Captain from Castile (50 page)

"Yes. Espiritu Santo! It's now or never. Let the heathen dogs have it!"

"Chiton, you fool!" snapped Pedro. He knew what the matter was with Alvarez. His own blood, whipped into foam by the drums, sang dangerously. "Cursed fool!"

The other's hand dropped on his sword. "Did you say jool, de Vargas?"

"By God!" Alvarado burst out wildly. He stretched his huge arms. "You're right, it's now or never. We'll have done with them. We'll give them the steel." His voice rose in a bellow above the thumping of the drums. "Espiritu Santo!"

The tension of the past two weeks, the rising flood of fear, uncertainty, desperation, broke its dike at the word and toppled forward in release. Like a flash of lightning, Alvarado's sword passed through the nearest of the dancers, jerked back and half-severed the neck of a

second. A poniard in his other hand buried itself in a third. Roaring some kind of shout, he struck and stabbed among the gaily dressed throng, his steel helmet towering above it. On every side other blades flashed, then hacked and thrust. The beat of the drums gave place to a pandemonium of shrieks, yells, oaths—an agonized outcry that rose from the shambles, like the spirit of madness made articulate.

Rushing toward the gates of the enclosure, the Aztecs fell upon the swords of the soldiers who filled the openings. Turning toward the steps of the pyramid, they again faced a line of steel. Dashing toward the entrance of the shrines, they found the Spaniards here too on guard. Without weapons, taken utterly by surprise, the greater number had not the remotest chance. If they tried to scale the walls, they were cut down; if they begged for mercy, a blow silenced them. Relatively few escaped wounded to spread the news.

Buffeted here and there, Pedro could only look on helplessly. His first shout of protest had been lost in the explosion, and now there was nothing to do but watch the massacre, disgusted, ashamed, and sick at heart.

As the dead bodies piled up, littering the courtyard, a scramble for loot began, a plucking and tearing of gold ornaments or jewels from the corpses.

"It's mine, I tell you."

"No, by God, it's mine. I killed him."

The wranglers collided with Pedro, who, infected by the savagery around him, now saw red in his turn. Unsheathing, he brought the flat of his sword down on the head of one of the Spaniards.

The man turned with a snarl. It was Francisco Alvarez. A hot joy leaped up in de Vargas. By the saints, this was a relief! He could shut out the beastly scene for an instant and let his jangled nerves loose.

But the release was short-lived. Pedro's reputation in the company as a swordsman stopped the other even before their blades clashed. Alvarez received one stinging cut across the face and one on the shoulder, then backed away and took frankly to his heels, plunging into the mob that still eddied through the courtyard.

"Come back, obscenity," de Vargas shouted, starting to follow, when a group whirled in front of him and caught his attention. A tall Aztec, wearing the green panache and rich accouterment of a chief, had somehow got possession of a Spanish sword, with which he was laying about him and, for the moment, holding off a couple of prize-hunters. Untrained in the use of it, he could not last long, all the more as Nightingale Casca, an expert in rough-and-tumble, half-crouching

behind his buckler, circled around on the lookout for an opening.

Then, as the Indian turned full in his direction, Pedro recognized the Aztec whom he had previously taken for Coatl. He had seen that face wearing the same masklike ferocity in the barranca near Jaen. It was the man who had spared his Hfe and whose life in turn he had saved.

He acted on the impulse of the moment.

Springing forward, he caught the Indian's sword with an enlacing movement of his own, gave a twist of the wrist, then a jerk that disarmed him. And at the same instant, which brought them almost hand to hand, he saw that Coatl recognized him.

"Bravo!" said Casca. "But, Redhead, I claim my share. I'd have had the dog at the next turn except for you."

"And so would I," put in Santesteban. "I say it ought to be a third share each. . . . Here, I'll do the dirty work."

Expecting it, Pedro turned the blow of the dagger.

"No, amigos, by God, let me have him. I've taken a fancy to his equipment complete. It'll make a proper gift for Catana. I'll pay your shares—say fifty pesos each, eh? Hurry on, or you'll miss something better. I'll deal with him."

A quick estimate convinced the two men that fifty pesos each was well-paid or at least surer in stamped gold than in the form of rings, bangles, and turquoise. They knew also that Captain de Vargas's word was good. At another time, they might have been curious to see how he would finish the Indian; but at the moment the scramble for loot was too hot. Fortunately Coatl had the shrewdness to stand quiet like a

man awaitmg execution.

"Have it your way then," said Casca, hurrying off. "Remember— fifty pesos."

Pedro kept a grip on the prisoner's throat, sword point against his belly. He did not need to explain that play-acting was necessary.

"It's been a long time since Jaen," he said. "To think we should be meeting here, Coatl!"

The other nodded, his dark eyes searching Pedro's. The glance expressed uncertainty.

"I didn't know you were an Aztec then."

Coatl shook his head. "Not Aztec. My land west. Friends to Tenoch-cas. I Zapotec."

Some tributary state. Pedro glanced toward the wall of the enclosure, a hundred yards off, and jerked his head. For a moment the coast was clear. The remaining Indians, herded in the center, were

surrounded by a circle of swords, focusing the butchery and clamor. Scattered Spaniards were engaged in rifling dead bodies.

"Hark you, Coatl. Beat my sword aside. Give me a shove and make for that wall. Hasta la vista!"

The other lifted two fingers. "Twice," he said.

"Quick, you fool!"

"Twice, cahallero,"

Then, following Pedro's directions, Coatl put on a convincing act— struck the sword to one side with his naked arm, twisted out of de Vargas's grip, sent him staggering back with a blow on the chest, and streaked for the wall. Leaping high, he caught the coping, lifted himself to the top, and disappeared on the other side.

Pedro ran and shouted, then with a wry smile put up his sword. He felt a twinge of superstition. What strange conjunction of their stars had brought him and Coatl twice together from across the world? Why should he twice have saved this man from death? Compulsion of circumstances. But who arranged the circumstances? What power—

"Let that be a lesson to you, de Vargas," said a familiar voice. Alvarado stooped over and, ripping a clout from a dead Indian, wiped his sword. "When you have one of those dogs in your grasp, don't give him time to say a prayer to his devils. Knock him on the head. Slippery vipers!"

In spite of his nonchalance, the Captain-in-Chief's sunniness was gone. He wore a hangdog, preoccupied look.

Pedro glanced at the pavement veined with rivulets of blood.

"Well, Senor Captain," he said dryly, "compliments on a noble feat of arms!"

Alvarado blazed up with all the passion of a tormented conscience. "Will you be pert with me, little master! Who spoke of feats of arms? A stroke of policy, yes—and to my mind a sound one. I don't care for your tone, and, by God, I'll chastise it."

"Chastise it?" echoed Pedro, his glance level. "Pick your words,

sefior."

"Not too carefully, my son," Alvarado retorted, the devil in him on top. "But pick them yourself. Are mutinous young puppies chastised or whipped? Or perhaps hanged? Who's the commander here?"

Pedro drew a step closer. Unconsciously, at the moment, his father's lisp crept out. "You, sir. You, sir, by all means. Who denies it? And do you take refuge behind that, eh?"

"Refuge?"

"Aye, sir. Or have you the stomach to meet me face to face? Then

we'll determine this chastisement you speak of. But if not, without picking words, I'll ask you, who's the coward here?"

"Stomach to meet you!" Alvarado grinned. "Surely even you haven't the gall to apply coward to me."

Pedro bowed. "And the time of this meeting, Sefior Captain?"

"Now!"

Alvarado snapped down his vizor. Whatever his faults, certainly cowardice was not one of them. He stepped back to gain room and drew his sword. Pedro kissed the cross hilt of his for good luck.

But at that moment a distant sound, which they had been too absorbed to notice, grew in volume and forced itself on their attention. Alvarado lowered his point.

"Wait! Harken! What the devil's that noise?"

It had the quality of an earthquake, of an approaching hurricane. The far-off rumble swelled to a roar. Both men listened a second.

"God in heaven!" exclaimed Alvarado suddenly. He sheathed his sword. "We have no time for this now. Our duty's to the company. The city's on us!"

He was already striding toward the center of the enclosure where the last piteous remnants of the Aztecs had been hacked down, and the Spaniards were busy with plunder. His voice filled the space.

"To your quarters! To your quarters! Dense prisa! A la can era!"

Pulling the men off their prey, like dogs from a quarry, with a blow here, a kick there, he and Pedro spread the alarm. Several minutes later, the soldiers were streaming out of the temple yard and across the plaza toward the gates of Axayacatl's palace. There was no semblance of order. To Pedro, following in the rear, they looked like a pack of hard-pressed bandits loaded with booty, their clothes, hands, and faces smeared with blood. He followed, burning with shame, feeling a personal degradation. Where was his army, the army he had been proud of, the men he loved?

And meanwhile, down the two avenues leading into the central square, rolled slowly, because of their very mass, human torrents roaring louder as they approached—armed torrents, yelling, whistling, conch-blowing, drum-beating, the plumes of the warriors floating, like spindrift, above the surface. No more than a glimpse of this as the Spaniards plunged through the gates of their quarters. But before the last men had crowded in, the deadly rain of the oncoming storm began. Arrows and stones rattled on Pedro's helmet, corslet, and greaves. One of the foot soldiers, less well armed, pitched forward suddenly, a shaft quivering in his back. Two others dragged him through the gates.

Then, before he entered himself, Pedro de Vargas turned and, for the honor of Spain, faced the sleet of missiles, raising his arm in defiance, and, drawing back slowly, crossed the threshold.

Lll

It seemed a miracle that the outer walls stood. Like a canopy of black spray, hissing above the palisades, a continuous volley of arrows and sling-stones plunged into the courtyard. Because of the din outside, orders had to be given by gesture instead of voice; even the blare of the Spanish trumpets sounded thin and remote in the enveloping clamor.

Recently ashamed of his comrades, Pedro now could not help a feeling of pride. Anarchists when it came to loot, the company met oncoming annihilation as a disciplined unit. The training of the past year asserted itself. Neither panic-stricken nor with rat-in-the-corner courage, the cutthroats of a few minutes since were again veterans, coolj determined, even gay. It was after all a relief to have done with suspense and to feel the hot breath of war on their faces.

Embrasures were opened, cannon rolled up; and their thunder added a heavy note to the howl of attack. No aim was necessary, since they fired point-blank into the mass pressing against the other side of the enclosure. Their stone balls cut lanes through the crowd which were instantly filled up. The guns were rolled back, reloaded, fired again— back and forth as fast as their crews could ram home the charges. The Indian torrent rose higher, men clambering on each other's shoulders, clutching at the palisade that topped the wall—to be met here by crossbow and musket, sword and pike, while the cannon bellowed underneath—but still clutching, still clambering, and some indeed plunging over and down to die on the steel of the defenders below.

But the garrison suffered as well. Especially the more lightly protected Tlascalan allies were exposed to arrows and slingshots, while the Castilians themselves did not escape. Wounds accumulated, and while these for the most part were not serious, they increased the fatigue which began to show as the attack went on.

Pedro met Catana, as she passed from group to group, a bucket of water in each hand, a bunch of rags stuck through her belt. She was stopped continually to the tune of, "Water here, for the love of God!" or "Bind me a clout around this bleeding, camarada." Several arrows,

which she had not had time to pluck out, dangled from her tabard of quilted armor.

"Will you get back to your quarters, moza!" Pedro shouted, raising his vizor. "Have you no sense at all!"

She teased him with a smile.

"You wait!" he stormed. "If I don't give you a ration of stirrup leather on the right place this evening!"

"Meanwhile, have a drink, sefior," she answered, handing him a ladle of water. "And let me wipe your face. It's all of a sweat."

"Please go back to our quarters, querida. You know you ought to."

"Not for anything. I can do more good here."

He drank thirstily. Dipping a clout in the water, she sponged his face which was half-parboiled in the closeness of the helmet.

"You're such a donkey, Catana!"

''Seguro,"

"Be damned, if I don't make you take me seriously."

"Caramha! I do. But whether you beat me or not I'm not going back to our quarters."

A stone grazed her shoulder. Pedro started working at his corslet. "Well then, you'll put on my armor."

"Your armor, nothing!" she flared. "Do you think I'll let you stand naked in battle while I wear your harness? I have some decency! A pretty sight to be carrying water buckets in a suit of steel! What do you take me for!"

The figure of Alvarado clanked up. "Water, angel mia!" he croaked, raising his vizor from a fiery red face. "Ah!"

He rinsed his mouth, spat out the water, then drank a ladleful.

"GraciaSj Mistress." Glancing at de Vargas, his blue eyes twinkled. "Might as well say it as think it, Pedrito. You were right, I was wrong. The hell of a mess!" He thrust out his hand. "To the devil with bygones!"

"Con mucho gusto!" nodded the other.

The two gauntlets locked. Pedro added, "But put in your word, sir, as captain, with this woman of mine to get her out of the fight. She's in no shape for it."

Alvarado nodded. "Go inside, Catana."

"Bah!"

He grinned. "You see, I've done my best."

The attack surged on, a mingled thunder of cannon and muskets, yells from ten thousand throats, blowing of conchs, defiance of trumpets. The courtyard became as cluttered with arrows and javelins as

a threshing floor with straw. The bodies beyond the wall heaped up, but the assault did not slacken. The garrison, stiff, weary, and bleeding, still manned the embrasures and the coping of the wall. Two hours, three hours, passed. The sun sloped toward evening. The fight remained a stalemate at high tension.

It was Alvarado's idea to call on the captive Montezuma for help. Unceremoniously, between the chief captain and de Vargas, with Doila Marina attending, the Uei Tlatoani was conducted to a terrace-like eminence on the wall and induced to address the people. At the first glimpse of his revered figure, slight but stately, wearing the odd-shaped coronet of his office, a hush fell on the nearest ranks of attackers and spread through the vast crowd in the square. After hours of uproar, the silence seemed unnatural and almost uncanny.

His voice carried far. What he said, Pedro did not learn until afterwards from Dofia Marina. The Uei Tlatoani commanded patience. The time would come, but the time was not yet. Patience. Did they think that Montezuma slept, that the gods were sleeping? Let them await the fullness of time. It would not be long. And a day of joy would dawn over Tenochtitlan. ("Words of cunning," said Dofia Marina later, "and of ill-omen.")

Meanwhile, Pedro stared out over the barbaric multitude, lighted up by the slant rays of the setting sun, a medley of strange emblems, swarthy faces. A dizzy dream-sense of unreality passed over him. He recalled a snatch from Ortiz's song.

. . . Far in the West, the echoes of our fate . . .

Lord! Was that day at sea only a year ago?

The rattle of his armor, as he shifted from one foot to the other, brought him back to Montezuma's voice and to the myriad of intent eyes. He thought of the handful of men in the courtyard, alone against these legions.

For the time being, at least, the attack stopped; the crowd withdrew. By the advice of Montezuma, one of his kinsmen, whom the Spaniards called the Infante, was released on the pretext of calming the people. And night came on, silent except for the roaring of the caged beasts across the square. Stiff and exhausted, the company kept vigil around its bivouacs in the courtyard.

Even Juan Garcia felt depressed. "There's a spell on this cursed New World," he growled, sitting legs wide in front of one of the fires. "It always happens the same way. First, everything beautiful; big pros-

pects, gold, land, Indians, a paradise for the taking. Then—crash! You wake up to find yourself in the jakes and fighting to crawl out. What prospects we had up to a month ago! And now look at us! Jesus Maria! It's heartbreaking."

"Well," grinned the Nightingale from across the fire, "who talked up the scuttling of our ships? Who was fire and flames for marching to Mexico?"

"I admit it," Garcia nodded. "But what of most of us? Was I the only one? I say it's witchcraft. If it wasn't, who with any sense wouldn't exchange the whole New World for a nice little farm in Andalusia? A few pigs and goats. A capable woman to tend them. Quiet sleep." He picked up one of the Aztec arrows that littered the pavement and chucked it into the fire. "If Our Lord helps me out of this with a whole skin, I'll walk barefoot from Cadiz to St. Mary of Guadalupe."

Pedro couldn't help chuckling; he remembered Garcia at Sanlucar.

Chin on hand, Catana lay stretched out between Pedro and Ochoa. The boy had dropped off to sleep, his head on her thigh. She stared intently at the fire, the light of which flickered on her mop of black hair and brought out the angles of her face.

"'Struth, Juan!" she put in. "I know more about pigs and goats in Andalusia than you do. Santa Maria! I've still got the smell of them in my nose. As for me, cavaliers," she went on in a different tone, "if we die tomorrow, I for one will say gracias a Dios for the good days we've had. Would I trade our venture since Villa Rica for a chance to scratch fleas and grow old on the fattest farm in Castile? No, sirs, whatever the price! And I say viva now . . . viva tomorrow!"

From the standpoint of Pedro, who kept his eye on morale, it was the right speech at the right time. The grousing mood passed in a mutter of assent. The Nightingale fished out a pack of cards. Bull Garcia began speculating about what was happening on the coast.

Pedro reached for Catana's hand and squeezed it. They could feel rather than see each other's eyes in the half-light.

''Viva you!" he whispered.

The attack flared up again at dawn. The Infante, instead of calming the people, brought them back in hotter temper, if possible, than before. Perhaps he had reported the weariness of the garrison; or perhaps it was one of Montezuma's finesses. At any rate, hour followed hour of assault.

And once more Montezuma intervened. But this time Pedro de Alvarado, drawing his dagger in full view of the crowd, pointed it at

ehe Uei Tlatoani's heart. It did not need Dona Marina's interpretation to explain his meaning. Again sullenly the attackers withdrew; but they blocked every street and canal, cut the water main furnishing the Spanish quarters, burned the small brigantines which Cortes had built as an additional means of retreat across the lake, and settled down to a complete siege.

Someone discovered a spring in the enclosure itself. Food supplies were adequate. The stalemate could go on for a long time. Its ultimate solution depended on Cortes.

Tlascalan messengers were got off to run the Aztec lines and carry news to the General of what had happened. He must give help, if he were in a position to give it; other\vise the garrison was lost. After that, nothing remained but to wait.

. As the aching, empty days passed, the chapel, which had been installed in the compound, received a steady flow of worshipers; and Father Juan Diaz (whose cloth had saved him from hanging after the Escudero mutiny) heard everybody's confession. Between watches, the loot of the recent massacre in the teocalli changed hands over drum-skin cards. The chronic bores of the company exercised their profession on apathetic listeners. Except for worshiping, gambling, and talk, there was nothing to'do; that is, nothing but stare at the chilling prospect of death unless salvation came from the coast; and of that, the hope dwindled with every silent dawn.

Then one day, while Pedro and Garcia idled on the terrace steps of one of the buildings, Alvarado came up with Doila Marina.

"You and I are wanted by the Lord Montezuma, Pedrito. He has something to communicate. I wonder what's on the old fox's mind now. . . . Will you come?"

Since the outbreak of war, the Uei Tlatoani's retinue had shrunk to a skeleton staff; but there were still the obsequious ushers to conduct Alvarado, de Vargas, and the interpreter through the cavernous rooms to the presence of the Most High. This time he received them on a half-enclosed porch outside the council chamber. Suave and gracious as always, he could not hide for once a certain agitation. It might signify good or evil, and the two Spaniards watched him narrowly,

"Tonatiuh and Xiuhtecuhtli," he said through the lips of Dofia Marina, "I have but now received excellent tidings from Cempoala, which I must share with you."

How had he received them? The question flashed through the minds of his listeners while the woman translated. In spite of guards and walls, Montezuma contrived always to keep better informed about

distant events than his captors. But interest in what he had to say eclipsed everything else. Pedro clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. Alvarado's florid face looked a shade paler.

"There has been a great battle," said the Aztec, "a great battle between Malinche and the chief of the new-come teules."

He took up a thickish volume of folded maguey paper from the stand in front of him and opened it.

"Nombre de Dios!" Alvarado burst out. "And who won the battle? Can't he get to the point?"

"Behold," said Montezuma, handing over the volume, "the record is there in full. Let Tonatiuh read it for himself."

It was the usual pictorial report, a single incident upon each fold of the long strip which formed the book, but so conventionalized that the Spanish captain, who frowned, squinted, and turned the manuscript in every direction, could make nothing of it.

"Here, Marina," he fumed, "read me this thing if you can—devil take it!—and let's hear what happened for the Lord's sake."

He had no need to speak twice. Marina's eager eyes were already devouring the pictures for news of her lover. Suddenly her cheeks flushed.

"Nuestra Senora be praised . . ."

"Well? . . . Well?"

"Victory, sirs!" She raised her two hands, her face alight with joy.

"But the details? How? Where?"

"Look."

Forgetting Montezuma, the two captains pressed on either side of Marina, their heads bowed close to hers, their eyes following the pointing of her fingers.

"Look. Our General is at the river, Ghachalacas, a league from Cempoala. He has two hundred and fifty men. There is Captain Velasquez de Leon. There is Captain de Sandoval. It is night and it rains. Our General speaks to the men."

"Can't you hear him!" muttered Pedro. "I'll bet he made their blood sing, rain or not. Nobody can speak like he does! So they camped at the Chachalacas?"

"No, sefior. They cross the river."

"Night attack!" Alvarado reflected. "Good idea!"

"They capture a sentinel outside Cempoala. Another escapes. He carries the alarm. But Narvaez sleeps. Our General enters the town. He marches toward the main teocalli. The enemy wake up. They fire the cannon. But, see, our men stand flat against the houses. Only three

are killed. The others charge—it is Captain Pizarro who leads. They capture the cannon."

"Where was Cortes?" Alvarado queried.

Dona Marina examined the pictures. "It was like this, seilores. The men of Narvaez were too many to lodge in the chief temple as we did. Narvaez had his quarters there on top of the pyramid. He stationed guards on the steps. But other captains were in other temples. All had to be taken. The General, with a few men, went from place to place."

"He would," Pedro nodded. "Go on. What happened?"

Marina pointed. "See, it is Captain de Sandoval who charges the main pyramid. He fights his way up with the pikemen. Narvaez meets him. It is a fierce fight there on top of the teocalli. Ahi!" She pointed at the next picture, savage excitement breaking for a moment through her usual gentleness. "Look, the eye of Panfilo de Narvaez is struck out by a pike. His men carry him into the shrine where he was lodged. They bolt the doors. One of our comrades sets fire to the roof. Now all is in flames. Narvaez yields; he is taken prisoner. Victory!"

Exultant oaths echoed her. "I suppose the horsemen had no time to saddle," observed Alvarado.

"But yes, senor, some escaped; others were not in Cempoala. Look"—she pointed at another fold in the manuscript—"the Captains Olid and Ordas persuaded them next day to come in. And behold"— her voice rang with pride—"there is the General seated, wearing a robe over his armor, and all the men of Narvaez pay him honor and enlist under him. He greets them lovingly. Is that not glory—eight hundred of them, with eighty horsemen and many cannon, overcome by two hundred and fifty of our comrades!"

Alvarado growled, "I wish I had been there. What filthy luck to be penned in this pigsty, while that passage of arms went forward! Eh, de Vargas?"

Pedro gritted his teeth in envy too deep for words. He thought of his friend and rival, Sandoval, fighting his way up the pyramid.

"What happened to Narvaez?" Alvarado added. "Hanged, I imagine."

"No, sir," replied Marina, "he is shown here in prison at Villa Rica."

The guttural, sonorous voice of Montezuma broke in, and with a start the two captains remembered him. But what he said or did now had no importance. They looked at him with the eyes of men reprieved from death through no merit of his. At a stroke, their troubles were ended; their star once more rode high. If, with four hundred men, Cortes had originally made himself master of Mexico, was there any

fear that he could hold it with twelve hundred? By now the messengers from the garrison must have reached him; by now he might even be crossing the mountains westward to rescue and to avenge.

"Did I not say the tidings were excellent?" Montezuma smiled, and his smile was like the gleam of thin ice over black water. "Do we not love and honor Malinche, and rejoice in his success? We shall welcome him back with his twelve hundred valiant teules. Yes, he is even now preparing to march. Behold, the causeways to Tenochtitlan are open."

Marina's eyelids fluttered a little as she translated.

"And look to yourself, when he comes, Senor Montezuma," Alvarado growled. "I advise you to call off this siege, open your markets, collect gold in reparation for the rebellion of your people, and make all well against his return. If so, he may have mercy; if not, he will know how to punish. Be sure of it."

Montezuma smiled again. "All will be well, Tonatiuh. I promise that all will be very well. As I said, the causeways are open to Malinche. We shall greet him fittingly."