“King Ferdinand got his share,” said Balboa.
“Anyway, I’d rather have some more of this red cloth.”
“Then keep them till I get some more calico!”
Though Tula did not know it, he was letting her wear the gems because they would age and finally perish unless they drew fresh life from a woman’s soft, warm skin.
“And you’ll always love me?” she murmured, arms again about his neck as she drew back from the edge of the broad hammock. “Even if my people won’t tell me the road to Peru, where every rain washes gold from the earth?”
“We’ll go to Peru,” promised Balboa. “You and I.”
“Don’t squeeze me so tight,” she panted. “Those pearls—”
Her dark eyes misted; she shuddered ecstatically, and no longer noticed that the pearls were biting into her skin…
* * * *
The blast of a cannon shook the house. Though Balboa’s persuasive tongue had made allies of the neighboring Indians, his vigilance never wavered. He was on his feet, reaching for his helmet, when a second shot echoed, this one from the bay. The shouts of his men, pouring into the plaza, explained; those shots were salutes to a ship.
“Garabito’s back from Cuba!” he told the wide-eyed girl. “With enough men to guard Antigua, while we are looking for Peru.”
There was a pounding at the door. A swarthy man, all soldier, entered the room. Hernan Arguello, after getting a fleeting view of Tula’s legs as she slid from the hammock, announced, “Four ships, Don Vasco. Pedro Arias de Avila, flying the king’s standard.”
“A thousand armed men,” cut in a newcomer. He spat, and added, “Indoor soldiers! We can slice them to pieces before they land. Por dios, we want no new governor!”
“The king’s standard, did you say?” demanded Balboa.
“Si, señor alcalde,” answered Arguello.
Balboa commanded, “Parade the guard! As long as Don Pedro is flying the kings standard, we will welcome him. Muños! Valderrabano!” He addressed those who had come running up. “Round up some turkeys! Break out what wine we have left. Por Dios, we are poor, but give them our best.”
He turned to Tula: “Querida mia, you’d better go to your father’s village for a few days. I’m going to be busy, giving Don Pedro an accounting of lands and treasure.”
Her eyes clouded; she sighed, then brightened and said, “That is right. And I’ll leave these pearls. If the string broke—”
He kissed her, thrust the jewels into a chest, then strode out to muster his men. Bugles were braying. Arms clanked. And from the bay came the chanteys of sailors dropping anchor. But Balboa’s heart was heavy. Pedro Arias de Avila—Pedrarias, as he was often called—wanted all he saw, and seeing everything. There would be hell in Darien, but he came in the King’s name.
* * * *
That evening, resinous torches cast wavering light over a long, crude table in Balboa’s house. His frayed doublet and hose, and patched cape were mocked by the rich apparel of those King Ferdinand had sent from Spain to rule Antigua del Darien; but two among those glittering newcomers regarded him with increasing admiration.
One was Pedrarias’ wife, a splendid woman at the prime of her beauty. And then there was Doña Isabel’s lovely daughter, Maria. Her gray-green eyes smiled with her generous mouth. She had copper colored hair, like her mother; shapely as the older woman, and though not as richly curved, her slim figure was a magnificent promise that even now was almost fulfilled by the exquisite curves that rounded her bodice.
Balboa’s eyes caressed her, and she answered. But for venturing into the new world, he might have had such a woman beside him, the mistress of his own house.
Her father caught their exchange of glances. His closely spaced black eyes gleamed maliciously, and he sneered at the crude colonial fare set out in his honor.
“The land of gold,” he mocked, making a wry face as he tasted wine that the tropics had half spoiled. “Raising corn and turkeys, like peasants! Por dios, King Ferdinand did me no favor in sending me to govern this place, señor!”
Balboa laughed and answered, “Wait! I will show our Excellency.”
He beckoned to an Indian servant. In a moment, the savage returned, handing the master a small parcel. Balboa opened it, and displayed the triple strand of pearls. The ladies near the head of the table gasped; Bishop Quevedo exclaimed; and Pedrarias’ eyes gleamed avariciously.
“These are nothing,” said Balboa. “The best ones went to King Ferdinand, just before Your Excellency arrived.” Then, to Doha Isabel, “Señora, with your lord’s permission, I offer you these trinkets as a token of the esteem we have for your family.”
“Oh—but I can’t—Don Vasco, they’re priceless,” Doha Isabel protested; and her daughter’s eyes were very bright when she saw that though the words were addressed to her mother, the thought was for her.
“There are more in the South Sea,” said Balboa. “Your unexpected arrival gave me no time to find a worthier gift, nor better hospitality. Wait till I raid Peru.”
“You are liberal, carrying provinces in your pocket, Don Vasco!” said Pedrarias, unable to conceal the envy in his thanks.
The tropical heat wrought havoc with the unseasoned newcomers, in the days that followed. Doña Isabel and her daughter retired to the hills behind Antigua; but Pedrarias braved the sweltering settlement while he tried to prove Balboa guilty of keeping more than his share of the loot of Panama. Quarrels broke out between Balboa’s soldiers and the silk clad grandees from Spain; and hot headed Arguello urged his chief to fight it out and send the whole rapacious crew back to Cuba.
“They come from King Ferdinand,” reproved Balboa, swallowing his own wrath. “Now have an Indian take some fresh fruit and game to Doña Isabel and her daughter.”
* * * *
By that night, he had finally cleared himself. Later, his troubled sleep was broken by a familiar voice. Before he could fairly arouse himself, he knew that though he had heard Tula, it was not she who had entered the room. He must have been dreaming. One woman, an Indian, remained at the door. The other approached.
Her bare arms were like ivory serpents, and her hair was ruddy gold in the moonlight that came in through the unglazed window. It was Doña Maria. But as she knelt by his side, she drew back in amazement.
“Oh—Don Vasco!” she faltered. “Where’s my father? They told me he’d been wounded in a brawl—mother’s ill—so I came with my maid—forgive me—”
“Don Pedro—” Balboa swallowed his heart. She was wearing his pearls. They shimmered against her bosom as she breathed. “Is quite safe in his quarters.”
Maria caught his glance, and said, “Mother let me wear them. They’re wonderful.”
“I wanted to give them to you, but I couldn’t,” he said. “Not after these years—not after what I’ve become—”
“You’re the greatest captain in the New World,” she breathed. “Even if my father does hate you.”
They regarded each other, and he forgot that she was the daughter of the King’s favorite. The sweetness she exhaled dizzied him like old wine. She swayed toward him, and the lips that touched her hands paused only an instant before caressing her bare shoulder and throat.
Then she was in his arms, and neither felt the great pearls crushed between them. Finally, as she caught her breath, Maria panted, “But I must go, querido. Someone lied to me. Some Indian girl—told me—father was in here.”
Yet not even that hint could chill Balboa’s surging blood, or remind him of the Indian girl whose love kept peace between him and her warlike father.
“Sanctisima madre!” he hoarsely breathed. “This mistake is too precious! I will find Peru—I will have a hundred Indians make you a gown all of pearls—I will demand your hand—”
“Vasco,” she sighed, looking up with misted eyes, “I know you can.
And with new fame, he couldn’t refuse—”
“Pearls from your throat to your toes,” he promised. “Then I will pluck them from you, one by one, let them scatter as they drop—until only the pearl of yourself is in my arms—”
Her little cry of dismay startled him, and he heard the dry rattle as the snapped strand of her mother’s necklace spilled the jewels to the floor and over his couch.
“I’ll find them—a light—”
“No! Not a light!” she begged. “Someone tricked me.”
And before he could stop her, she had fled. But Maria had scarcely cleared the doorway when torches flared, steel rang, and Pedrarias’ wrathful voice boomed into the room, “Where’s my wife?”
“Don Pedro, you flatter me as much as you wrong Doña Isabel,” answered Balboa; “Here, at this hour?”
Pedrarias suspiciously eyed the barren room. Then he caught the gleam of scattered pearls, and saw the lace scarf on the couch. His sword leaped out. Though he was sixty or past, he was wiry and lean and cunning.
Balboa, swift despite his stature, sidestepped, and in one move seized his cloak and whipped the sword from the scabbard beside his bed.
The blades clashed, red ribbons of steel in the torches of the gentlemen who had accompanied Pedrarias. But despite the skill of that bitter old man, Balboa’s quickness kept him at bay, parrying the deadly thrusts that danced in and out like heat lightning.
“Don Pedro,” panted Balboa, “cease before I strike the king’s envoy. By God, sir, if you force me—”
Pedrarias’ point leaped forward to slip through a momentary gap in Balboa’s guard. But the sword that had carved a path to the Pacific Ocean was in a master’s hand. Its dry, crisp beat, forte to faible, knocked Pedrarias’ light weapon circling in a silver arc.
“Assassin!” howled two of the governor’s attendants, closing in.
Balboa, cornered, could have called for the guard, but pride forbade. Crouched like a tiger, he faced them, point wavering in small circles, eyes blazing with the wrath that had scattered hordes of savages.
“Santiago!” His voice shook the room. And one of the governor’s knights stood gaping as the other, run through, sank groaning in his own blood.
He whirled to engage the remaining opponent as Pedrarias, dagger drawn, slipped up on his flank. But a scream warned Balboa. He flung himself aside, avoiding the treacherous attack. And before any could again engage, Maria de Avila was among them.
“My mother was not here,” she declared. “It was I, wearing her pearls. An Indian woman told me that you were here, wounded. So I came. And my maid was with me.”
Pedrarias smiled bitterly. That a high born lady would risk compromising herself to clear a common soldier was an affront to Spanish honor, nor could the ensuing exchange of apologies and compliments alter that fact.
* * * *
Balboa’s night was sleepless. He now realized that Tula, seeing Doña Maria wearing the pearls, had acted in a flare of jealousy. Nor could he discard the Indian girl. Her father and his horde of savages would again harass the settlement. Though they could be beaten off, many men would die; his men who were his first concern.
The following night, a broad-shouldered man in armor followed Hernan Arguello into Balboa’s house. This was Andres Garabito, who had come from Cuba. Warned by the sight of Pedrarias’ four caravels anchored in the harbor, he had secretly landed.
“Amigo,” Balboa’s old friend went on, “it is well that we came silently. Leave this hound to misrule Antigua. We will march across Panama, build ships on the other coast, and sail for Peru.”
The bitterness in Balboa’s heart burst out, “We will do that! Even though King Ferdinand must by now have gotten the gold I sent, he can not recall Pedrarias. It is too late. So we will find a new empire—richer loot—wider lands—”
They filled flagons with the powerful Estramadura wine that Garabito had brought from Cuba. They drank lustily, and for a while, Balboa forgot his grievances.
Outside, others were drinking, and wrangling. But he did not pause to wonder where his soldiers had obtained wine. Certainly not from Pedrarias’ supply, which he had brought from Spain. Maybe it was maize beer, made by the Indians.
“And on our way, we’ll find the Golden Goddess of Dobaybe!” swore Garabito, twisting his wine-dripping mustache.
“I lost ninety men, the last time we tried!” grumbled Balboa, somewhat thickly.
And thus, none of them were ready for what sunrise brought.
When they heard the muted clang of steel, they thought that the watch was marching to the guard house. It was not until Arguello roared, “Who invited you in here?” that Balboa started, unsteady on his feet.
Pedrarias, accompanied by a company of his own soldiers and officers was at the door. He commanded, “Arrest the traitors!”
Swords were out. Flagons crashed from overturned tables. Half a dozen blades crossed in an instant. Arguello laid about him, and Balboa’s sword was red, but he was being outpointed because of his wine.
“Surrender!” cried Pedrarias, “or we cut you down to the last man! The place is surrounded. And your soldiers are too drunk to rescue you. I saw to that!”
Balboa lowered his blade. His companions had only their swords; their assailants wore casques and corselets of steel. He demanded, “Don Pedro, who calls me a traitor? After I claimed the South Sea in King Ferdinand’s name?”
“We have been watching you, Don Vasco. And we heard you plan with Garabito to conquer new lands and hold them against our King!”
That last was false; but outnumbered and only half armed, Balboa could only surrender. He and Garabito and Arguello were marched to the guardhouse.
“I have enough witnesses to your treason,” mocked Pedrarias, as the massive wooden gates slammed shut, “to give the headsman’s axe its long, delayed dues.”
* * * *
Later, kindly Bishop Quevedo, who had become Balboa’s staunchest advocate, came to the prison in which the captives sweltered.
“My son,” he said, “make your peace with God. I have pleaded with him, but he will take your head and his spies will back him, and King Ferdinand will believe them.”
“Sanctisima madre!” growled Garabito. “That cabron!”
He was still cursing when the bishop left. But Balboa was fingering a scrap of paper that the holy man had slipped into his hand. He said, “Cheer up! Even if my soldiers have been disarmed, we’ve still got a friend.”
Maria had written, “Maybe I can help, or persuade him. But if I can’t, I’ll die loving you. Go with God.”
* * * *
That night, the watch about town was doubled, so that Balboa’s soldiers, though disarmed, would not risk a riot with stones and clubs. Finally they were herded into barracks, sullen and muttering. And the captives, though they could see but a little from the barred window of their stout jail, felt the increasing tension.
“Pedrarias feels it,” said Balboa, “so we’ll meet the axe before the boys set the town on fire and risk it empty-handed.”
“They might get Careta on the warpath,” hinted Garabito. “But he won’t help us. Not with his daughter sore at you. Damn these Indian wenches!”
All the while, Balboa was testing the walls and bars. But the prison he himself had helped build was too strong for empty-handed captives. He tried to engage the sentry in a conversation. If he could only steal a dagger from the fellow’s belt!
“Back, traitor!” growled the soldier. “None of your slick tongue.”
The night wore on. Moonrise silvered the plaza. Garabito and Arguello snored. Balboa vainly applied his broad shoulders to the bars, but he could not bend them enough for a man to slip through.
The sentry’s arms rattled as he whirled, growling a challenge. A woman answered. Balboa recognized Tula’s voice.
“What a
re you doing out this hour?” the sentry demanded.
But before he could call the guard to report the violation of police regulations, Tula was at his side, pleading. “Do not arrest me, señor! I’m Doña Isabel’s maid. She’s very ill. I came down from the villa to get her a jar of wine.”
She stood there, body swaying, jar poised on her sleek head. Her legs were gilded by the moonlight, and so was her torso, bare except for the red cloth that bound her breasts.
“Wine, eh?” he demanded, catching her arm. “Give me a swig.”
“I can’t,” she protested, “It’s for the governor’s wife.”
“How’d you like to be flogged for being on the street at this hour?” he demanded, very sternly. “How do I know who you are?”
“Señor—” And then the jar tipped from her head, crashing to the ground. “Oh, it’s broken! Now I will be beaten.”
“Shut up!” he grumbled. He was attracted by her gilded curves, and worried because of the spilled wine. She might be Doha Isabel’s maid! “Wait till I’m off duty, and I’ll get you some more from the officer’s mess.”
“Oh—will you?” With a glad cry, she came close to him.
His breastplate robbed him of the best portions of Tula’s curves, but his sleeves were not steel, and he wore no gloves. Then and there, he knew that he had a woman with ripe hips, a supple waist, and legs beautifully rounded above the knees. He set his halberd against the door jamb. Tula protested at his embrace, but he said, “Get in the doorway or someone’ll see you—no, you idiot, of course I can’t take off this armor. Not on duty!”
But Tula was grateful for the promised wine. Every moment the soldier became more and more bothered.
Balboa cursed under his breath. If Tula, who was unknown to Pedrarias’ people, had actually worked her way into his household, she might in her wrath poison Maria. He stepped toward the door, resolved to expose her and warn his enemy’s family.
“Oh…that awful armor,” she was panting. “It’s such a nuisance…”
And then, approaching the jamb, Bal-boa saw Tula and the soldier. She was ardently kissing him, but one of her hands was probing her heavy hair. It was not a comb she was fingering, but a dagger hilt. Once she got a chance to slip it through the joint between gorget and breastplate, his throat would be cut before he could cry out.
E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Page 15