Part 5

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.

*CHAPTER VII*

_*Cavalier and Cantinero*_

Night fell before the cavalry returned from pursuing the wretched fugitives, whom they hunted almost to the confines of the Peruvian camp, riding them down in their flight, and slaying without mercy. The troops of the Inca had fled without striking a blow. It would be difficult to explain their complete demoralization did we not consider the superstitious awe with which the Spaniards had been regarded from their first landing upon the Peruvian coasts. Their aspect and the supernatural powers ascribed to them bore out the ancient tradition of the fair-faced god, Viracocha, who, it is said, had once appeared upon earth, and whose reappearance had been foretold by the oracles. The white men were his descendants and agents. Already they were known as Viracochas. A mere handful, but armed with thunderbolts, they had seized the sacred person of the Inca and destroyed his nobles and generals at a blow. The keystone, the arch itself, of the empire had crumbled and fallen under the dire calamity. The people were without a ruler, the army without leaders. The authority which had held the tribes together was dissolved in an hour. Accustomed for generations to the rule of the most absolute despotism the world has ever known, they were now incapable of initiative. The Empire of Tavantinsuyu was a rudderless ship. The army resolved itself into its elements and fell in pieces.

The Inca supped that night with the Spanish commander and his officers, as had been promised. Cristoval, the only officer fit for duty after the day's work, had been detailed as commander of the exterior guard, glad to be relieved of the need of sitting at table with his comrades after so base a massacre, which, in his enforced role of spectator, he had seen in its full horror. He was a soldier, and possibly not less callous to bloodshed and suffering than many others of his calling, but never had he beheld butchery so wanton and unhindered. Had he been a participant--and now he fervently thanked God for preventing it--he would have been less impressed by its enormity. He must even have shared in some degree the infection of ferocity, until he should have realized, as had De Soto, the uselessness of the slaughter and revolted. But compelled to look on in cool blood, he had sickened. He sickened more at the brutal exultation, and at the ghastly sights in the square. A battlefield he could have surveyed unmoved. This slaughter-pen horrified him.

When his detail was formed he marched it away, grateful to Heaven that his post was remote alike from the jubilation of the soldiers and from the sounds and tainted air of the plaza.

At a villa beside the road along which the Inca had entered the town, he halted his command. The place had been broken into the evening before for use as a guard-house, and while his sergeant was making up his reliefs, Cristoval took a lantern and walked through the vacant rooms. They showed at every step the marks of the vandalism of yesterday's guard, and he explored gloomily the ruin of what had been a handsome dwelling. Tapestries before the doors had been torn down for beds. Quaintly carved furniture had been used for firewood; fragments of tableware were scattered everywhere, with curiously fashioned bronze and brass vessels crushed by the heels of the soldiers. More precious articles had been sought, as was evident in the disorder of every apartment, in broken chests, and doors with battered fastenings. Cristoval ordered a room cleared and prepared for his vigil.

Just after midnight, having returned from his rounds, he heard a challenge from the sentinel in front of the villa, then the voice of Pedro, and in a moment the cook stumped across the court and knocked. Cristoval called to him to enter, and he came in, followed by his boy, laden with what Pedro guessed would be welcome at midnight to any officer of any guard.

"_Tibi bene dico!_" quoth Pedro, "and may the night be without alarms. I have brought thee good cheer, Cristoval, lest hunger contend with vigilance. _Stomachus plenus vigiliam longam contrahit_--which is to say that a full stomach shorteneth a long watch. Caesar, I believe." Pedro grinned benignly upon the cavalier, who arose and greeted him with warmth.

"Pedro, thou 'rt a good man, full of good deeds. On my soul, I rejoice to see thee with or without thy cheer, for I find the night melancholy."

"Good!" said Pedro. "Then am I doubly welcome. Here, Pedrillo, lay out the supper on this table. Have a care, boy! Spill that soup, thou imp, and I'll make another of thee!"

"Why, _amigo_," said Cristoval, surveying the repast, "it is a feast! Thy substantial cheer is second only to the spiritual cheer in thine atmosphere. Accept my thanks. Hast supped, thyself?"

"No. No time for it. I prepared the banquet to the Inca and saw it served."

"Then thou'lt sup with me. There is more than enough for two. Pedrillo, another chair. Fall to, thou good culinary saint, and tell me about the banquet. How doth the Inca bear it?"

"He near broke my heart with his indifferent appetite," growled the cook, as he seated himself; "but otherwise he is most commendable. I thought to see a sullen, savage chieftain, oppressed by conscious inferiority and afraid of the tableware. Not so! He was gloomy, 't is true,--and who, in his position, would not be so?--but he strove against it, and talked graciously with Pizarro and the others through Felipillo, making the best of matters right gallantly, like a man. He wore a dignity and fortitude in the face of adversity, Cristoval, that would become any king, white or bronze."

"So he bore himself in the square, when taken," remarked Cristoval.

"Ah!" said Pedro. "'T is as much as a point of honor with them, saith Felipillo, not to show emotion. I tell thee, _amigo_, he compelled the respect of the officers, and no one said a discourteous word but that beast of a Mendoza, whom Pizarro commanded to keep his tongue between his teeth, and forbade Felipillo to translate his words. The Inca paid much attention to De Soto, who sat nearly opposite, and who, it appeareth, defended him against the pikes of those hounds of the infantry who would have had his life. He asked for someone else, and De Soto spoke thy name, Cristoval. Wast thou beside De Soto when the Inca fell? Then that was it! Well, the Inca hath not forgotten. I would there had been other acts of chivalry done by Spaniards this day worthy to be remembered!"

"A horrible affair, Pedro!" said Cristoval.

"Most damnably horrible!" replied Pedro, lowering his voice. "I have never seen its like but once. That was when a boy, in Palencia. One night near dawn a pack of wolves, driven by the winter's cold down from the Cantabrian Mountains, broke into the sheepfold. I thought of it to-day. I have soldiered long, Cristoval, but curse me if my sword ever took life from a defenceless man! But let me warn thee to make no comments likely to reach the ears of the commander. He and De Soto have had words already. De Soto tried to stay his troop during the slaughter. Jose and two others aided him."

"I am glad to hear it of Jose," said Cristoval.

"I fear Jose hath trouble in store," returned Pedro, with a shake of his head. "That little jaundiced friar, Mauricio, hath announced that during the struggle he saw the Virgin and Babe, with Santiago mounted on his white charger smiting the infidels with a flaming sword. He hath been seeking corroboration, and two infantrymen swear they beheld it too. The friar asked Jose, and Jose ripped out a great oath, 'No; and if such a sight was seen, the observers must have mistaken the spirits, for none but the devil and his devils would have taken part in such infamy!' Fray Mauricio's face went livid, and he denounced Jose as a heretic. He hath gone to Father Valverde and the commander. Thou knowest he is fresh from the Inquisition? Well, it is so! He was one of its most zealous officers, and the soldiers say he hath a chest full of instruments to make good Christians of the Indios."

"He will hardly make trouble for Jose," replied Cristoval. "Jose is indispensable to the army."

"A heretic is indispensable to the Inquisition! For the present Jose is safe; but wait!" Pedro hitched his chair a little nearer, and bent forward. "I tell thee, Cristoval, Fray Mauricio intendeth trouble. Thou knowest Jose is sometimes called '_El Morisco_' by the soldiers. _Bien_! And a Morisco I believe him to be. Hast ever thought of it?"

Cristoval laid down his knife and regarded the cook seriously. "By the saints, Pedro!" he said at length, "I believe thou 'rt right. I had given it no thought, but now I reflect, he hath the look, for a certainty."

"Ah!" said Pedro, leaning back. "He hath the look! He hath the manner; and for one not a clerical he is a learned man--too learned for a good Christian, Cristoval. He saith,"--here Pedro laid his hand upon, the table with great impressiveness--"he saith, and sweareth by it, that the earth revolveth on an axis, like an orange twirled on a skewer!"

"Holy San Miguel!" exclaimed Cristoval.

Pedro nodded with solemnity. "And what is more--not to say worse," he continued, "he holdeth that the earth circleth about the sun!"

"Gods!" said Cristoval, with redoubled incredulity.

Pedro nodded again, then shook his head. "This," said he, "is a pagan teaching, and Jose were better without it. 'T was held by Pythagoras, by Philolaus, by Hicetas, and later by Cicero. Saith Cicero of Hicetas, '_Hicetas Syracusius, ut ait Theophrastus, coelum, solem, lunam, stellas,_'--"

Cristoval brought his fist down upon the table with a crash: "Ten thousand demons and goblins, man! Be done! Hath the day not been trying enough without thy jabbering? Contain thy Latin, or I'll forget thy goodness!" He glowered at the cook, who smiled blandly.

"It is of no importance, _amigo_," said he. "Let it pass. I was but going to say that Jose hath pagan beliefs. But what is more serious, Cristoval, Fray Mauricio seemeth to have suspicion of them, and some knowledge of the armorer's past. Once he questioned me. I evaded a direct reply."

"Thou didst, Pedro! How?"

"Why, I asked him if he had ever tried swallowing toasted rags for his liver."

"Ho!" blurted Cristoval, and Pedro grew red from a fit of wheezy laughter until his chair creaked accompaniment.

"Didst ever take a setting hen from her nest and hold her under a pump, Cristoval, then release her?"

"Name of a saint! Of course I never did, thou unaccountable cook! Why should I?"

"Only to observe her state of mind--her indignation. Make trial of it some day, and thou'lt have Mauricio when he gave over questioning. Unctuous knave! Stew me! He should have no word from me against Jose, were I put to the rack for it!"

Pedro resumed his supper, and Cristoval studied him for a time with interest. At last he said abruptly: "Pedro, thou 'rt an uncommon man--a most singular and unexampled cook, by the faith! How comest thou by thy learning--thy Latin and curious lore? And having these, how comest thou a cook? What the fiend doth a cook with Pythagoras, and Cicero, and Caesar?"

Pedro flushed, and leaned back, regarding the cavalier soberly. "Why, Cristoval," he said slowly, "'t is a long story--and one I do not tell."

"Oh, thy pardon, Pedro! I thought not to pry, believe me! Prithee, forget that I asked!"

"Nay!" said Pedro, reflectively. "It is natural, and I begrudge thee not an answer." He turned to his boy, who was sitting near: "Pedrillo, seek the sergeant of the guard, and ask him to explain to thee the theory of fortifications. Thou mayest some day find it useful." Pedrillo's chin dropped, and he retired slowly. Pedro continued: "It is a long story, Cristoval, but I will make it brief.--I was not always a cook, as I have said to thee before. I--I have a name. It is not Pedro. I am Luis de Cardenas--of a family as ancient as thine, Peralta. _Bien_! I am a younger son, and, if thou wilt, an _indigno_--a worthless one. I was intended for the priesthood, and partly prepared for it. It was a mistake. I studied by day to the satisfaction of my instructors, but one night they found my bed arranged with the pillows lengthwise in a simulacrum of my form. I was elsewhere. Thus they found it the next night, and many following. I had learned to scale a wall, to sing a serenade, and mount to a balcony in a most unclerical way, Cristoval. My superiors held council. I was disciplined. Grew weary of bread-and-water, and escaped. Followed a regiment, and became a soldier. Was disowned by my family. Lost a leg at Pavia. Could soldier no longer, and so turned _cantinero_--sutler. Came across the sea, first to Cuba, then heard of Peru, and here I am--no priest, no soldier, and only five-sevenths of a cook. 'T is all. I am Pedro, _el cocinero_--Pedro, the cook. Know me thus, _amigo_ and not otherwise." Pedro sighed almost inaudibly, and toyed with his knife. Cristoval extended his hand.

"I thank thee for thy confidence," he said gravely. "Thy name shall not pass me, but I am glad to know it. Thou hast been a friend, and if thou'lt believe me, hast made one."

Pedro accepted the hand without a word. Cristoval poured the _chicha_, they touched their cups and drank. After that, little was said, and, the supper finished, Pedro arose. "Now," said he, "I must go. I have been made lord chamberlain to the Inca until he shall be better provided, and must be up betimes. _Adios_, Cristoval."

"Wait!" said Cristoval. "I will escort thee, my Lord Chamberlain. I've need to go to my quarters."

"It will be a knightly courtesy," answered Pedro, "for I have no gizzard in me for crossing that square unattended. Not that I am afraid, look thou, Cristoval; but that boy is as whole-souled a coward as ever looked behind in the dark, and he maketh me nervous with his gasps and snorts. I have no superstition, but they do say that the souls of infidels wander in eternal restlessness."

"The souls of all men dead by violence wander until masses be said in their behalf," replied Cristoval, "and hence the souls of infidels must wander eternally. But have no uneasiness, amigo. Ghosts fear a sword as a live Italian the evil eye, and dread the sign of the cross even more. Come!"

They set out with Pedrillo carrying a lantern, and took a street leading toward the plaza. Just before they reached it Cristoval halted at a small door and pushed it open. "Come this way, Pedro," he said, "and we can avoid the barricade of dead at the end of the street."

"Heaven be praised!" responded Pedro. "On my way to the guard-house I thought never to pass it with my heart in my body. 'T is not as if these people were slain in battle, Cristoval. I fear not a battlefield."

"This is thrice more grewsome," assented Cristoval. "But come! Enter!"

"Thou first, prithee, my friend! 'T is villanously dark--and thou hast two good legs for running!"

"_Bien_! Then follow!" and Cristoval entered the building. The door opened into a passage leading to the patio. They traversed the latter, and crossing an apartment, found themselves at the doors opening upon the plaza. Cristoval swung one of them open. Pedro took a step forward, then recoiled with a suddenness that sent a quick chill down the back of the redoubtable Cristoval, who was not without dread of the supernatural.

"_Nombre de Dios_! What is that?" gasped the cook, peering out into the darkness and clutching his companion's arm.

"What is what? Where?" demanded Cristoval.

"There--in the plaza!" whispered Pedro, making signs of the cross by the score.

The place was faintly illumined by the starlight. On the farther side the buildings rose dim and silent. Between, the area was ridged and strewn with formless heaps, from which rose the moans and low wails of anguish of the few unfortunates to whom merciful death had not come. For a moment Cristoval failed to perceive a cause for Pedro's sudden fear. But while he looked a vague form rose from among the shadows, moved forward a few skulking paces, stooped, and was occupied with something on the ground. Farther away, Cristoval saw another, then a third and a fourth, slinking and bending over the fallen Peruvians, and their occupation came to him in a flash. They were robbers of the dead--foul carrion-birds whose greed even the satiety and weariness of the day's slaughter could not restrain. With an exclamation of disgust and rage Cristoval went quickly forward, unnoticed by the ghoul, who, knife in hand, was tearing at the precious decorations of the victims. As Cristoval approached, he heard a groan, then a faint, pleading voice, and saw the knife raised to silence it. He was upon the murderous soldier at a bound, and his hand closed upon the uplifted arm. The startled soldier turned with an oath, seized the knife in his free hand, and struck savagely at his captor, the blow ringing harmless upon the latter's corselet. Before he could strike again Cristoval's mailed fist crashed into his face, and he rolled senseless upon the pavement. His companions heard the disturbance, and hurried to aid their mate. They drew at once, and fell upon the disturber of their hideous business with one accord. Cristoval drove among them with his sword, and the sudden clash of their weapons resounded in the square. They gave way before his first rush, but closed round him immediately, bent upon his death, when Pedro, perceiving that they were not unearthly and that his friend was in danger, charged, stumping across the intervening ground, sword in hand, awakening the night with vehement imprecations. Meanwhile Pedrillo had likewise found his voice, and was clamoring at its highest pitch: "The guard! Ho, the guard! The guard! _Santiago a nosotros_! The guard!"