Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  "And is Pedro Farfan going to marry me?" put in Maria.

  "And how about me?" whined Cervantes.

  Botello came to himself as if from a trance. "God in heaven!" he fumed. "Did not I tell you trollops to be silent! And what of you, simplon! Who asked you to stick your nose in! Now the spell is broken. Now Amadeus is a thousand leagues off, and it would take more conjuring than I have time for to recall him. For a bad copper, I would put the evil eye on the three of you."

  Instinctively Catana made horns with her fingers. "Nay, Master Botello, I beg, do not do that. It was only a slip of the tongue. I meant no harm."

  "Nor I," echoed Maria and the fool.

  "A slip of the tongue!" Botello muttered. "Do you think it is an easy thing to raise mighty spirits out of the deep? It takes not only cunning charms, but strength of will, sweat of mind. And I am put off by the clack of jades and jokers! Ah, well, I learned the chief point: I shall not die."

  "No," Cervantes jibed, "you'll live forever. But I won't. I know my horoscope. The comrades wrote it on my back at Cempoala. I'm still too sore to march, let alone run. So I don't expect to journey far from Mexico. But there's one comfort. At least they won't kill my horse."

  "You have no horse, rascal," said Botello.

  "Yes, and for that reason they won't kill it."

  Cervantes tried a feeble caper, as feeble as the joke; but no one smiled. The chill rain, dripping outside, and the prospects of the night did not make for humor.

  Botello gathered up the ciphered sheet of paper. "I'd always wanted a horse," he said wistfully. "But when you're poor—I was very proud of this one."

  The wizard now looked like a schoolboy who had lost his pet thrush. Catana sHpped a comforting arm under his.

  "Oh, come, Master, it may turn out better."

  "No, such horoscopes as that are never wrong, hija mia. They will kill my horse."

  "And if you want the price of three horses," came a voice from the doorway, "you have only to step over to the treasure room. What are Vuestras Senorias dawdling here for? Haven't you heard the news?"

  It was Pedro de Vargas, his hair damp from the drizzle. He had witnessed the latter part of the conjuring scene.

  "And, Catana," he went on in the mock-bullying tone which she loved, "have you seen to my saddlebags and the boxes? Must I birch you for a gadding wench who gives no thought to her chores? I've spent the best part of a half hour hunting you."

  She went over to him. "All's ready, sefior. . . . But what news?"

  "We haven't horses enough for the gold. His Majesty's fifth will be carried by seven wounded horses and one good mare under the guard of Davila and Mexia with some Tlascalans. The rest of it— the General's and the captains' shares—belongs to anybody who wants to carry it. The soldiers may as well have it as these dogs of Aztecs, the General says."

  "Wants to carry it?" gaped Botello, his personal magic forgotten for a greater, more universal magic. "And this rest, worthy Captain —how much would you say?"

  "Six hundred thousand pesos perhaps, not counting the jewels."

  "Six hundred thousand—" repeated the wizard. "When—when can we get—"

  "Now. But there's enough for all, Master. You needn't run."

  The last words fell on vacancy. Botello, followed by Maria de Estrada, had vanished.

  Cervantes pinched his chin. "A trick, a trick! What's the trick, my masters? Hernan Cortes giving away his share! He of all men, who knows best how to look after his own. Have we sunk so low? Is it then hopeless tonight? Or a trick?"

  "No trick but the one you play on yourself, sirrah," Pedro answered. "The gold's yours. You can take it or leave it. But the General urges caution. There's a march tonight, water to cross, likely enough a battle on hand before dawn. Gold's heavy."

  "If that's all!" exclaimed Cervantes, disappearing in turn.

  "You mean?" Catana asked Pedro.

  "I meant that, as usual, there's sense in what the General says. You

  and I have got enough in our boxes if the carriers come through and don't steal it. Otherwise the best men in the army will be poor."

  They were standing on the threshold of the room looking out at the thick darkness between the buildings. Now and then a gust of the mist-like rain crossed their faces.

  "Una noche triste" Pedro grunted. "A sad night for marching. I'll not load myself down like a donkey even with gold, and don't you."

  She nodded. "I've another burden to think of—worth more than gold."

  He put his arm around her. "Feeling all right, muchacha?"

  "All right so far, seiior, thanks to God."

  He growled, "This cursed march! If we could but have had peace till the little one came! It's hard to think of you on foot tonight and me riding. If you could manage Soldan and were in shape for the saddle, it would be the other way. At least you'll carry no arms."

  "Yes, but I will, sir. A sword and buckler's nothing. I may need them before daylight. . . . Where do you march, senor—with the vanguard?"

  Pedro tried to sound casual. "No, I have the ordering of the line. Be everywhere at once. Keep the companies in touch."

  "What honor!" she exulted. "Why, you're almost maestro de campo."

  "Almost—for a night. . . . Let's go over to the treasure room. We might find something to take. And it isn't likely we'll ever see that much gold again. Tell our children about it—eh, sweetheart—Montezuma's treasure?"

  Picking their way through the darkness to one of the main buildings where the General's quarters, the chapel, and the treasure room were situated, they could hear a number of footsteps hurrying in the same direction. Now and then the flare of a torch revealed fragments of the enclosure and showed eager, bearded faces pressing toward one magnetic point. If the Indians had attacked at that moment, they could have carried the palace almost without contest. But except for the thronging footsteps and mutter of expectation, as the company mounted the terrace toward Cortes's quarters, the night was utterly silent. Then, more swiftly as it drew closer, the crowd trooped elbowing along the passage porch onto which various apartments opened, until it shouldered through a certain door. Always padlocked and double-guarded, few of the common sort had entered it. Many had been the speculations, the fantastic dreams, about the riches it concealed. Now unbelievably it stood open to all, and the dreams had come true.

  By the light of torches which filled the upper half of the room with

  a haze of smoke, an incredible scene was going forward. It reminded Pedro of what he had read in romances or in fabulous stories about robbers' caves. The mountains of gold which Cortes and other promoters of the expedition had promised were there—or, at least, if not mountains, high stacks of gold bars, each stamped with its value, into which grains, nuggets, and Aztec works of art alike had been melted down. There were boxes, too, containing turquoises, emeralds, jade, opals, moonstones, chalchuites, trinkets of mosaic. There were mantles of gorgeous featherwork in heaps, precious objects of shell or silver richly engraved. Generations of Aztec craftsmen had created the bales of treasure, strewn here and there and trampled under the feet of the soldiers.

  Yes, dreams had come true with a vengeance, dreams which had launched the ships in Cuba, which had led the adventurers from Spain, which had imposed the hardships of voyage, march, and battle. For many, the object of their lives lay now within grasp, to be snatched, embraced, stuffed into wallets and bags, wrapped into bundles. Hunger, thirst, wounds, impending dangers, were forgotten in this delirious moment. The prize of life being attained here and now, what more could life give?

  But there was a difference. Pedro took pride in noting that the Narvaez people, the hungry pockets from Cuba, did most of the grabbing. A number of the Cortes men, the old companions, held aloof, slightly sardonic, faintly cynical. They strolled here and there looking on or occasionally, as connoisseurs, selecting a jewel or object of price, half in the spirit of a keepsake. To be sure, many had feathered their nests and wore their takings in the f
orm of chains or rings; whereas, for the new people, this was their first great chance. But that did not account for all the difference. However dimly, the Cortes men had caught their leader's vision of something beyond gold—call it New Spain, the dream of empire. To load themselves with gold no longer satisfied them. Life had something more to give. They had grown to think of themselves as conquistadors, not gold-seekers. They thought of the march and fight ahead and remembered Cortes's warning.

  Not all. There was Botello, the wise man, stuffing gold into his sack; and Cervantes, the fool, with a bar under each arm and one in each hand. And the Nightingale's person bulged with hard lumps in every direction.

  'Tor Dios, comrade," said Pedro, "by the time you add sword, buckler, and pack to that, you'll be carrying a hundredweight. Think you can make it?"

  The Sicilian spat. "Two miles across the causeway, perhaps five to Tlacopan? We'll go no further tonight. Why, hombre, I'd make it with five hundredweight—when the weight's gold."

  "It may be a hot five miles."

  "Don't you worry. Better look out for yourself."

  A confused growling and panting went up from the treasure grabbers, as each one snatched and pouched to the overflowing point, then snarled helplessly because he could manage no more. Now and then oaths and blows flared up like a straw fire; but time was too precious and the opportunity too great for quarreling.

  "Talk about hogs!" murmured Catana. "Juan, you don't need a farm in Andalusia."

  Garcia, standing fist on hip, looked on thoughtfully. "That I should ever see this day!" he growled. "That I should ever see thousands of pesos under my nose and not stretch out a hand to pick them up!"

  "Why don't you?" Pedro bantered. "It isn't practical, Juan."

  The big man looked embarrassed. "Well, for one thing, I'm to be hanged when this is over; for another, let somebody else get something; for another, we've got to think of the company, my friend. You officers aren't the only ones with too much conscience to make pack mules of themselves when battle's in the wind. If you and the General and others can stand by watching your shares gobbled up by bobos who did nothing to earn them, I can stand by too. Practical yourself I Look at Sandoval."

  The burly young captain could be seen across the room, half-leaning against the wall and picking his teeth. He grinned but shook his head at the rough and tumble over the gold—a professional reaction. Near by, Cortes, lynx-eyed as always, seemed impatient and uneasy. But no one could have told from the expression of either of them that practically all their winnings in New Spain were disappearing into the pouches of the rank and file. The same was true of Pedro and the other captains. At this crisis in the fortunes of the enterprise, they were playing for higher stakes than treasure.

  "Pretty, eh?" remarked Bernal Diaz, El Galan, showing four chal-chuiteSj the opaque green stones highly prized in Mexico, which he had just acquired. "And light. Only fools stock up with metal. I'd wager these against a fifty-weight of gold. There're some emeralds in that coffer yonder, de Vargas, if you're interested."

  Pedro felt a curious languor coupled with growing nervousness. The whole aff"air was too unreal. After the bloodshed of the past week, on the eve of flight, it smacked too much of the hangman's feast, a final

  debauch. It had the air of a macabre joke, ominous of death and dissolution.

  Father Olmedo, stopping briefly, summed it up. "After harvest, winter; after the banquet, hunger. After this, what?"

  By now the room had been swept bare of gold, the soldiers staggering out one by one with their plunder. The torches, burned to their sockets, cast a final glimmering through the place, where beautiful but perishable things lay strewn over the floor like the flotsam of wreckage.

  Looking about him, Cortes gave a slight shrug. It expressed more eloquently the vanity of human wishes than many a volume on the subject.

  "You're clear as to the order of the march we discussed, son Pedro— vanguard, center, and rear guard, and who goes where? We'll start breaking quarters at once to march at midnight. And no noise. Our lives depend on it." He turned to the other officers who stood grouped around him at the door. "I repeat, no noise, seiiores. We came with drums and trumpets; we leave like thieves in the night."

  He paused, his lips quivering. Then he added, "But some of us will return."

  L/X

  Mass was said; and, as the witching hour approached, the companies assembled silently in the pitch blackness of the vast courtyard. Since the besieging Aztecs had withdrawn from the central plaza and its purlieus following the death of Montezuma, there was a chance that no listening ears would catch the sounds unavoidable in the marshaling of an army with its horses, baggage, and guns, no matter how much care might be taken to quiet them. The Spaniards numbered about eleven hundred, their Indian allies several thousands. Thirty cannon had to be rolled here and there; a hundred horses with noisy iron shoes had to be lined up; and no lights could be shown for fear of watchers on distant housetops. Although the thick drizzle, which discouraged the enemy from prowling, gave added concealment, the complete darkness also increased the confusion.

  Next to the main gates stood Margarino and a detachment in charge of the portable bridge which was designed to solve the problem of the gaps in the causeway across the lake. Behind would come Sandoval, leading the van with twenty lances, two hundred foot, and a Tlascalan

  division. Then would follow the center under Cortes, with most of the horse, some foot and cannon, another division of Indians, the baggage and the royal treasure. Lastly, as rear guard, mustered the main force of the infantry under Alvarado and Juan Velasquez de Leon, supported by artillery and a final contingent of Indian allies.

  In the black night, to get this column into some kind of initial order, and to make sure that its component parts were where they ought to be, took time. Pedro de Vargas with other officers groped here and there through the crowd, rearranging, checking up. The long wait, the soaking rain and utter darkness, drained the heart out of men in spite of the treasure they were carrying. They shifted from foot to foot or squatted in their ranks, feeling already the weight of arms and of gold-laden packs. The slipping of horses on the wet pavement, the continuous whisper of "Quiet! Quiet!" the suspense as to what the night would bring, set their nerves on edge. A kind of voiceless muttering went on: were they going to wait here forever! Why in the name of God didn't they march?

  "Is it Captain de Sandoval?" whispered a voice.

  "The same," he answered. "Mistress Catana?"

  "Yes. I wanted to ask a favor of you, sir—if you would be so kind."

  "Anything in my power, damisela"

  "That you'd take my imp here, Ochoa, behind you when you ride. He'd be trodden under in a melee. You're a man of luck. Captain. I believe you'll reach the mainland."

  " 'Sblood we'll all reach it. Who's to stop us? These Indian dogs?"

  "I don't know, sir. It's a feeling— You'll take Ochoa?"

  The hoarse voice in the darkness hesitated. "Faith, Mistress, I may have to ride hard, and Motilla isn't a palfrey. Can Ochoa hang on?"

  "Como no!" came the boy's treble. "Like a burr. It isn't that I'm afraid to march with Aunty, but I'd like to tell the other pages how I'd ridden behind you on Motilla. Please, Senor Captain."

  "Please!" Catana echoed.

  "Very well," grunted the voice. "But look out for yourself, boy. I can't have you on my mind. And off with you when we're over the causeway."

  A vibration, starting at the main portals and extending backward through the ranks, began.

  The familiar voice of Pedro de Vargas sounded a few yards off. "Catana, get back to your place. Take care of yourself, por Dios. . . . Gentlemen of the bridge, are you ready? Open the gates, there! Forward, the first detachment!"

  Sandoval swung to Motilla's saddle, stuck out a foot, and Ochoa slid up behind him like a lizard.

  "Good-by, Tia Catana."

  "Good-by, mozuelo mio."

  Catana had a lump in her throat. It was as
if she would not be seeing Ochoa again. A ridiculous feeling, because, even in the case of attack, who could prevent so well-equipped and seasoned an army from making good its retreat? She put her depression down to the dreariness of the night, the strangeness of departure from a place to which she had grown accustomed during six months. But the funereal heaviness of farewell hung on. And of course, as she groped her way back toward the center of the column, it must be then that she would remember the ill-omened fiock of birds which had recently perched on the roofs of the palace.

  "Ay de mi" she reflected, "it is in the hands of God."

  The ranks were already shuffling forward foot by foot.

  "Captain Marin's company?" she whispered.

  "Here," replied someone.

  A horse's hoofs slithered on the pavement.

  "Quiet, you fool!"

  Behind the men carrying the portable bridge, Pedro rode out with Sandoval, too absorbed in the suspense of the moment for any sentimental retrospect. Were the city canals that lay between them and the lake viaduct still bridged since the day's fighting? Would it be possible to get the army out on the causeway before its retreat was discovered? If so, by transferring the portable bridge from gap to gap as soon as the troops had crossed from one segment of the dike to the next, they would be able to reach the mainland with only at worst an attack by canoes on their flanks. But if the seven canals were open . . .

  Fortunately no light was needed, as they could have followed the much-fought-over avenue blindfolded. Pedro listened with his ears strained, but could hear nothing except the labored breathing of the forty men who toiled forward with the ponderous bridge, the muffled tread of the escorting vanguard, the occasional clink of a horse's shoes. Nothing. They shouldered forward into the blackness, as if the crowded city had been blotted out.

  Now they must be close to the first canal. They advanced heart in mouth. Then a whisper came back. Gracias a Dios! The canal was still bridged. They crossed the rough surface of the rubble, treading it smoother, and so to the next; crossed that one and the next. A