He had stumbled on Chichen Itza, abandoned for a little over three hundred years, in one of the returns of Katun 8 Ahau, but still sacred, and still the object of pilgrimage. It was kept in repair. The circular Temple of the Snail was still standing. The light of Venus could still be sighted through its precisely aligned windows, and the rise and setting of the sun. It was like a clock that goes on ticking out the days even after the family has left. The vast shadowy colonnades of the Temple of the Warriors and of its plaza were still in place. In their own deep shadow, they looked inhabited. Grass grew up through the paving, but the little temple above the Well of Sacrifice was in good repair. It was still used once a year. The gods in their temples were undisturbed.
It was too big and desolate. It seemed to swallow up a mere sixty men. They found themselves whispering, and glancing fearfully around them.
Half-heartedly they smashed a few idols, But the idols only shattered into silence, or rolled down the steep stairs of a temple they had climbed as a lookout, and came to rest at the bottom, staring up at the sky. There were too many of them for sixty men to destroy.
They looked down into the Well of Sacrifice. There was no surface water in this land. The horses suffered as a result. The water welled up from underground, or rained into the cenotes. The cenotes were damp and dark, traversed by watersnakes, their walls heavy with ferns, and the men did not like to go down into them, even to get water for the horses. The water was thick and black. They could not know how many generations of the sacrificial dead lay down there, nor even with what treasure.
They stayed the night but they did not like it. It was like being in a cathedral without a roof. It gave them a glimpse of something too big for them.
It was too big for Guerrero, who had followed them. In that vast city, the most sacred of the New Empire, and deserted now, in which desertion there was some meaning which bothered him, but he did not want to think of it, he had been able to keep out of sight, and yet he had heard their voices. Those voices sounded lost and insignificant, echoed back by those waiting buildings. It sobered him, that sound.
For there was something abroad in the world he had never understood, even in Spain, a new spirit, an approach to the world that was not his. And the world he had joined was an old one. It had no new spirit. It sat surrounded by its own ruins and its own traditions, which these new men rendered meaningless to anyone but those who shared them.
Well, he shared them. But still, this past was too big. It overwhelmed you. It left you no room to move, let alone to fight.
And yet they must fight, if only to prove something which, because it was no longer true, would always be.
But how? But how?
Next morning Montejo marched out along a sacbe which seemed to lead towards the coast, the last procession that would ever tread it, though neither they nor the Maya could know that. Even the sacbe was too broad for them. It swallowed them up. It called for confident plumed processions, not an anxious and irritable company of sixty tattered and ill-kempt men.
Montejo had the drummer set a beat, and there was a flute player in the company. But that did not help much. Around them the jungle creaked, and the sound was not merry. Cortés, on his march to Honduras, had taken an entire orchestra, complete with violins. They hurried on.
At last they reached Salamanca. Those at Pole were lost, but Salamanca was safe. The men were dissatisfied. Their six months’ forage had killed most of them, but that was not what was wrong. What was wrong was that it had not made the survivors rich. They could not even hope to become rich, even in land, unless they got reinforcements.
Even Montejo could not hold them.
Then a ship appeared in the roadstead, sent out in search of him. It brought both men and supplies.
Montejo gave no one time to think. He went down the muster roll, and split all malcontents into two parties. He was still looking for a place to put a city, and from the Indians he had at last heard of Chetumal. It sounded ideal.
Davila was to march towards it along the coast. He himself would take the relief boat, and sail down the peninsula. At the Bay of Chetumal they would combine forces and seize everything.
The worst disaffected of the men he left behind, with instructions to build a small boat and then follow. That left the choice up to them. If they did not build a boat, they would die of fever or be starved out by the Indians and then picked off. If they did build the boat, there was nowhere for them to go, but to follow their commander. They had neither the knowledge nor the means to face the open sea. He was well pleased.
So was Guerrero. It was a relief to face the enemy at last, and besides, he now had a plan, for unlike the Maya, and unhampered by precedent, he could improvise.
But the man Davila made him thoughtful. He had seen Davila often during those desperate weeks. And Davila was his own kind of man, unaccountably in the service of this pusillanimous weakling, to whom he would, because he was that sort of man, despite his own interests, be loyal, and that made him an opponent worth bothering about.
Montejo was not worth bothering about. Guerrero hurried overland, to prepare Chetumal against the invader.
XIX
They were glad to see him back. But they did not like what he had to tell them.
Nor did Nachancan care for what he had learned. It was so plain to see that disillusionment in what before had been always interested eyes. When that special sparkle goes, in a man of confident maturity, even though he does not know it himself, one can see it, and it is as distressing, as futile, to be touched by that, as by the look children have, who, always having seen the world for the first time, no matter what we do to protect them, no matter how we love them, no matter how they love themselves, then see it for the second, and though they are still delightful children, still that look which turns a knife in the heart, which makes us tremble for the safety of the joy of being, is never quite the same again.
At that age, six or seven, they first learn about the Performance, that imitation of life with which we solace ourselves even when we are gay and most absorbed, for the impossibility of life itself. It can be very beautiful, the performance, but it is never quite the same thing as life itself, as those first years of experiencing our future lines, which then seem reality, but are only the rehearsal.
And yet that is why we admire a good performance, because we also went through the rehearsal, we feel for the players, and know that in their parts we should not have done so well.
But if a man of forty learns what the world is, particularly if it is a world in which he believed, that is different. That is a little sad.
Guerrero had been young so long; and Nachancan, so long old. They had been father and son for so long. But now experience had made them equals. It left them with so much not to say. It made them father and son the more, in that collaboration which is possible, only when we have learned enough of the world not to hate our parents. When and if that point has been reached, a man and his son may be blood brothers.
That point had been reached. And it saved them time. They found that they agreed.
Guerrero had found the disunity of the peninsula a shock, but there was no time to indulge in such a thing as shock. Montejo was on his way. The city would have to be defended. The strategy of the bay would have to be planned. And, since he could not hold the natives against a determined force, he sent out messengers every day and planned a ruse. It might work and it might not. But if it did work it would give him a little more time to intrigue among the provinces.
Montejo was coming by sea, Davila by land, and they expected to meet at the Bay of Chetumal itself. Montejo, though willing to fight, would not fight unless he had to. He had not that nature. But Davila was a fiery man. He was what in those days was called a man of honour, that is, a man without prudence, who having no thoughts and few ambitions, could justify himself in no other way than by always taking the offensive. But such men are happy only in a world which contains nothing but people they can beat and pe
ople they cannot. Confronted with the world itself, their nerves snap and their self-assurance begins to change into something a little more desperate.
And the coastal landscape between Salamanca de Xelha and Chetumal was so desolate and inhospitable, that even the Indians themselves, who knew how to maintain themselves in such places, avoided it, a low, feverish coast, reptilian and rank, full of sluggish waters, salt lagoons, quagmires, sandbars that heaved out of the sea, at low tide, with a flabby flop, and almost no vegetation that was edible.
The people of such lands would obey Chetumal, and small bands of natives could be sent in, as decoys. Guerrero first had Davila’s food supplies cut off, not entirely, but capriciously, so that he could never know whether he was to eat that night or not. Let him paw in the sand for turtles’ eggs, which would make him sick, and drink brackish water which would make him double over with pain. Dysentery was no way to calm the nerves.
Between friendly natives who had no food, and hostile natives who picked off his men, but never came close enough for an open battle, Davila began to sweat. His eyes would have a different look now, a worried, irritable look. He did not know the language. He could not therefore know where he was, or how far he had to go. And in particular Guerrero shut off any messages from Montejo, coasting comfortably down the coast.
Those of Davila’s men who had picked up a little Maya, were beginning to ask questions about Montejo along the coast.
Guerrero judged it time for his stratagem. He did not send a messenger to Davila. He had a more convincing plan. He let the Spaniard come up on a small group of natives, fishing at the shore. They tried to flee but Davila caught them. That, too, was part of the plan. Then their carefully rehearsed story came out.
No, Chetumal was at least a week’s march away, over difficult territory, heavily armed.
And a ship? A big thing that looked like this? They inspected a graffito drawn in the sand with a stick, and then beamed with comprehension. Yes, they had seen such a thing. They had been out on the ocean, in a canoe, fishing. The thing, what was it called, a ship?, had appeared on the horizon, coming towards them. Then, suddenly, the sea was rough, it had foundered and gone down. They had not dared to go too close. They were too busy saving their own lives. But yes, they had seen it. There was no doubt.
There was nothing for Davila to do but turn round and go back to Salamanca. He could not persist in this country without reinforcements. The lagoons and sandbars and shallows cut off all sight of the sea.
That taken care of, Guerrero settled down to deal with Montejo, for whom he had planned other surprises.
The ship had been sighted off the long bar which protected the Bay of Chetumal from the open sea. That meant it would arrive in the morning.
That night none of them slept. Even Ix Chan, who was usually so deliberately placid, seemed astonished to find herself uneasy. If they were careful, they could destroy Montejo. But life from now on might be a series of Montejos, one could not hope to destroy them all, and besides, suppose they failed.
Guerrero was determined not to fail.
At dawn he and Nachancan went to the temple. It was the highest structure in the area, it topped the trees. From its platform they could see the orderly fields, thinned forest, and prosperous villages. The light struck the surface of that ominously empty bay. A breeze was blowing up the water.
Nachancan had never seen his own land invaded. Indeed it never had been invaded. It lay below him, perfect and familiar, and now, suddenly, somehow, at a touch it might vanish, as perfection does, instantly. His face was full of a bewildered astonishment. But he said nothing.
Together they waited. The world was absolutely silent.
The colours of the world came up a little more clearly, as the sunlight struck the forests and the fields.
It was the creaking they heard, even before they saw the ship. It was the sound of canvas and tackle, which Guerrero had not heard for over fifteen years, and yet as soon as he heard it, it brought back memories.
On that bay, which had never heard the sound of sail, the sound was ominous.
Nachancan shifted uneasily, while Guerrero pointed at a spur of forested land, at the end of the bay, which hid the channel.
Behind them, a priest threw copal into a brazier on the altar. It hissed. It made a little cloud.
Half-rigged, moving cautiously, the clumsy ship moved steadily but ungainly into view; the sun caught glittering on what must be helmets. The air was so clear that they could see everything.
Nachancan had never before seen a ship. He looked grave.
Though it plunged and had no grace, the boat came on, until whoever was watching on it could see Chetumal itself. Guerrero could pick out distinct figures now.
One of them, rather thick-set, stood alone on the poop.
The ship moved into the centre of the bay, the sails came down with an exhausted rustle, the cable ran out, and they could hear the splash as the anchor hit the water and then plummeted, unseen, to root in the mud.
The enemy had arrived. Nachancan now knew what it looked like. The two men went down into the town, to await developments.
There were no developments. Montejo was also waiting. Perhaps he did not like the silent emptiness of the bay, for Nachancan had had it cleared of canoes.
Darkness fell.
Montejo sent out the long boats. Guerrero had expected that, for the Spaniards would need water.
There was a brisk skirmish. The Spaniards retreated, unfortunately with two prisoners.
*
Thus, at last, Montejo learned of the existence of Guerrero.
He was delighted. He had thought the man dead by now, but that he was not was excellent luck. He would be as invaluable to this conquest as Aguilar had been to that of Cortés. He would receive the man well. He would even pay him well, since he would be well worth paying.
Really things could not have gone better.
Early next morning he sent off a messenger to the town, returning, perhaps rather incautiously, both the prisoners.
When they arrived, Guerrero was supervising the fortifications. In particular he prepared the narrow strip of land that was the only access to Chetumal except by water.
It was hot work, and he was already sweaty when Nachancan sent for him, and handed him Montejo’s letter, unopened. He had the liveliest interest in seeing what would happen next. That Guerrero would prove competent he had no doubt.
Guerrero knew what the letter would say, for the letters of would-be conquerors are all much the same. He took the sealed and folded piece of parchment. It was years since he had seen such stuff, and he had never received a letter with quite so massively aggressive a seal. The seal, somehow, showed the pomposity of the man. And those who act out their little game not for their own time, but for posterity, are of necessity unapt to conceive of anything but praise for their performance.
With a wry smile Guerrero wrenched the letter open.
There would be, of course, some sort of exhortation to return to the Fold. Such men, since another would not have justified them so well, could imagine no religion but their own.
Indeed there was.
Montejo had a fussy and flamboyant hand which betrayed a slight tendency to wobble. Since he was so sure of the verdict of posterity, which to him was a sort of secret court of the mind, best influenced by documents, since unfortunately he would be unable to address it in person, he had written at length and kept a copy for the family archives. It was quite true he needed Guerrero. But he was not also saving a Christian soul? That was how the conquest sounded best, as a saving of souls. That way it was entirely justified. He had the precedent of Charles V for such an attitude.
On the other hand, he was also, of course, speaking to an inferior. This man was merely a common sailor.
“Gonzalo,” he wrote, “my brother and special friend, I count it my good fortune that I arrived and have learned of you through the bearer of this letter. I can remind you that you are a Ch
ristian, bought by the blood of Jesus Christ, our Redeemer, to whom I give, and you should give, infinite thanks.” (It was well to keep on the right side of the clergy. Cortés, to his ruin, had not.) “You have a great opportunity to serve God and the Emperor, our Lord, in the pacification and baptism of these people, and more than this, opportunity to leave your sins behind you, with the Grace of God, and to honour and benefit yourself.” (One must also mention the Emperor, and it did no harm to remind the man that the Spaniards were bound to win. He could not live Indian fashion for ever.) “I shall be your good friend in this, and you will be treated very well.” (The man would be invaluable. Later when the country was pacified he could be given a small farm.)
“And thus I beseech you not to let the devil influence you not to do what I say, so that he will not possess himself of you for ever.” (Apparently the man had gone over to the natives, according to Aguilar, tattoo, ornaments and all. He must be a curious sight.)
“On behalf of His Majesty, I promise you to do very well for you and fully to comply with that which I have said. On my part, as a noble gentleman” (the common people always trust gentlemen), “I give you my word and pledge my faith to make my promises to you good without any reservations whatsoever, favouring and honouring you and making you one of my principal men and one of my select and loved groups in these parts.” (One cannot repeat these things too often.)
“Consequently I beseech you to come to this ship, or to the coast, without delay, to do what I have said and to help me carry out, through giving me your counsel and opinions, that which seems most expedient.” (Flatter him.)
Guerrero read the message twice. As the chronicler Oviedo said later, “As for this evil person, as he must have been from his origins, brought up among low and vile people, and uninstructed in the elements of our Holy Catholic Christian religion, his friendship and his words were such as himself was.”
A Signal Victory Page 14
