The Crimson Conquest: A Romance of Pizarro and Peru

by Charles B. Hudson

Once more to the front, crowding, staggering, almost fighting his way through the mass, Cristoval became aware that Pedro was behind. He turned and shouted into the cook's ear: "Back, Pedro! For the sake of Heaven, go to the rear!"

There was scorn in Pedro's voice as he leaned forward and roared, "Infierno!"

Of damnable obstinacy, this cook! Cristoval pushed on, every step more difficult. Here was an officer. The cavalier seized him by the shoulder, bellowing and gesticulating that the Antis must be retired. Hopeless! Mocho was at the front. Retreat and leave their general?

Forward, then, the cavalier, and at last the breastwork. Here was hell's own fury. The work had been lost and retaken repeatedly by the Antis, and was half demolished, its crest a rampart of dead. Mocho's men had just been swept from it and the Spaniards were in the street. The square and its approaches at other points had been cleared, and many of the troopers had dismounted to fight here. Their weight had turned the tide, and Mocho had lost some dozen yards. Cristoval reached the point of contact, Pedro close behind and roaring a battle-cry. In the pressure, the foremost of the foes fought shield against shield in a swaying, howling death-struggle of men bereft of reason, the more horrible for the darkness. Cristoval could see nothing, or, vaguely, a wild surging around him. Knew that he was in touch with the enemy only when his buckler rang with the blow of a mace. Then he fought.

For the rest, a mere delirium, hardly to be remembered. He heard Mocho's war-cry, the Morisco's howl, and knew they were alive. Pedro was beside him. Their two fresh blades in the narrow thoroughfare turned the tide once more, slowly at first, then with a rush, and Cristoval was atop of the breastwork. Battled here a brief minute, and was hurled back by a fresh charge from the square—but with the memory of having seen a spark of fire!

A spark of fire! Trivial! But what if it were a lighted gunner's match?

Cristoval gave voice. Found Mocho, and roared a warning. A Spanish trumpet was blowing the recall, and the charge had been arrested. Mocho was ordering back his men, but as well shout at a mountain torrent. They bore forward with resistless pressure, and Cristoval was forced against the rampart, fighting them back and shouting with all the strength of his lungs. Futile! They passed and were mounting the rampart. As he stood on the débris at the foot of the scarp he was head and shoulders above the work, and glancing up, saw again the spark of fire, just as he felt himself seized by a strong hand and dragged back toward the wall of the Acllahuasi. Pedro shouted something, drowned by an explosion that shook the earth, and in the flash he saw—horror not to be told. A gun had been dragged to the top of the breastwork and fired in the very faces of the Antis.

Horror not to be told, not to be imagined, while falconet and arquebus raked the street. Pedro held the cavalier with firm grip as they crouched beneath the spurts and flashes of the fire overhead, their ears benumbed by the repeated shocks.

At length the rush and yells of the retreating Antis died away, and the arquebus-fire was stopped; but the falconet still roared, though with longer intervals between the shots. Cristoval counted the seconds intervening. There would be time enough to allow a dash to the gate of the Acllahuasi, where they would have cover until the firing ceased. He spoke to Pedro,—no fear of being overheard, for the night was full of voices raised in every intonation which agony could wrench from human lips. Between explosions they reached the gate through the stinging atmosphere, but as they turned into its shelter Cristoval halted his comrade with a hand upon his arm. From the enclosure came the sound of Spanish voices, and lights were flitting. Valverde had reported the invasion, and the place had been entered through another door. A party was coming toward the gate. No alternative, then, but to keep the street, count the seconds, and before each discharge, throw themselves upon the pavement behind their bucklers. These, faced with steel, might deflect the slugs and fragments with which the gun was charged.

The intervals lengthened to near a minute, the firing being a mere warning against renewed attack; and the street had not ceased to reverberate after the next explosion before the two were away. Poor Pedro's speed was not high, and Cristoval moderated his own, counting as he ran. "Down!" he cried, at the limit of the period of safety, and they went upon the ground full length. Now the report, and the deadly blast flew over. Cristoval was up and speeding, the cook close in his rear, then down once more and waiting with nerves a-quiver. Again the report, but this time with a thick patter of the projectiles on every hand as the charge spread with the increase of range. With a call to Pedro, the cavalier sprang to his feet and dashed on. Twice more he dropped and covered himself: gained the barricade, and was through the breach. He turned with a shout to his comrade. There was no reply.