Chapter XIII Cristoval a Prisoner
Cristoval stood near the door. His eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity and travelled over the room and its furnishing; but his mind, occupied by a tumultuous review of the incidents just past, received little impression. In the middle of the room stood a table, and near it two or three stools. Along the wall at the rear was a stone bench, and in a corner a small heap of straw, the bed of some former prisoner. The fragments of a water jar littered the table, with bits of mouldering corn-bread. The low, heavily timbered ceiling, with the great thickness of the walls and the little air from the two small windows, made the atmosphere chill, stifling, and oppressive as that of a cellar.
He walked to the table and stood leaning against it, the disorder of his thoughts gradually yielding to grief for the ill-fated prince whose long durance he had lightened with his companionship. He realized now that his friendship for Atahualpa had grown stronger than he had been aware, and he felt an unexpected sense of loss. Slowly his sorrow was succeeded by a storm of bitter resentment at Pizarro’s perfidy, and he raged at his failure to avenge it. Every detail of the encounter presented itself to his mind—the moments when the commander’s life had been almost in his hand, the interruption which had foiled him at the instant of vengeance; and he stamped fiercely, impatiently, heaping curses upon those who had baffled him, and grinding his teeth at his present helplessness. More bitter still was the memory of the sacred obligation imposed upon him by the monarch at their final interview, and his inability, now, to acquit it. The peril to Rava foreseen by Atahualpa was upon her. She was without a defender, and at the mercy of her brother’s murderers. Her fate seemed certain. Cristoval sank upon a chair: sprang to his feet again, and looked about him, this time noting every feature of his surroundings, the walls of granite, the flagged floor, the small windows, high up and recently barred by Pizarro’s order, and the massive door, guarded without, as he knew, by a sentinel whose life depended upon his vigilance. He made a tour of the room with rapid steps, minutely scrutinizing every detail, driven not by the sense of his own danger, but by that of the unhappy girl entrusted to his guarding. There was not a crack between the blocks of stone into which he could have forced the point of a poniard. There was no escape.
The other phase of the situation came upon him. Not only was he a prisoner, but a prisoner under sentence of death. He knew Pizarro well enough to be sure of that. He must die. Not even De Soto’s power could save him. He had sought the life of his commander. He was a mutineer.
For an instant he was seized of a sudden weakness, and sank again upon a chair with a shuddering glare at vacancy. Doomed! He sat long, motionless, his faculties numbed. The air oppressed his breathing. Darkness closed about him and bore down upon his soul as if tangible. His strength was gone, and though he sat bolt upright he had the sensation of tottering. His mind ceased to act, absorbed and fascinated by the terror called death.
He was roused, long afterward, it seemed, though but minutes had flown, by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. Two halberdiers entered, followed by the sergeant and two armorer’s assistants bearing manacles and fetters, a portable forge, and an anvil. The door closed, and the group surveyed the prisoner as if he were a captured lion. Cristoval rose slowly and stood regarding them with apathy. The sergeant spoke.
“Señor Teniente Peralta, we have an unpleasant duty—” He hesitated, and Cristoval waited in silence.
“The armorers here,” continued the sergeant, “have a few trinkets which it is ordered you are to wear—temporarily.” He paused again, and Cristoval wondered vaguely why such a trifle should embarrass his speech. Fetters—what were they in the presence of the thought of death!
The sergeant resumed: “I trust you will give us no trouble, Señor. It is near supper-time, and you know what that meaneth to a man already twenty hours on guard. I had hoped this might be deferred until the new guard cometh on, but the general seemeth burdened with an anxiety to know you are secure—so here we are. Now, what say you?—shall it be done quietly, or must I have a squad of pikemen?”
For answer, Cristoval turned up his sleeves and offered his wrists.
“Ah! Bueno!” said the sergeant, with relief. “That is what I like to see. When a man must take his physic, why not do so gracefully? I have observed that it marketh the distinction between a caballero and a yokel. You are a good soldier, Señor Cristoval: I have always said it.—Armorers, set about it.—Would you believe me, Señor—the last man I saw ironed took four to hold him! But he was a creature of base instincts. Now, men, be expeditious!”
In half an hour the irons were securely riveted to Cristoval’s wrists and ankles, and the sergeant was expressing his appreciation of the prisoner’s forbearance, when he broke off abruptly, clapped his hand to his forehead, and stared at a rent in Cristoval’s doublet.
“Ah, Cielo!” he cried. “Why was I equipped with mud in the place of brains!—And you, too, ye numskulls—-where are your wits? Do ye see what we’ve done?—left him in his mail!—and now there’s no way to have it off but to undo his wristlets. Now what do you think of that?” he appealed to Cristoval.
Cristoval shrugged, but made no comment. The others stood helplessly about while the sergeant berated them until his feelings were relieved, when he exclaimed, with regained philosophy: “Well, let it stay! ’T will keep. The prisoner will be none the better for it, nor the worse; and if it worrieth the next sergeant of the guard, let him worry, or take it off. ’T is time to eat.”
He led his men out without further ado, and once more the place was quiet.
For an hour Cristoval sat in a half stupor; at last, overcome by weariness, he hobbled to the bench beside the wall. He stretched himself upon it, and his torpid mind passed insensibly into slumber. Late in the evening he was awakened by the light of a lantern in his face, and found himself confronting Pedro. The two regarded one another silently, Pedro with elevated light and profound concern in his rubicund countenance.
“’T is thou, good Pedro!” said Cristoval, at length.
“Ah!” assented Pedro. “And is it thou, Cristoval? Thou, amigo?—thus ignominiously pickled and shorn of liberty, hoppled like a wayward barb. I scarce know thee.”
Cristoval smiled gloomily. “It is I, Pedro! Would it were some other. A prisoner!—and all to no purpose.”
Pedro drew a long breath, swore a little, and seating himself, placed his lantern upon the floor and stared at it in dejection. “All to no purpose!” he echoed. “The Inca is dead.”
“And Pizarro liveth!” groaned Cristoval. “Oh, San Miguel! Could I have had but a moment longer with him!” He seized the cook’s arm. “But, Pedro—what of the Ñusta Rava?”
“Ah, the Ñusta Rava!” exclaimed Pedro, his face reddening in the lamplight with indignation. “What thinkst thou, Cristoval?—but thou couldst never guess! The Ñusta Rava hath been given by Pizarro to that foul bird, Mendoza, as his share of the plunder of the Inca’s palace.”
Cristoval sprang up and glared at the cook with an expression which reminded him of the rumor that the cavalier had gone mad. At length Cristoval hoarsely broke the silence:—
“Hath he—is she—”
Pedro met the burning scrutiny and shook his head. “No! She is safe for the present. The plunder hath not yet been divided.”
“Where is she?” demanded Cristoval.
“In the palace. She is unmolested thus far, save that Mendoza payeth an occasional visit to ogle, gloat on, and leer, whilst he croaketh a few words of Quichua. But she is never alone. Her maids are always present. One of them came to me this morning, weeping, and begged that I devise means to relieve her mistress of the monster’s visits. I’ll do it some fine day, Cristoval, and there will be carrion to lug out of the garden. She knoweth not her fate, poor girl.”
“Kill him, Pedro!”
“I will—if thou dost not.”
“I, Pedro! How in the fiend’s name could I kill even a rat?” demanded the cavalier, with impatience. “Look at me! Look about thee! Is this a paper house, imbecile? Am I tied with pack-threads? Another day—perhaps two—perhaps three—and I shall share the Inca’s fate. Be sure of it, friend.”
Pedro shrugged and glanced about. “Keep thy courage, Cristoval. Stone walls do not always make a prison. I’ve learned some tricks in my career besides those of the kitchen. Thou knowest I was not always a cook.”
“Thou’lt need the tricks of a thaumaturge to take me out of here, old friend,” said Cristoval, “and thou canst serve me better than by losing good time in the effort. Promise thou’lt kill Mendoza if need be to save the Ñusta.”
“I will!” replied Pedro, cheerfully. “But we will talk of it to-morrow—or when I come again. Now I must go. I’ve brought thee a small supper—bribed the sergeant of the guard to let me pass. No appetite at present? Then eat later. Adiós, amigo mio.”
“Wait, Pedro!” said Cristoval, urgently. “Tell me first of the Inca’s death.”
“Oh, an infamy of infamies!” blurted Pedro, with an oath, and reseated himself. “A devil’s own deed, brought about by a devil’s own device and procedure! An indictment wanting even the merit of ingenuity in its fabrication! A court presided over by Pizarro and Almagro, the Inca’s prime enemies! A trial that began as a farce and ended in a quarrel over the expediency of his death—whether it would further or hinder the business of the conquest and the gathering of plunder. And it was decided on that score, Cristoval. The judgment was determined upon before the trial began. Didst know he was condemned to burn at the stake?”
“Oh, God!” gasped Cristoval. “They told me he was garroted!”
“And so he was. At the last moment, after the fagots were ablaze, Father Valverde offered him the easier death if he would accept the Faith. He assented. The fire was kicked out, and he received baptism. So he died a good Christian.”
“So he died a good Christian!” repeated Cristoval, with bitterness. “He was a better man a pagan than the Christians who slew him. Well, God give him rest. But had he no defenders, Pedro? Was there no man less a criminal than Pizarro?”
“A few, but, curse me, a sparing few! Among them was José, and he the most vehement. He denounced the affair with an acrimony that stirred the wrath of Father Valverde, who helped to draw the indictment. José knoweth no discretion, Cristoval. But the Inca’s friends were not many, and their protests were futile.”
“How did he bear himself?”
“As a king, if ever I saw one!” returned Pedro, with emphasis. “When the sentence was made known to him he made one appeal for mercy. Pizarro feigned commiseration: turned away his head and wiped an eye—oh, accursed hypocrite!—and now he weareth mourning. Didst observe?”
“I saw it.”
“But this one appeal denied,” continued Pedro, “the Inca met his death like a man, begging only that his people be gently dealt with. Rest his soul in peace! He was a man!”
Both sat for a time in silence, then Pedro sighed and arose. “Well, God be with thee, Cristoval. I’ll see thee to-morrow, if ’t is permitted. If not, then when De Soto cometh. He will make a way. Good-night.”
Cristoval pressed his hand, and leaving his lantern, the cook stumped to the door, which, after a moment’s pounding, was cautiously opened from without, and he disappeared. Cristoval meditated long. Then, slowly taking up the lantern, he moved to the table and surveyed the repast left by Pedro. There was a small flask of chicha, and after a draught of it he attacked the supper and finished it with interest. It revived his spirits, and for the first time he examined his fetters. There was little encouragement to be found in their massiveness, and he shook his head dubiously at the recollection of Pedro’s few words of reassurance. He returned to his bench, put out his light, and soon was sleeping heavily.