The Crimson Conquest 9

The Crimson Conquest 9

"Tell him that our disappointment will be immeasurable. We have made all

preparations for his reception, and hope to have him sup with us."

 

The _chasqui_ darted away.

 

After an interval another arrived. The Inca would be pleased to come;

and as he would remain overnight, would bring his attendants, but

without arms. The _chasqui_ departed. Pizarro, his pallid face lighted

for an instant by a smile, sinister and triumphant, turned to his

officers.

 

"Now, gentlemen, the quarry! Remember—everything, our lives, all, hang

upon the absolute and implicit observance of my instructions. If we

fail," he waved his hand toward the menacing dark semicircle outside the

town, "ye know what to expect. But we shall not fail. Now, to your

posts, and may the Virgin have us all in her keeping! I believe every

man knoweth his duty. Candia, art ready?"

 

"More than ready, General!"

 

"Then, to thy guns!"

 

Candia returned to the redoubt, occupied now only by his cannoneers and

the sentinel.

 

On the plain the tent-pitching is given over, the column has regained

the causeway, and is again approaching the town. In front are a

multitude of sweepers, clearing the way of every pebble, fallen leaf, or

twig, singing as they work. In their rear are a hundred drummers

beating, in a strange cadence, long-bodied drums of varied size and

pitch of tone. Following these, the imperial band of five hundred

musicians, gorgeously liveried and resplendent with trappings of

burnished metal, playing on trumpets, pipes, and stringed instruments of

divers forms, the wild but not unmusical march sung by the sweepers.

Then, at an interval, follow a thousand nobles in white tunics, bearing

small mallets or hammers of copper and silver. Another interval, and a

second body of nobles of higher rank, in tunics of checkered white and

red, ablaze with ornaments of gold. Now, two battalions of the splendid

warriors in the blue of the Incarial Guard, but without arms. Between

them, and guarded by a platoon of nobles, floats the standard of the

Inca. Immediately after the detachment of the guard, seated upon an

open litter, or sedan, borne on the shoulders of half a score of nobles

of the highest rank, and surrounded by his attendants, counsellors, and

priests, is Atahualpa, a most imperial and commanding figure, as we have

seen. In the rear, follows a great column of guards and nobles no less

splendid than those of the van.

 

Treasure enough here, Pizarro, to whet the greed and nerve the arms of

your ravening, plunder-hungry companions, could they but behold it from

their concealment! Let us see. Twenty-five thousand ducats in the seat

on which the Inca sits. Thousands more in the decorations of the sedan.

Thousands more in the gem-encrusted standard, and every noble in the

train wearing a small fortune on his person. Such a display never

before met the eyes or brightened the dreams of your Spaniards, whom the

_chasqui_ has reported, not without truth, as huddled, panic-stricken,

in some of the buildings of the town.

 

The pageant has passed the suburbs and is in the streets, deserted as

Pizarro found them yesterday; for the exterior guards have been

withdrawn, to be of use, presently, elsewhere. Now the column has

entered the great square, opening its files to the right and left to

permit the passage of the Inca and his suite, who move to the middle of

the place and halt, the escort massing on the flanks and rear. Company

after company of the guard, and body after body of the nobles, march

into the plaza and take position with a celerity and precision of

movement showing the highest discipline; and it is long before the rear

has deployed from the narrow street. Meanwhile the Inca has looked

about, at first with expectant interest, then with growing suspicion and

impatience as he perceives no sign of welcome, nor any living being

outside of his own following. The silence is strange, in truth, and not

reassuring,—even it is ominous. The great doors facing upon the square

are closed and blank. At the head of the stairway entering the redoubt

two bronze muzzles overlook the plaza, but these are quite without

significance. At last the Inca demands, with increasing ire at the too

evident discourtesy:—

 

"Where are the strangers?"

 

As if in answer to his question a door opposite partly opens, and the

dingy, gray-black figure of Father Valverde, in march-worn cassock,

bearing crucifix and breviary, enters the square. A soldier follows, in

complete armor. He is known to history as Hernando de Aldana—introduced

and dismissed for all time by a dozen brief words. Behind him comes the

malicious, spoiled renegade, Felipillo, shaking now in his Spanish

boots, and scarcely fit to perform his office of interpreting.

 

Slowly, and with priestly dignity, the gray-black figure approaches the

Inca as no man ever approached him before, with unbended knee or back,

bearing no burden or symbol of one, and no doubt regarded curiously and

contemptuously enough by the monarch, who is not done with considering

the quality of his reception.

 

Father Valverde, informing the Inca that he has been ordered by his

general, Pizarro, to teach him the doctrines of the True Faith, at once

sets about that undertaking, expounding its tenets briefly and as

convincingly, perhaps, as could have been done under the circumstances.

Then, following the formula customarily used by the Spanish

conquistadores, he announces the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, and

the temporal power of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and urgently

recommends that the Inca acknowledge himself tributary to the latter,

forthwith.

 

No doubt the father expounded the doctrines as convincingly as possible

under the circumstances; and with as much effect, probably, as was

expected of the perfunctory mockery by the Spaniards themselves: at any

rate, not convincingly enough, but with the effect looked for and

desired; for Atahualpa, firing at the suggestion of vassalage, reddens

with anger, and demanding of Valverde his credentials and authority,

seizes the breviary, turns its pages rapidly, then casts it upon the

ground with right kingly scorn and rage.

 

"Tell your general," says he, with hot pride, "and let him say it to his

emperor, that I am no man’s vassal! And say further that before I leave

this place your people shall account to me for every act of presumption

or violence done within my territories!"

 

Shocked at the sacrilege offered the holy book, the good father snatches

it from among the feet of the heathens. The doughty Aldana claps hand

to his sword with Spanish bravado,—even draws it, says one,—but the

priest is scuttling across the plaza to Pizarro, who is waiting in the

building occupied by the infantry. Aldana follows. The wretched farce

is ended—a farce truly Spanish, as what follows is truly and

characteristically Spanish.

 

The door opens again, and Father Valverde, pale to the lips, enters and

stands before Pizarro, who is no less pale, but infinitely more

composed. Back of him in the dim obscurity of the great hall is massed

the infantry, every sword bared, every pike and halberd clutched with

nerves strained by long suspense. The priest, his voice husky with

excitement and rage at the indignity put upon the holy book, and, it may

be, at the unconcealed contempt with which he was received by the

monarch, exclaims:—

 

"Dost not see—dost not see what is taking place? Whilst we are engaged

in courtesies and parley with this dog full of pride, the plains are

filled with his warriors! Fall upon him! Fall upon him!—I absolve you!"

 

Pizarro makes no reply, but flushes with unaccustomed color, and steps

out of the door into the plaza, in his hand a white scarf. The Inca,

with the frown deepening upon his stern, calm face, sees him raise it

over his head, and wonders what new idleness——

 

A quick, sudden flash, half perceived, a sharp, ear-stunning explosion,

as of lightning striking near, and an unseen messenger of death ploughs

a mangled, horrid furrow through the dense ranks of the Peruvians. A

plunging, white sulphurous cloud has burst from one of the guns on the

redoubt, and rolls low and stifling over the square. There is a brief

instant of stillness, then a moan of terror, broken quickly by yells of

wounded men, answered by a second flash and roar. The great doors swing

back, their blankness giving place to sudden fell activity as charging

columns crash into the open with the battle-cries of Spain. An avalanche

of steel-clad men and horses here; another there; a rushing, bellowing

phalanx of infantry between. "_Santiago à ellos!_" "_Cristo y San

Miguel!_" They strike the fear-numbed mass of the Peruvians, cutting,

thrusting, slashing, with resistless fury. The ranks of nobles, silent

and motionless a moment ago, are whirled by the shock into a seething,

shrieking tumult. Those on the edge of the concourse are hurled back

upon their fellows by the tremendous impact, and cut down while they

reel. The mail-clad Spaniards, released from the nervous strain of

hours’ duration, are seized of blood-madness. Their battle-cries are

lost in an infernal chorus of screams of agony, overtopped by the

reports of the cannon which thunder savage accompaniment. A

pandemonium! An outbreak of hell itself! A horror not to be dwelt

upon!

 

The worst of the slaughter is around Atahualpa, whose person the

Spaniards are making most desperate efforts to gain; but a large number

of his escort, cut off by the charge of De Soto’s troop, have stampeded

in wild panic down the narrow streets leading from the plaza. A few

escape, but in a moment these avenues are blocked by the crush. De

Soto, having perceived at once that the Peruvians are unarmed and that

victory—if this atrocity can be so called—-was assured by the very first

collision, essays gallantly to check the worse than useless butchery.

His commands are unheard. He snatches his trumpeter’s instrument and

blows the recall—blows again and again. As well shout injunctions to a

tornado, or call to a pack of wolves. He drives among his men, striking

up their weapons. De Piedra, enraged by his interference, aims a cut at

him, and is unhelmed and unhorsed by a blow from the captain’s mace.