Chapter XXXIX Again the Señora Descends
As soon as Pedro was sufficiently recovered he was sent to Yucay. On the morning of his departure the Inca, with Cristoval, Paullo, and Mocho, entered his tent. Manco said farewell with a few warm words of commendation and gratitude that brought a mist before the eyes of the wounded cook, unclasping a gorget of pearls and emeralds. “Accept this, brave Viracocha Pedro,” he said, “as a part expression of mine esteem and appreciation. It is but a trifle, but with it goeth much good-will.”
Pedro gasped at the princely gift and stammered, part in Quichua, part in Spanish: “Why, stew—Nay, Señor Inca, I deserve it not! I am but a—a comrade of this man Cristoval. What fighting I have done, I tell you frankly, hath been mainly out of friendliness for him, and for the sake of being along to keep him out of trouble. This, my Lord Inca, is beyond my merits.”
The Inca understood the gist of his words, and shook his head with a slight smile. “Not so, Viracocha! Thy merit is the greater for thy friendship. Thou shalt keep it. Farewell, and a quick recovery. Thou’lt find good friends in Yucay.” He gave the cook his hand and departed abruptly to avoid his thanks.
Cristoval remained after the others, and Pedro stared at him blankly. At length he said slowly: “Now, spit me through the middle with a church-spire—I’d be less surprised! The man is reckless, Cristoval, or knoweth not the market-worth of gems. Do thou draw him aside and advise him that ’t is a grand-duke’s ransom, this bauble, and hand it back.”
“Absurd, Pedro!” said Cristoval. “Rest thy mind, for ’t is but a part of what he intendeth for thee.”
“But I tell thee, Cristoval, it will burden my conscience. Had I come by it in honest looting in a Christian war—but this is akin to thievery. Thou’lt take it back to him, amigo!”
“Assuredly not, Pedro! Wouldst give him offence?”
Pedro looked troubled. “He knoweth not its worth, Cristoval. Moreover, should Pizarro learn that I have it, I’d not be safe a blessed minute. I should be invaded, overrun with fire and sword; given up to wrack, sack, and devastation; left a waste and ruin more ruinous than thou see’st me now. I’ve suffered losses a-plenty, my friend—not counting legs—without this novel liability. Do thou restore it.”
“Gods, thou’rt a worried cook!—for a cook with a fortune in hand.”
“Ah!” sighed Pedro. “Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam—Horace, Cristoval. Meaneth, care followeth upon increasing riches. Stew me—”
“Oh, Madre! Have done with thy plaints. Now be still whilst I give thee a message to Rava.”
“God bless her!” said Pedro, and after a pause, “I listen. But make it not over long, and prithee, adapt its terms to the grossness of my texture. No endearments, Cristoval, and no poetry!”
Cristoval blushed. “No, no!” he said quickly. “It will be short, and suited to thy decorous taste, count upon it.”
“Then I’ll compass it. But as well put sugar-lumps and lollipops in a mess of boiled cabbage as to fill me with blandiments for recitation. I’m no troubadour, Cristoval. Bear that in mind.”
“No fear, thou Spartan cook!” growled Cristoval, with a trace of embarrassment. “I intend it all to be prose.”
By the time his message ended, Pedro’s hamaca and escort were waiting. In parting the cook said earnestly: “Now, Cristoval, in the name of all the names of all the saints on the calendar, have a care for thyself! Thou’rt as prone to misadventure as an unweaned calf. Remember, thou hast one to be anxious for thee besides myself—and relatives! Dost know how many, since thine adoption?”
“Thou meanest—”
“Thy foster-brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and what-not—dost know how many?”
“I do not. I had not thought of it, Pedro.”
“Not thought of it! of course not,” returned Pedro, with irritation. “’T is what I have said—always charging into trouble, head down and eyes shut!” He regarded the cavalier with great disapproval. “On my soul, I know not whether ’t is prudent to leave thee, with thy capacities for indiscretion! However—well—with the aid of the Indio who hath attended me, I’ve figured this multitude kin of thine, Cristoval, and Heaven fend thee from ever having them dependent upon thy support! Man, we counted three hundred, and more to tally, and without considering the concubines the Señor Inca is entitled by law to acquire—and all of them royal, by the eternal broiler!” His expression changed to commiseration. “Thou ’rt the worst relative-beridden Christian in my knowledge, amigo! and but one among them who is not a pagan! I tell thee, Cristoval, if thou dost rightly by thy family, thou’lt give over soldiering and turn missionary! But farewell, old friend, and God with thee! It grieveth me to leave thee.”
Cristoval watched the hamaca out of sight, stood looking into Pedro’s vacant tent, and returned slowly to his own.
In the palace of Yucay, in a chamber from which he could overlook the verdant and beautiful valley, ministered to by solicitous attendants, and visited by Rava, Pedro mended steadily. His gentle hostess spent many hours beside his couch with her maids about her, busy with embroidery and going white and red over it as he recounted Cristoval’s adventures, enumerated his virtues, and mildly deprecated his rashness. Rava had daily messages by chasqui from her cavalier, and repeated the news, or brought the bearer himself. She had not seen Cristoval since the removal of the barrier between them, but in her happiness and implicit faith in her prayers for his safety, she waited with patience for what now seemed assured. Of the ultimate triumph of the arms of Tavantinsuyu she had no doubt.
One morning she came into Pedro’s room with more than usual animation and said with a smile: “Pedro, to-day thou shalt see two of thy friends. I have sent for them, and have word of their coming. Canst think who they are?”
“Two friends of mine, Ñusta Rava? ’T is easily guessed. One is Cristoval, but who the other—”
Rava shook her head archly. “Not so good a friend as Cristoval—but I will tell thee. One is Father Tendilla, and the other—”
Pedro rose suddenly upon his elbow and startled her with his expression as he whispered with explosive force, “Bolio?”
Rava surveyed him with concern, and replied gravely: “Father Tendilla and my dear Margarita. I thought it would give thee pleasure.”
Pedro sank back and drummed on the coverlet with his fingers. “Oh! It doth, Ñusta Rava. It doth give me pleasure. So would a fly-blister, had I lumbago—a figure of speech, Señorita, give it no weight. Hum! The señora!” He startled her again with a spasm intended for a smile, and resumed with some constraint: “Ha! The señora, did you say, Señorita Ñusta? Stew—Well, the señora is a good soul, my head on’t. A bit rampant and superheated, look you, but altogether good-hearted, and I’ll—I’ll be glad—be glad to see her once more—baste me with hot tallow if I’ll not—prithee, let that pass too: it hath no significance. Infierno!—I—I mean, Paraiso! But,” he raised himself again and continued earnestly, “but, Ñusta Rava, would you as lief have the servants tell her I am full of holes and like to leak red gore in a thousand places if so much as a finger be laid against me, or my nerves be wrought upon? She is impulsive, Señorita, surcharged and double-shotted with impulse, and when she findeth me in this present state there is no knowing what sympathy may lead her to say, or do.—Pure exuberance of feeling, mind you! but I misdoubt me if my wasted frame would stand the stress.—And kindly have her told I am subject to spells, of late, and ofttimes bite. And that—but, no: never mind it—I’ll advise the servants myself.” Pedro lay back, quite breathless, muttering: “The señora! The señora! Ah! diablo! This is what cometh of being—But she is a kindly-hearted woman, and ’t would be graceless in me to deny it.”
Rava, bewildered by his agitated effusion, much of it in Spanish, gathered that he desired the señora to be warned of his enfeebled condition, and having promised, withdrew. Pedro lay the rest of the morning starting at faint sounds and perspiring freely.
At mid-afternoon a guide, two mules with riders, and a baggage-carrier lightly burdened, ascended the zig-zag road through the park to the palace. The leading animal was bestridden by a lady in native attire, but wearing a Spanish sombrero in its last stages, riding with the dignity of a generalisimo, a battle-axe at her saddle-bow. Behind, rode the good Father Tendilla, his cassock yet more seedy, but the same gentle-visaged priest. They were received with ceremony by a detachment of the guard, but the lady rode past with elevated chin, and followed the guide into the outer court. Rava was waiting with her attendants. Upon espying her, the señora emitted a shout, muffled by the vigor of her exertion in dismounting—on the wrong side—and in a second was embraced, sombrero and all, and joyfully wept over, weeping herself, and quite inarticulate.
“Oh, my honey-jar, my lady bird!” cried the overjoyed señora in Spanish. “God bless thy dear heart, what a happiness to see thee! But I’m covering thy pretty robes with dust! Oh, thou sweet baby! ’T is thou—and handsome as a rose! Dainty as a fairy! ’T is good for one’s eyes to behold thee—now, is it not, Father? Come, let him see thee, love. Is she not an angel?” The señora stopped suddenly and glanced sternly about the court. “Ho! They’ve lugged off my mule and my cleaver—”
“Thou’lt have no need for them, my daughter,” said Father Tendilla, quickly, and gave Rava his blessing. The señora forgot mule and cleaver in a fresh outburst of delight, and Rava presently led to her apartments. Here the effervescent lady was struck by the thought of Pedro, of whose wounds she had learned at Ollantaytambo, and demanded to be conducted to him forthwith. Rava sent one of her maids as guide. The damsel endeavored to give warning of the injured man’s condition; but the señora’s understanding of Quichua was limited, and her eagerness, moreover, made her deaf, so the words created slight impression.
Pedro heard the firm, rapid step, invoked a saint, and waited with beads gathering upon his brow. As the lady swept—nay, swooped—across the room with a cry of mingled joy and pity, the cook saw that his precautions were ineffectual. He could have sworn that in another second he should have been embraced; but with rare presence of mind he raised a warning hand, fetched a dismal groan, rolled his eyes, and gritted his teeth in so unearthly a fashion that the lady was brought up with a shriek.
“God’s mercy, Pedro! What—”
“Sit down!” commanded Pedro, in a voice supernormally strong for one, as he seemed to be, in articulo extremo mortis. “Sit down!—No!—Farther away!—On the floor—anywhere—but sit, woman, or I perish!”
He continued his ghastly symptoms until he saw the señora seated, completely unnerved but foiled! Then he recovered quickly, sought his kerchief, wiped a clamminess from his forehead, and observing her pallor, said gently: “It is past, Señora. Be not alarmed. But hold! Stay where thou art, or it will come again. Move not a finger!”
“Santa Maria! Pedro, dear,” she said, tearfully, “I thought thee dying. Thou ’rt dreadfully hurt, my love?”
“I am a very sieve, Señora!” replied Pedro, in a hollow voice. “So full of holes that I cannot cast a decent shadow! So weighted with copper slugs, leaden balls, and scraps of iron from Candia’s guns that I could be molten up and cast into a fair culverin of bronze.”
“Ah, pity of Heaven!” sobbed the lady, rocking herself. “I fear thou liest to some extent, Pedro, but I knew harm was to come of it when I left thee with that bandit, Cristoval. But may I not come nearer, chiquito?”
“Presently,” said Pedro, softened, “but approach by easy stages, and not too near. I am better, my dear. Take heart, now, there’s a good soul; and we will talk—but at a distance, look thou! or I’ll be thrown into a fit. Hast been well?”
“As well,” said the señora, drying her eyes, “as a lone woman in an infidel country with naught but a cleaver to give her courage o’ nights and a helpless innocent of a priest to look after like a baby, and not a dress fit to put on her back save this, borrowed from a heathen woman whose name I cannot pronounce, could be.”
“Ah!” said Pedro, with sympathy.
“Thou didst wrong to leave me, Pedro, and see what it hath come to! But who fired the gun at thee? I’ll seek him out, as he liveth!”
“Now, toast me on a bodkin!” retorted Pedro. “Dost fancy I went back to ask his name? It would have escaped me by percolation had I heard it. I was a-leak on all sides, top and bottom, like a lobster-pot fresh-hauled. So thoroughly did he riddle me, Señora, that I could not have held a secret grief, or a good intention. But let the man go, my dear. He that loaded the gun hath half the responsibility.”
“I’ll find them both!” said the lady, with resolution.
The entrance of Father Tendilla ended the conversation, and Pedro heaved a sigh of relief. Thereafter, the señora usurped the role of nurse, chiding him gently for exaggerating his hurts when she learned their real extent, but caring for him faithfully.
Week after week the siege went on, fierce, bloody, and relentless. Sorties were attempted, savagely opposed. The defences of the Spaniards were assaulted, fought over with the fury of hate and desperation, and the assailants repulsed. To the Peruvians, the loss in each attack was sickening, but they returned with valor undaunted, until the Inca in humanity ordered a cessation and determined to reduce the enemy by famine.
Cristoval, in the meanwhile, yet unfit to resume his armor, gave his time to training a number of warriors in the riding school and the use of arms on horseback. Fearless, agile, and adaptable, they acquired the horseman’s art with the readiness with which it was learned by the tribes of the North American plains, and by constant drill the cavalier produced a squad of riders, equipped with captured arms and mail, which was destined to prove formidable. The Peruvians, trained with the battle-axe and shield, easily exchanged these for mace and buckler; but Cristoval soon found that for a skilful use of the lance months would be required, and he was forced to see that weapon laid aside. Of all his pupils, none was so apt as the Inca Manco.
Thus Cristoval passed his convalescence, striving by incessant activity to hold his impatient longing. Twice only, after his strength returned, he rode to Yucay for a few brief hours of happiness.
The winter months passed and spring was at hand. Within the beleaguered city conditions grew desperate. Provisions, which had long been growing scanty, were almost exhausted, and the Spaniards faced starvation. They had hoped, watched, vowed many a pious vow, prayed many a fervent prayer, for reënforcements from the coast; but the expeditions sent by Francisco Pizarro for their relief had been entrapped in the mountains and driven back or annihilated. A few weeks must seal the fate of the besieged, and Hernando was already importuned by his cavaliers to lead in a final effort to cut through the investing lines and escape with his starveling remnant. Not he! He swore, and the stoutest of his men swore with him, to fight while strength remained to wield a blade.
But while the Spaniards were meeting in gloomy council the Inca was confronted by a situation no less grave.
Near the middle of a chill, clear night in the early spring, in the fifth month of the siege, Cristoval, now fully recovered, rode across the parade in front of the Inca’s tent, and dismissed his native troopers. For a week he had been guarding the Cuntisuyu road, suspecting a Spanish design to break through the lines. He had laid off his helmet when a messenger summoned him to the Inca. Cristoval found Manco alone, pacing his tent with bent head, his face more deeply clouded than the cavalier had ever seen it. His expression lightened at sight of the man who had become nearer a comrade than any had ever been before, and he said gravely: “I have sent for thee, Cristoval, to entrust thee with a mission which, in other circumstances thou wouldst have found most welcome. Now it will be as painful to thee, I know, my friend and brother, as it is to me. It is this. Thou wilt ride to Yucay—wilt set out to-night. Arriving there, thou’lt conduct the household forthwith to the security of the fortress at Ollantaytambo.”
Cristoval started. Was Yucay insecure? In Heaven’s name, what could make it so, with the Spaniards held like starving rats? Manco read his question, and answered it bluntly:—
“We must raise the siege, Cristoval!”
Cristoval was aghast, unable to believe.
“We must raise the siege!” repeated Manco, steadily.
Cristoval put out his hand for the support of the table. When at last he spoke his voice was harsh and unnatural. “Raise the siege! Raise the siege—at this moment—when victory is within your grasp? By God, man, it must not be! Who hath advised this folly?”
Manco raised his hand. “It must be! I have held council all this day and to-night.”
“Your counsellors—have they been stricken with madness?” cried the cavalier. “Do they not know—”
“My friend,” interrupted the Inca, placing a hand upon Cristoval’s shoulder, “my counsellors know what it is not possible that thou shouldst know—that Tavantinsuyu is menaced by a foe more ruthless than the one in yonder city. This hour hath been long foreseen, and now it is come. Hunger is abroad!”
“Your stanchest ally!” interjaculated Cristoval.
“An ally, but one ready to turn most cruelly against us! Hear me, Cristoval! It is not yet with us, with the army, though thou hast seen the meagre fare our braves have had these many days, and hast been in want, thyself. But there is a graver peril. Thou knowest, the season of planting is at hand. The fields are waiting. Every province of the empire hath been denuded of its men, and only women, children, and the feeble, are left to till the soil. The time is short, and if the grain be not sowed, a calamity will follow, blacker in its horror than that of war, which taketh only lives of men. Starvation recketh neither of sex nor age. The siege must end.”
Manco spoke with calmness. His face had paled, but otherwise his emotion was unbetrayed. Cristoval heard him in silence. The Inca’s words, he knew, were final, Rhadamanthine; once spoken, not to be opposed by human tongue. Manco resumed:—
“So it must be, Cristoval. The magazines are exhausted—I learned it finally to-day,—and even the archers are in need of arrows. My warriors will march to their provinces with famine attendant, but—they must go. I am defeated! O, great Inti, why—” His words ended, and he turned abruptly away. Cristoval sank into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands. To disband the army now would mean disaster irremediable. He sprang up with fiery, urgent words, but they were stayed by Manco who faced him again with every trace of agitation gone: “I said, defeated! Forget that the word was spoken. Whilst life is spared me, and I have a warrior left to follow, there shall be no defeat. But now, Cristoval, thou wilt go. By midday to-morrow thou’lt have overtaken a force which marched to-day. At Yucay, all will be in readiness. Word hath gone forward, and as soon as the palace is abandoned it will be stripped of all that yonder vultures crave. Having seen the household safely at Ollantaytambo, thou’lt return. I will remain near Cuzco with some force, for the enemy shall find that peace is not yet. Now go, and Heaven speed thee. Farewell.”
As Cristoval left the tent he turned. The Inca stood in thought, his dark, handsome face as calm as if his brave heart were untouched by disaster, untorn by myriad cares and sorrows. He waved his hand, and Cristoval left him to the brooding silence of the night—and God alone knows what hours of anguish.
As the cavalier rode forth in the starlight he looked upon a dark, prophetic vision of the future of the fair empire for which he had been fighting. Tavantinsuyu was doomed. Doomed—he saw it now—from the moment Pizarro had set his foot upon its soil. The Spaniards would crowd to its shores like ravening wolves, and before the army could be recalled to the field it would be too late. He knew the indomitable resolution of his countrymen, their resources, and their driving rapacity, too well to hope the Inca could ever regain the advantage now to be put aside. Unless crushed at what was yet its beginning, the conquest would never be abandoned. And too thoroughly did Cristoval know the nature of his race to foresee anything but cruel oppression for the conquered. He looked with clearer prevision than could the stricken monarch into the blackness of the years to come.
The meeting of the lovers at Yucay was in joy and grief. Cristoval strove to inspire a hope he could not share, but when Rava took sorrowful leave of the palace it was with an intuition that she would never enter it again. At Ollantaytambo their parting was in grief alone, and the cavalier rode back to Cuzco followed by many a tearful prayer.
Pedro’s fighting days were done, and as he stood on the rampart of the fortress, watching his old comrade’s departure, the receding figure grew dim to him by reason of something more than dust and distance.