Captain from Castile (53 page)

Cortes leaned forward intently. "Captain de Olid, take me down the names of these gentlemen. Their memory fails them. They even forget where they are. Give them attention, Cristobal, unless they come at once to their senses."

The bickering stopped. The lower end of the table, which had grown silent and alert, resumed conversation.

Stress and strain. Olmedo thought of a boiling kettle with the steara every now and then tipping the lid.

Meanwhile, some distance off, Pedro gave studied attention to Andres de Tapia on one side of him and to Captain de Ordas on the other. He did not look at Diego de Silva, who sat obliquely opposite, but he was nevertheless continually aware of him, of his pointed ears with their pearl earrings, of the hair jutting down along his cheeks, of his black, insolent eyes. They had met before dinner, their glances barely crossing, their faces expressionless. And Pedro felt a fierce joy, intense almost as the joy of love. He did not need to be concerned about his vow. He would soon be absolved. De Silva was merely awaiting the proper time. It would come soon. And Pedro would be ready for him. And then—oh, God, then!

Tapia was laughing about the buffoon, Cervantes, who had gone over to the enemy and had been rounded up with the others at Cempoala.

"Hombre! It's more than three weeks ago, but the fellow still eats standing up, and he sleeps on his belly. What a caterwauling he made up and down the gauntlet! We stripped him to the buff and laid on the baquetas, I can tell you. Kept him running till he dropped. He never had so much attention before—but not a joke out of him. It'll be a good while before he plays turncoat again."

"Yes," said Pedro, "I noticed that he looks thoughtful. I said, "A good trip, Cervantes?' and he cringed like a dog."

"Well he may!" Ordas put in from the other side. "Have you any patience with a sneak"—he lowered his voice and glanced over at the gaily dressed Narvaez captains—"who abandons his old comrades for a bunch of lettuce sprouts? Look at 'em, their points and slashes, their damask and linen, while it's a near thing that the hair on our chests doesn't show through our doublets! But we're up on them in one way, sefiores. They may be wearing velvet, but we're wearing gold."

Ordas fingered the splendid chain that circled his neck and passed twice around his threadbare arm.

"So here's to us, cavaliers!" he added. "And perish the lechu-guinos!"

"But not the Castilian wine they brought," said Tapia, smacking his lips. . . . "What's wrong. Redhead?"

Pedro's eyes were on his silver platter. In spite of himself, he was listening with all his ears to a conversation across the table.

"A fine pair of earrings, Sefior de Silva."

"Why, yes, I fancy them myself. A stirrup gift from my wife at parting, sir."

So the man was married. That had happened after Pedro had left. Who could have married him? Pedro wondered whether he knew her.

"By your leave," said de Silva's table companion, "I shall live myself the honor of drinking to her, senor. I have no doubt that her beauty outmatches even her pearls. . . . To the Lady Luisa de Silva y de Carvajal!"

"What's wrong?" Tapia repeated anxiously.

Pedro shook his head. The blood beat against his temples. The room blurred.

"Thank you, my friend," answered de Silva, when he had drunk the toast. "Luisa is handsome enough. I had only a short time to

enjoy her, though, before the sailing of the fleet." He added with a laugh, "If she presents me with a son and heir on my return, I trust it's my own."

De Vargas shrugged ofT Tapia's arm, which had now crept about his shoulder.

"Name of God, I'm all right," he muttered. "Leave me alone. It's my wound from Villa Rica that takes me like this sometimes. It'll pass."

He sat bent over, struggling with himself.

Her pearls! The ones he had so often remembered from that hour in church! His lady of dreams and honor, the incarnation of what was purest and most spiritual in his life, the saint of his inmost shrine! Sefiora de Silva!

At that moment, though unaware of it, de Silva had his complete revenge.

Pedro's dizziness gave way to a sense of horror, like the first breath of insanity. He could not endure the torment of sitting here any longer. The presence of the two men he hated most in the world, his anxiety about Garcia, had been hard enough to stand. But this!

He turned to Tapia. "You'll make my excuses to His Excellency, Andres. I'm in poor fettle tonight. That old head wound, as I said. Buenos noches. Be sure to explain to the General."

"I'll explain. . . . Want me to go with you?"

"No, nothing to make a stir about."

Waiting until the next outburst of talk at the head of the table, Pedro pushed back his chair and left the room.

In the soft June night, he filled his lungs mechanically. The sky glittered with stars. The shadowy city, lighted here and there by the altar fires on its pyramids, lay glimmering and silent as usual. But Pedro was conscious only of a coffin-like darkness. His best friend condemned to death, his inmost Holy of Holies vacant. When the light that is in a man becomes darkness—

Not that he felt abandoned or betrayed by Luisa de Carvajal. He pitied her as he pitied himself. He knew how little she would have had to say about her marriage. But married to Diego de Silva, it was as if she ceased to exist. He could remember the image he had worshiped, but it was only a memory as of someone dead. Her pearls in the man's ears! Her body his pasture. Her name a possession which he had the right to joke about! It was impossible to worship a radiance no longer radiant. If she had married anyone else, it would have

been different. It was not the fact of marriage that defiled her, but the incredible union into which she had been forced.

Taking by habit the path to his quarters, Pedro found Gatana, who had just returned from a visit to Garcia in the lockup.

"How was it at the General's, seiior? Is there any hope?"

He shook his head. "Not unless we can gain time, and that's hardly possible." He added, "I wish I could die in his place tomorrow!"

Something about him struck her, and she noticed for the first time the desolate look of his face in the rushlight. But for once she misconstrued him in part.

"Don't talk that way, sefior." Her voice broke. She made a rapid sign of the cross. "It's bad luck. Never call on death. Ton die?" She looked up at him fearfully. "Then what of me?" And because he did not answer at once, she caught him by the shoulders, her eyes scanning his face. "Don't you love me any more? No. Something's happened! Querido mio!"

The cold numbness which had bound him for the past hour lifted suddenly. He crushed her in his arms—crushed her until she could not help crying out.

"Say again that I don't love you, Gatana!"

"It's back in your eyes again. But for a moment—I'm so foolish! There're only two things I'm afraid of in the world: when you talk of dying, or that you might stop loving me." She turned her head away. "Silly!" She forced a laugh. "Gurse me for a goose! Lend me your handkerchief, seiior."

On a sudden impulse, plunging his hand into his inner doublet, Pedro drew out the parchment wrapping that contained Luisa's keepsake, now yellow and frayed.

"Here," he said.

For a moment, she did not notice. Then she stood rigid, staring at it.

"Her handkerchief? Why?"

"Why not?" he answered. "It'll serve the purpose. Keep it or throw it away. But dare to tell me again that I don't love you!"

Her eyes flamed. "Her handkerchief! Listen, querido, there must be no secrets between us. We will speak of it this once, but not again. What has happened between you and Doiia Luisa de Garvajal?"

When he answered, the look on his face told her more than his words.

"The name has changed. She's now called Luisa de Silva."

As Pedro had foreseen, the trial of Juan Garcia did not take long.

Before imposing sentence, Cortes asked: "Look you, Sefior Garcia, if this court were moved to clemency, if your sentence were commuted to fine and imprisonment, would you give your word, as a cavalier of honor, to abstain from any further act against the person of Ignacio de Lora?"

Weighted down by his irons, but head up, his voice bull-like as ever, Garcia replied: "With all respect to you gentlemen, the hell I would! As long as that whoreson and I are alive, I could not count myself a cavalier of honor if I did not seek to avenge my mother upon him."

"Do you know what you're saying?" growled Cortes.

"Sir, I do. And let me say this to boot, that whether I live or hang, I shall not rest until the debt is paid."

So impressively was this spoken that more than one of the hard captains blanched and crossed himself.

"Well then, Juan Garcia," returned the General, "you leave me no choice. The court has found you guilty, and by the articles agreed upon by this company, you are condemned to death. For attacking a priest, who is a father in God, you are sentenced to the stake; but in mercy the court commutes this sentence to hanging by the neck until you are dead. For urgent reasons affecting the peace and welfare of this company, the petition of certain gentlemen that execution be deferred cannot be approved. Execution will take place tomorrow at twelve o'clock, that being the twenty-sixth day of June, in the year of our Lord, 1520. You have, therefore, twenty-four hours in which to make your peace with God. And may He have mercy on your soul !"

The scratching quill of Father Juan Diaz, who acted as Clerk of Court, stopped. Garcia stared blindly at the wall above the General's head. From now on until the end, his purpose must be simply to meet death like a gallant man, without stain on his courage or embarrassment to his friends. The four officers of the original expedition, who sat on the court, frowned gloomily; the four Narvaez captains looked pleased.

"So far I have spoken as judge," Cortes went on, his grimness relaxing. "I would speak now as a comrade and old acquaintance, not only here but in Hispaniola. You have laid a grievous burden upon me, Juan Garcia. In these battles of New Spain, you have fought

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well and boldly. You are a valiant soldier and an honest gentleman. It is no easy task for me to condemn you. But leadership is no easy task."

"You have done what I would have done in your place, Hernan Cortes," replied Garcia. "I bear you no grudge. Where would this company be, por Dios, without rules! In my place, you would have acted as I have—but with subtlety. That's my regret, sefiores, that I behaved like a mad bull when I should have played the fox. Let it be a lesson to you, gentlemen. May you show better management than I, when dealing with your enemies, and have—"

He was interrupted by a dull boom, as of a distant cannon, followed by a hubbub of voices in the great courtyard outside. Evidently the main gates to the quarters had been slammed shut. A stir and a running could be heard from that direction. The confusion of approaching voices swelled.

In an instant, Cortes had crossed to the doorway, while the judges and audience, who had been admiring Garcia's fine speech, crowded after him. At the foot of a short flight of steps leading down from the terrace on which the courtroom opened, they could see a throng of soldiers half escorting, half making way for, a man who staggered in the direction of Cortes, already at the foot of the steps.

It was El Moro, who had been sent that morning on an errand to Tlacopan at the end of the western causeway. He coughed as he came on, clutching at his breast, and a ribbon of blood uncurled from his mouth. He stood swaying in front of the General.

"They're in arms, Your Excellency. Thousands of them. They caught me . . . but I broke away . . . They're heading here . . . ever)' avenue . . . canal . . . No time to lose, Your Excellency . . . I got mine all right. Christ! . . ."

He sank down and stretched forward on his face. From his back stood up the shafts of two Indian arrows.

And the city, silent and deserted since yesterday, could now be heard vibrating to an approaching sound, as of a tide past the ebb that breaks and rasps on the shingle of a beach.

While a couple of men stooped over El Moro, Cortes raised his head to listen.

He reacted immediately. "The slaves ask for the whip, do they! A fe mia, they'll be taught a lesson! And this time we'll be beforehand with them. . . . Captain de Ordas, you'll make a reconnaissance in force. Take four hundred men. Find out what's afoot and pacify the dogs one way or another. . . . Captain de Alvarado, look to our defenses . . ."

"Juan Garcia?" ventured Pedro, fishing for a reprieve in the urgency of the moment.

"Remand him to the keep. We'll deal with him tomorrow as I said. . . . De Olid, see that the horses are got ready. Sandoval, have the trumpeters sound assembly."

Lvn

Diego de Ordas, who commanded the infantry, marched out to meet the Aztecs at the head of four hundred foot soldiers. In complete armor, a white plume to his helmet, he rode his gray mare, who was similarly cased in steel. He and his men made a brave show. The sun sparkled on their equipment; a light breeze fluttered the pennons; they marched with the rhythm of a Roman cohort, ranks ordered, buckler on arm, pikemen and arquebusiers at the proper intervals.

And as they passed through the gates, the Recording Angel of New Spain turned a leaf in his book.

They had not gone the length of half a street when the cyclone of such an attack as they had never seen struck down upon them. It was not merely the screaming, whistling multitudes that pressed their square—they had seen the like of that before in Yucatan and Tlascala; it was not even that they fought shoulder to shoulder and back to back in the center of a vortex—they had been surrounded before; but this was battle from above and beneath as well. Up from the canals, solid with canoes, now swarmed the warriors; down from the housetops cascaded torrents of stones. And from all sides, panting, clutching, stabbing, sweating, wild-eyed madmen shoved in, hungry for death if only for a moment they could lay hands on one of the invincible whites.

Outnumbered a hundred to one, swamped in a sea of raging humanity, the Spanish ranks held; the wall of bucklers did not break. But retreat was necessary. Inching their way back, dripping with blood, dragging along their dead and dying, they regained the central square, only to find a howling myriad packed between them and the Spanish quarters. Still they held, still they plowed on. Ordas, bleeding from three wounds, his plume gone, his buckler pockmarked by a hundred blows, still kept his saddle, swung his heavy sword, and gave the cry of Castile. And Saint James, being called upon, lent aid, so that finally the gates were reached and the company surged through.