The Columbus Affair: A Novel

Columbus was long dead and his heirs had sued the Spanish Crown, claiming a breach of the Capitulations of Santa Fe, which supposedly granted the family perpetual control over the New World.

A bold move, he’d always thought.

Suing a king.

But he could appreciate such nerve, something akin to kidnapping a drug don and hunting him with dogs.

The lawsuit dragged on for decades until 1537, when the widow of one of Columbus’ two sons settled the fight on behalf of her eight-year-old son, the next direct Columbus heir, agreeing to drop all legal actions in return for one thing.

Jamaica.

The Spanish were thrilled. By then the island was deemed a nuisance, since little precious metals had been found. Bene had always admired that widow. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she obtained both the island and something else of even greater importance.

Power over the church.

Catholics in Jamaica would be under the control of the Columbus family, not the king. And for the next century, they kept the Inquisition out.

That’s why the Jews came.

Here no one would burn them for being heretics. No one would steal their property. No laws would restrict their lives or their movements.

They were free.

He stared over at his men and called out, “Simon will have to see this. Take some photos.”

He watched as one of his men obeyed.

“Oh, Mrs. Columbus,” he whispered, thinking again of that widow. “You were one smart gyal.”

Of all the lands her father-in-law discovered, and all the riches she and her heirs may have been entitled to receive, she’d insisted on only Jamaica.

And he knew why.

The lost mine.

When forced in 1494, during his fourth voyage, to beach his ship in St. Ann’s Bay, on board was a cache in gold. Columbus had just come from Panama where he’d bartered the precious metal from the local population. Unfortunately his worm-eaten caravels could sail no longer, so he ran aground in Jamaica, marooned for a year.

Sometime during that year he hid the gold.

In a place supposedly shown him by the Tainos, its existence kept secret even from the Spanish Crown. Only Columbus’ two sons knew the location, and they took that secret with them to their graves.

How stupid.

That was the lot of sons, though. Few ever outshone the father. He liked to think he was the exception. His father died in a Kingston jail, burned to death the day before being extradited to the United States to stand trial for murder. Some said the fire was intentional, set by the police. Others said suicide. Nobody really knew. His father had been tough and brutal, thinking himself invincible. But in the end, nobody really cared whether he lived or died.

Not good.

People would care if Bene Rowe died.

He thought about the Jews lying beneath his feet. They’d been an ambitious people. Eventually, they welcomed England’s dominance over Jamaica. In return Cromwell had allowed them to live openly and practice their religion. They’d reciprocated and helped build the island into a thriving British colony. Once thousands of them lived here, their burial grounds scattered near the parish capitals or on the coasts.

Now only about three hundred Jews remained.

But the live ones did not concern him.

His search was for graves.

Or, more particularly, a grave.

He watched as his man continued to snap pictures with a smartphone. He’d send one of the images to Simon. That should grab his attention. Twenty-one documented Jewish cemeteries existed on Jamaica.

Now a twenty-second had been found.

“Bene.”

The man with the smartphone was motioning for him. Unlike the drug lords who liked to be called don, he preferred his name. One thing his father had taught him was that respect from a title never lasted.

He stepped across to his man, who said to him, “Look at dat one there in the ground.”

He bent down and studied the markings. The stone lay flat, facing the sky, its etchings nearly gone. But enough remained for him to make out an image.

He brushed away more soil. He had to be sure.