_CORTES BURNS HIS SHIPS._
It was night, and sleep reigned throughout the camp of the Spaniards,
for the new city of Villa Rica de Vera Cruz could as yet be considered
little better than a camp, in spite of its grand-sounding name, and the
crowd of duly-appointed officers with which Cortes had endeavoured to
give it sudden dignity.
Even the sentinels were drowsy at their posts, and scarcely feared
rebuke, for peace had prevailed both within and without for some
days past, at any rate on the surface of events, and Cortes had been
indulging in a short breathing space.
Montoro de Diego was in his tent, asleep like his comrades, dreaming of
his boyhood, and of the gentle-spirited and lovely young mother who had
made poverty and hard usage endurable to him in the past, honour and
righteous dealing his firm principles in the present. But his dreams
were to be disturbed.
Slowly, and in almost breathless silence, a fold of his tent was pushed
aside, and a man crept within, holding back the canvas for a moment,
that by the faint light he might discover the object of his search.
Then he dropped it again, and moved on the two or three paces in the
darkness, until he dropped on his knees beside the low bed on which
Montoro lay, and bent his mouth to the sleeper's ear.
"My Señor--Señor Diego," he whispered urgently. "Rouse you, my Señor."
And, with a soldier's watchful spirit, Montoro needed no second bidding
to arouse him. Grasping his sword even before he was fully awake, he
would have sprung to his feet the next instant, with a shout to banish
slumber from the whole band, but that his probable conduct had been
divined, and prudently guarded against.
One firm, hard hand was pressed down upon the nobleman's chest, another
closely covered his mouth, while the hushed voice beside him muttered
hurriedly--
"Nay then, my Señor, nay then. Lie still, and be silent, or you will
render my care fruitless. I have come to you with the discovery I have
made, before all others, for your prudence's sake, and now you are
eager as the Don Juan de Cabrera himself could be, to publish the whole
matter to the very winds, methinks."
In spite of this expostulation, which was in truth intended more as
a warning than an expression of real belief, its speaker trustfully
enough withdrew both his detaining hands at its conclusion, and
permitted his companion to rise into a sitting posture on his bed, and
to speak.
"Who are you?" was the very natural first use that Montoro made of his
power of speech, for he did not recognize the voice, and he could not
see the face. However, he was soon enlightened so far.
"I am Morla, the man you hung," was the comprehensive information. "And
you were good to me then, my Señor," came the seemingly contradictory
statement; "and so for that, and for those other reasons, that you
are wise and wary, and have our Captain's confidence, I have come to
you with my discovery of a conspiracy in the camp. It is intended by
many to forsake the great cause, and, taking to the ships secretly,
to flee from this land to Cuba, or to Spain, with evil reports of the
expedition and of its leader, to exonerate themselves."
Montoro was startled.
"Wherefore," he demanded sternly, "hast thou not instantly carried news
of this base treachery to our leader himself?"
A smile, unseen in the darkness, flitted over the man's face.
"Bethink you, my Señor, what credence should I be likely to gain
from our commander, when he learns that I am, myself, a testimony of
disobedience to his commands."
There was some plausibility in that reasoning; nevertheless, he yielded
to Montoro's desire that he should accompany him forthwith to Cortes'
tent, to corroborate the statements he wished made.
Aroused by Diego with the same stealthy caution as had been used
towards himself, Cortes was not long in learning the particulars of
the cowardly conspiracy, and, even as he listened, his prompt mind had
already begun to concert the measures for its suppression.
"But still," he said at length, thoughtfully, "we must be well assured
of the truth of these accusations before we publish them, or attempt to
punish. From whom, Toro, hast thou learnt all this?"
Montoro moved aside.
"There is my informant, Captain, and--I fully trust him."
A lamp was burning in the commander's tent, or rather hut of
palm-branches and native cotton-mats, and as Montoro stepped to one
side a man, hitherto unnoticed behind him, came forward into its light,
and, falling on his knees before a small crucifix, called it to witness
that his tale was true.
Cortes looked at him closely for a few moments and then said drily--
"If it be but as true as that thou wast not hung, friend Morla, then
will it be true indeed."
"It had needs be truer than that, Hernan Cortes," returned Montoro:
"for he was hung, as I know to my cost, as I had the hanging of him.
And at the end of half-an-hour he was cut down, according to thy
orders."
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Cortes, with a glimmer of a smile. "And no doubt
our worthy Don Juan de Cabrera found it needful to give thee a lesson
in hanging, by which thou profitedst. Is it not so, friend Toro?"
Montoro laughed.
"Partly so. But, to confess the truth, Pedro de Alvarado declared that
if this Morla were hung to death he should, himself, evermore go about
the world feeling as though there were a cord about his own neck, only
waiting to be used."
That glimmer of a smile broadened for a moment, but the time was too
serious for its cherishing.
"Enough!" said Cortes, with returning gravity. "Rise, fellow, and come
nearer. And hearken! Should these charges prove true, well; if false,
then will I myself hang thee ere to-morrow's sunset, and thou hadst
best make thy peace with Heaven, for I warn thee thou wilt not live to
laugh at me as having 'prentice hands at my new work."
The man bowed calmly.
"Ere the morrow's sunset, Captain, I shall have your thanks and praises
for my promptness."
And Morla was right. He had gained his dark news from one of the
conspirators themselves, who had turned faint-hearted at the last
moment, and from this informer all further particulars were quickly
drawn. The conspiracy was quashed, Morla reinstated in a post of trust,
and the ringleaders punished with death, maiming, or degradation.
The executions had been accomplished, a miserable pilot lay moaning in
agony and despair over his footless limbs, others were endeavouring
to find some posture of ease for bodies torn and lacerated by
fiercely-wielded whips, and the commander of the expedition stood upon
the shore, moodily gazing out to sea. He felt those hours to be the
crisis in his fate.
A gloom was over the sky, the camp, and Cortes; and a spirit of
doubtfulness and disappointment seemed to be brooding in the atmosphere.
Alvarado, Gonzalo de Sandoval, Escalante, Juan de Cabrera, and Montoro,
gathered into a group not far from their leader, watched him, and
discussed the present position of affairs.
"The conspiracy is put down for the moment," said Alvarado gravely,
"but at any hour it may be rekindled so long as we stay inactive in
this unhealthy place. And some morning we may rise to find two thirds
of the small handful of our comrades gone, and no ships left with which
to effect our own escape."
"What would you say, Alvarado," said a voice suddenly,--"what would you
all say, in truth, if you did find yourselves thus with the means of
escape cut off--with no safety for us but in victory?"
Cortes had suddenly stepped up to them as his comrade and follower
had been speaking, and there was so strange a tone in his voice as he
put this question, so deep and burning a light glowing in the depths
of his eyes, that the little group of men stood as though breathless,
gazing at him, and waiting to hear more. The tension on their minds was
strained to the utmost.
Having asked his searching question, Hernan Cortes appeared for the
moment indifferent as to the answer. Folding his arms across his broad
and powerful chest, he once more turned, and gazed out across the
waters to where the ten vessels that composed his fleet rode quietly at
anchor. They looked well enough to the eye at any rate. And besides,
they signified to those few hundreds of men, encamped on that foreign
coast, home and life and liberty. While they had those ships to flee
to, they felt brave to dare and attempt much. But without those ships,
in an unknown world and surrounded by myriads of foes, their case would
indeed be desperate. And even so Cortes, in his far-seeing wisdom,
wished it should be. He turned back to his companions, and began
abruptly as before.
"Comrades, to many, doubtless to most of our brethren in arms, those
ships signify home and life and liberty, and yet--I wish you to aid me
in burning them."
Montoro and the others of the group gazed at him speechless for one
instant, and then cast startled glances around towards the distant camp.
"Yes," said Cortes, answering the looks, "most assuredly it is we who
should be burnt before the ships, if some of yon timorous or turbulent
spirits heard word prematurely of such intention. But nevertheless,
minute by minute, as I have stood here thinking, the conviction has
grown upon me that only in the burning of those ships lies victory for
us."
"Break down the bridge behind," muttered Juan de Cabrera, "and the mule
must go forward."
"Even so," was the reply. "We are few enough as it is for the glorious
enterprise on which we are embarked, and shall we allow base-minded
churls to force us back to the contempt and ridicule of those who, we
too well know, would store up scorning for us? No, no, my brethren,
my noble and valued friends and comrades, do you but stand by me
faithfully in the future, as you have done in the past, and we will cut
off the means of retreat that, for ourselves, we value not, and force
all to die with us, or to aid us in winning the splendid triumph that
shall shed a glory on us, to endure to the end of time."
He stood there glowing with his own magnificent enthusiasm, and his
hearers, carried with him beyond the dictates of a colder prudence,
exclaimed eagerly as though with one heart--
"Agreed. We are with you. Burn the ships, and go forward in the names
of thy patron saint and St. Jago."