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.