The Crimson Conquest: A Romance of Pizarro and Peru

by Charles B. Hudson

Hernando was out of bed at a bound. As he rushed out half-dressed, a horde of retreating Cañares swarmed into the square, some wounded, some naked, many unarmed, and all in panic, their savage clamor drowning the shouts of the Spanish officers struggling to form the companies. For a space it was a scene of madness. The Cañares, part terror-stricken by the suddenness of the attack, part infuriated by wounds and the sight of blood, whirled in the square like wild cattle, breaking the forming lines of the infantry, struck at by angry pikemen, fighting back, and howling. In a moment began a sputtering zip of arrows from outside, with here and there an answering shriek and plunge of some man hit, and the confusion rose to pandemonium. The sputtering increased; became a steady rain of missiles searching every yard of the place, their flight invisible in the twilight, making the vicious whir, or sharp, angry snap as they glanced on the pavement or from the walls, the more sinister. The Cañares broke for shelter in the halls of the palace of Viracocha, followed by the infantry and Candia's men dragging their guns. Here the lines were hastily reformed. A few cavaliers were in the court, already mounted; but a few only, for Juan Pizarro had gone, three days before, with almost the entire strength of the horse in a fruitless pursuit of the Inca Manco, whose rescue had been reported by the battered Mendoza and his companion.

Hernando had gotten into armor in some fashion, and was now in the saddle, adjusting his helmet while he bellowed commands. His handful of cavalry clattered after him into the hail-swept square. The infantry, not two hundred of them in all, closed in behind. No hesitancy here, but grim resolution to fight whatever odds they might find; an unreserved, deadly willingness to fight, though the legions of all heathendom were arrayed against them.

For an hour the plaza roared, thundered, and trembled; was finally cleared. The warriors of the Inca had fought with courage almost superhuman, but had been met with steel, by the crushing weight of cavalry, by the fire and havoc of guns. They retreated to the streets, and the streets were swept by falconet and arquebus. They were driven to the suburbs—and the attack had failed.

But gloom, almost despair, was with the victors. Toward night, as the city grew quiet, Hernando summoned his officers in council in the square. They gathered about him, wounded, exhausted, and filthy with carnage, scowling sullenly beneath their lifted visors, morose and taciturn. The little said was scarcely heeded, their sombre glances turning to the grim walls of the Sachsahuaman, or to the hills around the city, now dark with the legions of the Inca. Hernando heard the reports of the wounded and dead, made no comment, and the council grew dumb. The storm had broken with such fury, with unexpectedness so entire, and its apparent magnitude was so great, that hearts before unknown to fear were filled with dread. The minds of the counsellors were stunned. The few words ventured by one or another were flat in their inadequacy, and were answered by silence. Hernando at last forced some phrases of encouragement, issued instructions for the disposition of what force there was, and the council gradually dissolved without words of dismissal.

Cuzco was invested. To oppose the thousands Hernando had only his infantry, a battery short of ammunition, with a thousand or more Cañares whom nothing could induce to go into action that day, and whose fidelity in the emergency was doubtful. Of the infantry, only the arquebusiers had signal superiority over the foe, and these were few, their powder limited. What fate had befallen Juan Pizarro and his troopers he feared to guess. Whether they should be able to make their way back to the city was a conjecture which gave little cheer.

As evening came on patrols were kept moving through the deserted streets, saluted with an occasional flight of arrows when they approached the suburbs, but there seemed no disposition on the part of the Peruvians to renew encounter. Night fell as calmly over the brooding mountains as if it were not curtaining the prelude of a weary length of tragedy whose last act would mean the destruction of a civilization.

For one heart within the besieged city, crushed and broken by sorrows that had searched and torn its every fibre, the rise of the sun upon the outburst of clamor of conflict saw the last flickering of the desire to live. Shocked and terrified by the tumult outside, the yells of fighting men, the roar of charging horse, and the thunder of guns—dread sounds which told her of agony and death for her beloved people—she closed her ears and prayed to die. Life was too full of horrors. Hers had been shadowed by a pall, lifted once by love, only to fall again with deepened blackness. Behind closed doors, with darkened windows, surrounded by cowering and weeping maids, she knelt through the long hours of anguish, offering up shuddering appeals to be taken away.

The Auqui Paullo came, flushed with excitement and fierce cheerfulness. He knew the dire significance of the turmoil, and bade Rava partake his own hope. The army of the Inca was afield, and deliverance at hand. Alas! no deliverance to Rava from her bondage of grief. She waved him away and wept afresh.

Late in the day came Father Valverde from his ministrations to dying Spaniards, and she knelt at his feet, imploring his prayers for her relief. The good priest, shocked at her longing for death, hastened to banish this vestige of her barbarism; prayed beside her for the renewing of her resignation; told her again of His agony and gentle patience, of the Mother bereaved, and gave her support. Once more he spoke of the saintly lives of nuns, and she listened with yearning for their holy peacefulness. He left her at last with new hope and a resolution fast growing. Rava would take the veil.

The night which closed the first day's struggle was without alarm. The Spaniards slept beside their arms, the troopers in armor and at the picket line of their saddled steeds. Guards were doubled, and patrols kept the streets. The stars came out, but they seemed rivalled in multitude and brilliancy by the fires of the besieging army, sparkling in a vast circle on the surrounding hills, and beheld with awe by the beleaguered conquistadors.