Chapter XVIII

The commander at Caxamalca received the report of the reception of his captain with grave fears. The situation was far more serious than he had anticipated.

De Soto discussed it with dispassionate care.

“Know at once and clearly, Francisco Pizarro,” he began deliberately, “that the monarch into whose camp we have marched is a ruler of vast power and endless wealth. His army is strong; its discipline perfect. No mobs of soldiers moved from their tents drawn by the word of our coming. They had orders from the Inca to keep to their tents. They kept to them. Only a few men on leave saw us. Their action under such conditions evinced a discipline unknown to our soldiers.”

“How many men do you estimate his army to contain?”

“Look for yourself at their campfires.”

The leader stepped through the doorway and looked at the miles of gleaming fires on the slope of the hills. The storm had passed and the stars had come out. The flickering lights of ten thousand tents made pale the stars.

“I should say,” De Soto continued, “their numbers cannot be less than forty thousand. There could not be less than ten thousand tents in that vast array. There must be at least four soldiers to a tent. There might be six.”

Hernando Pizarro was equally impressed by the gravity of the outlook. He made no effort to mince matters in his report.

“And above all,” he said in conclusion, “was the cool insolence with which he gave us orders to be carried to you. His words were cold enough. His manner in speaking was far more significant. He spoke as a ruler conscious of unlimited power. Mark well his words:

“‘I will then visit him with my staff. Let him occupy the public buildings on the square, _and no others_, till I come, when I will order what shall be done.’ He does not propose to consult your wishes in the matter. He will call to make known to you his decision as to your fate. I don’t like the looks of it. We’ve got to face the facts.”

Francisco Pizarro suddenly left his brother in conference with De Soto and began to move among his men. Most of them stood in the shadows watching the blaze of the campfires on the hills beyond the valley. He felt instinctively the gloom that depressed them and it was his task to dispel it.

He called them together, a hundred and fifty thoroughly discouraged and frightened men. They gathered close around the dying fire in the center of the plaza beside which Pizarro stood. He spoke in low tones vibrant with passionate courage.

“Soldiers,” he began, “for seven years, through toil, dangers and disappointments we have dreamed of the day that we should confront the mighty monarch of this rich empire. At last our eyes have seen the glory of which we have dreamed. We are face to face with the foe we have sought. Let us rejoice and be strong in our joy. This is no hour for faint hearts. It is the hour when real men should shout defiance. Rely on your strong arms and the might of God who has led you safely through so many perils. Your God will not desert you now. What matters how great the number of our enemy, if God be with us?”

The men stirred. They caught the daring spirit of their leader, and their sagging shoulders lifted. And the greatest appeal to the adventurers, when all else failed, was that which struck the deep religious strain that underlay the character of the Spanish soldier. Pizarro returned to it with renewed enthusiasm as he saw their first response.

“My comrades,” he went on steadily, “you are carrying the banners of Spain in a holy crusade for your God, His Church, and our Empire. Are you ready when I call to you ‘_Christo y Santiago!_’?”

Almost with a single voice, the men caught his enthusiasm. A shout arose, “_Christo y Santiago!_”

Pizarro left them with quick step and called his officers.

While they gathered, Teresa reported the staring news of Molina’s imprisonment in the fortress.

Pizarro fixed her with a stern look:

“I rely on you to keep this fact a strict secret. Our lives may depend on it.”

Teresa promised.

He then faced his officers with a smile. They sensed the quick beat of his courageous heart before the first words fell from his lips. Each man leaned close, and gave him breathless attention.

“Gentlemen,” he began in quick decisive tones, “I’ve a proposition to make to you. It is of the utmost danger and requires the utmost daring. But we are confronted by a situation that demands such a courageous solution, and only a courageous solution. We are surrounded by an army of forty thousand men. By sheer weight of numbers they can overwhelm us in an open fight. At this juncture we can not risk it. Retreat is impossible. We know that the wild mountain pass over which we have just struggled has been closed. A hundred men in those overhanging bulwarks of stone could stop an army of ten thousand!”

He paused and held their gaze in silence until the tragic dilemma was clear in every mind.

“You realize this, gentlemen?” he flashed.

They nodded silent assent.

“Then there is but one way,” he cried in tones of exultation. “The Inca is not only their ruler; he is their God on earth. They are not accustomed to think or move without his command. Very well. Ambush the Inca and take him prisoner before the army and we paralyze the whole empire!”

His officers leaped to their feet to a man with cries of excited approval.

“Excellent!”

“The only way!”

“A master stroke!”

“Once in our power,” Pizarro continued, “we will issue orders--the Inca will see that they are executed. We can stay or retreat as we like. The mountain passes will open as by magic as they opened for us to pass in. His army will be our army, ready at his word to do our bidding. No matter what his feelings towards us, friendly or hostile, we are masters of the situation. To make sure of no outbreak led by his family we will invite them to attend their sovereign here and hold them all as hostages.”

Hernando Pizarro hailed the scheme with enthusiasm. It appealed to his cruel nature with subtle force. He stepped forward, turned, and faced the men.

“And make no mistake, gentlemen,” he cried. “The Inca is a crafty and unscrupulous schemer. We can see now that he has deliberately lured us to Caxamalca and closed the door behind us. His presents and his soft messages were bait. We will give him a dose of his own medicine and make sure of our lives.”

“And there is not an hour to be lost,” Francisco Pizarro urged. “We have learned that the main army lies somewhere to the south under the command of a famous general, Challcuchima. Rest assured swift runners have already given him the orders to close in, block our way and join his master. We have already invited the Inca to visit us here. He will come, of course, with a guard of moderate size. It is not possible that he will attempt to enter at the head of his army. We will dispose of our forces by concealing them in the hills opening on the plaza and when he walks into our trap we will close it.”

As the council was breaking up Pizarro lifted his hand in a word of final command.

“See your men to-night and cheer them but say nothing. I caution the utmost secrecy and the results will be in God’s hands.”

The commander busied himself at once with careful preparations for the dawn of the day that would decide their fate. Guards were placed at every approach to the town; sentinels stationed at every strategic point to watch any movement to encircle the city. Guards were set on both sides of the inner and outer forts with strict commands to report immediately any movement of a suspicious character.

The night passed in silence, save for the occasional cry of an owl. And the sun rose in a clear sky Saturday the sixteenth of November, 1532.

Francisco Pizarro was the first soldier to cross the plaza. He gave orders in person to the trumpeter to call his men to their arms. The shrill cry rang over the city and echoed against the hills on which lay the white tents of the native army.

Every soldier sprang to his arms and buckled them on with quick nervous haste. Something in the ring of the trumpet called to instant action. Its notes were sharp as claws. What it meant they knew not, but the low words of their leader spoken the night before were prophetic of daring deeds to-day.

They gathered about Pizarro eagerly.

In low tones he told them of his plan. Excited comments arose and murmurs of admiration and approval swept the crowd.

“God’s light!”

“As God lives!”

“_Por las entrañas de Dios!_ That’s a leader for you!”

In the halls with wide entrances on the plaza, he stationed his cavalry, one division under his brother Hernando, the other under De Soto. The infantry he concealed in the adjoining building under his own command, reserving twenty picked men to attend him personally in the capture of the Inca.

Pedro Candia, he stationed with his artillery on the ramparts of the fortress commanding the plaza. The artillery was small in number and size but its effects would be none the less terrible in their novelty. The two falconets were set, loaded and pointed, the gunners standing ready.

The orders of attack Francisco Pizarro delivered in person to each division of his little army. Each man should be concealed until the Inca and his attendants entered the plaza. He would give the signal of assault to Pedro Candia who would fire a cannon. At the sound of the cannon, the enemy should be charged and put to the sword. Except the Inca. No hand should be lifted against his sacred person. He must be taken alive and unharmed. The success of their daring enterprise depended on this.

His final words rang with the temper of steel.

“Soldiers of Spain! When the crucial moment comes, I depend on you! No hurry, no confusion, deadly order and obedience. In concert move coolly and swiftly to your tasks.”

He carefully inspected their arms. To the cavalry he gave his especial attention. On these would depend the stroke that would bring victory. The wide openings were made for such a charge as he planned. In solid lines the troops were pressed far back into the shadows of the building. The floor was on a level with the plaza. They could charge four abreast without pause from the depths of their hiding place. He was careful to see that the breastplates of every horse was set with bells. This would add to the terror of their charge.

The orders of attack given, the inspection complete, the men were served a hearty breakfast, and the priests, who came under the provisions of the charter, called them to mass, which was celebrated with great solemnity in the somber shadows of the building in which the cavalry were stationed. At the end Pizarro prayed the God of their fathers to strengthen their arms for the battle to extend the Kingdom of the Cross over the world. He led and all joined in singing the chant, “_Exsurge, Domine_”--“Rise, O Lord, and judge Thine Own Cause!”

Whatever his faults the cavalier of Spain in the sixteenth century was not a hypocrite. In this hour of sublime daring he was the true believer--a soldier of the Cross. For the moment he forgot his lust for gold in the greater issues of life and death.

Pizarro watched his men with deep satisfaction. They were fired with enthusiasm. Such men, in the crisis, would be true to their religion, their leader and themselves.

It was noon before a decided movement could be seen in the camp of the Inca. The men were growing restless, when a messenger arrived. The _Quicha_ language had no alphabet, and, the words made with the knotted colored strings of the _quipa_ being unknown to the Spaniards, the message was delivered by spoken word.

“Our Lord of the Sun begs to inform you that he comes fully armed in the same manner as your messengers to his camp last night. The delay in movement is due to the selection of his soldiers, that he may honor his guests with his best.”

The message was ominous. While Pizarro had no right to expect that the Emperor would come unarmed, yet he had hoped it might be possible. That he should spend half the day in selecting his best warriors was disconcerting. He commanded his attendants to keep from the men the meaning of the message. He could afford to express to the messenger no surprise or regret at his announcement. On the other hand he went out of the way to express his pleasure at the news.

“Inform your master, that, come as he will, he will be received as a friend and brother!”

An hour later the Indian procession began its slow march in state towards Caxamalca. When the procession had reached the causeway the Spaniards could see hundreds of men with brooms sweeping the way clear of dust and rubbish for the passage of their sovereign.

And when the causeway was crowded, the procession having come halfway across it, there spread over the meadows a vast army of tens of thousands. The sight was disturbing and it gave Pizarro a bad hour. He was thankful that only the few men stationed on the ramparts of the fortress with Pedro de Candia could see the swarm of these ugly looking locusts.

Pizarro hurried to Candia in person.

“Warn your men to be silent. See that no word of this great host reaches the soldiers hidden below.”

“Not a word.”

The commander hurried back to his position and watched the approaching throng on the causeway with kindling eyes. It would matter little how many men were massed in the meadows if he once captured the Inca. He could see now the gold litter of the sovereign high above the heads of his staff borne on the shoulders of noblemen in gorgeous attire. Their dazzling, gold trimmed uniforms completely surrounding the litter blazed in the sun.

At the end of the causeway, Pizarro saw to his dismay that the Inca had ordered a halt and his soldiers began to put up their tents for the night. Before he could recover from his surprise, a second messenger arrived from the royal procession. He spoke with authority.

“The Lord of the Sun pitches his tents at his present position. He will enter the city in state to-morrow morning.”

Pizarro received the news with ill-concealed distress. His men had gripped their arms since daylight. Their nerves had been for hours taut to the snapping point. They had held their entrusted positions in a silence broken only by the call of the sentinels on the ramparts marking the approach of the Inca. Another night of this was more than flesh could endure. The suspense would quench enthusiasm and breed panic. The old soldier was too wise in his knowledge of men to doubt this for a moment. He must urge the monarch to change his plans.

His manner was suave, but his tones were cordially urgent as he spoke.

“Say to your royal master that his decision to camp in the open for the night has greatly distressed me. We beg him to enter the city at once, as we have prepared a table with rare refreshments in his honor and expect him to dine with us to-night.”

The returning messenger could not reach the Inca for a moment. A delegation of priests blocked his way.

Yma had prostrated herself before Atahualpa and her clear tones could be heard in an earnest prayer.

“I beg the Lord of the Sun to hear his servants.”

“I have heard once and rejected their advice--what more?”

“They have consulted the signs of the altar.”

“So did they consult for Huascar at Cuzco and their advice was wrong. In great moments I think for myself.”

“I pray you, O Lord, hear them.”

The Chief Priest of the Temple pressed forward and spoke with trembling earnestness.

“The signs, O Lord of the Sun, tell of dire evil. We implore you to change your purpose and return to your imperial camp.”

Atahualpa lifted his hand in a gesture of angry impatience.

Yma again prostrated herself before him crying:

“And I bring to you, our Lord, sad assurances from my beloved, noblest and wisest of all these men, that you are in grave danger.”

“Your god-man sends me this message of warning against his own people?”

“Not in words,” she admitted.

“How then?”

“I asked of him their purpose. He could not tell. But from his tone and words I caught the sense of uneasiness. He has learned greatly to respect and admire you in spite of his chains and imprisonment. He fears for your safety.”

“He fears for their safety!”

The Inca sneered. Over the heads of the priests he caught a gesture from his messenger and called him to report.

“The strangers have prepared a feast for the Lord of the Sun. They expect him to dine with them to-night. They beg that he does not disappoint them.”

The Inca turned sharply to his priests.

“Return immediately to the temple and your duties. No more of your cackling. As for you, presumptuous girl--” He paused and fixed Yma with his eyes.

“I spared your life once when you had gone too far. Another mission of this kind and I will bury you alive within the hour.”

The girl bowed humbly.

“I beg your pardon, Lord of the Sun. I came with the priests drawn by a great reverence for your holy person. I pledge anew my oath of loyalty to your service.”

He waved her aside.

In spite of his warnings Yma lingered among his attendants, her heart sickened with a dumb terror.

As if to mock the fears and warnings of his people he turned to his messenger and spoke in clear command.

“Return at once to the Spanish commander and say that I will accept his cordial invitation to dine at his table to-night. And say that my trust in him is so great that I will enter informally with only unarmed attendants.”

A low murmur of surprise and consternation came from his noblemen, and a cry of pain from Yma. But none dared brook his anger by further protest. It was evident to all that he resented their fears as unworthy of his exalted rank and power.

“And say to the Spaniard,” the Inca added, “that he may reserve for my accommodation to-night the House of the Serpent opening on the plaza.”

Pizarro received the astonishing message with a grim smile.

“Verily God hath delivereth the enemy into our hands!” he breathed devoutly.

The word was quickly passed and once more the soldiers gripped their weapons in a tense silence.

As the sun was sinking behind the peaks of the _cordillera_ the royal procession entered the gates of the city. As the Spaniard watched he could now have little doubt that the first purpose of the march with a splendid army was for display and in honor of his guests. The acceptance of the invitation to dine showed a confidence in his visitors and a sense of security in his own power. The audacity of an attack on his person by a handful of men was evidently unthinkable. The plan was working. Pizarro watched the spectacle with trembling eagerness.

First came the hordes of sweepers cleaning the streets of every piece of rubbish. As they neared the plaza a chorus of hundreds of voices burst into a triumphant song that rang in strange echoes through the shadows of the halls. The startled horses pricked their ears and lifted their heads. A stallion neighed in answer and the rider threw him to his haunches in stern rebuke.

Behind the sweepers and singers slowly moved a mass of attendants with symbols of the various divisions of industry in the Empire. They were dressed in gay liveries. Some wore cloaks checkered white and red like a chess board.

One division wore pure white and carried maces of silver and copper. The royal guard wore uniforms of rich azure decorated with many precious stones. The Peruvian noblemen were easily distinguished by the profusion of gems and the huge pendants that hung from their ears.

In an open litter Atahualpa sat on a magnificent throne of gold, gleaming in the rays of the sinking sun. The canopy above his litter was covered with the gayest plumes of tropical birds and studded with gem-set yellow plates. He wore a costume of more resplendant materials than at his first reception. His neck was circled with a collar of brilliant emeralds of enormous size, and the scarlet _borla_ that bound his brow was bordered with priceless stones. He glanced at the crowds of his attendants with an air of commanding indifference.

As the royal procession entered the square the ranks opened and stood in silence awaiting the advance of the Inca’s litter. The monarch passed through the long lane of his people in silence. Not a Spaniard was to be seen.

No hint of the tragic meaning of their absence yet dawned on his mind. A moment of suspicion and there was yet time for a swift withdrawal to the head of his army in the meadows. In perfect confidence his litter slowly moved to the center of the plaza surrounded by five or six thousand attendants.

The sharp eyes of Pizarro saw the crowd close behind him.

“Where are the Spaniards?” the Inca inquired.

In answer to his question, Vincente de Valverde, the Dominican friar who acted as Francisco Pizarro’s chaplain, stepped from the building in which the infantry lay concealed, carrying his Bible and crucifix and approached the monarch who had descended from the litter.

The friar with dignity and solemn mien preached a sermon to the heathen potentate and his assembled people.

“I am here, Your Highness,” he began in measured tones, “by order of our commander to expound to you the doctrines of the true faith. For this purpose the Spaniards have come, at great expense and suffering many perils, across the sea.”

He first proclaimed with high-sounding phrases the mysterious doctrine of the Trinity. Atahualpa frowned and looked incredulous.

“What is that you say?”

Felipillo, the proud interpreter, hastened to explain:

“The Christians believe in three Gods and one God and that makes four!”

The explanation gave little light to the perplexed heathen and Valverde hastened on. He told the story of the creation of man, his fall in the Garden of Eden, and his salvation through the crucifixion of Christ on the Cross. He proclaimed the ascension and the appointment of the Apostle Peter vice-regent on earth. This power had been passed to his successors, now called Popes, who held authority over all the powers of the earth.

“One of these Popes,” he continued with special emphasis, “has commanded our Emperor Charles V, the mightiest monarch of the world, to conquer and convert the world to the true faith. He in turn has appointed Francisco Pizarro his general and viceroy to execute this work.”

“I beseech you,” the friar pleaded with eloquence, “that you receive him kindly, in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I beg that you renounce the errors of your religion and accept the true one, your only hope of salvation in this world and the next. I advise you to acknowledge yourself tributary to our mighty Emperor Charles V who will forever protect you as his royal vassal.”

Whatever doubts Atahualpa had over the Doctrine of the Trinity, even after Felipillo’s luminous explanation, he caught the import of Pizarro’s claims and his request that he resign his powers as sovereign and acknowledge himself the vassal of another.

The darkened brow of the ruler was lowered for a moment. His lips twisted with an angry sneer as he lifted his head in answer.

“You ask of me, the greatest prince on earth, that I become the vassal of another? Your Emperor may be great. I do not doubt it, seeing that he can send you across the seas. I will gladly hold him as my brother. As his vassal, never!”

He paused with an angry smile.

“As for your Pope, he must be mad to talk of giving away my country which does not belong to him. My faith I will not change. Your altars may be erected in our temples if you like. There is room for all religions here. I would gladly hear more of your gods at my leisure. But when you tell me that your Lord was killed by the men whom he created, I answer--”

He stopped and pointed to the sinking flame of the sun.

“My God still lives in the heavens and looks down with love on all his children.”

Turning to Valverde he slowly asked:

“By whose authority do you dare to say to me the many things which you have spoken?”

“By this,” the friar answered, pointing to the Bible which he extended.

Atahualpa took the volume and turned its leaves casually. That a man should enter his empire and make such preposterous claims and demands based on meaningless characters written on parchment in an unknown tongue stirred his anger.

The suggestion was an insult to his intelligence and a mockery of his power. He threw the book on the pavement and faced Valverde.

“Tell your commander that he shall give me a full account of his doings in my land and I will not go from here until he has made satisfaction for all the outrages his people have committed on mine.”

The friar seized the sacred volume and hurried back to Pizarro. He indignantly informed him of all that had passed, dwelling with rage on the insult to the Bible.

The commander had complied with the letter of the law provided in the charter. He had taken council of the Church and Valverde’s advice was sharp and to the point.

“Do you not see,” he whispered, “that while we stand here talking to this dog full of pride, the fields are swarming with his soldiers. Lead _on at once_. I absolve you.”

Pizarro sprang for the doorway and waved a white scarf to Pedro Candia. A cannon roared from the ramparts, and he sprang into the square, lifted his sword and shouted:

“_Christo y Santiago!_”

From every Spanish throat came the answering shout:

“_Christo y Santiago!_”

The long strain of the day’s waiting, their alternate high hopes and uncertainty, combined with the dangers of their position transformed a hundred and sixty-eight men into as many fiends.

At the first roar of the cannon from the fortress, tearing a path of death through the dense crowd, filling the plaza with smoke, a mad panic seized the natives. They stood a moment like terrified sheep trembling in their tracks, unable to know what had happened or was about to happen. From the wide openings swept sixty-seven horses, their riders shouting, hundreds of bells on their breastplates jingling an added terror that gripped the hearts of the natives. The cavalry cut avenue after avenue of death in the huddled ranks. The two cannon and four muskets from the ramparts flamed, thundered and roared. Wheeling again and again the cavalry cut their way through the helpless throng with cyclonic fury, trampling, slaying, yelling. The infantry cleaved with swords and thrust their long steel spears into defenseless breasts.

Valverde in the van of the foot-soldiers screamed a warning:

“Thrust! Thrust with the points of your swords or you’ll break your weapons!”

Stunned by the roar and blinded by smoke, the panic-stricken crowd at last surged toward the narrow entrance of the gate and trampled each other to death in a mad effort to escape.

They swerved back from the piles of the dead and again the cavalry plunged through their ranks. So great became the pressure of the human mass packed against the stone and plaster wall, the structure gave way and fell into the street in a cloud of dust and débris.

An opening eighty feet wide freed hundreds who fled only to be followed and cut down by the pursuing horsemen.

The plaza had become a bloody shambles. It was never a fight--always sheer butchery. Francisco’s picked men had not yet reached the litter of the Inca. Guarded by his faithful nobles, cheered by the shrill voice of the Sun Virgin, his throne had swayed above the heads of the surging crowds from side to side of the plaza. Every effort of Pizarro to cut his way to the monarch’s litter had failed. As one nobleman fell, another blocked the way. When a horseman was called to hew a path through his defenders, the dauntless group of guards who now surrounded him sprang on the horse’s haunches and gripped his legs until he could not move. When a flash of steel killed one, another took his place. Not a horseman succeeded in reaching the Inca. His litter still swayed over the heads of the crowd when Pizarro led the final assault with his twenty picked men. Forming a flying wedge of the soldiers he drove a way to the surging throne. A maddened trooper killed a litter bearer, the handle dropped and the monarch fell towards his assailants. The sword of an excited officer flashed towards the falling body. Pizarro sprang to the rescue and received a slight wound in the wrist.

“Let no one who values his life strike the Inca!” the captain shouted, catching the monarch in his arms.

The imperial _borla_ was snatched from his brow by a struggling soldier, his arms were pinioned, he was led into the building and securely chained.