade disputes that might arise. In addition to these things he was to receive one-eighth of the profit of his first voyage, as he was willing, and in fact his agreement with the Queen demanded, that he should pay one-eighth of the expenses of the venture.
Once the consent of the King and Queen had been given and the money provided, Columbus set about collecting his vessels and their crews. This last, however, was a difficult undertaking, for so many and terrible were the stories about the Sea of Darkness and the monsters that lived near the far edge of the world that the boldest mariners refused to venture with him on such an errand, and finally his crew was gathered by proclaiming in the jails that any criminal who accompanied him was to receive full pardon on his return to Spain—a means that filled his ships with the most worthless and evil men.
Three ships were provided. They were called the Santa Maria, the Pinta and the Nina,—the last of which was so small that it seemed in size little more than a modern life boat as it only had room for eighteen men. The Pinta carried twenty-seven men and was under the command of the same Martin Pinzon who had aided Columbus in gaining the ear of Queen Isabella—a man whom Columbus trusted completely, but who was to betray that trust long before Columbus returned from his perilous voyage. The Santa Maria was the largest of the three ships, and held fifty-seven men. This was Columbus' flagship.
At a seaport called Palos these vessels were made ready for their voyage and on the Third of August, 1492, they might have been seen with the sunlight gleaming on their white sails, on which were painted the huge red Crosses of the Catholic faith, as they made their way into the open sea and bore to the westward under a favoring breeze. They stopped at the Canary Islands, where food and water were taken aboard, and then, leaving behind them the entire civilized world, they sailed boldly out into the Sea of Darkness toward that far region where not only the Unknown but all the fears that superstitious seamen could invent awaited them.
It was not long before Columbus saw that among his crew of desperate ruffians and jailbirds there were many who would betray him on the first opportunity. On the way to the Canaries and while stopping there, the rudder of the Pinta was twice broken; and now that the open sea was reached and they were sailing into the far west, the helmsmen tried to alter the course of the vessels so that they might not go any further. When Columbus slept, the men at the tillers of all three ships would steer into the northeast instead of the west, so that the vessels, unperceived, might turn upon their own course and eventually return to the Canary Islands and to Spain. But Columbus was too shrewd a sailor to be tricked by any such clumsy means and placed the few men that he could trust in charge of the helm. Fortunately for his design a breeze came from the eastward and bore them rapidly along their course. Columbus, moreover, did not let the men know how far they had sailed, but every day gave out a distance far less than what had actually been completed, so that his sailors might think themselves nearer to Spain than was the reality.
On the Thirteenth of September, however, something took place that caused even Columbus' bold heart to beat quicker with fear, for the compass, that infallible instrument of direction, which was trusted by the mariners of those days even more than it is in the present time, began to veer around from the north and no longer pointed steadily to the pole. Only a few of Columbus' men were aware of this, and Columbus strengthened their resolution by telling them that it was not the compass which was at fault,—but rather the Pole Star that was changing, so that the compass still pointed truly—and on and on they sailed into the west.