Roger the Bold: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico

by F. S. Brereton

He held his hand up and motioned with his forefinger as if to impress his words.

"A big force, in the half light of the early morning. We hastened to carry out our orders by dashing in to capture this tall native. We were beset on every side, and this is the result. We have the prisoner, but the five are gone. The tale will make good telling. Adhere to the facts."

It was a rough and ready and a none too honest method of making their own actions appear all that was desirable before their comrades and their generalissimo, and the men took to the tale eagerly. They set spurs then to their horses, and galloped on to the town, the natives following some little way, till the appearance of others, allies of the Spaniards, caused them to beat a tardy retreat. Then the troop slackened its pace, and trotted through the big gateway into the long, wide street of Tlascala, the houses of which were defended by a magnificent wall such as the invaders had never seen in their lives before. And here they found thousands of natives, all bustling with preparations for the coming siege of Mexico, and for the review which Fernando Cortes was about to hold of all his troops, Spanish and allies. In one spot, where there was a wide clearing, Roger saw many hundreds at work upon masses of woodwork, which they seemed to be taking to pieces. These were, in fact, the many brigantines of various sizes which Cortes had had built, under the able guidance of a shipwright in his company; and having been erected, they were now under process of disunion, so that they might easily be conveyed to the lake of Tezcuco. A few minutes later the troop came to the Spanish quarters, and having halted and dismounted, handed their horses over to native servants, of whom each soldier had several to attend to his wants. Roger was dragged from the saddle as soon as his ankles had been unlashed. Then a guard fell in beside him, and the captain led the way.

"To the generalissimo's quarters," he said, in grand tones, pointing to the broad flag of Castile which flew from one of the finest buildings. "There we will tell our tale and leave this dog. Hah! I have scarcely looked at him before. He is tall and very fair! Surely not unlike our own people, or those other fellows who have pestered the coast."

"His fine feathers make him a native, but in appearance he is English," ventured the commander of the guard.

"Not far from the mark, I should say," agreed the captain, staring closely at his prisoner, and taking careful stock of him. "And were I asked I would swear almost that he understood every word spoken by us. There is a movement of his eye which seems to tell that he listens to every word."

"Then he would know of our ill-luck, and might——"

"He had better keep a still tongue between his fine white teeth," said the captain, in threatening tones. "He who tells tales of our branch of the service will have need to make them of the right sort, or else——"

"We shall quarrel with him, captain," smiled the commander of the guard, sardonically. "It would be a bad day when the troops looked at the cavalry as common arquebusiers, or as men who wield the crossbow."

For a little while they discussed the matter in low tones, their conclusion being that their prisoner was undoubtedly an Englishman, though as to his knowledge of Spanish they were more than doubtful. However, their doubts were set at rest within a little while, while the captain and his men went hot and cold at the thought of the easy revenge which Roger might take; for already the tale of their losses, and of the manner in which a huge force had been attacked, had been sent round the camp in Tlascala. Roger was marched along the main street—a street which, compared with ours of to-day, would still be awarded the prize for general excellence of design, ample width and air space, and accommodation for any possible amount of traffic, and was ushered into the huge building over which the flag waved. In a courtyard behind, a council of officers was sitting, and the guard and their captive came to a halt opposite them. At once all eyes went to the tall figure of the captive, while Roger himself allowed his gaze to wander calmly around the circle, from the gaudily dressed native caciques and nobles in their feather cloaks to the Spaniards. Lastly, his eye riveted itself upon one of medium height, who occupied a central position. He was fair for a Spaniard, though he had the usual swarthy complexion of the race. But there was a certain dignity about this man which marked him as a leader—a decision of manner which his lips, his nose, the set of his chin, and the general poise of his head and body seemed to indicate. And yet, though he had not said a word so far, and none had addressed him, Roger felt sure that he was the redoubtable Fernando Cortes, the man who had come to Cuba as a debtor, with nothing before him, and who, owing to some little favour which the governor of that island had shown him, had at length attained to the leadership of one of the numerous expeditions which left the new Spanish possessions every year without a single exception. The reader will recollect how that command had been snatched away again within an hour almost of its having been given. And here before him Roger saw the man who had dared so much, who had defied authority, had so skilfully managed his men that they had fought and clung to him even through adversity, while they had not grumbled when his reckless and wilful act of destroying the fleet had left a paltry five hundred Spaniards face to face with races already bitterly hostile, and able to put armies into the field amounting to many hundreds of thousands.