HELL IN DARIEN

Originally appeared in Spicy-Adventure Stories, Nov. 1937.

The girl who lay in the hennequen hammock was a king’s daughter, and her lover was the self-appointed governor of Antigua del Darien—Vasco Nunez de Balboa, who had just discovered the South Sea.

A scarlet skirt clung close to generous hips, and outlined her shapely legs, and her full breasts were bound with calico that was an adornment rather than concealment. She was exquisitely formed, yet there was enough of her to fill the arms of a man as large as Balboa, who called her Tula, since her Indian name was entirely too much for any Spanish tongue.

A ruddy mustache fringed his broad, reckless mouth; and that the man was as bold as his face was proved by the red plumed helmet, which hung near his steel corselet. Both were dented by Carib war clubs, and nicked with arrows. But for the moment, pearls filled his hands instead of a Toledo blade.

They gleamed splendidly against Tula’s olive skin when he looped the strands about her throat. But pearls were nothing to an Indian girl. She liked them because he did, and as he bent over her, she drew him close, fervently pressing her mouth against his.

“But you were saving them for your king, querido,” she murmured.

“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 are 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.

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 silent; 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.

“No,” she cried, sinking beside him. “I don’t love him. Not that way. But he was good to me and my people. I’ll go to court—I’ll tell the judges—”

He jerked back to the couch. “They’ll kill you. Pedrarias has the court in his pocket.”

She clung to him, sobbing, but the luxurious form that had turned him against his friend did not for the moment move Garabito. He snarled, “He struck me with a whip—I could have forgiven him if he had killed me with a sword.”

Then, looking out the window, he saw the black scaffold, and his head sank between his hands. Tula’s heavy eyes brightened. She stroked his hair, whispered in his ear of the old friendship and perils he had shared with Balboa. And as he wavered, her voice became throaty and caressing as her soft hands.

The sun was dropping toward the jungle that fringed the town. Tula plied him with kisses, with all the allure that not even bruises had robbed of its splendor. She turned her remorse into compelling passion as she pleaded, “Andres, for the sake of my love, save him. Tonight, we can overpower the jailor. I don’t care for him as I do you. I can’t. But he is a born captain, and he had to marry her to win more fame. So I forgive him. Good God, Andres. So can you. You’re not afraid—”

He fiercely embraced her, stroked back the streaming hair that half veiled her thinly clad body, read the glow in her dark eyes. He was sure at last that Tula had sought him for his own sake.

“Love me, Andres,” she pleaded. “Never stop loving me. I’m an outcast. My father has disowned me. Your people will spit at you for betraying Balboa. Save him—tonight—or he dies at sunrise. Your honor dies with him—and I die—being guilty with you. But my father loves Balboa, and for his sake, he would receive us. You and me, Andres—my people are your only hope. Balboa’s friends will find you, surely slay you. Save him, or you die. And I perish alone in the jungle—cursed by my father—”

“Dios!” he groaned, fingers sinking into her arms till she winced. He crushed her to him, and remorse more than desire fused them together for a while. “Holy saints! You have tricked me out of my vengeance. Tonight I’ll get him loose!”

“We two, Andres!” She made a sound neither a laugh nor a sob. Then she clung to him, and their wrenched emotions blended in tears and inarticulate cries. And with fear and vengeance driven from that shadowy room, Tula and Garabito found each other anew; their kisses mocked the scaffold. For the first time, there, was no shadow between them as they found each other’s arms…

But as the sun dipped toward the jungle’s crest, the blare of trumpets and the solemn roll of drums shook the room. A priest was chanting in sonorous Latin, cadenced to the metallic tread of marching soldiers.

Five men, bare headed and manacled, ascended the scaffold. Balboa, chin high and nose jutting like a crag, stalked boldly ahead, and his four friends in file behind him; solemn but unafraid, since they had often faced death when he was not saluted by the rumble of drums and the heart wrenching cry of trumpets.

A masked man tried the edge of his axe. Halberds gleamed from the ground; musketeers stood by with matches smoking. Pedrarias was in the center of a picked company; even in Acla, he feared revolt.

“Sanctisima madre!” groaned Garabito. He was unarmed, except for his dagger—caught off guard by Pedrarias’ haste to behead his victims. Tula’s sigh seemed to deflate her frozen breasts and draw her color until her lips were leaden.

She sagged, and he did not catch her. She lay there, sprawled in her hair and the little scarlet skirt from which her lovely legs grotesquely reached.

The headsman was kneeling, begging the personal pardon of his victims. Balboa’s deep voice did not tremble as he absolved the masked man. Long red shafts lanced through the jungle, and shadows marched across the square.

“Let me go first, Don Vasco,” said stout Arguello.

“Your captain leads,” retorted the man who had claimed the South Sea for Spain. “Vayan con dios, compañeros!”

The roll of drums drowned the prayer that the descending axe cut short. A frozen silence in thickening light. Another trumpet blast, and that awful rumble…another—

Then Garabito saw what lay at his feet. For this sprawled flesh he had sold his friend. Yet he was sick, and she was all that he had. He knelt beside her, mumbling what prayers he remembered.

And he died with a prayer on his lips. Tula, rousing herself, snatched his dagger and thrust it home.

She laughed shrilly, and as the axe for the fifth time fell, men in the square wondered whose mirth could profane that moment when the captains licked their lips and groped for the next command.

Then feet tramped, trumpets blared, and no one heard the cries of the king’s daughter whose bare body gleamed as a last sun ray kissed it. With red laughter and red dagger, she was running to the jungle that hates all lonely creatures, and destroys them.

* * * *

But before the sun rose, Tula knew that it was only her sensuous beauty, and the safety of Antigua del Darien that kept her in his tent.

They reached the South Sea whose waters kissed the coasts of the Indies.