Cortés saw all this, pondered it well, and thought it would be very pretty to play the god awhile. He would much prefer it to confinement in old Velazquez’ plaza-pen, or even in a Seville prison.
Cortés was now certain in his own mind that if his band remained unbroken either by internal dissension or by white men yet to arrive, he would tread the streets of the Mexican capital before he entered the gates of the celestial city. If Montezuma would not admit him peaceably, he would gather such a force of the emperor’s enemies as would pull the kingdom down about his ears.
It would be necessary on going inland to leave a garrison at Villa Rica; but it would be madness to leave also vessels in which they could sail away to Cuba or elsewhere. And finally, if the ships were destroyed, the sailors, who otherwise would be required to care for them, might be added to the army.
Such were the arguments which the commander would use to win the consent of his people to one of the most desperate and daring acts ever conceived by a strategist of any age or nation.
Not that such consent was necessary. He might destroy the ships and settle with the soldiers afterward.
The deed accomplished, with or without their consent, there would be but one course open to them. Nevertheless he preferred they should think themselves the authors of it rather than feel that they had been tricked, or in any way unfairly dealt with.
And with the moral he would shift the pecuniary responsibility to their shoulders. So he went to work as usual, with instruments apparently independent, but whose every step and word were of his directing.