Toward the end of 1505 and the
beginning of 1506 the Admiral became very ill. He was in Valladolid, and
he realized that he could travel no more; so he secured for himself, or
perhaps Diego secured for him, as comfortable a lodging as possible in a
street now called the Calle Colon, and determined not to move about any
more. We, accustomed to heat and a dozen other comforts in our
dwellings, would not consider the house in the Calle Colon, with its
cold stone floors and walls, a suitable place for a rheumatic, broken-
down old man; but it was the typical solid, substantial residence of its
day; and the only pity is that the city of Valladolid permitted it to be
torn down a few years ago to make room for a row of flats.
Even in icy Valladolid, winter with its discomfort comes to an end at
last. One May day, when spring sunshine was warming up the stone chamber
where the old Admiral lay, he called for a pen and put the last touches
to his will. All the titles he still hoped to get back were for Diego;
and should Diego die without a son, Fernando was to be Admiral; and if
Fernando should have no son, the loyal brother Bartholomew, who had
shared those horrible days of disappointment and disaster off in the
Indies, was to be Admiral. (Brother Diego had no need of an inheritance,
for he had become a monk.
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