Through seven dragging months Pizarro and his dauntless little band had
watched and waited for a sail on the northern horizon. Seven months
that passed as seven years, and never were brave men put to harder
test. In spite of every effort of their leader to fan the flames of
faith in God, their hearts at times grew cold with the sickening sense
of failure. Could they meet their foes in battle, it had been easy to
fight and win or die; but this loneliness of a living death, this fight
with invisible foes in far-off Panama was more than human flesh and
blood could bear.
Two of his men lay nigh unto death. The captain tended their ills with
care. He saved for them the choicest food. He cheered their drooping
spirits with stories of his battles, for he knew the signs--their weary
souls were sick with waiting.
Seated by their side Pizarro heard the shout of his men on the beach.
There was no mistaking that shout. It rang in accents of a joy that was
almost delirious.
He leaped to his feet.
“Ships! Ships! Lift up your heads, my comrades, and _live_!”
The two sinking soldiers smiled for the first time in dreary weeks,
and their captain knew that they would live. They were too feeble to
be lifted aboard the little ship and Pizarro left them in charge of
friendly Indians from Gallo who had shared his lot on the island. He
promised to call for them on his return. They smiled again bravely at
the parting:
“Go with God!”
“Go with God!”
When the others had been safely led aboard, Pizarro eagerly asked for
the rest of their fleet.
“’Twas all the governor would allow us,” Molina answered.
“It passes belief!” the leader groaned.
“Yet ’tis true,” Ruiz sighed.
“And what of Almagro?”
“The fiery little devil stays to fight the governor for another ship
and more men. Rios refused him passage,” Molina promptly answered.
Ruiz’ prophecy proved true. From the moment Pizarro felt the deck of
a ship beneath his feet and found himself in command of his dream, he
was himself again. His keen, deep eyes swept the shores of the mainland
with new hope. He had yet time to explore the country before the six
months could expire. He determined to sail southward for Tumbez, the
city of the great empire so often described by the Indians. If he could
find this rich city, his dreams would become a living fact. He could
not be longer denied his rights.
The wind blew a light breeze from the south. They made slow gain,
beating steadily against it. Still, the weather was good, they were
comfortable, and they made progress. They passed the Island of Gallo
and watched its shore line vanish on the horizon, without regrets. In
four days they passed Point Pasado, the limit of former voyages, and
Ruiz gayly swung the prow of his little ship into the unknown seas
never before plowed by the keel of a European vessel.
The shore line became less steep and rugged. The grounds sloped gently
toward the water and spread out into vast plains of sand with streams
of water showing patches of rare richness and beauty. Cottages dotted
the shores and the smoke of villages could be seen on the hills.
After twenty days the adventurers rounded the point of St. Helena and
swept into the beautiful waters of the Gulf of Guayaquil. The shores
were studded with villages, and a narrow strip of green bordered the
sea and stretched back to the foot of the giant mountain range whose
peaks were lost among the stars. They gazed in awe at the mighty dome
of Chimborazo and far beyond saw Cotopox belching clouds of smoke and
lava through a sea of snow-clad mountains.
Following the direction of their Indian guides they came to anchor near
the island of Santa Clara at the entrance of the bay of Tumbez. Early
next morning they stood across the bay toward the city whose houses
could now be seen.
Halfway across, Pizarro encountered a fleet of _balsas_ carrying
warriors to subdue a rebellious island. He invited the chiefs to come
on board his ship. The Peruvians were amazed at the sight of their own
people with the strangers. The Indians with Pizarro explained their
presence. They had joined the Spaniards on a former voyage and were
enthusiastic in praise of the white men as a marvelous race of beings.
Pizarro persuaded the chiefs to return to Tumbez, report their arrival
and provision the vessel with stores. He also expressed his desire to
enter into friendly relations with the people.
The natives crowded the shores and listened with eagerness to the
story told by the chiefs. They gazed in wonder and awe on the strange
floating house in the bay, and marveled at the white wings folded so
snugly on its back.
But the governor of the district heard the news with grave misgivings.
Evidently the strangers _were_ of a race of superior beings, if
not indeed gods. He hastened to greet them with the most friendly
hospitality. _Balsas_ were loaded with bananas, plantains, yucca,
corn, sweet potatoes, pineapples, cocoanuts and other rich products. He
also sent game and fish, and, what was most marvelous of all, a number
of live llamas of which Pizarro had seen rude drawings while serving
under Balboa.
Every man on board the ship crowded about the curious animals, which
reminded them of diminutive camels. They felt the thick coating of wool
and hair which accounted for the specimens of woolen cloth which they
had seen on a former voyage.
With the _balsas_ the governor sent as his ambassador and
spokesman a Peruvian nobleman wearing huge ornaments of gold attached
to his ears. The rich costume and the deference paid him by his
attendants at once marked his high rank.
Pizarro received him with every mark of honor, showed him the ship, its
equipment, its guns, sails, stores and crew. The Peruvian, through the
native interpreter, asked some questions. Studying Pizarro keenly he
inquired:
“From where have you come and why to our shores?”
The Spaniard bowed.
“As vassal of a great prince, the greatest and most powerful in the
world, I am come to assert his supremacy, and teach your people the
religion of Jesus Christ the only true God.”
The prince listened with respectful attention but made no answer. That
any other ruler could be greater than his was, of course, absurd. It
would be a waste of time to argue such a point. But if the Spaniards
had any god greater than their own, he held himself a philosopher ready
to be shown the light.
He accepted Pizarro’s invitation to dine and enjoyed the meal. He
praised the Spanish wine and invited Pizarro to visit Tumbez.
The captain presented him with an iron hatchet which he had greatly
admired. The use of iron was unknown to the natives.
Pizarro returned the courtesy of the official call by dispatching
ashore Alonso de Molina with one of the native interpreters and a coal
black negro servant who had been brought from Panama--one of the first
fruits of the Las Casas traffic in slaves from Africa.
The negro, whose name was Congo, carried a present of pigs and
chickens, animals as yet unknown in the country.
Molina was immediately surrounded on landing by a mob of curious
people. The young women admired his long beard, and he received
proposals of marriage on the spot.
They were amazed at the color of Congo. They utterly refused to believe
it was his own, and tried to rub it off with their hands.
While they were still chatting and laughing over his black skin, the
young rooster which he carried, suddenly crowed. The sound was received
by shrieks, followed by a hundred curious questions. And then the crowd
suddenly fell back in awe before an exquisite girl arrayed in spotless
white who passed close to Molina. Murmurs of deep excitement swept the
throng.
“A virgin of the Sun!”
“She will surely die for it!”
“A thousand pities!”
“And ’tis Yma, first of all the dancers of the temple at Quito!”
The girl, her fine eyes sparkling with wonder and anticipation, pressed
closer. She looked admiringly at Molina. Then she took the rooster from
Congo’s hand, stroked his neck and looked at a native interpreter.
“Ask the beautiful white stranger what this queer fowl has said.”
The interpreter repeated the question to Molina. The cavalier studied
the vision of beauty for a moment, disturbed by the deep tenderness of
her gaze, smiled and answered:
“He says that you are very beautiful.”
The interpreter translated. The girl smiled--a ravishing smile. But a
guard carrying a spear seized her arm and led her away.
Not, however, until her appealing eyes had flashed their message; and
once more had distressed and thrilled Molina. There was something
delightfully disturbing in the way she had searched his face--a sort
of joyous worship that made him feel that he had forgotten Teresa in
permitting it. But certainly he could not have forbidden it. He was
possessed with a curious presentiment that he would see her again,
that there was danger in their meeting--but also he trembled with
anticipation. For Yma _was_ beautiful.
He turned quickly to the interpreter, who had witnessed the scene in a
sort of fascinated terror, and asked:
“Who is she?”
“First of all the dancers at the Temple of the Sun at Quito.”
The cavalier threw a startled look at the white retreating figure. She
stopped, lifted her hand and waved to him her farewell.
Molina was escorted to the palace of the _curaca_ and found him
living in state. Sentinels guarded the door and his reception room was
decorated with huge vases of pure gold, while the latches and door
trimmings were of solid silver. He inspected the fortress of stones and
was shown their cathedral building, a stone-walled Temple of the Sun.
From a parapet of its wall he caught again the flutter of that white
arm and recognized the girl who had dared the weight of tradition to
speak to him. She was near, and once more the thought disturbed him
delightfully.
He was taken inside the building and was fairly blinded by its
decorations, blazing with gold and silver. The sun’s rays fell on them
in a way that seemed to double their light. But nowhere did he see Yma.
When Pizarro received the report of his messenger, it seemed so wild he
could not fully credit the story.
“Sir Knight,” he said gravely, “I fear the tales of chivalry in which
you once reveled have touched your mind.”
He must select a more sober observer. He accordingly commissioned Pedro
de Candia to confirm or deny the weird tale.
De Candia was sent ashore dressed in full armor, with sword at his side
and arquebus on his shoulder. The natives were further astounded at
his armor on which the sun’s rays gleamed with weird effects. They had
heard from their chiefs of his wonderful gun. They begged him to let it
speak to them.
The soldier set up a wooden board for a mark, took aim and fired the
musket. The explosion shivered the board and struck terror into all
who stood near. The people fled in wild confusion, and many of those
nearest the scene fell on their faces. A few drew near to Candia and
gazed on him with the awe and reverence of worshipers.
The soldier laughed at their fears, and they showered him with
hospitalities. They conducted him through the outer fortress surrounded
by triple walls of heavy stone. They led him into the inner shrine of
the Temple of the Sun. He saw its walls literally plated with gold
and silver. The heavy vessels used by the priest were all in solid,
massive gold. To the stunned vision of the soldier they last of all
revealed the artificial garden of the Sun God adjoining the Temple. Its
shrubbery, fruits, and flowers were all wrought in pure gold and silver.
Candia’s report more than confirmed Molina’s. It threw the adventurers
into a state of mad excitement. They gathered about their leader with
flushed faces.
Pizarro spoke in the awed tones of a religious enthusiast.
“Friends and comrades: Our eyes have now seen the glory of which we
have dreamed. Others can no longer call us madmen. Thousands will flock
to our banners. We dare not lift a hand in conquest of this great
Kingdom to-day, but God has crowned our sufferings and trials with
success. The natives have received us as demigods and heaven points
the way to our sure triumph. We will return with a mighty fleet and
army.”
A shout rent the air. The Peruvians in their _balsas_ swarming
about the ship mistook the cries for a farewell cheer. They lifted
their hands and called a joyous answer. Little could their simple minds
know the real meaning of the yell from the little ship’s deck.
Pizarro drew Molina aside.
“Señor Alonso de Molina,” he began in grave tones, “you shall be our
first ambassador to the court of Peru.”
The young cavalier flushed and bowed.
“I send you with this full rank. You know, of course, that our army is
not yet recruited to make good your credentials. You must go to the
court of their monarch as a scout and spy. Your life will be in your
own hands and God’s.”
“I understand,” was the firm response.
“Before my return I shall expect you to explore the Kingdom, find the
number of its people, the power and resources of its ruler and the
strength of its army. I wish a map of the roads and the location of its
forts. Report to me on the arrival of our fleet.”
The cavalier’s figure stiffened.
“I’ll do my best--”
In a few minutes, he stood beside the rail with a native interpreter
and Congo, his servant, ready to depart on his important and dangerous
mission. There was no need to launch a boat to set him ashore. A fleet
of _balsas_ again surrounded the ship bringing, with best wishes
from the governor, a fresh supply of food for their voyage. Pizarro
delivered his final message to the people.
He joyously promised them a speedy return!