The Sun Virgin
greeting from his soldiers.
Pizarro heard De Soto’s report of his scouting trip with misgivings.
There could no longer be a doubt of the power and extent of the empire
which they were invading. The facts sobered the indomitable leader. If
he only had each soldier armed with a musket, the roar of a volley
from a hundred guns might be invincible even before thousands armed
only with battle-ax, sling and spear. But he had only four arquebuses
in all his troops. True, his two cannon might work wonders if he could
use them. But if attacked in a narrow mountain trail, they would be
useless.
He lingered two days and sent the articles received from the Inca
to the Crown officials at San Miguel. He called their attention
particularly to the fine weave of the vicuna wool never seen before,
as fine in texture and sheen as the most delicate silk. He gave to
Navarro, commander of the fortress, full information of his movements
and directions by which he might be reached. He was still praying for
reënforcements with better equipment.
Resuming his march, he entered now the narrow and less frequented road
that directly crossed the _cordillera_ to Caxamalca. Arrived at
the banks of a broad, deep river whose swift current made difficult
the crossing, he camped for four days still hoping for reënforcements.
When time had passed sufficient to allow a courier to return from San
Miguel and none appeared, he determined to cross the river and burn all
bridges behind him.
Fearing that his landing might be disputed by the natives on the
opposite bank, he sent Hernando Pizarro across, under cover of night,
with a small detachment of mounted men who swam the current without
mishap.
On reaching the other shore Hernando quickly discovered that no
opposition would be offered. At sight of the invaders the natives had
fled in every direction. At sunrise he signaled to his brother that all
was well, and the little army quickly crossed on rafts.
Hernando had captured a native, put him to torture and he had received
precise information as to the Inca’s troops. They lay in three
divisions along the way of their dangerous march across the mountains.
The Inca knew of every movement of the invaders and was luring them
into close quarters that he might have them completely in his power.
The news, if true, was startling, and it contradicted all protestations
of friendliness which they had received. A council was called. De Soto
suggested that an Indian of unusual intelligence who had accompanied
them from San Miguel, and whose loyalty was beyond question, be
dispatched at once over the trail which they must follow. He could
locate these three divisions of troops and press on to the camp of the
Inca as their envoy and spy.
The Indian refused to go as scout and spy but expressed his willingness
to go as the fully accredited ambassador of the Spanish commander.
Pizarro accepted the suggestion and gave him instructions.
“You will be accompanied by three swift runners. Dispatch these runners
back to our camp with information as to the defenses in the mountains
and location of the troops. Inform the Inca that I am moving forward at
his invitation to meet him with all speed possible with my equipment.
Assure him of our friendship and express the hope that his feelings
are the same, but whatever you do--” the Spaniard paused and fixed the
Indian with his piercing eye--“whatever you do, learn the location of
the troops and the Inca’s real purpose toward us.”
Pizarro now pressed forward in a swift march of three days and reached
the first of the stupendous mountain ranges behind which lay the city
of Caxamalca. His soldiers lifted their eyes toward the snow-covered
glittering peaks with frowns of doubt. They had seen mountains before,
but no such wild chaos of magnificence and terrifying grandeur. Across
these towering cliffs and through their bottomless canyons and gorges
they must march over a narrow trail. A handful of men above their heads
could start an avalanche that would overwhelm an army, to say nothing
of a small band of adventurers.
To the right of the trail along the base of the mountain ran another
splendid, shaded highway to Cuzco, the rich capital of the South.
Again, longing eyes were turned to the famous city of palaces and
temples.
A group of officers again urged Pizarro to abandon Caxamalca and take
Cuzco by a swift march to the south.
But the commander frowned and called his little army before him. He
mounted a stone, and his figure seemed colossal as he addressed them in
words that burned with passion:
“Soldiers of Spain, we have proclaimed our purpose to visit the Lord
of the Sun, the Inca, Atahualpa, in his camp. We have sent our word to
the sovereign. To fail now in this undertaking, no matter for what
purpose, will stamp us as cowards, and win for us the contempt of
Atahualpa. I give to you my orders as your commander. March straight
across this mighty barrier to the Inca’s quarters. Leave the rest to
me. Take heart and go forward as good soldiers, nothing daunted by the
smallness of your numbers. God ever fights for his own. Doubt not that
he will humble the pride of the heathen and bring him to the knowledge
of the true faith, the end and object of our march of conquest.”
The leader struck the right chord. He lived as the humblest man among
them. He thought as they thought, felt as they felt and he knew how to
appeal to the best that was in them.
Their answer to his appeal was a steady shout:
“Lead on!”
With high-beating hearts they began the steep ascent.
CHAPTER XIV
On the second day of his imprisonment Molina stood on the ramparts
looking down on the beautiful valley of Caxamalca through which a river
wound its way, a silver thread in a carpet of rich green.
He had just seen a division of the Inca’s army cross the valley and
march up the trail leading across the _cordillera_. Beyond doubt
the movement was the result of Pizarro’s advance.
He wondered where his gallant countrymen had pitched their tents. If
reports of their number were true they were marching into a death trap
unless they came as peaceful colonists. Spain was not sending peaceful
colonists to the New World or any other world in this, the age of her
wide dominions. After seven hundred years of struggle she had thrown
off the yoke of the Moor, and her soldiers, trained in the wars of
seven centuries, had gone forth to conquer the earth. The audacity of
these men passed belief. Everywhere their dreams were coming true.
Cortez had just added the empire of Mexico to the domain of Charles.
Yet no enterprise in the new world had thus far been directed against
a kingdom so vast, so rich, so densely populated, as the realm of the
Incas. Under the leadership of Atahualpa, they had just fought bloody
battles and won great victories. Ill-equipped as they were, their
hosts, armed with stones and clubs, could crush a handful of Spaniards
in the end.
Molina would find a way to reach Pizarro and tell him the truth. That
the commander was advancing into the heart of these all but impassable
mountains with but two hundred men was, of course, incredible. The two
hundred men were of the advance guard; the real army was slowly moving
somewhere in the rear.
His jaw closed in decision. He descended to his room and found the
razor which he had kept against such an emergency, tested its edge and
placed it where he could find it in the dark.
When Yma served his dinner at sunset she found him unusually gay and
friendly. Her heart leaped. She had not possessed him, and yet....
“My Lord will have music to-night?” she gayly asked him when he had
completed his meal.
The cavalier yawned.
“Thanks, my dear Yma, no. I’m tired.”
The moment he found himself alone he hurried to remove his beard. He
took his place inside the door, waited the approach of the guard,
sprang on him with the quick leap of a tiger, bore him into his room,
bound and gagged the astonished soldier and then, piece by piece,
exchanged clothes with him. He assured the terrified fellow that he
meant no harm, his only purpose being to escape as quickly as possible.
The girl had warned him solemnly that the Inca had given orders to
kill him on sight if found outside the fortress. He would take his
chances. He would reach Pizarro in time to warn him of his danger. He
felt pain when he thought of Yma, and he wondered at his emotion. But
the pain passed when he thought of the men of his own race marching
steadily to empire, and his heart leaped at the thought that they would
bring word of Teresa.
Once clothed in the complete outfit of the guard, he tied the man
securely and made his way out without difficulty. The loss of beard and
a brown stain on his face had completely transformed his appearance.
Carrying the bronze spear of the Inca’s army he hurried down the steep
steps of the cliff, crossed the river and followed the narrow road up
the sides of the _cordillera_ which he had seen the army take.
The trail was clearly marked by lines of stragglers still bringing up
the rear of the advancing division which had just begun to pitch their
tents for the night.
He mingled with the men and had no trouble in passing as one of
them. His mastering of their language stood him in good stead in the
adventure.
It was past sunrise before Yma received word of his escape. The guard
on duty was not relieved till dawn.
Her face blanched with terror at the news. She arrayed herself
in the guise of one of her maids, flew down the mountainside and
followed with unerring instinct. He had seen the army move. He
guessed their destination was to meet the advance of the Spaniards.
He had followed, hoping to find a way to slip through the lines and
reach his countrymen. There was no fear of her own punishment in her
pursuit--only the anguish of losing the god-man she worshiped.
She passed Molina, loitering with the soldiers as they slowly began the
advance, all unconscious of his presence. It had never occurred to the
girl that he could have dispensed with his beard. That he should pluck
it out hair by hair was unthinkable. That he should possess a piece of
steel so hard and fine of edge that he could remove it clear to the
skin was equally incredible.
Yma marveled at his escape. Yet she knew instinctively that by some
miracle he had made his beard invisible and had mingled with the
soldiers. There was no other way out. She knew that his life would be
lost if he attempted to leave the trail and cross the snow-clad cliffs
alone without a guide. She also knew that he would not be so foolhardy
as to try it. His one chance of escape was to conceal himself among
the troops and wait the meeting with the Spaniards. Then a single leap
across the lines and he might reach his people.
Her heart jumped at the thought. She began a patient search among the
men. The front line of marchers she would first inspect. At the end
of the first hour’s keen search she saw a soldier climbing the stone
stairs with an awkward movement which she had seen Molina use on the
first trip up the long stone stairway to the fortress. She could not be
mistaken. She slipped close to his side, looked into his brown eyes
and whispered:
“Dear god-man, I have come to rescue you from certain death. The men
from the fortress are on the way. They will be here any moment. They
will find and kill you.”
He started at sight of her. For a moment he could only stare. His eyes
filled with apprehension and tenderness. Finally he spoke, but his
purpose was unswayed.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said in low tones. “Go--” and again he felt
an odd pain--“I’ll find you when my people come.”
“It will be too late then.” She wept. “They will kill me unless you
return.”