(Extract from Spain of Today by W. R. Lawson 1889)

To-day we bring to your attention the account of The Rabida taken from William R. Lawson’s Spain of To-day which was published earlier this year.

– For their next International Exposition the Americans have chosen a worthy subject and a memorable occasion. It will celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of the New World, but the occasion should be no less honoured in the Old World, which has derived at least an equal share of advantage from it. If such a programme should be determined upon, I can suggest the most suitable place conceivable for carrying it out. The capitals of Europe would doubtless compete eagerly for the honour of offering it hospitality, but there is one insignificant and almost unknown spot in the south-east corner of Europe which has the best claim. Though identified with the greatest event in modern history, its name is little familiar even to the professed historian. It is a shrine which draws few pilgrims, though places of infinitely smaller interest are comparatively crowded with them. Not even the ubiquitous and irrepressible American tourist often finds his way to the Rabida. What, indeed, do nine-tenths of them know about the Rabida? The mention of it excites no emotion in their breasts, nor gives the slightest thrill to their imagination. Both the Old World and the New seem to have wholly forgotten the epoch-making event which happened at the Rabida nearly four centuries ago.

The most interesting chapter in Washington Irving’s Life of Columbus opens thus:

“About half a league from the little seaport of Palos de Moquer, in Andalusia, there stood, and continues to stand to the present day, an ancient convent of Franciscan friars, dedicated to Santa Maria de Rabida. One day, a stranger on foot, in humble guise, but of a distinguished air, accompanied by a small boy, stopped at the gate of the convent, and asked of the porter a little bread and water for his child. While receiving this humble refreshment, the prior of the convent, Juan Perez de Marchena, happening to pass by, was struck with the appearance of the stranger, and observing from his air and accent that he was a foreigner, entered into conversation with him, and soon learned the particulars of his story. That stranger was Columbus.”

When this fortunate encounter took place, Columbus was on the point of quitting Spain in disgust and disappointment, as he had quitted Portugal eight years before. Ferdinand and Isabella had not used him quite so meanly as John of Portugal did, but after keeping him dangling at their heels all through the Moorish war, they had broken with him at last.

How different a history Spain might have had but for the shrewd prior of the Rabida convent, who at the eleventh hour arrested the departing footsteps of Columbus! The great navigator might have carried with him his idea of a western passage to India to some more liberal court, which would have reaped the glory and the gain of realising it. For aught we know, the next breeze of adventure in his chequered life might have blown him toward England, and found for him stauncher patrons in the Tudors than in the twin houses of Aragon and Castile. Luckily for Spain, the danger of letting the unborn New World slip through her fingers was averted. Prior Perez was not only a man of intelligence, but he had influence at court, having once been private confessor to Queen Isabella.

He wrote a letter to her Majesty, setting forth in the most urgent terms the shame it would be to Spain to cast away a chance, however small, of achieving so noble an object as Columbus had in view. This was sent to her by the hand of Sebastian Rodriguez, a trusty pilot of Lepe, who had become a keen convert to Columbus’s scheme. The womanly sympathy and the royal ambition of Isabella were so effectually stirred by this appeal that she returned an encouraging reply.

The prior was summoned to court to confer with her further; and eventually her enthusiasm was so kindled that the objections of cold-hearted and envious courtiers were put down with the proud declaration:

“I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of Castile, and will pledge my jewels to raise the necessary funds.”

After all, the royal jewels had not to be called on to finance the expedition. The cautious Ferdinand, though sceptical about the scheme, allowed seventeen thousand florins to be advanced from his treasury toward the expenses of it. Moreover, he took care to get repaid out of the first gold brought from the New World, which he employed in gilding the ceilings of his palace at Saragossa. Columbus himself had to find one-eighth of the required capital, which he raised among his new friends at the Rabida.

Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella, if not strong in coin, could render valuable assistance in other shapes. They spared not royal decrees calling on their subjects for contributions in kind. The little seaport of Palos was already under obligation to provide annually two armed vessels, and these were for the current year assigned to the expedition. The Pinzons, a leading family in Palos, fitted out, at their own cost, a third vessel, the best in the little fleet. Two of the brothers also joined the expedition, and used all their local influence in recruiting men for it.

The next public incident in the drama I borrow again from the graphic pages of Washington Irving:

“The squadron being ready to put to sea, Columbus, impressed with the solemnity of his undertaking, confessed himself to the Prior Juan Perez, and partook of the sacrament of the Communion. His example was followed by his officers and crew, and they entered upon their enterprise full of awe and the most devout and affecting ceremonials, committing themselves to the especial guidance and protection of Heaven.”

Now we come to the most graphic scene of all—the sad assembly on the sandy slope of the Rabida which bids God-speed to the explorers who were going forth, with their lives in their hands, to traverse unknown and possibly boundless seas.

“It was,” says Irving, “on the 3rd August 1492, early in the morning, that Columbus set sail from the bar of Saltis, a small island formed by the arms of the Odiel, in front of the town of Huelva, steering in a south-westerly direction for the Canary Islands, whence it was his intention to strike due west.”

It is matter of history how the little fleet went straight ahead in its westward course until Columbus descried a light shining at a great distance. They made for it, and at dawn on the 12th October they found themselves anchored beside a level island several leagues in extent, and clothed from end to end with fruit trees, as if it were one vast orchard. They took possession of it in the names of Ferdinand and Isabella, and called it San Salvador. It was one of the Bahamas, the same to which English sailors have given the much less poetic name of Cat Island.

After going as far as Cuba, which he mistook for the mainland of Asia—perhaps the fabled Cathay itself—Columbus returned by way of Hayti. He had a very rough passage home, and anchored on the 4th March 1493 off Cintra, at the mouth of the Tagus.

In the hour of his triumph he did not forget the humble port which had so befriended him in adversity. As soon as he had paid his respects to King John of Portugal he sailed again in his crazy bark, the Niña, for his starting-place of seven and a half months ago. On the 15th March he arrived safely at the bar of Saltis, and at mid-day he entered the little harbour of Palos.

What spot in Europe or in the world can match historical incidents like these? What more worthy of grateful homage, or more likely to interest the intelligent pilgrim? When the Americans are celebrating the birth of their continent, they will commit a grievous sin if they ignore the lonely convent of the Rabida, or the little fishing village which now represents the historical harbour of Palos.