The first of
August in the year 1492. Two leagues east of Palos I
overtook three men trudging that way, and talking now
loudly and angrily and now in a sullen, dragging fashion.
I had seen between this road and ocean a fishing hamlet
and I made out that they were from this place. They
were men of small boats, men who fished, but who now
and again were gathered in by some shipmaster, when they
became sailors.
In me they saw only a poorly clad, sea-going person.
When I gave greeting they greeted me in return. "For
Palos?" I asked, and the one who talked the most and the
loudest gave groaning assent. "Aye, for Palos. You too,
brother, are flopping in the net?"
I did not understand and said as much. He gave an
angry laugh and explained his figure. "Why, the Queen
and the King and the law and Martin Pinzon, to whom we,
are bound for a year, are pressing us! Which is to say
they've cast a net and here we are, good fish, beating against
the meshes and finding none big enough to slip through!
Haven't you been pressed too, scooped in without a `By
your leave, Palos fish!' A hundred fish and more in this
net and one by one the giant will take us out and broil us!"
The second man spoke with a whine. "I had rather a
Barbary pirate were coming aboard! I had rather be took
slave and row a galley!"
The third, a young man, had a whimsical, dark, fearless
face.
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