upon the place where the vital scenes of his life had been set, for the
last time weighed anchor, and took his last farewell of the seas and
islands of his discovery. A little steadfast looking, a little straining
of the eyes, a little heart-aching no doubt, and Espanola has sunk down
into the sea behind the white wake of the ships; and with its fading away
the span of active life allotted to this man shuts down, and his powerful
opportunities for good or evil are withdrawn.

There was something great and heroic about the Admiral's last voyage.
Wind and sea rose up as though to make a last bitter attack upon the man
who had disclosed their mysteries and betrayed their secrets. He had
hardly cleared the island before the first gale came down upon him and
dismasted his ship, so that he was obliged to transfer himself and his
son to Bartholomew's caravel and send the disabled vessel back to
Espanola. The shouting sea, as though encouraged by this triumph, hurled
tempest after tempest upon the one lonely small ship that was staggering
on its way to Spain; and the duel between this great seaman and the vast
elemental power that he had so often outwitted began in earnest. One
little ship, one enfeebled man to be destroyed by the power of the sea:
that was the problem, and there were thousands of miles of sea-room, and
two months of time to solve it in! Tempest after tempest rose and drove
unceasingly against the ship. A mast was sprung and had to be cut away;
another, and the woodwork from the forecastles and high stern works had
to be stripped and lashed round the crazy mainmast to preserve it from
wholesale destruction. Another gale, and the mast had to be shortened,
for even reinforced as it was it would not bear the strain; and so
crippled, so buffeted, this very small ship leapt and staggered on her
way across the Atlantic, keeping her bowsprit pointed to that region of
the foamy emptiness where Spain was.