Chapter XIV Pedro to the Rescue
When Cristoval awoke, stiffened and unrefreshed, the room was gray with feeble light. He stared at the heavy rafters, not yet fully roused to his dismal circumstances.
“’T is early,” he thought sleepily, “or a dull morning. What hath the day? Let us see—where am I? Guamachucho? No. What pent up air is this?” He turned his head and blinked at the windows, then raised his manacled wrists. The history of the day before flashed over him. He looked a moment at his irons, then closed his eyes and set his lips. Presently he sat up, painfully, and bent his head upon his hands. “I thought I had dreamed. Ay de mi! No dream, Cristoval. To-morrow a court, a shrift, the garrote. Ah, Madre, it hath been a life not well spent! But it seemeth short—too short.” He sighed heavily, once, twice, arose abruptly, and shook himself. “Enough, Peralta! Thou’lt be groaning in self-pity. No more of it! Let us look about.”
He hobbled to the table. There was a jar of water and a loaf of coarse corn-bread. “Some one hath been here—not Pedro, I’ll stake my head. I wonder what the hour may be. It must be late. Bien! The day will be the shorter. And now we’ll eat, if but to kill time. Would that hope were as faithful in our extremity as appetite! We’d ne’er despair. Two good comrades, hope and appetite, and sad to lose. Pedro would say that—though belike in Latin. Good old cook! When will he come? But he’ll come, God bless him! What did he mean?—he hath ‘learned a trick or two besides those of the kitchen.’ Can he hope to free me? Chance slight as air! Would that De Soto were here, though I see not how he can help. But he could save the Ñusta Rava, and that he will do, I know. Poor girl! Her fate may be worse than mine. Now, we’ll have another look at these fetters.—Strong enough, by the Faith, and strength to spare! But one of José’s files on the rivet-heads—as well wish for the Arabian lamp!”
The day dragged slowly and wearily. He spent it in waiting, vaguely, he knew not for what, and in listening for the few slight sounds that broke upon the stillness. The steps of the sentinel, the murmur of voices when the reliefs came, the faint echo of the trumpet-calls on the plaza, were noted with painful attention. Now he sat straining his ears; now he limped haltingly round and round the apartment, filling it with the clank and scrape of his shackles, until his ankles were worn to the raw and he could walk no more. Seated on the bench, he dozed at last, and when he awoke the light was failing. This day Pedro did not come. Thrice Cristoval thought some one fumbled the bolt of the door, but it was unopened until night was on, when the new officer of the guard came in with the old. They entered in silence. A soldier held a lantern aloft while the new commander surveyed the room and the prisoner, briefly returning his nod as all went out without a word.
The night was a year, but toward dawn he slept, rousing when his food was brought. The soldier eyed him indifferently, and departed without salutation. Soon after, two of José’s artificers came in with a pikeman of the guard, inspected the windows, and strengthened the fastenings of the door. Cristoval spoke to one of them, but the guard gruffly forbade a reply, and the prisoner said no more.
The day was maddening in its length, monotony, and stillness. Why did not Pedro come? Where was De Soto? Had all friends failed? He must communicate with De Soto concerning the Ñusta, and time might be short. When should he have his trial? These questions came again and again to his tortured mind, but all remained unanswered. They troubled him more now than the thought of death, for with the loss of hope had come the blessed resignation with which the All-wise softens the approach of the inevitable hour, and he was surprised at his own indifference. His one anxiety about it was the question when it would be. He would have interrogated the soldier who brought his food, but the man did not even answer his greeting.
Another restless night, and Cristoval rose haggard and savage. Solitude had preyed upon him, and the silence even more. The taciturnity of his guards was infuriating. When the soldier entered with his breakfast he sprang up from the bench with a suddenness that caused the man to drop his burden with a crash of broken stoneware, and draw his dirk as he dashed to the door calling for help. The sentinel burst in and stood with lowered pike while Cristoval glared upon them like a madman.
“Loco!” whispered the attendant, with a gasp. “Jesu Cristo! let me out!”
“Out, then, thou knave!” bellowed Cristoval. “Who holdeth thee? And hearken! When thou comest again, speak!—say something, or by Saint Michael, thou’lt die unshriven! Is this a tomb, that ye varlets must come and go, tiptoeing and mum like undertakers’ help? Pass the time of day, ask me how I like my fare, mention the weather, or blow thy nose; but break this accursed silence if thou wouldst have thy neck unbroken!”
The soldier edged toward the door. “We are forbidden to have words with you, Señor Cristoval.”
“Good! Then say that! Say it over and again! Say it backward; but ware being silent. Dost hear?”
“Muy bien—Adiós, Señor Cristoval,” and the two squeezed themselves out.
“Bring more water!” shouted Cristoval, and sat down relieved.
The day wore along. When the officers of the guard came at nightfall Cristoval was asleep. Later he was aroused and sat up. A lantern blinded him, but in a moment he recognized Pedro with a shout. He rose and clanked across the room, extending both hands.
“Pedro, thou blessed saint! Pedro at last! My life! I thought never to see thy good face again. Where hast thou been these years? Welcome, welcome as the sun! Would these bracelets permit, I’d embrace thee, old friend.” His joy was unaffected and pathetic. Pedro was for a moment overwhelmed by its demonstration. Freeing himself of a burden whose savory odors told its nature, he grasped Cristoval’s hands, then dropped one to dash his own hastily across his eyes.
“God ha’ mercy, Cristoval! I—I—Spit, roast, and baste my carcass!—I’m glad to see thee. Wait!”
He turned hurriedly to the basket which he had deposited upon the table, fished out a loaf, and thrust it upon the prisoner. “Here!” he whispered, with great impressiveness, looking carefully toward the door, “Chew it up fine! Chew it fine—dost hear?”
Cristoval took the loaf mechanically, surveying him with astonishment. “What thinkst thou, man—that I would swallow it whole? I am hungered, but no cormorant. I’ll wait, by thy leave.”
“Yes, yes! Wait till I’m gone. Hide it. Eat it when alone.”
Cristoval scanned his round face, now serious, and tucked the loaf into his doublet.
“Ah!” quoth Pedro, with a nod of approval. “Now I will lay out thy supper, and whilst thou dost eat I will talk. I must not tarry over long—to-night. To-morrow night I will tarry longer. Ha, ha! Stew my tripes and giblets!” and he patted Cristoval on the back, mystifying the cavalier with his uncalled-for levity. He continued rapidly: “Sit, amigo, and I’ll tell thee a history of late events, and briefly. I have talked with De Soto.”
“Then he hath returned!” said Cristoval.
“Hath returned, and would be sharing thine imprisonment could Pizarro do his inclinations. But De Soto was more discreet than thou, Cristoval. On his arrival he paid his respects to the general in full armor, whilst his troop stood to horse in the plaza in front of the palace. ’T was a bluff and blustering parley, I’ve been told. The captain forced Pizarro to lame defence of his execution of the Inca, and to swallow more of his own choler than he will be through with tasting for a fortnight. But he had naught else to do, for De Soto would have killed him at a word. In the end the commander threw blame upon Riquelme, Almagro, and others—a burden unloved by any of them, it would seem, for they fell upon him in full cry and rammed the accusation down his throat. The lie was bandied among them like a shuttlecock. This one appeached that, that one the other, then all of them each one in turn. Their chorus reached to the plaza. A bag of cats were not more earnest and vociferous. Swords were out, and but for Candia and Gonzalo Pizarro’s blood had been spilt. Stew me! I would they had gotten well at it. What sayst thou to ’t?—a rare batch of back-clawing freebooters, not so, Cristoval? Aha! De Soto stirred them well.—But what wouldst guess was the outcome of the wrangle? Scorch me if Pizarro did not shift the blame upon that scamp, Felipillo, whom he accuseth of having falsified to incriminate the Inca!”
Cristoval’s comment was a laugh of disgust. Pedro added an imprecation, and resumed.
“And now to thine own business, amigo. De Soto spoke for thee, but with ill success. Thine offence was flagrant, dost see?—black, grave, and most flagitious! For the sake of discipline thou must come to trial. The most Pizarro would grant is a delay until the day after the morrow. But for De Soto it would have been yesterday. The moment was unfavorable for intercession.”
Cristoval had ceased eating and sat gloomily regarding the cook. “Useless to intercede,” he said at last, “then, or at any time. My campaign is ended, Pedro. But I must see De Soto. Thou and he must save that unhappy girl.”
“We will do so, Cristoval. But now hear me. I have talked with De Soto. To-day he went to the general and insisted thou must have Christian fare, and that I be allowed admittance. Pizarro demurred, but when De Soto came away I went to the general, saying that I had been told I should have to be thy commissary—to lug offal to the bear, as Rogelio hath put it—and I swore a great protest that I’d not do it. Vowed that if I was forced to it I’d put poison in thy food.”
“Ho!” exclaimed Cristoval.
“I declared thou ’rt mad, as ’t is said by the men, and that I feared for my life.”
“San Miguel!” growled Cristoval. “Is not my case bad enough without thy slander?”
Pedro shrugged. “I painted thee well, amigo, and the general knoweth my fears. As a consequence—”
“—I’ve lived on corn-bread and water, Pedro. Continue.”
“—As a consequence, I’m ordered to feed thee or be thumbscrewed, and Pizarro more than half believeth the latter would please me as well. He knoweth, therefore, thou’lt have scant sympathy from me, thou’lt not be overfed, and that I’ll be carrying no messages from thee to friends outside. He knoweth that I take my life in my hands in coming—I am armed, as thou see’st, Cristoval. It is thy sword, by the way.”
Cristoval looked at it with a sigh. “I would rather thou shouldst have it than any other man. It is a good blade, Pedro. Let it keep me in thy memory.”
Pedro regarded him intently. After a pause he said in a low voice, “Cristoval, thou’lt find a file in that loaf.”
Cristoval started, and his face slowly flushed.
“José sent it thee,” whispered Pedro, “encased thus in the loaf lest I be searched by the guard. A wise precaution, for they did search me. And now,” Pedro hitched his stool nearer, “dost think thou canst free thyself by to-morrow night? Good! Then listen: File the rivet-heads nearly off—not quite—so that a moment’s work will finish it. Mould a bit of the bread in shape to simulate the bolt-heads in case thy fetters should be inspected. Be ready to-morrow night.”
Cristoval seized the cook’s hand and pressed it without a word.
“Be ready,” repeated Pedro. “I’ll tell thee a plan when I come again. Now, good-night.”
“Hold, Pedro!—will it endanger thee? If so, I’ll none of it, by—”
“It will not. I swear it. Adiós.”
Pedro pounded on the door, which was opened presently by the sentinel. He went through with a snort and an oath, and looking back, addressed the prisoner with well affected wrath:—
“Burnt, is it? Underdone, is it? Too salt, is it? Not warm enough, isn’t it? Thou croaking, leather-cropped kennel-forager! Thy feed will be served hot enough presently, and not underdone, I’ll take my oath on’t! Thou’lt have the devil for a cook, and he’ll do things to a turn. Bear him the compliments of Pedro with the hope that his draughts are good, and firewood and sulphur plentiful. Underdone! Thou’lt be done brown, my head on ’t, thou—”
The door slammed, and Cristoval could hear him grumbling and swearing to the sentinel. He smiled, sat listening for a time, then cautiously drew out the loaf and broke it. The point of a file protruded, and in a second it was hidden in his bosom. Shortly he extinguished the light, sought the bench, and waiting for a period with ears alert, took out the precious bit of steel and set to work in the darkness, first on his shackles. But despite his utmost care his manacles rattled at every stroke, and he spent half an hour wrapping the links with his torn-up kerchief. At last he could work in comparative silence, though the grating of the file seemed to cry aloud to heaven, and he paused momentarily, breathless, to listen for an alarm. But the tool bit gratefully, and before midnight he judged from the feeling that little work remained.
Now for the manacles. This was another matter. Twist and strain as he might, he could not reach the rivets with the file,—could not have done so had his soul been at stake, as well as liberty and life. He groaned, sweat, and raged, tried holding the tool between his teeth, and strove ineffectually until his jaws ached. He sat near to despair. Now he sought carefully along the wall for a crevice into which to wedge the butt of the implement, and cursed the skill of the masons. For ages he searched, until his finger nails were worn to the quick. Useless! He must wait for Pedro.
Another possibility. He groped until he found a chair. Over and over it travelled his eager fingers, and at last found a crevice into which the file would go. In his fever he dropped the steel, and it clanged on the pavement like a tocsin. He caught breath with a sob and knelt long with straining ears, mouth and eyes wide open. Gracias á Dios, it was unheard! Cautiously, now! The file enters and is forced to solidity by a few gentle blows from his manacles. Now he works—awkwardly, but in a delirium of interestedness. “Gods! The Inca had longing for freedom. Had he such longing as this which hath come with renewed hope? Poor devil, ’tis even likely. God rest his soul.”
It seemed but a moment before he noticed with a shock that the two high windows were staring at him with pallid light, like a pair of accusing eyes. The morning had come. He ceased and rose from his stiffened knees. Now to hide the evidence. A few crumbs from the loaf, water from the jar, soot from the inside of Pedro’s lantern, and the rivet-heads were counterfeited with the loving care of an artist. Next, the filings. They were invisible, but he did not rest until they had been scattered to the four corners of the room. At length he lay down, weary but sleepless, staring at the beams which already wore the familiarity of lifelong acquaintance. After an hour the sentinel looked in, and Cristoval snored. The door closed again.—Madre de Dios! Was that a blunder—to feign sleep? Would not the soldier suspect that he had been awake all night—working with a file—and now slept from weariness? He sat up, pale and shaking. No! Impossible! But he would not venture it again. After a time his breakfast came—corn-bread. Pedro did not bring it. Was there significance in that? Had the night’s work been detected and his accessory seized? The soldier had looked at him with suspicion—at least, with feigned indifference! Holy Mother! What a torture of multiplied fears, now that hope had come!
And so throughout the day. Every sound startled his heart to his mouth, clamored discovery, the plot revealed. At midday he was sleepy, and dared not sleep,—or only in snatches, sitting up. Ten thousand times he examined his counterfeit rivet-heads. Palpably, palpably false! To be detected at a glance through a crack in the door! He hardly ventured to move lest the bits of paste fall off. Ah, torment upon torment! It was easier to be sure of death, as he had been the day before.
By nightfall his head was fevered, his hands clammily cold. At the usual hour the officer of the guard came in. The new one was Zapato. He was surly and irritable from a debauch of the previous night, and said loudly as he entered the door:—
“Is this our ogre? Bah! For a maravedi I would pull his teeth. Let us have a look at his fastenings.”
The other officer spoke a word in a low tone, evidently of warning, and laid his hand upon his companion’s arm. Zapato shook him off roughly. “Furies!” he retorted. “Dost think to frighten me? Loco or not, I’ll see to his irons. Here, guard, the lantern.”
Cristoval’s nervousness left him in an instant, and he set his teeth. Por Dios! the man who should discover his work with the file should never live to announce it. As Zapato approached, holding the lantern aloft, scowling with swollen eyes, Cristoval rose slowly and stood watching his advance with still alertness. The unsteady lantern cast a fitful light over his rugged features, and the officer looked into a face whose haggardness was intensified by the uncertain shadows,—cheeks sunken and drawn by confinement and anxiety, and from their dark orbits a pair of eyes gleaming with menacing steadiness into Zapato’s. The latter hesitated, peering uncertainly through the gloom, then stepped back a pace, his hand on his sword. The other officer seized him by the arm and drew him without much resistance toward the door. Zapato looked back over his shoulder.
“The man is mad for a surety! We’ll let some one else look after his fetters,” and he laughed uneasily and went out. Cristoval smiled grimly and seated himself to wait for Pedro.
Four long hours,—he knew from the change of sentinels outside the door, which was made twice. At last, the welcome voice. Pedro was apparently in unusual spirits, for his words were pitched high and he talked volubly, now rapidly in Spanish, now with dignity in Latin. Would he never be done? Presently he was singing. Fiends! Will he not hurry? But listen! His words sound thick, with pauses suspiciously like hiccoughs. At length the door opens.
“Is—is—the (hic)—man mad, sayst thou? Say, rather, ‘Faenum habet in cornu!’ Lat—Latin, compadre. Meaneth, he hath hay on (hic) his horns—P—p— (hic) Pliny. M—more stately way of expressing it, my dear (hic). Let us—see!”
Cristoval’s heart sank in black despair as Pedro stumbled into the room, basket in one hand and lantern in the other, and stood swaying in the doorway, smiling idiotically at the darkness. The prisoner could have wept in his sudden revulsion from hope to disappointment and disgust. The sentinel seemed to hesitate about closing the door, and Pedro blinked at him a moment, then said to Cristoval in a voice of maudlin sympathy:—
“Loco! (hic) loco, Cristoval? My commiseration! Sad state. Animi affectionem lumine mentis carentem nominaverunt (hic) amentiam, eandemque dementiam. Amentiam or dementiam, Cristoval—have thy choice. Cicer—(hic) Cicero, my friend. Grand old man, Cicero, and safe authority. But—art mad, Cristoval? Outrage! Quos Deus perdere vult prius dementat. Whom God wisheth to destroy—thou knowest, Cris(hic)toval. More Latin! Sh—shut the door, guard. I’ll sit down with Cristoval. Loco, Cristoval? S-s-(hic)scandalous!”
The guard closed the door with a grin, Pedro regarding him with profound drunken wisdom. Cristoval’s head was bowed upon his hands. As the bolts were shot the cook’s manner underwent a transformation. He listened a moment, then stepped briskly to the table, deposited basket and lantern, and when the prisoner looked up dejectedly he met seriousness from which all ebriety had vanished.
Cristoval sprang to his feet. “San Miguel, Pedro, I thought thou hadst failed me! Thou’rt really sober?” He studied the cook’s genial face earnestly. “Gracias á Dios! But ’twas well played! What news? Am I to go?”
“Seguramente! Now, quickly, for we have scant time for words. That little play was a part of our affair and will aid us later. What of thine irons? Hast used the file? Ah, good! Now attend. This is the plot. Pedro cometh to thee in his cups. He bringeth a bottle—here it is. We drink. Presently Pedro sleepeth. What more simple, then, than to bind his arms, unstrap his poor wooden leg, strap it to one of thy good ones,—first cutting away the back of the leather socket to admit thy bent knee,—don his cloak, sombrero, and sword, and sally forth when the door is opened to thy knocking? The cloak hitched up by thy rapier will conceal thy bent leg. Thine intoxication will account for thine awkward gait on the unaccustomed peg, will excuse thy tilted sombrero to hide thy face, and thy silence if addressed. The sentinel at the door will be drunk shortly, for I’ve left him a bottle. With the one at the entrance thou must take thy chances, but if accosted, hiccough and tender this flask. It will be eloquent enough. Then—make the best of thy way to the mountains, and Dominas vobiscum! Now, first, we must take off that beard. Here are scissors. Sit, whilst I play the barber. No time for words. Do as I say!”
He was at the beard in a moment. Cristoval raised his hand.
“Well, what now?” demanded Pedro, pausing.
“The Ñusta Rava,” said Cristoval.
“Thou must leave her to me.”
“She goeth with me, Pedro. I have sworn to the Inca—”
“Oh, Murder of the Innocents! Man, ’t is impossible! Thy life may pay for it. Save thy neck if thou canst. It is thy one chance. Thy trial is for the morrow. Encumbered with her—”
“She goeth with me, Pedro, or I go not at all.”
Pedro swore vigorously, but Cristoval was obdurate. They wrangled hotly in fierce undertone. Pedro yielded.
“Be it as thou sayst, Cristoval. Holy Mother! Why must a good man sometimes be a fool? Well, stew me, thou ’rt not the first to be undone by a petticoat, nor wilt be the last. As thou sayst. Tilt thy head back.”
“Good Pedro, I have given my sacred word. Should I break it, and she come to harm,—it were dastardly, my friend, as thou knowest. By to-morrow I can have her in the hands of her people.”
Pedro clipped rapidly. “Well, I pray Heaven the effort may not cost too dear. But—damn my kettles, Cristoval!—thou’rt a man in a million. Now, I’ll tell thee how to find her. Thou knowest the little gate in the wall just back of the left wing of the palace. Thou’lt find it unfastened. Go in when the sentinel is not too near. Thou canst find the women’s court? Enter it and knock at the third door on the right. Her maids sleep there. They will know thee. Ask for Nuyalla. She will lead thee to the Princess, who will go with thee, I doubt not, for she knoweth now the fate in store for her. Heaven be with thee, Cristoval! Now thou’rt done.”
As he arose Cristoval demanded once more, searching the countenance of the cook, “Pedro, dost swear this will not endanger thee?”
“On my oath, it will not. De Soto is party to it. If it is needed, I’ll have his protection.”
Cristoval was satisfied. The remaining preparations were quickly made. A few minutes’ work removed the fetters. Pedro’s peg was unstrapped and fitted to Cristoval’s bent leg. Then the cavalier bound his friend securely with strips torn from his doublet. He buckled on his rapier, threw the cloak over his shoulders, pulled the sombrero well down over his eyes, and was ready to depart.
“Now walk across the room that I may see thy gait,” said Pedro. “Ah! Good! But stagger widely when thou ’rt outside. Tilt not thy rapier too much, lest it disclose thy leg. The peg would spoil thy swordsmanship, but once inside the palace walls thou canst take it off. Thou’lt answer. Now go!”
“Farewell, Pedro, my good friend,” said Cristoval, embracing him warmly. “Heaven grant that we may meet again!”
“Farewell, Cristoval. God preserve thee!” returned Pedro, his voice unsteady. “Curse it, I’ll miss thee sorely! Take the basket—and remember, thou ’rt drunk. Do not spare thy sword if any one hindereth; only—avoid killing José, Candia, or De Soto. They’re friends—almost the only ones thou hast now, save Pedro.”
“Is it so?” asked Cristoval, with surprise. “I thought there were others.”
“They are few. Pizarro hath done for that. He promiseth a division of thy share of the plunder, and hath given out that the Inca enriched thee for thy friendship. Not ten men in the army but would see thee roasted with right good-will. A murrain seize them all! Now go! But hold! I had almost forgotten. In the basket thou’lt find a pouch. Sling it over thy shoulder. It containeth provisions. Adiós! Adiós, Cristoval!”
Cristoval embraced him again, and in a second was pounding on the door. His nerves were steady, now, as steel.