Indeed they were, As Oviedo also said, “He placed the Spanish in such a situation that all the Christians of that land were ruined.” But first he took a piece of charcoal, and scrawled across the back of the note that he was a slave and had no freedom, even though he remembered God.
Indeed he did, but he was not without irony. Position had given him that. For irony, after all, is only worldly insight with enough to eat. “You, my lord, and the Spaniards will find in me a very good friend,” he added.
And that also was true, since he did not say to whom. He sent the messenger back and stayed to lunch with his father-in-law. He could not help but feel angry. These ex-countrymen of his were so impertinent in their use of God, as a convenient excuse for everything. Not even the Indians thought that God fought on either side. They took captives to sacrifice them to the gods, as one caught flies to feed a toad, but that was only so that they might be placated. Unlike Christians, they did not suffer from the vanity of believing in a full collaboration with the Deity.
He would have liked to see Montejo’s face, when he read that answer, and hoped Montejo would at least allow the messenger to return safely to Chetumal.
For a wonder he did.
Montejo shut himself up in his cabin and fumed. It was an insult to God, to the Emperor, and to himself. Of the three it would have been hard to tell which was the worst offended, but since Montejo saw that trio as a Trinity, perhaps to insult one was to insult them all. More than that, it was an insult from a common sailor.
Not only was he angry, but life on shipboard had made him a little overconfident. He decided to march on Chetumal at once. But he was not that overconfident. He marched at night. He expected no difficulties. These people always ran away. When they understood he wanted only Guerrero, they would hand him over at once, and then he would put the man in chains.
Guerrero was ready for him, and had a report on every movement Montejo made, for the Spaniards were surrounded by spying Indians they could not even see, who flickered in and out of the darkness, making their observations and reports.
He had not been wrong. A man that pompous had been easy to goad into a trap.
By the time Montejo and his horses had reached shore, it was an hour before dawn. He kept his company in good order, and outriders had brought him the lay of the land. He advanced over that little isthmus which connected Chetumal to the peninsula. He sent the horses in first. They behaved well. They did not whinny. He wished to surprise whatever sentries might be about. He told the men to move quietly.
The path was dense with forest debris, but the natives had levelled the trees. It seemed an odd strategy. Usually they preferred to fight like cowards from behind their trees.
Montejo rode back along his little line. It was just as well he did.
The front horses gave a terrified whinny, screamed, and fell through the forest floor, with their riders on top of them. Their riders also screamed.
Guerrero had dug pits, lined them with spikes, points up, and covered them with debris. There was time only for one quick glance. Two of the men were spitted down there, and were being kicked by the desperate horses. No wonder they screamed.
Montejo retreated in a low continuous volley of well-aimed arrows. It did not much wound the men, for they had the remaining horses between themselves and the barricades, but it drove the horses almost insane.
An hour later he was back on his boat. After all, he had with him only ten or twelve fighting men, and what could be spared of the boat crew, and of the men, he had lost three.
The men in the pit had not been killed. Guerrero turned them over to the priests. It was dawn by now, and the altars were hungry. He did not go to see the sacrifice himself. He had not yet reached that point of desperation. But he knew that Montejo could gather what was happening from the ship. The ceremonial music rolled out across the bay.
In silence Montejo and his men watched. They knew by now that at the actual moment of sacrifice the music stopped. It stopped now.
He cursed, but there was nothing he could do until Davila arrived with reinforcements. Those pits were a European trick. If Guerrero was behind that, he would have to be cautious, and of course the man was behind it. He settled down to wait.
Since it had not been possible to destroy him, it would be necessary to get rid of him. Guerrero had prepared for that also.
Late in the afternoon a tattered messenger got through from the north. Davila and his company had been ambushed and destroyed. Naum Pat sent the message, therefore, since Naum Pat was an ally, the message must be true.
There was nothing for Montejo to do but weigh anchor and depart, pick up the men at Salamanca, and rephrase his campaign.
Guerrero watched the departure with satisfaction, having speeded it alternately with gifts of food and showers of arrows from canoes.
But he knew he had accomplished nothing. He had only gained a little more time, that was all. Somehow, he must rouse the whole country, against the moment when the Spaniards returned. He could not know when that would be.
It turned out to be two years.
Yet, though he did his best, he could not feel confident that his best would be good enough. For there was one thing he had reckoned without. For more even than the ambitions of the Lords of Xiu, and the lack of unity among the provinces, the Maya were the victims of their own calendar.
And when Montejo struck back, it was from an unexpected quarter.
XX
It was a curious contrivance, that calendar. No one but a priest could grasp it. It was a system of interlocking wheels so vast no Christian could understand it, for Europe believed the world was built in 4004 B.C., but the Maya dealt directly with the stars, and reckoned by such units as 23,040,000,000 days, all of which ceaselessly came back again. Thus mounted, time rolled over them like a juggernaut, and bound to its wheels, they were crushed. Everything had happened before and everything would happen again. But since everything that happened today had also happened the last time this day had occurred, one had only to open the sacred diary of the past, in order to find out what to do. On some days one could fight and win. But on other days, even though one had to fight, because one had done so last time, one did not make too much effort, because one knew one would lose.
It was impossible to plan a campaign on those terms. No Maya, of course, would attack on the wrong day, but the Spanish were another matter. The Spanish did not even know what day it was. Even his own younger son, the one training to be a priest, stood against Guerrero, who wanted to decimate the Spaniards at Salamanca de Xamanha. It could not be done. The last time there had been invaders in the land on this day, such an attack had failed. To choose another day, they would have to wait until the katun bundles applying to it were ready to be opened. Besides, there was nothing to be worried about. The nation would not be destroyed until the next return of Katun 8 Ahau, and that would not occur until 1697.
Guerrero looked at his son with exasperated disbelief. And yet even he could see the irony of it. He had wanted his sons part of this world, and they were, so like that world that they would go down with it. But not, they said, until 1697.
1697 seemed far away.
Still, he could not sit there and fold his hands. He thought of a way out.
Surely, at some time in their history, some priest had forged the katun records?
His son was shocked.
Nachancan’s attitude had more dignity. Yes, of course they would fight. One always fought against fate. But only because it was the thing to do. Even he did not believe you could replace the inner cogs of time.
To forgery he would not agree, but only on the grounds that it would not work. It did not matter what one said. The records were true.
Their only hope lay in the fact that not every Maya state was doomed on the same day, not, that is, until 1697. If they sent emissaries to various states, they might to that degree play with time. But to which state was the question. No-one could tell until the katun bundles ha
d been opened at their appointed times. And history, too, was kept not by months or years, but by the twenty-year periods. The new period was still several years away.
Guerrero could do nothing.
In Mexico, Montejo counted time much faster, he had to, for he could see it running out. Unless he established himself in Yucatan rapidly, there were many who would want to take even that place away from him.
So one morning there appeared before Acalan, not Montejo, who would have been bad enough, but Davila, who was worse.
It took the whole peninsula by surprise. The way to Acalan lay across quagmires and swamps which, in this rainy season, were treacherous lakes. In Acalan they knew they were safe. Until now they had never doubted it. And now here was Davila, assuring them that no harm would come to them.
The Maya were not reassured. Cortés had been there, and taken away their cacique and six hundred porters, none of whom had ever returned.
In two hours the city was deserted. The food still bubbled in its cooking pots, incense still rose on the altars, but the people sat in the jungle, watching.
Davila was undisturbed. Since it was the rainy season, five thousand people could not sit in the rain for ever. The next morning the cacique decided to become an ally.
When he appeared before Davila, he brought with him the usual gifts of bright birds and bales of food. But Davila was now sure that he would conquer, therefore such efforts to temporize were nothing more than disobedience, a little before the event, but all the worse for that, in so far as disobedience before the event sometimes prevents it from happening.
He put the cacique and his nobles in chains. The Maya had not seen chains before. It had been Davila’s inspiration to bring them. Not even Montejo had thought of that, except for discipline among his own men.
At first the Chontal of Acalan thought it was some sacrifice. They saw the red-hot iron welded on. The nobles did not flinch. At a sacrifice no noble would flinch.
But it was not a sacrifice. It was something far worse. It was an indignity.
The inhabitants returned to the town. It was anything to get rid of those chains, and in a few days Davila did have them struck off. They fell to the floor with a clink. The nobles rubbed their wrists and ankles, which the hammer on chisel had jarred, and said nothing. But they did not forget that sound. The Spanish would go. Unless they could find gold they always went. The indignity was another matter. That could not be forgotten.
At last they were roused. At last they knew what would happen to them, if the Spanish won. At night they sent messengers throughout the area, and one of these at last reached Chetumal. Acalan on the west, was much like Chetumal on the east, coast. It had seemed as impregnable, and had fallen as easily.
They wanted help. They wanted Guerrero. This time, even though Davila did march off, they knew he would be back; that the Spanish would never rest until the peninsula were stripped of everything that made life worth living, and those of the natives who survived, survived in chains, which this time, would not be struck off.
Guerrero left at once. Before he arrived at Acalan, Davila ran into a trap at Mazatlan, and narrowly escaped it. He too, had not forgotten Guerrero. He blamed the trap on him. For he thought the natives soft, they would not have dared to think of such a thing. There he was wrong. The natives were soft, but it was a softness made of wire. They refused to help him.
Davila was forced to torture them. He did not wish to do so. It was bad policy. He particularly did not want to do so in so far as he found torture enjoyable. It was enjoyable to see a body writhe. There was a special madness in that which made you feel competent. But it was useless. They would not give anything away. They had stiffened.
It drove the Spanish wild. They hated such stubbornness and malice. All they had done was to come to conquer the country. Why would the natives not co-operate?
Even when the soles of their feet were burned, the Maya only writhed and said nothing. They had made a special study of death, since that was what they feared most. They knew how to die.
When they did die, Davila allotted their lands to his followers. When they saw that, some of the local lords came over. As far as they were concerned, loyalty was a border they could cross at any time, and they did want to keep their land. There is more than one way of defeating the enemy.
Davila was not entirely taken in, but he was surrounded. He decided to march to Champoton.
It was a march he made alone. No Indian would accompany him.
Davila was a choleric man. Resistance only made him angry, and anger, competent. As for his men, since they could not have gold, they would have land. They were nervous and quarrelsome, there was something about the green jungle which sapped their nerve, but they did not rebel.
By the time Guerrero reached Acalan, Davila was already safe in Champoton.
It made him despair, to try to organize a campaign in this country. Acalan and Chetumal might now be allies, but the Couohes of Champoton co-operated with no one. They made the same mistake the Xiu had made, three hundred years ago, about their hired Mexican mercenaries. They believed that they could use the invader to conquer the country, then put him down, and rule the country in his stead.
Davila baptized them.
The Couohes were puzzled, but did not greatly object. It was a rite which meant nothing, and it did seem to please the mercenaries. True, the Spaniards were a brutal, uncivilized people. But if it pleased them to tumble a few idols down the steep temple stairs, one could always make new idols. It did not take much to please the invader, after all.
Then Montejo arrived. He entered the town in triumph. The natives could not do enough for him. And as they had foreseen, he moved on. It was time to found another Salamanca, which he did, at Campeche, a few miles farther up the coast. The natives did not think it would last long.
They were quite wrong. It was too late. The Spanish had come to stay. They were ready for conquest farther inland. But first they baptized everyone. They read the requerimiento to large groups. The natives must be loyal Christians. If they were, they would be forgiven their resistance to their conquerors.
The natives of Campeche had not seen those welded chains on their own nobles. They complied and waited. It was only a matter of waiting.
Both the Spanish and Guerrero forgot the priests who wandered ritually at the proper hours about those temple stairs and platforms. From the platforms they had an excellent view of what was happening. They did not interfere, but when they saw their own gods going down and that primitive little device of two crossed sticks going up, it made them thoughtful.
They were a small group, intermarried and interrelated with the nobility. Through the calendar, they ran the country. They ran it with a mixture of superstition and astronomy, but they knew what they were doing. Whether they believed in their gods or not, and most of them did, they meant to go right on running the country. The Spanish, being ignorant themselves, thought themselves up against superstition. It never occurred to them that they were also up against efficiency and a vast learning.
So Guerrero was to have an ally after all.
He badly needed one. He was back in Chetumal. The Spanish seemed to be succeeding everywhere. Even his own second son, the priest, said there was nothing to be done. The calendar ordained defeat. It made Guerrero furious. He had wanted his sons part of this society and they were. His younger son believed in the whole pantheon. The gods would save them. The gods would give a sign.
The older priests, however, began to treat Guerrero with more deference than they had done before. They wished to make certain plans.
Guerrero was tired of plans. He was forty-three. It seemed impossible to believe. It made the world more precious to have used up so much of it. He spent more time now with his wife. Now every hour seemed to count. But he was tired of waiting. As usual, he wanted to fight, and have the battle out in the open.
He did not have to wait any longer. News came that Montejo had founded his fifth and last Sal
amanca, at Campeche, his soldiers were discontented and disloyal, but he had four or five hundred of them. He was now ready to take over the peninsula, and there was even worse news than that.
XXI
This time the Spanish were determined to win.
Davila was marching across country towards Chetumal.
From Campeche to Chetumal is a distance of three hundred kilometres, across variable but nowhere easy country. There seemed plenty of time.
Guerrero knew better. There was now never to be time enough. And he knew what sort of man Davila was. Davila, like himself, would never give up, because he could always think of something else to do. Davila was wily.
As the messengers began to come in, Guerrero felt now hope, now panic, and again the stubborn will to survive. Nachancan was now very old. Guerrero directed everything, and that meant jealousies and suspicions to be dealt with. He dealt with them, but more and more he found his eyes turning east, as he despised one and worried about the other son.
The elder was out there, somewhere, with a raiding party.
He sent out envoys, but what good did that do? These men had the habit of quarrelling with each other. They could not trust anyone well enough to accept help.
He had never met Davila. He had never met Montejo, But he knew what kind of man the Adelantando was, and thought little of him. But men like Davila were another matter. He had seen a few such, among the raggle taggle of his Spanish years in Panama. When they win, such men are called great. But they are not great. They are merely lucky and dangerous, so avid for action they never ask the why of what they are doing, and therefore can only be stopped by force, or deflected by some trick.
He had no effective force. That left him trickery.
But what trick? He had had a plan, to defend in depth, but the Indians would never do that. And though Nachancan was a great lord, his vassals were not overawed by him. They wanted to be great lords too. It was useless to tell the old man that, for he knew it already. What Nachancan wanted to hear was something reassuring. He was sixty-seven now. He was unflinching, but what he wanted was his world put back where it was. He had not yet had a stroke, but he moved ponderously, and had developed a new mannerism, a rapid blinking of the eyes, whether the sun was bright or the sky overcast, the only indication that his self control was that and not ease.
A Signal Victory Page 15
