Captain from Castile (64 page)

About nightfall, through an ever-denser encampment, they reached the lines of recently built Spanish huts on the causeway at Xoloc. The sharp quien vive of the sentinel brought water to Pedro's eyes. It meant home.

"Captain Pedro de Vargas, reporting to the General with a hundred

men."

"Whoop!" yelled the sentinel to his mates of the guard. "Hombres! Here are Redhead de Vargas, Bull Garcia, Catana! Blast me!" And letting discipline go hang for the moment, Chavez of the old company teetered his partisan against the wall and flung himself at the newcomers like an affectionate bear.

LX/X

In an upper room of the captured Aztec fort at Xoloc, which guarded the southern causeway, Hernan Cortes ate supper and relaxed after the day's work. Corn, beans, tomatoes, squash, and fried fish, with a dessert of Indian figs, made up the menu. As a rare treat and for the good of

his leg, wounded in the recent fighting, he indulged himself with a cup of Spanish wine newly landed on the coast. Except for the page Ochoa, who thanks to Sandoval had survived the Noche Triste, he was alone.

A hullabaloo in the surrounding camp broke out, and his eyes quickened. Somebody was beating a drum. Shouts. Scuffling of feet. Women's voices chiming in. Skilled in interpreting mass noises, he concluded at once that it was neither a quarrel nor a mutiny. The drummer was clowning; the shouts reflected excitement and good temper. Still, after a hard day's fight, one didn't expect merrymaking.

"Boy," he said to Ochoa, "step down there and see what's afoot. Bring me word of it."

However, the sounds were converging on his own quarters. He caught the measured tramp of feet and instinctively looked to his weapons. It had been no more than a few weeks ago that he had foiled a conspiracy against his life on the part of certain Narvaez henchmen. And who could tell when another attempt might be made?

But at the tones of a voice below, he started, smiled, and stood up. No wonder the camp was celebrating.

A moment later, Pedro de Vargas with Ochoa behind him stood at salute in the doorway, then found himself in the steel embrace of the General.

"Let me look at you," said Cortes, holding him by the shoulders at arm's length. ''A fe mia, it's a sight for sore eyes! I still can't believe it. Back from the dead! Strikes me you've put on beef. Ah, son Pedro, the look of you reminds me of others who haven't come back, the good comrades. So many! Too many!"

The dark eyes filled. Hard as he was, Cortes kept a peculiar affection for the old company, those who had sailed with him from Cuba. It was an affection which did not extend to newer arrivals.

"Vaya, vaya! Sit down. . . . Ochoa, some food and wine for Captain de Vargas. I'll warrant he hasn't eaten. . . . And the father of a strapping lass, eh? Where is she, hombre?"

Pedro's face darkened. "Your Excellency, the child died of the viruelas two weeks ago, after I wrote you."

"Alas! Truly I'm grieved." Cortes laid his hand on the other's arm. . . . "And the Senora Catana? Juan Garcia? They are here?"

"At Your Excellency's orders."

"Well, sit down. I'll see them presently. . . . Boy, didn't I tell you to fetch victuals for the captain? Are you deaf?"

Ochoa hung on. "I wanted to ask about Tia Catana, senor. Is she well?"

"Aye, well enough to spank you, nino" smiled de Vargas. "She's waiting to see you. What a big lad you've grown in a year!" And when the boy had gone out, he added, "Which reminds me. Your Excellency."

He braced himself.

"Which reminds me," he repeated, trying to sound natural, "that I've asked Catana Perez in marriage."

Cortes fingered his beard. "Marry Catana Perez, eh? Well, take a chair. Fill a cup. Yes, on my word it's true Malaga. Your health, son Pedro! Welcome back to the company!"

"Your Excellency's servant!"

But Pedro felt that his announcement had drawn a blank, and he did not have spirit enough at the moment to renew the topic.

They had much to discuss: campaigns since the Noche Triste, personalities of new arrivals from the Islands, the present state of affairs. The struggle for Mexico City had been desperate.

"I wish I had been here," Pedro mourned. "The work's finished."

"By no means is it finished," said Cortes. "You'll have your share. It looks as if we should have to pull down every stone of the city before we bring the fools to terms. Is it not sad? The loveliest town on earth. Because of these dogs' stubbornness. I've made them every promise if they'll submit. But if not—"

He broke off, frowning helplessly at the logic of war.

"Tell me about the Zapotec country," he went on with a shrug. "Your letter spoke of gold."

It was now Pedro's turn. He outlined the resources of the western valleys in terms of minerals and timber. He spoke also of the pearl trade with the coast. Cortes listened intently.

"It sounds good. You have samples?"

"I have four thousand pesos' weight of gold with me. Your Excellency. Catana and Juan Garcia have each as much."

''Cdspita!" exclaimed the General. "Hm-m, twelve thousand pesos." Pedro knew that he was figuring his own share, the King's, the company's. "Why, this is excellent. We'll make a survey of that district— and soon. You took care to locate the mines? Good, very good. Your health, amigo mio!"

Pedro bowed his thanks.

"You see," Cortes went on, "we have to rake and scrape to furnish a revenue worthy of His Majesty. I don't expect to recover much of the treasure we lost on the retreat. The Aztec hounds will see to it that we don't. Then there're the soldiers' claims to be met, and the captains'; our debts in Cuba. Peste! I wish I could lay my hands now on even fifty thousand pesos."

Two years ago, de Vargas, in devotion to his chief, would have swelled with pride to declare the treasure at Cacahuamilpa. He knew better now. Unspoken words didn't have to be regretted. If he wanted his full share of Coatl's gift, he must play a shrewd game. For the moment, he changed the subject by asking about news from Spain.

Cortes made a gesture denoting emptiness. "That His Majesty is now Holy Roman Emperor; that he finally received the gift we sent from Villa Rica; that he even granted audience to our friends, Montejo and Puertocarrero. Nothing more. We'll soon have to be sending other doves from our ark with other olive branches."

"Sir?"

"Falcons then—ambassadors. Good friends who can take our part against the Bishop of Burgos and his Council of the Indies—sold hand and foot as he is to our enemy, Governor Velasquez, and your friend, de Silva, at his ear."

Cortes fell suddenly to musing, his eyes intent as a cat's. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled. "By my conscience, it's well thought on! Son Pedro, you're the man. Your father is in favor, as I gathered from his letter. Your kinsman is the Duke of Medina Sidonia. You have been with us from the start and are a captain in our enterprise. You're a man"—Cortes's voice warmed, and he laid a hand on Pedro's knee— "after my own heart. A young man of energy and prudence. Nay, I love you as a son."

He had loosed all the batteries of his charm. Though Pedro knew the General well enough to take these sudden compliments with a pinch of salt and to wonder where they were leading, he nonetheless felt dizzy from the incense.

"Look you." Cortes hitched his chair closer. "When this city falls and the war ends, you will go to the Emperor. You will go to him whether he's in Spain or Flanders. You will let no one or nothing stop you, the Bishop of Burgos or anyone else."

"To Spain?"

"Aye, with suitable gifts and letters, with all the family influence you can muster. And it will be odd if you, the son of Don Francisco de Vargas, Alcalde of Jaen and captain of Spain, the kinsman of Don Juan Alonso de Guzman, with gold to spend, mark you, and gifts to give, do not outtrump bishop or council— provided you reach the Emperor himself and fill his ears with New Spain."

Pedro's imagination caught fire. Himself at court! It crossed his

mind too that in this way he could salvage officially a greater part of the Cacahuamilpa treasure.

Cortes added softly, "I think you can depend on the Carvajal interest as well, my son."

De Vargas started. His proposal to Catana had slipped his mind.

"Well?" asked Cortes, noting his expression.

"I'm afraid no longer, Your Excellency. Not after Catana Perez becomes mv wife."

The General smiled. "You're not serious about that."

The tone of voice reminded Pedro of a smooth stone wall. It expressed perfectly the preposterousness of such a marriage.

"But I am serious, Your Excellency."

"Oh, come! Did she give you a love charm? Have they witches in the Zapotec country?"

"You don't understand, sir." Privately de Vargas cursed himself for feeling so foolish and weak before the mockery in the other's eyes. "I love her. Our child died. It came to me as the will of God that we should marry."

How feeble it sounded! How inadequate to express the passion, sorrow, comradeship, that he and Catana had shared! Cortes cocked a humorous eyebrow.

"Dear me! Is that the way of it? Well, you'll recover. We've all had our moments."

Pedro recalled Catana kneeling beside the grave in the garden.

"I'm quite in earnest, Your Excellency."

Cortes did not answer for a long minute. The humor faded from his eyes. Finally he said, "Poppycock! Listen, man, the son of Francisco de Vargas does not marry a camp girl."

"She's been true as steel."

"What of it?" Cortes smiled again. "Son Pedro, I marvel that I waste time arguing upon so foolish a point; but I would save you from the reefs if I can. On the seas of love, I'm an old rover." He gave a toss of the hand. "Nobody can tell me much about women. I've had some of every stripe. But mark you, not one of them was worth a man's career. Leave that kind of nonsense to fairy tales."

He paused an instant, as if choosing his words.

"And mark you too, I say nothing against the Senora Catana. She's a gallant, personable wench, and no doubt loyal. What of it? Take this Indian girl of mine—Marina. Is she not gallant? Is she not true? And would I marry her for that reason, even if I did not have a lawful wife in Cuba? I would not. I would do exactly what I intend doing now

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when the time comes—hand her over with a good dot to one of the comrades. Why? Because a man of parts has v/ork to do in the world of more interest and value than sentiment; and marriage is an alliance to promote that work, not to hinder it." He flashed his compelling eyes on Pedro. "Consider yourself. You are of good blood, have good talents, great opportunities. I offer you a chance which might lead far at court or in the army to the life you were born for, a chance to serve this company and New Spain. Will you shirk it, disappoint your parents, throw everything over, in order to become the husband of a gutter girl?"

Pedro reddened, and his eyes narrowed. But Cortes did not relent.

"What else is she?" he demanded. "Isn't it better for me who love you to call a spade a spade and hurt your ears than to let you make yourself a laughingstock? Have I said anything that your father would not say?"

In all honesty, Pedro could not deny it. On the contrary, he felt sure that Don Francisco would have used stronger language.

"One more thing, and I'm through," the General added. "Then you can please yourself. I know that my views of women and marriage are sound, because once only I neglected them and have smarted for it all my life. That once was enough."

He frowned at the table, his mouth bitter.

"Indeed?" said Pedro after a silence.

"Aye," Cortes growled. "My own wife, Pedro de Vargas, who waits for me in Cuba. Who cramps me at every turn. Being what she was— a girl like Catana Perez." He shrugged. "There she is! My incarnate mistake, which has to be corrected somehow—sometime."

He sank into thought, but roused himself. "A last point. De Silva is in Spain. I'll warrant he follows Fonseca, the Bishop of Burgos, to court. There would be a chance to even all scores. But v/e could hardly use the husband of Catana Perez to represent us before the Emperor. . . . Well, what do you say?"

Pedro's jaw set. "I intend to keep my promise. Your Excellency."

LXX

It did not take long to get back into the swing of the army. El Herrero proved to be a good horse; a suit of armor, pieced together from various sources, completed Pedro's necessary equipment, and several days' fighting across the causeway put him in trim. As aide-de-camp of the

General, his duty took him also to reunions with the comrades under Alvarado in Tacuba and Sandoval in Tepeyac. Within a week, he felt at home.

And yet not fully at home. There had been great changes in a year. Even the Narvaez people were now old hands as compared with other newcomers from the Islands. The original company had shrunk into a kind of inner circle, self-conscious and exclusive, admired but envied. It was pleasant no doubt to be one of the "old" captains, but the former democracy was gone.

And the novelty of conquest had worn off. The time seemed long ago when the Aztec world of cities, palaces, and temples was like a realized fairy tale. The war had simmered down into nothing but work. Regular as daybreak, one got up, crossed the causeway, drove deeper into the city, protected the Indian allies while they demolished additional sections of houses and filled up additional canals; then fought a rear-guard action as the army fell back to its fortified camp. At this season, it rained most of the time. Soaked to the skin and tired as a woodchopper, one ate the monotonous evening rations, talked over the day's fight, and stretched out on a mat to start again next morning.

Daily the Spanish death grip tightened on the doomed city. No thrill of uncertainty as in the old days. Since the Aztecs chose rather to die than surrender, it was only a question of how much time it would take for starvation, pestilence, and attack to exterminate them in their shrinking walls.

But to Pedro, the chief difference between now and the past lay in his separation from Catana and Garcia. His attendance on the General required quarters in the fort at Xoloc. Garcia was billeted with other minor officers in one of the company huts along the causeway; while Catana shared a half-ruined house on the mainland with her former crony, Maria de Estrada, now betrothed to Pedro Farfan. Added to other changes, this scattering gave a sense of strangeness and dissolution.