Tlalco the Toltec, one of the few survivors in Mexico of that mysterious race to which Huetzin traced his own ancestry, had, like Tlahuicol, been born in the land of the Mayans. Here he was educated as a priest of that gentle religion of love and peace, whose gods were the Four Winds, and other forces of nature, and the symbol of which was a cross. It had at one time been the faith of all Anahuac; but, with the coming of the conquering Aztecs, it was supplanted by the cruel worship of Huitzil, the war-god, whose blood-stained priests demanded the sacrifice of thousands of human victims every year.
The young Toltec first heard of these abominations with horror, but not until his only brother, to whom he was passionately attached, was captured by an Aztec war party and doomed to sacrifice in Tenochtitlan, did he conceive the idea of devoting his life to conflict with the gods who exacted them. His first act was to secretly enlist a number of young men whose enthusiasm in the sacred cause was equal to his own. Then, like a crusader of the old world, he entered Anahuac at the head of his little band. Its members were distributed by twos, in various places, from which they were to maintain a regular correspondence with him. By this means he gained early information of all important occurrences throughout the kingdom, and was able to lay his plans accordingly. He established himself in Tenochtitlan. Here he bearded the lion in its den, by entering the service of the temple, and becoming a candidate for the priesthood of Huitzil. While thus engaged he first heard of Tlahuicol.
Tlalco's nature was to plot and work by hidden means; but he could rejoice in the downright blows of the warrior, who fought openly against those of whom he was the secret enemy. Though he did not meet Tlahuicol, nor even learn that he, too, was a Toltec, until the very hour of the latter's death, he made himself familiar with every event of the great warrior's career. He augmented the prestige of the Tlascalan war-chief by originating, and spreading, the prophecy that through Tlahuicol should Huitzil fall. It was this prophecy, a knowledge of which had become general at the time the Tlascalan was captured by his enemies, that caused Topil, the chief priest, to regard him with such a bitter hatred, and demand his life of Montezuma.
After the death of Tlahuicol, and the startling discovery that he, too, was a Toltec, Tlalco determined to protect the children of the hero so far as lay in his power, and at the same time to use them in furthering his own life-work. All his hopes of ultimate success now centred in the mysterious white conquerors, who, bearing a cross as their symbol of faith, had recently arrived on the coast. Therefore, after rescuing Huetzin from the knife of sacrifice, he bade him seek and join himself to them, thus, unwittingly, reiterating the last instructions of Tlahuicol.
Tiata, he saved from Topil's vengeance, by causing the praises of her beauty to be so artfully sounded within hearing of Cacama, Prince of Tezcuco, that the latter demanded her in marriage of Montezuma. By Tlalco's instructions the girl claimed the privilege of a year's mourning for her parents, before becoming a bride. This was granted; but in accordance with established custom, she was compelled to reside at the Court of Tezcuco, in charge of a noble lady of the prince's household. From here Tiata, who was now enlisted heart and soul in the cause of the Toltec, for the overthrow of the hated religion to which her parents had been sacrificed, constantly furnished Tlalco with important information. Under the strict watch of her duenna, she was permitted to visit Tenochtitlan, to witness the first entry of the white conquerors, and her heart swelled with pride at the sight of her brother leading his army of Tlascalans. No opportunity was allowed her for communicating with him, ere he was spirited away through the efforts of the chief priest.
When Tlalco learned that Huetzin was, for the second time, about to be led to the altar of sacrifice, he was for a moment at a loss how to act. Had the message sent to Sandoval been traced to him, his influence with Montezuma, as an Aztec priest, would have been destroyed. Then he remembered Tiata's presence in the palace, and sent the message through her. That very evening, after her strange interview with Sandoval, the Toltec maiden was compelled to return to Tezcuco, where, for many weeks, she was so closely watched, that she could gain no intelligence of her brother's fate.
At length, wearying of Cacama's unwelcome attentions, Tiata found means of sending an appeal to Tlalco for aid in escaping them. At the same time she informed him that the Tezcucan prince was secretly raising an army with which he proposed to destroy the Spaniards, and usurp the Aztec throne. Tlalco immediately caused this information to be conveyed to Cortes, who as promptly effected the arrest of Cacama, whom he afterward held as a captive in the Spanish quarters.
After the departure of Cortes to meet Narvaez, Tlalco found that, by his constant intercourse with the king, upon whose superstitious nature he had been able to exert a powerful influence, he was exciting the jealousy and suspicions of Topil. Therefore, as a measure of precaution, he suddenly ceased his visits to the captive monarch. At the same time, in order that he might still be kept informed of all that was taking place in the palace, he conceived and carried out the plan of having Tiata, disguised as a youth, installed as a king's page. Before she found an opportunity of communicating with her brother, she heard that he was to take the dangerous task of conveying the news of Alvarado's desperate situation to Cortes, and this was the first bit of information that she sent to Tlalco. He, knowing only too well what precautions were taken to prevent the escape of any such messenger, and the terrible fate already suffered by those previously sent out, for a moment believed the son of Tlahuicol to be lost. Then a high resolve filled his breast.
Although not a warrior, he determined on a course of action from which many a one entitled to the name might well have shrunk. He knew himself to be an object of such suspicion to Topil, that the spies of the chief priest were ever on his track, and that his every movement was instantly reported to his arch enemy. He knew, too, that Topil, having become superstitious through the prophecy concerning Tlahuicol, and the two miraculous escapes of Tlahuicol's son from his clutches, thirsted for the blood of the young Toltec, with an eagerness that would have given anything short of life itself for his capture. Knowing all this, Tlalco still watched for Huetzin's departure from the palace, followed him to the place of his capture, allowed the guards to lead him for some distance, thus withdrawing themselves from the causeway, and then effected the prisoner's release by stepping forward, and, in his capacity of priest, boldly denouncing their stupidity, and holding their attention by his words, until Huetzin had slipped away and disappeared.
Five minutes later, Tlalco was seized and dragged before Topil. "Ha, false priest! Have I discovered thee at last?" cried the latter in a voice well nigh choked with fury. "Long hast thou deceived me, but mine eyes are at length opened, and now shalt thou experience the wrath of the outraged gods, in a manner that will teach thee its possibilities as thou hast not dreamed of them."
From that moment the body of Tlalco was racked by a system of the most exquisite tortures that even the practiced ingenuity of Aztec priests could invent. For two weeks these had been prolonged, until, at the end of that time, the poor, agonized wreck of humanity lay where Huetzin discovered it, still conscious, but with the brave spirit just lingering on the threshold of its mortal home, before departing to the realms of immortality.
Heart-sick and filled with horror, at thus finding his friend and thrice preserver, the young Toltec knelt beside the hideous altar, and said: "Tlalco, my father, dost thou know me?"
The face of the dying man was lit with a glow of recognition, and in a whisper so feeble as to be barely heard, he answered:
Then they severed the cruel bonds and lifted him tenderly into the open air, where the sightless face instinctively turned toward the glowing noonday sun. Here Huetzin moistened his blackened lips and bathed his face with water that was at the same time mingled with his own scalding tears of fierce indignation, love, and pity. While he was thus engaged, his white comrades, filled with a furious rage, tore the grinning war-god from his blood-soaked throne and rolled the senseless image out on the broad arena which had but just been the scene of so terrible a battle.
"The hour of the false God has come!" cried Huetzin in the Toltec tongue: "The white conquerors are about to hurl him from his loftiest temple! Now is thy victory gained, O Tlalco! for the power of Aztec priesthood is broken forever! Oh, that my father could have lived to see this day! Oh, that Tiata might have seen it! The gods of the Toltecs, thy gods and my gods, O Tlalco, be praised that thou and I are permitted to share in this their glorious triumph!"
As he uttered these words in a tongue understood only by the dying man, the face of the youth was transfigured, the wrath of battle passed from it and it shone with the light of an all-absorbing enthusiasm.
"Lift me in thy strong arms," whispered Tlalco, "and make for me the holy sign."
As Huetzin lifted him and gently touched him on forehead, breast, and each shoulder, there came an exultant shout from the soldiers, a sound of crashing, splintering, and rending, as the ponderous image of the god thundered down to the bottom of the vast pyramid and a great cry of terror and consternation rose from the multitudes below. At the same moment the tortured features of him whom Huetzin supported, became radiant with the glory of the immortal gods, to whom his glad spirit was already winging its triumphant flight.
As Huetzin rose to his feet, after laying gently down the lifeless body of the Toltec martyr, he beheld Sandoval patiently waiting to attract his attention. The young Spaniard stood with one mail-shod foot resting on the neck of a writhing Aztec priest, who strove in vain to free himself from its weight.
"Here is a vermin," spoke Sandoval, "who bears a certain look of familiarity and who, I imagine, must be accounted of some consequence among his own diabolical crew. Yet I cannot place him and have persuaded him to come to thee for recognition. I found him, squatted like a toad in a hole, after yon image was dragged from its pedestal. He seems not to be wounded, nor do I believe he appeared in the fight at all. Now, lift thy head, vermin, that a man may gaze on thy devil's face!"
Thus exclaiming, Sandoval caught at the matted hair of the priest and pulled up his head so that Huetzin had a fair view of the fear-distorted features. As he glanced at them the young Toltec uttered a great cry and sprang forward.
"Aye, well do I know him!" he exclaimed. "He is the murderer of thousands, and thrice have I been in his clutches. From me has he taken father, mother, and sister! There (pointing to the mutilated body of Tlalco) is a specimen of his work. With his own hand did he slay Tlahuicol and Tiata! He is Topil, the chief-priest, the chief curse of Anahuac. Let me at him, that I may hurl him to everlasting damnation! Let me at him, I say! He is mine!"
"Gently, lad, gently!" interposed Sandoval, in a tone whose very softness intimated his rage. "To hurl him over the brink would be a kindness. 'Twould be too sweet a death for him. I have a better plan. Leave him to me, and I promise you thou shalt be satisfied."
With this he again grasped the long hair of Topil's head, and dragged the screaming wretch back into the shrine from which he had brought him. There, lifting him with a quick jerk to his feet, he drove him up the stairway to its top, hastening his movements with many a sword-prick in his bare legs. When Topil emerged on the roof, he was sixty feet above the platform where the combat had raged, and standing on the summit of a wooden tower. Sandoval bound his prisoner's wrists firmly together, behind him, and then fastened one of his ankles, by a copper censer chain that he had found in the temple, to a projecting timber, so that the priest, while allowed a certain freedom of motion, could by no possibility escape. There Sandoval left him, and, descending, closed the only avenue of escape behind him. Seizing a burning brand from an altar, he set fire to the woodwork of the temple in a dozen places. It was like tinder, and in a minute the red flames were greedily licking the slender tower on all sides. The screams of the miscreant, dancing in torment on its summit, attracted the attention of the multitudes below, and they, still trembling from the destruction of their god, were compelled to gaze helplessly upon the awful but well-merited fate of their chief-priest. Even after he was hidden from sight by a towering screen of flame and smoke, his voice could be heard in frantic appeals to the impotent gods.
When Cortes and the slender remnant of his victorious band descended from this memorable battle-field, the Aztec throngs shrunk from them as though they were plague-stricken, and they passed unmolested to their own quarters. That night the Spaniards again sallied forth, and, carrying blazing brands in every direction through the sleeping city, destroyed over three hundred houses.
On the following day, Cortes, thinking that by these reverses and by the overthrow of their principal god, the Aztecs must be sufficiently humbled to submit, called a parley. As the principal nobles and their followers assembled in the great square, he addressed them, through the voice of Marina, from the same turret on which Montezuma had received his death-wound.
"Men of Tenochtitlan," he said, "you have seen your gods trampled in the dust, their priests destroyed, your warriors slain by thousands, and your dwellings burned. All this you have brought upon yourselves. Yet, for the affection I bore the king whom you murdered, I am willing to forgive you, if you lay down your arms, renounce the hideous religion that offers no hope for your salvation, and resume the allegiance to his most Catholic majesty of Spain sworn by your king. If you refuse these things, then will I make your beautiful city a heap of smouldering ruins, as barren of human life as the fire-crowned summit of yon sky-piercing mountain. What say you? Shall it be peace with immunity from further suffering, or shall it be war to the death, and utter ruin?"
Then answered Cuitlahua, the newly crowned king: "It is true, O Malinche, that thou hast destroyed one of our temples, broken the image of a god, and slain many of my people. Many more will doubtless fall beneath thy terrible sword. But we are satisfied so long as for the blood of every hundred, we can shed that of one white man. Look on our roofs and terraces, our streets and squares. They are thronged with Aztec warriors, as far as thine eye can reach. Our numbers are scarcely diminished. Yours are lessening every hour! You are perishing with hunger, and thirst, and sickness! Your provisions are failing! We will see to it that you get no more. You have but little water! You must soon fall into our hands. The bridges are removed, and you cannot escape! Truly, O Malinche, is the vengeance of the outraged gods about to descend on thee."
At the conclusion of this bold speech, which well showed the temper of the newly made king, a flight of arrows compelled the Spaniards hastily to descend from the turret and seek the shelter of their defences.
Cuitlahua's defiance filled the besieged with dismay. Of what use were all their fightings, their sufferings, and their brilliant victories? The enemy was more determined than ever, and a hundred fresh warriors stood ready to take the place of each one who was killed. A contest against such overwhelming odds was hopeless, and the sooner it was abandoned the better. Thus argued the Spanish soldiers, especially the recruits who had come with Narvaez. These, to a man, declared they would fight no longer, unless to preserve themselves in a retreat from the fatal city.
Against such a feeling among his followers, even the bold spirit of the commander was forced to yield. So, after a consultation with his officers, including the young chief of Tlascalans, he announced that preparations would at once be made for leaving Tenochtitlan. It was decided that the retreat should be by the causeway of Tlacopan, which, being but two miles in length, and thus much shorter than the one by which they had entered the city, would soonest lead them to the mainland, where they could fight to advantage.
In the meantime, as in their frequent sorties, the Spaniards had suffered their greatest annoyance through missiles showered down from the housetops, Cortes had designed and caused to be built three wooden towers that he termed mantas. These were of two stories, and were mounted on rude wheels by means of which it was proposed to roll them through the streets, with musketeers stationed in the upper stories, who should sweep the housetops of all enemies as they advanced. In each lower story, which was open to the ground, a force of brawny Tlascalans was to push and pull the movable fortress without being exposed to attack. It was now determined to test the efficacy of these rude machines in the sortie about to be made, to discover whether or not the avenue of Tlacopan was open and free from obstructions.
When all was in readiness the great gate of the fortress was thrown open, and, with much creaking, groaning, and rocking the manta issued forth. The Aztecs beheld its stately advance with bewildered astonishment. They could not conceive its purpose, nor understand by what power it was propelled. There was no sign of human agency and its progress filled them with awe. As they gazed in gaping wonder, it slowly crossed the square and entered the avenue of Tlacopan. Suddenly, as it halted before a building, the roof of which was thronged with armed men, a side of the upper story fell outward, and a volley of musketry was delivered with startling effect. A light, but strong, bridge was thrown to the housetop, and the Spaniards, crossing on it, quickly put its remaining occupants to flight with their swords. Then they retreated to their wooden fortress, pulled in the bridge, drew up their protecting shield and the engine of destruction proceeded on its ponderous way. But its purpose was no longer a mystery. The swarming occupants of the housetops withdrew to places of safety on its approach, or hurled down fire brands and coping-stones from such elevations as commanded it. Its utility had begun to appear doubtful when it came to a halt at the first canal. Here the bridge had been destroyed, and it could proceed no farther.
A tall building stood at this point, and from its roof an avalanche of heavy timbers and great stones was poured on the devoted manta, ere its progress could be reversed. One of these formidable missiles crushed in a side of the structure, causing it to sway alarmingly. Several others struck it together, a moment later, and, with a melancholy crash, it toppled to the ground burying its unfortunate defenders in the wreck, killing several of them, and injuring many more. With exulting yells the Aztecs rushed upon the prostrate tower, and, but for the prompt assistance of a troop of cavalry, whose fierce onset quickly cleared the street, not one of its struggling occupants would have escaped.
This experiment proved the uselessness of the mantas, on the construction of which so much time and labor had been expended. It also proved the truth of Cuitlahua's words. The bridges, over which the retreat must be conducted, were indeed removed, and seven open canals lay between the fortress and the causeway. These gaping chasms must be filled at all hazards.
After four days of incessant labor beneath a galling fire of arrows, darts, and stones, incessant fighting, incessant dying and suffering, the task was completed. The labor of tearing down buildings and filling the canals with their débris, devolved on the Tlascalans. The Spanish cavaliers charged up and down the avenue clearing it of the enemy who swarmed in behind them the moment they had passed, while the Spanish infantry guarded each bridge as it was finished. Many and fierce were the hand to hand struggles during those four days; and, at their conclusion, although their way of retreat was opened as far as the causeway, the white conquerors were in as sorry a plight as were ever any conquerors in all the world. But their present misfortunes were as nothing compared with those held in store for them by the immediate future.
The way of escape was partially prepared by the filling up of the canals, but who could tell how long it would remain so? At any moment the forces guarding these all-important points might be overcome or driven back and the canals reopened. It was therefore decided, at a council of officers convened late on that fourth day of fighting, that the retreat should be undertaken that very night. Now began busy preparations for evacuating the palace-fortress occupied by the white conquerors for so many months. Litters for the transportation of the wounded were hastily constructed, and Huetzin was called upon to detail a body of warriors to carry and guard these helpless ones. The rich booty of the conquest was drawn from its hiding-places, and much of the gold was packed in stout bags for transportation on horse-back. Still a large portion of it must necessarily be abandoned. As it lay, scattered in shining heaps about the floor, the soldiers looked at it with longing eyes. It seemed to them that the wealth of the New World lay at their feet, waiting to be picked up.
"Take what you will of it!" exclaimed the commander, reading their thoughts in their faces, "but be careful not to overload yourselves. Remember that he travels best, who travels lightest."
With this permission the troops rushed at the glittering spoil like famishing men upon food, while the grim Tlascalans, indifferent to wealth of this description, watched the avaricious scramble with unconcealed contempt. The men of Narvaez, who had heard so much concerning Mexican gold without having thus far acquired any of it, greedily loaded themselves with as much as they could possibly carry, but the veteran followers of Cortes, taking heed to their leader's counsel, helped themselves sparingly, each selecting only a few objects of the greatest value. As for the piles of rich fabrics, jewel-studded weapons, feather mantles of inestimable value, delicate ware, and costly and curious articles of every description, the greater part of them was abandoned with hardly a regret, in the all-absorbing eagerness to escape from that sorrowful prison-house.
While these scenes were being enacted in one part of the palace, a party of workmen was busily engaged in another, constructing a stout portable-bridge. Although the canals intersecting the city streets had been so filled that they could be crossed, there still remained three that cut the causeway of Tlacopan. From there, as well as from the others, the bridges had been removed. As these three openings were of the same size, each being thirty feet in width, a single portable bridge, that could be taken up from the first opening after the army had passed, and carried to the next was deemed sufficient. It was placed in charge of a trusty officer named Margarino, who was given forty picked men, all pledged to defend it with their lives.
The night was intensely dark, and a drizzling rain fell steadily. At midnight all was in readiness for a start, and the great gate of the palace-fortress was swung open for the last time. The order of march had been carefully planned beforehand, and, according to it, Sandoval, mounted on Motilla, and commanding the advance guard was the first to ride forth. At his left hand rode the only mounted native of the New World, Huetzin, the young Toltec; for besides a score of cavaliers, and two hundred foot soldiers, the advance contained two thousand Tlascalan warriors. To these faithful mountaineers had been entrusted the object deemed most precious by the whole army, the covered litter in which was borne Marina, their well-loved interpreter. With the advance also marched Margarino and his forty men, bearing on their sturdy shoulders the heavy timbers of the portable bridge upon which the salvation of the army depended.
In the centre, or main division, were the prisoners, among whom were several of Montezuma's children, Cacama, Prince of Tezcuco, and a number of Aztec nobles held as hostages, the treasure, the baggage, the wounded, and the heavy guns. These were guarded by the veterans who had been with Cortes from the first, and a strong force of Tlascalans.
As these slowly defiled into the great square they were followed by the rear guard under command of Alvarado. It contained the bulk of the Spanish infantry who had been enlisted from the force of Narvaez, and a battery of light artillery in charge of Mesa and his well-tried gunners.
When the last man had passed through the gateway, the commander, who had waited motionless on his gray steed to assure himself that no stragglers were left behind, roused, as from a deep revery, gave a parting glance at the quarters that had been the scene of so stirring a chapter of his life's history, clapped spurs to his horse, and dashed down the long black line of his retreating army.
Although every precaution was taken to move silently, the passage of so large a body of troops through paved streets, could not be accomplished without noise. To the strained ears of the fugitives, expecting each moment to hear the exulting war-cries of their enemies, or to see their dark masses rushing from every cross street and alley, the heavy rumble of their own artillery, the sharp ring of iron-shod hoofs, the measured tramp of infantry, and the unavoidable rattle of weapons, seemed to create a volume of sound that must be heard in the remotest quarters of Tenochtitlan. Still the battle-wearied city slept on, nor did it betray, by a sign, its consciousness that the prey, it had deemed so surely its own, was slipping from its grasp.
On through the blackness, shrouding the long avenue of Tlacopan, moved the retreat. Here they stumbled over the corpse of some dead Aztec, there they could distinguish the dark heaps of slain marking some fiercely contested point of the recent fighting. To their excited imaginations it seemed as though these must rise up and betray them. The shadowy ruins of fire-scathed buildings seemed again peopled with flitting forms, and, as they crossed one after another of the canals, the ebon water seemed alive with swarming paddles. But they passed on as unmolested by the living as by the dead, until at length a lighter space between the buildings in front of them announced to the van-guard that the causeway was at hand. As they drew aside to allow the men of Margarino room in which to advance and place their bridge, they felt that the worst of the perilous retreat was over, and could hardly restrain the shouts that would have proclaimed their joy.
Suddenly a shrill cry, chilling the blood in their veins, rose from close beside them. There was a sound of flying footsteps, and the alarm was echoing and re-echoing through the wind-swept streets with an ever-increasing clamor. The priests, watching their fires on top of tall teocals, caught the cry of the flying sentinels and spread the alarm with sounding blasts upon their conch-shells. Now, from the desolated heights of Huitzil's temple, the solemn booming of the great serpent drum, only sounded in times of gravest moment, vibrated through the remotest comers of the city and far out over the waters surrounding it. Red beacon flames sprang from the top of every temple, warning the whole valley that the time of the crisis had come.
"Tlacopan! Tlacopan!" was shouted in frenzied tones through every street and into every house of the sleeping city, and this single word named the rallying point.
With desperate haste Margarino and his men laid their bridge. No longer was there need of silence or concealment. Flight, instant and rapid, was the sole animating thought of the whole army. Sandoval, on prancing Motilla, was the first to test its strength, and after him streamed the eager troops. To the vanguard hastening forward without opposition, safety still seemed within reach; but to the rear, impatiently awaiting the movement of those before them, the night was filled with ominous rushings and sounds denoting the gathering of a mighty host. By the fitful glare of the lofty beacons, now streaming through the upper darkness from all parts of the city, they caught glimpses of hurrying forms and glintings of angry weapons. Mesa's grim gunners blew the matches, kept dry beneath their cloaks, into brighter flame and chuckled hoarsely as they thought of the havoc their falconets would make when once turned loose.
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.
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.
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.