The King's Fifth

  The King's Fifth

  Scott O'Dell

  * * *

  Decorations and Maps by Samuel Bryant

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON

  * * *

  Copyright © 1966 by Scott O'Dell

  Copyright © renewed 1994 by Elizabeth Hall

  All rights reserved. For information about permission

  to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue

  South, New York. New York 10003.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER AC 66-10726

  ISBN: 0-395-06963-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-395-06963-9

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  VB 25 26 27 28 29 30

  * * *

  For LUCE

  * * *

  * * *

  The Fortress of San Juan de Ulúa

  Vera Cruz, in New Spain

  The twenty-third day of September

  The year of our Lord's birth, 1541

  IT IS DARK NIGHT on the sea but dusk within my cell. The jailer has gone. He has left six fat candles and a bowl of garbanzos that swim in yellow oil.

  I am a fortunate young man. At least this is what the jailer said just before he closed the iron door and left me alone.

  He stands in the doorway and says under his breath, "Garbanzos, a slice of mutton, the best oil from Úbeda! Who ever has heard of such fine fare in His Majesty's prison? And do not forget the candles stolen from the chapel, for which I could be tossed into prison myself. Worse, mayhap."

  He pauses to draw a long finger across his throat.

  "Remember these favors," he says, "when you return to the land of the Seven Cities. Remember them also if by chance you do not return. Remember, Estéban de Sandoval, that I risk my life in your behalf!"

  He leans toward me. His shadow fills the cell.

  "I have maravedis, a few cents," I answer, "to pay for your kindness."

  "Kindness!" He grinds the word between his teeth. During his life he must have ground many words for his teeth are worn close. "I do not risk my neck from kindness, which is a luxury of the rich. Or for a few ducats, either. Let us be clear about this matter."

  He closes the iron door and takes one long step toward me.

  "I have seen the charge brought against you by the Royal Audiencia," he says. "Furthermore, I deem you guilty of that charge. But guilty or not, I ask a share of the gold you have hidden in Cíbola. The King demands his fifth. A fifth I likewise demand. For I do more than he and at dire peril to my life."

  His words take me aback. "If I am found guilty," I say evasively, "then I shall never return to Cíbola."

  "It is not necessary that you return. You are a maker of maps. A good one, it is said. Therefore you will draw me a map, truthful in all details, by which I can find my way to this secret place." His voice falls to a whisper. "How much gold is hidden there? Tell me, is it enough to fill the hold of a large galleon?"

  "I do not know," I answer, being truthful and at the same time untruthful.

  "Enough, perhaps, to fill a small galleon?"

  I am silent. Two fingers thrust toward me, sudden as a snake, and nip my arm.

  "You may have heard the name Quentín de Cardoza," the jailer says, "An excellent gentleman, in any event, and innocent as a new-born babe. Yet four years he spent in San Juan de Ulúa, in this very cell. And died in this cell before his trial came to an end. You also may spend four years here, or five, or even more. Trials of the Royal Audiencia consume time, as dropping water consumes stone. These trials have two equal parts. One part takes place in the chambers above, before the judges. The other part takes place here below, under my watchful eye."

  He tightens his grip on my arm and moves his face so close to mine that I can see the bristles on his chin.

  "Remember, señor, that what I do for you I do not for a handful of maravedis. Neither for money nor from kindness. I do it only because of a chart, limned with patience and skill, which you will make for me."

  "It is a crime," I answer, still being evasive, "to draw a map without permission of the Council of the Indies."

  He loosens his grip upon my arm. "The Council," he says, "resides in Spain, thousands of leagues away."

  "So also does the King who accuses me of theft," I boldly say.

  "Yes, but do not forget that the King's loyal servant, Don Felipe de Soto y Ríos, does not reside in Spain. He stands here before you, a man with one eye which never sleeps."

  Don Felipe steps back and squares his shoulders. He is tall, with a long, thin forehead and a jaw like a cudgel. He says nothing more. Softly, too softly, he closes the door and slides the iron bolt. His footsteps fade away into the depths of the fortress.

  Don Felipe de Soto y Ríos! The name stirs in my memory. Is he the one who years ago marched with bloody Guzmán, who slaughtered hundreds of Tarascans and dragged their king through the village streets tied to the tail of a horse?

  I cannot say for certain. It does not matter. Whoever he is he has done much for me during my six days in San Juan de Ulúa. My cell is the largest in the prison, three strides one way, four strides the other. He has given me the bench I write upon, candles, paper, an inkbowl and two sharp quills.

  I know now why he has given me these things. Still, I have them. In return, because I must, I shall draw him a map of Cíbola, proper in scale, deserts and mountains and rivers set down, also windroses and a Lullian nocturnal. As for the treasure which he covets, who knows where it lies? Even I who secreted it, do I know? Could I ever find it again?

  Don Felipe I will not see until dawn. I can give my thoughts to the trial that begins in two days, curiously enough on my seventeenth birthday. I will put down everything as I remember it. And write carefully from the beginning, each night while the trial lasts.

  Yes, I shall put down everything, just as I remember it.

  I am a maker of maps and not a scrivener, yet I shall do my best. By this means, I may find the answer to all that puzzles me. God willing, I shall find my way through the labyrinth which leads to the lair of the minotaur. This should help me in the trial I face before the Royal Audiencia, for if I do not clearly know what I did or why it was done, how can I ask others to know?

  I am now ready to begin. The night stretches before me. It is quiet in my cell except for the sound of water dripping somewhere and the lap of waves against the fortress walls. The candle sheds a good light. Some say that in the darkness one candle can shine like the sun.

  And yet where is the beginning? What first step shall I take into the maze of the minotaur?

  Should I begin on that windy April day, on the morning when the eagles rose out of the darkness below the mighty cliffs of Ronda? When I said goodbye to my father and with my few needments under my arm climbed into the stagecoach that was to take me to Seville? But this is two years in the past and the boy I was is dim in my memory. I have even forgotten my father's shouted advice as the coach moved out of the cobbled square. That it was good advice, I am certain. Also certain is the fact that I did not heed it.

  Perhaps I should begin on the day I received my diploma in cartography from the Casa de Contratación and within the hour sailed from Seville for the New World. But this too is dim in my memory, hidden beneath the fateful things that since have befallen me. As is the voyage to Vera Cruz in New Spain and the long journey to the mountain stronghold of the dead king, Montezuma.

  Should I start with the day and the circumstances of my meeting with Admiral Alarcón, the oath I took to bear him fealty and of the night our fleet sailed north from Acapulco?

  But what of Zia? Do not these writings truly begin with her, the Nayarit girl of the silver bells and the silvery laughter, w
ho guided the conducta of Captain Mendoza into the Land of Cíbola?

  No, 1 see now that the story really begins when Admiral Alarcón sailed into Cortés' Sea. It begins on the morning when Captain Mendoza first thought to seize command of the galleon San Pedro. Yes, this day is the beginning.

  Through the small, barred window I can see a star. The candle sheds its good light. Now as I write of Captain Mendoza's plans to raise a mutiny and what happened to them and of the events that led me to Chichilticale, may God enlighten my mind and guide my pen!

  1

  IT WAS EIGHT BELLS of the morning watch, early in the month of June, that we entered the Sea of Cortés. On our port bow was the Island of California. To the east lay the coast of New Spain.

  I sat in my cabin setting down in ink a large island sighted at dawn, which did not show on the master chart. The day was already stifling hot, so I had left the door ajar. Suddenly the door closed and I turned to face Captain Mendoza.

  He glanced at the chart spread out on the table. "Is this Admiral Ulloa's?" he asked.

  "A copy," I said, "which I am making as we move north."

  "A true copy?"

  "True, sir."

  He leaned over my shoulder. "Where are we, Señor Cartographer, at the present hour?"

  "This was our position yesterday at sunset." I put my finger on the chart. "We have made some twelve leagues since."

  Mendoza stared down at the country that lay east and north of the spot where my finger rested. It was a vast blank space, loosely sketched. Upon it no mark showed, no river, no mountain range, no village, no city—only the single word UNKNOWN.

  He turned and went to the door. I thought that he was leaving, having learned what he wished to know, but he stood there for a time and stared out at the calm sea, the white surf, the hills that rolled away to the east. Then he closed the door and leaned against it, looking down at me.

  "You work hard," he said. "Your lantern burns late. I seldom encounter you."

  "There is much work," I answered.

  "A little sun would help. A few hours on deck. You are pale. A boy your age should move around. Not sit over a chart all day and half the night. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?"

  "Fifteen, sir."

  "I presume from the city of Salamanca. The country of scholars, where everyone is pale, red around the eyes from reading, and has ink-stained fingers."

  "No, from Ronda."

  "Truly? This is difficult to believe. Those from Ronda are usually venturesome fellows. Stout with the sword. Good horsemen. Restless, ready for anything."

  I looked down at the chart and the island I had not yet finished.

  "Ulloa shows nothing for all of this?" he said, passing his hand across the blank space.

  "Nothing," I answered. "He skirted the coast as far north as the River of Good Guidance, which he discovered, but did not venture inland."

  "What of Marcos de Niza and Stephen, the Moor, the ones who have seen the Seven Cities of Gold?"

  "The Moor was killed at Háwikuh and his bones lie there. Father Marcos is an explorer, not a maker of maps. Neither one left a record of Cíbola nor how it was reached."

  "Then the chart is of no value for those who might travel there?"

  "None, sir."

  "If I left the ship and set out to the east, the chart would be of no help?"

  "No, sir."

  "Go on with your work," Mendoza said. "The map is important. Without maps, what would we explorers do? But tell me, Señor Cartographer, about this country marked unknown. Does it not interest you to know what lies there? What glittering cities of gold and treasure?"

  I nodded my head.

  "But you will never see this country which is bigger than the whole of Spain or be able to draw it on a map, if you sit here in the cabin of the galleon San Pedro."

  "I draw the coast and the islands we pass."

  "The map has been drawn before. By Admiral Ulloa."

  "His map I correct."

  "Then you are not a maker of maps. You are one who corrects maps. A copyist."

  "We sail north," I said, "perhaps into seas never charted before."

  "You sail only until the moment when you sight Coronado's army. As you well know, the three galleons of this fleet are filled with supplies for that army. You also know that Coronado is marching northward along the coast, parallel to the course we follow by sea. In time, it is hoped, Admiral Alarcón shall overtake him. The ships then will pull into shore, the supplies will be unloaded and given to Coronado. You know the plan. What you do not know is this. Even if the supplies are handed over, the ships—and you with them—sail south not north. Back to Culiacán. Not into the uncharted seas you speak of."

  "Alarcón may have other ideas," I said. "He may explore the Island of California and its waters."

  "No, señor. He is under orders to return to Culiacán."

  I could not gainsay him in this, therefore I was silent. But I began to wonder about it. I wondered about everything he had said. Why did Blas de Mendoza, a Captain in Coronado's army, who had never spoken more than a dozen words to me during the voyage, now stand in my cabin, talking as if I were a confidant?

  "Here is something else you do not know, but should," he said. "Alarcón and Coronado will never meet, because the plan for their meeting is unsound. It was unsound from the start. You can see this for yourself. Many times, to avoid reefs and shallows, the ships have had to sail far from shore. True?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is it also true that because of mountains and swamps Coronado has been forced to march inland, out of sight of the sea?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is it possible that while one of these things took place, or both at the same time, Coronado marching inland and the ships far at sea, that the two could pass without sighting each other?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "It is not only possible, but it is exactly what has happened. Sometime during the last week, we have overtaken and passed Coronado. He is behind us, and yet Alarcón sails on. He sails to nowhere." Mendoza grunted in disgust. "How simple it would have been if at the start the two men had decided upon a place to meet. If Alarcón had said, 'I will sail for five days and anchor.' If Coronado had said, 'Since you sail as much in one day as my army marches in twelve, be certain that you do wait for us.'"

  Mendoza was a tall man, ten years or more older than I. His eyes were dark and deep-set in a face the color of Cordovan leather, where all the bones of jaw, cheek and brow stood clear, as if after a long vigil. His clothes were elaborate. They were the furnishings of a dandy, yet beneath the lace-trimmed doublet, the fancy breeches, the shining boots was a body supple and strong as the best steel.

  He gave me a searching look. "Did you sign with Alarcón to sail back and forth looking for a lost army?"

  "No, sir."

  "Nor did I. Yet that is our fate, unless we act."

  Mendoza turned and listened at the door a moment. "Tomorrow I go ashore. I shall seize the ship and put the Admiral in chains. I go in search of the Seven Golden Cities of Cíbola. In that search I have need of a good cartographer. Of someone who can take readings from the sun and stars, and thus direct our steps."

  He paused and again listened at the door. "Do you join me in that search?"

  I was silent.

  "Or do you wish to sail back and forth in a tub?"

  "I am a member of Admiral Alarcón's staff," I said.

  Mendoza pretended not to hear me. He said, "Do you wish to see the Seven Cities of Cíbola? Do you wish to share in the treasure we shall find there? The gold and turquoise and silver? Surely you have heard of these fabulous riches. Or do you prefer to remain cooped in a cabin the rest of your youth while others grow rich as the richest duque?"

  "I am a member of the crew," I said stubbornly.

  "Soon there will be no crew." He opened the door and glanced fore and aft of the ship's deck. He looked back at me. "What I have said, do not repeat. But give it your thought."
/>
  With this he went on deck. Too disturbed to continue with the map I soon followed.

  Under a green and gilt canopy that shielded him from the sun, Admiral Alarcón sat eating breakfast at a table spread with silver and fine linen. He was in a happy mood. He took a long drink from a flagon of Jerez. Tossing a chicken leg to the dog that lay at his feet, he raised a spyglass to look at the coast.

  There was no sign he knew that a mutinous plan to seize his ship was afoot. And yet, watching him, I wondered. Was he only biding his time?

  That the ship was restless anyone could see. For more than a week it had been so. There were sailors who predicted that the San Pedro would sail northward to the very marge of the sea and never overtake Coronado. Some said that Admiral Alarcón had no thought of meeting him. Instead, using the supplies meant for Coronado's army, he planned to sail on to California and there search for black pearls, in which that mysterious island was rich. Bolder men said that the Admiral was a braggart, who thought more of his magnificent bronze beard than he did of his crew.

  At this moment, as Admiral Alarcón sat under the green and gilt canopy enjoying his breakfast, a knot of sailors was gathered at the rail. In their midst stood Mendoza. They seemed to be scanning the coast, but from time to time I saw them glance toward the Admiral. These glances Alarcón must have noticed, but he gave no sign. He ate roundly, washing down his chicken with Jerez. At last he threw the carcass to the dog and disappeared.

  I went back to my chart. But now and again I paused to watch the coastline moving past. Through the small transom I could see rust-colored hills stretching away to the east and far off against the horizon the dim shape of a mountain range. This was the country marked unknown. Beyond it somewhere to the east lay the land called Cíbola, the country of the Seven Cities about which Captain Mendoza had spoken.