The Crimson Conquest 8

The Crimson Conquest 8

As the Inca drew near she would have knelt, but he stayed her quickly,

and taking her hand, reverently carried it to his lips.

 

"May the sun shine brightly upon thee this day, my sister," said he.

"Thou ’rt abroad early. I thought to find the garden deserted."

 

"I have been walking, my lord," she replied, with eyes still lowered,

and drew almost imperceptibly away. "I was about to return."

 

"Nay: let me walk with thee. Perhaps I can tell thee something to

lighten thy heart. Come."

 

"Ah, my lord," she sighed, raising her eyes to his with a swift glance,

and turning them away filled with tears.

 

"I know—I know! Thou grievest for our unfortunate brother Huascar," he

said kindly. "It was partly on his account that I had thee come to

Caxamalca. I would not have thee mourn needlessly, nor think me a

monster in holding him in brief imprisonment. It is against my wish,

believe me, and only to prevent renewal of the late unhappy war."

 

"Oh, most unhappy, most dreadful, my lord!—and between my brothers!" she

answered with a sob.

 

"Most dreadful!" repeated Atahualpa, gravely. "Yet thou knowest how it

was forced upon me."

 

"Forced upon thee, my lord? They told me different."

 

"They told thee falsely!" he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know how it was

brought about?—I fear not, in its truth. Then let us walk whilst I tell

thee." He passed his arm about her fondly, and led her down the avenue.

 

"Thou knowest, Rava," he began after they had taken a few steps, "the

will of our father, given at Cuzco some months before his death, by

which the kingdom of Quito was bequeathed to me, and Cuzco to Huascar.

Thou knowest that for several years we reigned in peace, each in his own

domain. So it might have continued had Huascar been content. But,

chafing under the loss of Quito, which but for me would have been one of

his provinces, he sent an ambassador demanding that I acknowledge myself

vassal and feudatory. It was a challenge, and what reply could there be

but war? Huascar’s misfortunes flow from his misguided ambition and

impious disregard of our father’s will."

 

"Oh, pardon him, pardon him, my brother!" implored the princess, turning

to him and pressing her clasped hands to her breast. "He was

ill-advised. He was hounded to his fault, I know, by wicked ministers.

Most bitterly hath Cuzco repented it!"

 

"Cuzco!—it may be," replied Atahualpa, slowly; "but Huascar—However, it

is my purpose to pardon him, Rava; so banish thine unhappiness. For the

present, for the sake of the tranquillity of the empire, we must hold

him. But when that is assured he shall be free. Weep no more."

 

"Oh, Atahualpa, what words will tell thee my heart’s gratitude!" sobbed

the young girl, taking his hand in both her own. "Thou knowest not what

my grief hath been!"

 

"Nay! but I do know, my dear. Since the war began I have thought often

what it must be. But do not thank me. No need of words. Thy happiness

is more than thanks enough. I always loved thee, Rava, when we were

together in the old palace at Cuzco. Now, thou ’rt no less dear to me

than mine own daughters in far-off Quito. I trust soon to remove the

nearest cause of thy sorrow. It was for this, as I have said, that I

sent for thee to come to Caxamalca."

 

They were interrupted by a youth of twenty years, in the uniform of a

Quitoan general. As he drew near he removed his helmet, disclosing the

yellow _llautu_ worn by the princes of the blood royal, and knelt as he

placed a pebble upon his shoulder in the customary sign of homage. It

was the Auqui[2] Toparca, brother to Atahualpa, and like the latter, a

half-brother of the Ñusta Rava. Not even his exalted rank permitted him

to approach the sovereign otherwise than in the attitude of a subject;

but the obeisance performed, he arose and was embraced by the two, and

the trio strolled on together. The conversation turned at once upon the

strangers in Caxamalca. The purposed visit of the Inca was deprecated

with timid earnestness by the Ñusta, and with energy by the Auqui; but

Atahualpa waved aside their objections with a smile, and soon afterwards

returned to the palace.

 

[2] Auqui = Prince.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER VI*

 

_*The Massacre*_

 

 

It was after midday when the Inca gave the order for the formation of

his troops, and the brazen notes of trumpets rose from the parade in

front of the villa. As the last measure died away the call was taken up

in one quarter after another, and the air trembled with the din of the

horns of the legions from Quito, the hoarse bellow of the conches of the

coast tribes, the shrieking pipes of the mountaineers from the highlands

around Chimborazo, and the growl of the drums of the fierce hordes from

the eastern slopes of the Andes,—a huge wild diapason that sent another

chill to Spanish hearts as it floated over the valley.

 

The tumult died away on the distant flanks of the encampment.

Presently, company after company was sweeping into the low plain between

the camp and the river, and forming into battalions. Here they stood

motionless, broke at last into columns, and marched down to the fords,

the earth shaken by the feet of their thousands, the air hideously

vibrant with the fierce music of their instruments and wild chanting. A

sound as of surf breaking on a shingled beach rose above the stream, its

silver turned into yellow turbidity which stained its course for many a

mile below, while the dark columns crept up the eastern bank and

deployed on the plain in front of Caxamalca.

 

Pizarro, standing with a small group of officers on the parapet of the

redoubt, gazed upon the dense, sinuous line of masses, silent now,

stretching up and down the valley. From tens of thousands of

spear-points and from myriads of brazen shields and helmets, the rays of

the western sun were thrown back in a restless, quivering infinitude of

scintillations. Slowly, but with a terrible steadiness, the line rolled

forward, now obliterating a canal or roadway, now a garden or a field of

grain; here, a battalion losing itself in a grove; there, in the aisles

of an orchard; to reappear on the hither side, perfect in alignment. At

length, at a distance of something less than a mile, the central

battalions halted, but the wings swept on until a vast, dark semi-circle

confronted the town.

 

Pizarro watched the progress of the movement in silence, speaking only

to give an order, or in brief reply to some remark or inquiry from one

of his companions. With him were several of his staff, Father Valverde,

Felipillo the interpreter, and two or three orderlies. At the head of

the stairway descending to the square were Candia’s two cannon,

commanding the place. Close at hand was a brazier of burning charcoal

for the matches of the cannoneers, who were clustered at the parapet,

barefooted and stripped to the waist, watching, half-stupefied, the

advancing hordes.

 

Below, the sunlit square, with its shadows now stealing out from the

westward, was deserted—peaceful as on a Sabbath. And the Sabbath it

might have been, for from one of the buildings came the unceasing murmur

of the priests at prayer. All night long priests had knelt in pious

invocation of the aid of the Lord of Hosts and the Holy Virgin upon this

day’s undertaking. Thus, too, they had knelt since dawn, when mass had

been celebrated, the soldiers joining devoutly in the hymn, "_Exsurge,

Domine, et judica causam tuam_."

 

"Rise, O Lord, and judge thy cause!"—so they had chanted, with hearts

swelling with the exaltation of faith that the cause was just, with the

sublime confidence that the Holy Cross must triumph. Through the night

Pizarro had been among them, had spoken with simple eloquence, had

inspired their zeal by his own; and had roused alike the fires of

religious fervor and the lust of conquest and of pagan gold. Through

the night the ecclesiastics had given themselves to discipline, had shed

tears and blood while they scourged themselves and cried to Heaven to

give victory to the soldiers of the True Faith. Such was the prelude!

 

And now, behind the great doors giving upon the square the companies

waited in grim readiness: in one of the buildings, the infantry; in

another, De Soto’s troop; in a third, that of Hernando Pizarro. The

hours had lengthened through the morning, and still they waited in

suspense. Under prolonged tension their enthusiasm had waned, and now

many a villanous face, recently alight with devotion, grew anxious or

lowering. Some time after midday a _chasqui_, or runner, had arrived

from the Inca with the announcement that he would come with warriors

fully armed, like the Spanish emissaries the day before. Replied

Pizarro, "Say to your Señor that in whatever manner he cometh he shall

be received as a friend and brother." Then he turned to Hernando with a

black scowl: "Let the infidel come as he will!—only Heaven grant that he

may not come tardily! Delay is more to be dreaded than an onslaught. A

few more hours of this waiting, and the blood of our men will turn to

water."

 

Hernando shrugged gloomily, and turned his eyes upon the advancing

lines.

 

It was late afternoon before the movement of the Inca’s troops was

completed. For any sign of perturbation Pizarro might have been

observing a parade; though his thin lips were more than usually

compressed, his face a bit more pallid, his taciturnity increased. De

Soto was conversing in a low tone with Candia as they surveyed the

field. Hernando Pizarro was standing beside his brother on the parapet,

muttering occasional oaths.

 

"_Caramba!_" he exclaimed, as the wings of the approaching army began to

close in. "It appeareth that the Inca accepteth thine invitation with

some emphasis, Francisco! Had we better not change our plans and

prepare to defend the town whilst there is yet time? That is a pretty

formation for attack, if I ever saw one, and more promising of a fight<