An idea came to Don Fielding and he discussed it with Cuitlahuac and Cuauhtemoc. One of their spies from the coast had reported that a ship had brought in ten new horses for the Cortes forces and that they had immediately been marched inland. It was bad news; the Spanish cavalry was building up again from the low point it had hit during the debacle of the causeways.
They had the boys who had learned horsemanship brought before them. They were the youthful cream of the Aztec host and Don Fielding's heart sank at what he was going to have to propose.
He said, "Fifty of you will go to Tlaxcala. You will move only at night. Each day you will hide so that the whole distance you will not be seen. This is of the utmost importance. Our spies have brought us sketches of the quarters where the Spanish army is housed, including the stables of the horses. The Spanish have grown careless, since they now trust the Tlaxcalans completely and feel that we, the enemy, are far away. Just before dawn you will creep up upon the sentries. There will probably be only a few; they'll be sleepy and not alert at that time of the morning. Half of you will rush them. The others will fling yourselves on the horses, not taking time to saddle them, and dash off. If possible, stampede those that cannot be taken."
They were watching and listening stolidly. On the face of it, most of them were being sent to their deaths.
Don took a deep breath and exhaled. He said, "Some of you will die. Possibly all of you will. However, you must realize that even if we succeed in stealing two horses, it means two more for us, two less for them. So important are the horses in the battles to come that it might mean the difference between defeat and victory. Now, then: We want fifty volunteers."
Cuauhtemoc said, "But these are Tenochas. All wish to participate."
"We need only fifty. A larger number is too clumsy. Those who wish to go, raise a hand."
All hands went up.
"As I told you," Cuauhtemoc laughed.
Don said, "Only fifty go, and those, perhaps, have the best chance to survive since one moon from now we will again make the same attempt, and by then, of course, the Spanish will be more alert."
Don Fielding looked at his blood brother. "I will leave the details to you."
Chapter Twenty-Four
The smallpox hit the following day.
And Cuitlahuac, the First Speaker, was among the very first. He had been complaining of fever and aching for three days; now he was prostrated and an eruption broke out all over his body.
Don Fielding held a doctorate, but most certainly not in medicine. He knew no more about medicine than to prescribe aspirin for a headache, but he knew this must be the virulent disease. Vaccine? He hadn't the vaguest idea of how to prepare smallpox vaccine and he knew precious well that neither did any of the Spanish physicians. The Europeans were largely, though not completely, immune, since they had been subjected to it for centuries. For the Aztecs, it was unadulterated death.
He could think of nothing save isolation. The people must not be allowed to nurse one another.
He bit out his ruthless commands to the Snake-Woman.
All who showed even the first symptoms must be driven from the city. All. Even the First Speaker. They must go up into the mountains and none be allowed near them save only those who also had the disease. Porters could be sent up to them with food, but these must not get to within a thousand meters.
Cuauhtemoc said dismally, "Then there is no hope?"
"Very little, for those who have it. Some will recover. They will then be safe and never contract the disease again. They can nurse the sick, and eventually, they can return to the city."
"What else do you know of this dread sickness, giant brother?"
"Nothing," Don said miserably.
They had the medicine men continually checking every house in Tenochtitlan. At the first sign of symptoms, the victims were sent up into the hills. Perhaps a thousand in all. Don knew that many of them were probably not infected and were being sent to where they would be. But there was nothing for it. Men, women, and children were sent off wholesale. To their deaths, most of them, he knew.
Cuitlahuac died up in the mountains.
By this time, all of the valley tribes had been brought into the Aztec Republic. They couldn't have done otherwise if they had wished, but none of them wished. For the first time in almost two centuries, they were free of the domination of the former confederation, free to participate in the type of comparative affluence of the Tenochas. Their senators and clan representatives flooded into the capital. Quickly enlisted, too, were such nearby cities as Toluca, some forty miles to the west.
And then they began to arrive in a flood as the pochteca traders hit the towns, over three hundred in all, that had formerly suffered under the confederation's campaigns. Don had no illusions. They were joining up, at this stage of the game, either in fear of the new Aztec Republic or in relief by the fact that there was to be no more tribute and no more demand for victims for the former sacrifices.
The first Congress was held. Hesitantly, confusedly, but held. And Cuauhtemoc was elected First Speaker.
Then it came back to Don Fielding. The name of his blood brother was variously spelled in the twentieth century—Guatemoc, Guatemozin, and even Cuauhtemoctzin. History had the youthful war chief as the last of the Aztec "emperors."
We'll see about that, Don decided grimly. Given his plans, there would be a good many First Speakers in the future history of Mexico.
The five-thousand-man phalanx had reached a degree of training that was going to have to do. Cholula and Huexotzingo had both refused to join the republic. In fact, they had united in a confederacy of their own and let it be known that they supported the Spanish and were ready to ally themselves further with the Tlaxcalans. Don needed that iron ore—and the sooner, the better. He had put his Spanish miners to work on the coal seam in the mountains with a sizable contingent of Aztecs, but now that mine was well under way. The Europeans could leave it in the hands of their Indian apprentices. Apprentices learned much faster than slaves.
Don Fielding suggested the attack be undertaken and the new First Speaker mobilized. Don wanted to go along, on the off-chance that he'd note some improvements that could be made in the new method of war, but for once his blood brother refused.
"The enemy is numerous and there might be disaster. It is a new method of warfare for us. You cannot be risked. If I go down to black death, a new First Speaker can be elected. But if you die, we cannot elect a new Quetzalcoatl."
"Once again, I am not Quetzalcoatl."
Cuauhtemoc looked at him in amusement. "Yes, you are, though perhaps you know it not. But even if you were not, you are just as good. You are the hope of all Mexico and must come to no harm."
As the army marched out, Don stood on the rooftop of the Eagle clan buildings and watched. It made a brave display. The ranks of the phalanx were quite orderly and straight. The auxiliary warriors who followed in their thousands were almost universally armed with the new longbows and crossbows. There were some twenty armed with the Spanish arquebuses. That reminded him. He wondered if any of the Spanish musketeers or cannoneers knew how to make gunpowder. He'd have to find out; their supply was short. They had captured quite a bit when they took the four brigantines, but the rest in the possession of Cortes had largely been fired in the fighting. Some of what remained had fallen into the lake from the causeways and had been ruined.
A voice from beside him said archly, "You do not go?"
He looked at her.
Malinche said scornfully, "Every able-bodied man in Tenochtitlan marches on Cholula except you."
"That is correct," he said. "Actually, I did want to go, to observe, but Cuauhtemoc, the First Speaker, would not let me."
She laughed scornfully at that and turned and left. He looked after her. As ever, her figure was desirable even under the sacklike dress. Don Fielding had the normal amount of sex drive, and he had not known a woman since his arrival in this other time.
Sandoval made
his play while the army was gone. Indian-fashion, every able-bodied man was a member of the Aztec host and in a war the whole town participated. Don was going to have to change that, he knew. He couldn't let all his activities grind to a halt every time the organization went into combat. He was going to have to organize a large standing army.
Of the thirty-three horses, twenty-five went with the army, Indian warriors proudly on their backs, carrying European lances and European swords. The other eight horses remained for one reason or the other, including the fact that several were mares heavy with colt. Sandoval and two of the other gentleman cavalrymen rounded up four of the horses, the four in best shape, and rode them into the city and to the Eagle quarters. They had managed to acquire swords.
Somehow, too, they had found out where Malinche was quartered, perhaps by questioning one of the women married to a Spaniard. They marched in, bare swords in hand, seized her, gagged her, bound her hands behind her back, and then headed for the quarters occupied by Don Fielding.
Don, for once, was alone. His entourage was all off on the road to Cholula. He sat on his stool, going over paperwork. There was plenty of it. He was going to have to figure out some method of shoving more of it off on someone else's shoulders.
De Leon held Malinche, who was staring wide-eyed and trying to struggle, while Sandoval and Olid bounded into the room.
"Prepare to die!" the slight swordsman shrilled.
Don Fielding knocked his stool over backward and retreated to the far side of the room. Breathing deeply, he assessed the situation. It was obvious. The three wished to kill him and to smuggle the invaluable Malinche back to the forces of Cortes.
He tried to keep his voice calm. "You gentlemen all gave your parole and swore to it on the Bible of your religion."
Sandoval laughed softly, even as he began to shuffle forward, his sword extended. "The good Padre Diaz absolved us of that oath and has given us indulgence for all that we do."
Don Fielding brought forth the Beretta. He didn't want to shoot any of these men. He needed them, and it would set a bad precedent with the other Spanish.
He aimed the gun at the other and said, "I warn you that this is a gun. You wear no armor. Come any closer and I fire. Release the girl immediately and return to your quarters."
Sandoval paused long enough to laugh at that one. The Beretta was smaller than a man's hand. It couldn't possibly be a gun. There were no guns that small in the Europe of the period.
"By my soul, you are ever a cause for amusement, Don Fielding," he said mockingly in his slight lisp, and came on again.
He was still laughing when he died. Don shot him twice in the vicinity of the heart. The young soldier fell forward onto his knees and then flat on his face.
Don turned the gun on de Leon and Olid. "This weapon fires many, many times. You would not live to count every shot. Release the girl and drop your swords or you are both dead men."
They gaped unbelievingly at their fallen comrade, thinking of the two rapid shots.
"Drop the swords," Don repeated.
They dropped them. Don marched them back to the tecpan after they had unbound Malinche and taken the gag from her mouth. His face expressionless, he instructed the girl to take the reins of the four horses and lead them into the Eagle buildings. He could make arrangements to have them taken back to the mainland later.
In the tecpan there were some of the few Aztecs in town who could bear arms at all. They were older men or cripples from past wars who had been unfit for the march. Don had them confine de Leon and Olid and Padre Juan Diaz as well. He didn't even bother to have words with the priest. The hell with it.
The battle with the forces of Cholula and Huexotzingo, as Cuauhtemoc described it later, was over almost before it had begun. The phalanx stood in the center, five thousand strong. The crossbowmen stood to one flank, musketeers to the other; in battle the flanks of a phalanx must not be turned. The longbowmen were to the rear of the long lines of spearmen, sending showers of arrows over their heads.
The thousands of the enemy charged in an undisciplined mob—Indian-style. And failed completely to break the advancing lines. Around the right flank charged the cavalry and made for the rear where they cut through the enemy there like a sickle, rounded up Tlaquiach and Tlalciac, the two Cholulan war chiefs, and hauled them off. Cuauhtemoc ordered the drums to beat the charge and the phalanx pressed on the double.
And all was soon over, save the agreement to join the republic and send their senators and clan representatives to Tenochtitlan. The Aztecs had lost exactly twenty-three men, their foe over two thousand. It was in utter disbelief that the remaining enemy learned that their cities were not to be looted, no prisoners were to be taken for sacrifice, and no future tribute was to be demanded. Their coming over to the new republic was heartfelt.
Don Fielding immediately dispatched Diego Garcia and the other two miners to seek out their iron ore. When they reported the deposits ample, he turned over to them six of the new wagons and six horses to draw them. He would have to spare the horses, though he hated to take them out of the riding school.
The loss was balanced by the fact that the horse-raiding expedition against the Spanish in Tlaxcala was successful beyond his wildest hopes. His young horse-thieves managed to get back with eight of the steeds. They had scattered, after the raid, and now straggled in one at a time. Then the balance of the raiders, those on foot, continued to dribble in for almost a week. They'd had twenty-nine casualties in all, which was not as bad as Don had feared, but bad enough. They also revealed that two more horses had been killed in the fighting, which at least deprived the enemy of them.
While the smelter was still in the process of being built, hundreds of the Indians participating, Don Fielding looked up the Spaniards who had been on the arquebuses before their defeat. There were twelve of them in all.
He said, "Do any of you know how to make gunpowder?" Gonzalo Sanchez, scowling puzzlement, said, "We all know how to make gunpowder, of course. We are trained musketeers."
That surprised Don. "You do, eh? Can you make it, here in Mexico?"
"Of course. Given the materials."
Ah, that was the rub.
Another said, "The Captain-General has already made powder here in New Spain."
"He has? But where did he find the saltpeter?"
"You mean nitre? That is not the difficulty. There are plenty of deposits of that. Horse dung, bat dung—but nitre from dung is more likely to grow damp. Yet we can manage. Charcoal is, of course, no problem either. It is sulphur that is the hardest."
He knew there had to be some rub. Sulphur was mined, he knew. And Mexico was a big exporter in his own time. But where did it come from in this country?
Gonzalo Sanchez said, "Not even that is too much of a problem, if you are willing to lose some of these Indian dogs. When we passed that steaming volcano, Popocatepetl, the Captain-General dispatched Diego Ordaz and nine men to ascend it and see if it was possible to find sulphur in the crater. The trip was difficult and dangerous; smoke, sparks, cinders belching up, but they found plenty of pure sulphur there, caked inside the lip of the volcano. Get your Indians to go down for it and the making of powder will be simple enough."
"Very well. It will be done, somehow. Six of you will participate in this endeavor. Prepare yourselves to go out prospecting for bat caves. Two more of you will go with a group of Aztecs to Popocatepetl. You'll have to be there to show them initially just what it is you want."
He looked at them speculatively. "Do any of you know how to make arquebuses?"
Two of them were gunsmiths—if one stretched a point.
"Given the materials," one said. "You need good steel or, on my faith, the damned things will blow up on you the first time you fire."
"We'll see if we can't achieve steel sufficiently good," Don told him. "Meanwhile, I'll sketch out the gun I want. And one more thing that may be just the thing to lob a Molotov cocktail, express, long-distance." He was smiling.<
br />
Manpower was one of their difficulties. He needed a large standing army and simply hadn't enough men to do the necessary farming and other work basic to the economy and at the same time do the mining and manufacturing, the studying, the learning of new weapons and tools. He suggested to Cuauhtemoc that subchiefs already trained in the phalanx be sent to each of the new member tribes. The smaller tribes would provide divisions of one thousand men to be drilled, the larger towns, divisions of two thousand. How to make longbows and crossbows would be taught them and, as soon as steel was available, swords. Bronze arrowheads and spearheads would be rushed to them as soon as possible.
He figured it out. If they had three hundred towns at their disposal and each contributed their share of warriors, he would have at his disposal the better part of half a million trained men. With a force like that, he wouldn't need advanced weapons, even though he had one in mind. They could trample the Spanish to death on their landing beaches.
He had all of the arquebuses brought to his room and studied them. There was precious little to study. It was the simplest of mechanisms—a wooden stock with what amounted to an iron pipe mounted on it. A simple trigger device, when pulled, lowered a smoldering piece of hemp to a touchhole.
Don Fielding knew mighty little about early guns, but he didn't like the looks of these and he wouldn't be able to spare enough steel to make very many of them, anyway. He sat down at his desk and attempted to sketch something more adapted to the combat he anticipated. He came up finally with a double-barreled blunderbuss with a barrel about two feet long and a short stock. When he finished, it looked like nothing so much as a sawed-off shotgun of the Capone era in Chicago. He planned to put as many of them as he could in the front ranks of the phalanx. When the battle was joined, there would be time for only two volleys. No attempt would be made to reload. Two volleys, one from each barrel, then the guns would be dropped to the ground to be recovered later, after the battle. Loaded with the equivalent of buckshot, they would yield a firepower such as this continent had never seen or imagined. He could almost pity the Spanish troops....
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