“‘TO THE MAST WITH HIM!’ SAID MARTIN ALONZO.” [See page [73].]

DIEGO PINZON

AND

THE FEARFUL VOYAGE HE TOOK INTO THE UNKNOWN OCEAN A.D. 1492

BY

JOHN RUSSELL CORYELL

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1892

Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS.

DIEGO PINZON.

Chapter I.

In the ancient province of Andalusia, which, as everybody knows, is famous for the charms of its climate and the fertility of its soil, there stands now, as there stood four centuries ago, the convent of La Rabida.

The convent is almost a ruin now; but in those days it was a sturdy pile, where a busy, eager body of Franciscan friars dwelt, governed by the learned and good Fray Juan Perez, who had once been confessor to the queen, Isabella.

Now there is something mournful in the solitude of the place; but in the days when the things happened which are set down here, there was a suppressed excitement pervading the atmosphere of the convent, which had communicated itself even to Fray Pedro, who had been given the post of porter because he had what the good prior called such a singular gift of slumber.

There had been days recently when Fray Pedro had not closed his eyes for as long as two consecutive hours; and if he felt the influence that was around him, what wonder if the boys, digging away desperately at their humanities, should be wrought up to the highest pitch of unrest and excitement?

Fray Bartolomeo was the pedagogue, who had been selected for the office because of his great learning; but he searched the stores of his knowledge in vain during those days for a device to turn the minds of the scholars from the one topic that absorbed them.

The fact of the matter was that at the seaport town of Palos, only half a league away from the convent, preparations were going on for an adventure of the most fearful nature—an adventure which some people did not hesitate to say was prompted by the evil one himself, and which others, more lenient, declared could have been conceived only by a madman.

At the convent they did not believe the first of these propositions at all, nor did any one give word openly to the second; though there were many there who harbored it in their secret thoughts, and who occasionally whispered it.

The prior, Juan Perez, had faith in the adventure, and, indeed, had done all that lay in his power to forward it, and was continuing to do so in the face of the most violent opposition. But then, as a brother one day whispered to another, the prior was given to the promulgation of new ideas.

It seems that a foreigner—an Italian of some sort, it was believed from his accent—had persuaded the queen to venture some money in this execrable enterprise, and had further induced her to designate the port of Palos as the place which should furnish a portion of the doomed fleet and crew.

There was very little doubt that they were doomed; though this man, Christoval Colon, pretended to demonstrate that there was no danger at all attached to his purposed expedition, and had persuaded the good Fray Juan Perez of the correctness of his demonstration.

It was true that so good a seaman as Martin Alonzo Pinzon had been beguiled by the specious representations of the pestilent foreigner, and that Martin had in turn induced his brothers and many of his kin to lend their countenance and aid to the adventure. A number of the Pinzons had, in fact, enlisted in the enterprise.

It was very well known, however, that the Pinzons were bold, reckless sailors, who feared naught and would dare anything, and all that the people of Palos had to say as to that was that they wished them luck, and hoped they would come back alive. It was no secret, moreover, that more than one Pinzon wished himself well out of the affair, and would have taken himself incontinently out, had it not been that the present fear of the wrath of Martin Alonzo Pinzon was far greater than the fear of the more remote perils that threatened them on the trackless wastes of that ocean which, somewhere in the far western distance, poured over the edge of the earth into the bottomless abyss beyond. Martin Alonzo Pinzon was a difficult man to gainsay, and those of his poorer kinsmen who could not take comfort in the logic of the Italian must set themselves up against the will of the bluff sailor, who had a voice in which thunder rumbled and an eye in which the storm-lightning played.

Martin Alonzo had furnished one vessel in joint account with the foreigner, and as Palos owed, as a sort of forfeit, the service of two vessels for a year to the sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, two vessels had been forcibly distrained for the benefit of the foreigner.

As for the crews, Pinzon had haled a goodly number of his kinsmen into service, and cajoled a few of his townsmen; but there was no inducement that could make any others stir a step towards such certain destruction until a royal ordinance was issued, offering freedom to such convicts as would venture their lives rather than remain in durance.

But even with that the crews did not fill up to the required number, and the mortal terror that was on those who had agreed to go caused them to desert at every opportunity; and the consequent wrath of Martin Alonzo Pinzon was a thing to be shunned carefully.

And, as may be seen, all this disturbance and turmoil naturally created the bitterest feeling; and for the weeks that the foreigner rested at Palos the talk of his insane folly—to call it no worse—ran high, indeed. Well it was for him that he had the good-will of the prior, Juan Perez, and the endorsement of the burly sailor.

Chapter II.

While the little fleet destined for the mad enterprise lay in port, it was considered advisable to restrain the boys of the convent school within the walls. So it came about that the gardener was driven almost distracted by the peril of his choicest vegetables and flowers; for the boys had not the same passionate regard for the growing things that he had.

“See there, now!” said Fray Antonio, angrily, as he held one of the boys by the collar of his jacket, “you have planted your clumsy foot on the stem of my choicest melon, and it lacked a day of perfect ripening. Think twice”—he cuffed him heartily as many times—”ere ever you set foot to ground again.”

He pushed the boy from him, and then regarded him as if sorry he had not been more liberal with his blows. The boy shook himself and gave back to the exasperated gardener a glance as angry as his own. But that was only the first impulse; the second followed close on its heels and turned the anger into mischief. The lad cast a swift glance at his comrades, who stood by, smothering their mirth, and then looked with exaggerated innocence at the irate gardener.

“Think twice, did you say, Fray Antonio,” asked the boy, “ere I set foot to the ground? Is it one of the rules of the order? Or is it a rule you, only, go by? And would it not cause one to go with a singular, halting gait? As thus—he raised a foot and held it suspended—”I think once, I think twice, and down she goes. Now the other. I think once, I think twice. Oh, but that is rare and dignified, Fray Antonio, though I misdoubt those boys be laughing at me.”

“I will have a word with Fray Bartolomeo,” stuttered the angry gardener.

“Gracias for that,” said the boy; “and I beg you to expound the thing to him, lest, when he calls me and I go in this new fashion to him, he may misjudge me. Do I catch the motion, good Fray Antonio?”

He walked towards his convulsed comrades with an absurd, halting step.

“Ah,” said Fray Antonio, with a grim, angry humor of his own, “you will catch the motion, doubt it not, when you dance to the music of the scourge. I will see to that, Diego Pinzon, I will see to that.”

“He means to do it, Diego,” said one of the boys, looking where the angry brother went.

“Why, of course he means to do it,” said Diego, “and Fray Bartolomeo will ask no better than to ply the scourge over my back. I might indeed ask him to think twice ere he let the scourge fall, but I doubt if he will be as ready as I was to act on the hint.”

“You may well doubt it,” laughed one of the boys.

“It is a thing he knows no moderation in,” said Diego, with a grimace.

“The sting would have been no greater had you first eaten the melon instead of only bruising the stem,” said another.

They all found it easy to be merry since it was Diego who was to pay the reckoning. But Diego was as merry as they; for it was not in his nature to cross the bridge until he reached it.

“‘Tis a good suggestion, Alfonso,” said he. “Who will eat of the fruit if I remove it from the bruised stem? I will promise to take all the blame. Alfonso only speaks the truth when he says I will pay as much for the stem as for the melon. For my own part, I think Fray Antonio lets the melons stay too long on the vine. An over-ripe melon does not suit my palate. Who is with me?”

“‘THINK TWICE, DID YOU SAY, FRAY ANTONIO,’ ASKED THE BOY. ‘ERE I SET FOOT TO THE GROUND?’”

The boys looked at each other and then at the melon that lay among the leaves, showing a swelling side full of suggestions of lusciousness and melting juiciness.

“It would be a pity for the melon to spoil,” said Alfonso.

“Besides,” said Diego, hunching his shoulders meaningly, “it would be unfair to pay the price for nothing.”

A grin went around the circle, and Diego, with a glance about the enclosure, stepped over to the melon and plucked it from the vine.

“Ah,” said he, smacking his lips, “Fray Antonio is but a poor gardener; the melon would not have stood another day. Where shall we eat it?”

That was a serious question, and the boys looked blankly at each other. It was not easy to hide in the convent grounds, especially when an angry gardener was likely to make quick search. But Diego was full of expedients. Fray Bartolomeo had often told him that if he would but give the same attention to study that he did to mischief he would surpass the best of them all.

“Tut!” said he, in answer to their looks, “it will be the easiest thing imaginable. Fray Pedro will be sound asleep, and his keys will be in his girdle. It would be a huge pity to awake him, and I will not do it, merely to ask him to open the gates. I will just slip up to him and help myself to the keys and open the gates. It will be a real mercy. Come with me.”

The business began to look too serious to some of the boys, and, if there had been any bold enough, there would have been a decided demur to this proposition; but there was none, and so they all straggled after their bold leader.

Fray Pedro, the porter, was in the state that Diego had declared he would be. He was at his post, it is true; but his twice-doubled chin was sunk into his neck, the flies had undisturbed possession of his shaven skull, and, as if it were needed, his nose gave forth to the world a defiant sort of notice that he slept.

Diego gave the melon into the keeping of his trusty lieutenant, Alfonso, and crept up to the side of the drowsy friar, and detached the bunch of keys from his ample girdle.

This was the last chance the timid ones would have to retreat, and more than one looked for encouragement at his neighbor; but Diego acted as if he expected to be followed, and followed he was.

He knew the right key, and put it in the lock and turned it softly. The bolt shot back and the door swung open. Then Diego slipped back and readjusted the keys in the friar’s girdle, and a moment later the boys of the convent school were scurrying towards the olive grove hard by.

There is probably a difference of opinion in respect to melons. Certainly the boys differed from Fray Antonio as to the ripeness of the one they discussed in the coolness of the olive grove. They thought it could not have been more delicious. There was but one fault—it was too small a melon for eleven boys. There should always be eleven melons for eleven boys.

“It is very good,” said Alfonso, eating rather close to the rind, “and it would have been wasted on that Italian, Christoval Colon, who would have been sure to share it with our reverend prior.”

“Yes,” said Diego, “it would have been wasted; but much as I have enjoyed it, I would not have begrudged it to him; for it is like enough that once he sets sail he will never taste of melon again. Was ever so crazy a venture! And yet to look at him he is serious and reverend enough. I thank my cousin, Martin Alonzo, that he fixed on me for the church. I would not go the voyage with him—no, not for ten thousand ducats of gold.”

“Ducats of gold!” said Alfonso, doubtfully. “I should think twice, like Fray Antonio, before I would refuse that.”

“Gold or silver,” said Diego, scornfully, “what would they profit you and you never returned home to spend them?”

“Let us go back,” said one of the timid ones, to whom the mention of Fray Antonio had brought up visions of a scourge vigorously applied.

“Go back!” said Diego. “Not I. As well be hung for an old sheep as a young lamb. The vessels sail to-night, and I warrant there will be rare doings at Palos to-day. I am going to Palos. Who is with me?”

“I will go,” said Alfonso. “Why not? I have eaten the melon, and I must digest it. Who else is with us?”

But very fear had made the others bold by this time, and to a boy they shrank back.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Diego. “Well, go back, but have a care that Fray Antonio is not waiting for you at the gate.”

It was so possible a thing that the boys looked miserably at each other for a moment, and then started on a run for the convent, followed by the jeering laughter of the two who had elected to be truants.

As for them, the moment of reckoning was so far away that they felt very reckless, and it was with an air of bravado that they struck into the dusty road and walked hastily into the town.

When they reached the town they found that Diego had been quite right, and that the place was in a turmoil indeed. On the square there were sullen faces, and down on the quay, whither they hurried at once, there were weeping women and angry men; while on the three little vessels, anchored a stone’s-throw off shore, the crews could be seen hanging miserably over the rails, casting longing eyes ashore.

“When do they sail?” demanded Diego of a man standing near him on the quay.

“They only wait on some jail-birds that have consented to go,” answered the man in a surly tone. “Even they are too good for such a cruise; but if the whole crew was of the same it were better. ’Tis a sin to let good men risk their lives so.”

“Here they come! here they come!” one and another said, and the boys, looking around, saw a burly, bold-looking man making his way through the crowd, followed closely by two hang-dog looking fellows, who, in their turn, were followed by an officer of the Holy Brotherhood, as the police of Spain was then called.

“‘Tis my cousin, Martin Alonzo,” whispered Diego to his companion. “Let me hide behind you; for if he see me and be short of hands, he will think nothing of taking me in tow.”

The fear might be well enough founded; but Martin Alonzo Pinzon was thinking of other things than the young Pinzon whom he had destined to the priesthood. He had had so much opposition and so many hard words that he was on the qui vive to catch and answer anything that might be said to him.

He left the officer and his two prisoners near to where Diego stood, and went to the edge of the quay to hail a small boat from one of the vessels. Now Diego was not one ever to lose an opportunity. He saw by the looks of the prisoners that, though they had chosen the perilous voyage rather than remain in prison, they were yet far from happy in their lot. And the younger of the two, who was scarcely older than himself, was particularly unhappy.

“He is very young to die,” said Diego, in a sepulchral tone.

Some of the bystanders laughed; for the tone was only in keeping with the dismal expression of the young convict. But the latter raised his sullen face and glared at Diego. He said nothing, but there was something unpleasantly vindictive in his eyes. Alfonso said:

“‘Tis well you are not going to take the voyage with him.”

“I think so myself,” answered Diego, carelessly; “but if I went the voyage, I think I would make little account of his anger, or any one’s else.”

“You are right,” said the man to whom they had first spoken, “what with dragons and monster serpents, and great gulfs in the water, and creatures that live on human flesh and all sorts of inconceivable perils, ’tis better far to dare anything than go such a voyage.”

“Here,” roared the voice of Martin Alonzo Pinzon, at this moment, “take these fellows off to my vessel, and see that they remain there.”

The two prisoners were hurried into the boat amid the silence of the spectators, and Martin Alonzo went back into the town.

“I would rather take my chances at the convent,” said Diego.

“So would I,” agreed Alfonso. “Shall we go there now?”

“Why should we? We shall be flogged the same, whether we stay an hour or five. I say, let us wait and see the vessels weigh anchor.”

“Let us then,” said Alfonso, who seldom gainsaid his friend.

“For a fact,” said Diego, nodding his head sagely, “old Bartolomeo cannot hurt much anyhow.”

“Old Bartolomeo!”

A hand was on the collar of each boy’s jacket. Neither looked up to see whose the hand was. They had recognized the voice as that of him whom Diego had called “old Bartolomeo.” They cast despairing and disgusted grimaces at each other.

“Will you lay hold of this scape-gallows,” said the Franciscan to the man with whom the boys had been holding converse.

The man grinned and took a firm hold of Diego’s collar, much to the surprise of that lad, who had expected, as a matter of course, to be made the example of; it being evident that the pedagogue intended to administer summary punishment.

“Be careful,” said the Franciscan; “for he is a slippery rascal; and, now, give me space.”

It was a diversion as good as any for the idle crowd to see Alfonso capering under the hot blows of the angry friar, and they cheered him on with laughing shouts.

“And now,” said Fray Bartolomeo, letting the scourge fall at his side from sheer exhaustion, “do thou hasten back to the convent, and make good speed, or it shall be the worse for thee.”

Diego had not felt the same sorrow for Alfonso that he might have done, but for the conviction that the worthy friar would be too worn with his exertions to do justice to his particular case. But when the Franciscan released Alfonso, Diego, not to betray his satisfaction, set up a howl, and begged the friar not to be too hard upon him, at the same time casting a comical glance at the spectators, to let them understand that he cared not a fig for the worthy man’s castigation.

“As for thee, Diego Pinzon, who art counting on my weakened strength, thou goest to one whose arm will not fail him, I warrant—thy cousin, Martin Alonzo.”

Then did Diego turn pale, not only with the fear of an arm whose like was not in Palos, but with a greater fear.

“In mercy don’t do that,” he cried. “I mind not the flogging, I will do any penance; but take me not to my cousin, for I know in my heart he will ship me for the terrible voyage.”

“Ah, that he will,” said the man who held him; “for he has not his complement yet.”

“Tut!” said the friar, taking Diego by the collar and leading him away; and the heart of the boy sank within him.

Chapter III.

Diego’s terror of his cousin was in no wise assumed—it was very real; for Martin Alonzo Pinzon, besides being the acknowledged head of the Pinzon family and a very masterful man, was the legal guardian of Diego and had his future in his keeping.

“Good Fray Bartolomeo,” pleaded Diego, earnestly, “do not take me to my cousin. I will mend my ways, indeed I will. And you may put any penance on me, and you shall see how cheerfully I will do it.”

“Thou shouldst have thought of all that before,” said the friar, feeling a pity for Diego that he would not betray, because he believed the mischievous lad needed a severe lesson.

“You do not know my cousin,” said Diego, mournfully.

“‘Tis plain thou dost,” said Fray Bartolomeo.

“The flogging he would give me I care little for,” said Diego.

“Be not too sure; his arm is not that of ‘old Bartolomeo.’”

“‘TUT!’ SAID THE FRIAR, TAKING DIEGO BY THE COLLAR AND LEADING HIM AWAY.”

“If I said ‘old Bartolomeo,’” said Diego, cajolingly, “you must believe it was said with affection. Don’t you know how we sometimes say old when we wish to use a term of endearment?”

Fray Bartolomeo smiled on the other side of his face, but turned a grim eye on Diego.

“Gracias for thy affectionate remembrance of me, even with the thought of the scourge in thy mind; but it must not blind us to the fact that thou didst purloin a choice melon from the garden, having previously flouted Fray Antonio, and having subsequently seduced thy fellows, and done many things which thou shouldst not have done.”

“It was very wicked of me,” said Diego; “but would you for that have me taken from the convent and carried to certain destruction?”

“Tut!” said the friar, scornfully.

“But he will do it,” whined Diego. “You heard what the man said, that he had not yet his complement.”

“Tut!” said the friar again.

“I see how it is,” said Diego, trying a new tack, “you bear me malice for calling you old, and you would have me removed from the bosom of the church. You care nothing for my future welfare. ’Tis unchristian to hate me so bitterly.”

“Tut, tut! tut, tut!” said the worthy friar, uneasily. “‘Tis because I cherish thee in my heart, thou scape-grace! that I will not do thee the wrong to punish thee insufficiently. How many times have I praised thee for thy facility in declension and conjugation? How often have I told thee that thou wert the best student of them all and wouldst be a credit to us but for thy scampish tricks? How often hast thou cajoled me, in my love for thee, and escaped the punishment thou shouldst have had in justice?”

“You have indeed been very good,” said Diego, watching the face above him out of the corner of his eye; “why then will you wreck my wretched life now? I tell you, Martin Alonzo will snatch me from the convent and take me with him. I feel it in my heart.”

There was uneasiness in the heart of the friar, for he loved the boy, and there was enough in what he said to make an impression on his fears, too. Martin Alonzo might do the thing Diego dreaded, or pretended to dread. Diego saw that the good man wavered, and a grin overspread his countenance. The friar, chancing to look down, saw the grimace.

“Thou art an ungrateful little wretch!” he said, angrily. “Thou wouldst play upon my affection for thee, and then laugh at my credulity. I think sometimes, Diego Pinzon, thou hast no heart at all. Now, say no more! I will not listen. I caught the smirk on thy face, and it hath undone thee for a certainty. Thou shalt learn the iniquity of making a mock of thy elders. Say no more!”

Diego hastened to remove the impression the friar had received, and strove with much earnestness and artfulness to work once more on the feelings of his teacher, but it was without avail.

When he pointed out with great particularity what the dangers of the voyage were, Fray Bartolomeo merely gave a grim assent. When he enlarged on the pity of taking him from his religious studies, the friar only snorted ominously. In short, they came to the house of Martin Alonzo Pinzon and went in.

Martin Alonzo was evidently saying his last farewells at that moment, and was in great haste to be away.

“Good-day, Fray Bartolomeo!” he said, in his abrupt fashion. “Whom have you here? It is my cousin’s son, Diego? Good-day to thee, lad! I suppose thou hast come to bid me a last farewell like these women. As if I were never to return! Well, adios, if you will. Is he a likely lad, Fray Bartolomeo? How come on the humanities?”

His rapid, abrupt manner of speaking gave little opportunity for an answer; and the friar saw that it was a poor time to be there on such an errand; but he was so convinced that Diego would be unmanageable without a chastisement and warning from his cousin that he spoke out clearly and to the point:

“The humanities come on well enough, and no one can do better than he when he will; but I have come to tell thee, Martin Alonzo, that he needs a strong hand to correct him, or he will never arrive at grace.”

“My time is short,” said Martin Alonzo, gruffly.

“It needs not much of it to give him a taste of thy vigor, and a word of warning.”

“A sorry sort of remembrance he would have of me then, reverend brother.”

“He will honor and bless thee in the end,” said the friar.

“What hath he done that calls for my intervention?” demanded Martin Alonzo, eying Diego curiously.

“Much in the past that hath been inadequately dealt with, and to-day these several things: He flouted the gardener, Fray Antonio, when he rebuked him for stepping on his melon vines; he—”

“Good cousin,” said Diego, hastily, “I did but as Fray Antonio bade me.”

“‘IT IS MY COUSIN’S SON, DIEGO? GOOD-DAY TO THEE, LAD!’”

“What did he bid thee do?” demanded Martin Alonzo.

“He bade me think twice ere I set foot to ground again, cuffing me soundly lest I should not remember his admonition.”

“Ah!” said Martin Alonzo, a twinkle lighting up his stern eye.

Diego, who was quickness itself, caught the twinkle and went on, before Fray Bartolomeo could continue his catalogue of misdeeds.

“And then I begged him to enlighten me further, since I was not certain that I had construed him correctly.”

“Thou didst flout him,” said the friar, indignantly.

“What didst thou?” demanded Martin Alonzo.

“I did but lift my foot thus,” said Diego, demurely suiting the action to the word, “and count, so: ‘I think once, I think twice, and down she goes. I think once, I think twice, I think once, I think twice,’ and so on.”

It was so comically done, Diego being a capital mimic and actor, that Martin Alonzo and the women of the household laughed uproariously in spite of their seriousness. Even Fray Bartolomeo was fain to turn his head. Diego retained his innocent countenance; but down in his heart was the feeling that once more his artfulness had saved him.

“‘Tis thus he ever saves himself the punishment he deserves, and then laughs in his sleeve at his own cajolery,” said the friar, resuming his grave face.

“He is a very cunning knave, then, is he?” said Martin Alonzo, thoughtfully.

“If thou knowest him not, he will cajole thy anger into love and so escape his just dues.”

“How does he with his Latin?” asked the sailor.

“Excellent well, I will say. He hath a positive gift for languages.”

“But he is full of mischievous pranks, you say?”

“Like a very monkey for mischief.”

“And he needs a sobering discipline?” said Martin Alonzo, his voice taking on something of its sea roar.

“Sadly,” answered the friar, trembling a little for the boy; “but do not forget he is but a child.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen, good cousin,” said Diego, in a fright; “but do not be so wroth with me. The worst that I did was to break bounds that I might come into port to see you start on your great voyage, good cousin.”

“And purloined a melon and seduced his comrades to eat it with him,” interposed the friar, seeing a softening of Martin Alonzo’s face, owing to the cunning explanation of his reason for disobedience.

“Thou hadst an interest in my voyage, then?” demanded Martin Alonzo.

“The rogue will cajole him!” murmured Fray Bartolomeo, shaking his head.

“Such an interest, good cousin,” said Diego enthusiastically, at the same time chuckling to think how he was like to escape.

Martin Alonzo bent a singular look upon him and turned to the friar.

“He hath a quick wit and a turn for languages, you say?”

“Both.”

“But to-day he hath purloined a melon, flouted one of the brothers, broken the bounds, seduced his comrades into evil, and perhaps hath done other things not yet known.”

“Oh,” whined Diego, immediately cast down, “if you cannot be satisfied with what is known!”

“And,” went on Martin Alonzo, “you say he hath been a sore trouble in the past and that you have felt yourself unequal to the task of fittingly punishing him.”

“Even so, Martin Alonzo,” admitted the friar.

“And you wish for him, now, a punishment that shall be a warning to him?”

“I love the youth, Martin Alonzo; but it is for his good,” said the friar, who found it hard to bear witness against Diego.

“And you think that without an adequate punishment he will not be the ornament to the church that he otherwise would?”

“I wish I could think differently,” said the friar.

“And I wish,” said Diego, desperately, having given up hope, “that you would do the worst and have it over. I can stand a flogging if it must be; but I hate suspense.”

“You shall be relieved of that,” said Martin Alonzo, grimly. “I have thought of the thing which will at once be a punishment for him, a boon to me, and a relief to you.”

Diego held his breath, his first fear rushing over him in an instant.

“And that is—?” asked the friar, not without uneasiness, himself.

“He shall go the voyage with me,” said Martin Alonzo. “I need another hand, and he is agile and strong and will suit me as well as another—better, it may be, since he hath such a strong interest in the voyage.”

“It must not be,” said the startled friar.

“It shall be,” said Martin Alonzo, in such a tone and with such a fire in his eye that Diego felt himself unequal to any words, though the friar, indignant at the trap he had led Diego into, protested vehemently.

“I am his guardian, I think,” said Martin Alonzo. “You brought him here for my discretion, and he hath not yet been yielded up to the church. If he had been, I would be the last to say a word. He hath not been, and he goes with me. It is the last word. Wife, make a hasty bundle of the clothing of our son, which he hath outgrown. We have but a minute to waste. Cousin, look not so glum over a thing which so short a time ago awoke thy enthusiasm. Thou goest with me. Friar, I wish you good-day. Adios!”

Diego said not a word to his cousin; he knew that would have been useless. To the friar, however, he addressed a reproach.

“I told you how it would be.”

“Thou didst indeed, my son,” said the worthy friar, humbly. “But do not despair, for I will hasten to the prior and have his intervention.”

Martin Alonzo laughed in his beard, and Diego felt that his doom was sealed. He saw the friar go out of the house, and he saw the hasty preparations of the women of the household to get him an outfit; he listened to their words of comfort and hope, and to his cousin’s gruff assurance that he would not be taking the voyage himself, if he thought there was danger in it; and all the while his mind was only on the words he had spoken in mischief to the young convict.

“He is very young to die!”

They seemed cruel, now, instead of only mischievous, and he wished very heartily that he had not uttered them. And so he sat in melancholy silence until he heard Martin Alonzo saying to him:

“Pick up thy bundle, cousin; kiss the women, and come. Why, how glum thou art! And thou with the gift of language! Come, they are waiting for us, and the admiral, Christoval Colon, or Christopherus, as he and thou, being learned in Latin, would say it, will be impatient.”

Diego heeded not the banter in his cousin’s voice; but resigned himself to his fate, with no attempt to hide his grief and terror. He took up his bundle and dejectedly followed his cousin out of the house. Usually, when going to punishment, he would bear himself as jauntily as if going to a feast—that is, when all hope of escape was gone; but on this occasion he had no spirit to simulate what he did not feel. He went with drooping head and lagging step.

There was no doubt that some of the people whom they passed pitied him; and there were others who made merry as he had done with the young convict; but both sorts were alike to him, and he stepped off the quay into the boat, feeling very little better than if he had been going to execution.

When they reached the Pinta, as the vessel of Martin Alonzo was named, a sharp word from his cousin sent Diego over the side in short order. He was just conscious of some conversation taking place about him—a short, quick talk—and then he was hustled forward and told to put his bundle down.

There must have been some curiosity under his despair; for he remembered afterwards looking about him and making certain observations that did not in the least tend to dispel his fears.

The vessel on which he found himself, and which was destined for the most perilous voyage in the knowledge of man, was a rickety little craft no larger than those which he had seen sailing along the shallow coasts of Andalusia. It had no deck amidships, and carried houses forward and aft only to shelter the crew and captain, and to contain the most perishable of such freight as she carried.

She was old and dirty and leaky; the crew was sullen and sluggish; Martin Alonzo was harsh and violent; Diego wished he had never taken the melon or broken bounds. The whole affair was wretched and terrible.

There were about thirty persons on board the vessel; but it was plain that all were not workers; and afterwards he learned that some of them were simple adventurers, and that some were officers sent by the queen, Isabella.

The other two vessels had already lifted anchor and were dropping down the stream, and it was not long before the Pinta was doing the same. But, even when the anchor was up, the shouting of his cousin—the roaring rather—did not cease, nor did the sullen scuffling of the crew.

He had no idea what he was expected to do, and he was in no mood to ask anybody, even if he had known whom to ask; so he let his bundle lie where he had dropped it and moved over to a part of the rail which seemed to be out of the way of the sailors, and leaned over it in the dismalest manner imaginable. As he stood there, he was conscious of the approach of some one, but did not turn to see who it might be.

“He is very young to die,” said a mocking voice, and he knew, before he looked around, whose the voice was; but he turned, nevertheless, and looked into the eyes of the young convict whom he had gibed in those same words.

Chapter IV.

Diego looked into the eyes of the boy who stood by his side, and in their sullen depths he saw a gleam of malicious triumph, which he did not fail to understand. The boy was gloating over the plight he had fallen into.

It made it no easier for Diego to submit to the mockery of the other that he was being treated to his own sauce. The sauce was all the less palatable that it was of his own making. And, then, to have it served by a miserable jail-bird!

“You will do well to keep your distance,” he said to the boy.

“Ha, ha!” jeered the boy, “so young to die!”

“Say that again,” said Diego, “and I will so do to you that you will forget the jail you came from.”

A flush rose to the sallow face of the boy, and he said fiercely between his teeth:

“So young to die!”

“‘HE IS VERY YOUNG TO DIE,’ SAID A MOCKING VOICE.”

Perhaps you know how boys do in these days on such occasions. Four centuries have made no difference; boys did the same then. These two forgot their fellow-voyagers and seemed to think they were alone on the narrow ledge that skirted the rail. They glared rage and defiance at each other; they measured each other from head to foot. Then, like a flash, for he was a quick boy, Diego struck the other boy on the cheek.

The latter was knocked off the rail, but was on his feet and up again, and was rushing at Diego, when a strong hand caught him by the collar and lifted him off his feet, and another strong hand fell thwack, thwack, on first one side and then the other of his head; and then he was dropped.

The two hands belonged to Martin Alonzo Pinzon; and as he aimed at impartiality, he had no sooner released the convict boy than he caught up a rope’s end and laid it lustily over Diego’s shoulders, thus giving his cousin an opportunity to form an estimate of the difference between his method and Fray Bartolomeo’s. The advantage seemed to be with Martin Alonzo, for Diego had no need to pretend a distress he did not feel. His anguish was genuine.

“Now,” said Martin Alonzo, comprehending the scowling convict as well as the squirming Diego, “before this happens again take thought that I am the master of this vessel and can do all the fighting.” Then he looked over the crew that had gathered quickly around, and added, meaningly, “All the fighting, mind you!”

With that he roared out another order, and it was a marvel how the sailors jumped to his bidding. As for Diego, he saw in his cousin another sort of man from the gentle, long-suffering Fray Bartolomeo. Nevertheless, he and his antagonist exchanged looks of dislike.

However, they said nothing to each other, though each thought to himself that a more convenient time might come; forgetting, each, that they expected never to see land again.

Well, the little disturbance, odd as it may seem, did much towards raising Diego’s spirits. Besides, he was not much given to low spirits, and, with all his terror of the voyage, he was, like most of the other sailors, willing to forget the future since there was no way yet apparent of avoiding it.

He had come on board so soon before sailing that it had not been possible to assign him to any duty, and so there was nothing for him to do but watch the others work, or to look over the rail at the shore as it seemed to glide slowly by.

“THEN, LIKE A FLASH, FOR HE WAS A QUICK BOY, DIEGO STRUCK THE OTHER BOY ON THE CHEEK.”

One thing that he did especially was to follow his antagonist with his eye, as he went about his work; and, in spite of his dislike for him and prejudice against him, he could not help admitting that he seemed to understand the business of a sailor very well. And once he heard the man who had gone aboard with him address him as Juan Cacheco.

When the Pinta reached the mouth of the river, she dropped anchor again near to where the Santa Maria and the Niña were anchored. The former was the admiral’s vessel and the largest, and the latter was commanded by a brother of Martin Alonzo, and was the smallest. The largest was small enough, and it did not surprise Diego to hear his own thought uttered in a dismal, surly growl on the other side of him.

“Three crazy tubs for a crazy voyage!”

Diego turned to see if the remark was addressed to him and to see who had uttered it. It had evidently not been made to him, for which he was glad when he saw the ugly, sullen face of the companion of Juan Cacheco turned towards the other two vessels. He started to move away from the man, when the latter shifted his gaze from the vessels to him, and said, in a tone of half-surly friendliness:

“I think we’re of the same opinion as to that. Eh, boy?”

“I know naught about it,” answered Diego, without making any effort to conceal the repugnance he had for the man, whom he did not think of as a fellow-voyager, but only as a convict.

“Hah!” ejaculated the man, showing by his sudden change of tone and by his scowl that he comprehended Diego’s feeling towards him. “‘Tis the cockerel that crowed so bravely on the quay and changed his tone so soon after. We’ll clip your comb before this voyage is half done, my little bird, or my name is not Miguel de la Vega.”

Now Diego was as hasty of temper as he was lacking in prudence, as his quick and taunting answer showed.

“Miguel of the plain, or Miguel of the prison, it is all one to me. Only I will say this to you, that you may find it harder to get my comb than you think. It may not be so easy to steal other persons’ belongings on board ship as you found it on shore, perhaps.”

“Ah! say you so?” was the answer of the man, his brevity and lowering brow giving Diego a very unpleasant sensation, and making him wonder if a less sharp retort might not have answered his purpose as well.

He certainly had not made a friend of the man; but, for the matter of that, why should Diego Pinzon, who was an honest boy, with good blood in his veins, and something of a scholar, withal, have any desire to be friendly with a man who had only escaped the punishment of his crimes by his willingness to risk his life in the perilous undertaking on which they were both embarked?

He moved slowly forward, thinking of these things, and making up his mind that he would speak to his cousin and demand of him as a right that he should not be obliged to have his watch with any of the convict members of the crew. He had a very lively respect for his masterful cousin, but he could see nothing unreasonable in the request he had to prefer, and so looked about to see if there might be an opportunity to speak with Martin Alonzo.

There was no hope of finding the captain of the Pinta in an idle moment at such a stage of the voyage; but at the moment Diego looked around he saw him standing aft, gazing aloft at some operation which his new crew was performing in the rigging, and performing very ill, if one might judge from his contracted brow. He gave a hasty, frowning glance at Diego as he approached, and then turned his eyes aloft again. Diego was not yet to be put down with a mere frown, and so held his place in front of his cousin until the latter looked at him again and said, gruffly:

“Well, boy?”

Diego cleared his throat for such a speech as he would have made at the convent to the reverend prior.

“I pray your pardon, good cousin—”

“Are you so in love with the rope’s end that you crave more of it?” interrupted Martin Alonzo, brusquely.

“I do not understand you, cousin,” stammered Diego.

“Then you shall, and that right speedily. Look alive, you lubbers aloft there!” he roared to the sailors in the rigging. “What! will you go to sleep on the yard? I’ll be the death of some of you yet! Now harkee, boy,” he said, with an abrupt turn to Diego, “Fray Bartolomeo said you were ready of tongue, and doubtless ’twas a merit in the convent; but on the Pinta ’tis only a dangerous gift. I, only, have the privilege of the gift of language here—all the others of you may as well know at once that the only gift you may exercise with safety is that of readiness of limb when I give the word.”

“Yes, good cousin,” said Diego, more meekly.

“And cousin me no cousins,” said Martin Alonzo. “I am your captain and naught else while we are on the voyage together. And now to the point. What word have you with me?”

Truly here was no soft-hearted fray to be cajoled with ready words. Diego choked a little and then came to the point more directly than ever he had before.

“I came to ask that in arranging the watches you would put me with the honest men instead of with the convicts.”

“Who speaks of convicts?” demanded the captain, sharply.

“Why, ’tis well enough known that the crew is partly made up of prison men.”

“Ay! is it so? And you are so nice that you must choose your company, eh?”

“I am a Pinzon,” said Diego, with a touch of offended pride.

“A Pinzon! Ay, to be sure!” said Martin Alonzo, scornfully. “And, prithee, why are you going this voyage?”

“Because you forced me, and no other why,” said Diego.

“Tut! will you quibble with me as if I were a fray at the convent? Why, then, did I force you? Speak up like a Pinzon, now!”

“Because I gave the good brothers so much trouble.”

“You stole a melon, did you not?”

“Among other things, I did.”

“And if you stole a melon, in what are you better than these men who stole purses, perhaps? You did it for mischief and to satisfy your gluttony, and how do you know what bitter temptations these men had? Now, let me hear no more of your superiority. The men who are here are sailors, and I know nothing else of them until they force me to. As for you, your watch has been assigned, and your place is where you have been put. Now go forward, where you belong.”

Well, there was that in Martin Alonzo’s tone and manner that kept Diego’s ready tongue in check, and made him turn and go forward very meekly; though not without a tingling sense of shame at having been likened in so public a manner to the convicts he had so despised.

He, indeed, had spoken softly enough; but Martin Alonzo had not. Perhaps his was a voice that did not readily lend itself to a whisper. Anyhow, he had so spoken that many on the little vessel had caught the pith of the whole conversation, and Diego felt very certain that, among others, Juan Cacheco had heard and was grinning with glee.

At that instant there was nothing he would have liked better than to have had a pitched battle with that lad; but he had learned already to exercise some self-restraint, and so went into the forward cabin without even exchanging glances with Juan.

“‘NOW GO FORWARD WHERE YOU BELONG.’”

If he had felt disinclined to the voyage before, he felt much more so now, when the prospect of the future offered so strong a contrast to the past, which he had brought to a close by his own folly. More than once that night he had it in his mind to slip overboard and swim ashore; but the folly of it was too apparent to him for him to act upon the idea, and when the call came in the morning for the watch to go on deck, he was ready with the others.

It seemed to him when he looked around in the dim morning light as if especial trouble had been taken to humiliate and cross him; for he found himself in the same watch with Juan Cacheco and Miguel de la Vega, the two whom, of all others, he would most have wished to avoid companionship with.

He had not much time for bitter thoughts, however, for Martin Alonzo had tumbled on deck at the same time with the sailors, and had at once begun to roar out order after order; so that Diego, unless he was minded to taste of the rope’s end again, must needs jump to the word.

Fortunately for him, he was enough of a sailor to understand the orders given, and was nimble enough to acquit himself tolerably well—better, indeed, than many of the men, some of whom found themselves on board a vessel for the first time in their lives. Besides, he was soon engaged in a hot rivalry with Juan Cacheco, each boy striving to outdo the other in nimbleness and expedition.

The Santa Maria and the Niña showed as much life as the Pinta, and it did not take long for all to understand that the little fleet was now about to start in good earnest on the long and, as they believed, fated voyage.