The Crimson Conquest 5

The Crimson Conquest 5

"Most certainly he will not alter—so long as he hath followers," replied

Moreno. "But if we refuse to follow?"

 

Cristoval eyed him for a second before answering. "But we have given

oath to follow, Moreno."

 

"A witch’s blessing upon our oaths!" exclaimed Juarez, hotly. "Have we

given oath to jump into fire after this _loco_? I, for one, set value

on my hide. Let him lead with his senses about him, and we will go!

Otherwise, by—"

 

"Softly, softly, _amigo mio_!" interrupted Moreno, unwilling that the

disaffection should be too outspoken until Cristoval was more thoroughly

sounded. "As thou sayest, we will go with him, Juarez, but," he turned

again to Cristoval, "we are losing time and golden opportunity. If we

but drop this insane purpose of conquest, a month’s campaigning, rightly

directed, will make us all rich men—thee as rich as the rest, Peralta."

 

Cristoval pushed away his cup. "Waste not thy breath, Moreno. If you

men are discontented, quit the expedition. Return to San Miguel without

spreading your dissatisfaction. It were better."

 

Moreno bit his lip. "Art thou, then, as mad as Pizarro? Canst not see

that every league we march toward the Inca doubleth our peril? Dost not

see this seeming friendliness on the part of these heathens is only to

lure us farther into the trap? And what have we gained thus far? Not a

_maravedi_!"

 

"Enough, Moreno!" exclaimed Cristoval, with impatience. "I see the

danger, _seguramente_! But better the danger than perfidy."

 

The last word was unwelcome. A foot-soldier swore, and a murmur rose

from the group.

 

"Peace!" commanded Moreno, glancing at his fellows with darkened face.

"Thou hadst best consider, Peralta. Listen," he lowered his voice and

leaned over the table. "As a matter of truth, there is dissatisfaction

among the men at rushing blindly against the Inca’s unknown strength.

They would have a more prudent leader, Cristoval, and—several have

spoken of thee."

 

Cristoval blurted a sudden oath and pushed back from the table, glaring

from one to another with kindling eyes. "What! Hath it gone so far?" he

demanded. "Have ye settled the details of your treason? Furies and

devils! And ye would have me one with your cursed scheme of mutiny? A

more prudent leader, forsooth! By the saints, ye should have a

swineherd! Ah! Have ye smelled an enemy, that ye’ve so suddenly lost

your bowels for going farther? Then go back!—sneak back with your tails

between your craven legs!"

 

Moreno sprang to his feet. The others rose with him, and a growl went

up as they turned upon Peralta, several with swords half drawn. He

remained seated, contemptuously ignoring the menace, and continued:—

 

"Thou hast asked mine opinion, Moreno, and, by Saint Michael, thou shalt

have it to sleep over!—and these pig-driver’s dogs of thine shall have

it as well!"

 

However, they did not have it. His words were not uttered before a

confused gleam and the sinister ring of steel went round the table, as

every weapon was bared. In a flash Cristoval was on his feet, sword in

hand. Moreno and Juarez vaulted over the table. The others came round

its end, pell-mell, stumbling over one another in blood-thirsty

eagerness. The soldier nearest was too close to use his blade, and

before he could step back Cristoval felled him with the heavy hilt of

his own; but felt the steel of the man behind as it grazed his side. He

sprang back of the overturned bench and placed himself in the angle of

the wall, his right partly protected by another table. They were upon

him in the instant, but the confusion of their combined attack was in

his favor. There was a lightning play of steel about him, but each of

the assailants impeded the others. Aided in defence by a poniard in his

left hand, Cristoval warded cut and thrust, and after a short moment of

rapid clash and glitter his opponents fell back, one with a cheek laid

open, another coughing from a thrust in the chest.

 

"Damn your zeal, learn a lesson of caution!" muttered Cristoval, and

they were upon him again. This time the assault was circumspect.

Moreno, by far the most formidable, had been hampered in the first

attack by the crowding, but now he assured himself of ample room.

Cristoval found himself hard pressed, and thrice he felt the burning of

their points.

 

Meanwhile Pedro, who had gone out before the conflict began, reëntered

and stood for a moment transfixed. The confusion was so great that he

was unable to distinguish the sides opposed; but when he saw the danger

of Cristoval he broke into a stream of oaths, dancing about, frantic at

his own unarmed helplessness. His boy stood petrified, a fork in hand,

gazing at the battle. Pedro sprang at him.

 

"Fetch Pizarro!" he shouted. "Call the guard! Quick! Jump, thou imp,

or I’ll spit thee!"

 

The boy dashed out, and Pedro jerked a kettle of boiling soup from the

fire, seized a ladle, and threw himself into the fight. A flood of the

scalding liquor descended upon a pikeman, and he whirled upon the cook

with a howl of rage, to be promptly knocked down by a blow from the

heavy ladle. Shower after shower fell upon the group in front of

Cristoval, carrying scalds, dismay, and demoralization. Blinded and

smarting, they fell away from the attack, and Moreno, recognizing the

source of the hot counter assault, lowered his head and charged the cook

with his rapier. Pedro’s ammunition was exhausted. He hurled his

kettle, missed, fell backward over a bench, and rolled under a table,

where Moreno was thrusting at him ineffectually when a heavy hand jerked

him back, and Pizarro stood before him, black with anger. The guard had

followed him in, and was already making the other combatants secure.

 

"How now?" Pizarro demanded hoarsely. "Fighting among ourselves? Name

of God! Is Spanish blood so cheap that we can waste it in brawls?—Seize

this man!" he commanded, turning to the guard.

 

Pedro had gathered himself together, and was lifting Cristoval out of

the corner where he had fallen. A sentinel was posted at the door, and

a soldier despatched to summon the officers. De Soto and José, the old

armorer, had followed Pizarro, and Cristoval’s cuts were quickly

bandaged. The officers hurried in, a summary court was organized for

inquiry, and the assailants, with the exception of three who were

receiving rough surgical care, were lined up under guard, blistered and

sullen.

 

Pedro’s testimony was the first to be taken, but it gave no

enlightenment regarding the origin of the affray, and Juarez was

examined. He was disposed to be recalcitrant, but Pizarro ordered

thumbscrews, and the sight of the instrument loosed his tongue.

Discipline was enforced in those days by effective means. Juarez well

knew what was coming. He glanced at the screws, at Pizarro, and

shrugged his surrender; then, with apparent candor, he told of the

conversation and of the growing discontent among the men. Pizarro

ordered the prisoners into confinement, and they were marched away by

the guard, their relief at escape from the thumbscrews marred by a

vision of a courtmartial and the garrote on the morrow.

 

Cristoval was conveyed to his quarters, and Pedro immediately turned the

management of the _cantina_ over to Pedrillo, assuming the role of nurse

as a matter of course.

 

About midnight he stepped outside the cavalier’s door and stood for a

moment enjoying the freshness of the night. The _tambo_ was silent

except for the footfalls of the sentinel at the gate, a murmur of voices

from the guard-room, where the affair was being discussed, and an

occasional sound from the distant stables. A light shone through

Pizarro’s door, and as Pedro stood a shadow passed and repassed within.

An hour before dawn he again stepped into the square. The light still

burned, and still the shadow came and went. Clearly Pizarro was having

a bad night. Pedro shook his head and muttered an anathema upon all

traitors.

 

In fact, Pizarro was having a bad night. On his stone table, weighted

down by one of his steel gauntlets, lay the record of the summary court,

left there by his secretary hours before. He could not read it, for he

was unlettered; but he knew every word of its content. It told of

sedition. He could only guess how far disaffection had spread, but the

knowledge that the spirit was abroad had come with stunning effect.

Hour after hour he paced the room, his footfall a dismal accompaniment

to dismal reflections. After years he had almost reached his goal with

an army at his back, only to feel the earth crumbling beneath him,

undermined by cowardice and treachery. As he walked, his thin lips

moved as if in prayer. But Pizarro was not praying. He was heaping

black curses upon his riffraff soldiery.

 

José relieved Pedro at daybreak, and an hour after reveille the cook

returned with breakfast for the wounded man. His jovial countenance was

perfectly blank.

 

"Well, what news?" asked José. "Do the conspirators get the rack or the

garrote?"

 

Pedro put down his burden with deliberation. "Thou ’rt a fool at

guessing, José, and I another. Neither rack, nor yet garrote! Let me

tell thee. After roll-call and reports the general stepped forward. He

looked along the line, and the line stopped breathing. Torres, of the

infantry, let fall his pike. Then Pizarro began to speak—as quietly as

I am speaking now. He said it had come to his attention,—had come to

his attention, José!—that there are certain ones among us who have lost

enthusiasm—not that they are damned traitors, José, but have lost

enthusiasm! He would say to these that the hour is critical; that it is

big with events which it will need all our courage to meet bravely, as

becometh Spaniards. He would have no man go forward who goeth not with

a whole heart, and to such as had liefer return the road is open. With

those who choose to follow him, few or many, it is his purpose to pursue

the adventure to its end."