THE BATTLE OF THE VALLEY
Within ten minutes of this decisive pronouncement Alonso de Molina
had once more led his little troop of scouts across the river,
followed closely by the whole company. But scarcely had they made good
their footing on the opposite bank and begun their cautious march
towards the narrow path at the river bend than a file of spearmen came
round the corner at a quick run and drew a treble line of spear-points
across the entrance to the narrow passage. There were neither archers
nor arquebusiers among the Spaniards, for none could be spared from
the defence of the city, and so Juan Pizarro could do nothing more
than dismount a portion of his troop and send them forward as pikemen
to clear the way with pike and sword, since horses would have been
worse than useless. The Peruvians disputed the passage obstinately and
several severe wounds were given and taken and a few lives lost on
either side before they at last broke and ran.
The footmen pressed them back at a run and Juan Pizarro cried
exultingly--
“Mira! Mira! So--they fly already! When could the infidel withstand
good Christian steel! After them, gentlemen and soldiers of Spain! For
God and Santiago--forward!”
“For God and Santiago, _back_, Señor!” shouted de Molina, who, still
full of suspicion, had been watching, not the little skirmish, but the
rocks and fortress walls about him, and had seen that these were now
swarming with hidden men.
But the warning came too late to be heeded. The pikemen were already
round the bend and chasing the Peruvian spearmen over the plain. Juan
Pizarro had galloped round, waving his sword above his head, and the
whole troop, some of them leading the horses of the dismounted men,
were streaming along under the fortress wall. He himself held back
till the last man had passed, and then he drove his spurs into his
horse’s flanks and went after them at a gallop.
Just as he cleared the bend and swung out into the open plain he heard
a dull rumbling crash behind him. He reined his horse up sharp and
looked round. The whole of the front wall of the old fortress had
fallen outward, completely blocking the path between the hillside and
the river, and over the ruins hundreds of men were streaming down into
the plain, swinging their weapons aloft and screaming out their shrill
and savage war-cries.
“There closes the death-trap!” he laughed. “Well, now it is just a
question of who lives longest. There is nothing much to be done with
these fellows. There is better work than that to do in front. Adios,
Señores!” and with that he put spurs to his horse again and, waving
his sword as though in invitation to the shouting throng behind him,
he galloped away over the plain and joined the troop.
Juan Pizarro had by this time got his men into battle array--that is
to say, he had divided them into three divisions in the invariable
Spanish style, a main body or “battle” in the centre and two wings a
little in advance of it. But the gleaming wall of soldiery in front
made no move as they rode up to it, and when they came within some
thirty paces they found a rising ridge of ground running from the
mountain-side to the river across the plain strewn and piled so
thickly with stones that no cavalry could charge across it without
being broken, and as they halted before this showers of arrows and
stones from slings were rained upon them, and then bands of
javelin-men ran out almost up the ridge of stones and hurled their
heavy weapons pointed with tempered copper at the horses’ heads and
flanks until the maddened animals, already galled by the arrows and
bruised by the stones, began to rear and plunge and swerve aside in
somewhat ominous fashion, and Juan Pizarro, seeing that not much good
could come of this, drew his troop back and ordered a score of men to
dismount and cross the barrier on foot.
Nearly twice the number obeyed, and then, sword and dagger in hand,
the grim, iron-clad Spanish soldiery leapt through the stones and
sprang at their assailants. It was steel against copper, iron cuirass
against quilted cotton mail, European discipline and training against
mere savage valour, and what followed was butchery until the Inca
himself led a troop of his own body-guard down into the plain and
drove the Spaniards back nearly to the barrier.
But meanwhile the right wing had scrambled through the stones, and, as
they were forming to charge, old Ruminavi led a column of spearmen
across their path while another moved out to cut them off by the rear.
The spearmen took the charge kneeling with their spear-butts planted
firmly in the ground. They were ridden over and slain almost to a man,
but when the charge was past four of the dreaded war-beasts were
writhing and kicking on the ground, screaming with pain and gashed
with fearful wounds inflicted by the barbed copper lance-heads, and
this was a greater loss to the Spaniards than a hundred men to the
Peruvians.
Old Ruminavi himself rode at the first man who broke the line, caught
his sword-thrust on his own Spanish buckler, and then dealt him so
shrewd a blow with a huge, copper-headed mace that he hammered in the
iron of his cap as though it had been parchment and broke his skull
like an egg-shell beneath it. Almost at the same time the Inca, seeing
three troopers playing sad havoc with their long swords among his own
guards, put his Spanish lance down and charged one of them so strongly
and so truly that he drove him from the saddle and flung him down
among the struggling footmen, there to be speedily stabbed to death.
And then, letting go his lance and unhooking his battle-axe, he clove
another through helm and skull to the chin. Then he wrenched his axe
out just in time to take a sword-cut from the other on his shield and
drove the blade under his still up-lifted arm and hurled him too,
crippled and bleeding, to the ground.
“Santiago! that was well hit, Señor Inca!” shouted Michael Asterre
through the bars of his vizor.
He had just forced his way through the press towards the mounted and
mailed figure, longing to find some worthy foe to prove his new armour
and weapons, and when he saw the third man go down under the Inca’s
fierce attack he made sure he had found one; but to his amazement and
disgust the Inca only turned in his saddle towards him and then leapt
his horse over the dead and dying and flung himself into another part
of the battle.
All through the long burning afternoon the fight raged fast and
furious, and until sundown Michael Asterre sought to close with the
mailed figure that carried the sacred plumes in its helmet, but ever
without success. Once only they came to blows, and then the Inca
contented himself with taking the savage sword-cut on his buckler, and
once more avoided the single combat without returning it.
There was another of the Spaniards, a man clad and armed like one of
the meanest troopers, who also seemed to the Inca to meet him at every
turn in the battle and three times he wounded him without taking a
scratch back. Indeed so light and half-hearted were his blows that
Manco took him at last for some soldier enfeebled by disease, and so
avoided him too as not worthy of his own royal steel.
So the Battle of the Valley raged on until the sun drooped towards the
western ridges and the long shadows of the mountains began to fall
across the river and the now bloody plain. Yard by yard the Spaniards
had driven the Peruvians back under their fortress walls. Superiority
of discipline and weapons had now, as ever, proved better than
superiority of numbers; and although neither the Inca nor Ruminavi had
been captured or even wounded, so far as was known, yet when the
Peruvians at length retreated into their impregnable fastnesses and
Juan Pizarro took the remains of his troop back across the stony
barrier to form his camp in the middle of the plain, where he would be
secure from a night attack, he was fain to confess that, if all the
battles to come were to be like this one, even victory would leave the
Spanish forces so weak that it would be worthless to them.
Hundreds of the enemy had been slain, but more than half a score of
his own men were dead, a score more were badly wounded, and no less
than eleven horses would never carry a rider to battle again. Still,
they had fought the enemy on his own ground and driven him back, as
usual with heavy loss, and the young commander hoped all through the
anxious, miserable night that followed that the lesson would prove
stern enough, and that he would at least be able to go back to Cuzco
with the news of a victory.
But when morning dawned grey and calm over the mighty hills that
seemed to shut them in from all the rest of the world, he saw what had
happened the day before was only the beginning of the tragedy. The
whole of the valley as far as they could see was filled with
innumerable hosts which surrounded them on every side, and one
despairing look about him sufficed to show him that his expedition was
now nothing more than a forlorn hope.
His battle-worn and wounded men had laid down in their armour beside
their horses, and with the first glimmer of light all who could mount
were in the saddle. There were only two ways out of the fatal valley.
One was over the narrow pathway, blocked and cumbered by the stones of
the fallen wall which had been pushed by the sheer weight of the men
behind it out from its foundation. The other was across the river, and
already the plain on the other side was filling up with regiment after
regiment of the Inca’s soldiery.
“I would to God I had taken thy advice yesterday, Alonso!” said Juan
Pizarro, as he swung himself up into his saddle. “Those of us who get
alive out of here will have but a sad tale to tell in Cuzco.”
“There are no eggs in last year’s nests, Señor!” replied de Molina,
as he too, stiff and sore with his wounds and weak with loss of blood
and lack of food and sleep, dragged himself up to the saddle. “The
only question for us now is how many of us may get back. If my advice
is still worth having, you will take all the men and horses that are
now fit for hard service and fight your way back with all haste that
you may, for you will be sorely wanted ere long in Cuzco. As for us
who are not of much further account, we will do what we can to keep
the enemy at bay while you make good your retreat.”
“And what of you after that?” said Pizarro. “Do you think, friend
Alonso, that we are going to desert wounded comrades in arms in that
fashion?”
“Señor,” said de Molina, with a brave attempt at a laugh, “we are
wounded, and our horses are well-nigh crippled, and without sound
beasts escape is hopeless. When it is over what is left of us will not
be worth the taking home. It is a hard thing to say and a harder thing
to do, but it is the need of battle and our duty. There are fourteen
or fifteen of us here who are still men enough to keep the enemy back
while you lead your horses over the stones yonder. Ride over them you
cannot. Once on the other side and remounted, your way is open to the
river, though doubtless you will need your swords to keep it open.
“You cannot pass the river here. It is too deep and the banks are too
steep. There is but one way and that is over the fallen wall. For
God’s sake and Spain’s, Señor, take it quickly or it will be too
late. Do you not see those clouds of men up yonder gathering on the
mountain-side? If you are not past that corner before they come above
us they will rain down such an avalanche of stones and rocks as will
not leave a man or horse unmaimed among us. Go, Señor, go, for God’s
sake, while you can!”
Juan Pizarro looked up at the towering slopes above him and saw that,
bitter as de Molina’s counsel was, in it lay the only hope of saving
the troop. The other bank of the deep, swift stream was swarming with
men, and already arrows and darts and stones were flying across in
ever thickening showers. Their hands met for a moment in a last clasp,
and then the troop moved forward towards the pass. In front went the
thirty-five men who were still unwounded or only slightly hurt, taking
all the sound horses with them, and in the rear went Alonso de Molina
with his forlorn hope of wounded men and horses.
While they were on the plain the Inca held his men back by the
strictest orders, for he knew full what would happen if the retreating
enemy turned and caught them on the open plain. He was well content
with what had been done so far, and he knew what was still in store
for the Spaniards before they got back to Cuzco. But the moment that
the troop had reached the narrow pathway and the men began to dismount
he gave the order to advance, and his regiments went forward at the
run, not over the plain, but round along the mountain slopes, while he
rode with Ruminavi along the open directing their movements with word
and gesture.
But when he reached the pass he saw that all the Spaniards were not
crossing it, for a line of them were drawn up across the approach,
half on horseback and half on foot. He could see that they were
wounded and weary, and that their beasts were gashed and spattered
with dried blood. One of their mounted men a little in advance of the
others was the sorry-looking trooper who had again and again the day
before seemed to seek death at his own hands.
Before half Pizarro’s troop was over the stone-encumbered pathway the
first of the Inca’s regiments had gained the high ground above it, and
instantly the hillside was covered with leaping stones and masses of
rock which crashed and thundered into their midst, sending horses and
men down with maimed and broken limbs. Hoarse shouts of triumph
thundered along the valley, showers of arrows and darts and
sling-stones rained rattling upon the harness of the Spaniards, who
could strike no blow in return till they had got the trembling,
frightened animals, on whom they were depending for their escape, over
the stones.
At the same time the Inca ordered another regiment to come down and
charge the rear-guard, and on they went, rank after rank, yelling
their war-cries and hurling themselves with spear and axe and mace on
the thin, ragged line of wounded men.
But, few and wounded though they were, they were made of stern stuff.
With the first onset wounds and weariness were forgotten, and the
long, keen Spanish swords struck out hard and true, and the heavy
Spanish axes swung fast and bit deep, and every warrior who came
within their reach went down. But more and more came on, and then one
by one the Spaniards, overwhelmed by weight of numbers, began to go
down, till at last only the mounted men were left.
But now the last of the troop had passed the stones, and they could
hear the shouts of their comrades telling them that all was well and
bidding them come and join them. De Molina shouted to his remaining
companions to give up the unequal fight and make the best of their way
back, and this they did, nothing loth to end it, though only two of
them reached the other side alive.
Then de Molina, facing the whole host alone, drove his spurs into the
flanks of his jaded, wounded beast, and made for the river brink. But
old Ruminavi was too quick for him, and charged him when he was within
two yards of it. De Molina, better skilled in horsemanship, swerved
aside, and Ruminavi very nearly charged into the river instead, but
the next moment the Inca was on him, with axe uplifted.
“Yield, Señor!” he cried, in Spanish. “Whether you be gentle or
simple, you are too gallant a man to throw your life away thus. We are
two to one, and there are thousands behind us.”
“I have already got my death-blow, so your axe will but make the end a
little quicker. Therefore strike, friend Manco, for I could wish to
die by no nobler hand than thine.”
As de Molina said this he threw up his vizor, and the Inca saw his
face already ghastly with the grey hue of death and his once bright
blue eyes already dim and glazing.
“They are safe, are they not?” he said faintly, looking over the pass
he had so gallantly held. “Then the work is done. Well, since you will
not strike, friend Manco, I yield.”
But even as he said this he reeled in the saddle, and the Inca,
calling to Ruminavi, sprang from his horse just in time to catch him
in his arms as he fell. As he laid him down on the sand he saw that
there was scarcely a part of his body in which he had not received a
wound, and that blood was flowing from him in nearly a score of
places. He at once took his morion off and bade one of his men go to
the river for water. A draught of it revived him for the moment, and
he put his hand to his neck and pulled out the gem that Nahua had
given him.
“You can tell your princess, friend Manco, that I spoke truly when I
said that this should only leave me with my life. I have not many more
moments left. When they are over take it back to her and tell her that
I died happier holding this dear token of her friendship than I could
have lived without her love. As a loyal Spaniard I cannot wish you
victory, but for her sake I can wish you safety and happiness when
this evil war is over. Farewell, friend Manco! May your last fight be
as hard a one as mine has been, and may you come better out of it.
Mother of God, pray for one who is a sinner!--Dios y Santiago, they
are coming!--Stand fast, gentlemen, for God and Spain! They are on us!
Now strike! Ah, that was my death-wound, yet we must hold them a few
minutes longer. It will not be long--not long----”
As the delirium of death had come on him he had struggled up into a
sitting posture and waved his right hand above his head as though it
still held a sword. Manco threw himself on his knees beside him, but
just as he clasped him in his arms his head fell back heavily against
his shoulder, and there, on the breast of his best-loved enemy, Alonso
de Molina breathed out his gallant soul with a sigh so soft that even
Manco’s strained ears could scarcely catch it.
He laid him down with gentle reverence on the sands, and when he had
taken Nahua’s jewel from his neck he ordered one of the royal litters
to be instantly brought that he might be taken back to the fortress,
and while it was being brought he stood over him with bent head and
wet eyes, mourning for him as man seldom mourns for his enemy, and,
for the time, heedless in his sorrow of the battle which was still
roaring away up the valley.