"When we go there, it must be gently and humbly
like shriven men."
It was August. He knew that Don Bartholomew in
Hispaniola craved his return. The three ships, too, were
weatherworn, with seams that threatened gaping. And as
for our adventurers and the husbandmen and craftsmen,
they were most weary of the sea. The mariners were used
to it, the Admiral had lover's passion for it, but not they!
Here before us, truly, loomed a promising great land, but
it was not our port; our port was San Domingo! There,
there in Hispaniola, were old Castilians in plenty to greet
and show. There were the mines that were actually working,
gold to pick up, and Indians trained to bring it to you!
There, for the enterprising and the lucky, were gifts of land,
to each his _repartimentio_! There was companionship, there
was fortune, there was ease! Others were getting, while
we rode before a land we were too few to occupy. They
went in company to the Admiral. We had discovered. Now
let us go onto Hispaniola! The ships--our health.
When it came to health it was he who had most to endure.
The gout possessed him often. His brow knotted with
pain; his voice, by nature measured and deep, a rolling
music, became sharp and dry. He moved with difficulty,
now and then must stay in bed, or if on deck in a great
chair which we lashed to the mast.
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