Chapter XXI The Señora Descends Upon Pedro
We go forward to find ourselves at Xauxa, a week subsequent to the catastrophe at Xilcala, months after Pizarro’s march to Cuzco.
The town lies on the river Xauxa, a branch of the great Apurimac, in one of the many fertile valleys, or bolsons, that break the arid desolation of the Sierra. Pizarro had found it well defended by the immense fortress on the steeps of an adjacent mountain. He left it with a small garrison, as has appeared. With this remained the sick and incapacitated, and most of the non-combatants. Among these were Pedro, who, since the escape of Peralta, was no longer persona grata, and felt more secure away from the commander; José remained invalided by an attack of the fever; Father Tendilla, as missionary to the natives; and Rogelio, the veedor, who tarried for reasons best known to himself. Rogelio, however, pleaded an indisposition which, as a civil officer of the Crown and a man with a family, he could not conscientiously neglect; and from his couch in his quarters within the fortress, bade farewell in a voice of feebleness and suffering. When assured that the last company had marched he rolled out of bed and dressed in time to watch the command from the rampart as it trailed down to the town below. He shook a fist at the distant figure he knew to be Mendoza’s, rubbed his hands, snuffled, and emitted a chuckle of mingled glee, triumph, and malice. An hour afterward he was haggling with Duero and Mani-mani, a sub-chief of the Cañares.
For several days the garrison remained within the fortress. A fortnight later word came that Prince Manco had met Pizarro peaceably at Xaquixaguana, and had presented his claim to the throne. His right had been formally recognized, and the prince was proceeding with the Spaniards to Cuzco, where the coronation would take place straightway. Accompanying the news was his command that all hostility should cease, and soon natives and garrison were on friendly terms. Those Spaniards privileged to do so took quarters in the town, and among them was Pedro.
Pedro established his cantina near the square. One afternoon he was leaning idly beside his door, watching the passers-by, with an occasional glance down the thoroughfare toward the north. A chasqui had announced the day before that a small company of Viracochas was approaching, newly arrived from Panama, on the way to join Pizarro. The cantina was prepared, and a roast of llama on Pedrillo’s spit divided the attention which the proprietor paid to the street. The latter was interesting, for the day was a festival of some sort and the town was full of the country people, gayly clad, and notwithstanding recent calamities, in full holiday spirits. As Pedro stood he noted that the crowd was growing. By and by he observed that his establishment was drawing a deal of persistent attention. No one had stopped in front of it, but a number had passed and repassed, and one Indio, conspicuous for his dignity of bearing, had already grown familiar. He was a tall old man, wrapped in a long, colored poncho of unusual elegance, its heavy folds falling to his knees and decorated with a profusion of conventionalized forms of birds and beasts. The object of particular interest to Pedro, however, was his suite. Following close as he stalked past for the sixth or seventh time, was his wife; and in her train a numerous family ranging in age from five to eighteen years or thereabout, the eldest a maiden of comely face and figure who glanced at the cook with shy but unmistakable curiosity. The old man seemed never to see him, apparently disdaining show of interest; but his family were less scrupulous, and favored him with stares undisguised. This group was but one of many, but it was notable to Pedro by the presence of the shy though curious eighteen-year-old of the comeliness mentioned. Pedro was not unsusceptible. Having once or twice caught her eyes, he straightway experienced a responding interest.
“Ho!” thought he. “How now? Have thy charms survived thy years, Pedro, my boy? Are there yet lines of grace in thy portliness? That was a wistful, surreptitious, yearning contemplation, or there’s some mistake. It swept thy traits and fair proportions most lingeringly.—Ha! She cometh again! Stew me if she cometh not again! Hold! Guard thine eyes, admired cook. Bank their fires, lest they startle with too much ardour. I’ll look at the sky till she is near. Ah! Fair sky! Ample, roomy, easy-fitting vault of blue! Large, capacious dome! Dome with space enough for stars to knock about in, and space to spare— But she is here! Now look! Oh, hot kettles, Pedro, how comfortable thou art! Was there not warmth in that stolen glance? O, my patron saint!— But who is she—and where abideth? That patrolling image in her lead must be her papa. I’ll inquire.”
With his jovial countenance glowing pleasantly he cast about for a possible source of information, and his eyes lighted upon a youth across the street who was surveying him with unmitigated wonder, his eyes and mouth equally broad open. Pedro motioned him, and the boy started hesitatingly across the street. At once the interest of the crowd was fixed, and they formed a respectful circle, across which the lad advanced with evident trepidation. Pedro had acquaintance with the Quichua, and hailed him cordially.
“May the day bring thee good fortune, and the night better, my lad. Come hither. There is something I would ask. This seemeth a gala day, is it not?
“The Feast of the Full Moon, Viracocha,” replied the boy, respectfully.
“The Feast of the Full Moon! Good! Dost live in Xauxa?”
“No, Viracocha. I am here but for the day. I live yonder, up the valley,” indicating the direction by turning and pursing out his lips, a gesture habitual with the Peruvians, and surviving to this day.
“Yonder, up the valley!” said Pedro, imitating his grimace. “Hum! Thou ’rt a good boy, I take it from thy face. Sleepest at home, and early?”
“Why, where else, Viracocha?” asked the other innocently.
“Ah! Where else, to be sure! But in my country o’ nights, the boys oft go chasing nightingales—a bird which I have not yet seen in Tavantinsuyu. ’T is quite as well. But what I would ask is this: The folks seem curious. Now, what draweth their attention hereabout? What held thy lower jaw away from its fellow a moment since?”
“Viracocha?” asked the boy, puzzled.
“I observed thee looking this way. What is the interest which hath brought this crowd?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the youth, enlightened. “Why, you are one of the Viracochas—your pardon.”
“No offence,” answered Pedro. “A mere chance which hath befallen others of my race. Is that all?”
The boy hesitated. “No, not all. The bare bone of your leg, Viracocha—”
“Oho!” shouted Pedro. “The bare bone of my leg! God bless my soul! The bare bone of my leg, for a surety! Why, stew me! Now, ’t is a sight, is it not—to see a man with a part of his skeleton sticking out into the glare of day! But, lad, what if I were to show thee my ribs? Nay!” he added, as the boy drew back aghast. “I’ll not do it in the presence of ladies, never fear. Ha! The bare bone of— But is that all?” He lowered his voice. “Yonder damsel, for instance, just now passing—do not look too quickly—hath she been drawn by my leg, thinkst thou?”
The boy looked round cautiously at the girl lingering at the edge of the circle. “I cannot say for her,” he said, “but if the Viracocha wisheth, I will ask her,” and full of accommodation, he started in her direction.
“Stay!” cried Pedro, seizing him. “Santa Maria, no! Let it pass. I’ll endure the doubt.—The bare bone of my leg, saith he! Oh, pots and skillets!” Pedro exhibited some symptoms of a coming laugh, but the attack did not develop, and he went on: “A marvel, in truth! But if it hath merited so much attention I’ll show it worthy of more.”
Steadying himself upon the boy’s shoulder, Pedro unscrewed his peg from its socket, and as an exclamation of amazement and dismay arose from the crowd, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and set it whirling in his nimble fingers. The circle spread abruptly. The old Indio forgot his dignity and watched in stupefaction while the cook juggled his member with the skill of a mountebank. Transforming it into a weapon, he attacked a fancied enemy, hopping about, striking, and guarding, until the foe was laid low by one last fell stroke. From the role of a weapon it passed to that of a flute, and as Pedro’s fingers ran over imaginary keys he whistled a Spanish air, then one of their own, to their infinite wonder and delight. He finished with a bow to the old Indio, and tendered the peg for inspection. It was taken gingerly, and the ice was broken.
The old man examined it with profound solemnity, while his daughter looked upon the gracious cook with a round-eyed fascination most grateful to his complacent soul. It ended with an invitation into the cantina, and, having screwed his peg back into place, Pedro ushered in the entire family and served a luncheon, at the end of which he was asked to their huasi, six miles out beyond the fortress. The Indio, Municancha, was a master-mason engaged upon the uncompleted fortifications. Thus the cook opened an acquaintance which he afterward found of value.
Pedro bade his guests farewell, bestowing a significant squeeze upon the hand of the daughter, Coriampa, and was pleasantly reviewing the circumstance, when a shout from his boy at the door hurried him to the street. His expected countrymen were approaching. A distant flutter of pennons and the gleam of steel showed above the heads of the crowd, and soon Pedro was cheering lustily as the company passed. In the lead rode Sotelo, the commander of the company, with Saavedra, commandant of the fortress, his travel-stained accoutrements contrasting with the latter’s burnished armor. Following, and escorted by Father Tendilla, were half-a-dozen priests and friars, a few on mules and jaded horses, but most of them on foot. As they passed, Pedro suddenly ceased his greetings.
“Aha! Thou back, Fray Mauricio!” he muttered. “Hast renewed thy courage and venom, my small, liver-colored brother? I’d exchange thee for the devil himself, my friend, and so would José, had he his choice. Would thou wert back in Spain—or farther! I’ll warn the armorer, be sure of it. And now, the cavaliers—two, four, six, eight. Not bad! But, father of famine, what a hungry lot! Hola!” he shouted. “What fare on the way, compadres? Saddle-leather and surcingles, I’ll be bound. Cheer up! There’s better beyond. Come, smile thou, my empty caballero in the rear! In a week thy waistband will renew acquaintance with thy pansiere. There’s that in Peru to fill it, and some to be left over for the infantry. Oho! Here they are—our honest lads of the foot! Twenty in all—and that is to say, twenty larcenies the more for each day of the calendar. Bien! Were there no thieves we’d have no love for honest men. What cheer, pikemen? Did ye ever see a cold boiled ham? Ah, see them drool! They’re blest with powers of memory, ’t is sure. What, ho! A civilian! A leech, amigo? No? A barber!—next of kin. Gracias á Dios, a barber! Fall out, my friend; thy journey endeth here.”
A weary individual in civil garb, his legs bare to the knees but for the fringe of rags that fell below them, turned out of the column.
“Nombre de Dios! Is this an inn?” he asked in astonishment, peering through the open door and sniffing the fragrance.
“An inn, and no less. An inn, and no more,” replied Pedro. “Enter. Thou ’rt as welcome to it as the smell of it seemeth to be to thee.”
The stranger shook his head. “I have no money, Señor.”
“The fiend!” ejaculated Pedro. “But thou hast an appetite, or thy looks belie thee. Enter, and call for what there is. Thy credit is good. Are there any others—civilians?”
“My gratitude, Señor,” said the other, with feeling. “Yes, there are four in the rear of the baggage, and three women with the rear guard.”
“Three women!” repeated Pedro. “Native women, thou wouldst say?”
“Of our own race, Señor.”
“What!” exclaimed Pedro, in amazement. “Three Spanish women? Santo Sacramento! sayst thou so? What do they in this land of paynimry? Oh, these modern women!”
“Two are wives of cavaliers. The third is alone. And, Señor”—he spoke earnestly—“beware of this third.”
“Ho!” responded Pedro, with a shrug. “I have all my feathers, amigo.”
“Nay; but, Señor—” he was interrupted by the jubilant bray of a pack-mule which had divined the end of the march. When he would have continued Pedro was badgering a muleteer. The stranger entered the cantina—and Fate rode down upon the unsuspecting Pedro.
The rear guard approached. Sure enough, there were three señoras, two heavily veiled, riding mules. Pedro was bowing profoundly.
“Welcome, Señoras! Welcome to the land of gold. ’T is a Heaven’s blessing to look once more upon your kind.”
They inclined their heads graciously and Pedro raised his eyes to the third, some paces in the rear. As he bowed again he was conscious of a buxom figure, strangely bedight in a rusty corselet and a man’s sombrero which showed marks of the hard journey, its limp rim hanging tow about a face which he saw only partly. She was astride, he noted, with a huge battle-axe at her saddle-bow, and a ponderous spur on a foot of goodly size.
The lady glanced at him, gasped, reined up with vigor, and shouted in a voice of joyful surprise, “Pedro!”
Pedro straightened with a jerk and staggered against the wall.
“Pedro!” she shouted again. She urged her steed across the street with a series of jabs of her spurs, and tumbled out of the saddle, a confusion of petticoats, arms, legs, and a flapping sombrero. Dropping the reins, she charged the cook, who stood transfixed to the wall, powerless.
“Pedro, as I live!” she cried, seizing his hands. “Oh, Pedro, thou graceless, fat, one-legged darling of a cook, I was never more joyed in my life!”
Pedro struggled in her grasp, speechless, his face reddening violently, as she held him at arm’s length, surveying him with pleasure.
“And ’t is thou!” she exclaimed. “Hold, whilst I look at thee—stop squirming, thou lubber! Yes, I’d know thee in a brigade, even did I not see thy peg. But why dost not greet me, Pedro? Greet me, sinner! Dost think I’ve journeyed a thousand leagues over sea and mountain to be received like a cold omelet? Fie, Pedro!”
He gained his voice with an effort. “Why—my greetings, Señora Bolio!” he panted. “What the devil—I’m glad to see thee well!—but release my hands, prithee!—we’re in the street, woman. Thou’lt stir a scandal!”
“A scandal!” returned the señora, scornfully. “Soapsuds! A scandal, forsooth! What care I for these pagans? I’m glad to see thee.”
“Of course—of course!” gasped Pedro. “But look to thy mule!—he’s wandering away, reins down. Let me go! I’ll—I’ll catch him.”
“Let him wander, Pedro, and may the fiend ride him with hot spurs! He hath jolted the life out of me these many days. But, art not surprised to see me? Say!”
“Name of a martyr! Yes!” said Pedro, desperately. “But loose my hands, I tell thee! We’re observed.”
“Oh, Pedro, thou ’rt so coy, thou dear old cherub!”—and she laughed joyfully.
“Oh, coy!” groaned Pedro. “Thunder and Mars! Dost not see the town watching us? And look at the rear guard!”
The troopers had halted, and were observing the little drama with interest.
“Brava, Señora!” called one, encouragingly. “His timidity is that of inexperience. Persist, and he’ll succumb, my head upon it!”
The lady turned. “What now?” she demanded, indignantly, facing them with hands upon her hips. “Who gave you command to halt? Jog on, jog on! Circulate! Go, you singular accumulation of veal and old iron! Wend, worry on, flit, you most unusual galaxy of junk and poultice! You grotesque pack of——”
They tarried not to hear the completion of her period. They had journeyed with Señora Bolio for many weeks, and had learned her powers. When she turned to Pedro he was vanishing through the doorway, and she followed precipitately. He backed against a table, and she dropped into a chair facing him.
“Vagabonds!” she exclaimed, wrathfully, fanning herself with her sombrero. “They have gone clean through my patience a hundred times since we sailed from Panama. May the goblins gnaw their shin-bones!”
Pedro passed his sleeve across his forehead. “But they have left thee thy gifts of speech, Señora,” he ventured.
“Ah! What would I do without them—a helpless woman? Oh, me! ’T is a sad world, Pedro.—But thou ’rt plump as a suckling porker, chiquito. And this is thy place? Cara! What a savory smell!”
“Why, bless me!” cried Pedro, forgetting his disturbance in his hospitality. “Thou must be hungry!”
“Hungry!” said Señora Bolio. “Boil me this hat, and I would eat it, amigo mio! But first, help me off with this rusty furniture of mine. Saints! I was never so wearied of a garment as of this iron bodice. ’T is a man’s, of course, tight where it should be full, and’ full where it should be snug. But they told me I should have to fight as often as eat, or more, so I bought it, with the cleaver thou mayst have seen on my saddle. And, Pedro, we must find the mule, for I would keep that cleaver by me. No telling when I may need to use it on an Inca—thou callest them Incas, these varlets in sleeveless pinafores?—Well, ’tis all the same. Now, I am ready for a full trencher.”
Seated before his guest while she ate with an appetite keened by hard marches and harder fare, Pedro recovered his composure in listening to news of the civilized world, interrupted now and again by the entrance of patrons, each of whom started at sight of the lady, then bowed with a curious glance at the host which made him fidget.
“Now,” said the señora, finishing, “thou must find me lodgings, Pedro dear; and before night, my mule, for I’ll not sleep without that axe. My crucifix and it have been mine only comforts since I touched this benighted land. I’ll part with neither. Canst find me a room, thinkst thou? Ah, thou’rt a love! I could wish thou hadst two legs; but with only one and a half thou ’rt more complete than any other man I ever knew,” and she bestowed a smile whose warmth caused him to back away with an uneasy glance about the room. To his relief she made no further demonstration, and shortly they sallied out in search of quarters for her accommodation. A satisfactory lodging was found with a native couple—and thus was Señora Margarita Bolio established in the land of the Incas.