Chapter XVI Pedro in the Thumbscrews
Cristoval’s escape was promptly uncovered in this wise. After he had staggered away, the guard found the sentinel in a corner, comfortably asleep with Pedro’s bottle. Half an hour’s work and several bucketfuls of water brought him on his feet and aware of his transgression, impressed upon him by the sergeant by a vigorous train of invective. He was taken to the guard-room and put in irons.
When Zapato returned the sergeant reported a man drunk, and the need for a substitute. He promptly received his quota of invective for having a man drunk, and Zapato went to his office to meditate upon the circumstance of having a sergeant who had a man drunk on guard, and on the raking-over which he in turn would receive. He had settled himself to reflect upon the hardships and chagrins in the life of a soldier, when he was assailed by a thought. He threw open the door, and demanded:—
“Sergeant, where was this man when he became drunk?”
“On his post, Señor Teniente.”
“What post?”
“In front of Peralta’s door.”
Zapato paled, seized a lantern, and rushed across the patio to Cristoval’s door, followed by the sergeant. Two or three of the guard rose and sauntered after. Zapato entered the hastily opened door, raising his lantern and glancing about. He muttered his relief. On the bench lay a form, apparently sleeping. Pedro moved slightly, clinking the manacles, and Zapato was satisfied. He turned to go; was at the door when a fresh doubt seized him, and he went back. Pedro lay quite still, face to the wall; but Zapato espied his pinioned hands. He looked closer, swinging the light upon the face, and raised a howl of rage and consternation.
“Furies! This is not Peralta! It’s Pedro! Look, Sergeant—look, thou idiot! Oh, thou doubly, triply accursed model of witlings! Thou unspeakable effigy of imbecility! It’s Pedro, dost hear? Pedro! Oh, saints and devils, we’re skinned alive already!”
He rolled the cook over while the sergeant stood silently making crosses. Others hurried in and gathered round the cook, who snored, bulky and peaceful. They hauled him off the bench, every man shouting, but Pedro slept calmly on, gurgling gently when some one prodded his ribs, but giving no other sign of consciousness. There was his stump of a leg, its peg gone, vanished, evaporated. But Peralta—alas, no Peralta!
“Ho, the trumpeter!—the alarm!” roared Zapato, collaring the sergeant and running him to the door. The sergeant disappeared, and in a moment the call sounded which Cristoval had heard in the Ñusta’s apartment. Its first notes were ragged and discordant, telling the musician’s disorder of mind. Then it rose clear and stirring, startling many a Spaniard out of dreams. A soldier scurried across the plaza to the redoubt, carrying a lighted gunner’s match, and presently the flash and bang of the falconet split the mist. Now individuals and groups came running to the square, some half-dressed, others buckling and buttoning, all pale, tousled, and breathless.
Pizarro was one of the first out of doors. A messenger stammered the news, and withered in the general’s blast of fury. Commands followed quickly. Guards to every exit from the town. Patrols for every street. Cavalry for the suburbs and roads. A thousand castellanos reward for the recapture. Squads formed and went flying down dark streets, halting every moving man and woman. Soon, horsemen in twos, fours, and half-dozens left the square at the gallop in all directions. Groups of natives gathered, silent and wondering, their impassive faces dimly seen in the light of passing lanterns. Caxamalca had no more sleep—unless Pedro’s. He apparently slept on, untroubled, under the eyes of one of the guard who swore ever afterward that he had seen him disembodied on that gusty Peruvian night.
Toward the eighth hour of the morning Pizarro, accompanied by his secretary, with Almagro, Riquelme, Rogelio, and Father Valverde, entered the prison. Pedro heard the clatter of thumbscrews as they were set upon the floor by the squad of halberdiers who followed. The cook was sitting with bowed head, absorbed in misery. He glanced up as the party came in, saw that De Soto was not with it, and his heart sank. The captain had been ordered out with the rest in search of the fugitive. He had gone willingly enough, and had succeeded in tactfully reducing the chances of discovery by leading his men in what he guessed was the wrong direction. But at that moment he would have been a welcome sight to Pedro. The cook, however, gave no sign, but invoked the aid of the Virgin in consuming time until De Soto might return.
The court—for it was a court, duly organized and sworn, albeit summarily—first examined the apartment with minuteness and deliberation. The secretary recorded its findings. The fetters were inspected, and the conclusion was arrived at, agreed to, and set down, that they had been undone by a file or similar instrument. Thereupon the tribunal proceeded to interrogate those suspected of complicity. First came Pedro. After him would come the sentinel found drunk on post, the two artificers who had been at work on the fastenings of the door, and others. Thus far the process had been carried on with dignity and order. Now Rogelio, who, with Riquelme, was to conduct the examination, prepared to begin, swelling himself pompously, pursing his lips, puffing his cheeks, and rolling his eyes from one to another of the court, until Riquelme exclaimed impatiently: “Infierno! Commence, Veedor, before the morning is spent!”
Rogelio opened his mouth at him, then turned to Pedro. “Prisoner,” he piped. Pedro made no sign of hearing him.
“Prisoner!” he repeated, and Pedro looked up, scowling.
“Ho! Art addressing me, Veedor? Then change my title. I am a cook. A cook, look thou! A cook bereft, plundered, despoiled, and ravished of a leg! Pray, hast seen it—my missing member?”
Rogelio hesitated, snuffled, and with dignity began again.
“Prisoner—”
“Cook, I tell thee!” Pedro interrupted, explosively. “Thy prisoner hath flown—flown with three legs, one a stolen, and that one mine—not my best, in truth, only my second best; but nevertheless most grievously wanted. Hast seen it, Veedor?”
Rogelio’s mind was not alert. It could pursue a single line of thought with a sort of porcine tenacity, but the intrusion of a second idea produced derangement requiring time to readjust. His attention, now drawn to Pedro’s lost peg and his uncanny-looking stump, was not readily disengaged. He stood surveying the cook’s maimed member with fascination until in the slow revolution of his thoughts they should come back to their former connection. This achieved, he began again.
“Prisoner—”
“Cook!” shouted Pedro, jerking himself erect and glaring at the veedor. The latter stopped, and Pizarro interfered.
“Be done, Pedro!” he commanded, angrily. “Cease interruptions and allow the veedor to proceed. Continue, Veedor.”
“Prisoner!” squeaked the veedor.
“Cook!” roared Pedro, savagely.
“Oh, in the devil’s name, let him have his way!” Almagro broke in. “Call him cook—anything—but begin, Rogelio!”
“Well—cook,” said Rogelio, wiping his forehead, “thou art charged with having guilty knowledge of the means whereby the late prisoner, Cristoval de Peralta, hath effected his escape.”
Pedro nodded gloomily. “So I have!” he assented. “’T is, alas, true! Unhappily I have such knowledge, Veedor. I know that he effected his escape on three legs, as I have said. May the third help him into hell! It was mine, I tell thee, and I want it back. What! Am I a centipede, thinkest thou, to go sloughing legs here and yon, all my days on earth? I’ve lost three, already—one of them mine inheritance of flesh and bone, the other twain hewn from good oak of Aragon. All gone! Stew me, I sicken of losing legs!”
The response produced a new tangle in Rogelio’s thread, and before he had it straightened Riquelme growled and took up the questioning.
“Here, Pedro,” he said sternly, “Peralta had a file wherewith he filed his fetters. Thou wast the only man save the guard and the artificers who had access to him. How came he by it?”
“Ah, a file had he!” returned Pedro, with irritation. “Well, curse it! let him have his file—or files, or rasps, or grindstones! May he chew them! But he filed not my leg off, I tell thee that, Señor Treasurer! He took it all—peg, socket, straps, and buckles. May it stick in his gullet! But look at me, thou who hast two good legs! Am I in a condition of mind or legs to sing to thee of files? Am I a newsmonger of files? A murrain on all files and filers! I want my leg!”
Riquelme grew red, and Almagro grinned maliciously; but Pizarro was angry. “Answer the question, thou eternal babbler!” he commanded. “How came Peralta by that file? Thou knowest, and we’ll have it out of thee. Answer!”
Pedro turned from him. “Oh, a curse upon Peralta and his file! What care I who gave him his file? Have I not mine own peculiar grief? And is it not grief enough but that I must be assailed with scare-devil bellowings by madmen who have lost a file? A surceasance of it! Ye have talked enough to grow me another leg. Ye rasp my nerves with your bully-ragging about a file. I’ve lost a leg!”
Pizarro stamped with fury and ordered the screws. Almagro protested, and was ignored. The instrument was brought forward, and the general demanded: “Once more, cook, and finally—wilt give information?”
Pedro had braced himself for what he had known was inevitable, though he had hoped that delay might bring De Soto. No word escaped him. He took the torture, a hero, with hardly a groan. Thrice he fainted, and at the end of an atrocious hour, Almagro interfered.
“Faugh, Pizarro! Enough! Enough! For the sake of Heaven, give over! It groweth sickening. Pass him and take another. Curse me! he is entitled to be let go for his fortitude, whether he knoweth aught or naught! Put it to the drunken sentinel. He is the man to be squeezed, if any—and the two artificers. If thou canst narrow the matter down to this crackle-pated cook, then come back to him and rack him, or hang him if ’t is worth thy while. But now, have done. Off with those screws, men! I’m a thief if I’ll see more of it! Off with them!”
Pedro had fainted for the third time. The soldiers looked to Pizarro. He glanced surlily at his partner, whose single eye met his own with an expression which he had seen it wear before. It promised a quarrel. Father Valverde joined Almagro’s protest. The veedor alone yelped an objection, and it decided the question in Pedro’s favor. Pizarro hesitated and said coldly:—
“Bien! So be it! Release him, soldiers. We can come to him again; and by the Eternal, do we find him guilty I’ll draw-and-quarter him in the square! Take off the screws.”
Within the hour the sentinel was haled before the court, followed by the two artificers and several of the guard. All swore willingly against Pedro,—too willingly, said Almagro, with vehemence; but for the cook the affair looked grave.
He was left in prison, horribly sick from the ordeal, but determined not to betray the man who had sent the file,—the rack, fire itself, could not have forced it from him.
De Soto returned late in the afternoon. José sought him while he was disarming, and shocked him with the news that Pedro had been tortured, and was in danger of worse. The captain had taken off his helmet, but he replaced it, buckled on his sword, and started toward the door. The old Morisco halted him with a hand upon his arm.
“Hold, Soto!” he said. “What dost intend?”
“To have Pedro released. I promised to protect him, and by my soul, I will do so! Pizarro hath gotten ahead of me, but he shall go no farther, or I’ll—”
“Wait!” urged José, detaining him. “Be not rash, young man, or thou’lt draw suspicion upon thyself. Hear me! I will claim the blame if need be, and flee into the mountains. But first, do thou see Almagro. He did not favor the torture, and together you may be able to prevent by persuasion what thou canst easily precipitate by heat and defiance. If you fail, then accuse me, who sent the file.”
“No sooner thee than myself, who am equally involved, José!” responded De Soto, stoutly. “I’ll make no accusation.”
“Then see Almagro, and keep me informed.”
“Very well. I will do so.” De Soto hurried out. He found the bluff Almagro a ready ally. Pedro had won his soldierly admiration, and he swore that the cook was far too good a man to be sacrificed for a matter largely personal with the commander. He went straightway with De Soto to Pizarro.
The interview was prolonged. At times it grew stormy, even threatened the division in the army which the general dreaded more than external foes; but in the end he permitted the cook’s release on De Soto’s responsibility, with the latter’s promise to produce him for trial when called upon. Pedro was removed at once to De Soto’s quarters to be nursed back to himself and guarded against Pizarro until, in the preparations for the march to Cuzco, his suspected offence was overlooked. But the General was fairly satisfied of the cook’s guilt, and only the resolute and avowed interest of Almagro and De Soto prevented summary vengeance. Pizarro raged under the necessity of biding his time.
The day following Cristoval’s flight had passed without discovery of his trail, though every soldier not on other duty joined the search, stimulated by the offered reward. It was exhilarating sport, this man-hunt with so much in store for the captor, and the zest was heightened by bets whether he would be taken; if so, whether alive; or whether he would be compelled by hunger or native hostility to surrender. The sole trace of the escape was with the sentinel run through by Cristoval’s sword. Brought in unconscious, he was still too weak to impart such information as he might possess. Rain had obliterated every footprint, and the flight was as clean as if made on wings. The Ñusta Rava’s absence had not been discovered. The report that a woman’s scream had been heard when the sentinel was assaulted received no attention.
Early in the evening, however, it was recalled, and the excitement freshened. Pizarro sat with Almagro, Riquelme, and others, receiving officers as they straggled in from the day’s ineffectual hunt. Mendoza, most indefatigable of all and last to give it up, had just been talking. He was leaning against the table, weary, rain-soaked, mud-spattered from head to foot, his corselet streaked with rust, and his face begrimed and surly. He had just finished when the door flung open abruptly, and the veedor, blowing as if from a run, his face purple and perspiring, burst into the room. He halted, gasped, strove to speak, and choked, stared wildly about, bolted to a chair, and sat down. Riquelme rose, aghast at his colleague’s grotesque symptoms of distress.
“What the devil is the matter with the man?” he cried. “Holy Mother, he hath a fit coming! Bleed him, somebody!”
Rogelio rolled his eyes at him and raised his hand, shaking his head in violent negation. Twice he gasped again, then managed to pipe faintly, “Oh—my stars!—the Ñusta!”
“The Ñusta!” repeated Riquelme. “Well, what of the Ñusta? Speak, thou puffing symbol of calamities unknown! What of her?”
“Flown!” whispered the veedor, grasping the arms of his chair in the effort to catch breath.
“What sayst thou? Hath flown!” shouted Mendoza, jerking him backward to see his face. “The Ñusta hath flown! Whither? Whither, I say!” and Mendoza shook out of him his little remaining breath.
“Come, Mendoza, unhand him,” said Almagro. “Let him have his wind or he’ll perish undelivered of his information.”
Mendoza scowled about the room and dashed out, leaving Rogelio with his eyes rolled to the rafters, swinging his head slowly from side to side and waving his arms, apparently in the last stage of asphyxiation. Pizarro ordered his secretary to investigate. Xerez soon returned with confirmation. Shortly Mendoza strode in, his black looks leaving no doubt. The Ñusta had vanished.
“Hath the garden been searched?” asked Pizarro.
“The guard hath hunted every nook of grounds and buildings,” replied the secretary. “Doubtless she went last night with Peralta.”
“When didst learn of it, Rogelio?” demanded Pizarro, after a moment of silence.
The veedor passed his sleeve across his forehead and snuffled, “Just now—just came from her room.”
Mendoza was upon him again. “Just came from her room!” he thundered. “What devil’s business hadst thou in her room? Didst not swear to keep away until we had played once more? What business, thou lizard?”
Rogelio sidled from his seat precipitately and took refuge behind Pizarro before replying. “She’s mine!” he squeaked. “I won her at dice. Pizarro, I claim your protection as a civil officer of the Crown.”
“With a wife and five small children at home!” added Almagro, with a disagreeable laugh. “Fie, Rogelio!”
Rogelio blinked at him viciously, and Pizarro ended the discussion. “You will settle your affairs elsewhere, Señores. This is no place for it.” He bowed significantly, and both left the room, the veedor tarrying uncomfortably until Mendoza should be out of the palace.
The veedor was quartered with Riquelme a few squares from the plaza.
Leaving the palace, he went directly to his house, half expecting Mendoza’s blade between his civil-official ribs at almost any moment. He reached it safely, and sat the greater part of the evening blinking at the light, laboring with a thought. He heard Riquelme come in with companions, and going to the rear of the patio later, roused one of his servants and beckoned him out.
“Vilpalca,” he said, “dost know Felipillo? Good! Go fetch him.”
He returned and sat again blinking at the light, slowly rubbing his hands, now chuckling without mirth, now communing with himself in emphatic whispers with many a sniffle interspersed. Within an hour his servant returned, leading Felipillo. The young renegade entered sulkily, twirling his plumed cap and looking shiftily at Rogelio, who greeted him with effusive condescension.
“Ah, Felipillo,” he twittered; “I am glad to see thee, Felipillo. How hath it gone with thee? Sit, boy, and I’ll pour thee a bit of chicha. Here.”
Felipillo seated himself on the edge of a chair, glanced contemptuously at the very small drink, and tossed it off at a gulp.
“Well, how hast prospered?” continued the veedor. “Hast played in luck? Not in excessive luck, eh, chico! Thou ’rt a bit seedy, not so? He, he! But we all have varied fortunes at play, Felipillo, now high, now low. But I would rejoice to see thee in better feather, my young friend. I would, on my soul!”
Felipillo regarded him with suspicious surprise, and the veedor went on: “I’ve sent for thee on a little matter of business, my boy. A matter, in fact, of—he, he!—diplomacy. We Spaniards, as thou knowest, are great in diplomacy. I hope thy coming did not incommode thee!”
“I was going to bed,” grunted Felipillo, with bad grace.
“To bed so early? Wise boy! But ’tis a sign of a thin purse, is it not?—or want of favor among the ladies—or both, eh? Sometimes they go together. Too bad, too bad!”
The veedor grinned upon him, meeting a sour glance in reply, then resumed.
“Now, Felipillo, what dost think I had in mind in sending for thee? Eh, boy? What dost imagine? Suppose I should say it was to offer thee—say, a hundred castellanos!”
Felipillo looked as if he would consider the statement a lie if made, but did not say so.
“A hundred castellanos, or maybe a hundred and fifty,” continued Rogelio, rubbing his hands and peering into the face of the interpreter. The youth gave him a brief, searching glance, and looked away.
“I really think of it,” said the veedor. “Upon my honor I do! A hundred and fifty castellanos—but not more, understand—not more. Of course, my young friend, thou wouldst naturally hope to make some return for it, now wouldst thou not? He, he! Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt! I see it in thy generous eye. Bien! Now, this is what I have to say. The Ñusta Rava—my Ñusta Rava!—hath fled, as thou knowest, with that bullying, swearing, blood-drinking scoundrel, Peralta. I want her back. Mendoza wants her back. I won her fairly at play, and she is mine; but I see that it grateth him to give her up. If he taketh her, he may not give her up. May the plague torture him a thousand years! Now, seest thou, I am not a man of arms. If I were, I would pursue her myself. But I am a civilian—an officer of the Crown, with a wife and—that is to say, Felipillo, I must not endanger myself in the hardship of a pursuit. I am not inured to it. I am too old—at least, my life and services are too valuable.” The veedor paused here to inflate his cheeks while he leaned back and surveyed the youth with dignity. But the dignity was marred somewhat by the snuffle with which he ended.
“Dost follow me? Good! Now, what I want of thee is this. Go to the camp of the Cañares, over the river, and set a pack of them on the scent of the runaways. What sayst thou? Mind thee—a hundred and fifty castellanos, good yellow gold!”
Felipillo had kept his eyes upon him with unusual steadiness. Now he looked aside, weighed the proposition, and shook his head. “Impossible, Señor.”
“Impossible! Why impossible?” demanded the veedor; leaning eagerly forward. “One hundred and fifty castellanos for thine own purse, boy! Why not?”
“Because one hundred and fifty castellanos would not pay me and hire them. A thousand castellanos would not hire them, Señor, for they care not for gold. They know not its worth.”
“H’m! True!” said Rogelio, his jaw suddenly dropping in disappointment. “But—well, what would hire them? Chicha?”
“Chicha might, but they can get it more easily.”
“Then what would?” snapped the veedor. “Beastly savages, not to know the worth of money!”
Felipillo was silent. Rogelio watched him anxiously for a time, then sat in a study. Finally he exclaimed: “Boy, I have it! These Cañares chafe under the yoke of Tavantinsuyu, not so?”
Felipillo nodded.
“Aha! Bueno! Bueno!” said the veedor, rubbing his hands. “We’ll offer them freedom.”
“We, Señor?”
“I, dolt; I, myself! I’ll promise it them.”
“Thou, Señor! They will know better.”
“Bah! We can lie a little. But why not I?” Rogelio became suddenly pompous. “Thou knowest not my standing at home, boy. A letter from me to the Colonial Council, or to his Majesty, would have weight, let me tell thee. But as I say, we can promise.”
“It will not answer,” said Felipillo, positively. “Moreover, they are like to be free, now, without anybody’s leave.”
The veedor’s jaw sagged again. He studied heavily, and presently looked up. “Felipillo, I’ll tell thee what will effect it,—license of rapine!—liberty to plunder the natives hereabouts after we have marched! By the sacrament, I can promise them they shall have that, for a surety!”
“They will have it anyway,” replied Felipillo.
“Demonio!” retorted Rogelio, testily. “But they will value a formal permit. I’ll give it. Bring hither their chiefs to-morrow night. Smuggle them in, dost understand? and I’ll wag a parchment before their eyes with a seal and ribbons on it. Thou’lt see! A liberality with chicha will make the bargain easy. What sayst thou? Wilt deal with them for me? I know not the language.”
Felipillo considered long, to the veedor’s impatience, and said at last, “It would do it, Señor, that is certain, but—”
“Well, but what?” demanded Rogelio.
The youth shook his head. “One hundred and fifty castellanos, Señor—”
The veedor wrenched himself about in his chair. “Oh, infierno! ’T is princely—princely, I tell thee! It would brush thee up, stake thy games, reinstate thee among the ladies! It might be thy making.”
Again Felipillo shook his head.
“Murder and arson!” yelped the veedor, beginning to perspire. “Thou ’rt grasping, boy! One hundred and fifty castellanos! Oh, Madre! Then make it two hundred.”
Felipillo arose with a shrug, one of his acquirements from the Spaniards. It enraged the veedor.
“Then go to the devil!” he piped. “’T is all thou’lt get. Two hundred not enough! Oh, my stars!”
Felipillo moved toward the door. Rogelio mopped his neck and jowls vigorously. “Wait, thou varlet!—say two hundred and fifty! Two hundred and fifty, gold!”
Felipillo shrugged again, still moving, and the veedor broke into a stream of squeaky oaths. When the youth reached the door he sprang up.
“Hold, thou tanned son of Belial! Here! Wait! Three hundred, and not a maravedi more!”
“Buenos noches!” said Felipillo, with a grin, and went out. Rogelio stood for a second, choking, then rushed after, collared him in the patio, and dragged him back. He thrust him into a chair, hurried to a chest, unlocked it feverishly, whispering curses the while, and drew out a bag. Waddling to the table, he thrust in his hand, withdrew it full of coin, and counted. Another handful counted, and he cried: “There, knave, three hundred! Wilt do it?”
Felipillo hesitated, and Rogelio swept them together to return them to the bag.
“Si, Señor,” said the youth.
The veedor sank into his chair, scrubbing his reddened countenance, while Felipillo gathered up the gold. “I will go to-morrow, Señor,” said the boy.
“See thou dost!” returned the veedor with a snarl. “Fool me now, and it will be the worse for thee.”
He watched the youth to the door, saw it closed, and sprang to his feet, shaking his two fists after him. “Aha! Thou wouldst jew me, thou renegade imp!” he shrilled. “Thou wouldst, thou terra cotta rascal! By the Crucifix, thou shalt hang for thy cunning, so help me Saint Peter! Thou shalt hang for it—hang—hang—hang! Three hundred good castellanos! Oh, my soul and body!”
But three days later a band of half a hundred of the fierce mountain Cañares were nosing for the trail of Cristoval and his protégée.