The Crimson Conquest 10
In the square the din has lost its volume. Candia has ceased firing,
for the smoke impedes his view of the shambles, where friends are
endangered by his guns. Around the Inca the unequal struggle goes on
under his horror-stricken eyes, and he stands, benumbed and helpless,
tottering on his reeling litter. In the anguish of their despair his
nobles cast themselves to death with a loyalty of devotion the gods
might envy; but the bulwark they interpose before their beloved lord
grows steadily less. Several of the Spaniards now are making frenzied
efforts to reach him with their weapons, and one has hurled his pike.
Pizarro sees the movement and shouts, hoarse with weariness, unheard and
unheeded, "Strike not the Inca, on pain of death!"
But he is heard by Cristoval, who, with two or three sick men, has been
left as a guard for the priests, still at their supplications. Since
the first thundering charge he has watched the long tragedy, at first
with tense excitement at the onslaught, then with deepening horror and
loathing when he saw the defencelessness of the Peruvians, until he has
turned away, sick to his very soul, hating his race, his blood, his
parentage, himself. He has cast his sword upon the ground. Now he
seizes it and bounds toward the scene with a curse at every stride.
The enclosing line of Spaniards has drawn near to the Inca. One of his
bearers goes down, then another. The sedan plunges wildly and sinks,
throwing its royal burden almost upon the weapons of his enemies. He is
down. A pike is at his breast, but swept aside by Cristoval’s sword,
whose savage thrust the infantryman barely escapes. An axe flashes
overheard, and crashes upon Cristoval’s buckler. But Pizarro is beside
him. As the general stretches out his hand to raise the Inca, a
pike-thrust rips both hand and arm—the only wound, be it known to the
everlasting infamy of this band of murderers, received by a Spaniard in
the day’s affair!
Pizarro’s voice rises above the tumult: "Back, dogs! Back, or, by God,
ye shall suffer!"
De Soto has dismounted, and dashes through the rabid pack. His buckler
touches that of Cristoval, and the two shields ring with a shower of
blows aimed at the Inca. It is minutes before the murderous zeal is
quelled, and a circle cleared around the captive prince.
A stillness has settled over the plaza—alas! not a stillness; for the
din has given place to sounds yet more dreadful, in the shrieks and
groans of the wounded and dying.
There are many prisoners, and Hernando Pizarro is directing the work of
making them secure in the buildings. Surrounding the group about the
Inca is a turbulent circle of soldiers, panting yet from their work, and
jostling one another for a view of the royal prisoner. They make a
savage and grewsome picture as they glare, red-eyed, faces flushed,
reeking with sweat and splashed with blood from head to foot, leaning
upon their gory weapons. Atahualpa stands silent, proudly erect, his
features immovable as bronze, seemingly devoid of emotion as if his
heart were of that metal. His dark, stern eyes overlook the encircling
mob, but as if they see no man. He is no less kingly now than a few
hours ago, when surrounded by the splendor of his court. Those guarding
him are equally silent in the stupor of weariness and reaction. At
length Pizarro speaks:—
"Come, gentlemen, let us move! Guard him closely!"
They close round him. As they are about to leave the square, Atahualpa
turns toward the heaps of his people who vainly gave their lives in his
defence, and raising his hands, speaks a few words in Quichua, broken by
one great sob that shakes his frame. Then he turns away, his
countenance as sternly impassive and inscrutable as before.
As they enter the building which is to serve as his temporary prison,
the sun is setting—setting forever upon the empire of the Incas.
*CHAPTER VII*
_*Cavalier and Cantinero*_
Night fell before the cavalry returned from pursuing the wretched
fugitives, whom they hunted almost to the confines of the Peruvian camp,
riding them down in their flight, and slaying without mercy. The troops
of the Inca had fled without striking a blow. It would be difficult to
explain their complete demoralization did we not consider the
superstitious awe with which the Spaniards had been regarded from their
first landing upon the Peruvian coasts. Their aspect and the
supernatural powers ascribed to them bore out the ancient tradition of
the fair-faced god, Viracocha, who, it is said, had once appeared upon
earth, and whose reappearance had been foretold by the oracles. The
white men were his descendants and agents. Already they were known as
Viracochas. A mere handful, but armed with thunderbolts, they had
seized the sacred person of the Inca and destroyed his nobles and
generals at a blow. The keystone, the arch itself, of the empire had
crumbled and fallen under the dire calamity. The people were without a
ruler, the army without leaders. The authority which had held the
tribes together was dissolved in an hour. Accustomed for generations to
the rule of the most absolute despotism the world has ever known, they
were now incapable of initiative. The Empire of Tavantinsuyu was a
rudderless ship. The army resolved itself into its elements and fell in
pieces.
The Inca supped that night with the Spanish commander and his officers,
as had been promised. Cristoval, the only officer fit for duty after
the day’s work, had been detailed as commander of the exterior guard,
glad to be relieved of the need of sitting at table with his comrades
after so base a massacre, which, in his enforced role of spectator, he
had seen in its full horror. He was a soldier, and possibly not less
callous to bloodshed and suffering than many others of his calling, but
never had he beheld butchery so wanton and unhindered. Had he been a
participant—and now he fervently thanked God for preventing it—he would
have been less impressed by its enormity. He must even have shared in
some degree the infection of ferocity, until he should have realized, as
had De Soto, the uselessness of the slaughter and revolted. But
compelled to look on in cool blood, he had sickened. He sickened more
at the brutal exultation, and at the ghastly sights in the square. A
battlefield he could have surveyed unmoved. This slaughter-pen horrified
him.
When his detail was formed he marched it away, grateful to Heaven that
his post was remote alike from the jubilation of the soldiers and from
the sounds and tainted air of the plaza.
At a villa beside the road along which the Inca had entered the town, he
halted his command. The place had been broken into the evening before
for use as a guard-house, and while his sergeant was making up his
reliefs, Cristoval took a lantern and walked through the vacant rooms.
They showed at every step the marks of the vandalism of yesterday’s
guard, and he explored gloomily the ruin of what had been a handsome
dwelling. Tapestries before the doors had been torn down for beds.
Quaintly carved furniture had been used for firewood; fragments of
tableware were scattered everywhere, with curiously fashioned bronze and
brass vessels crushed by the heels of the soldiers. More precious
articles had been sought, as was evident in the disorder of every
apartment, in broken chests, and doors with battered fastenings.
Cristoval ordered a room cleared and prepared for his vigil.
Just after midnight, having returned from his rounds, he heard a
challenge from the sentinel in front of the villa, then the voice of
Pedro, and in a moment the cook stumped across the court and knocked.
Cristoval called to him to enter, and he came in, followed by his boy,
laden with what Pedro guessed would be welcome at midnight to any
officer of any guard.
"_Tibi bene dico!_" quoth Pedro, "and may the night be without alarms.
I have brought thee good cheer, Cristoval, lest hunger contend with
vigilance. _Stomachus plenus vigiliam longam contrahit_—which is to say
that a full stomach shorteneth a long watch. Cæsar, I believe." Pedro
grinned benignly upon the cavalier, who arose and greeted him with
warmth.
"Pedro, thou ’rt a good man, full of good deeds. On my soul, I rejoice
to see thee with or without thy cheer, for I find the night melancholy."
"Good!" said Pedro. "Then am I doubly welcome. Here, Pedrillo, lay out
the supper on this table. Have a care, boy! Spill that soup, thou imp,
and I’ll make another of thee!"
"Why, _amigo_," said Cristoval, surveying the repast, "it is a feast!
Thy substantial cheer is second only to the spiritual cheer in thine
atmosphere. Accept my thanks. Hast supped, thyself?"
"No. No time for it. I prepared the banquet to the Inca and saw it
served."
"Then thou’lt sup with me. There is more than enough for two.
Pedrillo, another chair. Fall to, thou good culinary saint, and tell me
about the banquet. How doth the Inca bear it?"
"He near broke my heart with his indifferent appetite," growled the
cook, as he seated himself; "but otherwise he is most commendable. I
thought to see a sullen, savage chieftain, oppressed by conscious
inferiority and afraid of the tableware. Not so! He was gloomy, ’t is
true,—and who, in his position, would not be so?—but he strove against
it, and talked graciously with Pizarro and the others through Felipillo,
making the best of matters right gallantly, like a man. He wore a
dignity and fortitude in the face of adversity, Cristoval, that would
become any king, white or bronze."
"So he bore himself in the square, when taken," remarked Cristoval.
"Ah!" said Pedro. "’T is as much as a point of honor with them, saith
Felipillo, not to show emotion. I tell thee, _amigo_, he compelled the
respect of the officers, and no one said a discourteous word but that
beast of a Mendoza, whom Pizarro commanded to keep his tongue between
his teeth, and forbade Felipillo to translate his words. The Inca paid
much attention to De Soto, who sat nearly opposite, and who, it
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기