At last, sailing along Cuba, he came to its end; and from there he could see another island eighteen leagues off. This was what we call Haiti, or San Domingo. The ships sailed over to Haiti, and the Admiral was so pleased with its aspect that he christened it Hispaniola, or little Hispania, which is Latin for Spain; but as Spain is called by its own people Espana, Hispaniola soon became Espanola. CHAPTER XI THE RETURN IN THE NINA Espanola, or Haiti, the name we know it by, evidently corresponded to all of the Admiral's preconceived notions of what he was to find in the western waters. He describes it in his diary as the loveliest island they had yet seen; its thousands of trees "seemed to reach to Heaven." Any one who had lived long in Spain, where trees are few and small, must have taken great delight in the sight of a real forest, and so Columbus wrote much on the beauties of Haiti. Scratch away with your pen, good Admiral, and tell us about the trees, and the lovely nights that are like May in Cordova, and the gold mine which the natives say is on the island. Enjoy the spot while you may, for bitter days are coming when its very name will sadden you. Could you but see into the unknown future as clearly as you saw into the unknown west, you would hurry away from lovely "little Spain" as fast as your rickety caravel would take you! Troubles in plenty are awaiting you! But the skillfulest mariner cannot know what to-morrow may bring forth. How was even an "Admiral of the Ocean Seas" to know that when he went to bed on Christmas Eve, his helmsman would soon sneak from his post and hand the rudder to a little cabin-boy. The night was calm and warm, as December generally is in those southern waters. The Admiral had been up night and day when cruising along the Cuban coast, and now thought he might safely take a few hours' repose. Few hours, indeed, for soon after midnight he hears the cabin-boy screaming "danger!" A strong, unsuspected current has carried the tiller out of his weak hands, and the _Santa Maria_ is scraping on a sandy bottom. Instantly the Admiral is on deck, and the disobedient helmsman is roused from his sleep. At once Columbus sees that their only possible salvation is to launch the ship's boat and lay out an anchor well astern; he orders the helmsman and another sailor--for they are all rushing on deck now--to do so. But the minute they touch water the frightened, contemptible creatures row quickly away and ask the _Nina_ to take them aboard. The _Santa Maria_ grates a little farther down into the sand bar and swings sidewise. Columbus orders them to cut the mainmast away, hoping to steady her some, but it proves useless; the ship's seams are opening; the water is rushing in; they must abandon her to her fate. So they all follow that cur of a helmsman and crowd on to the _Nina_. Did ever a Christmas morning dawn more dismally?