Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  Pedro remembered Dante's adventure with the leopard. It was all of a piece with the great poet's description of hell.

  "Remember how we go," said Coatl. "You come again—alone."

  Pedro did not relish the thought. "I'll bring the General and my friends here. It will amaze them."

  "No, you come alone."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because something you not see yet."

  It was unpleasant talking in the vasty place. Their voices were multiplied by echoes, some loud, some faint, as if the words were passed from mouth to mouth around a circle of ghosts.

  "Not see yet'' came the whisper.

  "Remember way lie straight to this beast." Coatl pointed to the goat. "That easy. We turn now to left. Give heed."

  "Give heed" warned the echoes.

  De Vargas had a natural sense of direction and now took note of turnings and landmarks. They passed along galleries, down declines, through other gigantic halls, stopping now and then to light another torch. Occasionally Coatl rehearsed him, as if everything depended on his remembering this particular route.

  "It drawn here," said the Indian, showing the end of a parchment in his pouch. "But if this lost, you must remember."

  Then, without warning, Coatl stopped before a natural archway.

  "Here," he said.

  Upon entering, Pedro saw another huge cavern hung with crystals, and in the center of it a high, white pyramid. StepjiJ, whether natural or cut by hand, ascended toward the apex, which met the roof in an odd contorted form. It looked like a monstrous head supporting the vault, while the pyramid itself resembled a white robe, completing one giant figure. Then Pedro noticed that the steps were of a rusty color as compared with the snowy surface on either side of them.

  "Blood," said Coatl. He pointed at a small, dark mound some distance off. "Bones of many men, long ago, in ancient times."

  Having prostrated himself before the lowering face above, Coatl now led the way around the pyramid to a passage descending under it.

  "We go down here."

  "Look you, friend/' said Pedro, "I have not troubled you with questions. You have shown me marvels, but there must be an end. Our torches are half-spent."

  "End is here." Coatl pointed down the tunnel-like shaft. "Few paces more." Then, turning, he plunged down the sharp decline with Pedro-behind him.

  The torchlight fell on a hollow space under the pyramid, a bubble in the rock formation, irregular in shape, and perhaps no more than twenty feet long. Pedro, however, saw nothing but its contents.

  No longer the white or crystal glittering of the halls above. Here the torches brought out a warm, yellow reflection, more dazzling and incredible.

  Gold!

  Except for Montezuma's treasure room, de Vargas had never seen, such riches. But here they were concentrated in a narrower space. Grains, nuggets, hand-wrought ornaments in piles.

  He muttered, "What's this, Coatl?"

  The answer had no meaning. "Seiior, this the two pesos you give me once in that barranca near Jaen."

  "Two pesos?" echoed de Vargas.

  "Gold is like maize," said Coatl. "Sow one, two grains, get many."

  "I still don't understand."

  "Is this not parting gift?"

  On Pedro's stupefied mind, the words did not register.

  "I hope it bring you good," Coatl went on. "To many Spaniards it bring evil."

  Pedro turned on him. "Explain for God's love! Do you mean you're giving me this gold?"

  "To you alone. That is why I say you come back here alone."

  "But explain. How? Whose gold?"

  He could hardly hear through the clatter of his thoughts. An ancient treasure . . . An offering to priests long ago beyond memory . . . Perhaps, even, they were priests of another race, for this god of the cavern was an old god . . . Coatl alone had the secret, transmitted from chief to chief through the far past . . . What need had the Zapotecs of this gold? They had enough in their mines and rivers.

  Stooping down, Pedro ran the fingers of one hand through the precious grain, while the torch he held with the other cast yellow flickerings. Looking more closely, he could see that the treasure, when melted into bars, would not quite equal Montezuma's—perhaps seven hundred thousand pesos. A fifth of this belonged by law to the King, a

  fifth to Cortes, a share to the company. He could see the gold shrinking as he gazed, but still it left him rich beyond heart's desire. The treasure made him equal with any grandee. It opened every door.

  "What can I say?" he burst out. "What return can I make?" "No return." Coatl stretched out his hand. "I tell you one time your god give you what you want. We not meet again. But you go with me; I go with you. What we do for each other is seed of good or bad harvest. It is so, senor, with all we do in life." Then after a pause, he added, "Torches almost gone. It is time we leave."

  In a half daze, Pedro followed him through the windings of the cavern, crossed the hall of the throne, and at last emerged into the purity of daylight. Lost in his dream, he stumbled more than once over the coiled serpent roots of the lovely trees, which seemed to writhe and close about his ankles.

  He reached the pueblo after dark.

  "Where the devil have you been?" demanded Garcia, while Catana's anxious frown relaxed. "You step out for a minute and you're gone three hours."

  "Walked with Coatl," Pedro answered. "He showed me a cave."

  "Hell! You must like exercise!"

  De Vargas said nothing. The master of seven hundred thousand pesos must guard his tongue even among those he loves. They would be the more surprised later on, he told himself to quiet his conscience.

  LXVlfl

  Because of rain and the difficulty of the fords, it took two hard days from Cacahuamilpa before Pedro, Catana, and Garcia with their escort of Zapotecs reached the heights of Ajusco and looked down on their journey's end. The clouds having lifted toward sunset, they could view the entire reach of the Valley: at their feet, Xochimilco and Coyoacan; in the middle distance, outstretched on the lake, Tenoch-titlan with its three tentacle causeways; to the left, Chapultepec and Tacuba; to the north, Tepeyac, not yet known as Guadalupe; and in the far distance on the right the city of Tetzcuco, formerly the Aztecs' chief ally but now a deserter to the Spaniards.

  From one point or another in the surrounding mountains, Pedro and his two companions had often overlooked the Valley in the past and

  retained so vivid a memory of it that they could recall each detail of its towns and configuration. Little prepared as they were for the changes which a year had brought, its present aspect startled them.

  Xochimilco, "field of flowers," once gay and glittering and fronted by its floating gardens, looked black and deserted, like a burned-out hulk. In his recent letter, Cortes had mentioned the burning of it "to punish the dogs for their resistance," a passing reference that mocked the mournful reality.

  Looking farther, it seemed to Pedro that Tenochtitlan itself had changed. It appeared somehow shrunken, though its teocallis of evil memory still towered over the spread of roofs. Then he pointed out what had happened. Sections of the suburbs had been gnawed away; the buildings once standing there were gone, leaving acres of rubble, ovTr which hung a thin haze of dust and smoke. The canals also had disappeared, being evidently filled up by the ruins of demolished houses. At a loss to understand the reason for this, he and Garcia finally hit on the answer. It was furnished by the large camps to be seen at the end of the three causeways: one directly below at Xoloc to the south of the city; another to the west of it in Tacuba; and a third to the north at Tepeyac. The dikes themselves no longer showed gaps as before, but stretched solidly from the mainland. Apparently the siege consisted in a slow leveling of the town itself, a leveling which gave constantly wider scope for the use of cavalry and cannon, wliile it herded the enemy back from the lake toward the center of the city. Attack by day, a certain amount of demolition, would be followed by retirement to camp at night. As they looked, the
y could see a dense column of men, like ants at that distance, returning to their quarters at Xoloc, while the Aztecs, advancing from the town, harried the rear guard. The rattle of musketry, the far-off boom of cannon, marked this action.

  Pedro noticed other changes. Once the lake had swarmed with canoes, the come-and-go of pleasure traffic. Now it lay empty as a blind eye. He was asking himself what could have swept it bare, when he caught sight of the obvious explanation. He had forgotten the eleven brigantines mentioned in Cortes's letter. Some five of them now appeared heading from the mainland with the evident aim of covering the retirement of the column on the causeway. Gallant little two-masted vessels with billowing sails and fluttering pennons. Their invention was the crowning stroke of Cortes's genius. They held the key to conquest by cutting off supplies from the starving city and by enfilading any attack along the causeways. Puffs of smoke leaped from their sides as they coasted in toward the skirmish. Then, after a pause, came the dull thud of the cannon.

  The Zapotec warriors stared goggle-eyed.

  "Vaydj' Pedro said to them, "you'll see more wonders than that before you're through. Forward, if we're to make camp before dark."

  The trail descended in coils from the thinner air of the upland. Soon evergreens were left behind, giving place to cactus or to fields of maguey with their pepper trees. As the party drew closer to the lake, they encountered increasing numbers of encamped Indian bands drawn from all the different tribes of Anahuac and from the eastern plateau. They had chosen between the Aztec yoke of fear and Cortes's promises. Knowing the former only too well, they embraced the latter, prompted also by revenge and greed, but happily ignorant that with every blow for Spain they were forging their future fetters. These warriors looked askance at the unfamiliar Zapotecs, noting differences in paint and equipment. But the Spaniards needed no passport, and the party proceeded unchallenged.

  As they threaded their way through the separate encampments, de Vargas identified some of the tribes. Here were Cholulans, there Tetz-cucans, there Tlascalans; but the fact that many were strange brought home his year of absence from the army. Once he could have distinguished the markings and war gear of every people with which the company had had dealings.

  About nightfall, through an ever-denser encampment, they reached the lines of recently built Spanish huts on the causeway at Xoloc. The sharp quien vive of the sentinel brought water to Pedro's eyes. It meant home.

  "Captain Pedro de Vargas, reporting to the General with a hundred

  men."

  "Whoop!" yelled the sentinel to his mates of the guard. "Hombres! Here are Redhead de Vargas, Bull Garcia, Catana! Blast me!" And letting discipline go hang for the moment, Chavez of the old company teetered his partisan against the wall and flung himself at the newcomers like an affectionate bear.

  LX/X

  In an upper room of the captured Aztec fort at Xoloc, which guarded the southern causeway, Hernan Cortes ate supper and relaxed after the day's work. Corn, beans, tomatoes, squash, and fried fish, with a dessert of Indian figs, made up the menu. As a rare treat and for the good of

  his leg, wounded in the recent fighting, he indulged himself with a cup of Spanish wine newly landed on the coast. Except for the page Ochoa, who thanks to Sandoval had survived the Noche Triste, he was alone.

  A hullabaloo in the surrounding camp broke out, and his eyes quickened. Somebody was beating a drum. Shouts. Scuffling of feet. Women's voices chiming in. Skilled in interpreting mass noises, he concluded at once that it was neither a quarrel nor a mutiny. The drummer was clowning; the shouts reflected excitement and good temper. Still, after a hard day's fight, one didn't expect merrymaking.

  "Boy," he said to Ochoa, "step down there and see what's afoot. Bring me word of it."

  However, the sounds were converging on his own quarters. He caught the measured tramp of feet and instinctively looked to his weapons. It had been no more than a few weeks ago that he had foiled a conspiracy against his life on the part of certain Narvaez henchmen. And who could tell when another attempt might be made?

  But at the tones of a voice below, he started, smiled, and stood up. No wonder the camp was celebrating.

  A moment later, Pedro de Vargas with Ochoa behind him stood at salute in the doorway, then found himself in the steel embrace of the General.

  "Let me look at you," said Cortes, holding him by the shoulders at arm's length. ''A fe mia, it's a sight for sore eyes! I still can't believe it. Back from the dead! Strikes me you've put on beef. Ah, son Pedro, the look of you reminds me of others who haven't come back, the good comrades. So many! Too many!"

  The dark eyes filled. Hard as he was, Cortes kept a peculiar affection for the old company, those who had sailed with him from Cuba. It was an affection which did not extend to newer arrivals.

  "Vaya, vaya! Sit down. . . . Ochoa, some food and wine for Captain de Vargas. I'll warrant he hasn't eaten. . . . And the father of a strapping lass, eh? Where is she, hombre?"

  Pedro's face darkened. "Your Excellency, the child died of the viruelas two weeks ago, after I wrote you."

  "Alas! Truly I'm grieved." Cortes laid his hand on the other's arm. . . . "And the Senora Catana? Juan Garcia? They are here?"

  "At Your Excellency's orders."

  "Well, sit down. I'll see them presently. . . . Boy, didn't I tell you to fetch victuals for the captain? Are you deaf?"

  Ochoa hung on. "I wanted to ask about Tia Catana, senor. Is she well?"

  "Aye, well enough to spank you, nino" smiled de Vargas. "She's waiting to see you. What a big lad you've grown in a year!" And when the boy had gone out, he added, "Which reminds me. Your Excellency."

  He braced himself.

  "Which reminds me," he repeated, trying to sound natural, "that I've asked Catana Perez in marriage."

  Cortes fingered his beard. "Marry Catana Perez, eh? Well, take a chair. Fill a cup. Yes, on my word it's true Malaga. Your health, son Pedro! Welcome back to the company!"

  "Your Excellency's servant!"

  But Pedro felt that his announcement had drawn a blank, and he did not have spirit enough at the moment to renew the topic.

  They had much to discuss: campaigns since the Noche Triste, personalities of new arrivals from the Islands, the present state of affairs. The struggle for Mexico City had been desperate.

  "I wish I had been here," Pedro mourned. "The work's finished."

  "By no means is it finished," said Cortes. "You'll have your share. It looks as if we should have to pull down every stone of the city before we bring the fools to terms. Is it not sad? The loveliest town on earth. Because of these dogs' stubbornness. I've made them every promise if they'll submit. But if not—"

  He broke off, frowning helplessly at the logic of war.

  "Tell me about the Zapotec country," he went on with a shrug. "Your letter spoke of gold."

  It was now Pedro's turn. He outlined the resources of the western valleys in terms of minerals and timber. He spoke also of the pearl trade with the coast. Cortes listened intently.

  "It sounds good. You have samples?"

  "I have four thousand pesos' weight of gold with me. Your Excellency. Catana and Juan Garcia have each as much."

  ''Cdspita!" exclaimed the General. "Hm-m, twelve thousand pesos." Pedro knew that he was figuring his own share, the King's, the company's. "Why, this is excellent. We'll make a survey of that district— and soon. You took care to locate the mines? Good, very good. Your health, amigo mio!"

  Pedro bowed his thanks.

  "You see," Cortes went on, "we have to rake and scrape to furnish a revenue worthy of His Majesty. I don't expect to recover much of the treasure we lost on the retreat. The Aztec hounds will see to it that we don't. Then there're the soldiers' claims to be met, and the captains'; our debts in Cuba. Peste! I wish I could lay my hands now on even fifty thousand pesos."

  Two years ago, de Vargas, in devotion to his chief, would have swelled with pride to declare the treasure at Cacahuamilpa. He knew bet
ter now. Unspoken words didn't have to be regretted. If he wanted his full share of Coatl's gift, he must play a shrewd game. For the moment, he changed the subject by asking about news from Spain.

  Cortes made a gesture denoting emptiness. "That His Majesty is now Holy Roman Emperor; that he finally received the gift we sent from Villa Rica; that he even granted audience to our friends, Montejo and Puertocarrero. Nothing more. We'll soon have to be sending other doves from our ark with other olive branches."

  "Sir?"

  "Falcons then—ambassadors. Good friends who can take our part against the Bishop of Burgos and his Council of the Indies—sold hand and foot as he is to our enemy, Governor Velasquez, and your friend, de Silva, at his ear."

  Cortes fell suddenly to musing, his eyes intent as a cat's. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled. "By my conscience, it's well thought on! Son Pedro, you're the man. Your father is in favor, as I gathered from his letter. Your kinsman is the Duke of Medina Sidonia. You have been with us from the start and are a captain in our enterprise. You're a man"—Cortes's voice warmed, and he laid a hand on Pedro's knee— "after my own heart. A young man of energy and prudence. Nay, I love you as a son."

  He had loosed all the batteries of his charm. Though Pedro knew the General well enough to take these sudden compliments with a pinch of salt and to wonder where they were leading, he nonetheless felt dizzy from the incense.

  "Look you." Cortes hitched his chair closer. "When this city falls and the war ends, you will go to the Emperor. You will go to him whether he's in Spain or Flanders. You will let no one or nothing stop you, the Bishop of Burgos or anyone else."

  "To Spain?"

  "Aye, with suitable gifts and letters, with all the family influence you can muster. And it will be odd if you, the son of Don Francisco de Vargas, Alcalde of Jaen and captain of Spain, the kinsman of Don Juan Alonso de Guzman, with gold to spend, mark you, and gifts to give, do not outtrump bishop or council— provided you reach the Emperor himself and fill his ears with New Spain."

  Pedro's imagination caught fire. Himself at court! It crossed his