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.