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“The Interaymi! Of course, your great festival. Is it to be particularly celebrated at Cajamarca?”
“This year, señorita, it will be particularly celebrated throughout the Andes.”
“But you do not admit outsiders? What a pity.... I should so like to see.... One hears so many things....”
“Old wives’ tales, señorita,” rejoined the Indian, with a complete change of manner. He smiled, disclosing a line of teeth which Dick mentally compared to those of a wild animal, and added in a slightly lisping voice: “There is a lot of nonsense talked.... Human sacrifices, and so forth.... Do I look as if I were going to such a ceremony?… I and my clothes by Zarate?… No, señorita, just a few little ceremonies to keep alive the memory of our lost glories… a few pious invocations to the God of Day, a few prayers for poor Atahualpa, our last King, and that is all.... At the end of the month, señorita, I shall be back at my bank in Lima.”
Reassured by the matter-of-fact level reached by these words, Dick growled at his own absurd fears. A smile from Maria-Teresa and a grumbled comment on kings and bank clerks from Uncle Francis completely dispelled the cloud raised by the mention of the Interaymi.
Their train was now traveling along the bed of a ravine, closed in by dizzying heights. High up above, in a band of blazing blue sky, giant condors could be seen winging their way in heavy circles.
“To think of Pizarro facing country like this!” exclaimed Dick. “How on earth was it that they were not simply wiped out by the Incas?”
“They came as friends, señor,” answered the Indian.
“That is all very fine, but still does not explain it How many men were there with Pizarro when he marched on Cajamarca?”
“He had received reenforcements,” interjected the Marquis, twisting his mustache, “and there were then a hundred and seventy-seven of them.”
“Minus nine,” corrected the Indian.
“That is, unless I am mistaken, only a hundred and sixty-eight,” put in Uncle Francis, busy with his note-book.
“Why minus nine?” questioned Maria-Teresa.
“Because, señorita,” replied the descendant of Mama-Buntu, who seemed to know the history of the conquest of New Spain better than the descendants of the conquerors themselves, “because Pizarro gave his new followers the same chance to draw back that the others had received. He had halted in the mountains to rest his band and make a careful inspection. As you have said, señor, they were then only a hundred and seventy-seven, including sixty-seven horse. There were only three arquebusiers, and a few crossbowmen—not more than twenty altogether. And with this band Pizarro was marching against an army of 50,000 men and against a nation of twenty millions! For, under the Incas, Peru included what are to-day called Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia and Chili. At this point, señores, he decided that his soldiers were still too many. He had noticed that some faces were dissatisfied, and, fearing that the discontent might spread, he decided to cut away the weak limbs before the gangrene reached the main body. Marshalling his men, he told them that they had reached a crisis in their fortunes—not a man must go on who doubted its ultimate success/ It was still not too late for waverers to return to San Miguel, where he had already left some of his companions. He was prepared to risk all with those who still wished to follow him. Nine men took advantage of Pizarro’s offer—four infantrymen and five from the cavalry. The others stopped with their general.”
“And cheered him to the echo at the call of Christobal de la Torre, who served the Conquistador like a brother!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“We know, we know!” repeated the clerk. His tone roused the Marquis again.
“And might I ask why you are pleased to recall all these things?” demanded Don Christobal haughtily.
“To prove to you, señor, that the vanquished know the history of their country even better than the conquerors,” retorted Runtu with an emphasis not a little ridiculous in a man of his dress and calling.
“Look! How beautiful!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa, anxious to divert their attention to the landscape.
Their train was passing over a bridge from which a panorama of unparalleled beauty could be obtained. Before them stretched the giant chain of the Andes, peak heaped on peak. On one side, a rent in the ridges opened onto green forests, broken by little cultivated plateaus, each with its rustic cottage clinging to the rugged mountain-side And there, above, snowy crests sparkling in the sun—a chaos of savage magnificence and serene beauty to be found in no other mountain landscape of the world.
It was almost more terrible than beautiful, and as the train crossed abyss after abyss over quivering bridges, Maria-Teresa, clinging to Dick’s arm, could not help murmuring: “And even this did not daunt Pizarro.”
Unfortunately, she was overheard by the stranger, who took up the broken conversation with evident hostility:
“We could have crushed them easily, could we not?”
The Marquis, turning superciliously, flicked the questioner’s shoulder with his glove:
“And, pray, why did you not do so, then?”
“Because we, sir, were not traitors!”
Dick had only just time to stop the Marquis, who was on the point of rushing at the insolent Indian. Maria-Teresa, knowing her father’s pride, calmed him in a moment by urging in an undertone that it would be ridiculous for a man of his rank and age to pay more attention to an Indian bank-clerk.
“You are quite right,” said Don Christobal with a gesture of contempt under which the Indian stood motionless as a statue. He had not been without guessing the sense of Maria-Teresa’s remarks, and might have said more had not the stopping of the train definitely closed the incident.
The railway line, then still in course of construction, went no farther. The remaining thirty miles to Cajamarca had to be covered on mule-back, for they were still in the heart of the mountains, and the defiles were steep.
It was too long a journey, however, for the tired travelers to undertake until the following morning. Clinging to the flanks of the rocks were a few rude sheds in which were lodged the men working on the line. Near by, surrounding a canteen, stood a dozen fairly comfortable tents, in which they themselves were to pass the night In a meager pasture just beyond, some thirty mules wandered at liberty, grazing. Above, the omnipresent galinagas flew in circles against a purple sky.
Dinner, served on the brink of a chasm from which rose the mutter of the racing stream, was a gay meal. Buntu had vanished, and did not reappear until after nightfall, when Maria-Teresa met him near her tent. He was very apologetic, and, hat in hand, excused himself for the incident in the train. He had had no intention of being rude, and knowing that the Marquis was a great friend of the manager of the Franco-Belgian bank, he hoped that he would not carry the matter further.
Maria-Teresa, conquering a strong desire to laugh, promised the descendant of the Incas that he would not lose his clerkship through them. When he had bowed himself out of sight, she carried the story to her father and Dick, who were vastly amused. Then they all went to bed, with the exception of Uncle Francis, who passed the greater part of the night putting his notes in order and writing an article for a reverend monthly in which he re-told the story of the conquest of Peru, with the aid of the Last of the Incas. This Indian he sketched as a gloriously picturesque character, carefully omitting to say that he wore European clothes!
As every night since the appearance of the three strange heads on her balcony Maria-Teresa found sleep with difficulty. To-night, though tired by the journey, she tossed restlessly on her narrow camp-bed. Suddenly, in the dead of night, she sat up, listening. A familiar voice seemed to be speaking. She slipped noiselessly to the canvas flap covering the entrance to the tent, and peeped out.
There were two shadows out there, moving away in the moonlight One she recognized immediately for the Indian bank-clerk. Who was the other? They stopped, and half turned toward the tent. It was Huascar!
What was Huascar doing there, at that time of night, with that strange Indian? Why were they pointing at her tent? What did it all mean?… The two shadows were walking again.... Then the peace of the night was broken by a neigh, and the young girl saw a picketed horse stamping in the shadow beyond. Huascar vaulted into the saddle, while his companion loosed the picket-rope, still talking and occasionally nodding toward the tent. Then both disappeared, and silence descended again on the sleeping camp.
Maria-Teresa could not sleep all night. Huascar’s unexpected reappearance was in no way calculated to calm the half-expressed terror which haunted her, and which she refused to acknowledge, stifling what she called her cowardice.
Had she anything to fear from Huascar? She could not believe it. She knew quite well that the Indian loved her, but as a faithful dog does, she thought; and she felt certain that she could count on his devotion were she in any danger.
And yet! And yet!… And yet what? What danger could there be? It was too absurd! She was becoming as ridiculous as those two old ladies with their crazy legends! With that, she decided not to say a word to either Dick or her father. She was not going to be taken for a child afraid of every shadow it saw at night. But she would question Huayna Gapac Runtu on the very first occasion.
This occasion presented itself during the first stage of the next day’s journey. Maria-Teresa, the Marquis, Dick and old Montgomery led the way. Uncle Francis, at first delighted with the prospect of a mule-ride, soon determined to get off again. Riding along the very edge of precipices, his mount felt ten times too high, and he was sure that he would be safer on foot and, at certain times, on all-fours. He gradually became convinced that his mule would slip, and determined to dismount, at a point where two riders could not pass abreast.
The whole cavalcade was thus stopped, while those behind called on the scientist to go ahead, and he vowed that he would do nothing of the kind, twisting in his saddle and trying to discover the best way to get off. Immediate action of the Indian bank-clerk saved the situation, and probably Uncle Francis’ neck. Getting off his own mule, Runtu squeezed down the line, and catching Mr. Montgomery’s mount by the bridle, led it on to a broader path and safety. Dick, the Marquis and Maria-Teresa could not do less than thank him.
When they moved on, Maria-Teresa and the Indian were riding side by side.
“Well, señor Huayna Capae Runtu?” she smiled at him.
“Oh, señorita, let us forget all those illustrious names, which died with my ancestors. The only one I have a right to now is that by which I am known at the bank—just plain Oviedo, like everybody else.”
“Yes, I remember now. That is what you called yourself when you came to me from the bank.... Well, señor Oviedo, can you tell me now what you were doing outside my tent last night with Huascar, my former servant?”
Oviedo Huayna Capac Runtu did not budge, but his mule swerved slightly. He reined it in.
“So you saw Huascar, señorita? An old friend of mine. He arrived late at night, on his way to Cajamarca, and knowing I was at the camp, halted here a minute to see me. I remember now, we did stop outside your tents. When I told him you were there, he asked me to keep watch over you.... He went on immediately afterwards.”
“Do I need somebody to keep watch over me, then? Am I in any danger?”
“The ordinary dangers of a journey like this. A mule may miss its footing, or a saddle may slip off. In either case, it spells death. That is what Huascar meant, and that is why I myself chose your mule and girthed it up this morning.”
“You are too kind,” said Maria-Teresa drily.
At this moment, Uncle Francis drew level with them. He had recovered his equanimity with the wider path, and spoke casually of mountain dangers.
“All the same,” he added, “I wonder how Pizarro managed to bring his little army through here.”
Maria-Teresa threw him a look which, had he seen it, would have toppled the clumsy scientist into a ravine, mule and all. But he remained serenely unconscious.
“It is extraordinary,” acquiesced Oviedo. “I have made rather a study of it. At some points, the road was so steep that the horsemen had to dismount and almost drag their chargers after them. A single false step would have hurled them thousands of feet below. The defiles were then just practicable for the half-naked Indians, and think what it must have been for armored men, with the menace of an unknown enemy above them.”
“But what were the Indians doing all this time?” asked Dick, approaching in his turn.
“Nothing, señor… they were awaiting a visitor, not a foe.... Messages had been exchanged which....”
“One question,” put in the Marquis’ voice. “Do you suppose that if King Atahualpa had for one minute imagined his 50,000 men were incapable of defending him against a hundred and fifty Spaniards, that he would have behaved as he did? No, he merely felt contempt for their weakness. And he was wrong!”
“Yes, señor, he was wrong.” The bank-clerk bent his head humbly over his saddle-bow. Then, straightening himself again, he pointed to a peak towering above. “He should have appeared in those defiles, like the horseman yonder, and all would have been finished. The Sun our God would still be reigning over the Empire of the Incas!”
As he said these words, the clerk seemed to have grown to a giant. His sweeping gesture took in the whole huge mass of the Andes, making of it a pedestal for the Indian above them, sitting motionless on his horse, and watching their caravan.
“Huascar!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.
All recognized Huascar. From that moment, until they had left the first chain of the Andes behind them, that silhouette of horse and man dominated and haunted them—sometimes behind, sometimes before, but always above them:—a promise of protection, or a menace.
II
After another night in camp, the travelers came in sight of the beautiful valley of Cajamarca, smiling below them in striking contrast to the somber mountains around. Thus did this happy valley appear to the astonished eyes of Pizarro’s men. It was inhabited in the days of the Conquistador by a race far superior to those with which the Spaniards had met on the other side of the mountains, as was clearly shown by the taste of their clothes, the cleanliness and comfort of their homes. As far as the eye could reach was a prosperous plain, watered by a wide river, abundantly irrigated by canals and subterranean aqueducts, broken up by green hedges and well-cultivated fields; for the ground was rich, and the temperate climate favorable to farming. Immediately below the adventurers lay the little city of Cajamarca, its white houses twinkling in the sunlight, like a precious stone shining in the dark girdle of the Sierra.
About a league beyond, in the valley, Pizarro could see columns of steam rising to the sky, and showing the position of the famous hot baths of the princes of Peru.
There was also a spectacle far less pleasing to the Spaniards. The lower mountain slopes disappeared under a cloud of white tents, covering an area of several miles. “We were amazed,” wrote one of the conquerors, “to find the Indians holding so proud a position, and this sight threw confusion, and even fear, into the staunchest hearts. But it was too late to turn, or to show the slightest weakness, and after carefully exploring the ground, we put on the best faces that we could, and prepared to enter Caxamarxa.”
Flowing over with such memories, and wild with excitement at finding himself in a land which he knew so well by hearsay, Uncle Francis stood up in his stirrups, and held forth interminably on the Cajamarca of his dreams. Instructed by Oviedo Runtu, he showed them the exact spot where Atahualpa and his 50,000 warriors had awaited Pizarro. Uncle Francis himself felt no fear of this huge army, massed in the hidden fastnesses of a continent discovered by Christopher Columbus just forty years before Pizarro’s wild venture. He felt like a hero of antiquity, and was quite ready to give the order to charge.
There was nobody there to tell them, though, what were the feelings of the Peruvian monarch when he saw the warlike band of Christians, banners flying, corselets and morions gleaming, debouch from the dark defile and advance into the rolling domains which until then no white man had ever seen.
Suddenly, Uncle Francis’ mule bolted, and a burst of laughter went up from the whole party. Excited by the shouts and cries, the other mules followed their leader, helter-skelter down the incline. The obvious dénouement was not long in coming. Uncle Francis’ mount, in a desperate effort to get away from the noise behind, rolled over, and the unfortunate scientist described a neat somersault. He was on his feet again almost at once, and soon set his anxious companions at rest.
“Thus it was,” he laughed, “that Pizarro won his first battle.”
Maria-Teresa and Dick appearing disposed to listen, he explained that in the Conquistador’s first fight with Incas, before he crossed the Andes, the little band of Spaniards, hard pressed, was saved by one hidalgo being unhorsed. The Incas, knowing nothing of horses or horsemanship, were so frightened that they fled, not daring to face this extraordinary animal which became two and still went on fighting.
Naturally, nobody believed him, though he was in no way drawing on his imagination. The whole story of the conquest of Peru is so extraordinary that one must forgive incredulity.
These facts, however, are vouched for by well-authenticated documents in the Royal Archives at Madrid, which Uncle Francis had taken care to study before starting for the Americas with his nephew. They were still laughing at his adventure and his story when their cavalcade reached the walls of Cajamarca.
It was nightfall as they entered the city. The first thing to arrest their attention was the enormous number of Indians in the streets, and their silence. Cajamarca, with a normal population of between twelve and thirteen thousand, certainly sheltered twice as many souls that night. And still more people were coming.
On the highroad, the Marquis’ party had successively passed file after file of Indians, plodding in the direction of their Sacred City. For Cajamarca may be called the necropolis of the Incas, and one can hardly take a step in its streets or avenues without meeting with some reminder of the splendor of a vanished empire.
It was easy to see, by the manner of the Quichuas crowding the historic roadways, that a religious pilgrimage had brought together this mass.
The amazement of the travelers, however, was as nothing to that of the inhabitants themselves, who had never before witnessed such an invasion. In the memory of living man, the Interaymi had never visibly moved the multitude in this manner. Even the great decennial fête had been rather the occasion for a general disappearance of Indians than for their appearance.
What did it all mean? The authorities were distinctly ill at ease, and the few troops massed at Cajamarca when the news came in of Garcia’s Indian revolt at the other end of the country had been put under arms. The doors of the city’s eight churches were militarily guarded, for each one of these buildings might have made a fortress. The rest of the troops had been gathered in the main square, not far from the ruined palace in which stands the stone on which Atahualpa, last King of the Incas, was burned alive.
These ruins were the goal of the Indians’ long pilgrimage over the mountains, the visit to that stone being the religious and outward pretext for this mute manifestation by a conquered race.
Don Christobal, amazed at what he saw, nervously remembered that the great Indian revolt of 1818 had been preceded by just such happenings. Were the Interaymi festivals which began next day really to be the signal for one of those revolts which the governments of Peru had long decided were no more to be feared?
As he was putting this question to himself, the Marquis caught sight of the post-office, and immediately dismounted. Dick and Maria-Teresa exchanged a smile. They were at last to know the name of the facetious sender of the Golden Sun bracelet.
They pulled up their mules, and waited with an indifferent air that was perhaps a little affected. Ten minutes later the Marquis came out.
“I have the name and address,” he said in a puzzled voice.
“And what is the name?” questioned Maria-Teresa.
“Atahualpa,” replied her father, mounting.
“So the jest continues.”—Maria-Teresa’s voice had changed a little.
“Apparently so. The clerk who received the parcel says it was brought in by an Indian, who said his name really was Atahualpa. That, after all, is possible.”
“Well, as you have the address, we might pay him a little call,” suggested Dick.
“Exactly what I was going to say.” And Don Christobal turned his mule. Uncle Francis brought up the rear, vigorously taking notes, with his book resting on the pommel of the saddle.
They crossed a rivulet racing towards an affluent of the upper Maranon, passed San Francisco, the first Christian church built in Peru, and, after the Marquis had asked his way several times, finally reached a square teeming with Indians.
On one side of this square still stood ancient palace walls. There had been the last home of the last Inca King. There he had lived in splendor, and there he died a martyr. There had been the home of Atahualpa, and there had the post-office clerk directed Don Christobal de la Torre!
III
Taken in the swirl of the crowd, the little cavalcade was gradually headed toward the ruined palace, and forced through its huge gates almost before the Marquis’ party knew what had happened.
They were now in a vast courtyard packed with Indians. Some of them, standing erect, showed the proud foreheads of chiefs, but the great majority were prostrate round a stone in the center—the stone of the martyrdom of Atahualpa.
On the far side of this stone, standing on a rude bench, was a man draped in a poncho of vivid red.... He was speaking in Quichua, while the crowd listened in reverent silence.
As the party of strangers rode into the courtyard, a sharp voice behind them interrupted the psalm-like recitation of the man in the red poncho.
“Speak Spanish, and everybody will understand,” it said.
The Marquis and Maria-Teresa turned. Behind them was their bank-clerk traveling companion, bowing as if to make them understand that he had intervened to do them a favor. Extraordinarily enough, this interruption, almost sacrilegious as it was, did not stir a man. The Indian in the red poncho paused for a moment, and continued in Spanish.
“In those days,” he said, “the Inca was all-powerful, and a vast army bowed to his will. The city was surrounded by a triple wall of stone, in the heart of which stood the citadel and the home of the Virgins of the Sun. The Inca, knowing no fear, and ignorant of all treason, allowed the white men to enter the city and received them as friends, as envoys from that other great emperor beyond the seas.
“But the leader of the Strangers, doubting the generous heart of the Inca, had divided his army into three bands, marching toward the city in battle array. Then the Inca said, ‘Since they fear our hospitality, let us all leave the city, so that peace may enter their hearts.’ Thus it was that when the Conquistador rode through our streets, he met not a living soul, and heard no sound but the stamp of his own warriors’ feet.” Here the speaker stopped, as if to gather his thoughts, and continued:
“This was at a late hour in the afternoon. The Stranger then sent an ambassador to the Inca’s camp. He sent his brother, Fernando, and twenty horsemen. The Inca received Fernando on his throne, his forehead adorned with the royal borla. He was surrounded by his officers and wives.
“The Strangers came with words of honey, and the Inca replied: ‘Tell your leader that I am fasting until to-morrow. Then will I and my chiefs visit him. Until then, I allow him to occupy the public buildings on the square, but no others. I will decide to-morrow what is meet.’