The White Conquerors: A Tale of Toltec and Aztec

The advanced guard had crossed the bridge and the dense squadrons of the centre, with the heavy guns, ammunition wagons, baggage, treasure, prisoners, and wounded, were passing it when the storm broke. First a few stones and arrows rattled on the mail of the cavaliers, or pricked the naked Tlascalans. Then the dark waters of the lake were smitten by the dip of ten thousand angry paddles, as though by the fierce breath of a whirlwind. The sprinkle of stones and arrows increased to a tempest of hissing missiles. The dark lines of on-rushing canoes dashed against the very rocks of the causeway, while their occupants, leaping out, threw themselves, with reckless ferocity, upon the retreating troops. The shrieks of wounded and dying men began to rise from the hurrying column and the despairing cries of others, overthrown and dragged to the canoes. Above all and drowning all, rose the shrill, exultant yell of "Tlacopan! Tlacopan!" made, for the time being, the Aztec war-cry and taken up by a myriad of fresh voices with each passing minute.

From the distant rear came the roar of Mesa's guns. There the cowardly enemy will be checked at any rate! But they are not. No longer do belching cannon nor levelled lances possess any terror for those whom the war-like Cuitlahua leads to battle.

As hundreds were mowed down by the storm of iron balls, thousands leaped into their places. So irresistibly furious was the Aztec advance that ere the deadly falconets could be reloaded, Mesa, his men, and his guns, were overwhelmed, and swept out of sight, as though beneath the overpowering mass of an alpine avalanche. Alvarado and his handful of cavaliers, who had charged again and again into the fiercely swelling tide of foemen, supporting the guns as long as any were left, now turned, and fled across the narrow bridge.

While these events were taking place with frightful rapidity in the rear, the advance had reached, and were halted by, the second opening in the causeway. Galled by the incessant attacks of their swarming adversaries, and with their own swords rendered well-nigh useless by the cramped space into which they were crowded, these sent back message after message imploring Margarino to hasten forward with the bridge. But the bridge would never be brought forward. Its timbers had become so wedged among the stones of the causeway, by the weight of ponderous guns and mail-clad troops, that not all the efforts of Margarino's sturdy men could move them. Desperately they tugged and strained, but in vain. The bridge was as immovable as the causeway itself. Even as they fulfilled their pledge never to move forward without the bridge, the exulting foe leaped upon them. For a few minutes there was a fierce conflict. Then the seething Aztec flood rolled on, sweeping over Margarino and his men, as it had over Mesa and his guns.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A NIGHT OF FIGHTING, DESPAIR, AND DEATH

The dreadful news that the bridge could not be moved, and that with its loss went their chief hope of escape, swept like wild fire from the rear where Alvarado and his gallant band were charging and momentarily holding in check the thronging masses of the enemy. Like a death-knell it sounded through the long line, beset on both lines by a myriad of assailants who seemed to rise from the very waters, to the distant front where Sandoval and his cavaliers fought, as best they might, and fretted at Margarino's delay. Everywhere the fatal message converted the orderly ranks into a panic-stricken mob. All subordination was at an end. Frenzied men flung away their weapons and sought only to save themselves. The wounded were abandoned and trampled under foot. The weak gave way before the strong.

In the very front, snugly nestled among the soft cushions of her litter, and surrounded by her faithful body guard, Marina hardly realized that anything more than a skirmish was taking place. Every now and then she heard the ringing voice of sturdy Sandoval, and more than once Huetzin parted the curtains to assure her that he was close at hand. She liked to see him on horseback, this noble cavalier of her own race, and, as she lay back in the litter, listening to the far-away roar of grim Mesa's final volley, she saw a vision of a battle scene in which her hero led a glorious charge of cavalry, and the gallant horsemen were of her own people.

Suddenly she was startled by a swaying of her litter, as though by the advanced swell of a mighty tide. There came cries of terror and dismay, oaths, prayers, and a great surging to and fro. The panic-stricken fugitives in the rear were pressing tumultuously forward, and her Tlascalan body-guard were fighting savagely, against their own friends, in a desperate effort to stem the swelling flood, and keep from being swept off their narrow footing.

Already Sandoval and his cavaliers were dashing into the dark waters, and struggling to clear a way, in which the infantry might follow, through the close-packed canoes that blocked the passage.

Backward, step by step, were the Tlascalans pressed, until half of them had been forced to take the fatal plunge, and the litter containing the chiefest treasure of the Spanish army, hovered on the very brink of the black chasm. At this juncture the curtains were torn aside, and the terrified girl was lifted from her soft nest in a pair of strong arms. In a moment she found herself on horseback, in front of a cavalier who was saying, in reassuring tones: "Thou shalt yet be saved, dear one." In the next, the steed, bearing this double burden, had taken the leap, and all three were struggling in the cold waters.

Cocotin, though fleet of foot and brave of spirit, had not the body nor strength of Motilla, and quickly gave signs of being overweighted. As he realized this, Huetzin slipped from the saddle, pulled Marina back into its safer seat and swam beside her. The dark waters about them were filled with despairing men, fighting, struggling, and drowning each other in their frenzied efforts to escape the fate of which all seemed doomed. Among them dashed the Aztec canoes, their inmates dealing savage blows to right and left, and only striving to save lives that their gods might have the more victims. From one of these canoes Cocotin was wounded in the head by the blow of a maquahuitl, and unmanageable from pain, swerved toward the open lake. Huetzin let go his hold of the saddle to spring to her head. At that moment his feet were seized by some drowning wretch, and he was dragged beneath the blood-stained waters. It was a full minute before he could release himself from that death-clutch at the bottom of the lake. When with bursting temples, he again breathed the blessed air, the same awful struggle was going on about him, but Cocotin and her precious burden had disappeared.

In the meantime the gaping chasm was rapidly filling with the bodies of men and horses, guns and baggage wagons, ingots of gold that might ransom a prince, bales of rich fabrics, weapons and equipments of every description. It was a seething inferno from which frantic Aztec demons, plying war club and javelin, were reaping a goodly harvest of captives. The awful carnage that now raged along the length of the causeway, was nowhere so great as at this point. Finally, the ghastly opening was filled with the wreck of battle, until over the hideous bridge thus formed those in the rear passed dry-shod to the opposite side.

All this while Cortes, who had discovered, a little to one side, a passage that was fordable, was valiantly holding it with a handful of cavaliers, while vainly urging the troops to gain safety by coming that way. Through the storm-swept darkness, he could not be seen, nor could his voice be heard above the wild uproar. At length, swept onward by the human tide and forced to the opposite bank, he spurred forward to the third and last opening. Here he found Sandoval and a few followers engaged in another fierce conflict with the enemy, who had hurried a strong force to this point in canoes. At this place the exultant Aztecs hoped to complete the destruction of the shattered army, and but for the matchless bravery of Cortes and his cavaliers they would have succeeded.

Without a moment's hesitation the leader, close followed by Sandoval and the others, plunged into the deadly waters, and, waging a hand-to-hand conflict from canoe to canoe, finally forced the passage. All the foot-soldiers, who were huddled like sheep on the brink of this chasm, at which the dreadful scenes of the other seemed about to be repeated, now cast themselves into the water. Many were drowned by the weight of gold with which they had over-burdened themselves, others grasped the manes or tails of swimming horses and so were helped across. Still others, having cast away muskets, armor, gold, everything that might embarrass their flight, gained the opposite side by their own unaided efforts. When all who were within hearing had scrambled, in one fashion or another, upon the causeway the precipitate flight was continued, though a distant din of battle showed some survivors to be still waging the conflict of despair.

Cortes and the shattered remnant of his army had hardly reached solid earth, when a breathless runner overtook them, with the information that what was left of the rear-guard had won its way to the farther side of the last opening, where they were now battling against such odds that, unless speedily relieved, not a man would be left. Sandoval, utterly exhausted, had thrown himself on the ground beside his dripping steed, as had many of the others. At this despairing cry for help the sturdy young soldier again sprang into his saddle, exclaiming: "I, for one, am ready!" "And I!" "And I!" shouted several more. With a grateful nod, Cortes put spurs to his own horse and galloped back over the fatal causeway followed by a dozen gallant gentlemen, who thus rode into the jaws of death as cheerfully as though to a friendly trial of arms.

For five hours had the battle raged, and in the gray light, now breaking, some of the hideous details of the night's disaster were made visible. As far as the eye could reach, the road of death swarmed with the victorious enemy, while on either side the lake was black with their canoes. The sight was fitted to appal even the stout hearts of the Spanish cavaliers; but near at hand was that which appealed to a feeling stronger than fear. On the opposite bank of the bloody gulf, which was fast filling with the dead, golden-bearded Alvarado, bare-headed, and bleeding from a dozen wounds, still fought with superhuman strength, and so animated his scant handful of troops, that, had they been fresh, instead of well-nigh fainting, their heroism must have been crowned with victory.

With a cheering shout that inspired new hope in the sinking hearts of Alvarado's men, the dozen cavaliers led by Cortes dashed once more into the water, swam to the opposite side, and plunged into the thick of the fray. For a moment the Aztecs fell back before their fierce onslaught, like a receding wave of the sea. In the respite thus afforded all but one of those who had fought with the "Tonatiah," cast themselves into the water, from which most of them emerged on the other side in safety. At that moment Alvarado's horse, the faithful steed that had borne him so nobly amid a thousand dangers, fell, to rise no more, pinning her master to the ground as she did so. A Tlascalan warrior, who was so disfigured by wounds and covered with blood, that the Spanish cavalier had not recognized him, though they had fought side by side for the past hour, sprang to his relief. As he succeeded in disengaging the entangled man, the rescuing party was driven back upon them, with ranks sadly thinned, and unable longer to hold their own against the onrushing foe.

"Mount with me!" shouted Sandoval to his unhorsed comrade, "Motilla can bear us both!"

"I can care for myself! Take thou this youth, to whom I owe my life many times," answered Alvarado. Thus saying, he seized a long Chinantla pike, and planted one end in the wreck at the bottom of the canal. Then, gathering his strength for a prodigious effort, he vaulted clear across, and landed safely on the other side of the yawning chasm. Victors and vanquished, Aztecs, Spaniards, and Tlascalans, stood for a moment spell-bound at the sight of this marvellous feat.

Sandoval was among the first to recover from his amazement, and turning to the youth whom Alvarado had recommended, he bade him mount behind him. They two, on the gallant Motilla were the last to leave; but it was not until the brave mare had borne them to the opposite side, and the young warrior leaped to the ground, that Sandoval recognized him. Then in joyful accents he cried out, "Praised be the blessed saints! Don Juan, that thou hast escaped yon hell in safety, for truly I had given thee up for dead."

"And I would that I were," answered the young Toltec, bitterly, "since I have lost that which, of all life, I held most dear. But I sought death in vain. It could come to all others, but not to me."

"What mean you?" cried Sandoval, bewildered by this strange speech.

"I mean that Marina lies somewhere in yon lake, and if I knew where, my body should lie beside hers."

Thus ended the dreadful night, called for all time the Noche Triste, or night of sadness.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

MARINA IS LOST AND SAVED

As the darkness of the noche triste was dispelled by the rising sun, Cortes led the broken remnant of his army away from the fatal dike on which all had so nearly laid down their lives. The first march of the long anticipated retreat was an accomplished fact; but at what a fearful cost! Not a gun remained to the Spaniards, not a musket. Their banners and trumpets had disappeared. Of one hundred horses but a score were left, and all of these were wounded. There were no ammunition wagons, there was no baggage-train. Most of the treasure had been lost. Some of the soldiers had indeed clung to their gold, even while throwing away the muskets on which they relied to defend it; but, a few days later, even this, for which they had been willing to sacrifice all, became an intolerable burden, that was in turn flung aside.

All the prisoners had been slain in the mêlée by their own friends, and of the fate of the wounded no one dared to speak. Of the retreating Spaniards nearly one-half had been slain or captured on that two miles of causeway, while of the faithful Tlascalans over two thousand were missing. About the same time forty-five Spaniards, who had been sent by Cortes two months before to visit some distant mines, were captured and sacrificed by the Aztecs, at Zaltepec, while on their way back to Tenochtitlan, in total ignorance of the existing state of affairs.

Thus there were Christian victims for the altars of every Aztec city, while native nobles were armed with Spanish weapons, and wore odd pieces of Spanish armor. It was owing to the rich spoil abandoned by the well-nigh helpless survivors, that they owed their present safety. Had the Aztecs followed them as vigorously as they had attacked them on the causeway, not a soul could have escaped. But the victors were too busily engaged in gathering up such treasures as had never before fallen into Indian hands, in securing their prisoners, in making preparations for festivals of rejoicing, in cleansing their city and burying their dead, to concern themselves about the forlorn remnant of those who had been termed the "White Conquerors," but who would now quickly perish in the mountains, or be destroyed by the first of Cuitlahua's armies with which they should come into collision.

So the Spaniards, weak, weary, and wounded, disheartened, water-soaked, and ragged, defenceless save for their swords, a score of lances, and as many disabled cross-bows, were allowed to straggle unmolested through the deserted streets of Tlacopan, and make their way into the open country beyond. Here they were halted by their leader, who endeavored to reform the shattered battalions, and bring some sort of order out of their confusion.

Near by rose the hill of Montezuma, crowned by an extensive temple that offered a tempting place of shelter. But, as they could see, it was already occupied by a force of the enemy, and at that moment the dispirited Spaniards had no mind for further fighting. The cavaliers indeed were ready, but they were so few! and their poor horses were completely used up. In this emergency, Huetzin, seizing a javelin from one of his Tlascalans, sprang up the ascent. His mountain warriors followed so promptly that, as he gained the outer wall of the temple, they were also swarming over it, in face of the shower of darts and arrows let fly by the garrison. Then the defenders, amazed at so fierce an attack from those whom they had deemed incapable of further fighting, took to flight, and the place of refuge was secured.

In the temple were found a certain amount of provisions, and an ample supply of fuel, from which the new occupants built great fires to dry their clothing and warm their chilled bodies. Wounds were dressed as best they might be, a hearty meal was eaten, and then the weary troops sought to forget their sorrows in sleep. Not all slept, however. Sentries guarded the outer walls, and several small groups, gathered near the fires, conversed in low tones. In one of these the leader, planning for the future even in this his darkest hour of defeat, talked earnestly with Martin Lopez, his master ship-builder. Not far away Sandoval and Huetzin, drawn to a closer brotherhood by the similarity of their sorrows, talked of Marina, and the sturdy cavalier strove to comfort his stricken comrade with the tenderness that had come recently to him through his own irreparable loss.

Although no word of love had passed between Huetzin and Marina, each had known the heart of the other ever since those days of illness and nursing on the hill of Zampach. Many a time since would Huetzin have declared his passion for the Indian girl, but for a vow, that no word of love should pass his lips so long as an Aztec god reigned in Tenochtitlan. To their overthrow was his life devoted, and with the constancy of a crusading knight he had remained true to his pledge. When the image of the Aztec war-god was hurled from its pedestal, he had hoped that the period of his vow was nearly at an end; but with the ordering of a retreat from the city, he knew that it was indefinitely extended. Even when he held Marina in his arms as, on Cocotin's back, they plunged together into the lake, he had spoken no word of love, though indeed his tones had interpreted his feelings beyond a doubt of misunderstanding. Now that the life of his life was forever lost to him, he had no reason for concealment, and to his friend he laid open his heart.

Sadly enough, the litter in which Marina had been borne, and in which she had seemed in so great danger that Huetzin had snatched her from it, had been brought through in safety by its stout Tlascalan bearers, and now stood drying near the very fire beside which Huetzin and Sandoval sat. Until its emptiness was disclosed, the army had not known of Marina's disappearance; but the moment it was announced all other losses were lessened in comparison with this one, so generally was the Indian girl beloved. Even the leader, in planning his future operations, wondered if they could succeed without the almost indispensable aid of his brave girl interpreter.

To turn from this scene of a defeated Spanish army mourning its losses and sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in an Aztec temple, to the hut of a slave of Iztapalapan, is to make an abrupt transition. Still it is a necessary one, if the threads of our story are to be connected. Ever after it was learned that an alliance had been entered into between the mountain republic and the white conquerors, the lot of those Tlascalan slaves held by the Aztecs was of unusual hardship. They were everywhere regarded with suspicion and treated with cruelty. Even such faithful servants of their master as the aged couple who had dealt so kindly by Huetzin did not escape the harsh treatment accorded to their race. Double tasks were imposed, and not even their age, nor efforts to accomplish all that was required of them, saved them from the biting lash of the driver. They often dreamed, and even spoke in whispers, of escape. But how might it be accomplished? Whither should they fly? Not until long after the arrival of the Spaniards in Tenochtitlan did these questions find even the shadow of an answer.

In that country, and in those days, news, other than that borne by king's couriers, travelled slowly, and rare indeed were the items that reached the ears of slaves. So, although the aged Tlascalans knew something of the coming of the strange white beings, it was long before they heard that they were accompanied by a friendly Tlascalan army. It was longer still ere they learned that the leader of this army was none other than that son of Tlahuicol, who had been their guest in the time of his greatest danger.

With this bewildering news to consider, the aged couple glanced at each other meaningly, as they sat at night through a long silence, on the opposite sides of a tiny blaze, in their rude fireplace. Finally the old man said:

"If we could only get to him!" and the wife answered:

"He would be to us as an own son, for so he said."

Several nights later the old man asked, "When shall we make the attempt?" and the old woman answered, "Whenever thou art ready to lead, I am ready to follow."

"To be captured means a certain death!"

"But a free death is better than a living slavery."

"Thou art true and brave as always. On the first night of storm-clouded blackness will we set forth."

"On the first night of storm-clouded blackness," repeated the old woman, slowly, as though committing the words to memory.

Thus it happened that the very night selected by the Spaniards for their escape from Tenochtitlan was also the one chosen by the aged Tlascalan couple for their flight from slavery. After dark, and moving with the utmost caution, the old man secured the canoe in which they had been wont, though not for many months, to carry flowers to the city, and brought it to the beach near their hut. To it he conveyed their few poor treasures, some bits of rude pottery fashioned by himself, a bundle of gay feathers, a battered javelin such as he had used when a young man and a Tlascalan warrior, and the blanket woven of rabbit's fur, on which the old woman had spent the scant leisure of years. Then they set forth, guided by the faint altar fires of the distant city. They knew not how nor where they should find him whom they sought, but they had a simple faith that, once near him, they would be safe.

A long time they labored at the paddles, until at length they neared the city. Suddenly a startling clamor arose from it. There were shouts as of a mighty host, the discordant notes of priest-blown shells, and, above all, the dread booming of the great serpent drum. They rested on their paddles and listened in frightened bewilderment. Now red beacon flames blazed from every temple, and by this light they perceived a myriad of canoes sweeping past them, all hurrying toward the causeway of Tlacopan. To lessen the chances of being run down, the old man headed his canoe in the same direction, and drifted with the others.

Then came the sound of fighting, the terrifying roar of guns, the clashing of weapons, and the screams of those who fell; but, above all, they heard a sound that recalled their own youth and their own country, the shrill war-cry of the Tlascalans.

"Let us approach closer," urged the brave old wife. "Some of our own may be in the fight, and so sorely pressed that even our feeble aid may prove of value."

So they approached as close as they dared, to where the uproar was loudest. As they lingered, terrified but held by an awful fascination, there came a voice, seemingly that of a girl, to their ears.