The Columbus Affair: A Novel (2 page)

For the first time in a long while, he felt rejuvenated.

He loved this land.

The first voyage in 1492 had been carried out under his personal leadership, against the advice of so-called learned people. Eighty-seven men had ventured into the unknown on the strength of his dream. He’d struggled for decades to obtain the funding, first from the Portuguese, then from the Spanish. The Capitulations of Sante Fé, signed between him and the Spanish Crown, had promised him noble status, 10 percent of all riches, and control of the seas he discovered. An excellent bargain on paper, but Ferdinand and Isabella had not kept their end. For the past twelve years, after he’d established the existence of what all were calling a New World, one Spanish ship after another had sailed westward, each without permission from him as Admiral of the Ocean Sea.

Whores. Liars.

All of them.

“There,” de Torres called out.

He stopped his descent and glanced through the trees past thousands of red blossoms the natives called Flame of the Forest. He spotted
a clear pool, flat as glass, the roar of more active water leading in and out.

He had first visited Jamaica in May 1494, on his second voyage, and discovered that its northern coast was inhabited by the same natives found on the nearby islands, except those here were more hostile. Perhaps their proximity to the Caribs, who lived on Puerto Rico to the east, accounted for that aggressiveness. Caribs were fierce cannibals who understood only force. Learning from the past, he’d dispatched bloodhounds and bowsmen to initially deal with the Jamaicans, killing a few, savaging others, until they all became anxious to please.

He halted the caravan’s advance at the pool.

De Torres approached and whispered, “It is here. The place.”

He knew that this would be his last time in his New World. He was fifty-one years old and had managed to accumulate an impressive array of enemies. His experience of the past year was evidence, this fourth voyage cursed from the start. He’d first explored the coast of what he’d come to believe was a continent, its shoreline endless, extending north to south for as far as he’d sailed. After completing that reconnoiter he’d hoped to make landfall in Cuba or Hispaniola, but his worm-eaten vessels only made it as far as Jamaica, where he beached them both and awaited a rescue.

None had come.

The governor of Hispaniola, a sworn enemy, decided to let him, and his 113 men, die.

But that had not occurred.

Instead a few brave souls had rowed a canoe to Hispaniola and brought a ship back.

Yes, he had indeed amassed enemies.

They’d succeeded in negating all of the rights he once possessed from the Capitulations. He’d managed to retain his noble status and title of admiral, but they meant nothing. The colonists in Santo Domingo had even revolted and forced him to sign a humiliating settlement agreement. Four horrible years ago he was returned to Spain in chains and threatened with trial and imprisonment. But the king and queen provided an unexpected reprieve, then granted him funds and permission for a fourth crossing.

He’d wondered about their motivations.

Isabella seemed sincere. She was an adventurous soul. But the king was another matter. Ferdinand had never cared for him, openly saying that any trip across the western ocean seemed a folly.

Of course, that was before he’d succeeded.

Now all Ferdinand wanted was gold and silver.

Whores. Liars.

All of them.

He motioned for the crates to be lowered. His three men helped, as each was heavy.

“We are here,” he called out in Spanish.

His men knew what to do.

Swords were drawn and the natives were quickly cut to pieces. Two groaned on the ground, but were silenced with skewers to the chest. Their killing meant nothing to him, they were unworthy to breathe the same air as Europeans. Small, copper brown, naked as the day they were born, they possessed no written language and no fervent beliefs. They lived in seaside villages and, to his observations, accomplished nothing other than growing a few crops. They were led by a man called a
cacique
, whom he’d made friends with during his marooned year. It was the
cacique
who’d granted him six men yesterday when he’d dropped anchor for the final time along the north shore.

“A
simple trek to the mountains,”
he’d told the chieftain.
“A few days’ time.”

He knew enough of their Arawak language to convey his request. The
cacique
had acknowledged that he understood and agreed, motioning toward six who would carry the crates. He’d bowed in gratitude and offered several hawk’s bells as gifts. Thanks to heaven that he’d brought a quantity of them with him. In Europe they were tied to the talons of trained birds. Worthless. Here they were hard currency.

The
cacique
had accepted the payment and returned a bow.

He’d dealt with this leader twice before. They’d forged a friendship. An understanding. One he took full advantage of.

When he’d first visited the island in 1494, stopping for a day to caulk leaks in his ship and to replenish the water supply, his men had noticed fine bits of gold in the clear streams. On questioning the
cacique
he’d learned of a place where the golden grains were larger, some the size of beans.

At the place where he now stood.

But unlike the deceitful Spanish monarchy, gold did not interest him.

His purpose rose higher.

His gaze locked on de Torres and his old friend knew what was next. Sword in hand, de Torres pointed the blade at one of the three Spaniards, this man short and stumpy with a grizzly face.

“To your knees,” de Torres ordered as he relieved the man of his weapon.

Two other crewmen raised their swords in support.

The prisoner knelt.

Columbus faced him. “Did you think me so stupid?”

“Admiral—”

He raised a hand for silence. “Four years ago they returned me to Spain in chains and stripped me of all that was rightfully mine. Then, just as suddenly, it was restored.” He paused. “With but a few words, the king and queen pardoned me for all that I supposedly had done. Did they think me ignorant?” He hesitated again. “They did. And that is the greatest insult of all. Years I begged for funds to sail the ocean. Years, I was refused. Yet with one letter to the Crown, I was granted the money for this fourth voyage. One request, and all was provided. I knew then something was wrong.”

Swords continued to be held close. Nowhere for the captive to go.

“You are a spy,” Columbus said. “Sent here to report back on what I do.”

The sight of this fool disgusted him. The man represented all of the treachery and misery he’d been forced to endure at the hands of Spanish liars.

“Ask the question that your benefactors want to know,” Columbus demanded.

The man stayed silent.

“Ask it, I say.” His voice rose. “I command you.”

“Who are you to command anything?” the spy said. “You are not a man of Christ.”

He absorbed the insult with the patience that a hard life had provided. But he saw that his compatriots were not as forgiving.

He pointed to them. “These men are not of Christ, either.”

The prisoner spit on the ground.

“Was your mission to report back all that occurred on the voyage? Were these crates we have here today their goal? Or is it simply gold they are after?”

“You have not been truthful.”

He laughed. “I have not been truthful?”

“The Holy Mother Church will see your eternal damnation in the fires of hell.”

Then he realized. This agent was from the Inquisition.

The greatest enemy of all.

A fire of self-preservation rose within him. He caught the concern in de Torres’ eyes. He’d known since they’d left Spain, two years ago, of this problem. But were there more eyes and ears? The Inquisition had burned people by the thousands. He hated all that it represented.

What he was completing here today had been designed solely to thwart that evil.

De Torres had already told him that he would not risk being discovered by any Spanish examiners. He would not be returning to Europe. He intended on settling in Cuba, a much larger island to the north. The other two men holding swords, younger, more eager, had likewise made their decisions to stay. He should, too, but his place was not here, though he wished things could be different.

He glared down.

“The English and Dutch call me Columbus. The French, Columb. The Portuguese, Colom. Spaniards know me as Colón. But none of those is my birth name. Unfortunately, you will never know my true name and you will not be making a report to your benefactors waiting in Spain.”

He motioned and de Torres plunged his sword into the man’s chest.

The prisoner had no time to react.

The blade was yanked free with a sickening sound and the body hinged forward at the knees, slamming face-first to the ground.

A growing pool of blood stained the earth.

He spit on the corpse, as did the others.

He hoped that would be the last man he would see die. He was tired of killing. Since he would shortly return to his ship and leave this land forever, there would be no repercussions from the
cacique
for the six deaths. Others would pay that price, but that was not his concern. They were all enemies and he wished them nothing but pain.

He turned and finally studied where he stood, catching every detail that had been described.

“You see, Admiral,” de Torres said. “It is as if God Himself directed us here.”

His old friend was right.

It did seem that way.

Be as courageous as a leopard, as light as an eagle, as fast as a deer, and as strong as a lion to do the will of your Father in heaven
.

Wise words.

“Come,” he said to the others. “Let us pray that the secret of this day will long stay hidden.”

T
OM
S
AGAN GRIPPED THE GUN
. H
E’D THOUGHT ABOUT THIS MOMENT
for the past year, debating the pros and cons, finally deciding that one pro outweighed all cons.

He simply did not want to live any longer.

He’d once been an investigative reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
, knocking down a solid six-figure salary, his marquee byline generating one front-page, above-the-fold story after another. He’d worked all over the world—Sarajevo, Beijing, Johannesburg, Belgrade, and Moscow. But the Middle East became his specialty, a place he came to know intimately, where his reputation had been forged. His confidential files were once filled with hundreds of willing sources, people who knew he’d protect them at all costs. He’d proved that when he spent eleven days in a DC jail for failing to reveal his source on a story about a corrupt Pennsylvania congressman.

That man had gone to prison.

Tom had received his third Pulitzer nomination.

There were twenty-one awarded categories. One was for “distinguished investigative reporting by an individual or team, reported as a single newspaper article or a series.” Winners received a certificate, $10,000, and the ability to add three precious words—
Pulitzer Prize winner
—to their names.

He won his.

But they took it back.

Which seemed the story of his life.

Everything had been taken back.

His career, his reputation, his credibility, even his self-respect. In the end he became a failure as a son, a father, a husband, a reporter, and a friend. A few weeks ago he’d charted that spiral on a pad, identifying that it all started when he was twenty-five, fresh out of the University of Florida, top third of his class, a journalism degree in hand.

Then his father disowned him.

Abiram Sagan had been unrelenting.

“We all make choices. Good. Bad. Indifferent. You’re a grown man, Tom, and have made yours. Now I have to make mine.”

And that he had.

On that same pad he’d jotted down the highs and lows. Some from before, as editor of his high school paper and campus reporter at college. Most after. His rise from news assistant, to staff reporter, to senior international correspondent. The awards. Accolades. Respect from his peers. How had one observer described his style?
“Wide-ranging and prescient reporting conducted at great personal risk.”

Then his divorce.

The estrangement from his only child. Poor investment decisions. Even poorer life decisions.

Finally, his firing.

Eight years ago.

And the seemingly nothing life since.

Most of his friends were gone. But that was as much his fault as theirs. As his personal depression had deepened he’d withdrawn into himself. Amazing he hadn’t turned to alcohol or drugs, but neither had ever appealed to him.

Self-pity was his intoxicant.

He stared around at the house’s interior.

He’d decided to die, here, in his parents’ home. Fitting, in some morbid way. Thick layers of dust and a musty smell reminded him that for three years the rooms had sat empty. He’d kept the utilities on, paid the meager taxes, and had the lawn cut just enough so the neighbors wouldn’t complain. Earlier, he’d noticed that the sprawling mulberry tree out front needed trimming, the picket fence painting.