Loe raamatut: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», lehekülg 35

“I know, O my people, that you took up arms to set me free, and that was right; but how often since then have I told you that I am not a prisoner; that the strangers are my guests; that I am free to leave them when I please, and that I live with them because I love them?”

As in a calm a wind sometimes blows down, and breaks the placid surface of a lake into countless ripples, driving them hither and thither in sparkling confusion, these words fell upon the listening mass; a yell of anger rose, and from the temple descended bitter reproaches.

Yet the ’tzin was steady; and when the outcry ended, the king went on,—

“I am told your excuse now is, that you want to drive my friends from the city. My children, here stands Malinche himself. He hears me say for him that, if you will open the way, he and all with him will leave of their own will.”

Again the people broke out in revilements, but the monarch waved his hand angrily, and said,—

“As I am yet your king, I bid you lay down your arms—”

Then the ’tzin took the ready bow from Hualpa; full to the ear he drew the arrow. Steady the arm, strong the hand,—an instant, and the deed was done! In the purple shadow of the canopy, amidst his pomp of royalty, Montezuma fell down, covered, when too late, by a score of Christian shields. Around him at the same time fell a shower of stones from the temple.

Then, with a shout of terror, the companies arose as at a word and fled, and, panic-blind, tossed the ’tzin here and there, and finally left him alone in the square with Hualpa.

“All is lost!” said the latter, disconsolately.

“Lost!” said the ’tzin. “On the temple yonder lies Malinche’s last hope. No need now to assail the palace. When the king comes out, hunger will go in and fight for us.”

“But the people,—where are they?”

The ’tzin raised his hand and pointed to the palace,—

“So the strangers have asked. See!”

Hualpa turned, and saw the gate open and the cavaliers begin to ride forth.

“Go they this way, or yon,” continued the ’tzin, “they will find the same answer. Five armies hold the city; a sixth keeps the lake.”

Down the beautiful street the Christians rode unchallenged until they came to the first canal. While restoring the bridge there, they heard the clamor of an army, and lo! out of the gardens, houses, and temples, far as the vision reached, the infidels poured and blocked the way.

Then the cavaliers rode back, and took the way to Tlacopan. There, too, the first canal was bridgeless; and as they stood looking across the chasm, they heard the same clamor and beheld the same martial apparition.

Once more they rode, this time up the street toward the northern dike, and with the same result.

“Ola, father!” said Cortes, returned to the palace, “we may not stay here after to-morrow.”

“Amen!” cried Olmedo.

“Look thou to the sick and wounded; such as can march or move, get them ready.”

“And the others?” asked the good man.

“Do for them what thou dost for the dying. Shrieve them!”

So saying, the Christian leader sank on his seat, and gave himself to sombre thought.

He had sped his second and—LAST BOLT!

The rest of the day was spent in preparation for retreat.

CHAPTER XV
THE DEATH OF MONTEZUMA

Again Martin Lopez had long conference with Cortes; after which, with his assistant carpenters, he went to work, and, until evening time, the echoes of the court-yard danced to the sounds of saw and hammer.

And while they worked, to Cortes came Avila and Mexia.

“What thou didst intrust to us, Señor, we have done. Here is a full account of all the treasure, our royal master’s included.”

Cortes read the statement, then called his chamberlain, Christobal de Guzman.

“Go thou, Don Christobal, and bring what is here reported into one chamber, where it may be seen of all. And send hither the royal secretaries, and Pedro Hernandez, my own clerk.”

The secretaries came.

“Now, Señores Avila and Mexia, follow my chamberlain, and in his presence and that of these gentlemen, take from the treasure the portion belonging to his Majesty, the emperor. Of our wounded horses, then choose ye eight, and of the Tlascalans, eighty, and load them with the royal dividend, and what more they can carry; and have them always ready to go. And as leaving anything of value where the infidels may be profited is sinful, I direct,—and of this let all bear witness, Hernandez for me, and the secretaries for his Majesty,—I direct, I say, that ye set the remainder apart accessible to the soldiers, with leave to each one of them to take therefrom as much as he may wish. Make note, further, that what is possible to save all this treasure hath been done. Write it, good gentlemen, write it; for if any one thinketh differently, let him say what more I can do. I am waiting to hear. Speak!”

No one spoke.

And while the division of the large plunder went on, and afterwards the men scrambled for the remainder, Montezuma was dying.

In the night a messenger sought Cortes.

“Señor,” he said, “the king hath something to ask of you. He will not die comforted without seeing you.”

“Die, say’st thou?” and Cortes arose hastily. “I had word that his hurts were not deadly.”

“If he die, Señor, it will be by his own hand. The stones wrought him but bruises; and if he would let the bandages alone the arrow-cut would shortly stop bleeding.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cortes. “Thou wouldst tell me that this barbarian, merely from being long a king, hath a spirit of such exceeding fineness that, though the arrow had not cut him deeper than thy dull rowel marketh thy horse’s flank, yet would he die. Where is he now?”

“In the audience chamber.”

“Bastante! I will see him. Tell him so.”

Cortes stood fast, thinking.

“This man hath been useful to me; may not some profit be eked out of him dead? So many saw him get his wounds, and so many will see him die of them, that the manner of his taking off may not be denied. What if I send his body out and indict his murderers? If I could take from them the popular faith even, then—By my conscience, I will try the trick!”

And taking his sword and plumed hat and tossing a cloak over his shoulder he sought the audience chamber.

There was no guard at the door. The little bells, as he threw aside the curtains, greeted him accusingly. Within, all was shadow, except where a flickering lamplight played over and around the dais; nevertheless, he saw the floor covered with people, some prostrate, others on their knees or crouching face down; and the grim speculator thought, as he passed slowly on, Verily, this king must also have been a good man and a generous.

The couch of the dying monarch was on the dais in the accustomed place of the throne. At one side stood the ancients; at the other his queens knelt, weeping. Nenetzin hid her face in his hand, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking; she had been forgiven. Now and then Maxtla bent over him to cleanse his face of the flowing blood. A group of cavaliers were off a little way, silent witnesses; and as Cortes drew near, Olmedo, who had been in prayer, extended toward the sufferer the ivory cross worn usually at his girdle.

“O king,” said the good man imploringly, “thou hast yet a moment of life, which, I pray thee, waste not. Take this holy symbol upon thy breast, cross thy hands upon it, and say after me: I believe in One God, the Father Almighty, in our Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, and in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life. Then pray thou: O God the Father of Heaven, O God the Son, Redeemer of the World, O God the Holy Ghost, O Holy Trinity, One God, have mercy upon my soul! Do these things, say these words, O king, and thou shalt live after thy bones have gone to dust. Thou shalt live forever, eternally happy.”

Courtiers and cavaliers, the queens, Nenetzin, even Cortes, watched the monarch’s waning face; never yet were people indifferent to the issue—the old, old issue—of true god against false. Marina finished the interpretation; then he raised his hand tremulously, and put the holy sign away, saying,—

“I have but a moment to live, and will not desert the faith of my fathers now.”

A great sigh of relief broke from the infidels; the Christians shuddered, and crossed themselves; then Cortes stepped to Olmedo’s side.

“I received your message, and am here,” said he, sternly. He had seen the cross rejected.

The king turned his pale face, and fixed his glazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”

“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.

With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued,—

“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours,—lands, people, empire,—enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”

Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.

“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”

The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they began to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,—

“Nearer, uncles, nearer.”

The old men bent over him, listening.

“A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my last thought as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did. And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him—”

The voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the ancients stooped,—

“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,—his will.

A wail from the women proclaimed him dead.

The unassoilzied great may not see heaven; they pass from life into history, where, as in a silent sky, they shine for ever and ever. So the light of the Indian King comes to us, a glow rather than a brilliance; for, of all fates, his was the saddest. Better not to be than to become the ornament of another’s triumph. Alas for him whose death is an immortal sorrow!

Out of the palace-gate in the early morning passed the lords of the court in procession, carrying the remains of the monarch. The bier was heavy with royal insignia; nothing of funeral circumstance was omitted; honor to the dead was policy. At the same time the body was delivered, Cortes indicted the murderers; the ancients through whom he spoke were also the bearers of the dead king’s last will; back to the bold Spaniard, therefore, came the reply,—

“Cowards, who at the last moment beg for peace! you are not two suns away from your own graves! Think only of them!”

And while Cortes was listening to the answer, the streets about the palace filled with companies, and crumbling parapet and solid wall shook under the shock of a new assault.

Then Cortes’ spirit arose.

“Mount, gentlemen!” he cried. “The hounds come scrambling for the scourge; shame on us, if we do not meet them. And hearken! The prisoners report a plague in the city, of which the new king is dying, and hundreds are sick. It is the small-pox.”

“Viva la viruela!” shouted Alvarado.

The shout spread through the palace.

“Where God’s curse is,” continued Cortes, “Christians need not stay. To-night we will go. To clear the way and make this day memorable let us ride. Are ye ready?”

They answered joyously.

Again the gates were opened, and with a goodly following of infantry, into the street they rode. Nothing withstood them; they passed the canals by repairing the bridges or filling up the chasms; they rode the whole length of the street until the causeway clear to Tlacopan was visible. St. James fought at their head; even the Holy Mother stooped from her high place, and threw handfuls of dust in the enemy’s eyes.

In the heat of the struggle suddenly the companies fell back, and made open space around the Christians; then came word that commissioners from king Cuitlahua waited in the palace to treat of peace.

“The heathen is an animal!” said Cortes, unable to repress his exultation. “To cure him of temper and win his love, there is nothing like the scourge. Let us ride back, gentlemen.”

In the court-yard stood four caciques, stately men in peaceful garb. They touched the pavement with their palms.

“We are come to say, O Malinche, that the lord Cuitlahua, our king, yields to your demand for peace. He prays you to give your terms to the pabas whom you captured on the temple, that they may bring them to him forthwith.”

The holy men were brought from their cells, one leaning upon the other. The instructions were given; then the two, with the stately commissioners, were set without the gate, and Cortes and his army went to rest, never so contented.

They waited and waited; but the envoys came not. When the sun went down, they knew themselves deceived; and then there were sworn many full, round, Christian oaths, none so full, so round, and so Christian as Cortes’.

A canoe, meantime, bore Io’ to Tula. In the quiet and perfumed shade of the chinampa he rested, and soothed the fever of his wound.

Meanwhile, also, a courier from the teotuctli passed from temple to temple; short the message, but portentous,—

“Blessed be Huitzil’, and all the gods of our fathers! And, as he at last saved his people, blessed be the memory of Montezuma! Purify the altars, and make ready for the sacrifice, for to-morrow there will be victims!”

CHAPTER XVI
ADIEU TO THE PALACE

At sunset a cold wind blew from the north, followed by a cloud which soon filled the valley with mist; soon the mist turned to rain; then the rain turned to night, and the night to deepest blackness.

The Christians, thinking only of escape from the city, saw the change of weather with sinking hearts. With one voice they had chosen the night as most favorable for the movement, but they had in mind then a semi-darkness warmed by south winds and brilliant with stars; not a time like this so unexpectedly come upon them,—tempest added to gloom, icy wind splashing the earth with icy water.

Under the walls the sentinels cowered shivering and listening and, as is the habit of wanderers surrounded by discomforts and miseries, musing of their homes so far away, and of the path thither; on the land so beset, on the sea so viewless. Recalled to present duty, they saw nothing but the fires of the nearest temple faintly iridescent, and heard only the moans of the blast and the pattering of the rain, always so in harmony with the spirit when it is oppressed by loneliness and danger.

Meantime, the final preparation for retreat went on with the completeness of discipline.

About the close of the second watch of the night, Cortes, with his personal attendants,—page, equerry, and secretaries,—left his chamber and proceeded to the eastern gate, where he could best receive reports, and assure himself, as the divisions filed past him, that the column was formed as he had ordered. The superstructure of the gate offered him shelter; but he stood out, bridle in hand, his back to the storm. There he waited, grimly silent, absorbed in reflections gloomy as the night itself.

Everything incident to the preparation which required light had been done before the day expired; outside the house, therefore, there was not a spark to betray the movement to the enemy; in fact, nothing to betray it except the beat of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of gun-carriages, and they were nigh drowned by the tempest. If the saints would but help him clear of the streets of the city, would help him to the causeway even, without bringing the infidels upon him, sword and lance would win the rest: so the leader prayed and trusted the while he waited.

“My son, is it thou?” asked a man, close at his side.

He turned quickly, and replied, “Father Bartolomé! Welcome! What dost thou bring?”

“Report of the sick and wounded.”

“I remember, I remember! Of all this bad business, by my conscience! no part so troubled me as to say what should be done with them. At the last moment thou wert good enough to take the task upon thyself. Speak: what did thy judgment dictate? What did thy conscience permit?”

The good man arranged his hood, the better to shield his face from the rain, and answered,—

“Of the Christians, all who are able will take their places in the line; the very sick will be borne by Tlascalans; the litters are ready for them.”

“Very well,” said Cortes.

“The Tlascalans—”

“Cierto, there the trouble began!” and Cortes laid his hand heavily on the priest’s shoulder. “Three hundred and more of them too weak to rise from the straw, which yet hath not kept their bones from bruising the stony floor! Good heart, what didst thou with them?”

“They are dead.”

“Mother of God! Didst thou kill them?” Cortes griped the shoulder until Olmedo groaned. “Didst thou kill them?”

The father shook himself loose, saying, “There is no blood on my hands. The Holy Mother came to my help; and this was the way. Remembrance of the love of Christ forbade the leaving one Christian behind; but the heathen born had no such appeal; they must be left,—necessity said so. I could not kill them. By priestly office, I could prepare them for death; and so I went from man to man with holy formula and sacramental wafer. The caciques were with me the while, and when I had concluded, they spoke some words to the sufferers: then I saw what never Christian saw before. Hardly wilt thou believe me, but, Señor, I beheld the poor wretches, with smiles, bare their breasts, and the chiefs begin and thrust their javelins into the hearts of all there lying.”

An exclamation of horror burst from Cortes,—

“’Twas murder, murder! What didst thou?”

Olmedo replied quickly, “Trust me, my son, I rushed in, and stayed the work until the victims themselves prayed the chiefs to go on. Not even then did I give over my efforts,—not until they made me understand the purpose of the butchery.”

“And that? Haste thee, father. What thou tellest will stagger Christendom!”

Again Cortes caught the priest’s shoulder.

“Nay,” said the latter, shrinking back, “thy hand is hard enough without its glove of steel.”

“Pardon, father; but,—”

“In good time, my son, in good time! What, but for thy impatience, I would have said ere this is, that the object was to save the honor of the tribe, and, by killing the unfortunates, rescue them from the gods of their enemy. Accordingly, the bands who are first to enter the palace to-night or to-morrow will find treasure,—much treasure as thou knowest,—but not one victim.”

The father spoke solemnly, for in the circumstance there was a strain of pious exaltation that found an echo in his own devoted nature; greatly was he shocked to hear Cortes laugh.

“Valgame Dios!” he cried, crossing himself; “the man blasphemes!”

“Blasphemes, saidst thou?” and Cortes checked himself. “May the saints forget me forever, if I laughed at the tragedy thou wert telling! I laughed at thy simplicity, father.”

“Is this a time for jesting?” asked Olmedo.

“Good father,” said Cortes, gravely, “the bands that take the palace to-night or to-morrow will find no treasure,—not enough to buy a Christmas ribbon for a country girl. Look now. I went to the treasure-room a little while before coming here, and there I found the varlets of Narvaez loading themselves with bars of silver and gold; they had sacks and pouches belted to their waists and shoulders, and were filling them to bursting. Possibly some gold-dust spilled on the floor may remain for those who succeed us; but nothing more. Pray thou, good priest, good friend, pray thou that the treasure be not found in the road we travel to-night.”

A body of men crossing the court-yard attracted Cortes; then four horsemen approached, and stopped before him.

“Is it thou, Sandoval?” he asked.

“Yes, Señor.”

“And Ordas, Lugo, and Tapia?”

“Here,” they replied.

“And thy following, Sandoval?”

“The cavaliers of Narvaez whom thou gavest me, one hundred chosen soldiers, and the Tlascalans to the number thou didst order.”

“Bien! Lead out of the gate, and halt after making what thou deemest room for the other divisions. Christ and St. James go with thee!”

“Amen!” responded Olmedo.

And so the vanguard passed him,—a long succession of shadowy files that he heard rather than saw. Hardly were they gone when another body approached, led by an officer on foot.

“Who art thou?” asked Cortes.

“Magarino,” the man replied.

“Whom have you?”

“One hundred and fifty Christians, and four hundred Tlascalans.”

“And the bridge?”

“We have it here.”

“As thou lovest life and honor, captain, heed well thine orders. Move on, and join thyself to Sandoval.”

The bridge spoken of was a portable platform of hewn plank bolted to a frame of stout timbers, designed to pass the column over the three canals intersecting the causeway to Tlacopan, which, in the sally of the afternoon, had been found to be bridgeless. If the canals were deep as had been reported, well might Magarino be charged with particular care!

In the order of march next came the centre or main body, Cortes’ immediate command. The baggage was in their charge, also the greater part of the artillery, making of itself a long train, and one of vast interest; for, though in the midst of a confession of failure, the leader did not abate his intention of conquest,—such was a peculiarity of his genius.

“Mexia, Avila, good gentlemen,” he said, halting the royal treasurers, “let me assure myself of what beyond peradventure ye are assured.”

And he counted the horses and men bearing away the golden dividend of the emperor, knowing if what they had in keeping were safely lodged in the royal depositaries, there was nothing which might not be condoned,—not usurpation, defeat even. Most literally, they bore his fortune.

A moment after there came upon him a procession of motley composition: disabled Christians; servants, mostly females, carrying the trifles they most affected,—here a bundle of wearing apparel, there a cage with a bird; prisoners, amongst others the prince Cacama, heart-broken by his misfortunes; women of importance and rank, comfortably housed in curtained palanquins. So went Marina, her slaves side by side with those of Nenetzin, in whose mind the fears, sorrows, and emotions of the thousands setting out in the march had no place, for Alvarado had wrapped her in his cloak, and lifted her into the carriage, and left a kiss on her lips, with a promise of oversight and protection.

As if to make good the promise, almost on the heels of her slaves rode the deft cavalier, blithe of spirit, because of the happy chance which made the place of the lover that of duty also. Behind him, well apportioned of Christians and Tlascalans and much the largest of the divisions, moved the rear-guard, of which he and Leon were chiefs. His bay mare, Bradamante, however, seemed not to share his gayety, but tossed her head, and champed the bit, and frequently shied as if scared.

“Have done, my pretty girl!” he said to her. “Frightened, art thou? ’Tis only the wind, ugly enough, I trow, but nothing worse. Or art thou jealous? Verguenza! To-morrow she shall find thee in the green pasture, and kiss thee as I will her.”

“Ola, captain!” said Cortes, approaching him. “To whom speakest thou?”

“To my mistress, Bradamante, Señor,” he replied, checking the rein impatiently. “Sometimes she hath airs prettier, as thou knowest, than the prettinesses of a woman; but now,—So ho, girl!—now she—Have done, I say!—now she hath a devil. And where she got it I know not, unless from the knave Botello.”⁵²

“What of him? Where is he?” asked Cortes, with sudden interest.

“Back with Leon, talking, as is his wont, about certain subtleties, nameless by good Christians, but which he nevertheless calleth prophecies.”

“What saith the man now?”

“Out of the mass of his follies, I remember three: that thou, Señor, from extreme misfortune, shalt at last attain great honor; that to-night hundreds of us will be lost,—which last I can forgive in him, if only his third prediction come true.”

“And that?”

“Nay, Señor, except as serving to show that the rogue hath in him a savor of uncommon fairness, it is the least important of all; he saith he himself will be amongst the lost.”

Then Cortes laughed, saying, “Wilt thou never be done with thy quips? Lead on. I will wait here a little longer.”

Alvarado vanished, being in haste to recover his place behind Nenetzin. Before Cortes then, with the echoless tread of panthers in the glade, hurried the long array of Tlascalans; after them, the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, their implements clashing against their heavy armor; yet he stood silent, pondering the words of Botello. Not until, with wheels grinding and shaking the pavement, the guns reached him did he wake from his thinking.

“Ho, Mesa, well met!” he said to the veteran, whom he distinguished amid a troop of slaves dragging the first piece. “This is not a night like those in Italy where thou didst learn the cunning of thy craft; yet there might be worse for us.”

“Mira, Señor!” and Mesa went to him, and said in a low voice, “What thou saidst was cheerily spoken, that I might borrow encouragement; and I thank thee, for I have much need of all the comfort thou hast to give. A poor return have I, Señor. If the infidels attack us, rely not upon the guns, not even mine: if the wind did not whisk the priming away, the rain would drown it,—and then,”—his voice sunk to a whisper; “our matches will not burn!”

At that moment a gust dashed Cortes with water, and for the first time he was chilled,—chilled until his teeth chattered; for simultaneously a presentiment of calamity touched him with what in a man less brave would have been fear. He saw how, without the guns, Botello’s second prediction was possible! Nevertheless, he replied,—

“The saints can help their own in the dark as well as in the light. Do thy best. To-morrow thou shalt be captain.”

Then Cortes mounted his horse, and took his shield, and to his wrist chained his battle-axe: still he waited. A company of horsemen brushed past him, followed by a solitary rider.

“Leon!” said Cortes.

The cavalier stopped, and replied,—

“What wouldst thou, Señor?”

“Are the guards withdrawn?”

“All of them.”

“And the sentinels?”

“I have been to every post; not a man is left.”

Cortes spoke to his attendants and they, too, rode off; when they were gone he said to Leon,—

“Now we may go.”

And with that together they passed out into the street. Cortes turned, and looked toward the palace, now deserted; but the night seemed to have snatched the pile away, and in its place left a blackened void. Fugitive as he was, riding he knew not to what end, he settled in his saddle again with a sigh—not for the old house itself, nor for the comfort of its roof, nor for the refuge in time of danger; not for the Christian dead reposing in its gardens, their valor wasted and their graves abandoned, nor for that other victim there sacrificed in his cause, whose weaknesses might not be separated from a thousand services, and a royalty superbly Eastern: these were things to wake the emotions of youths and maidens, young in the world, and of poets, dreamy and simple-minded; he sighed for the power he had there enjoyed,—the weeks and months when his word was law for an empire of shadowy vastness, and he was master, in fact, of a king of kings,—immeasurable power now lost, apparently forever.