The Crimson Conquest 63

The Crimson Conquest 63

Cristoval made no answer, for an officer recognized as Quehuar was

beckoning.

 

The two Spaniards halted a few paces from the monarch and saluted,

awaiting his pleasure to speak. His countenance, more bronzed and

sterner in its lines, wore a trace of friendliness not there before.

The Inca studied the grim, murky visage of the cavalier before he spoke.

 

"Viracocha Cristoval," he said, at length, "General Mocho hath told me

of thy gallantry to-day—and thine, Viracocha Pedro—and I see evidence

here of thy zeal and soldierly skill. My warriors owe thee a measure of

success and hope thus far wanting. What thou hast accomplished hath

mine appreciation and gratitude, as hath all thou hast done hitherto.

There is more that I would say to you, Viracochas, but at a fitter time.

To-night you will sup with me, both."

 

The Inca gave a hand to each, and turned to continue his tour of the

suburbs.

 

The two Spaniards supped with the Inca at dark, in the open, at a table

lighted by a circle of fires. Of the score present several were

officers met at Ollantaytambo; among the strangers the Villac Vmu, now

in warrior’s garb. A number besides Mocho bore marks of recent

fighting. The formality imposed by the presence of the monarch was

lacking, and he met his guests with a revelation of his personality

unexpectedly agreeable to Cristoval. As guest of honor the cavalier had

opportunity to correct the impression gained at their first interview,

that the young potentate was a mere barbarous tyrant. By the end of the

meal, when Manco pledged first him, then Pedro, clinking their cups of

_chicha_ with his own, a friendliness was established which neither

Cristoval nor his host could have foreseen.

 

In quiet moods the resemblance of Manco to his sister Rava was

pronounced, and there were moments acutely painful to Cristoval, when

some inflection of the Inca’s voice, some gesture, or an evanescent

__EXPRESSION__ of his eyes, brought a quick vision of the loved one. But

the Ñusta Rava was not mentioned. Indeed, the captives within the city

were not referred to, nor any of the losses sustained since the

beginning of the siege. This was demanded by Peruvian stoicism; and for

all said that night the misfortunes of Tavantinsuyu might have been

unfelt. As they scorned manifestation of physical pain, so they hid

mental suffering beneath an exterior of grave impassibility.

 

At Mocho’s tent, some hours later, when Cristoval was taking leave for

the night, the general said abruptly: "Viracocha Cristoval, thou hast

done for us to-day that for which words cannot thank thee. I will not

try. But the Antis, their officers, and their general, are thine.

Command them. Lead them whither thou wilt, and thou’lt find the last

living man of them behind thee."

 

The cavalier replied with a grip of the hand. He had few words. But

when he went to his quarters he felt a sudden hope. With those fierce

battalions might he not search every nook of Cuzco? Mocho knew the

object of his quest when he entered the burning city, and his tender was

significant. That night there was little sleep for Cristoval.

 

At dawn he sought the prisoners, found one whom he knew, and questioned

him concerning the Ñusta Rava. Was she alive? Alive, and safe in the

Acllahuasi with the rest of the royal household, Father Valverde

guarding like a hawk. All had been removed from the Amarucancha before

it burned, and the Acllahuasi was one of the few buildings to escape the

conflagration.

 

Cristoval waited to ask few more questions. With Mocho and Pedro he

held council for an hour. At the end of it the two Spaniards mounted,

and making a detour of the suburbs, entered the Rimac Pampa, crossed the

Tullamayu, and reached the square called Coricancha, in front of the

Temple of the Sun. This quarter was held by the Piros and Conibos, and

once more Cristoval greeted Matopo, whom he had not seen since leaving

the Urubamba. From the Coricancha a street led north to the square

occupied by the Spaniards, and from the barricade thrown up by Matopo

could be seen the Acllahuasi at the head of the thoroughfare, with the

Amarucancha on its left, across the way. Plainly visible, also, was a

Spanish breastwork defending the square, with a falconet scowling from

its single embrasure.

 

That night Cristoval and Mocho consulted with the Inca regarding the

captives within the city.

 

Day came with a heavy sky and threat of rain. During the morning

sorties were attempted by the Spaniards, evidently for reconnaissance,

for after brief skirmishing in the littered streets, the attacking

parties withdrew. The afternoon was spent by Cristoval in making a tour

of the suburbs with the Inca, inspecting the barricades, suggesting

improvements, and perfecting or advancing the investment.

 

With darkness came rain and a rising wind. The night would favor.

Toward midnight Cristoval rode with Pedro to the Coricancha. The square

was massed with Antis, and in advance, near the barricade across the

street to the Acllahuasi, was a picked body, among them their general,

equipped with captured arms and armor—a resolute band, which Cristoval

surveyed with satisfaction.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XXXVII*

 

_*A Night Attack and a Deliverance*_

 

 

The rain fell drearily, driven and swished by flaws of the wind, which,

as the night deepened, increased to a gale, moaning and whistling

mournfully through the ruins. The hours lagged, measured by the brusque

challenging of the Spanish sentinels at each relief, distinctly heard

above the storm. Still the cavalier withheld the word for the advance,

biding the night’s most sinister hour.

 

He waited with apparent patience. But outwardly calm, within was a

turbulence of mingled hope and anxiety, eagerness and doubt; throngs of

dear anticipations, and clouds of dark misgivings. He was a lover with

the possibility of meeting his beloved ere the night was spent; but

while his heart palpitated at the thought, it sank at the attending

uncertainties, and at all that must intervene. He turned abruptly, not

daring to dwell upon a happiness so unassured. Mocho looked toward him.

"Do we move, Viracocha Cristoval?"

 

"In God’s name, yes! Let us go!"

 

Mocho muttered a word to the nearest Antis; as it passed to the rear of

the column a movement followed, barely audible. Cristoval unsheathed

his sword and laid aside belt and scabbard. Pedro imitated with a sigh

and murmured, "Well, this is what cometh of being a cook! Would I were—"

He did not finish. He had muffled his peg, and followed the cavalier

noiselessly as the latter stole out through a breach in the barricade to

the open street. Mocho, Abul Hassan, and the squad of mail-clad Antis,

were close behind; then, the main body. With the advance were two men

armed with sledges.

 

Cristoval moved forward in the darkness with caution, pausing at moments

to bate his breath and listen. Along the wall of the roofless palace of

the Priesthood of the Sun, past black doorways full of subdued echoings

of the dismal plash and drip in the courts within, until they reached an

intersecting street. Only this short distance covered! He seemed to

have travelled an hour. Looking back he found his party close upon him,

motionless, dimly seen in the faint light of the crossing. Forward

again, counting his steps. Three hundred paces, and he halted. Here was

the Acllahuasi, its thatch saved from the fire by miracle. On his left,

the Amarucancha—blank walls with a few roof-timbers vaguely outlined

against low-hanging clouds. The gate of the convent must be near, and

he waited to allow the tribesmen to pass the barricade. The movement of

those nearest him ceased; there was no sound from the rear, and for a

time, as he stood looking back into the gloom, Cristoval feared the

Antis were not following. A figure appeared before him as silently as a

phantom, and stretching forth his hand, he felt a quilted tunic. At

once another was beside him, and a third, and the cavalier could see the

stealthy movement of hundreds, creeping forward with the still tread of

pumas. Slowly they massed, and touching Pedro’s arm, Cristoval advanced.

 

In front, through the cleft between the black walls on either hand, was

a pale flickering from the square, where the fires were struggling in

the rain, ruddily lighting the mist when a blast started a few scattered

sparks, subsiding to a feeble glow until the buildings melted into

obscurity. He could descry the breastwork across the head of the

street, and the embrasure from which a falconet commanded the approach.

He looked in vain for a sentinel. But presently, the faint ring of a

grounded halberd: the sentinel was there, and awake.

 

Groping along the wall on his right, he came to a recess,—the gate!

Pedro and Mocho halted beside him. Passing his hand over the doors,

Cristoval felt the padlock, which rattled slightly under his trembling

fingers, and he drew back. Mocho pushed the two sledge-men into the

gateway, and they placed themselves with hammers poised.

 

The Antis were now moving past, led by Abul Hassan, and a detail

detached themselves and halted, ready to follow into the Acllahuasi.

Minute after minute fled, and the warriors crept on toward the square,

while Cristoval waited, shivering with excitement until he clenched his

teeth to prevent their rattling. Hours, hours, he stood before the

gates behind which he should find joy or despair, listening for what

would be the signal. The movement of the Antis was hardly audible above

the wind and rain, though as one after another brushed past he heard

their breathing, strained with the tension of coming battle. The street

was dense with them, their bent bodies and constrained, fearfully slow

advance as expressive of fierce intentness as if it could be read in

their faces. But, gods! would they never reach the square? Had the

Morisco halted? Cristoval leaned forward and glanced up the street: a

quivering level of brazen helmets, half luminous in the reflection from

the firelit haze ahead.

 

As he looked, a shout rose from the sentinel, hoarse and startled, cut

short by the deafening war-cry of the Antis as they rushed.

 

"Strike! Strike!" shouted Cristoval, and the gates thundered and

crashed under the sledges. Stroke after stroke fell upon the resonant

panels, shattering them to fragments. The street bellowed and howled.

From the square, wild shouts, the sharp blasts of a trumpet, the roar of

the assaulting Antis. A shot, then a second, and a broken fusillade. A

flash lighted the dripping walls, and an ear-stunning report rent the

heavy air. The rampart was high, and before the Antis were over a

soldier had seized a brand, rushed to the piece, uncovered the vent and

fired. Unheeding wounds and death, the Antis were on the parapet, and

the gun dismounted. They were over the work and into the square,

driving the half-formed infantry before them. But for days no horse had

been unsaddled, no trooper out of his armor. In a moment the earth was

trembling with their onset, and the Antis were hurled back to the

barricade. Here they stopped and fought, hand to hand. At other

points, now, the yells and turmoil of assault, the flash and roar of

guns. A few defences were carried, and the Peruvians plunged into the

square, to be met and broken by flying squads of horse, driven back into

the streets and slaughtered by the artillery.