CHAPTER VII.
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“Señor Juan Lerma,” said Cortes, when the last
of the assemblage had reluctantly departed:—He
had descended from the platform, and spoke with
a voice, which, if not decidedly friendly, was, at
least, free from every trace of sternness:—“Señor
Juan Lerma, I have to say, that for the result of
your enterprise, however it has been attended by
calamity, you deserve both thanks and honours;
and it will rest upon your own determination whether
you shall obtain them or not. Some things
there are, growing out of this affair, of which it becomes
me to speak; and thereby I shall give you
an opportunity to remove certain stains not yet
washed from your good name; and after that, to
take off others that are thought to attach to mine.
Hast thou not heard of those fierce and fatal wars,
that broke out in Mexico shortly after thy departure.”
“I have,” said Juan; “the king's spies brought
the news to Tzintzontzan; and they were not only
lamentable to hear, but they caused us to be cast
into cages, and devoted, as we feared, to die the
death of sacrifice: For know, señor, the sanguinary
Mexitli is the god of all this land.”
“And hadst thou no suspicion, before departing,
that these wars were brewing, and threatening us
with destruction? Thou wert somewhat quicker in
catching the heathen tongue than others, and wert
not without counsellors and friends even among
the household of Montezuma.”
To this demand, the young man, though
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embarrassed by the innuendo that followed it, did not
hesitate to answer:
“I had such suspicions, and I made them known
to your excellency.”
“You did indeed,” said Cortes, musingly; “and
I derided them, being somewhat heated at the time:
but counsel to an irritated temper is even sharper
than salt on a wounded skin.—This knowledge,
señor,” he went on, “some will impute to thee as
good reason why thou shouldst loiter fourteen
months in the wilderness, to avoid sharing in our
perils, which were somewhat more horrible than
have ever before beset Christian men.”
“This,” said Juan, firmly, and a little dryly, for
there was something in the tone of the speaker,
which, though he knew not why, impressed him
unpleasantly,—“this is to make me a coward,
which your excellency will not believe me to be.”
“By my conscience, no!” said Cortes, with emphasis.
“Without much thought of this present
expedition of which we speak, there is no man will
accuse thee of fear, who has heard of thy voyage
in the fusta. By my conscience, a most mad piece
of daring!” he continued as if in admiration, although
it was observable, that, while he spoke, his
countenance darkened, as though there were some
disagreeable thought associated with the recollection.
“No,” he went on, “there will be more said
of anger and ambition than of terror. Thou knowest,
we have envy and detraction about us, that
spare none. I can hear, already, how Villafana
and other knaves of his peevish, malicious temper,
will speak of thee.—They will speak of thy causes
for resentment, of the promised favour of the plotting
king, a principality among the lakes, with the
hope of loftier succession, and the hand of the
princely Maiden of the Star,—”
“And this,” cried Juan, interrupting the general,
“this is to make me a traitor and apostate!
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Señor, I doubt not that the señor Guzman is at the
bottom of all this slander: and I therefore claim to
defie,—”
“Peace! wilt thou put thyself in opposition again?
If thou dost but raise thy hand in wrath, save
against an infidel enemy, thou wert better never
to have been born!”
The sudden sternness with which these words
were uttered, checked the impetuosity of the youth,
and filled him again with anxious forebodings. The
general, instantly resuming the milder tones with
which he had spoken before, continued,
“So much will be said of thee. Before I offer thee
my hand, in token that I desire to forget everything
of the past, but that I once truly loved thee, and
before I propose to thee a new and honourable
duty,—hear,—not what will be, but what has been
said of myself, in relation to thine expedition and to
thee.”
Here the general paused a moment, eyeing the
youth intently, as if to read his most secret
thoughts; then continuing, he said, with the utmost
gravity,
“It has been said of me, señor Juan Lerma, that
I sent thee upon thy enterprise of the South Seas,
in the malicious thought that the blow of savages
might execute the sentence of vengeance I cared
not to commit to a Christian assassin. What
thinkest thou of this?”
“Even that it is the blackest and insanest of
slanders; and that it shows me, I have little cause
to marvel at my own loss of credit, when I find
that malice can aim even at your excellency's.
Whatever may have been your anger, I never believed
your excellency would conceal it, much less
expend it, in secret vengeance upon a feeble wretch
like myself.”
“Thou hast but little worldly knowledge,” said
the Captain-General, half smiling, “or thou wouldst
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know, that revenge is of a reptile's nature, crawling
rather in secret among dark thickets than openly
over sunny plains, and none the less venomous,
that it can lie half a year torpid. Neither put thou
much trust in innocent looks; which, to a shrewd
eye, are like sea-water,—the smoother they lie,
the deeper can they be looked into.”
Having pronounced these metaphorical maxims
with much gravity, his eye all the time bent on the
youth, Cortes paused for a moment, as if for a reply;
when, receiving none, for, in truth, Juan, not
well comprehending them, knew not what to answer,
he continued,
“Let us understand one another. There has
been strife between us,—strife and ill-will. I have
perhaps done you injustice: I thought I had cause.
By my conscience, young man, I once loved you
very well—I have been sorry for you.”
“I have deserved your displeasure,” said Juan,
hurriedly, moved by the earnestness with which
the general spoke; “but, I hope, not beyond forgiveness.”
“Surely not, surely not,” said Cortes; “but what
I may forget as thy friend, I am still bound to consider
as thy general. I am now the king's officer,
and it becomes me, forgetting all private feelings,
to know no friends but those who approve themselves
true and valuable servants of his majesty.
In this character, I must remember some of thy
past acts with disfavour; but in both, it is not improper
I should desire thou shouldst have opportunity
fully to retrieve thy good name, and, in spite of
envy and detraction, to deserve such friendship as
I have shown thee in former years.”
The exile pondered a moment over the words of
the general, in more indecision than before. They
spoke of friendship and kindness, and seemed to
offer an apology for severity that was rather official
than personal; and yet, in this apology, was a
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degree of reproach, of which it appeared Cortes's
resolution to keep him always sensible. Nevertheless,
this very tone of complaint served to soothe
the little exasperation of feelings which had remained
in Juan's breast, while smarting under a sense of
wrong and injustice. Anger both irritates and hardens
the heart; reproach softens, while it distresses.
It seemed obvious to Juan, that Cortes, while apprizing
him that a full reconciliation had not yet
taken place, was willing, nay anxious, that it
should. He answered therefore with the greatest
fervour,
“If your excellency will but show me in what
manner I may regain your favour—at least your
belief that I have not wantonly rejected it—I call
heaven to witness, I will remember it as such an
act of kindness as that which this must ever keep
me in memory of.”
As he spoke, he touched with his finger a rapier-scar
on his right breast, which the narrowness
and peculiar fashion of his mantle scarcely enabled
him to conceal, even when so disposed.
At this sight, Cortes seemed disordered, if not
offended, saying after striding to and fro for an
instant,
“Let these follies be forgotten! Bury the past,
and think only of the future. It is true, I avenged
thy wrong—It gives me no pleasure to remember
it.—Did I think this, when I made thee my son,—
fed thee at my board, lodged thee on my couch,
advanced thee, honoured thee, fought thy battles?
did I think this? Pho! Juan Lerma, thou hast not
repaid me well!”
“Señor!” said Juan, surprised and confounded
by the sudden and reproachful bitterness of these
words; “when I presumed to speak to you in opposition
to your measures, it was with the boldness—
the folly—of affection, jealous for your excellency's—
your excellency's—”
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“Honour!” said Cortes, sharply. “Let us speak
of this no more. To business, señor, to business.
Leave mine honour to mine own keeping: thou
wilt find, I have it even in my thoughts. To
business, to business. What say ye, Councillors?—
Wilt thou truly steal my dog from me? If you
rob me of naught else, it is no matter.—What say
you, señor Capitan Del Salto? what say you, Sandoval?
Is this young man fit to be entrusted with
a captain's command? He was a good Cornet.—
Can we confide to him a duty of danger and trust?
His pilgrimage to the Hummingbird-land, methinks,
was well conducted. What say you? I have a
goodly thought for him—But I will abide your better
judgment.”
“By St. James,” said Alvarado, “there is no
braver lad in the army; and were he but of clear
hidalgo lineage, I should say, give him a command
with the best. But here is my thought: he is a
good sailor, especially in piraguas and galleys: give
him a brigantine. I will crave to have him in the
squadron attached to mine own division.”
“In my mind,” said Sandoval, “he is good for
the land service. It is needful we revenge the
death of Salcedo and his eighty loons, who suffered
themselves to be killed before Tochtepec. Lerma
has the love of the dog Xicotencal, who loves nobody
else. He can follow the young señor, with
some twenty thousand or so of his bare-legs; and
they can take the town among them.”
“A good thought,” said Cortes, “a good thought:
for this is a command which, nobody coveting,
there will be none to envy. What sayst thou,
señor Lerma? wilt thou adventure upon a deed
thought to be both dangerous and desperate?
Choose for thyself: I will compel thee to nothing.
I tell thee the truth.—No captain seeks after this
employment, and three have refused, except upon
condition that I give them, besides as many Indians
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as they can raise, three hundred picked Spaniards.
Thou canst not look for more than twenty, with
some five or six horsemen.”
The eyes of the exile sparkled.
“Your excellency honours me.”
“Never think so; deceive not thyself,” said
Cortes, with apparent frankness. “The enterprise
is dangerous, nay, as I have said, desperate; and
by my conscience, it will be said of it, as of the
South Sea journey, that it is devised for thy ruin.—
If I honour thee, I must suffer thereby: no evil
can happen to thee, that will not be maliciously imputed
to wicked and premeditated design. By my
conscience, there are many who think me but a
hangman in disguise!”
“I hope your excellency will not think of these
things,” said Juan, fervently. “I will do battle
with any one who presumes—”
“Peace: have I not told thee already that the
duel is forbidden under heavy penalties? I swear
to thee, they shall be enforced, in all cases of disobedience,
were it upon my own brother.—I tell thee
again, I can advance thee to no service which will
not make me the mark of slander. There are fools
about us, who, I know not why, have tortured anger
into hatred, and will now interpret good-will
into malignant treachery. But I care not for this:
the tall tree catches the bolts that pass by the underwood,—
the rock that rises above the sea, is
lashed by breakers, while the grovellers at the bottom
lie in tranquillity. It is thus with the condition
of man;—peace abides with the lowly, envy
shoots arrows at the high. Think of this, think
of this, Juan Lerma, when thou hearest me maligned.”
“I shall not need,” said Juan. “The more dangerous
the duty, the more must I thank your excellency
for your confidence. I beseech, therefore,
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that I may be permitted to undertake this present
enterprise.”
“Wilt thou march them on foot, and with no better
arms than thy Indian battle-axe and buckler?”
demanded the general, gravely.
“I have heard,” said Juan, with hesitation, “that
your excellency has in charge certain horses and
arms, which of right are mine, as being the gifts of
a bountiful friend.”
“It is even so,” said Cortes, “and the restoration
of them, which thou canst justly claim, will
cause some heart-burnings. I must crave your
pardon for having presumed to bestow them away,
as though they had been mine own property.”
“Under your favour,” said Juan, “considering
that they were the gifts of your excellency's ever
honoured and beloved lady—”
“Ha!” cried Cortes, with a darkening visage,
“what fiend possessed thee with this impertinent
conceit?”
“I beg your excellency's pardon for my presumption,”
said Juan, “which was indeed caused
no more by rumour than by a belief that there was
no other being in the world, who could thus far
have befriended me.”
“Why then,” said Cortes, “if thou knowest not
the donor, it is the more remarkable; for nobody
else does. Very strange! Two horses, the worst
of which is worth full nine hundred crowns, and
Bobadil almost priceless;—a suit of armour so well
chosen to thy stature, that never a man of us all
but is as loose in the cuirass as a shrivelled walnut
in the shell,—all very positively sent to thee from
Santiago,—for thee, señor, and for nobody else!”
“They are saint's gifts,” said Alvarado, devoutly:
“the young man has suffered much, and has found
favour with heaven.”
“Señor,” said Juan, mildly, “you are jesting with
me. I will hope, by and by, to discover this
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benevolent patron. What I have to say now, is that
my wants will be content with but one of the
horses; the return of which will cause your excellency
no trouble,—the same being in the hands of
the señor Guzman, who has already signified his
intention to restore him.”
“Ha! has he so, indeed? Why thy very enemies
have become thy friends!”
“As for the armour, señor,” continued the youth,
without thinking fit to notice the latter exclamation,
“I will make no claim to it, if you have bestowed
it away. A simple morion and breastplate,—
or indeed a good cap and doublet of escaupil, if
iron be scarce,—will content me, provided I have
but a good sword and steed.”
“Thou shalt have both,” said Cortes, “and the
plate-mail also; which being somewhat too gigantic
for any cavalier, and too good for a common
soldier, I have preserved, thinking some day to bestow
it upon the Tlascalan Xicotencal.—Thou art
not loath to undertake this business? I will give
thee a day to think of it.”
“Not an hour, señor,” said Juan, ardently.
“Give me but time to exchange these heathen
weeds and sandals for good armour and a war-horse,
and I will depart instantly, with whatsoever
force you may think fit to entrust to me.”
“Art thou really, then, so hot after danger?”
“God is my protection,” said Juan; “I thank
heaven, that this duty is the most dangerous your
excellency could charge me with: it is, for that reason,
the most honourable.”
“Sayst thou so?” cried the Captain-General,
quickly. “There is one duty, at least, I could impose
upon thee, which thou wouldst not be so hasty
to accept? No, faith; for the very name of it has
caused the boldest soldier in the army to turn pale.—
Get thee to the armory; rest and refresh thyself:
to-morrow thou shalt to Tochtepec.”
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“Señor, for your love I will do what others will
not: I have years of benefaction to repay. I claim
to be appointed to that task which is so dreadful to
others.”
“By my conscience, no,” said Don Hernan:
“this would be sending thee to execution indeed.
And yet I know none so well fitted as thyself:
Thou art fearless, cunning, discreet,—at least thou
canst be so; and thou art a master of the barbarous
language, I think?”
“Your excellency once commended the success
with which I laboured to acquire it: my year's
wanderings in the west have made it familiar to
me almost as the tongue of Castile.”
“It is a good endowment,” said Cortes. “What
thinkest thou of an embassage to Tenochtitlan?”
As he spoke, pronouncing each word with deliberate
emphasis, he bent his eyes searchingly on
Juan, and a smile crept over his features, as he perceived
the young man lose colour and start.
“The man that would do me that duty,” he continued,
gravely, “would indeed deserve well, not
only of myself, but of his majesty, the king of Spain.
But think not I mean to overtask thee,—or that I
seriously designed to try thee with this rack of probation.—
There are bounds to the courage of us
all.”
“Your excellency mistakes me,” said Juan, dispelling
all emotion with a single effort, and speaking
with a voice as firm as it was serious: “if there
be but one good can come of such an embassy—”
“There might be many,” said the general, “not
the least of which would be the conquest of the city,
and thereby of the whole land, without the loss of
Christian lives. Could I but find speech with the
prince Guatimozin, I have that which will move him
to peaceful submission. But this is impossible.”
“Again your excellency is deceived,” said Juan,
with the composure of one who has taken his
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resolution. “I will do your bidding,—I will carry your
message to Mexico.”
“Pho! I did but jest with thee. Three Indian
envoys have I sent already: the infidel slew them
all.”
“And cannot your excellency answer why?
Your envoys were Indians,—your excellency's allies,
but his subjects, who, in the act of alliance, had
committed the crimes of treason and rebellion; for
which he punished them with death, as seemed to
him right and just. A Spanish ambassador would
be received with greater respect, and perhaps dismissed
without injury. I will not, with a boastful
vanity, proclaim that I fear nothing; but such fears
as I have, are not enough to deter me; and again
I say, I will do your bidding.”
“My bidding!” cried Cortes; “I bid thee not;
heaven forfend I should bid thee any such thing.
But if thou really thinkest the danger is not great,—
if thou art so persuaded—” He paused; his eyes
sparkled; he strode to and fro in disorder. Then
suddenly halting, he exclaimed, with a faint laugh,
“No, by my conscience! no, by heaven! no, by St.
James of Compostella! thou art the bravest fool of
all, but thou shalt not die the death of a dog! I will
not catch thee with tiger-traps!”
To these extraordinary expressions, Juan answered
with emotion, but still with unvarying resolution,
“I wait your excellency's orders. I fear not
death; I am alone in the world;—father or mother,
brother or sister, kinsman or friend, there is not
one to lament me, should I come to disaster. If I
live, I will, as your excellency has said, have saved
the effusion of Christian blood; if I die, heaven will
remember the motive, and none will miss me.—I
will go to Tenochtitlan.”
“Thou art a fool,” said Alvarado. “Señor
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Captain-General, this embassy may not be; I protest
against it. The world will cry shame on us.”
“I do oppose the same,” said Sandoval, “as being
the wilful throwing away of a Christian life.”
The other cavaliers present were about to add
their voices against the measure, when Cortes cut
them short by saying, sternly,
“Are ye all mad, señores? Think ye, this thing
was said seriously? I did but try the young man's
mettle, and I do think he hath somewhat less of
gaingiving about him, as well as much more folly,
than any one here present. I must get me an ambassador;
but, Juan Lerma, thou art not the
man.”
“To my thought,” said Sandoval, “this old Indian,
Ocelotzin, will be a much safer emissary.”
Apparently the Ottomi, who had listened throughout
the whole conference with great attention, and
who understood just enough of it to know the course
that affairs were taking, did not at all relish the
suggestion of Sandoval. He started, flung the gray
curtain of hair from his visage, and began to pour
forth a torrent of such objurgations and remonstrances
as he could find Spanish to express:
“I am not Ocelotzin, the Tiger,” he exclaimed;
“very weak and old I am,—no claw, no tooth, no
roar.”—And here the barbarian, by way of confirming
his speech, set up a yell, so wild, shrill, and
hideous, that the cavaliers started back, catching
at their swords in alarm, and two or three soldiers
from the ante-room rushed in, as if apprehending
some act of treason. But the dog Befo, who had
hitherto maintained his post at the feet of Lerma,
now rubbing against his knees, now rearing
against his breast, and sometimes, when pushed
down and too long neglected, expressing his impatience
or affection, by extending his vast jaws, as if
to swallow the hand that repelled him,—the dog
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Befo heard the cry of the savage with such indignation
as he would have bestowed upon the howl
of a rival. He replied with a lion-like growl, and
stalking up to the Ottomi, he stood watching him,
ever and anon writhing his lips so as to disclose his
huge fangs, and seemed waiting the signal to attack,
greatly to the terror of the orator.
A wave of the general's hand dismissed the intruding
soldiers from the apartment; and at the
voice of Lerma, the dog returned to him.
“I am Techeechee,” said the orator, resuming
his discourse, but with tones greatly subdued; “I
am Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog I
am; Techeechee, the Silent Dog,—the Silent Dog
I am.—Techeechee.”—
All this time, he kept his eyes fixed upon Befo as
if dreading an assault; and, in fact, his solicitude
had somewhat overpowered his mind, so that he
continued for some moments to reiterate the above
phrases, without any seeming consciousness of
their absurdity. At last, he fell into his vernacular
language, and this happily releasing him from his
trammels, he poured forth, with amazing volubility,
a string of sounds, so harsh, guttural, inarticulate,
and unearthly, that they seemed rather the basso
chatterings of an ape than the meaning accents of
a human being.
“What says the knave?” cried Cortes.
“He says,” replied Juan, “that he is the little
dumb dog of the hills, and will harm nobody; that
Montezuma was a big dog, like Befo, (wherein he
lies,) and that Guatimozin the prince is bigger still,
and will eat him,—which is to be understood figuratively.
He says, he is the Little Dog, and therefore
not fit to be an ambassador; but—Ha! what
sayst thou, Techeechee?”—
The young man spoke to the Ottomi in his own
tongue, and receiving an answer, turned immediately
to Cortes, saying,
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“It becomes me to inform your excellency of his
words; for savage though he be, this old man I
have ever found to be marvellously shrewd, as well
as faithful. It is his opinion, that the prince Guatimozin
would not injure me, if I went on the embassy;
wherefore, I beg your excellency to reconsider
your resolution. He says, too, he will go
with me.”
“Your destiny, señor, is to the rebellious and
bloody town Tochtepec,” replied the general, quickly
and decidedly.”
“He adds,” continued Juan, “that he is Techeechee
and no ambassador; but that he is cousin to
Quimichin, the Ground Rat, and that he will be
your spy,—for quimichin is the word by which
they express a spy throughout the whole land.”
“I am Techeechee; I will be Quimichin,” said
the Indian, as if to confirm the words of Juan, and
twisting his withered features into a smile, that was
meant to express both cunning and affection.
“Dost thou think him faithful?” said Cortes. “I
will find service for him. But go, amigo! I have
kept thee till thou art as faint and weary as myself.
Get thee to Quinones, and the armory.
Make thy preparations and take thy rest. I will
see thee on the morrow—perhaps to-night, and acquaint
thee with thy force and instructions. God
be with you—Nay, heed not the dog—Adieu,
señores—He has much of your own fidelity, roam
he never so much. Take him with you.”
When the last of the cavaliers had departed from
the chamber, the Captain-General, stepped upon the
platform, and throwing himself into the chair of
state, sat or reclined thereon, with the air of one
worn out by exertion of mind and body, and on the
eve of sinking into a swoon.
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Bird, Robert Montgomery, 1806-1854 [1835], The infidel, or, The fall of Mexico, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf015v1].
