The White Conquerors: A Tale of Toltec and Aztec

The first impulse of Marina's preservers was to escape as quickly as possible from their awful surroundings. The spell that had held them in that vicinity was broken. They had snatched one victim from the jaws of death, and now they must remove her beyond reach of further danger. Instinctively they headed their canoe in the direction of the little hut, on the opposite side of the lake, that had for so long been their home. They had not gone far when, as though moved by a single impulse, both stopped paddling at the same instant.

"It is no longer possible that we should go back," said the old man.

"For we should be taking another into slavery," continued the old woman.

"Nor would we return to slavery for ourselves, even if there were no other."

"It is certain that we would not," agreed the wife.

"But whither shall we fly?" asked the old man, irresolutely.

"Ask the child; since she called on the son of Tlahuicol for aid she must be of our friends, and also she must be possessed of wisdom."

Marina, who had ceased to sob, and now lay quietly beneath the warm rabbit-hair blanket that the old woman had spread over her, listened to this conversation. Who could these people be? They did not talk like enemies bearing her to the altar of sacrifice. At any rate, a question could do no harm.

"Whither are you taking me?" she asked.

"Whither you would go," replied the gentle voice of the old woman.

"I would go to my friends. To Huetzin, and Sandoval, and Malinche, and the daughters of the king, who are captives."

"Where are they?"

"I know not, but I fear me they are dead. Who are you? You are not Aztecs."

"We are Tlascalans, and friends of the son of Tlahuicol, whom we seek," was the proud answer.

"I thought you were Tlascalans from your speech!" cried the girl, joyfully. "As such you must be my friends, and as friends of Huetzin you must be doubly my friends."

"Is he thy brother?" queried the old man, remembering that Huetzin had spoken of a sister.

"No."

"Thy husband?"

"No."

"What then – ?"

"Hush, thou stupid!" exclaimed the old woman, "and waste not time in idle questionings. We be escaped Tlascalan slaves," she continued, speaking to Marina, "seeking the son of Tlahuicol, who has some knowledge of us, and who we trusted would aid us to freedom. Now we know not which way to turn, and would ask thy counsel."

"Will you in truth do as I advise?" asked Marina, who could scarcely credit her good fortune in falling into such friendly hands.

"In truth we will."

"Then," said the Indian girl. "I would advise that you seek no land before daybreak, but avoid all canoes. With daylight, if the fight be over, as ere then it must be, make thy way to Tlacopan, where we are almost certain to discover our friends – thy friends and my friends."

This advice was considered so sensible that it was acted upon, and the canoe lay motionless. After they had sat awhile in silence, listening to the distant din of battle, the old woman asked: "Were you not talking to some person, whom you called by name, just before we found you?"

"Yes," replied Marina, sadly. "I was speaking to poor, brave Cocotin, but she was not a person. She was a horse belonging to the son of Tlahuicol, and deeply will he grieve at her loss."

As these simple folk had never before heard of a horse, Marina found much difficulty in explaining its nature to them. When they finally comprehended, after a fashion, they returned to the name, Cocotin.

"It was the name of our little one," explained the old woman.

"Was she a babe but a year old, and left behind when you both were captured by the Aztecs?" inquired the Indian girl, with interest.

"Yes. But how knew you that?"

"Huetzin has told me of it, and his horse was named for that child; and you must be the brave Tlascalans who assisted his escape from the priests of Tenochtitlan!"

"That honor and joy were indeed ours," answered the old man; "but our part in his escape was so slight that he might readily have forgotten it."

"Indeed he has not!" cried Marina, "and his joy will be great when he again sets eyes on you, for his gratitude to you is like the love of an own son."

All this time Marina had not the least doubt of her hero's safety, for it did not occur to her that serious harm could come to one who had escaped so often, and was so brave and skilful a warrior. Therefore, while he mourned her as dead, she was looking forward with confidence to the joyful meeting that would take place as soon as daylight permitted. Nor could she realize in the slightest what a terrible disaster had overtaken the army of the white conquerors. She had never known it as aught but victorious, and its defeat was something she did not for a moment consider possible. Thus, instead of being a prey to the feverish anxiety that would have absorbed every thought had she known the true state of affairs on the causeway, she entertained her new friends with an account of her own life up to that moment. Her auditors listened with eager interest, though saying but little in return. After awhile the girl also grew silent, and then fell asleep wrapped in her rabbit-fur blanket.

The old people were careful not to disturb her, and only occasionally moved their light craft when other canoes threatened to approach so close that there was danger of being discovered. This, however, happened infrequently, so great was the attraction at the causeway. Once the old woman said, musingly:

"Our own Cocotin would have been about her age."

"And by birth she is Tlascalan," replied the man, which showed that their thoughts tended in the same direction.

At length the night passed, and daylight came. By it they earnestly studied the features of the sleeping girl.

"She is the image of what thou wast when first I knew thee!" exclaimed the old man, in trembling tones.

"We will question her more closely when she wakes," answered the other, calmly, but with an intense longing in her voice. "Now let us to Tlacopan; the way looks open."

So they made for the town, and, as the canoe grated on the beach, the girl awoke. She was at first bewildered by her surroundings, but reassured by the kindly words of the old people, quickly recovered her usual presence of mind, and exclaimed, with decision, "Now must we find our friends!"

The old man gathered up their scanty property, and they entered one of the deserted streets. Most of the inhabitants had been drawn to Tenochtitlan. Stopping at a humble hut to ask for food and information, they found it empty. Entering without further ceremony, they found food, of which they did not hesitate to partake, and a fire by which the girl's wet clothing could be dried. Leaving the two women here, the old man went out to seek for information.

He was gone the best part of an hour, and when he returned his wife greeted him with tearful but joyous face. In trembling tones she exclaimed, "Husband, she is indeed our own Cocotin, lost to us these many years and now restored to our old age by the gods! The marks are unmistakable." And then Marina, also tearful with her new-found joy, threw her arms about his neck and called him "father."

There was so much to tell and explain and wonder at, that the day was well advanced ere they set out to follow the Spanish army. This, as the old man had learned, was camped, at no great distance, on the hill of Montezuma. He had also heard rumors of the strong Aztec force already gathering to descend on them and complete their destruction at that place. To this news Marina listened with eager attention and all of her wonted alertness.

"Let us hasten!" she cried, when he had finished, "for it may be that this information will prove of the greatest importance."

So they set forth, the childless woman who had so marvellously recovered a daughter, and the motherless girl who had found that she was still possessed of the greatest of earthly blessings, walking hand in hand.

With all their haste they made such slow progress, on account of their anxiety to avoid undesirable meetings, that the sun was in the western sky ere they climbed the hill of Montezuma, and received the challenge of a Spanish sentinel, from a wall of the temple. He was one of Cortes's veterans, and could hardly credit his senses when the challenge was answered in his own tongue, and in the voice of the girl whom all the army knew, loved, and was even now mourning as dead.

To Huetzin, roused out of a heavy sleep, she appeared like a vision from heaven, and her restoration to him like a miracle of the all-powerful gods. So overpowering was his happiness that it could find no expression in words, and he was as dumb, in the presence of her whom he worshipped, as might have been Sandoval himself.

To the White Conqueror this joyful coming again of her whom he had named his "right hand" seemed to render all things possible, and again the future glowed with the sunrise of hope. He and the others gathered in eager welcome, listened intently to her story, and, for her sake, the aged Tlascalans, whom she proudly claimed as father and mother, were treated with the courtesy due to princes.

When she told Cortes of the Aztec army gathering for the assault of his place of refuge, he exclaimed: "They shall have it and welcome, if they have the courage to take it; but, ere then, I trust we shall be far hence."

So, at midnight, the Spanish army, refreshed by its rest, and filled with a new hope inspired by Marina's restoration to them, marched silently away from the temple, to continue its retreat; but leaving behind them watch-fires that would burn until morning, for the misleading of the enemy.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DESPERATE BATTLE OF OTAMPAN

In the retreat from the temple that had proved such a veritable haven to the shattered army of the invaders, Marina was borne in her own litter. Another was provided for her mother, but, never having been accustomed to such a luxury, she preferred to walk beside the conveyance of her newly recovered daughter. Guided by Huetzin, with a small body of Tlascalans who formed the vanguard, the little army made a great circuit among the rugged hills bounding the western and northern side of the Mexican Valley. Their progress was slow and painful, and they were at all times subjected to irritating attacks from the clouds of Aztecs who hovered about their line of march. These, constantly recruited from the surrounding country, assaulted them with sudden flights of darts and arrows, or by rolling great stones down among them.

At night they usually sought shelter in some hamlet, from which the inhabitants invariably carried away all provisions on their approach. Thus the Spaniards were soon brought to the point of starvation. For seven wretched days they had little to eat but wild cherries, the occasional unplucked ears of maize which they were so fortunate as to find, and the few rabbits and birds brought down by the darts of Huetzin and his Tlascalans. Many of the soldiers fell by the wayside from sheer exhaustion, while others, who had brought their treasure of gold through the perils of the noche triste and thus far in safety, now flung it away, as too great a burden to be longer borne. Always the enemy hovered in small parties on their flanks, or followed closely in the rear, eager to pounce upon stragglers in search of food, or those who had fallen from exhaustion.

In all this weary march, Cortes was the life of his fainting troops. With sturdy Sandoval at his side, he was ever at the point of greatest danger, driving back those adversaries who ventured within reach, helping the stragglers, cheering the wounded, sharing every hardship, refusing the few scant mouthfuls of rabbit-meat reserved for his table and distributing them among the sick or most feeble of his men. In one skirmish he was struck in the head by a splinter of rock and severely injured; but he made light of the wound, caused it to be bound up, and continued as before.

At the end of seven days the army was still less than thirty miles from Tenochtitlan, though owing to their circuitous march they had traversed thrice that distance. From an absolute necessity for rest, the last two nights were spent in the same camp. During the intervening day, while the greater part of the army lay sleeping about its camp-fires, the indefatigable Huetzin led a strong party of his Tlascalans on an extended scout.

Next to the undaunted leader himself, the young Toltec was the encouraging spirit of this weary retreat. Since Marina's return to him, life had assumed its brightest aspect, and not all the sufferings of the march could depress him. He animated his own warriors by telling them that now was the time to show the white soldiers, by their patient endurance and cheerful bravery, of what stuff Tlascalan mountaineers were made. In obedience to this suggestion his followers marched, day after day, with elastic steps and proud bearing, scouted to right and left, scattered hovering bands of the enemy with brisk charges, and in fact saved their white allies from despair and destruction. At night, whether there was food to be eaten or not, the Tlascalan camp-fires were centres of merry groups, whose songs and laughter exercised a cheering influence upon the whole army.

For the white men Huetzin painted glowing pictures of the welcome they would receive in the "land of bread" (Tlascala), of the feasting that should be theirs, and of the rest and safety to be found behind its impregnable mountain walls. It is certain that these pictures lost none of their attractiveness through the interpretation of Marina. Like him whose words she translated, she was light-hearted and joyous in spite of all hardships. And why should she not be? Was not the whole army devoted to her? Had she not a loving mother, like other girls? Was not her father a Tlascalan warrior, and captain of a hundred men (for so Huetzin had made him)? Above all, though her hero spoke not of love, could she not read his heart through his eyes? What more of happiness could a maiden of Anahuac ask?

On the day of the army's resting Huetzin extended his scout as far as the pyramids of Teotihuacan, two colossal monuments erected by his long-ago Toltec ancestors. They were dedicated to the sun and moon, and were surrounded by a vast number of burial mounds, in which were laid to rest the most famous men of his race. These were symmetrically ranged beside avenues, all of which led to the pyramids, and the plain in which they stood was known to that day as "Micoatl," or Way of the Dead.

From the summit of the taller of the pyramids, on which in former ages stood a gigantic image of the sun, bearing a breast-plate of burnished gold that reflected the earliest beams of the great luminary, Huetzin caught a glad sight of the blue Tlascalan hills rising on the farther side of the plain. They promised shelter and plenty; but, between him and them, he saw something else that filled him with dismay.

At several different points of the wide-spread landscape, he could distinguish moving bodies of white-armored Aztec troops, all converging toward a common centre. After an hour of watching, he located this as being the village of Otampan, situated in the wide plain that must be crossed before the retreating army could reach the Tlascalan frontier. Here doubtless was the place selected by Cuitlahua for their destruction. With this melancholy news, and with but a scanty supply of provisions, Huetzin led his scouting party back to camp.

That night was one of deepest gloom and despondency. Even the Tlascalan warriors no longer maintained their show of cheerfulness. Many times during its hours of darkness mysterious voices came to them from the surrounding hill-tops, crying:

"Hasten on, ye enemies of the gods! You will soon find yourselves where you can no longer escape their awful vengeance!"

In the morning there was naught to do but move on. Save in Tlascala alone, there was no place in which they might hope for safety. As the feeble army gained the crest of the intervening sierra, and gazed past the Toltec pyramids into the vale of Otampan, they were greeted by such a sight as assured them that their last hour had indeed come. As far as the eye could reach, the plain was so covered with the white of cotton-mailed warriors, that it was like a vast field of snow. By order of Montezuma's successor the full war strength of the Aztec nation was there assembled for the final overthrow of the invaders. From the mighty host came a volume of sound like the murmur of a wind-swept sea, while the morning sunlight was reflected from acres of shining bucklers and a forest of tossing spears.

Even the stout heart of the Conqueror failed him in the presence of this multitude of enemies. Noting this, sturdy Sandoval said: "We can die but once, and 'twill be much pleasanter for us, though not so amusing for them, if we die as soldiers rather than as sacrifices. Besides, it is not wholly certain that our time for dying has yet come. We have fought against odds before."

"Never such odds as these," replied the Commander. At the same time, the cool bravery of his young captain gave him new heart; and, as he formed his little army in order of battle, he strengthened the determination to fight as became brave men that he read in their faces, with stout words.

The women, the sick, and wounded were left behind in charge of the old Tlascalan and a half-dozen of warriors, instructed, in case of disaster, to kill them all rather than allow them to fall into priestly hands. From each of the grim warriors, Huetzin personally exacted the promise that these instructions should be implicitly obeyed. Thus, when he bade Marina a lingering farewell, it was with the hope of a speedy reunion, either on the field of an earthly victory or in the blissful realms of the sun.

So the scanty force of Spaniards and their Tlascalan allies, having neither artillery nor muskets, and supported by but a score of cavalry, of which half was posted on either flank, descended steadily to the plain to meet the on-rushing hosts of their enemies.

The air was rent with the fierce war-cries of the exultant Aztecs, and darkened by the tempest of missiles that they let fly the moment they came within range. The Spanish infantry received the shock on their levelled pikes, against which the human wave dashed itself as fruitlessly as those of the sea against some rocky pinnacle rising from a waste of waters. With lowered lances the cavalry charged in turn, opening broad lanes through the thick-set ranks. Into these sprang Huetzin's trained warriors, following close on the heels of the horsemen, and widening the lanes on either side, with javelin and maquahuitl. So stoutly did these and their white allies ply their deadly weapons, that the foremost ranks of the Aztecs, broken and dismayed, attempted to fly. The attempt was a vain one, for they were instantly overwhelmed by the crowding myriads behind them, who, sweeping forward with the irresistible power of uncounted numbers, completely surrounded the Christian army, making it the vortex of a seething maëlstrom of fiercely struggling humanity.

Bravely did the cavaliers fight that day, charging in parties of four or six, deep into the Indian ranks. Sandoval seemed to be on all sides at once, fighting with the practised skill and deadly fury of a young war-god; while mail-fronted Motilla, screaming with the rage of battle, crashed through the Aztec files like a thunderbolt.

Deeper and deeper did the Christian force work its way into this interminable host, ever meeting with fresh battalions and ever growing weaker from losses. Hundreds of the Tlascalans and scores of the Spaniards had fallen. All were wounded, including the gallant leader, who had received another cut on the head. The noon-day sun beat pitilessly and with a fierce fervor on the steel-capped soldiers. Dying of heat, thirst, and wounds, panting, praying, and cursing, their blows falling slower and more feebly with each moment. What hope was there for them but that death would put an end to their sufferings as quickly as might be? Like a horrid vision, the faces of fresh foes ever danced before them. A score would fall, and a score of others, so similar that they appeared the same, were instantly in their places.

"Holy Mother!" cried Sandoval, reining in Motilla beside the steed of Cortes, "is there no end to these infidels? I have killed until I can kill no more, and their legions are as at the beginning! Methinks, General, the end of all things has come for us. Our brave troops can hold out no longer. They have fought as never mortals fought before; but now they are giving way on all sides. Does it please you that we make one more charge and die as becomes Christian soldiers, with our lances in our hands?"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

VICTORY SNATCHED FROM DEFEAT

Before answering Sandoval, the White Conqueror, like a stag at bay who tosses his mighty head aloft in search of an opening through which he may escape ere gathering himself for the death-struggle, raised high in his stirrups and surveyed the field. In all directions, as far as he could see, tossed the plumes and waved the banners of the Aztec host. The battle raging at his side disturbed but a portion of it. His own men were falling fast. The exhaustion of their recent hardships, combined with the present heat and four hours of incessant fighting, was doing more to deplete their numbers than even Aztec weapons. He had no reserves to call up, no guns to fall back upon. Of the hundred trusty knights on whom he could have depended a week since, four score had left him on that most sorrowful of noches triste. Never again would they answer the call of the trumpets, nor charge with levelled lances and cheery shouts. "If they cannot rejoin us, we can at least join them!"

With this last sigh of a breaking heart, the leader was sinking back into his saddle, when his eye was caught by a more dazzling object, a richer gleam than any seen elsewhere in all that bedizened host. It was the sunlight reflected from the gold and silver armor, the gorgeous feather mantle, and the glittering escort of a Cacique, borne in a golden-plated litter. He was the Aztec general, the commander of all these myriads of warriors. Without his guiding orders the mighty army would be as helpless as a ship bereft of its rudder. With the gleam of his armor a ray of hope flashed into the breast of the Christian leader.

"Yes, gentlemen," he answered, dropping into his saddle and gripping his ponderous battle-ax with a fiercer clutch. "It pleases me to make one more charge. One more! Sandoval, Alvavado, Olid, Avila, cavaliers all! One more for victory or death! Forward! and may Christ and St. James go with us!"

Thus crying, the White Conqueror gave spurs to his steed, and, with whirling battle-ax clearing all obstacles from his pathway, he again plunged into the dense ranks of the Aztec host. At his side rode Sandoval and one other; behind them came three more. Six against ten thousand! But so terrible was the thrust of their lances, the swing of their axes, and the whistling sweep of their good swords, so frightful the screaming and tearing and crushing of their mail-clad chargers, that while its impetus lasted the death-dealing progress of this little group could no more be checked than that of a bomb-shell just started on its shrieking flight. The thick-set Aztec ranks reeled before them, and crowded to either side to give them passage. The earth behind them was cumbered with dead and dying. Their audacity paralyzed resistance, and their mission was accomplished ere its purport was suspected.

Straight as an arrow to a mark, rode Cortes to the spot where the proud Aztec leader lay indolently back in his cushioned litter. He was too certain of the fortunes of that battle to take much further interest in it. Already he was planning his triumphal entry into Tenochtitlan, and hoping that Malinche might be taken alive to grace it. All at once his pleasing reflections were interrupted by some unusual commotion near at hand.

As he raised himself to learn its cause, shrill screams of terror greeted him, and he saw what appeared to his startled vision a mighty war engine, fire-breathing, steel-armored, and death dealing, rushing toward him. In an instant more it was upon him. There came a crashing blow, a death shriek, and the Aztec leader would dream no more of triumphant entries into Tenochtitlan. Scattered like chaff were his body-guard of gay young nobles; and as they fled, terror-stricken, they spread on all sides the dread news that the chief had fallen.