The White Conquerors: A Tale of Toltec and Aztec

Suddenly, from the lofty summit of a neighboring temple sounded, loud and clear, the thrilling tones of the horn of Guatamotzin. It was a summons rarely issued, and, as the Spaniards had learned to their cost, was invariably followed by a struggle to the death. On this occasion its long-drawn, piercing notes had not died away, when the Aztecs, who had fled before the advance of Alderete, turned on him with the utmost fury. At the same moment swarms of ambushed warriors poured out from every cross street and lane, rending the air with their savage cries, and springing upon the flanks of his straggling column.

Bewildered and staggered by the force and unexpected nature of the onset, the Spaniards paused, listened in vain for the accustomed rallying-cry of their great leader, wavered, and broke into a mad flight back over the way they had just come. In the frenzied rush friends and foes, Spaniards, Tlascalans, and Aztecs, were mingled in inextricable confusion; so that many of the terrified fugitives were struck down by those beside them, and snatched into waiting canoes by unseen hands.

Blinded by terror, the fierce human wave rolled on toward the gulf, on the opposite side of which Cortes and half a dozen companions shuddered at the impending horror. There was no pause at the awful brink. The leading files were forced to the leap by those pressing from behind, and in a moment the most hideous feature of the noche triste was being re-enacted. In this case there were no horses nor guns to plunge with wretched humanity into the chasm, nor did darkness multiply the confusion. Still it was a fearful sight, and Cortes, extending helping hands to whom he could, groaned aloud to behold his soldiers disappear by scores beneath the choking waters, or dragged into waiting Aztec canoes.

As he thus stood in the edge of the water, striving to save some victims of this terrible disaster, a large canoe containing six athletic Aztec warriors dashed up to him, and with wild yells of "Malinche! Malinche!" its occupants made a determined effort to drag him into their boat. A spear-thrust in the leg partially disabled him, and though he struggled with the almost superhuman strength supplied by a vision of the sacrificial altar, his assailants would have accomplished their purpose had not Olea on one side, and Huetzin on the other, sprung to his rescue with flashing swords. After killing two of the Aztecs, Olea fell mortally wounded. Another cavalier named Lerma was instantly in his vacant place, and for several minutes he and the Tlascalan Knight, bestriding the prostrate body of their leader, held the whole swarming mob of assailants in check. The cool bravery and expert skill of the two were a match for the reckless ferocity of an untrained score.

Meantime the report carried to the General's own division that he was slain, spread such dismay through the ranks that, but for the prompt action of the captain of the guard and a few others, they would have joined in the senseless flight of Alderete's men. Those who prevented this, refusing to believe that their leader was dead, rushed to his rescue, and with a fierce charge pulled him from the very edge of the water, into which the Aztecs, despite the efforts of Huetzin and Lerma, had succeeded in dragging him.

The body of brave Olea was borne away in triumph by the enemy, as was that of a page, pierced through the neck by a javelin, as he came up with the General's horse. As the lifeless hand of the page dropped from the bridle this was instantly seized by Guzman, the chamberlain; but ere Cortes gained his saddle, this faithful attendant was also snatched away and dragged into an Aztec canoe, vainly screaming for help.

The continued retreat along the canal-bordered roadway was marked by death and disaster to its very end. The Aztec attack was bold and incessant, while the press was so great that many an unfortunate was forced from his footing and slipped into the fatal waters. From these he was only rescued by Aztec canoes, that would bear him to a fate far worse than instant death.

The dismay and terror of the fugitives was heightened by the display, on the uplifted ends of Aztec spears, of two bloody Spanish heads. This dismal spectacle was accompanied by savage cries of "Sandoval! Sandoval! Tonatiah! Tonatiah!" intimating that the other army had also been routed, and its leaders slain. At the same time that army, barely holding its own against a most determined attack, was horrified at seeing a bloody Spanish head tossed, with wildest glee, from hand to hand of their assailants, who greeted it with exulting shouts of "Malinche! Malinche!" thus striving to convey the idea that the great leader had fallen.

The disastrous retreat of Alderete and his men was not stayed until they reached a place where the light battery and a body of cavalry, sent to their succor, could operate. Even then the Aztecs did not give way, until, in return for the losses inflicted upon them by the artillery, they had captured several troopers and killed their horses.

Next to the noche triste, this affair was more disastrous to the whites than any in which they had been engaged since entering that land of battle and death. Besides their long list of killed and wounded, sixty-two Spanish and a multitude of Tlascalan prisoners had been captured by the triumphant Aztecs. These had also killed seven horses, and gained possession of two pieces of artillery.

As the sun was setting that evening, the penetrating vibration of the great serpent drum, from the lofty but dismantled temple of the war-god, attracted all eyes in that direction. A long procession of priests wound slowly up and around the sides of the vast teocal. As it reached the summit, the Spaniards recognized with horror, in the figures of several men stripped to their waists, the white skins of their compatriots. These, urged on by cruel blows, were compelled to dance in front of the altar, before submitting to the itzitli blade of sacrifice. For eighteen successive evenings was this awful scene repeated, and on the last of them, Guzman, the General's devoted attendant, met the cruel fate that had already overtaken his companions, whose number he had seen dwindle, day by day, until he alone was left.

The Aztec priests caused it to be proclaimed throughout the valley, that within eight days from the date of their terrible defeat, every Spaniard would be either dead or a prisoner, for so the gods had decreed. At the same time they warned all allies of the Spaniards, who did not wish to share their fate, to desert the Christian cause, and retire to their own places.

This prophecy had such an effect upon the allies, that by thousands and ten of thousands they left the camps of the besiegers, until only a few hundred faithful Tlascalans remained. But when the eight days were passed, and, in spite of repeated attacks from the city, the white men still held their ground, their shame-faced allies began to return in such numbers that the besieging army was soon as strong as before.

CHAPTER XL.

FINAL OVERTHROW OF THE AZTEC GODS

The siege of Tenochtitlan had now been going on for nearly three months. Still the besieged, animated by the heroism of their young king, and the fatal superstition that caused them to believe in the promises and tremble at the threats of their false priests, held out. Famine, sickness, and death stalked abroad through the city; but it would not surrender, nor would it so long as every house was a fortress and every canal a barricade. Guatamotzin steadily refused to treat with embassies, or grant a personal interview to the Christian leader. Scores of Spaniards and hundreds of Huetzin's brave warriors had been sacrificed by priestly knives, and their blood cried out for vengeance. In view of these facts, Cortes came reluctantly to the conclusion that the beautiful city must be destroyed, its buildings levelled to the earth to afford a clear sweep for his guns, and its canals, filled with their débris, converted into solid ground for the unimpeded movements of his cavalry.

So the fatal order was given, and a hundred thousand natives of Anahuac, who had suffered too bitterly from the oppression of the Aztec to feel pity for him in the hour of his distress, seized their heavy coas (picks), and sprang cheerfully to the work of destruction. First, the openings in the causeways were so solidly filled that they were never again opened. Then the frail tenements of the suburbs were demolished, and a broad belt, encircling the more substantially built portions of the city, was presented for the movement of the troops. The defenders of Tenochtitlan did not view these measures with indifference; but, sallying forth on all sides, maintained an incessant warfare with the besiegers.

At this stage of the proceedings a message was sent to Guatamotzin, offering honorable terms of peace, and he called a great council to consider it. His nobles advised its acceptance, but the priests, foreseeing their own downfall if its terms were agreed to, forbade him to submit. Their councils prevailed; and thus, in obedience to priestly selfishness, was this queenly city of the New World doomed to annihilation.

For two days the besiegers quietly awaited an answer to their message. At length it came in the shape of a furious sortie, from every city street, of host after host of desperate Aztecs. Like swollen mountain torrents bursting their confining flood-gates, they swept in wave after wave, across the causeways, to the very entrenchments of their enemy, threatening to overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers. But the besiegers were too strongly fortified, and too well armed, to be dislodged. Into the very faces of the dense Aztec ranks was poured a withering fire from the land batteries, while their flanks were enfiladed by the guns of the fleet. Finally, hidden beneath clouds of sulphurous smoke, their shattered columns wavered, and then rolled slowly back into the city. It was their last great effort, and from this time on, the proud city seemed to await its doom in sullen apathy.

Now the work of destruction was pressed with the utmost vigor. Day after day witnessed the demolition of dwellings, palaces, and temples, the filling of canals, and the penetrating of the besiegers, from two sides at once, further and further toward the heart of the Aztec capital. Fiercely did its starving defenders contest each foot of progress, fighting from house to house, darting out in small parties from side streets to slay a score or so of workmen, and then as suddenly disappearing, charging after the retreating forces at each nightfall, and at all times battling with the ferocity of despair.

From the six hundred temples of the city Huetzin and his band of picked warriors hurled the idols, one after another, until at length, in all Tenochtitlan, only one abiding-place remained to the Aztec gods. This was the lofty teocal overlooking the market-place of Tlateloco, which was second only in size and importance to the mighty structure from which the war-god had long since been driven.

Three-fourths of the beautiful city, including the stately palace of its king, lay in ruins, when near the close of a day of destruction, the two attacking armies, doggedly fighting their way through the still innumerable host of Aztecs, came in sight of each other on opposite sides of the market-place. Suddenly, from the teocal overlooking it, a bright blaze shot high in the air, reddening the eastern sky with a glow like that of the western sunset. So ominous was the signal, that for a moment all combatants paused to regard it. As they gazed upward, a small body of men appeared on the verge of the lofty platform, and the next instant a huge, shapeless mass, came crashing and thundering down the steep declivity. During the momentary silence that followed, a single figure stood boldly outlined, on the point from which the image had come, and, in the ringing tones of Huetzin the Toltec, were heard the words:

"Thus perishes the last of the Aztec gods!"

Then, making in mid-air the holy sign of his faith, he disappeared.

With joyous shouts the Christian soldiers sprang forward to complete their victory; but it was completed. Guatamotzin was already a fugitive, and, without king or gods, the Aztecs would fight no more.

That very evening Sandoval, who had been made admiral of the fleet, chased with his swiftest vessel a large periagua that was endeavoring to escape from the city. As he drew near to it, and was about to open fire, a stately figure sprang up, and proclaimed:

"I am the king! Slay me if you will, but spare these helpless ones."

On hearing this, Sandoval ordered his men to lower their weapons, and received Guatamotzin with courtesy and honor on board his vessel.

Thus ended the bitter siege of Tenochtitlan, a siege unsurpassed in the annals of war for the heroic fortitude, bravery, and persistence shown on both sides.

That night the fall of the Aztec capital, and the overthrow of its gods, was signalized by one of the most fearful storms ever known in the Mexican valley. For hours the rain descended in torrents, the heavens were rent by incessant flashes of blinding lightning, and the continuous crash of thunder shook the encircling mountain-walls to their foundation. It was a fitting requiem over the death of a brave and powerful, but at the same time cruel and superstitious, nation.

On the following morning began an exodus, from the devastated city, of its remaining inhabitants; and so great was the number who had survived the horrors of battle, pestilence, and famine, that the sorrowful processions occupied three days in defiling across the causeways to the mainland. As they had for many days been unable to bury their dead, the deserted city was now but a vast charnel-house in which no human being could exist. As soon after this as was practicable, Cortes set to work, with the aid of the conquered citizens and immense levies drawn from the surrounding country, to rebuild what he had destroyed. The first building to be erected was a magnificent Christian cathedral, which, dedicated to St. Francis, was made to occupy the very site on which formerly stood the temple of the Aztec war-god. So actively was the work of reconstruction pushed, that in less than four years' time the new city of Mexico, in many respects more splendid than its predecessor on the same site, had arisen from the ashes of Tenochtitlan.

With the fall of the Aztec capital, and the final overthrow of its cruel gods, Huetzin, the Knight of Castile and head chief of the free republic of Tlascala, was absolved from his vow. Thus the moment his military duties would permit, he sought the brave and beautiful Indian girl, to win whom had for so long been the hope of his life. He found her in the royal gardens of Tezcuco; where, above the grave of Tiata, he declared to Marina the love which had been hers, and had been reciprocated by her, from the time of their first meeting. A few days later they were married by the good Father Olmedo, the Christian priest who had accompanied the white conquerors through all their weary marches and battles.

Thus when the Lord of Titcala returned to his mountain home, at the head of his army of victorious warriors, all other causes for happiness seemed to him insignificant as compared with that of taking with him, as his wife, the maiden whose services as interpreter to the white conquerors were no longer needed.

The fall of Tenochtitlan occurred in August, 1521, and for seven years longer did Cortes remain in Mexico, founding new cities, rebuilding many of those that had been destroyed, extending the dominion of the Spanish king, and in all ways perfecting his glorious conquest. At the end of that time, or in the early summer of 1528, two fine ships, laden with the rarest products of Anahuac, sailed from Vera Cruz, and, after a prosperous voyage across the Atlantic, entered the port of Palos, in Spain. On the deck of one of them, eagerly gazing at the land which some of them had not seen in many years, and others were now viewing for the first time, stood a group, most of whom would be recognized by those familiar with the Mexico of that day. Chief among them was Hernando Cortes, the leader. Beside him stood Gonzalo de Sandoval, his beloved and well-tried Captain, and several other cavaliers, all heroes of the Mexican wars. Near at hand were Huetzin, Lord of Titcala, his beautiful wife, a son of Montezuma, and a number of other Tlascalan and Aztec nobles.

Immediately on their arrival these repaired to the convent of La Rabida, long since inseparably connected with the immortal name of Columbus, to offer up thanks for their safe voyage.

Here, on the threshold of his native land, sturdy Sandoval took sick of a mysterious malady, which, it was quickly evident, was about to terminate his earthly career of glory and usefulness.

About the dying bed of the soldier were gathered his commander and his best-loved friends. With the same composure and undaunted courage with which he had faced death on a hundred battle-fields, he faced it now. With a lingering hand-clasp to each, he bade farewell to the comrades who had fought those battles beside him.

"To thy gentle care, Marina, I commend Motilla. From thee, Juan, my brother, I will bear a message to Tiata."

Very faint were these words, but with the mention of her name, to whom his loyal troth had been plighted years before in the royal gardens of fair Tenochtitlan, a smile of ineffable glory illumined his rugged features. In another moment his soldier spirit was answering the glad trumpet-call of the Immortals, while above its earthly habitation, Huetzin the Toltec was making the holy sign of the peace-loving but all-powerful God of the Four Winds.