The Crimson Conquest 51

The Crimson Conquest 51

"Prisoners, forsooth! Well, if I were a man! But thou ’rt too

good-natured, Pedro, for thine own good. And thou ’rt a love to rescue

me," she added, tenderly.

 

Pedro stepped back a pace and looked uneasily about. "Nay, Señora

Bolio," he said, hastily, "it was not I. It was Peralta. Wait. I’ll

call him."

 

"Oh, thou’rt so modest, Pedro! I tell thee, it was thou! But hold!

God ha’ mercy! I had almost forgotten to tell thee. Thou ’rt undone!

They have entered thy lodging in Xauxa, broken into thy chests, and

taken thy belongings."

 

"Furies and devils!" exclaimed the cook, sharply. "Who have?"

 

"Those runnion pikemen from the fortress."

 

At once flashed over him the use he had planned to make of his savings

in aiding Cristoval to escape. He spun around once on his peg and swore

with such violence that the cavalier and Father Tendilla hurried up.

 

"My son, my son!" cried the priest, placing a hand upon his shoulder.

"Thy tongue is imperilling thy soul."

 

"Name of a saint, Pedro! What hath happened?" demanded Cristoval,

anxiously.

 

"Happened!" shouted Pedro. "Scurviness hath happened. Thievery hath

happened. Sack, plunder, housebreaking, and depredation have happened.

Those rakehells of the infantry have robbed me. Oh, hoop me with hoops

lest I burst before I’ve killed a pikeman!"

 

He ceased abruptly and went to his mule, leaving the señora to explain.

She did so with brevity and emphasis, and Cristoval turned to the priest

in disgust: "We’ve brought a mangy pack, Father Tendilla, to set loose

upon these hapless people. They turn to robbing one another before

they’ve done robbing the country." The father shook his head sadly, but

made no reply.

 

The advance guard moved on, and Matopo passed with his officers, casting

a curious glance at the señora as he bowed. She responded with a

haughty inclination and compressed her lips. It required all the

persuasive eloquence of her three countrymen to induce her to mount and

enter the column; but finding separation from Pedro the alternative, she

at last consented, declaring vigorously that the barbarian who undertook

to make a prisoner of her would repent his insolence and remember the

circumstance. She swung into her saddle, disdaining assistance, and they

were soon on the march.

 

Now Cristoval’s good heart was warmed by later news of Rava. He rode

with Father Tendilla, listening with eagerness to the tale of her

sojourn at Xauxa, given with detail and sympathy by the kindly old

priest, who was glowing in his eulogies of the gentle proselyte. The

cavalier’s hundred repeated questions were patiently answered over and

over, and before an hour Cristoval had unbosomed himself, candidly

revealing his hope of escape with her from the country. The priest

listened to the plan, and said:—

 

"Well, my son, it will be for the child a hazardous undertaking.

However, it will be in the guidance of Heaven. I had thought the maiden

might find refuge from her sorrows in a life of holiness, for which her

spirit seemeth well adapted. If it be otherwise ordained, it would not

beseem me to oppose, and I will do all in my power to further thy

happiness and hers."

 

"I thank you, father," said Cristoval. "But do you know whether Rava is

aware that I am living?"

 

"I know not. I have written to Father Valverde since I learned it from

the youth whom thou didst send from Xilcala, but have had no reply.

Cañares have been abroad, and communication uncertain. The messenger

may not have passed them. I have come myself, therefore, thinking to

bear the news, but it hath ended—thus,"—and he cast a look over the

battalions.

 

"Doubtless we can send her word," said Cristoval. "Matopo saith she is

likely to be at Yucay, where the Incas have a castle. I think we may

reach her, good father."

 

"I pray it may be so, surely," replied Tendilla.

 

That night the command encamped on the elevated plain of Curahuasi,

awaiting the morrow to cross the Apurimac. Before daylight it was

moving again, and shortly the head of the column was threading its way

down the wall of the chasm whence rose the faint murmur of the torrent,

thousands of feet below. The trail seemed to Cristoval a mere scratch

on the cliff. At his elbow rose the rock-mass, so steep that scarcely a

shrub found clinging-place, while almost beneath his stirrup the

precipice dropped away to an abyss. The descent, at first moderate,

became so rapid as it zig-zagged from point to point that every step

threatened to plunge horse and rider headlong. Generations of wayfarers

had worn the rock treacherously smooth, and he presently dismounted to

lead his horse. The others followed his example, and he heard the señora

whimpering to Pedro. Gingerly now he went, hugging closely to points

which so crowded the path that his saddlebow was scraped by the

overhanging wall. In places the descent was by steps hewn into the

granite, down which his horse blundered perilously, menaced at every

slip by a hideous fall into vacancy. Cristoval’s eyes were drawn to the

brink in resistless fascination, and he crept along with shrinking soul.

He heard Pedro muttering: "Martyred saints—and spirits damned! This is

what cometh—of being a cook!"

 

They were hours descending, but the hours seemed days. At length the

path lost itself in the blackness of a cavern-mouth. Cristoval found

himself in a reverberating tunnel driven three hundred yards through

living rock. Openings on the right admitted air and the growing thunder

of the torrent. In the open again for another giddy, stumbling clamber

down a hundred fathoms; and the bridge! Cristoval whispered a prayer.

From a narrow shelf it swung out over the chasm in a long, sweeping

curve to its anchorage on the farther side, a mere gossamer swaying in

the breeze and vibrating fearfully beneath the soldiers’ tread.

Cristoval quailed within his steel at its frailty. From a huge windlass

on the platform beside him stretched three cables of four or five inches

in thickness, forming the support for the narrow floor. Above and on

either side was a smaller cable connected with the floor supports by

ropes, and serving as guard-rails, though the security afforded was

largely moral, the vertical spaces between the cords being large enough

to admit of a fall through at any point.

 

As Cristoval looked out over the quivering one hundred and fifty feet of

fragility, listening to the lugubrious creaking of the cables at their

anchorage, his hardihood slowly oozed. The bridge was now clear for his

passage. He swore a little in undertone, piously consigned himself to

the Virgin’s keeping, and led off. His horse sniffed at the footway

with deep-drawn breaths and long, tremulous expirations, but followed at

his word. A stiff breeze was blowing up the canyon, swinging the

structure rhythmically through an arc of six or eight feet, and

Cristoval’s brain reeled as he glanced at the sinister, whirling rush of

green and foam bellowing a hundred feet below. Steadying his eyes on a

point ahead, he picked his way out into the air. An age in crossing, but

at last he neared the end. Here his weight and that of the horse

shifted the sag of the cables so that the last few feet were a steep

ascent with scant foothold; but he scrambled up, and with a sigh of

relief, stood on solid ground. He looked back. Father Tendilla was

following, leading his mule and holding his hat in place, the wind

tossing and tearing at his robe, and the cavalier turned giddy again as

he watched the old priest’s slow advance over the narrow, swinging

floor. Cristoval gave him a hand at the end, and fairly jerked him to

safety on the shelf.

 

Pedro and the señora were to follow, and here occurred a pause. The

lady balked. She seated herself on the windlass, swelling with

negation.

 

"Cross that unholy thing of strings and straws, Pedro?" she exclaimed,

indignantly. "Not if I were a spider! ’T is a device of the devil, and

may the devil fly away with it, or roost upon it! It is no place for a

Christian. I’ll go round, and that’s an end to ’t!"

 

"Go round!" retorted Pedro, impatiently. "Thou’lt march four hundred

leagues to go around, Señora."

 

"Then I’ll go back."

 

"Impossible to go back. The trail is full."

 

"Then I’ll sit here till ’tis empty."

 

"Oh, the fiend, woman! Dost not see they cannot pass for our mules?

The column is waiting."

 

"Then let the column wait and twiddle its fingers! The column can wait

till it turneth to a column of waiting mummies if it see fit, but I’ll

not put foot to that bridge!"

 

Pedro stared at her helplessly. The way was blocked. Ocallo with his

mule was behind them, and the narrow platform was full, the column at a

standstill, its head at a safe distance from the heels of the rearmost

animal. Somewhere, Matopo was storming, his voice rising above the roar

of the stream, and echoing and reëchoing weirdly between the granite

walls. Cristoval was hailing, and shortly began to swear. The lady

tossed her head, and pulling up a spear of grass, began to chew its end.

Pedro laughed with exasperation; opened his mouth, but finding no

expletives to fit the situation, closed it again and grew excessively

red. The soldiers in the rear began to murmur. Pedro contained himself

with an effort, and began sadly:—

 

"Well, so it must be, Señora! _Adiós_! I shall remember thee. I shall

think of thee with a pang. I shall see thee ever in my darkest moments,

sitting dreary amid the lonely majesty of the eternal mountains on an

uncushioned windlass, a spear of grass thine only sustenance, whilst

tempest and avalanche thunder about thee throughout the drift of years.

_Adiós_, Señora! Thou’lt be in my dreams, a silent, graceful, but

resolute form, waiting in solitude, holding the brittle remnants of a

pair of reins; at thy feet a shrunken, staring, decayed cadaver of a

mule, giving voiceless, desiccated testimony of thine inflexibility.

_Adiós_! _Adiós_! I go. Come, thou, my steadfast and faithful steed,

we obey the pointed finger of destiny. _Fata nos nolentes trahunt_!"

 

Pedro turned away, and straining to produce a sob, fetched a hiccough,

and led to the bridge. The lady, at first bewildered by his burst of

gloomy eloquence, then touched by the profound melancholy with which it

was delivered, melted from determination to tenderness. As he stepped

upon the floor she rose, glanced about despairingly, and shouted:—

 

"Hold, Pedro, thou dear love of a man! I follow! Wait for me, thou poor

thing—and the fiend take the bridge and its makers if it serve me not

across!"

 

But at the terror of the swaying structure she faltered, and Pedro

turned. "Nay, Señora!" he cried, in a voice of sad but gentle

deprecation, and raising his hand, "’t is too much. I ask it not. Turn

back."

 

For answer she sat down, and in her desperation heedless of exposure of

limb, began sliding down the steep incline, clutching and moaning

plaintively, the feminine now wholly uppermost. At last she neared

Pedro’s mule, and he called:—

 

"Stand up, my dear, and grasp his tail."

 

"Oh—God’s mercy!—he will kick!" she replied, in a shuddering wail.

 

"Nay, stew me! a fly would not venture to kick out here," answered

Pedro, with feeling. "Seize his tail!"

 

She did so, and with many a piteous whine and gasp, was at length across

the abyss.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXX*

 

_*An Encounter on the Plain of Chita*_

 

 

Within a few days after the passage of the Apurimac Matopo crossed, by a

rapid night march, the plateau of Chita, not many leagues from Cuzco.

He moved with caution, and halted, near morning, at the eastern edge of

the plain, awaiting daylight before the descent into the valley of the

Urubamba where lay Ollantaytambo, the rendezvous of the Inca’s forces

and his objective.

 

The column moved at sunrise. Below, a full mile almost straight down,

spread the floor of the valley. The road was a masterpiece of

engineering. At points it was hewn out of the solid rock; at others,

supported by masonry; but everywhere of even breadth and gradient, and

smoothly paved. Cristoval soon had a view of a distant town which

Matopo said was Urubamba, clinging to the lower slopes of the opposite

mountains, and near it the palace of Yucay, faintly visible. He saw it

with a heart-throb, for here might be Rava.

 

Upon reaching the plain the command went into bivouac. Three days of

forced marches had been exhausting, and at the earliest moment possible

Cristoval disarmed, stretched himself upon his cloak under a terrace

wall, and was soon asleep. He was roused by a Conibo. The sun, far

past the meridian, apprised him that he had slept long.

 

"Viracocha," said the soldier, as the cavalier sat up, "the general

would see you at once."

 

Cristoval noticed the man’s perturbation, and gathered up his cloak to

follow. He saw signs of unusual agitation among the Conibos, and that

the few still sleeping were being roused. Those awake were gathered in

knots, some conversing excitedly, but most were standing about, silent

and profoundly depressed. Those he passed glanced at him darkly and

turned away, some with muttered words which he could not hear. The

cavalier, though wondering, was little disturbed; but he grew more

concerned at the gloom and gravity of Matopo and his assembled officers.

As he drew near he saw several nobles in the group quite unknown to him,

who had apparently just arrived.

 

"_Diós_! Something hath gone awry," he said to himself, and hurried his

steps. Matopo said abruptly,

 

"Viracocha, the Inca hath been made a prisoner."

 

Cristoval stopped, thunderstruck, and looked about the grim-faced

circle. For a moment he was speechless, then demanded sharply: "A

prisoner, sayst thou! Where is he a prisoner? Who hath made him

prisoner?"

 

"Ah, who!" returned Matopo, fiercely. "Who but the Viracochas? He is

in the Sachsahuaman. He was taken on his way to Ollantaytambo. The

Auqui Paullo, the Ñustas, and most of his household are held in the

palace at Cuzco, with—"

 

Cristoval interrupted him with a savage oath. "The Ñusta Rava? Is she

again in the power of those hell-hounds?"

 

"All who were within the palace. Guards were put around it the moment

it was known that the Inca had left the city."

 

Cristoval stood glowering, observed with some astonishment by the

strangers, who, although already aware of his identity, were unprepared

for his demonstration, and still less so for his vehement demand:—

 

"Matopo, what dost purpose? Whatever it may be must be quickly done,

for I tell thee, the Inca’s life is not worth a hair among those

miscreants, and should they suspect preparations for war it would not be

worth—" and he snapped his fingers. "What is thy purpose?"

 

"Viracocha, this is my Lord Quehuar," said Matopo, indicating the noble

beside him. "In the absence of the Inca he is in command."

 

The cavalier turned to him with as much force as he had addressed

Matopo. "Lord Quehuar, if the movement of thy troops is known in Cuzco,

there is not an hour to lose. The Pizarros will hesitate less to kill

the Inca than in killing Atahualpa. Thou must act without delay. Have

measures been taken for his rescue?"

 

The old noble hesitated before replying. But there was that in

Cristoval’s manner, in his vigorous intensity of speech, and his total

unconsciousness of any consideration other than the Inca’s danger, that

banished doubt and commanded deference. The old Indio felt it, and

without loss of dignity.

 

"No steps have yet been taken, Viracocha," he said, "for we have just

been released from Cuzco. Nothing is known of the assembling of the

Inca’s troops. We have arrived at no determination. The calamity is

overpowering."

 

Cristoval took a step forward as he answered, "The calamity will grow

hourly, Lord Quehuar. The Inca must be released. Is the fortress

strongly garrisoned?"

 

"Not strongly. Some thirty Viracochas."

 

"Good!" cried Cristoval. "Give me a hundred men and some one who

knoweth the fortress, and we will release him.—_Hola_, Pedro!"

 

"_Aqui_! Here!" answered the approaching cook. "What is to do now? I

have been shaken and thumped, and despoiled of sleep worth a

_castellano_ the minute. What is wrong, Cristoval?"

 

Cristoval replied in Quichua, "The Inca hath been imprisoned, and the

Ñusta Rava is again in toils." Pedro halted with an exclamation, and

Cristoval continued, "I say that with a hundred followers we can release

him, Pedro. What sayst thou—wilt go?"

 

"Thou knowest, Cristoval!" replied the cook, with force. "But hast

forgotten that I am myself a prisoner?"

 

Cristoval faced Matopo and demanded, "What of this, my lord? Wilt

accept his word?"

 

The general signified his willingness emphatically, and Cristoval again

turned to Quehuar with impetuosity: "My Lord Quehuar, permit us to march

to-night."

 

Mocho, the fiery, strode forward. "Let me take a battalion of my Antis,

General. I know the fortress to the last stone."

 

Quehuar deliberated, and turned to the other nobles. "My lords, we will

consider it. Viracochas, we thank you for the offer of your swords."

He bowed. Taking Pedro’s arm, Cristoval withdrew.

 

The conference was prolonged. Doubts were expressed by some concerning

the prudence of trusting a Viracocha, and Matopo was questioned closely.

Markumi and the other Xilcalans were summoned, and finally, Cristoval

himself. His manifest sincerity determined the matter, and a _chasqui_

was sent speeding to Ollantaytambo, some hours away, bearing a command

from Mocho to his Antis.

 

Upon Pedro fell the task of apprising the señora of a short expedition

with Cristoval, and of persuading her to accompany Matopo to

Ollantaytambo. This the cook achieved with rare diplomacy. The lady,

vehement in her obduracy for a time, in the end consented, and with

Father Tendilla, marched with the Conibos that afternoon. The Antis

arrived at nightfall, two hundred strong, the pick of Mocho’s warriors.

At dawn the expedition moved, with Cristoval and Pedro beside Mocho at

its head.

 

Leaving the valley for the plateau of Chita, they took the direct road

to the capital. Not long after midday a scout came in to say that two

mounted Viracochas, accompanied by a third man on foot, were approaching

from the direction of Cuzco. The two riders were in armor and bore

lances. The pedestrian was a native, and appeared to be captive. Mocho

heard the report and cast a critical glance over the country about.

Some distance ahead was a low plain, boggy in spots beside the road, and

surrounded by broken, rocky knolls. With a directness gratifying to

Cristoval’s soldierly taste, Mocho broke his command into parties to

surround the plain, with orders to close upon it by squads when the

strangers had reached the middle, and to cover, especially, gullies and

slopes which might offer avenue for flight. Enough were retained to

hold the road, and they retired to a rise of ground which concealed them

from the oncoming party. Cristoval looked about in surprise. The two

hundred had vanished as if by magic.

 

The wait was not long, and as the strangers descended the opposite slope

Cristoval and Pedro spurred forward. There was some surprise at their

sudden appearance, but the trio did not halt. Cristoval and his

companion were first to reach the middle of the plain, and drew rein to

await the strangers, who advanced without suspicion. Cristoval observed

that the man on foot was a noble, and seemingly little more than a

youth.

 

Presently one of the two mounted Spaniards hailed, and Cristoval dropped

his visor with the word: "Mendoza, by the saints!" Pedro grunted his

surprise and followed the example, but neither replied. The movement

and silence seemed to excite uneasiness, for the trio slowed up, and

Mendoza called again:—

 

"_Hola, amigos_! How far to Chinchero?"