The Other Time

by Mack Reynolds

  The girl looked at Don Fielding. “Would you, then, let your blood brother go into the fray against the teteuhs and you refrain?”

  His shoulders slumped in dejection. “Yes,” he said. “He is expendable. I am not. It is not easy.”

  “I do not know what your words mean.”

  “No, of course not.”

  He turned. “Come. I’ll take you to quarters in the house of my… clan.”

  “I am not sure I wish to go with you, Don Fielding.”

  From the distance came the blast of cannon, the booming of arquebuses, shouts and screams, above them all the hooting of the conches and the ululations and shrillings of pipes and whistles, the battle music of the Tenochas.

  “I’m afraid it is too late to change your mind now,” Don told her, the utter tiredness still in his voice. Thousands would die or be wounded tonight. Was it history… or his machinations?

  He took her to the home of the Eagle clan and saw that she was given quarters and then returned to his own room and flung himself on his bed. If possible, he was going to have to get some rest. There was a multitude of things that had to be done the next day.

  But the thought came to him before he fell into exhausted sleep: there is no doubt at all now; history can be changed and is being changed. In the history he had studied, Pedro de Alvarado survived the battle and lived later to become the conqueror of Guatemala. Malinche had remained with the Spanish army continuing to be its tongue and the alter ego of Hernando Cortes.

  Just before he fell off into sleep, a memory came back to him from school days. The memory of the so-called Dichotomy. Zeno had propounded it some five hundred years B.C. According to the Greek philosopher it was impossible to cover any given distance. The argument: First, half the distance must be traversed; then, half of the remaining distance; then, again half of what remains, and so on. It followed that some portion of the distance to be covered always remains and therefore reaching a goal was impossible. It was not until comparatively modem times that the mathematicians solved the paradox. The Greek had assumed that any totality composed of an infinite number of parts must, itself, be infinite, whereas the later mathematicians decided that an infinite number of elements make up a finite total. But the point was that although the Greeks could not explain the paradox, and supposedly had logical proof that motion was impossible, that didn’t prevent them from utilizing motion. So it was with his time travel paradox. He couldn’t understand it and doubted if anybody else did, in any age, but if he understood it or not, he was utilizing it, willy-nilly.

  In the morning, the battle over and the remnants of the Spanish army retreating in exhaustion up the side of the lake to the north, the war chiefs of the victorious Indians held another council.

  Cihuaca, Tlacochcalcatl of Texcuco, was all in favor of immediate pursuit.

  “No,” Don said. “In spite of the fact that we have killed or captured at least two-thirds of their force, we are still no match for them in the open field. Their discipline and training gives them too much the advantage and they still have some horse cavalry.”

  Don’s domination of the Tenochas was greater than of the allies, who didn’t know him nearly so well. Cihuaca was stubborn. “We can descend upon them in all our numbers and end them once and for all. We could come around the other side of the lake and waylay them at Otumba.”

  “No,” Don said. “We aren’t ready for them yet. We have to build up our phalanx, acquire better weapons, recruit more allies.” He turned to Cuitlahuac. “This is my advice.”

  The First Speaker turned to the Tetzcucan. “The forces of the confederacy will not pursue Malintzin.”

  Cihuaca was infuriated. “Then the forces of Tetzcuco alone will do so and win all the glory and plunder.”

  “That is your right,” Cuitlahuac said evenly. “We wish you well.”

  The Tetzcucan stormed out, followed by his subchiefs. One of the other allied chiefs said, “We have taken many prisoners and many horses. Now is the time to turn them over to the priests of Huitzilopochtli so that they may be sacrificed.”

  Here they went again. Don shook his head emphatically. “No. There is to be no more human sacrifice. You have seen the advantage of our sparing the first twenty prisoners. They teach the warriors the use of the weapons of the Spanish and we must continue to use them. The others can teach us the use of other things the Spanish have but we have not. You saw the advantage of using the spears tipped with steel rather than obsidian. What if one of our prisoners can show us how to obtain steel—or gunpowder?” Most of them didn’t like it, though the Tenochas present had already accepted the situation.

  One said in irritation, “We can at least sacrifice the captured deer upon which the teteuhs ride.”

  “The horses! Are you mad? Sacrifice them! We must learn to ride them as the Spanish ride them. We must use them to pull the new wheeled vehicles I have introduced. We must learn to breed them and fill the land with their descendants.”

  Xochitl, the head priest, obviously put out by Don’s rejection of sacrificing the captured white men, said, “No man in all the land has ever ridden one of these animals. It is not the way of the Tenochas, nor the Tlacopans, nor the…”

  “That’s too bad,” Don said grimly. “But ride them we will. We must learn.”

  The Snake-Woman said, “I agree with you that it is best not to kill the teteuh prisoners. We can force them to teach us their secret arts. However, this does not apply to our traditional enemies, the Tlaxcalans. These can be sacrificed and we have captured perhaps a thousand of them.”

  Don was still shaking his head. “No. They too must not be sacrificed.”

  Even his supporter, Cuitlahuac, was taken aback by that, and Cuauhtemoc as well.

  Cuitlahuac said, “But what can we do with these people? If we keep them, they eat our food and take up room in our quarters. If we turn them loose, they will return to Tlaxcala and one day come back to fight us again.” It was the same argument that Cuauhtemoc had given Don once before.

  Don said, “We’ll put them to work, helping us repair the city and to build new fortifications. We’ll put them to work on the roads which must be widened and improved so that the new vehicles can utilize them. We will feed them as well as we feed our own people and clothe them and see that they have adequate shelter. Then, when the war is over, we will turn them loose and let them return to their own land where they will tell the people how well they were treated and the great advances we have made. For, you see, sooner or later we have to make our peace with the Tlaxcalans.” He added under his breath, in English, “The whole thing is known as good propaganda.”

  The war chief of Tlacopan was indignant. “We will never make peace with Tlaxcala.”

  Don looked at him. “Yes, we will make our peace with all the tribes in all the lands, since only in this manner can we repel the attacks of the Spanish.”

  He had his way, but they were grudging.

  The prisoners were housed in the tecpan, under ample guard, and Don and Cuauhtemoc went to supervise the recovery of the equipment of the Spanish army. Much of it had been dumped in the lake on both sides of the causeway and would have to be fished out, but a great deal had also been abandoned by the fleeing foe in the city streets or on the causeway top.

  Cuauhtemoc happily told him about the events of the night before. In moments after the first onslaught of the Tenochas, the Spanish army had stopped being an army and had become a hysterical mob, each man for himself. The Indians in their canoes came up alongside the road and charged the causeway. They would grab a foe bodily and wrestle him down into the lake where other canoemen would haul him out and carry him away. The humanity was so packed that it was all but impossible for either side to wield their weapons.

  When the fleeing mob of Spanish horsemen, Spanish foot, and Indian porters reached the second breach they were without means of crossing it. The portable bridge had become stuck after having so much weight on it, including the heavy cannon, and it
was impossible to bring it up as first planned. Those who reached the breach first stopped, but those behind pushed them on so that hundreds fell into the lake, complete with baggage. Shortly there were so many bodies, especially of the Indians, that the balance could cross over on them. And as the mob continued its flight, the cannon were abandoned, the crossbows, the arquebuses. Lances, shields, pikes, and even swords were thrown away, the better to run.

  And always the canoes debouched their warriors to take more prisoners or to slay. The crowding was such that hundreds fell off the causeway and into the waters, some to drown, some to be picked up and hauled away.

  “It was a great sight,” Cuauhtemoc wound it up in satisfaction.

  “It must have been,” Don said, shuddering.

  He enumerated the things he particularly wanted rescued. All the cannon, all the weapons, all the armor, all the tools. All the gold and silver that had been recovered. All these were to be taken to the tecpan and stored.

  At the mention of taking the gold and silver back to the tecpan, his companion looked at him in surprise. “Then, you too have this strange hunger for gold that the other teteuhs do?”

  “No,” Don said grimly, “but we’ll need it later to deal with them and other Europeans. It is the most precious thing in their world, save life itself. The greater quantity we have, the better.”

  The rescue operations well under way, they returned to the tecpan to check the prisoners.

  Don was surprised and elated at the fact that thirty-three horses had been captured. He had them temporarily housed in the improvised stables that the Spanish had built.

  Cuitlahuac had rejoined them and they reviewed the prisoners who were standing and sitting about the largest of the courtyards in the enclosure. There were a hundred and forty-two of them, counting the twenty men that had been captured earlier in the fighting. Don recognized quite a few, including Padre Juan Diaz, the soft-spoken Avila, and even the page, Orteguilla. Most of them were wounded to one degree or the other, but the majority were still on their feet—still on their feet and portraying in their faces despair, resignation, defiance, and hate.

  Don had his original table and stool brought, along with writing materials, and sat himself down at it. They watched him numbly, silently.

  To the prisoners, Don said, “Your lives have been spared, due to my intervention. If you give your parole, pledge to try not to leave the city except upon my orders, you will be released upon the termination of the war. Form in a line. I wish the name of each man and his former occupation, if any, previous to becoming a soldier.” Disbelief on their faces, since they had all expected to die on the altars in the temples, they lined up.

  Don said to the priest, “Your Bible, please, Padre.”

  He put the Bible on the table, next to his paper, and took up the pen.

  “First man. Name and former occupation.”

  “Garcia de Olguin. I was formerly a seaman.”

  “Put your hand upon the Bible and swear that you will not attempt escape.”

  “I swear.”

  “Next man.”

  “Pedro de Mafia. Carpenter.”

  “Good.” Don went through the routine again, then called for the next man, without looking up.

  “Gonzalo de Sandoval. Gentleman. And I will not give my parole, particularly to a man who broke his own.”

  Don looked up. “Indeed? In actuality, I did not break my oath. You forget the wording of my parole. It applied only so long as the Captain-General remained in the city. He was gone when I escaped. If you will not give your parole, you will be isolated and kept under strict guard.”

  “So be it,” Sandoval said mockingly and turned and joined those who had already been processed.

  The next man said, “Bernal Diaz. I have been a soldier since becoming an adult. I am willing to give my parole.”

  Don said, “I am glad you survived, Bernal. Next man.”

  The next man said, “Juan Diego.”

  The name was Spanish, but the voice wasn’t. It was thick and accented. Don looked up. For a moment he was surprised at seeing a black. The other wasn’t dressed as a soldier, but rather a servant. Then Don, remembering his history now, blanched. The black man’s face was badly pockmarked.

  Don shot to his feet and snapped to Cuitlahuac, “Let this man go free! Immediately. Turn him loose and let him follow after the Spanish army. Have criers go before him and to each side, but not approaching near and let them warn all away.”

  His Indian companions were staring.

  “He carries a dread disease from over the seas. If it spreads, it will decimate the city.”

  “Why not kill him?” Cuauhtemoc blurted.

  “Even his corpse cannot be touched. Drive him from the city, immediately! And let no person come near him!” He turned to the bewildered black, who could sense he had started something but had no idea what. Don snapped at him, “You are free to go! Leave immediately! Avoid coming near any person!”

  Stumbling, the man hurried away, followed at some distance by two warriors with spears. Cuauhtemoc shouted orders for criers to get out in front of him and clear the way.

  Don sank down into his chair. Smallpox! It all came back to him now. A black servant with the Narvaez forces had brought it to Tenochtitlan, and the Indians, with no immunity to the European disease, had died like flies. Eventually, they had gotten their revenge, perhaps. The Europeans had never run into syphilis before, but it was rife among the Cuban Indians, who obligingly passed it on.

  When they were all through, he found that he had some sixty-five men who had held trades before joining the Spanish expedition. They represented quite a cross-list—most, though not all, of use to him. He even had a former glassblower from Florence, Italy. Not all of the Cortes army came from Spain. There were Italians, French, Portuguese, and even a couple of Greeks. And one, possibly the most precious of all, was a wheelwright.

  Only three—Sandoval, the priest, and the little page—had refused the parole oath.

  He leaned back and regarded them.

  “We now come to the reason why you are still alive, although you are men who kill your prisoners. When you were in command of this city, you gave nothing in return for that which you took. You brought these people none of the advances Europeans have made. Now, instead of taking, you are going to give.”

  “They did not pledge that in giving their paroles,” Sandoval called out.

  Don ignored him. He said, “You carpenters are going to teach the people European carpentry. You blacksmiths, how to work iron and other metals. You former miners are going to teach them to make superior wagons to the ones I have already tried to build. You former seamen are going to teach them to sail the four brigantines we have captured. You…”

  Sandoval called out, a sneer in his voice, “No, they are not, for this would make them traitors. It would enable the Indians to repulse the forces of the Captain-General more efficiently.”

  “That is exactly my purpose, friend,” Don said grimly. He turned his eyes back to the others. “When the war is over, all who have cooperated, whether a captain, a gentleman soldier, or a footman in the ranks, will receive fifty pesos of gold and be allowed to return to his home in Europe if he swears never to take up arms against this land again.”

  Air sucked into the lungs of all but a few.

  Sandoval said, “They would be traitors.”

  “But still alive.” Don looked at him and laughed scorn, and brought up the argument he had used before. “If you had won the war, how many of these men would have received the deserts promised them? You, Sandoval, yes. And perhaps the other top captains, and most certainly Cortes who was to get a full fifth, as commander of the army. And the Emperor with his royal fifth. But the others here?” He laughed his scorn again. “All know the Captain-General by now. He is willing to betray anyone. If, after all that Motechzoma did for him, he was willing to send Alvarado to murder that innocent fool, how can you trust him?”

  H
e turned his eyes back to the men. “If you wish, when the war is over, to remain here, you may. You are free to take wives and become valued members of the community. You remember your former lives in Spain and in Cuba, where you were, at least most of you, considered dregs, as soldiers are almost always so considered with contempt. Here you would be free and honored by the people to whom you will bring so much. But that is your decision to make. To stay or to take your gold and return home. I will let you sleep on it for the night. Tomorrow I will want your response. If you don’t wish to cooperate, you will share the fate of Sandoval and receive no pay when finally you are released. Meanwhile, I suggest you elect a committee to represent you in your relationship with the chiefs of Tenochtitlan and with me.”

  Sandoval said, “As senior captain of the army present, I will represent us.”

  Don snorted at that. “There are no more captains. The men will elect your representatives. Have a committee of at least three by tomorrow. Now, do you have sufficient physicians to tend your wounds, or do you desire the assistance of the Indian medicine men? Their medical science is probably at least as well advanced as your own.”

  They wished to leave themselves in the hands of their own people and Don, through Cuitlahuac, saw that captured medical supplies and equipment were released to them.

  He had his first volunteer immediately. Bernal Diaz approached him as he stood to leave, and said, “I accept your words about Cortes and the fact that we footmen would receive little in reward when all was through. However, I am not a carpenter or blacksmith, nor do I have any other art than that of war. Of what use can I be to you?”

  Don sighed and said, “If you don’t do it, somebody else will. On top of that, the end justifies the means, and the end you had in mind when you came here was to become wealthy.”

  Bernal frowned. “The end justifies the means?”

  Don said wearily, “I have some others just as good. Such as: do unto others before they do unto you; and whatever grifter first thought up the idea of patriotism put ninety percent of the human race on the sucker list.”