Standing alone, Pedro watched the front ranks draw close, individual faces becoming distinct, the lance points of the horsemen on a level with his face.
"By God, there's the Redhead!" bawled the familiar voice of Sandoval. "Ha, Redhead!"
A score of gauntlets were raised, a volley of Ha's and Hola's went up from the oncoming riders. Cortes himself smiled and waved. Pedro saluted him. But at the same moment de Vargas stiffened. That cavalier on the handsome bay to the rear of his friends—the tilted eyebrows, pale face . . . And that priest with the square beard beside him on the genet? They were both staring up at him.
Fiery particles danced in front of Pedro's eyes. He went cold, then, hot. His hands were shaking. It couldn't be true. A trick of-the brain.
"How about it?" called Alvarado. Pedro signaled to open the gates.
No, it was not a delusion. The pair of horsemen were real. They were still watching him—and de Silva smiled.
Diego de Silva and the Inquisitor of Jaen, Ignacio de Lora!
LIV
It was characteristic of Father Bartolome de Olmedo that even the bustle of arrival did not prevent him from meeting Pedro, as the latter came down from the walls. One glance at his preoccupied face told the friar that de Vargas had recognized his two arch-enemies among the incoming troops. He would have passed Olmedo if the priest had not laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"Ha, Father!" Pedro exclaimed. "I crave a thousand pardons, but I had something on my mind." And making an effort, he added, "What joy to see you and the comrades again! My faith, you've been sadly missed!"
Gradually Olmedo's features replaced those of de Silva and the Inquisitor which were absorbing him, and he noted the leaner, tanned, worn look vhich the friar had brought back from the campaign.
"We've a deal to tell each other," Pedro went on conventionally. "It seems that your management didn't prevent bloodshed after all, eh?"
"No, my son; but it lessened it. The fight at Cempoala would not have been so easily won if I had not gilded certain fingers and persuaded certain people. It's clear that, for the sake of peace—at least among Spaniards—Heman Cortes is the only possible leader in New Spain." He broke off. "But let's deal frankly with each other, son Pedro. There are more pressing matters. I know what's in your mind."
By now, de Vargas had recovered enough from what he had seen on the wall to gather his wits together; and, as he did so, his eyes sharpened. Certain points which had been in doubt were becoming clearer.
"Frankness, by all means. Father Bartolome. Were you frank with me when you left here six weeks ago?"
The friar shook his head. "If you mean that I did not tell you all I knew, I was not frank—no."
"You knew then that Diego de Silva and this Inquisitor were with Narvaez?"
"Yes, their names were on the list we got from Guevara."
"And that was the reason that Garcia and I were left here, eh?"
"Yes, for your own good, my son."
"Thanks. And for that reason, you had me renew my vow?"
"Yes."
Pedro's laugh jarred. "Frankness comes better late than never. Even so, I thought you were above such tricks. But all priests are the same. They must be subtle; they must play chess with truth. I suppose you couldn't tell me why in this case. That's asking too much."
Olmedo faced him without flinching. In spite of his stubby nose, sunburned at the tip, his squat figure and dust-covered robe, he still looked impressive.
"No, not too much. And I'll tell you without subtlety. It was because I am a priest, because I hate bloodshed, and because I love you. Is that plain enough? You had taken a vow on which God's pardon for you depended. Should I let you forget it? Should I dangle temptation before your eyes by letting you go to Cempoala? As for Garcia, I wished to save him. You and I know what the penalty is for killing a priest— here and hereafter."
Pedro stared into the unblinking, honest eyes of the friar.
"But what have you gained?" he burst out. "The men are here— penned in with us here! Is that better than if Juan and I had met them at Cempoala?"
Olmedo shrugged. "I don't know. All I could do was play for time. I gained that much, hoping that matters would clear themselves. They haven't. What happens now depends on you."
"If you think," Pedro frothed over, "that Juan and I are going to house with men who have done to death the people we loved, you're mistaken. It's too much for flesh and blood to stand."
The friar drew close and laid his forefinger on Pedro's chest. "Nevertheless, that's what you're going to stand. Captain de Vargas. There was a time when I could have handed you over to the Inquisition. Instead, I imposed a penance which you accepted and which was heavier than you thought. Now you are going to perform that penance. And if you love Garcia, you will use every means in your power to keep him quiet. . . . Harken. Whatever you think of them, de Silva and Father Ignacio have great credit with these new men from Cuba. It touches the life of this enterprise that there be no breach between them and us. Nor will Hernan Cortes permit any. He returns in glory from this campaign. It has gone to his head. Now, more than ever, his
ambition is in the saddle, and it will brush anything out of its way. A word to the wise, son Pedro."
De Vargas straightened up. "Do you think that fear—"
"Nonsense!" Olmedo interrupted. "I thought you loved your friend, Juan Garcia. As for you, I hold you to your oath."
Through the great courtyard, now that the ranks had broken, eddied an immense jubilation: reunion of old friends, back-slapping, embraces, hubbub of voices; the newcomers strolling about, meeting members of the garrison; horses being led off to their stalls; groups forming and reforming like a kaleidoscope. From the comer near the wall, Pedro gazed at it blindly.
"What about de Silva and the priest?" he muttered. "Have you preached at them? Or perhaps we're to be the only Christians and let them choose their time to knife us?"
Olmedo shook his head. "No. It wasn't hard to make them see that you and Garcia are in the favor of the General and of our company— that they're not m.asters here. They're content to forget bygones." The friar was honest enough to add, "Or so they say."
"Cursed generous of them!" returned Pedro. He stared at the pavement a moment. "Well, Father Bartolome, the saints help me to keep my vow! It's bitter hard." He ran his sleeve across his forehead. "And I'll do what I can with Juan Garcia—though how that will be, God knows. But let one of those hrihones raise a finger, as I hope they will"—Pedro shook with passion—"let them step one inch across the line, and I hold myself absolved. And it will be my greatest pleasure—" He choked himself off, adding dully, "And there's an end on it."
Having got all he could expect for the moment, Olmedo nodded. But the end, as Pedro had put it, had an immediate postscript. An explosion burst out in the courtyard, a roar of voices, hurrying of feet, the swaying back and forth of a group in the center, out of which issued an animal-like raging devoid of any human tone. Then, staggering back from the group, as if thrown off by a rotating wheel, appeared the figure of Ignacio de Lora. His hands were clutching his throat; his robe was torn; and he had a smear of blood on his face. Meanwhile, the knot of struggling men scuffled round and round, opened and closed, like the staves of a barrel on the point of bursting.
With a cry of "God-a-mercy," Pedro raced toward the tumult, which widened rapidly as other men joined in.
"Get him away!" howled a voice from the tussle. "Get him out of sight!" And a couple of men, detaching themselves, began hurrying Father Ignacio toward one of the buildings.
At the same moment, the group blew apart, its several members reeling backward—and Garcia emerged, roaring, frothing, his face crimson, his eyes rolling for a glimpse of his quarry. Catching sight of de Lora, now fifty paces distant, he bounded after him.
Pedro strained forward but could not hope to overtake Garcia in the second or two of grace that remained. The men on either side of de Lora, warned by the shouts from behind, j
umped to one side, leaving the Inquisitor alone in the path of his pursuer, who came on head down like a charging bull. Murder seemed inevitable, when, in the last fraction of time, a steel-clad figure threw itself between. Crouched low and with legs braced wide, it presented an obstacle that struck Garcia slightly above the knees and sent him headlong crashing to the pavement. As he rose, a two-hundred-pound weight of flesh, bone, and armor landed between his shoulders and pinned him down.
It was Sandoval. His rough bellow mingled with Garcia's raging.
"How now, companero! How now, you mad fool!" And to de Lora, who stood rooted several paces away, "Get along with Your Reverence! Disappear for God's sake! . . . Ha, Redhead! And in good time, too!"
With a tremendous heave, Garcia struggled to his knees, though Sandoval still had an arm around his throat. Pedro gripped him from the other side. But Garcia was apparently unconscious of them. His eyes were fixed on the retreating figure of Ignacio de Lora, who at that moment vanished around the corner of a building. Then he relaxed slightly and looked around.
"Name of God!" he muttered. "Why did you hinder me, friends? Except for you, that piece of dung would have been spattered around the compound. But wait! And it won't be long either. ... So he's joined our company, has he! That's a joke!" He clenched his huge fists, staring again at the place where de Lora had disappeared.
A vociferous, half-angry, half-curious throng surrounded them. Oaths and demands of what was up and what ailed Garcia showered on all sides. It was noticeable that the old company tried to make light of the matter but that the newcomers were ruffled and truculent. Dirty looks started and hands fingered sword hilts. But all at once silence fell, and the crowd opened; Garcia found himself facing Cortes.
The General was bareheaded, but otherwise in full harness. Though he said nothing for a moment, his extreme pallor, the vein across his forehead, and the hook of his mouth, denoted towering rage.
"Give me the truth of this," he said at last in a dry, hot voice. "I hope I have been misinformed. Did you attack the Reverend Father
Ignacio de Lora when he had scarce dismounted and when, thinking no ill, he was talking with a couple of gentlemen?"
Garcia's bloodshot eyes met the black glance of the other steadily.
"Aye, Your Excellency, and I would have attacked him before he had dismounted if I had noticed him. But I was busy with the cannon. It was a mistake, I grant you. I should have waited until there were fewer meddlers about."
"For what reason, except madness, did you attack this holy man?"
The cords of Garcia's neck swelled. Trying to speak, he could get no sound out at first. Then the words came like hot lava.
"Because that swine laid my mother on the rack; because he broke every bone in her body until she prayed him for death; because, when I bribed him eight hundred castellanos to spare her, he took the money and sent her to the stake. Reason? If that's no reason, I'd be glad of hell, provided I can tear his carcass limb from limb ..."
The voice choked again. A mutter, half-sympathetic, half-angry, went through the crowd.
"From your standpoint, a good reason—if true," snapped Cortes in the same burning tone.
"By the Cross, it's true," said Pedro. "I swear to every letter of it."
"Who asked for your swearing?" The dark eyes flicked like a lash. "Am I concerned with this man's private feud? But I'm concerned with this—yes, in full measure—that he should flout the laws of the army by attempting to kill one of our company—let alone that Father Ignacio is a priest of God. . . . Nor is this the first time. At Cempoala, he drew his sword against Captain Velasquez and endangered the lives of other gentlemen. I overlooked it then because he was drunk. He is not drunk now; and, by my conscience, I intend to make it clear once and for all that military laws are not to be trifled with."
Though plainly in a hanging mood, Cortes curbed himself. His anger was perhaps the more deadly because he controlled it. Not that Garcia would escape (the gallows were written in every line of the General's face), but to string him up on the spot would defeat the purpose of his execution. He must be tried and condemned. He must be hanged to a ruffle of drums in the presence of the company.
Cortes's glance singled out one of the newcomers. It was politic to hand Garcia over to the faction to which de Lora belonged. They would not then be able to complain of favoritism to the old veterans. Besides, in the case of so popular a man as Garcia, the comrades could not be trusted to treat him rigorously.
"Andres de Duero," he said, "will you and some of yours take charge
of this man. See that he has a double weight of irons and is well guarded. We'll hear the case tomorrow."
For the first time, Garcia seemed to be aware of his plight. "Your Excellency—" he began, but the words failed. He turned his eyes in a mute appeal to the familiar faces around him.
"Well, Your Excellency," Pedro put in, "order me a double weight of irons at the same time. Juan Garcia and I will take what comes together."
"If it is necessary," Cortes retorted, "to teach twenty rebels the lesson of discipline, that lesson will be taught. Are you a soldier, Captain de Vargas, or not? If not, hand me your sword."
On the point of making the latter choice, Pedro hesitated. He could not help Garcia by sitting in the bilboes with him.
"Caramhaf' Garcia burst out. "If you hand over your sword, I'll wring your neck. Senor General, don't let the lad make a fool of himself. He's only young and a hothead. This Is my business. I don't want anyone holding my hand."
Cortes's face did not soften. "Captain de Sandoval, you can show Andres de Duero where we keep prisoners here."
Duero picked out several of the Narvaez men, drew his sword, and turned to Garcia. "Then, sir, I am under the necessity—"
The crowd made way. Garcia squared his shoulders. Circled by his squad of guards, he moved slowly off and disappeared between the buildings.
"Cristobal de Olid," said Cortes to that officer, who had come up, "you will appoint a military court for tomorrow morning. You will choose officers who are neither especially friendly nor unfriendly to the prisoner. There can be, however, but one verdict. . . . And now, hark you, I have matters of importance to thresh out with Captain de Alva-rado. It's been a sad mess here. Let me not be disturbed again."
LV
The interview between Cortes and Alvarado must have been stormy, to judge by the Sun God's red face and burning eyes when he came out. It got around that Cortes had berated him for a fool on the score of the May massacre in the teocalli. This was no doubt deserved, but it did not make for good feeling within the quarters.
Word passed that Cortes was in a seething bad humor at his sullen
reception in the Valley: towns deserted or silent, no welcome, no acclaim. He had boasted great things to the Narvaez captains and now had to make excuses. It was shame and fear on the part of the Aztecs, he said, because of their attack. He would mete out punishment, reconcile the people, and all would be well. But his pride burned in his belly.
Report had it that he refused to see Montezuma, the dog of a king, as he called him, who would not open his markets or furnish food. It was hinted that, drunk with his victory at Cempoala and confident in the power of his army, Cortes had put on the airs of a grandee and taken credit to himself that belonged rightfully to God.
Almost at once the joy of reunion was turning sour. Bad blood showed. The men of Narvaez smarted at their defeat and looked askance at the victors. The veterans, on their side, sniffed at the new recruits.
And now this fracas about Garcia did nothing to sweeten matters. To those with experience in military' courts, his sentence was a foregone conclusion.
"By God," stamped Catana Perez, when she and Pedro had returned to their quarters, "I don't believe it! It's but a feint of the General's. He must make a show. But hang Juan Garcia? Hang one of the best of us? A greathearted gentleman like him? Ahsurdo!''
De Vargas shook his head, his eyes on the floor. After a pause
he walked over to their common chest, took out his best gold chain and a fine pair of jade earrings, which he put on, then slipped a large turquoise ring on his thumb.
"Why?" she queried.
"Ordered to dine at the General's. Dinner for the new captains. Dine with Diego de Silva, Father Ignacio de Lora!" His voice shook. "Say an Ave for me, rosa mia. I can do more for Juan by keeping in with Cortes and attending that dinner than bv holding off. But it's mortal hard."
Seated not far from the head of the table at Cortes's dinner for the captains. Father Olmedo watched the depressing pattern of human nature repeating itself. Something of a philosopher, he realized that this small, remote gathering represented the whole of mankind, just as a detached pool contains the essentials of the ocean. Here present were the qualities that created and destroyed empires, the same heroism and the same blindness: wisdom and courage to plan and execute; ambition and hatred to divide and nullify.
Rolling a bread crumb between his fingers, he reflected with what slender means the original company had wrought its great achievement. But there had been humility then, the feeling of dependence on God, the faith, however crass, in divine guidance; there had been loyalty, good fellowship, brotherhood. Now, its numbers tripled, its security assured, its goal won, it seemed to be disintegrating.
Olmedo observed the men about him: Cortes, vain of his triumph, no longer the plain, alert captain but the petulant dictator, his eyes inscrutable and scheming, as he glanced down the board. Alvarado glooming over his reprimand of the afternoon. Olid's swarthy face, reckless as ever but now with a shade of the fox in it. Sandoval, the soul of loyalty, a little downcast, evidently puzzled. De Vargas, grown old for his years, looking white and deadly, as he kept his eyes averted from Diego de Silva. And then, worst of all, the two ranks at table, Narvaez's contingent facing the veteran officers, a chasm between them.
It seemed to Olmedo, who had a touch of the mystic, that Death sat at the far end of the table, balancing Cortes. For death was inevitable when vanity and human passion lined the board, as they were doing here. Why could men never learn, never see? Why, untaught by repeated experience, did they have to meet over and over again the same disaster? It was not that they did not know how to avoid it. They had known for fifteen hundred years. They had only to renounce their tiresome and malignant egos for the grandeur and freedom of love. They had only to be Christian in thought and heart. To the honest friar, it seemed childishly clear that this was the remedy for most human ills; and it lay ready at hand. For Olmedo, the ironic tragedy of human life consisted in tiiis perpetual shipwreck within sight of the haven.
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