Francisco Pizarro again found himself riding at anchor in the harbor of
Panama. The people had long since given him up as lost, sure that their
worst fears had been realized. They believed he had perished at sea in
the cockle-shell they called a ship, had died of starvation or had been
killed by savage natives.
But he had returned, and with the stride and airs of a conqueror. He
bore live specimens of the Peruvian sheep and beasts of burden called
llamas. He displayed pieces of finely woven woolen cloth, some of it of
rarely beautiful colors. He had gold and silver vessels of exquisite
workmanship and he told a story of the splendors of Tumbez that
thrilled his hearers. Pedro de Candia was the eyewitness who confirmed
his tale.
The alcalde mayor gave a banquet to Pizarro and his associates--Luque,
Almagro, and Candia.
The only frown at the banquet table was on Teresa’s face. She heard
their stories with suppressed excitement and increasing pain. She broke
her silence at last in bitter reproaches to Pizarro.
“And you, my brave Captain, whose praises I have sung and whose battles
I have fought in Panama, repay me by leaving my lover alone to perish
among savages. I cannot forgive you!”
A moment’s dead silence followed the tearful outbreak. Pizarro rose,
crossed to her chair, and gently laid his big hand on the mass of dark
brown hair.
“Have no fear, my Teresa. You sent me a brave knight. No braver, no
fairer, no wiser has come out of Spain. I sent him on a dangerous and
important mission because he was the only man of our company fitted for
the delicate task. He has personality. He has tact. He is handsome,
courtly, gracious, skillful. And he makes friends.”
“Always among the women!”
The whole company roared with laughter in which Pizarro joined.
“I’ll stake my life, dear lady, on his undying loyalty to you. His last
words to me were a message of love.”
In spite of his assurance, it was plain to see she had been little
comforted.
“And when do you return?” she asked in a sad small voice.
“When it shall please God to give us ships and men for our great
undertaking.”
“And we’ll get them now, never fear!” little Almagro exploded.
But Teresa listened and watched with grave misgivings. She knew that
her brother had been disturbed deeply by rumors from the governor’s
house.
Father Luque arranged the hearing at noon two days later. Rios had
refused curtly to appoint an earlier date.
Pizarro told the story of his sufferings during the eighteen months
he and his band had waited and of their triumphant landing at Tumbez,
and asked the governor for a license to build a fleet and recruit an
adequate expedition for the conquest.
“And from whom do you expect the money necessary for such an
undertaking?” Rios asked brusquely.
Espinosa, the alcalde mayor, lifted his brows.
“I will be responsible, Your Excellency, for the funds needed.”
“And whence will you draw recruits for your army of conquest?” the
governor asked in a tone so hostile, Pizarro held his answer for a
moment until his passion subsided. Almagro squirmed in a frantic desire
to shout his resentment.
“Five thousand men will answer my call in Darien, Panama, and
Nicaragua,” Pizarro answered quietly.
“So, you have the effrontery,” the governor growled, “to ask that I
place this great army of men and a fleet of ships at your command while
I remain in Panama with a few ragamuffins to sustain my authority?
I will do nothing of the sort! I will not build a rival state at
the expense of my own. To what mad heights will your ambition soar,
Francisco Pizarro? Your demands are even a greater madness than the
silly dreams you have told for the past five years on which you have
squandered hundreds of lives. I will permit the sacrifice of no more
men for your cheap display of a few gold and silver toys and Indian
sheep!”
The thing behind the governor’s frown was out at last. He was jealous
of Pizarro, and no argument could move him from his hostile decision.
Father Luque rose to add his voice to the plea of his associates, but
Pizarro seized him and scowled.
“Not another word. We will not grovel before such petty jealousy.”
They left the governor immediately.
At the council which followed Almagro angrily proposed to build their
ships and sail without the governor’s approval or aid.
But Espinosa shook his head.
“We dare not move without a charter from the government, gentlemen.”
“Has a free man no longer the right to breathe without a license?” the
fiery little adventurer scolded.
“He has not!” the chief justice promptly answered. “More and more our
governments are regulating every detail of life. The concentration
of power in the hands of ruling kings has brought us to this state.
This man’s word, conceived in the meanest spirit of jealousy and low
ambition, is still the law in Panama. We must face the facts.”
“And let the toil, sacrifice, and faith of years go for naught?”
Almagro flared. “Shall we stand idle while others leap in and seize
our prize? _Por las entrañas de Dios_, I’ll strangle the upstart
first!”
Father Luque lifted his hand in disapproval, both of the blasphemy and
the threat of murder.
“There’s a way, gentlemen, and we must take it.”
He spoke with the conviction of a man who had carefully weighed
his plan. His associates drew close and waited in silence until he
continued.
“Our remedy will mean delay. But I have the firm faith that in it we
will find a sure triumph. We are soldiers of Spain. We are working
for the Crown. We are extending the boundaries of the Empire of our
Sovereign, Charles V. Our glory will be his; our success his. He is
more interested than any man on earth. We’ll take our cause to the
Emperor and ask of him a royal charter.”
Almagro leaped to his feet and shouted:
“And make the pig in his Panama sty eat dirt.”
The approval was unanimous. It was the one move which Rios would least
suspect and in his stubborn pride was sure to ignore as another dream
of fools.
The plan was discussed in detail. The man on whom the choice of
ambassador to the Court of Charles fell at once--Father Luque--could
not leave his duties at Panama. Espinosa had been chief justice under
Pedrarias and his many enemies at the court rendered his selection
unwise.
Pizarro and Almagro were not only unlettered soldiers, but it was known
of all men that both were born out of wedlock and had lived the lives
of nameless waifs in Spain. Pizarro had been abandoned in Truxillo by
the humble peasant girl who gave him birth.
While a tiny boy he had earned a scant living by tending pigs; had
slept with them and had saved himself from starvation more than once by
nursing their friendly mother. He had never been to court even as a
kitchen scullion; he had never looked on royalty.
Almagro was small of stature, ugly in features, and much disfigured
by the loss of his eye. Besides, his quick temper and easily roused
passions made his selection a thing beyond discussion.
Father Luque suggested that they appoint the Licentiate Corroll, a
reputable lawyer about to return to Spain on public business.
Almagro flung himself from his chair with a snort of disapproval.
“God’s wounds, no!” he shouted. “He’ll forget us in his own business.
One of us must go. One whose heart and soul is in the work. I’ve
quarreled with Francisco Pizarro as I shall again. But I like his ways.
No court can frighten him. I’ve seen him in close quarters. No man can
tell the king the story of our adventures as well as he who led us. To
hell with his lack of learning and his sad birth! He’s a man for all
that, a strong man, and a leader. I ask Francisco Pizarro to go for us
to the court of the Emperor!”
The one eye flashed its light into his comrade’s face and waited for
the answer. But Pizarro was loath to accept the grave responsibility.
“Frankly, my friends,” he concluded his objections, “I’d rather lead a
dozen expeditions into the wilderness against wild beasts and savages,
but--” He paused and drew his fine figure erect--“if you think that I
am the man to entrust with this mission, I will go.”
Father Luque was doubtful, yet no better choice seemed possible and
he acquiesced. He placed a hand on the shoulder of Pizarro, another on
Almagro’s shaggy head and earnestly prayed:
“God grant, my children, that one of you may never defraud the other of
his blessing!”
Pizarro solemnly promised to consult the interests of his partners
equally with his own.
It was not until early in the spring that he sailed--the spring of
1528. He took with him Pedro de Candia as a living witness, two natives
of Peru to train as interpreters, three live llamas, and specimens of
fine cloth, and vases of gold and silver.
He arrived early in the summer at Seville, the port from which he had
sailed for the New World more than twenty years before, an obscure
common soldier.
The people heard him with deep interest and excitement. The news of his
arrival and mission to the court spread over the city with remarkable
swiftness. His dreams were coming true.
On the day he was packing for the journey to the court a loud knock
on his door accompanied by the terror-stricken voice of the landlord
announced the arrival of a servant of the king. Pizarro smiled at what
he thought was the quick response of an eager Crown and opened the door
with pride.
He was dumfounded to discover that the servant of the king was a common
bailiff charged with his arrest on a warrant sworn out by a certain
lawyer, Encisco, who had come to grief at Darien during Pizarro’s
first expedition with Ojeda. Encisco accused the bold adventurer of
ruining him by having Balboa ship him back to Spain. Pizarro saw the
fine hand of Rios in this warrant.
Instead of an audience with His Majesty, Charles V, the ambassador
found himself that night talking from the inside of an iron cage to the
turnkey of a jail. He promptly sent Pedro de Candia with a message to
the Emperor.
The moment Charles heard, he dispatched a courier with orders for
Pizarro’s release and an invitation to present himself immediately.
From the depths of despair the prisoner was lifted to the heights. Of
the royal courier the soldier of fortune asked eagerly news of the
sovereign, his character, and of his achievements and triumphs. Buried
in the depths of the Isthmus of Panama and the trackless seas that
wash its shores, he had heard little of Europe. To him the Emperor was
merely a name to be spoken with awe. Now he must appear before this
august presence with his future in his hands. On the turn of a little
finger for him rested the issues of life or death.
The courier was deeply impressed by the tall, bronzed man from the
wilderness, and described his royal master with enthusiasm as they
journeyed to Toledo.
“Know this, Señor, that His Majesty is yet a very young man. Although
his fame fills the world he is but twenty-eight years of age, a man
of unusual strength of character, born the heir of four great royal
houses. He wears the crowns of Austria, the Netherlands, Aragon and
Castile, and he’s just been called to be the ruler of Germany. At the
age of fifteen the crown of Charlemagne was placed on his head at
Aix-la-Chapelle. He owns the kingdoms of Naples and the two Sicilies
and is about to depart for one of his palaces in Italy.
“He has just defeated Francis I, King of France, and taken him
prisoner. He is too great for petty thoughts and petty grudges. Win his
favor and you may have what you wish for the asking.”
Pizarro lifted his head with elation. He thought of Rios with contempt
and threw off fear. He could talk to a great man in a language that
he could understand. He must keep his poise amid the splendors of the
Emperor’s court and say the right word.
As the cavalcade approached Toledo across the desolate stretch of
parched sands, the proud old city, set on its seven hills, loomed
suddenly in grandeur beyond the yellow waters of the Tagus. The rising
sun touched with splendor the towers of the cathedral and the ramparts
of the royal Alcazar in which Charles held his court. He had rebuilt
the old palace-fortress in a style befitting his new power. Somewhere,
beneath the pile of the cathedral, moved the archbishop of Toledo,
supreme ruler of the Church in Spain. His authority was second only to
that of the Emperor, and his hand had been felt more than once in the
affairs of the New World. A word that might offend the prelate would be
a fatal mistake.
At the Alcantara bridge Pizarro paused to await the arrival of Candia
in charge of his precious llamas, and the treasures of Peru. On the
high hill above the bridgehead loomed the great rectangular fortified
convent and beyond it the towers of the city. Throngs were passing
over the highway, across the bridge. Vast clouds of dust filled the
skies from the plains. The capital of Spain at this time boasted of a
population of two hundred thousand people.
Something in the contagious excitement of the throngs pushing, shoving,
jostling, shouting as they passed over the bridge, caught the heart of
the adventurer from the outlands. For more than twenty years he had
lived in the far wilderness. The crowded life of the city that loomed
above frightened him.
A moment of panic seized him. What if he lost his head before the
august presence of the young Emperor, whose fame had reached the limits
of the earth? The results would be tragic. It would mean the loss of
all his years of toil. It would mean the end of his hopes. Encisco and
Rios would secure his rearrest. A man in jail in Spain at his age of
fifty-five would be doomed! The records of court were vain imaginings.
Once there, prisoners languished in dungeons and died without trial,
their very existence forgotten. Luckily for him the fame of Cortez’
conquest of Mexico had stirred Spain, and the Emperor was interested in
the possibilities of Peru.
In spite of his iron will Pizarro’s panic grew at these thoughts until
a shout from Pedro de Candia reminded him that he was the leader of a
great cause. On his shoulders rested the responsibility of success or
failure. He lifted his stalwart figure and rode across the Alcantara
bridge with as high head as the royal courier who accompanied him.
They threaded the narrow, winding, gloomy streets and reached the
triangular plaza of Zocodoro without mishap. And here the ambassador
was grateful for the guidance of the courier. No stranger could have
found his way through the labyrinth of crooked streets without a guide.
Pizarro protested at stopping in the tavern beside the square. He
wished to pass straight on to the Alcazar and see His Majesty without
delay.
The courier laughed.
“It will yet be hours, Señor, before His Majesty rises. On awakening
about eight, it is his habit to eat in bed a royal meal of spiced
chicken and beer, turn over and sleep again for several hours. It
would be unwise to see him until he has had his mid-day repast, a more
leisurely and substantial feast. Woe betide the man who interrupts
a meal of Charles V. He is not only the greatest potentate of the
world--he is the greatest eater of all time.”
It was past two o’clock when Pizarro finally stood before the audience
chamber of the Emperor.
The courier gave him friendly advice.
“Show His Majesty your llamas and woolen cloth first. He is keenly
interested in developing his textiles. Then your golden vessels. He
needs gold. The _Cortes_ will grant him no money for foreign wars.
He has just beaten the King of France, but a new war looms. The Pope
will soon crown him Emperor of Italy, but he must defend his title.
The Sultan of Turkey is mobilizing another army to march on Vienna and
he must defend his crown of Austria.”
Pizarro murmured his thanks and suddenly found himself before the
Emperor and his gracious young queen, Isabella of Portugal--whom he had
married but two years before--the robed Archbishop of Toledo, and a
throng of courtiers.
He trembled for an instant, but recovered his poise in the details of
exhibiting the live llamas, at whose odd shape the court was greatly
amused. Charles felt the quality of their wool with keen interest. The
fine fabrics of cloth woven from their clip he studied carefully, and
whispered to the queen:
“There may be more in this than all the gold of the Indies.”
She nodded her approval.
The specimens of gold and silver manufacture he examined carefully,
with enthusiastic praise for their workmanship and solid weight.
“And now, Francisco Pizarro, the court will hear your plea. Speak fully
and openly.”
Pizarro approached the royal group with firm step and told his story in
the plain crisp words of a soldier, a man who had played the leading
rôle in the drama which he unfolded. He made no attempt at eloquence,
but felt from the moment he began that his personality had made an
appeal to the Emperor. His life and future were in his own hands.
He realized at moments a strangling consciousness of the fact, and
breathed a voiceless prayer for the right words.
He told of his strange adventures on land and sea, his long, cruel
training in Darien and Panama, his struggles in forests, his
shipwrecks, his battles with savages, his comrades dropping by his
side, and yet ever pressing on, the banners of Spain upheld. With
resistless pathos he told of the sufferings on the Islands of Gallo and
Gorgona, the hunger, the loneliness of long months, the desertion by
his colonial governor, the deathless determination of his handful of
followers to extend the Empire or die, and of Molina, now plunged in
the vast unknown of Peru.
When at length he saw the young Emperor’s eyes swimming in tears, he
bowed and withdrew into the crowd.
His Majesty rose, smiled, called Pizarro to his side and seized his
hand:
“As a true soldier of Spain you have honored our banners with your
faith and loyalty. I will commend your cause to the Council of the
Indies. Your petition for a royal charter is granted. In my absence in
Italy the Council will work out its details. I shall expect great deeds
of you, Francisco Pizarro!”
The friendly courier gripped the adventurer’s hand as he passed from
the royal presence.
“A great speech, Señor! I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Pizarro’s dark face lighted with a puzzled smile.
“But this Council of the Indies!”
The courier shook his head in a gesture of pity.
“God help you, once in their hands. A bunch of snails. A pity His
Majesty is leaving for Italy. You’re in for a siege. The Queen is your
hope.”
Pizarro hurried to his room at the tavern with a proud sense of
triumph. And back of it forebodings of a struggle with the Council.
As the sun set the adventurer looked out at the glowing, shimmering
splendor of royal Toledo, absorbed in dreams of the far land of
mystery, of the gallant young cavalier somewhere in its vast and
bizarre expanse, and of Teresa, who yearned for her lover.
And his eyes were wet with glad tears.