The wind was dead ahead, however, and after battling all that day and during the night, very little progress had been made. Martin Alonzo spent his time, as he had frequently done of late, in gnawing his lips and fingers, and in watching, with sullen eyes, the ship of the admiral. On the morning of the 20th he called Diego to him.
“You have been wishing to have a word with me, Diego,” he said. “What is it?”
“The Indians say that the island we are heading for must be Bohio, and not the Babeque of which the admiral speaks.”
“Yes,” said Martin Alonzo, “that is what I supposed. Well, neither the Santa Maria nor the Niña can sail long in the teeth of this gale, and will be obliged to turn back.”
“So Rodrigo de Triana says,” answered Diego.
“He says well. Now, go, Diego,” and he turned and walked to where his brother, Francisco Martin, paced the unsteady poop of the Pinta.
It is singular how the very air seems to be charged with expectation when a plot of any sort is brewing. The sailors of the Pinta knew that something was to happen that was out of the common, and they often whispered when there was no need of it, and kept casting curious and expectant glances towards the poop.
All day long the gale pelted them, and they beat about before it; though the sailors of the Pinta knew she was not doing the best she could have done under the circumstances. They told themselves that it was because Martin Alonzo did not choose to get too far from the other ships.
Late in the afternoon the admiral decided that it would be better to turn back and wait for better weather, and he therefore put his vessel about and signalled the other two to do the same. The Niña obeyed, and the sailors of the Pinta stood ready to take Martin Alonzo’s orders. But he merely beckoned his brother and two of the gentlemen adventurers to join him, and they talked earnestly for a few minutes, the sailors watching them intently and whispering among themselves.