Chapter XV

Before beginning the ascent of the Andes, Pizarro divided his forces, selecting forty cavalrymen and sixty foot-soldiers under his own command to lead. The remaining sixty-nine men he left at the base of the _cordillera_ to await his word to advance.

He would trust no other leader with the danger of fighting a way up the frowning ramparts that towered menacingly into the clouds above him.

The first trial came with the climb of more than a mile up the granite walls of the first ridge. The steps were cut in solid rock. The horses made desperate efforts to mount them. Most of the animals succeeded in making the first quarter of a mile without stumbling. And then began the weary drop to the knee of the foreleg, and the still more dangerous loss of foothold in the rear.

Pizarro ordered the men to dismount and help their horses up the stairs. In the view upward their vision seemed to end only in the clouds.

It became necessary at last to tie the sixty horses in line while each rider placed his shoulder against the haunches of his steed and pushed with steady force. At the landing of the first long stairway was found a level place dug out of the granite in its upper side, supported on its lower by a heavy stone wall.

The rest was gratefully taken by man and beast. All had now begun to feel the quickened heartbeat and vertigo of the higher altitude. The air grew thin and sharp and it was necessary to take two breaths where one had sufficed below. They had begun the climb at the elevation of the plateau, 11,000 feet above the sea. The first resting place was higher than the summit of Mount Blanc--and they had only begun the ascent.

Teresa was in high glee. The exhilaration of the heights had given her an experience of childlike ecstasy. She waved her hand toward the vast ocean of snow-clad peaks and shouted for joy.

Pizarro warned her to conserve her strength and use the utmost care as the climb became higher.

He gave a like warning to every soldier and urged the most careful handling of their horses. The animals had suffered far more than the men. Pedro de Candia’s patient mules carrying his cannon, alone seemed at home in the wild environment. Their sure little feet had never missed a step or slipped once.

While man and beast rested, Pizarro questioned the two native guides:

“How wide and long are these great ranges which we are crossing?”

One of them, a man of unusual intelligence, promptly answered. Opening his arms and pointing north and south he said in awed tones:

“They stretch from the north star more than four thousand miles southward.”

“Four thousand!” Pizarro echoed.

“More than four thousand. And in places it is more than five hundred miles across the three _cordilleras_. Here is it three hundred miles to the great rivers that flow eastward to the sea.”

Pressing forward for the next climb, they edged down a sharp, dangerous incline. The path grew so narrow a single horse could scarcely pass. At the hairpin curve before them the trail had been cut through a solid stone cliff that hung threateningly overhead. The curve was so sharp and the way so narrow Pizarro stationed two men with a rope stretching around the curve against the upper wall and ordered every soldier to hold to the improvised railing as he made the turn. Below yawned an abyss thousands of feet in depth.

Never had a man among them seen such chaos of terrifying cliffs, peaks, canyons and gorges. There seemed no room among them for the life of man; no level space on which to build his home, unless he hew it out of solid stone.

The leader suddenly came to a slender suspension bridge nearly two hundred feet long that spanned a narrow gorge a thousand feet deep. The adventurer gazed in wonder at the skill of primitive man as exemplified by this slender, swaying thing. Less than three feet in width it hung from great cables eight inches in diameter held in place by buttresses of stone on either cliff. The cables were woven of the tough fibers of maguey and osier.

A guide stamped his foot on the planks and waved his hand:

“Come on! The boards will bear the weight of any horse!”

Pizarro sharply commanded:

“Wait!”

He carefully crossed on foot and felt the slender structure sway back and forth through the air at his tread and refused to risk the life of a single horse in such an adventure. He sent Teresa and a few of the men who were suffering from the altitude across the bridge on foot while he picked his way down the path that led to the water’s edge. Here, rafts were built for the foot-soldiers, and the cavalry swam the swift current.

On the opposite shore it was necessary to halt and build a fire to dry horses and men. The horses had begun to suffer severely from the change in temperature and altitude.

Resuming his march, Pizarro ordered a sharp watch for lurking foes on the high cliffs overhanging their heads.

A scout suddenly rushed to the commander.

“An army on the top of the cliff!”

“Call to arms,” the leader ordered a trumpeter.

The shrill cry rang across the gorge and echoed against the cliff.

“Where?” Pizarro sharply asked the scout.

“There on the top peak--I swear I saw him.”

“Ghosts!” jeered a trooper, gripping his musket.

“I saw him! I swear it!”

“How many men did you see?” Pizarro demanded.

“A single figure--a leader on the rock. He lifted his arm, gave a signal of command and disappeared....”

“Yes--he disappeared!” yelled a veteran. “You blinked your eyes and he wasn’t there....”

But he had been there. The keen eyes of the scout had seen aright. The solitary figure on the rock was no less a personage than the Inca. At the head of the first division of his army he had taken his position on the heights overhanging this stretch of narrow, dangerous pathway for the purpose of a personal inspection of the number and character of the invading force.

A thousand picked young men under the command of Toparca had climbed to the crest of the overhanging ridge above the invaders and stood with stones at hand ready for his signal to start an avalanche that would bury them forever.

The Inca counted the number of the adventurers. There were less than a hundred men! The great beasts they called horses were formidable, but he wished to use them. They should not be killed. Molina’s eloquent description of their help to man had led to a firm determination to introduce them into his kingdom.

With a light laugh at the folly of such an invasion of the vast Empire of the Four Corners of the World he lifted his hand. A thousand stalwart young men rose at the same moment on the summit of the ridge and each lifted high a large stone. Every eye was fixed on their ruler. If both uplifted hands hurled a stone, the avalanche would sweep all below into eternity. If he lifted but one hand and waved his cloak, it was the signal of peace and swift withdrawal to the second division in the rear.

A single hand slowly rose and a cloak was waved. The stones were carefully lowered and two thousand swift young feet scrambled down the cliffs and rejoined their command.

Meanwhile with a shout of scorn for the fears of their nervous scout, the Spaniards began again their painful march.

Pizarro himself suddenly called a halt, and every hand gripped a weapon. The man was not a fool after all. He had seen something. They were climbing a steep and narrow gorge. At the summit they could now plainly see a fortress that seemed to hang above their heads.

As they cautiously approached the building, the solid stone masonry of its massive walls could be plainly seen. From such defense a hundred men could crush ten thousand. Pizarro dispatched two of his best scouts to approach the fortress and learn if it were defended.

It had been recently deserted. Scraps of food on the floor indicated that the withdrawal of men had been made within twenty-four hours.

Pizarro was overjoyed to find this evidence that his passage would not be disputed. A storm was brewing and he decided to spend the night in the shelter of the fortress, and sent for the rear guard under Hernando to join him at once.

The commander inspected the defense with keen interest. The floor of the structure was smoothed from a solid rock in part, the lower section only being paved with flags. The upper wall was a living rock of the mountainside. The lower wall was built of huge bowlders fitted without mortar with a skill unequaled in the Old World.

The horses had scarcely been fed and tethered when the storm broke with a fury they had never seen or dreamed before. Earth and sky were at times a livid glare of fire, with thunder peals that shook the cliffs. The thatched roof offered a perfect shelter and his ragged soldiers gathered about the roaring fire and began to laugh at their trials and dangers.

Pizarro passed cheerfully among them and received striking tributes of their faith and devotion. When danger called loudest he had been ever at the front. He wielded an ax with the stoutest, when they were building rafts. There was no task too hard for his hands. No peril could daunt his spirit.

At sunrise they again took up their dangerous march. The heavy timber that covered the lower ranges gave place to somber pines and balsam. These, at last, grew stunted as they approached the white line of eternal snow. They reached the summit before nightfall in a field of vast, white, silent death. Even the funeral moss of the balsams had disappeared. No insect chirped, no bird twittered, the only sign of life the huge black-winged vulture--the condor--hovering ominously in the sky above. They were 17,000 feet above the level of the sea. Giant peaks still towered five thousand feet higher, their white cones wrapped in mantles of cloud and snow.

The men gazed in an awe that was half terror at the magnificent scenes stretching to eternity in every direction.

Huge fires were hastily built of the scraggy, dead growths found in sheltered ledges, and tents were raised. Pizarro decided to await on the summit the arrival of his rear guard before attempting the descent, which might be even more perilous than the climb, especially for his horses, whose lives he held dearer even than his men.

A native messenger arrived from the Indian envoy sent to the Inca. He reported the road free of enemies and informed Pizarro that a royal embassy was on the way with greetings from the sovereign.

The commander dispatched a courier to Hernando urging all speed. He could ill afford to allow the new ambassador to find his ranks so thin.

The rear guard arrived before the Peruvian, and Pizarro received the envoy with as brave an array of men and horses as he could display. The man was a nobleman of high degree accompanied by attendants who bore presents of llama mutton for the strangers.

“My master, Atahualpa,” he said, and an interpreter translated, “sends you again his cordial greetings.”

He bowed gracefully to Pizarro who answered:

“We thank His Highness....”

“The Lord of the Sun wishes to know when your full force will arrive at Caxamalca, that suitable refreshments may be provided for all.”

The commander’s lips were twisted thoughtfully at the ruse. What the envoy had asked politely, was, “How many are in your party?”

“We move with all possible haste,” the Spaniard replied.

The Peruvian waved to his attendants.

“Refreshments for our visitors.”

His servants set forth flagons of _chica_, the fermented juice of corn, and served it to the officers in goblets of gold. The hands of the Spaniards trembled as they grasped these evidences that their dreams would come true.

The envoy, warmed with liquor, boasted the pomp and pride and glory of his sovereign, Atahualpa, now supreme ruler of the Kingdom of the Four Corners of the World, stretching thousands of miles north and south, embracing more than twelve million people. The Spaniard outdid him in boasting the glories of Charles V, now the ruler of the old Roman Empire, Emperor of Austria, Italy, Germany, Flanders, and King of Aragon, Castile and Granada.

With liquor freely flowing the braggart game was prolonged until each orator began to smile at the other.

The ceremonies were rudely interrupted by the arrival of the native envoy whom Pizarro had dispatched to the Inca.

The native glared at the scene for a moment and without warning leaped at the throat of the nobleman.

“Liar! traitor!” he exploded.

He was caught in time to prevent harm.

“What’s this?” Pizarro demanded.

“This man lies and deceives you!” the Indian screamed. “He pretends friendship. The Inca is encamped at the head of a mighty army ready to strike. He refused to see me or receive my message. His soldiers threw me out of camp and would have murdered me had I not defied them....”

Pizarro’s eyes narrowed in a look of keen inquiry of the gorgeously dressed envoy.

The ambassador smiled, and waved to his accuser:

“Continue! I would hear it all.”

The native poured out a torrent of abuse and hurled his final words at the head of the nobleman.

“I dared them to touch me. If they did, I told them that _your_ life would pay the penalty here!” he bellowed.

The envoy maintained his poise and coolly replied to the tirade. He addressed only Pizarro, ignoring his accuser.

“Did this crude lout bear credentials?”

“Only his word.”

“Exactly. His word was incredible. Such men do not wear the robes of an ambassador in our kingdom. He was laughed at as an impostor....”

“And this great army?” the commander interrupted.

“Is but a small division of the troops recently engaged in war. Their numbers have been apparently swollen by the inhabitants of Caxamalca who have been ordered out of their homes to make room for our approaching guests.”

The explanation was plausible, but Pizarro had his suspicions. He must dissemble. He could not afford a break with his powerful enemy at this juncture. He professed indifference to the incident.

“Tell your royal master that I deeply appreciate the food and drink with which he has refreshed us and assure him that I will present myself at his Court at the earliest possible moment.”

The envoy hastened his departure. Borne on his litter by swift-footed young men he hurried to report to the Inca the encounter with Pizarro and the bad impression made by the Indian messenger.

His return created an ugly sensation at the court of Atahualpa and the conflict of opinion became each day more acute.

The Dowager Queen had become panic-stricken at the possibilities opening with the rapid approach of the invaders.

“But their numbers are ridiculous!” the Inca laughed.

“How many men are behind them?”

“None, save a beggarly rear guard of fifty men. My couriers report to me daily, even from the coast.”

“And yet,” Pacha urged, “you must realize that the moment these strange powerful beings, whose advance rivers and mountains cannot halt, arrive in Caxamalca and find that you have imprisoned their ambassador, there must be war....”

“War?” the Inca sneered. “War between my veteran army encamped on the hills and this straggling bunch of crows?”

“They use magic, my son. Their beasts may be invincible. No power may be able to withstand them. The priests warned your father of their coming. Your father prophesied the end of your kingdom through them....”

“My father was old and ill and discouraged. Such croakings mean nothing. His priests also warned him of ruin if he gave to me the throne of Quito. I have conquered Cuzco and rule in undisputed power. What of their croakings now?”

Pacha’s eyes were set in a vision of tragic fear. She scarcely heard the proud reply of her son.

“I beg of you,” she went on as if in a trance, “that you hasten to man the forts that guard the descent of the mountains, overwhelm the invaders and leave no man alive to tell the story....”

The Inca laughed again at her fears.

“I am curious to see these ‘god-men’ face to face. I will use my wits to make them my friends. I will learn their secrets of peace and war and make them our own.”

“And risk the loss of all!” was the prophetic reply.

The ruler was adamant against all appeals. He ordered the best food prepared for the strangers and the streets of Caxamalca swept at their approach.

The Spaniards came on with renewed enthusiasm after their refreshment on the summit. A few were sobered by the oft repeated tale of their native spy that the Inca’s army numbered more than 30,000--and that he was leading them into a trap.

On the seventh day of their slow and painful descent, the Spaniards arrived in sight of the sunlit valley of Caxamalca. The cavalcade halted, overwhelmed with the beauty of the scene. The valley stretched in full view, rimmed by the towering forms of the mountains on either side. The river that flowed through its center fed hundreds of silver threads of water that spread over the rich fields through the ditches cut for irrigation. Tall hedges of rich green bordered the banks of the larger aqueducts along the base of the hills, forming a frame of trees which completely encased the valley.

At the northern edge of this green frame the white houses of the little city sparkled in the sunlight. Beyond, rose the towers of vapor from the hot springs. To the right, stretched along the foothills for miles, the tents of the Inca’s army were pitched. They covered the ground like a long billowing cloud that had settled from the skies. The smoke from a thousand campfires slowly curled into the clear skies. His soldiers were cooking their sunset meal.

Pizarro and his men gazed on this amazing city of tents with grave thoughts. The reports which they had received of the Inca’s army had not been exaggerated. In that white wilderness of canvas lay concealed not less than forty thousand men. There might be fifty thousand.

The commander called no council of war. It was too late. If they had walked into a trap, theirs now to do or die. Without turning his massive head to the trail behind, Pizarro could feel the stealthy movement of men mounting the forts which they had just passed. But retreat was a thing unthinkable. And no weak heart suggested it. At the first sign of weakness they would be cut to pieces. And they knew it. Not a man would live to pass again those mountain barriers.

Pizarro formed his little band of men into three divisions. The vanguard he led, Hernando followed, and De Soto commanded the rear. With banners waving and streamers fluttering from every lifted lance, armor burnished and glistening in the evening sun, the martial cavalcade slowly moved forward from the shadow of the mountains into the sunlit plains.

A hundred and sixty-nine Spaniards were marching into the camp of a victorious monarch surrounded by an army of forty thousand soldiers.

And from the narrow window of his prison high above, his being aflame at the sight of this finger of his native and mighty Spain touching the ends of the earth, Alonso de Molina watched, with pounding heart.