Loe raamatut: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», lehekülg 17

CHAPTER VIII
THE ENTRY

It is hardly worth while to eulogize the Christians who took part in Cortes’ crusade. History has assumed their commemoration. I may say, however, they were men who had acquired fitness for the task by service in almost every clime. Some had tilted with the Moor under the walls of Granada; some had fought the Islamite on the blue Danube; some had performed the first Atlantic voyage with Columbus; all of them had hunted the Carib in the glades of Hispaniola. It is not enough to describe them as fortune-hunters, credulous, imaginative, tireless; neither is it enough to write them soldiers, bold, skilful, confident, cruel to enemies, gentle to each other. They were characters of the age in which they lived, unseen before, unseen since; knights errant, who believed in hippogriff and dragon, but sought them only in lands of gold; missionaries, who complacently broke the body of the converted that Christ might the sooner receive his soul; palmers of pike and shield, who, in care of the Virgin, followed the morning round the world, assured that Heaven stooped lowest over the most profitable plantations.

The wonders of the way from the coast to Iztapalapan had so beguiled the little host that they took but partial account of its dangers. When, this morning, they stepped upon the causeway, and began the march out into the lake, a sense of insecurity fell upon them, like the shadow of a cloud; back to the land they looked, as to a friend from whom they might be parting forever; and as they proceeded, and the water spread around them, wider, deeper, and up-bearing denser multitudes of people, the enterprise suddenly grew in proportions, and challenged their self-sufficiency; yet, as I have heard them confess, they did not wake to a perfect comprehension of their situation, and its dangers and difficulties, until they passed the gates of Xoloc: then Tenochtitlan shone upon them,—a city of enchantment! And then each one felt that to advance was like marching in the face of death, at the same time each one saw there was no hope except in advance. Every hand grasped closer the weapon with which it was armed, while the ranks were intuitively closed. What most impressed them, they said, was the silence of the people; a word, a shout, a curse, or a battle-cry would have been a relief from the fears and fancies that beset them; as it was, though in the midst of myriad life, they heard only their own tramp, or the clang and rattle of their own arms. As if aware of the influence, and fearful of its effect upon his weaker followers, Cortes spoke to the musicians, and trumpet and clarion burst into a strain which, with beat of drum and clash of cymbal, was heard in the city.

“Ola, Sandoval, Alvarado! Here, at my right and left!” cried Cortes.

They spurred forward at the call.

“Out of the way, dog!” shouted Sandoval, thrusting a naked tamene over the edge of the dike with the butt of his lance.

“By my conscience, Señores,” Cortes said, “I think true Christian in a land of unbelievers never beheld city like this. If it be wrong to the royal good knight, Richard, of England, or that valorous captain, the Flemish Duke Godfrey, may the saints pardon me; but I dare say the walled towns they took, and, for that matter, I care not if you number Antioch and the Holy City of the Sepulchre among them, were not to be put in comparison with this infidel stronghold.”

And as they ride, listening to his comments, let me bring them particularly to view.

They were in full armor, except that Alvarado’s squire carried his helmet for him. In preparation for the entry, their skilful furbishers had well renewed the original lustre of helm, gorget, breastplate, glaive, greave, and shield. The plumes in their crests, like the scarfs across their breasts, had been carefully preserved for such ceremonies. At the saddle-bows hung heavy hammers, better known as battle-axes. Rested upon the iron shoe, and balanced in the right hand, each carried a lance, to which, as the occasion was peaceful, a silken pennon was attached. The horses, opportunely rested in Iztapalapan, and glistening in mail, trod the causeway as if conscious of the terror they inspired.

Cortes, between his favorite captains, rode with lifted visor, smiling and confident. His complexion was bloodless and ashy, a singularity the more noticeable on account of his thin, black beard. The lower lip was seamed with a scar. He was of fine stature, broad-shouldered, and thin, but strong, active, and enduring. His skill in all manner of martial exercises was extraordinary. He conversed in Latin, composed poetry, wrote unexceptionable prose, and, except when in passion, spoke gravely and with well-turned periods.⁴¹ In argument he was both dogmatic and convincing, and especially artful in addressing soldiers, of whom, by constitution, mind, will, and courage, he was a natural leader. Now, gay and assured, he managed his steed with as little concern and talked carelessly as a knight returning victorious from some joyous passage of arms.

Gonzalo de Sandoval, not twenty-three years of age, was better looking, having a larger frame and fuller face. His beard was auburn, and curled agreeably to the prevalent fashion. Next to his knightly honor, he loved his beautiful chestnut horse, Motilla.⁴²

Handsomest man of the party, however, was Don Pedro de Alvarado. Generous as a brother to a Christian, he hated a heathen with the fervor of a crusader. And now, in scorn of Aztecan treachery, he was riding unhelmed, his locks, long and yellow, flowing freely over his shoulders. His face was fair as a gentlewoman’s, and neither sun nor weather could alter it. Except in battle, his countenance expressed the friendliest disposition. He cultivated his beard assiduously, training it to fall in ringlets upon his breast,—and there was reason for the weakness, if such it was; yellow as gold, with the help of his fair face and clear blue eyes, it gave him a peculiar expression of sunniness, from which the Aztecs called him Tonitiah, child of the Sun.⁴³

And over what a following of cavaliers the leader looked when, turning in his saddle, he now and then glanced down the column,—Christobal de Oli, Juan Velasquez de Leon, Francisco de Montejo, Luis Marin, Andreas de Tapia, Alonzo de Avila, Francisco de Lugo, the Manjarezes, Andreas and Gregorio, Diego de Ordas, Francisco de Morla, Christobal de Olea, Gonzalo de Dominguez, Rodriques Magarino, Alonzo Hernandez Carrero,—most of them gentlemen of the class who knew the songs of Rodrigo, and the stories of Amadis and the Paladins!

And much shame would there be to me if I omitted mention of two others,—Bernal Diaz del Castillo, who, after the conquest, became its faithful historian, and Father Bartolomé de Olmedo,⁴⁴ sweet singer, good man, and devoted servant of God, the first to whisper the names of Christ and the Holy Mother in the ear of New Spain. In the column behind the cavaliers, with his assistant, Juan de las Varillas, he rode bareheaded, and clad simply in a black serge gown. The tinkle of the little silver bell, which the soldiers, in token of love, had tied to the neck of his mule, sounded, amid the harsher notes of war, like a gentle reminder of shepherds and grazing flocks in peaceful pastures near Old World homes.

After the holy men, in care of a chosen guard of honor, the flag of Spain was carried; and then came the artillery, drawn by slaves; next, in close order, followed the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, the latter with their matches lighted. Rearward still, in savage pomp and pride, strode the two thousand Tlascalans, first of their race to bear shield and fly banner along the causeway into Tenochtitlan. And so the Christians, in order of battle, but scarcely four hundred strong, marched into a capital of full three hundred thousand inhabitants, swollen by the innumerable multitudes of the valley.

As they drew nigh the city, the cavaliers became silent and thoughtful. With astonishment, which none of them sought to conceal, they gazed at the white walls and crowded houses, and, with sharpened visions, traced against the sky the outlines of temples and temple-towers, more numerous than those of papal Rome. Well they knew that the story of what they saw so magnificently before them would be received with incredulity in all the courts of Christendom. Indeed, some of the humbler soldiers marched convinced that all they beheld was a magical delusion. Not so Cortes.

“Ride on, gentlemen, ride on!” he said. “There is a question I would ask of a good man behind us. I will rejoin you shortly.”

From the artillerists he singled a soldier.

“Martin Lopez! Martin Lopez!”

The man came to him.

“Martin, look out on this lake. Beareth it resemblance to the blue bays on the southern shore of old Spain? As thou art a crafty sailor, comrade mine, look carefully.”

Lopez raised his morion, and, leaning on his pike, glanced over the expanse.

“Señor, the water is fair enough, and, for that, looks like bayous I have seen without coming so far; but I doubt if a two-decker could float on it long enough for Father Olmedo to say mass for our souls in peril.”

“Peril! Plague take thee, man! Before the hour of vespers, by the Blessed Lady, whose image thou wearest, this lake, yon city, its master, and all thou seest here, not excepting the common spawn of idolatry at our feet, shall be the property of our sovereign lord. But, Martin Lopez, thou hast hauled sail and tacked ship in less room than this. What say’st thou to sailing a brigantine here?”

The sailor’s spirit rose; he looked over the lake again.

“It might be done, it might be done!”

“Then, by my conscience, it shall be! Confess thyself an Admiral to-night.”

And Cortes rode to the front. Conquest might not be, he saw, without vessels; and true to his promise, it came to pass that Lopez sailed, not one, but a fleet of brigantines on the gentle waters.

When the Christians were come to the first bridge outside the walls, their attention was suddenly drawn from the city. Down the street came Montezuma and his retinue. Curious as they were to see the arch-infidel, the soldiers kept their ranks; but Cortes, taking with him the cavaliers, advanced to meet the monarch. When the palanquin stopped, the Spaniards dismounted. About the same time an Indian woman, of comely features, came forward.

“Stay thou here, Marina,” said Cortes. “I will embrace the heathen, then call thee to speak to him.”

“Jésu!” cried Alvarado. “There is gold enough on his litter to furnish a cathedral.”

“Take thou the gold, Señor; I choose the jewels on his mantle,” said De Ordas.

“By my patron saint of excellent memory!” said Sandoval, lisping his words, “I think for noble cavaliers ye are easily content. Take the jewels and the gold; but give me that train of stalwart dogs, and a plantation worthy of my degree here by Tezcuco.”

So the captains talked.

Meantime, the cotton cloth was stretched along the dike. Then on land and sea a hush prevailed.

Montezuma came forward supported by the lords Cuitlahua and Cacama. Cortes met him half-way. When face to face, they paused, and looked at each other. Alas, for the Aztec then! In the mailed stranger he beheld a visitant from the Sun,—a god! The Spaniard saw, wrapped in the rich vestments, only a man,—a king, yet a heathen! He opened his arms: Montezuma stirred not. Cuitlahua uttered a cry to Huitzil’, and caught one of the extended arms. Long did Cortes keep in mind the cacique’s look at that moment; long did he remember the dark brown face, swollen with indignation and horror. Alvarado laid his hand on his sword.

“Peace, Don Pedro!” said Cortes. “The knave knows nothing of respectable customs. Instead of taking to thy sword, bless the Virgin that a Christian knight hath been saved the sin of embracing an unbeliever. Call Marina.”

The woman came, and stood by the Spaniard, and in a sweet voice interpreted the speeches. The monarch expressed delight at seeing his visitors, and welcomed them to Tenochtitlan; his manner and courteous words won even Alvarado. Cortes answered, acknowledging surprise at the beauty and extent of the city, and in token of his gratification at being at last before a king so rich and powerful begged him to accept a present. Into the royal hand he then placed a string of precious stones, variously colored, and strongly perfumed with musk. Thereupon the ceremony ended. Two of the princes were left to conduct the strangers to their quarters. Resuming his palanquin, Montezuma himself led the procession as far as his own palace.

And Cortes swung himself into the saddle. “Let the trumpets sound. Forward!”

Again the music,—again the advance; then the pageant passed from the causeway and lake into the expectant city.

Theretofore, the Christians had been silent from discipline, now they were silent from wonder. Even Cortes held his peace. They had seen the irregular towns of Tlascala, and the pretentious beauty of Cholula, and Iztapalapan, in whose streets the lake contended with the land for mastery, yet were they unprepared for Tenochtitlan. Here, it was plain, wealth and power and time and labor, under the presidency of genius, had wrought their perfect works, everywhere visible: under foot, a sounding bridge, or a broad paved way, dustless, and unworn by wheel or hoof; on the right and left, airy windows, figured portals, jutting balconies, embattled cornices, porticos with columns of sculptured marble, and here a palace, there a temple; overhead pyramidal heights crowned with towers and smoking braziers, or lower roofs, from which, as from hanging gardens, floated waftures sweet as the perfumed airs of the Indian isles; and everywhere, looking up from the canals, down from the porticos, houses, and pyramids, and out of the doors and windows, crowding the pavement, clinging to the walls,—everywhere the People! After ages of decay I know it has been otherwise; but I also know that conquerors have generally found the builders of a great state able and willing to defend it.

“St. James absolve me, Señor! but I like not the coldness of these dogs,” said Monjarez to Avila.

“Nor I,” was the reply. “Seest thou the women on yon balcony? I would give my helmet full of ducats, if they would but once cry, “Viva España!”

“Nay, that would I if they would but wave a scarf.”

The progress of the pageant was necessarily slow; but at last the spectators on the temple of Huitzil’ heard its music; at last the daughters of the king beheld it in the street below them.

“Gods of my fathers!” thought Tula, awed and trembling, “what manner of beings are these?”

And the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, their weapons and glittering iron caps, the guns, and slaves that dragged them, even the flag of Spain,—objects of mighty interest to others,—drew from Nenetzin but a passing glance. Very beautiful to her, however, were the cavaliers, insomuch that she cared only for their gay pennons, their shields, their plumes nodding bravely above their helms, their armor of strange metal, on which the sun seemed to play with a fiery love, and their steeds, creatures tamed for the service of gods. Suddenly her eyes fixed, her heart stopped; pointing to where the good Captain Alvarado rode, scanning, with upturned face, the great pile, “O Tula, Tula!” she cried. “See! There goes the blue-eyed warrior of my dream!”

But it happened that Tula was, at the moment, too much occupied to listen or look. The handsome vendor of images, standing near the royal party, had attracted the attention of Yeteve, the priestess.

“The noble Tula is unhappy. She is thinking of—”

A glance checked the name.

Then Yeteve whispered, “Look at the image-maker.”

The prompting was not to be resisted. She looked, and recognized Guatamozin. Not that only; through his low disguise, in his attitude, his eyes bright with angry fire, she discerned his spirit, its pride and heroism. Not for her was it to dispute the justice of his banishment. Love scorned the argument. There he stood, the man for the time; strong-armed, stronger-hearted, prince by birth, king by nature, watching afar off a scene in which valor and genius entitled him to prominence. Then there were tears for him, and a love higher, if not purer, than ever.

Suddenly he leaned over the verge, and shouted, “Al-a-lala! Al-a-lala!” and with such energy that he was heard in the street below. Tula looked down, and saw the cause of the excitement,—the Tlascalans were marching by! Again his cry, the same with which he had so often led his countrymen to battle. No one took it up. The companies inside the sacred wall turned their faces, and stared at him in dull wonder. And he covered his eyes with his hands, while every thought was a fierce invective. Little he then knew how soon, and how splendidly, they were to purchase his forgiveness!

When the Tlascalans were gone, he dropped his hands, and found the—mallet! So it was the artisan, the image-maker, not the ’tzin, who had failed to wake the army to war! He turned quickly, and took his way through the crowd, and disappeared; and none but Tula and Yeteve ever knew that, from the teocallis, Guatamozin had witnessed the entry of the teules.

And so poor Nenetzin had been left to follow the warrior of her dream; the shock and the pleasure were hers alone.

The palace of Axaya’ faced the temple of Huitzil’ on the west. In one of the halls Montezuma received Cortes and the cavaliers; and all their lives they recollected his gentleness, courtesy, and unaffected royalty in that ceremony. Putting a golden collar around the neck of his chief guest, he said, “This palace belongs to you, Malinche, and to your brethren. Rest after your fatigues; you have much need to do so. In a little while I will come again.”

And when he was gone, straightway the guest so honored proceeded to change the palace into a fort. Along the massive walls that encircled it he stationed sentinels; at every gate planted cannon; and, like the enemy he was, he began, and from that time enforced, a discipline sterner than before.

The rest of the day the citizens, from the top of the temple, kept incessant watch upon the palace. When the shades of evening were collecting over the city, and the thousands, grouped along the streets, were whispering of the incidents they had seen, a thunderous report broke the solemn stillness; and they looked at each other, and trembled, and called the evening guns of Cortes “Voices of the Gods.”

BOOK FIVE

CHAPTER I
PUBLIC OPINION

Guatamozin, accompanied by Hualpa, left the city a little after nightfall. Impressed, doubtless, by the great event of the day, the two journeyed in silence, until so far out that the fires of the capital faded into a rosy tint low on the horizon.

Then the ’tzin said, “I am tired, body and spirit; yet must I go back to Tenochtitlan.”

“To-night?” Hualpa asked.

“To-night; and I need help.”

“What I can, O ’tzin, that will I.”

“You are weary, also.”

“I could follow a wounded deer till dawn, if you so wished.”

“It is well.”

After a while the ’tzin again spoke.

“To-day I have unlearned all the lessons of my youth. The faith I thought part of my life is not; I have seen the great king conquered without a blow!”

There was a sigh such as only shame can wring from a strong man.

“At the Chalcan’s, where the many discontented meet to-night, there will be,” he resumed, “much talk of war without the king. Such conferences are criminal; and yet there shall be war.”

He spoke with emphasis.

“In my exile without a cause,” he next said, “I have learned to distinguish between the king and country. I have even reflected upon conditions when the choosing between them may become a duty. Far be they hence! but when they come, Anahuac shall have her son. To accomplish their purpose, the lords in the city rely upon their united power, which is nothing; with the signet in his hand, Maxtla alone could disperse their forces. There is that, however, by which what they seek can be wrought rightfully,—something under the throne, not above it, where they are looking, and only the gods are,—a power known to every ruler as his servant when wisely cared for, and his master when disregarded; public opinion we call it, meaning the judgment and will of the many. In this garb of artisan, I have been with the people all day, and for a purpose higher than sight of what I abhorred. I talked with them. I know them. In the march from Xoloc there was not a shout. In the awful silence, what of welcome was there? Honor to the people! Before they are conquered the lake will wear a red not of the sun! Imagine them of one mind, and zealous for war: how long until the army catches the sentiment? Imagine the streets and temples resounding with a constant cry, ‘Death to the strangers!’ how long until the king yields to the clamor? O comrade, that would be the lawful triumph of public opinion; and so, I say, war shall be.”

After that the ’tzin remained sunk in thought until the canoe touched the landing at his garden. Leaving the boatmen there, he proceeded, with Hualpa, to the palace. In his study, he said, “You have seen the head of the stranger whom I slew at Nauhtlan. I have another trophy. Come with me.”

Providing himself with a lamp, he led the way to what seemed a kind of workshop. Upon the walls, mixed with strange banners, hung all kinds of Aztec armor; a bench stood by one of the windows, covered with tools; on the floor lay bows, arrows, and lances, of such fashion as to betray the experimentalist. The corners were decorated, if the term may be used, with effigies of warriors preserved by the process peculiar to the people. In the centre of the room, a superior attraction to Hualpa, stood a horse, which had been subjected to the same process, but was so lifelike now that he could hardly think it dead. The posture chosen for the animal was that of partial repose, its head erect, its ears thrown sharply forward, its nostrils distended, the forefeet firmly planted; so it had, in life, often stood watching the approach or disappearance of its comrades. The housings were upon it precisely as when taken from the field.

“I promised there should be war,” the ’tzin said, when he supposed Hualpa’s wonder spent, “and that the people should bring it about. Now I say, that the opinion I rely upon would ripen to-morrow, were there not a thick cloud about it. The faith that Malinche and his followers are teules has spread from the palace throughout the valley. Unless it be dispelled, Anahuac must remain the prey of the spoiler. Mualox, the keeper of the old Cû of Quetzal’, taught me long ago, that in the common mind mystery can only be assailed by mystery; and that, O comrade, is what I now propose. This nameless thing here belonged to the stranger whom I slew at Nauhtlan. Come closer, and lay your hand upon it; mount it, and you may know how its master felt the day he rode it to death. There is his lance, there his shield, here his helm and whole array; take them, and learn what little is required to make a god of a man.”

For a moment he busied himself getting the property of the unfortunate Christian together; then he stopped before the Tihuancan, saying, “Let others choose their parts, O comrade. All a warrior may do, that will I. If the Empire must die, it shall be like a fighting man,—a hero’s song for future minstrels. Help me now. We will take the trophy to the city, and set it up in the tianguez along with the shield, arms, and armor. The rotting head in the summer-house we will fix near by on the lance. To-morrow, when the traders open their stalls, and the thousands so shamelessly sold come back to their bartering and business, a mystery shall meet them which no man can look upon and afterwards believe Malinche a god. I see the scene,—the rush of the people, their surprise, their pointing fingers. I hear the eager questions, ‘What are they?’ ‘Whence came they?’ I hear the ready answer, ‘Death to the strangers!’ Then, O comrade, will begin the Opinion, by force of which, the gods willing, we shall yet hear the drum of Huitzil’. Lay hold now, and let us to the canoe with the trophies.”

“If it be heavy as it seems, good ’tzin,” said Hualpa, stooping to the wooden slab which served as the base of the effigy, “I fear we shall be overtasked.”

“It is not heavy; two children could carry it. A word more before we proceed. In what I propose there is a peril aside from the patrols in the tianguez. Malinche will hear of—”

Hualpa laughed. “Was ever a victim sacrificed before he was caught?”

“Hear further,” said the ’tzin, gravely. “I took the king to the summer-house, and showed him the head, which he will recognize. Your heart, as well as mine, may pay the forfeit. Consider.”

“Lay hold, O ’tzin! Did you not but now call me comrade? Lay hold!”

Thereupon they carried the once good steed out to the landing. Then the ’tzin went to the kiosk for the Spaniard’s head, while Hualpa returned to the palace for the arms and equipments. The head, wrapped in a cloth, was dropped in the bow of the boat, and the horse and trappings carried on board. Trusting in the gods, the voyageurs pushed off, and were landed, without interruption, near the great tianguez.