Читать книгу The Crimson Conquest - Charles B. Hudson - Страница 17

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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 than of a neighborly visit, I'll be bound!"

"Wait!" replied the commander, shortly.

"By the saints, we have little time for waiting! They will be upon us in half an hour; and not even a barricade! Let me take my troop and show them our metal, at least."

"Wait!" repeated Pizarro, sternly.

Hernando sprang down with a curse, and strode away. At this instant an exclamation broke from De Soto.

"Look!—The causeway!"

The head of a column had pushed out from the trees which hid the approach to the bridge. The distance was too great to disclose its nature, but soon the highway was covered with thousands. Presently Pizarro noted with relief that the movement of the encircling line had been arrested, and the approaching column had advanced beyond it. He could hear the rolling of drums and the weird strains of heathen marching music. Soon no doubt remained that it was the escort of the Inca. About half a mile from the edge of the town the column turned from the causeway and halted, and the anxious watchers saw they were pitching tents. A chasqui was seen speeding toward the town. Pizarro descended to the square with his officers. A soldier from the exterior guard hurried in with the chasqui, a half-naked, clean-limbed, intelligent-looking youth, lithe and supple as a panther. He bore a message, translated by Felipillo, to the effect that the Inca would camp for the night on the plain, and would enter in the morning. An impatient oath, quickly suppressed, escaped Pizarro, and he replied coolly:—

"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. Well struck, De Soto! Pity it had not been better; for Piedra will be breathing again before an hour has passed. But De Soto finds it perilous work. In a moment his horse is wounded by a pikeman, and rearing, slips and is down. Steed and rider are lost in the confusion: at last, up again, the captain unhurt. It is some minutes before he is mounted, and meanwhile a wall of stone and adobe forming part of the enclosure of the square has given away before the crush of the fear-driven horde, and they burst through the break in a huge struggling torrent. They reach the plain outside the town, pursued with relentless ferocity by the cavalry. The Inca's troops, already in consternation at the uproar in the village, the shrieks, the cannonade, and the overhanging cloud of smoke, take the panic and scatter as chaff before the wind.

In the square the din has lost its volume. Candia has ceased firing, for the smoke impedes his view of the shambles, where friends are endangered by his guns. Around the Inca the unequal struggle goes on under his horror-stricken eyes, and he stands, benumbed and helpless, tottering on his reeling litter. In the anguish of their despair his nobles cast themselves to death with a loyalty of devotion the gods might envy; but the bulwark they interpose before their beloved lord grows steadily less. Several of the Spaniards now are making frenzied efforts to reach him with their weapons, and one has hurled his pike. Pizarro sees the movement and shouts, hoarse with weariness, unheard and unheeded, "Strike not the Inca, on pain of death!"

But he is heard by Cristoval, who, with two or three sick men, has been left as a guard for the priests, still at their supplications. Since the first thundering charge he has watched the long tragedy, at first with tense excitement at the onslaught, then with deepening horror and loathing when he saw the defencelessness of the Peruvians, until he has turned away, sick to his very soul, hating his race, his blood, his parentage, himself. He has cast his sword upon the ground. Now he seizes it and bounds toward the scene with a curse at every stride.

The enclosing line of Spaniards has drawn near to the Inca. One of his bearers goes down, then another. The sedan plunges wildly and sinks, throwing its royal burden almost upon the weapons of his enemies. He is down. A pike is at his breast, but swept aside by Cristoval's sword, whose savage thrust the infantryman barely escapes. An axe flashes overheard, and crashes upon Cristoval's buckler. But Pizarro is beside him. As the general stretches out his hand to raise the Inca, a pike-thrust rips both hand and arm—the only wound, be it known to the everlasting infamy of this band of murderers, received by a Spaniard in the day's affair!

Pizarro's voice rises above the tumult: "Back, dogs! Back, or, by God, ye shall suffer!"

De Soto has dismounted, and dashes through the rabid pack. His buckler touches that of Cristoval, and the two shields ring with a shower of blows aimed at the Inca. It is minutes before the murderous zeal is quelled, and a circle cleared around the captive prince.

A stillness has settled over the plaza—alas! not a stillness; for the din has given place to sounds yet more dreadful, in the shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying.

There are many prisoners, and Hernando Pizarro is directing the work of making them secure in the buildings. Surrounding the group about the Inca is a turbulent circle of soldiers, panting yet from their work, and jostling one another for a view of the royal prisoner. They make a savage and grewsome picture as they glare, red-eyed, faces flushed, reeking with sweat and splashed with blood from head to foot, leaning upon their gory weapons. Atahualpa stands silent, proudly erect, his features immovable as bronze, seemingly devoid of emotion as if his heart were of that metal. His dark, stern eyes overlook the encircling mob, but as if they see no man. He is no less kingly now than a few hours ago, when surrounded by the splendor of his court. Those guarding him are equally silent in the stupor of weariness and reaction. At length Pizarro speaks:—

"Come, gentlemen, let us move! Guard him closely!"

They close round him. As they are about to leave the square, Atahualpa turns toward the heaps of his people who vainly gave their lives in his defence, and raising his hands, speaks a few words in Quichua, broken by one great sob that shakes his frame. Then he turns away, his countenance as sternly impassive and inscrutable as before.

As they enter the building which is to serve as his temporary prison, the sun is setting—setting forever upon the empire of the Incas.