This seems to me to free the land from much that our sailors say about it, that it was the worst that was known: giving as a reason the numerous deaths and the sickness.
It is quite clear that to change of temperature, diet, and customs, to work and go about in the sun, to get wet without changing, to settle in woods in winter, to sleep on the ground with damp and other things inimical to health, with men who are not made of stone, will bring on sickness; while the want of medical men who understand what is wrong, and of remedies that should be applied, nor the presence of any one to give them, are the open doors of death. Besides, there are positions more healthy than others in populous cities and towns; so that I understand that only a small part is exposed to the above evils. Even here those who remained on the sea never fell ill. If the land was as unhealthy as was represented, the sick, with so much against them, would not have survived so long. Many lived for weeks and months, and none died suddenly, as happens at Nombre de Dios, Puerto Bello, Panama, Cabo Verde, San Tomé, and other unhealthy places, where, with all needful remedies, the sick succumb in a short time, even in a few hours.
The sick continued to die, and it was a sad thing to see them in the clutches of disease, stretched out, some delirious, others nearly so; some wanting to go on board, hoping to find health there, others wanting to go from the ship to the camp, hoping to find it on shore. The General supplied their wants so far as was possible, and the Governess did what she could, other persons helping out of charity; but all that could be done was little, seeing that the needs were great. At this time the Vicar fell ill, and as the land did not seem a good place to him, he returned to the ship.
The General who, as has already been mentioned, was wounded in the leg, found it necessary to take to his bed, where he got worse every minute. The camp was now in such a condition that it did not contain fifteen healthy soldiers, and these were all lads who could endure fevers better, though in fifteen days the fever does not run its course. The Chief Pilot went to visit Don Lorenzo, to inquire after his health, but he replied in much affliction: “Ah! Chief Pilot! I shall die without confession;” and presently he said: “Ah, death! in what a condition you take me.” With his eyes fixed on the crucifix, he exclaimed: “I am a sinner. O, Lord! pardon me.”
The Chief Pilot, knowing his great need, consoled him by saying that he would go and ask the Vicar to come as he was. He went on board and entreated the Vicar, for the love of God, to come and confess Don Lorenzo, because he was dying fast. The Vicar replied that he was dying too; that if he would bring Don Lorenzo on board he would confess him. The Chief Pilot answered that Don Lorenzo was passing away; that even to turn him in his bed it was necessary to have a line hung from the roof, and that only with this, and the help of two men, could he be turned. He was young, and the Vicar knew that he ought not to allow him, nor any other person who sought confession, to die without it. “Your worship wishes to kill me,” replied the Vicar; “can you not see that I am unable to stand on my feet? So little do you care for my health. Let them carry me where they please, though I may die.” So he was put in the boat, trembling and wrapped in a blanket. He was carried to the side of Don Lorenzo in his bed, whom he confessed, as well as all others who wished to confess. A soldier, seeing how ill the Vicar was, said very sorrowfully: “Ah, Sir! what is this that I see? What have we come to?” They returned to the ship. That night Don Lorenzo was much worse, and at break of day, the 2nd of November, he died. May God pardon him! He was mourned for, and buried in the same way as his brother-in-law, the Adelantado. Among the rest a soldier died, who received death with such a cheerful countenance that in the words he spoke, and what he did, he seemed to be a pilgrim on the road to heaven.
Chapter XXIV.
In which the unhappy condition of our people is related, the death of the Vicar, and the embarkation of all hands.
Our condition, as above related, had reached such a point that, if only ten determined natives had come, they could have killed us all, and destroyed the settlement. At last the sick, pressed by the evils they suffered, which were great, went on board the ship, and the Governess with them, leaving the flag on shore with the few soldiers who still retained some health, to provide wood and water. On Monday, the 7th of November, the flag and the rest of the people were embarked, and so an end was given to this promising enterprise. I never expected anything else, and it must be left in the claws of him who held it before,[1] until God permits others to come forward who are more desirous of the welfare of those lost ones, that with a finger they may show the way to that salvation for which they were created.
The settlement remained a spectacle for sentiment and reflection on the disastrous and brief course of events which took place in it. It was a noteworthy thing to see the dogs running along the beach and barking, as if they were asking why the people went away and left them behind. The smallest dog rushed into the sea, and came swimming to the ship, and for such fidelity was taken on board; and of him it may be said that fortune favours the brave.