E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Page 16

  Tula had come to help Balboa, and had shattered the jar to arouse him to his chance. But before she had kissed the soldier to utter recklessness, Balboa reached between the bars. He caught the staff of the halberd, drew it stealthily between the bars. Tula’s hand dropped from her hair as she caught the move.

  “Oh—don’t—please,” she moaned, suddenly trying to repulse him. “Suppose the captain—” She wriggled clear, tripped, landed in a heap in the doorway, arms and bare legs thrust up as she tried to regain her balance. The soldier was after her now, in dead earnest, kneeling beside her, reaching…

  And then the halberd, descending between the bars, smacked him a sledgehammer blow across the back of the head. Despite his helmet, the impact knocked him senseless. Tula had scarcely wormed herself clear of the amorous soldier when Balboa used the heavy weapon to pry the lock apart. And in a moment, the prisoners were in the archway.

  “I’m sorry,” cried Tula. “I was jealous—I couldn’t help it—”

  She clung to him, sobbing. He said over her shoulder, “Andres! Hernan! If I go, my men come with me. He’ll lead them to the chopping block, figuring they helped me out.”

  “Can’t do it,” growled Garabito. “We’ll be lucky to get to my boat before we’re missed.”

  “Boat?” Balboa growled. “They’d kill us in Cuba. Peru, nowhere else.”

  “He’ll hunt us down!” protested Arguello.

  “What a chance! Those milksops, tracking us through the jungle? Listen—let’s jerk. Pedrarias out of bed, and take him as a hostage. That way, he’ll have to release my men.”

  So they stole through the silent streets of Darien. Garabito protested, “A boat just came from Spain. He’s up late, with a lot of officials.”

  But Balboa pressed on. Tula, clinging to his hand, was choked by her joy. She said, “Now we’ll go to Peru. Or to Dobaybe, the land of the Golden Goddess. Won’t we?”

  * * * *

  Once at Pedrarias’ house, Balboa made his companions wait until he reconnoitered. He wore the sentry’s sword, leaving Garabito and Arguello with the fellow’s armor, halberd, and dagger. He scaled the palisade, crept across the garden, and toward the light that gleamed from a window.

  Pedrarias sat scowling at his desk. It was heaped with documents which the two messengers had given him. Gentlemen of such quality could not have come to Antigua with less than letters from King Ferdinand himself.

  “Señores caballeros,” said Pedrarias, looking up, “you are weary from your long voyage. Let me take you to your quarters, whose poverty embarrasses me. Golden Darien!”

  “It will be luxury, after our trip. And forgive us for our brusqueness. But there is a dispatch for Don Vasco Nuñes de Balboa. Coming from His Majesty’s own hand, we are not permitted any choice but to—”

  “Muy señores caballeros,” was the frigid interruption, “is not my receipt sufficient? I myself will hand His Most Catholic Majesty’s communication to Don Vasco, who like myself, is the faithful servant who kisses your hands. I regret that he is stricken by this accursed fever, and is scarcely to be disturbed.”

  The two hidalgos stroked their pointed beards. Pedrarias was King Ferdinand’s friend. The spokesman conceded, “The King’s message is in good hands.”

  Pedrarias clapped his hands. Two officers emerged from an ante room. They were followed by four soldiers. He said, “Modena, be good enough to show these gentlemen to their quarters, and let Bernal and Sotomayor attend them as orderlies.” Then, as the messengers were ushered from the room, Pedrarias said to the remaining officer, “Don Ignacio, dismiss the guard and be seated. There is much to consider, late as it is.”

  He broke the seals on a document picked from the pile. There was no chance for Balboa to enter by the barred window. He let himself to the ground, spent endless moments, crouching in the shadow of a plantain cluster as the two envoys were escorted out of the compound gate. And as the drowsy porter wrestled with the bars, Balboa slipped from cover and ascended the stairs.

  Voices, half muffled, greeted him as he went down the hall.

  “You shouldn’t have opened it,” protested Don Ignacio. “Por dios, now it is too late. You have read the king’s command.”

  “Nevertheless, I will have his head, that rebellious dog!”

  From the doorway, Balboa saw Pedrarias holding a crumpled sheet to the candle flame. He bounded forward, sword drawn.

  “Stop, in the King’s name!” he shouted.

  Before he had half crossed the spacious room, Pedrarias and Don Ignacio were on their feet; and the two soldiers came clanking out. Behind him, he heard the porter’s padding feet. But Balboa was reckless with wrath. His blade licked out, biting into Ignacio’s shoulder. His parry blocked Pedrarias’ cut to the head.

  “The king’s letter! It is mine, sentence or no sentence of yours!”

  “Seize him!” yelled Pedrarias. “The guard!”

  Balboa ducked a halberd stroke, slashed a soldier’s arm instead of wasting a thrust on a steel corselet. A glancing blow numbed his shoulder. Garabito and Arguello were hammering at the gate, smashing it in. But Ignacio, shifted his blade to his uninjured left. A servant hurled an earthen jar, catching Balboa between the shoulders.

  And then a majestic voice rang over the confusion. White haired Bishop Quevedo commanded, “Put up your swords! Give him his letter, Don Pedro!”

  At the bishop’s heels was Doña Maria. Her feet were bare, and she had only a robe over her frail gown whose lace paneling gave glimpses of white breasts and slim waist, and the ivory sleekness of her legs, all splendid in the candle glow. She was breathing heavily; Balboa knew that she had overheard, and run barefooted to get the bishop.

  Pedrarias cursed. These were witnesses he dared not harm. Soldiers and servants drew back. Balboa seized the document, and said to the bishop, “Be pleased to read it, Your Grace.”

  He read the sonorous Latin, then said in Spanish, “Don Vasco, His Most Catholic Majesty has received your treasure shipment. He appoints you Adalanto of the South Seas, and Governor of Coyba and Panama, second only to Don Pedro Arias de Avila.”

  Pedrarias’ eyes blazed with insane jealousy. Though he was in name the supreme ruler of Darien, Balboa had been assigned the richest provinces. Then he forced a smile and said, “Don Vasco, perhaps I have been hasty. And since my daughter has gone to such lengths in your favor, I will ask the bishop to solemnize your betrothal at once.”

  Crafty Pedrarias, making the greatest captain of the New World his son-in-law, would have a strangle hold on all Balboa’s rich loot. Since he could not ruin his enemy, he would imprison him in silken bonds.

  “Let Garabito and Arguello be my witnesses,” said Balboa.

  But Tula was gone. She must have heard enough to know that she could not be a queen in Peru.

  There were no outward evidences of love exchanged by Maria and Balboa, but their eyes spoke to each other, and just before they signed the formal papers—the betrothal was almost as solemn as the marriage that would follow—he whispered, “Tomorrow I march for Peru. To win you a gown of pearls.”

  Her lashes dropped, and he saw the flush that spread to her breasts. The momentary pressure of her hand was a promise that could not be fulfilled until they were married. A lady of high birth is too closely guarded…

  * * * *

  The next day Balboa and his company of old soldiers set out across the Isthmus. Behind them trailed hundreds of porters, sweating and bent double by the weight of fittings and cannon they carried toward the South Sea, where ships were to be built.

  But Balboa’s high heart froze, that night, at the first camp. Grim old Careta came stalking into his camp; and with him was his daughter, Tula, splendid in the firelight that made her luxurious body a golden amber. Her dark eyes blazed, but she said nothing.

  Garabito, listening to the parley, was likewise s
ilent; but his eyes caressed Tula’s half bare flesh, and in his mind, he stripped from her hips the frail scarlet scarf.

  “Don Vasco,” said the old chieftain, “Tula is yours. You cannot desert her, since no man of her own rank would now want her.”

  Balboa remembered the glamorous times with Tula, who had brought him her father’s friendship. But while Doña Maria could forgive him an affair with an Indian girl, for him openly to keep Tula would be a mortal affront to Pedrarias’ family pride.

  Careta went on, “Take my daughter, Don Vasco, or while you are on the way to Peru, I will blot out Antigua. You I could never beat in battle or ambush, but these men who smell like women, they cannot defend the town, nor the life of Doña Maria. And to see that my daughter is well treated, I am leaving some picked men, to serve you and protect her from insults.”

  He turned and stalked into the jungle. Not a weapon was raised. The night was alive with armed Indians, and Balboa’s caravan was not in shape for immediate defense.

  Then Tula followed him to his tent. She knelt beside him in the half glow of embers, and the warmth of her luxurious body revived ancient memories.

  “Maybe,” she murmured, as his kiss drew her life to her lips, “we’ll lose ourselves in the lands of the Golden Goddess, after all?”

  He drew her toward him, caressing her so that she sighed, and shuddered in his arms…

  * * * *

  They hewed timber, fashioned a ship, and set sail for Isla Rica, some miles off the Isthmus. And while the other three caravels were being built, Balboa, a few picked men, and some Indian divers probed the water for pearls.

  The hearty, affable captain became sombre. He went back and forth between the island and the main land to inspect his shipyard and camp. Day and night he drove his men. His only escape was to Peru, to win an empire. Otherwise he would lose Maria, for the loot he was sending back to Antigua was already a prodigious prize for avaricious Pedrarias. The betrothal could be annulled.

  He sat by the fire, having decided against returning to the island that night. To Arguello, in charge of the ship building, he said, “Hernan, I feel the hand of destiny. See that star? It is marching to the position foretold by the Venetian astrologer who predicted that one day I would waver between death and an empire.”

  “Empire, Vasco! Buck up, man!” chided Arguello. “You’re tired.”

  “Dog tired, amigo.” Weariness was making him morbid, suspicious. “Suppose those Indians on the island took a notion to butcher Garabito, and sneak away while I’m gone. He trusts them too far. A disaster could discredit me, and give Pedrarias a pretext.”

  Balboa aroused his sleeping Indians; they were two of Careta’s men. He said, “Push off, you fellows! I feel trouble.”

  They arrived worn out and breathless. Wind howled, lashing the waves to foam. Spray pelted them as they staggered to the camp.

  Balboa’s heart choked him as he entered his thatched hut. Tula was stretched out beside the hearth. Andres Garabito was bending over her, letting her draw him to her upturned mouth.

  “My father,” she sighed, “may give me to that faithless hound, but he can’t give my love—”

  “Cabron!” Shouted Balboa, drawing his sword. “You, Andres, doing this behind my back! Tula, you accursed puta!”

  She rippled to her feet, unbound hair trailing so that it half hid her proud breasts. “Andres,” she mocked, “is not marrying the governor’s daughter. Though she’s probably doing the same, for all you know—”

  Balboa flung aside his sword, snatched a whip, slashed it across Garabito and the woman whom his arms could not protect. Before Garabito knew what was happening, he was blinded with blood, and Tula’s back seamed with livid welts. Balboa cursed them, flayed them. Then he flung his whip aside, and as Garabito blindly snatched the sword that its owner scorned to use, Balboa hurled himself, empty-handed, knocked him end for end, crashing headlong against a pillar of the house.

  That quenched Balboa’s fury; soldiers and Indians came bursting in. Among them was the chief of those that Careta had sent with his daughter. Balboa said, “Take her back to her father.”

  The Indians, knowing what Balboa had found on his unexpected return, had no answer. Tula had violated the code of her own people. He turned to the soldiers and added, “And take Garabito back’ to Antigua!”

  * * * *

  The next day, Balboa watched a pirogue take his faithless friend and Tula to the mainland. Arguello would arrange for an escort, and on his return would bring added supplies for the cruise to Peru. And only then did Balboa realize that since Tula’s own father would repudiate her, Antigua del Darien was in no further peril. He began to regret his treatment of his friend. Garabito might have been tempted beyond endurance. At all events, there was no longer any woman between him and Maria…

  Days passed. Balboa buried his premonitions. He reasoned that the crisis had passed; for had he not exposed Tula and the infatuated Garabito, they might have slain him so that he would not uncover their secret love.

  At last Arguello returned, meeting his chief at the camp on the mainland. He had a letter from Pedrarias, and one from Don Maria.

  “Father has listened to my pleas,” she wrote. “Return and marry me before you go to Peru. So that I can go with you when you discover new lands.”

  Pedrarias’ letter confirmed Maria’s: “My dear son, we parted without full understanding. Come back and receive my full blessing. But go by way of Acla, where there are certain matters in which your experience could benefit me.”

  Balboa said to Arguello, “I knew there was some catch in his friendliness. Indians muttering in Acla, eh? Oh, well—for once, trouble is welcome.”

  “I don’t like this,” Arguello somberly muttered. “Pedrarias never forgave a man in his life. I beg of you, amigo—set sail for Peru.”

  “Doha Maria couldn’t be wrong,” declared Balboa, face agleam. “Her intuition would warn her. And I’m Adelanto of the South Sea.”

  The end of it was that he followed Balboa and a few picked men into the jungle, and across the Isthmus to Acla.

  * * * *

  The guard was paraded in his honor when, at last, they dragged weary legs past the gates of Acla. Pedrarias was there, with his staff of officers. Trumpets brayed, drums rolled. A squad of musketeers fired a salute; but the martial din had scarcely reached its height when a bedraggled woman came screaming into the plaza. It was Tula, hair streaming, her scarlet skirt a tattered, blood-caked scrap. Her body was a crisscross of red welts, and she shrieked, “Vasco—beware—you are doomed—they tricked me—into signing—”

  “I told you!” roared Arguello. “Back to the gate!”

  A soldier struck the screaming girl against the palisade. Balboa was stunned by the sudden blossoming of treachery. His sword was out, and he shouted, “Santiago!” as he parried an axe. Yet he could scarcely believe his ears when he heard Pedrarias croak above the hoarse tumult, “Seize the traitor!”

  Valderrabano was down, stunned by a halberd stroke. Arguello yielded his gains to come back to his chief’s side. Munos and Botello, back to back, drew sparks from the clash of their steel, and Balboa laid about him, hewing and crushing the men who closed in with pikes and cutlasses.

  But the city gates were closed. Horsemen with couched lances forced the foot soldiers to their doom at the swords of Balboa’s handful. But a rock hurled from a housetop struck him to the ground, unconscious.

  * * * *

  It was not until he regained his senses that Balboa learned that his four friends had survived the overwhelming attack. He knew now why there had been a rendezvous at Acla; had this treachery come in Antigua, the town would have revolted.

  Later, a guard and officers accompanied Pedrarias to the door of the cell. There were notaries and lawyers with him.

  “I have finally learned,” said Pedrarias, “how you
and that Indian wench mocked my daughter, how you planned to desert to Peru, so that you could make her your queen.”

  “Who says that?” demanded Balboa, rising from attending his wounded comrades.

  “I, Andres Garabito!” His former friend stepped forward, gestured toward the sealed documents that Pedrarias had in his hand. “I overheard you and her, planning against King Ferdinand’s territories in the New World, so I tricked her into returning and confessing.”

  No one, not even Pedrarias, could believe that story, but Garabito had sworn to it. It would sound plausible in the court records. And how could King Ferdinand know otherwise, back in Spain?

  “It’s a lie!” groaned Arguello, sitting up. “Wounded as I am, I will meet any three of you—on horse or on foot, and prove that you lie!”

  “You cannot testify,” sneered Pedrarias. “Being yourself under charges of treason, along with Munos and Botello and Valderrabano. A priest will be in to see you. Either before you are tried, or after. It will make no difference.”

  * * * *

  And during the trial of Balboa and his companions, Tula and Garabito were in a second floor room overlooking the plaza, where a scaffold had been built. Their presence was not necessary. Their depositions had been taken, and Pedrarias would run on risk of having them change their testimony when they faced the prisoners.

  Garabito’s hand trembled as he reached for a flagon of wine. Tula was rubbing from her body the healing herbs she had applied to her bruises. Her skin gleamed a golden brown, and in that shadowy room, the welts; left by the flogging and the preliminary torture that had won her false confession were scarcely visible.

  “Andres,” she suddenly began, “Save him. Good God, I never knew it would come to this! I just thought he’d be in disfavor—”

  “And go back to you again?” growled Garabito.