CHAPTER XXXVI
THE SURRENDER
Taking Otomie in my arms, I bore her to one of the storehouses
attached to the temple. Here many children had been placed for
safety, among them my own son.
'What ails our mother, father?' said the boy. 'And why did she
shut me in here with these children when it seems that there is
fighting without?'
'Your mother has fainted,' I answered, 'and doubtless she placed
you here to keep you safe. Now do you tend her till I return.'
'I will do so,' answered the boy, 'but surely it would be better
that I, who am almost a man, should be without, fighting the
Spaniards at your side rather than within, nursing sick women.'
'Do as I bid you, son,' I said, 'and I charge you not to leave this
place until I come for you again.'
Now I passed out of the storehouse, shutting the door behind me. A
minute later I wished that I had stayed where I was, since on the
platform my eyes were greeted by a sight more dreadful than any
that had gone before. For there, advancing towards us, were the
women divided into four great companies, some of them bearing
infants in their arms. They came singing and leaping, many of them
naked to the middle. Nor was this all, for in front of them ran
the pabas and such of the women themselves as were persons in
authority. These leaders, male and female, ran and leaped and
sang, calling upon the names of their demon-gods, and celebrating
the wickednesses of their forefathers, while after them poured the
howling troops of women.
To and fro they rushed, now making obeisance to the statue of
Huitzel, now prostrating themselves before his hideous sister, the
goddess of Death, who sat beside him adorned with her carven
necklace of men's skulls and hands, now bowing around the stone of
sacrifice, and now thrusting their bare arms into the flames of the
holy fire. For an hour or more they celebrated this ghastly
carnival, of which even I, versed as I was in the Indian customs,
could not fully understand the meaning, and then, as though some
single impulse had possessed them, they withdrew to the centre of
the open space, and, forming themselves into a double circle,
within which stood the pabas, of a sudden they burst into a chant
so wild and shrill that as I listened my blood curdled in my veins.
Even now the burden of that chant with the vision of those who sang
it sometimes haunts my sleep at night, but I will not write it
here. Let him who reads imagine all that is most cruel in the
heart of man, and every terror of the evillest dream, adding to
these some horror-ridden tale of murder, ghosts, and inhuman
vengeance; then, if he can, let him shape the whole in words and,
as in a glass darkly, perchance he may mirror the spirit of that
last ancient song of the women of the Otomie, with its sobs, its
cries of triumph, and its death wailings.
Ever as they sang, step by step they drew backwards, and with them
went the leaders of each company, their eyes fixed upon the statues
of their gods. Now they were but a segment of a circle, for they
did not advance towards the temple; backward and outward they went
with a slow and solemn tramp. There was but one line of them now,
for those in the second ring filled the gaps in the first as it
widened; still they drew on till at length they stood on the sheer
edge of the platform. Then the priests and the women leaders took
their place among them and for a moment there was silence, until at
a signal one and all they bent them backwards. Standing thus,
their long hair waving on the wind, the light of burning houses
flaring upon their breasts and in their maddened eyes, they burst
into the cry of:
'SAVE US, HUITZEL! RECEIVE US, LORD GOD, OUR HOME!'
Thrice they cried it, each time more shrilly than before, then
suddenly they were GONE, the women of the Otomie were no more!
With their own self-slaughter they had consummated the last
celebration of the rites of sacrifice that ever shall be held in
the City of Pines. The devil gods were dead and their worshippers
with them.
A low murmur ran round the lips of the men who watched, then one
cried, and his voice rang strangely in the sudden silence: 'May our
wives, the women of the Otomie, rest softly in the Houses of the
Sun, for of a surety they teach us how to die.'
'Ay,' I answered, 'but not thus. Let women do self-murder, our
foes have swords for the hearts of men.'
I turned to go, and before me stood Otomie.
'What has befallen?' she said. 'Where are my sisters? Oh! surely
I have dreamed an evil dream. I dreamed that the gods of my
forefathers were strong once more, and that once more they drank
the blood of men.
'Your ill dream has a worse awakening, Otomie,' I answered. 'The
gods of hell are still strong indeed in this accursed land, and
they have taken your sisters into their keeping.'
'Is it so?' she said softly, 'yet in my dream it seemed to me that
this was their last strength ere they sink into death unending.
Look yonder!' and she pointed toward the snowy crest of the volcan
Xaca.
I looked, but whether I saw the sight of which I am about to tell
or whether it was but an imagining born of the horrors of that most
hideous night, in truth I cannot say. At the least I seemed to see
this, and afterwards there were some among the Spaniards who swore
that they had witnessed it also.
On Xaca's lofty summit, now as always stood a pillar of fiery
smoke, and while I gazed, to my vision the smoke and the fire
separated themselves. Out of the fire was fashioned a cross of
flame, that shone like lightning and stretched for many a rod
across the heavens, its base resting on the mountain top. At its
foot rolled the clouds of smoke, and now these too took forms vast
and terrifying, such forms indeed as those that sat in stone within
the temple behind me, but magnified a hundredfold.
'See,' said Otomie again, 'the cross of your God shines above the
shapes of mine, the lost gods whom to-night I worshipped though not
of my own will.' Then she turned and went.
For some few moments I stood very much afraid, gazing upon the
vision on Xaca's snow, then suddenly the rays of the rising sun
smote it and it was gone.
Now for three days more we held out against the Spaniards, for they
could not come at us and their shot swept over our heads
harmlessly. During these days I had no talk with Otomie, for we
shrank from one another. Hour by hour she would sit in the
storehouse of the temple a very picture of desolation. Twice I
tried to speak with her, my heart being moved to pity by the dumb
torment in her eyes, but she turned her head from me and made no
answer.
Soon it came to the knowledge of the Spaniards that we had enough
food and water upon the teocalli to enable us to live there for a
month or more, and seeing that there was no hope of capturing the
place by force of arms, they called a parley with us.
I went down to the breach in the roadway and spoke with their
envoy, who stood upon the path below. At first the terms offered
were that we should surrender at discretion. To this I answered
that sooner than do so we would die where we were. Their reply was
that if we would give over all who had any part in the human
sacrifice, the rest of us might go free. To this I said that the
sacrifice had been carried out by women and some few men, and that
all of these were dead by their own hands. They asked if Otomie
was also dead. I told them no, but that I would never surrender
unless they swore that neither she nor her son should be harmed,
but rather that together with myself they should be given a safe-
conduct to go whither we willed. This was refused, but in the end
I won the day, and a parchment was thrown up to me on the point of
a lance. This parchment, which was signed by the Captain Bernal
Diaz, set out that in consideration of the part that I and some men
of the Otomie had played in rescuing the Spanish captives from
death by sacrifice, a pardon was granted to me, my wife and child,
and all upon the teocalli, with liberty to go whither-soever we
would unharmed, our lands and wealth being however declared forfeit
to the viceroy.
With these terms I was well content, indeed I had never hoped to
win any that would leave us our lives and liberty.
And yet for my part death had been almost as welcome, for now
Otomie had built a wall between us that I could never climb, and I
was bound to her, to a woman who, willingly or no, had stained her
hands with sacrifice. Well, my son was left to me and with him I
must be satisfied; at the least he knew nothing of his mother's
shame. Oh! I thought to myself as I climbed the teocalli, oh! that
I could but escape far from this accursed land and bear him with me
to the English shores, ay, and Otomie also, for there she might
forget that once she had been a savage. Alas! it could scarcely
be!
Coming to the temple, I and those with me told the good tidings to
our companions, who received it silently. Men of a white race
would have rejoiced thus to escape, for when death is near all
other loss seems as nothing. But with these Indian people it is
not so, since when fortune frowns upon them they do not cling to
life. These men of the Otomie had lost their country, their wives,
their wealth, their brethren, and their homes; therefore life, with
freedom to wander whither they would, seemed no great thing to
them. So they met the boon that I had won from the mercy of our
foes, as had matters gone otherwise they would have met the bane,
in sullen silence.
I came to Otomie, and to her also I told the news.
'I had hoped to die here where I am,' she answered. 'But so be it;
death is always to be found.'
Only my son rejoiced, because he knew that God had saved us all
from death by sword or hunger.
'Father,' he said, 'the Spaniards have given us life, but they take
our country and drive us out of it. Where then shall we go?'
'I do not know, my son,' I answered.
'Father,' the lad said again, 'let us leave this land of Anahuac
where there is nothing but Spaniards and sorrow. Let us find a
ship and sail across the seas to England, our own country.'
The boy spoke my very thought and my heart leapt at his words,
though I had no plan to bring the matter about. I pondered a
moment, looking at Otomie.
'The thought is good, Teule,' she said, answering my unspoken
question; 'for you and for our son there is no better, but for
myself I will answer in the proverb of my people, "The earth that
bears us lies lightest on our bones."'
Then she turned, making ready to quit the storehouse of the temple
where we had been lodged during the siege, and no more was said
about the matter.
Before the sun set a weary throng of men, with some few women and
children, were marching across the courtyard that surrounded the
pyramid, for a bridge of timbers taken from the temple had been
made over the breach in the roadway that wound about its side.
At the gates the Spaniards were waiting to receive us. Some of
them cursed us, some mocked, but those of the nobler sort said
nothing, for they pitied our plight and respected us for the
courage we had shown in the last struggle. Their Indian allies
were there also, and these grinned like unfed pumas, snarling and
whimpering for our lives, till their masters kicked them to
silence. The last act of the fall of Anahuac was as the first had
been, dog still ate dog, leaving the goodly spoil to the lion who
watched.
At the gates we were sorted out; the men of small condition,
together with the children, were taken from the ruined city by an
escort and turned loose upon the mountains, while those of note
were brought to the Spanish camp, to be questioned there before
they were set free. I, with my wife and son, was led to the
palace, our old home, there to learn the will of the Captain Diaz.
It is but a little way to go, and yet there was something to be
seen in the path. For as we walked I looked up, and before me,
standing with folded arms and apart from all men, was de Garcia. I
had scarcely thought of him for some days, so full had my mind been
of other matters, but at the sight of his evil face I remembered
that while this man lived, sorrow and danger must be my bedfellows.
He watched us pass, taking note of all, then he called to me who
walked last:
'Farewell, Cousin Wingfield. You have lived through this bout also
and won a free pardon, you, your woman and your brat together. If
the old war-horse who is set over us as a captain had listened to
me you should have been burned at the stake, every one of you, but
so it is. Farewell for a while, friend. I am away to Mexico to
report these matters to the viceroy, who may have a word to say.'
I made no answer, but asked of our conductor, that same Spaniard
whom I had saved from the sacrifice, what the senor meant by his
words.
'This, Teule; that there has been a quarrel between our comrade
Sarceda and our captain. The former would have granted you no
terms, or failing this would have decoyed you from your stronghold
with false promises, and then have put you to the sword as infidels
with whom no oath is binding. But the captain would not have it
so, for he said that faith must be kept even with the heathen, and
we whom you had saved cried shame on him. And so words ran high,
and in the end the Senor Sarceda, who is third in command among us,
declared that he would be no party to this peacemaking, but would
be gone to Mexico with his servants, there to report to the
viceroy. Then the Captain Diaz bade him begone to hell if he
wished and report to the devil, saying that he had always believed
that he had escaped thence by mistake, and they parted in wrath
who, since the day of noche triste, never loved each other much;
the end of it being that Sarceda rides for Mexico within an hour,
to make what mischief he can at the viceroy's court, and I think
that you are well rid of him.'
'Father,' said my son to me, 'who is that Spaniard who looks so
cruelly upon us?'
'That is he of whom I have told you, son, de Garcia, who has been
the curse of our race for two generations, who betrayed your
grandfather to the Holy Office, and murdered your grandmother, who
put me to torture, and whose ill deeds are not done with yet.
Beware of him, son, now and ever, I beseech you.'
Now we were come to the palace, almost the only house that was left
standing in the City of Pines. Here an apartment was given to us
at the end of the long building, and presently a command was
brought to us that I and my wife should wait upon the Spanish
captain Diaz.
So we went, though Otomie desired to stay behind, leaving our son
alone in the chamber where food had been brought to him. I
remember that I kissed him before I left, though I do not know what
moved me to do so, unless it was because I thought that he might be
asleep when I returned. The Captain Diaz had his quarters at the
other end of the palace, some two hundred paces away. Presently we
stood before him. He was a rough-looking, thick-set man well on in
years, with bright eyes and an ugly honest face, like the face of a
peasant who has toiled a lifetime in all weathers, only the fields
that Diaz tilled were fields of war, and his harvest had been the
lives of men. Just then he was joking with some common soldiers in
a strain scarcely suited to nice ears, but so soon as he saw us he
ceased and came forward. I saluted him after the Indian fashion by
touching the earth with my hand, for what was I but an Indian
captive?
'Your sword,' he said briefly, as he scanned me with his quick
eyes.
I unbuckled it from my side and handed it to him, saying in
Spanish:
'Take it, Captain, for you have conquered, also it does but come
back to its owner.' For this was the same sword that I had
captured from one Bernal Diaz in the fray of the noche triste.
He looked at it, then swore a great oath and said:
'I thought that it could be no other man. And so we meet again
thus after so many years. Well, you gave me my life once, and I am
glad that I have lived to pay the debt. Had I not been sure that
it was you, you had not won such easy terms, friend. How are you
named? Nay, I know what the Indians call you.'
'I am named Wingfield.'
'Friend Wingfield then. For I tell you that I would have sat
beneath yonder devil's house,' and he nodded towards the teocalli,
'till you starved upon its top. Nay, friend Wingfield, take back
the sword. I suited myself with another many years ago, and you
have used this one gallantly; never have I seen Indians make a
better fight. And so that is Otomie, Montezuma's daughter and your
wife, still handsome and royal, I see. Lord! Lord! it is many
years ago, and yet it seems but yesterday that I saw her father
die, a Christian-hearted man, though no Christian, and one whom we
dealt ill with. May God forgive us all! Well, Madam, none can say
that YOU have a Christian heart. If a certain tale that I have
heard of what passed yonder, some three nights since, is true. But
we will speak no more of it, for the savage blood will show, and
you are pardoned for your husband's sake who saved my comrades from
the sacrifice.'
To all this Otomie listened, standing still like a statue, but she
never answered a word. Indeed she had spoken very rarely since
that dreadful night of her unspeakable shame.
'And now, friend Wingfield,' went on the Captain Diaz, 'what is
your purpose? You are free to go where you will, whither then will
you go?'
'I do not know,' I answered. 'Years ago, when the Aztec emperor
gave me my life and this princess my wife in marriage, I swore to
be faithful to him and his cause, and to fight for them till Popo
ceased to vomit smoke, till there was no king in Tenoctitlan, and
the people of Anahuac were no more a people.'
'Then you are quit of your oath, friend, for all these things have
come about, and there has been no smoke on Popo for these two
years. Now, if you will be advised by me, you will turn Christian
again and enter the service of Spain. But come, let us to supper,
we can talk of these matters afterwards.'
So we sat down to eat by the light of torches in the banqueting
hall with Bernal Diaz and some other of the Spaniards. Otomie
would have left us, and though the captain bade her stay she ate
nothing, and presently slipped away from the chamber.
