CHAPTER IX.

THE BATTLE OF THE VALLEY

Within ten minutes of this decisive pronouncement Alonso de Molina had once more led his little troop of scouts across the river, followed closely by the whole company. But scarcely had they made good their footing on the opposite bank and begun their cautious march towards the narrow path at the river bend than a file of spearmen came round the corner at a quick run and drew a treble line of spear-points across the entrance to the narrow passage. There were neither archers nor arquebusiers among the Spaniards, for none could be spared from the defence of the city, and so Juan Pizarro could do nothing more than dismount a portion of his troop and send them forward as pikemen to clear the way with pike and sword, since horses would have been worse than useless. The Peruvians disputed the passage obstinately and several severe wounds were given and taken and a few lives lost on either side before they at last broke and ran.

The footmen pressed them back at a run and Juan Pizarro cried exultingly--

“Mira! Mira! So--they fly already! When could the infidel withstand good Christian steel! After them, gentlemen and soldiers of Spain! For God and Santiago--forward!”

“For God and Santiago, _back_, Señor!” shouted de Molina, who, still full of suspicion, had been watching, not the little skirmish, but the rocks and fortress walls about him, and had seen that these were now swarming with hidden men.

But the warning came too late to be heeded. The pikemen were already round the bend and chasing the Peruvian spearmen over the plain. Juan Pizarro had galloped round, waving his sword above his head, and the whole troop, some of them leading the horses of the dismounted men, were streaming along under the fortress wall. He himself held back till the last man had passed, and then he drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks and went after them at a gallop.

Just as he cleared the bend and swung out into the open plain he heard a dull rumbling crash behind him. He reined his horse up sharp and looked round. The whole of the front wall of the old fortress had fallen outward, completely blocking the path between the hillside and the river, and over the ruins hundreds of men were streaming down into the plain, swinging their weapons aloft and screaming out their shrill and savage war-cries.

“There closes the death-trap!” he laughed. “Well, now it is just a question of who lives longest. There is nothing much to be done with these fellows. There is better work than that to do in front. Adios, Señores!” and with that he put spurs to his horse again and, waving his sword as though in invitation to the shouting throng behind him, he galloped away over the plain and joined the troop.

Juan Pizarro had by this time got his men into battle array--that is to say, he had divided them into three divisions in the invariable Spanish style, a main body or “battle” in the centre and two wings a little in advance of it. But the gleaming wall of soldiery in front made no move as they rode up to it, and when they came within some thirty paces they found a rising ridge of ground running from the mountain-side to the river across the plain strewn and piled so thickly with stones that no cavalry could charge across it without being broken, and as they halted before this showers of arrows and stones from slings were rained upon them, and then bands of javelin-men ran out almost up the ridge of stones and hurled their heavy weapons pointed with tempered copper at the horses’ heads and flanks until the maddened animals, already galled by the arrows and bruised by the stones, began to rear and plunge and swerve aside in somewhat ominous fashion, and Juan Pizarro, seeing that not much good could come of this, drew his troop back and ordered a score of men to dismount and cross the barrier on foot.

Nearly twice the number obeyed, and then, sword and dagger in hand, the grim, iron-clad Spanish soldiery leapt through the stones and sprang at their assailants. It was steel against copper, iron cuirass against quilted cotton mail, European discipline and training against mere savage valour, and what followed was butchery until the Inca himself led a troop of his own body-guard down into the plain and drove the Spaniards back nearly to the barrier.

But meanwhile the right wing had scrambled through the stones, and, as they were forming to charge, old Ruminavi led a column of spearmen across their path while another moved out to cut them off by the rear. The spearmen took the charge kneeling with their spear-butts planted firmly in the ground. They were ridden over and slain almost to a man, but when the charge was past four of the dreaded war-beasts were writhing and kicking on the ground, screaming with pain and gashed with fearful wounds inflicted by the barbed copper lance-heads, and this was a greater loss to the Spaniards than a hundred men to the Peruvians.

Old Ruminavi himself rode at the first man who broke the line, caught his sword-thrust on his own Spanish buckler, and then dealt him so shrewd a blow with a huge, copper-headed mace that he hammered in the iron of his cap as though it had been parchment and broke his skull like an egg-shell beneath it. Almost at the same time the Inca, seeing three troopers playing sad havoc with their long swords among his own guards, put his Spanish lance down and charged one of them so strongly and so truly that he drove him from the saddle and flung him down among the struggling footmen, there to be speedily stabbed to death. And then, letting go his lance and unhooking his battle-axe, he clove another through helm and skull to the chin. Then he wrenched his axe out just in time to take a sword-cut from the other on his shield and drove the blade under his still up-lifted arm and hurled him too, crippled and bleeding, to the ground.

“Santiago! that was well hit, Señor Inca!” shouted Michael Asterre through the bars of his vizor.

He had just forced his way through the press towards the mounted and mailed figure, longing to find some worthy foe to prove his new armour and weapons, and when he saw the third man go down under the Inca’s fierce attack he made sure he had found one; but to his amazement and disgust the Inca only turned in his saddle towards him and then leapt his horse over the dead and dying and flung himself into another part of the battle.

All through the long burning afternoon the fight raged fast and furious, and until sundown Michael Asterre sought to close with the mailed figure that carried the sacred plumes in its helmet, but ever without success. Once only they came to blows, and then the Inca contented himself with taking the savage sword-cut on his buckler, and once more avoided the single combat without returning it.

There was another of the Spaniards, a man clad and armed like one of the meanest troopers, who also seemed to the Inca to meet him at every turn in the battle and three times he wounded him without taking a scratch back. Indeed so light and half-hearted were his blows that Manco took him at last for some soldier enfeebled by disease, and so avoided him too as not worthy of his own royal steel.

So the Battle of the Valley raged on until the sun drooped towards the western ridges and the long shadows of the mountains began to fall across the river and the now bloody plain. Yard by yard the Spaniards had driven the Peruvians back under their fortress walls. Superiority of discipline and weapons had now, as ever, proved better than superiority of numbers; and although neither the Inca nor Ruminavi had been captured or even wounded, so far as was known, yet when the Peruvians at length retreated into their impregnable fastnesses and Juan Pizarro took the remains of his troop back across the stony barrier to form his camp in the middle of the plain, where he would be secure from a night attack, he was fain to confess that, if all the battles to come were to be like this one, even victory would leave the Spanish forces so weak that it would be worthless to them.

Hundreds of the enemy had been slain, but more than half a score of his own men were dead, a score more were badly wounded, and no less than eleven horses would never carry a rider to battle again. Still, they had fought the enemy on his own ground and driven him back, as usual with heavy loss, and the young commander hoped all through the anxious, miserable night that followed that the lesson would prove stern enough, and that he would at least be able to go back to Cuzco with the news of a victory.

But when morning dawned grey and calm over the mighty hills that seemed to shut them in from all the rest of the world, he saw what had happened the day before was only the beginning of the tragedy. The whole of the valley as far as they could see was filled with innumerable hosts which surrounded them on every side, and one despairing look about him sufficed to show him that his expedition was now nothing more than a forlorn hope.

His battle-worn and wounded men had laid down in their armour beside their horses, and with the first glimmer of light all who could mount were in the saddle. There were only two ways out of the fatal valley. One was over the narrow pathway, blocked and cumbered by the stones of the fallen wall which had been pushed by the sheer weight of the men behind it out from its foundation. The other was across the river, and already the plain on the other side was filling up with regiment after regiment of the Inca’s soldiery.

“I would to God I had taken thy advice yesterday, Alonso!” said Juan Pizarro, as he swung himself up into his saddle. “Those of us who get alive out of here will have but a sad tale to tell in Cuzco.”

“There are no eggs in last year’s nests, Señor!” replied de Molina, as he too, stiff and sore with his wounds and weak with loss of blood and lack of food and sleep, dragged himself up to the saddle. “The only question for us now is how many of us may get back. If my advice is still worth having, you will take all the men and horses that are now fit for hard service and fight your way back with all haste that you may, for you will be sorely wanted ere long in Cuzco. As for us who are not of much further account, we will do what we can to keep the enemy at bay while you make good your retreat.”

“And what of you after that?” said Pizarro. “Do you think, friend Alonso, that we are going to desert wounded comrades in arms in that fashion?”

“Señor,” said de Molina, with a brave attempt at a laugh, “we are wounded, and our horses are well-nigh crippled, and without sound beasts escape is hopeless. When it is over what is left of us will not be worth the taking home. It is a hard thing to say and a harder thing to do, but it is the need of battle and our duty. There are fourteen or fifteen of us here who are still men enough to keep the enemy back while you lead your horses over the stones yonder. Ride over them you cannot. Once on the other side and remounted, your way is open to the river, though doubtless you will need your swords to keep it open.

“You cannot pass the river here. It is too deep and the banks are too steep. There is but one way and that is over the fallen wall. For God’s sake and Spain’s, Señor, take it quickly or it will be too late. Do you not see those clouds of men up yonder gathering on the mountain-side? If you are not past that corner before they come above us they will rain down such an avalanche of stones and rocks as will not leave a man or horse unmaimed among us. Go, Señor, go, for God’s sake, while you can!”

Juan Pizarro looked up at the towering slopes above him and saw that, bitter as de Molina’s counsel was, in it lay the only hope of saving the troop. The other bank of the deep, swift stream was swarming with men, and already arrows and darts and stones were flying across in ever thickening showers. Their hands met for a moment in a last clasp, and then the troop moved forward towards the pass. In front went the thirty-five men who were still unwounded or only slightly hurt, taking all the sound horses with them, and in the rear went Alonso de Molina with his forlorn hope of wounded men and horses.

While they were on the plain the Inca held his men back by the strictest orders, for he knew full what would happen if the retreating enemy turned and caught them on the open plain. He was well content with what had been done so far, and he knew what was still in store for the Spaniards before they got back to Cuzco. But the moment that the troop had reached the narrow pathway and the men began to dismount he gave the order to advance, and his regiments went forward at the run, not over the plain, but round along the mountain slopes, while he rode with Ruminavi along the open directing their movements with word and gesture.

But when he reached the pass he saw that all the Spaniards were not crossing it, for a line of them were drawn up across the approach, half on horseback and half on foot. He could see that they were wounded and weary, and that their beasts were gashed and spattered with dried blood. One of their mounted men a little in advance of the others was the sorry-looking trooper who had again and again the day before seemed to seek death at his own hands.

Before half Pizarro’s troop was over the stone-encumbered pathway the first of the Inca’s regiments had gained the high ground above it, and instantly the hillside was covered with leaping stones and masses of rock which crashed and thundered into their midst, sending horses and men down with maimed and broken limbs. Hoarse shouts of triumph thundered along the valley, showers of arrows and darts and sling-stones rained rattling upon the harness of the Spaniards, who could strike no blow in return till they had got the trembling, frightened animals, on whom they were depending for their escape, over the stones.

At the same time the Inca ordered another regiment to come down and charge the rear-guard, and on they went, rank after rank, yelling their war-cries and hurling themselves with spear and axe and mace on the thin, ragged line of wounded men.

But, few and wounded though they were, they were made of stern stuff. With the first onset wounds and weariness were forgotten, and the long, keen Spanish swords struck out hard and true, and the heavy Spanish axes swung fast and bit deep, and every warrior who came within their reach went down. But more and more came on, and then one by one the Spaniards, overwhelmed by weight of numbers, began to go down, till at last only the mounted men were left.

But now the last of the troop had passed the stones, and they could hear the shouts of their comrades telling them that all was well and bidding them come and join them. De Molina shouted to his remaining companions to give up the unequal fight and make the best of their way back, and this they did, nothing loth to end it, though only two of them reached the other side alive.

Then de Molina, facing the whole host alone, drove his spurs into the flanks of his jaded, wounded beast, and made for the river brink. But old Ruminavi was too quick for him, and charged him when he was within two yards of it. De Molina, better skilled in horsemanship, swerved aside, and Ruminavi very nearly charged into the river instead, but the next moment the Inca was on him, with axe uplifted.

“Yield, Señor!” he cried, in Spanish. “Whether you be gentle or simple, you are too gallant a man to throw your life away thus. We are two to one, and there are thousands behind us.”

“I have already got my death-blow, so your axe will but make the end a little quicker. Therefore strike, friend Manco, for I could wish to die by no nobler hand than thine.”

As de Molina said this he threw up his vizor, and the Inca saw his face already ghastly with the grey hue of death and his once bright blue eyes already dim and glazing.

“They are safe, are they not?” he said faintly, looking over the pass he had so gallantly held. “Then the work is done. Well, since you will not strike, friend Manco, I yield.”

But even as he said this he reeled in the saddle, and the Inca, calling to Ruminavi, sprang from his horse just in time to catch him in his arms as he fell. As he laid him down on the sand he saw that there was scarcely a part of his body in which he had not received a wound, and that blood was flowing from him in nearly a score of places. He at once took his morion off and bade one of his men go to the river for water. A draught of it revived him for the moment, and he put his hand to his neck and pulled out the gem that Nahua had given him.

“You can tell your princess, friend Manco, that I spoke truly when I said that this should only leave me with my life. I have not many more moments left. When they are over take it back to her and tell her that I died happier holding this dear token of her friendship than I could have lived without her love. As a loyal Spaniard I cannot wish you victory, but for her sake I can wish you safety and happiness when this evil war is over. Farewell, friend Manco! May your last fight be as hard a one as mine has been, and may you come better out of it. Mother of God, pray for one who is a sinner!--Dios y Santiago, they are coming!--Stand fast, gentlemen, for God and Spain! They are on us! Now strike! Ah, that was my death-wound, yet we must hold them a few minutes longer. It will not be long--not long----”

As the delirium of death had come on him he had struggled up into a sitting posture and waved his right hand above his head as though it still held a sword. Manco threw himself on his knees beside him, but just as he clasped him in his arms his head fell back heavily against his shoulder, and there, on the breast of his best-loved enemy, Alonso de Molina breathed out his gallant soul with a sigh so soft that even Manco’s strained ears could scarcely catch it.

He laid him down with gentle reverence on the sands, and when he had taken Nahua’s jewel from his neck he ordered one of the royal litters to be instantly brought that he might be taken back to the fortress, and while it was being brought he stood over him with bent head and wet eyes, mourning for him as man seldom mourns for his enemy, and, for the time, heedless in his sorrow of the battle which was still roaring away up the valley.