CHAPTER XCV.
The last ravage before Granada.
When the day dawned on the Christian
camp, nothing remained of that beautiful
assemblage of stately pavilions, but heaps
of smouldering rubbish, with helms, and
corslets, and other furniture of war, and
masses of melted gold and silver glittering
among the ashes. The wardrobe of the
queen was entirely destroyed; and there
was an immense loss in plate, jewels,
costly stuffs, and sumptuous armour of
the luxurious nobles. The fire at first
had been attributed to treachery, but, on
investigation, it was proved to be entirely
accidental. The queen, on retiring to
her prayers, had ordered her lady in attendance
to remove a light, burning near
her couch, lest it should prevent her
sleeping. Through heedlessness, the taper
was placed in another part of the tent,
near the hangings, which, being blown
against it by a gust of wind, immediately
took fire.
The wary Ferdinand knew the sanguine
temperament of the Moors, and
hastened to prevent their deriving confidence
from the night's disaster. At break
of day, the drums and trumpets sounded
to arms; and the Christian army issued
from among the smoking ruins of their
camp in shining squadrons, with flaunting
banners, and bursts of martial melodies,
as though the preceding night had been
a time of high festivity, instead of terror.
The Moors had beheld the conflagration
with wonder and perplexity. When
the day broke, and they looked towards
the Christian camp, they saw nothing but
a dark smoking mass. Their scouts
came in with the joyful intelligence, that
the whole camp was a scene of ruin.
Scarce had the tidings spread throughout
the city, than they beheld the Christian
army advancing towards the walls. They
considered it a feint to cover their desperate
situation, and prepare for a retreat.
Boabdil el Chico had one of his impulses
of valour; he determined to take the field
in person, and to follow up this signal
blow, which Allah had inflicted on the
enemy.
The Christian army approached close
to the city, and were laying waste gardens
and orchards, when Boabdil sallied forth,
surrounded by all that was left of the
flower and chivalry of Granada. There
is one place, where even the coward becomes
brave; that sacred spot called
home. What, then, must have been the
valour of the Moors, a people always of
fiery spirit, when the war was thus
brought to their thresholds? They fought
among the scenes of their loves and
pleasures, the scenes of their infancy, and
the haunts of their domestic life. They
fought under the eyes of their wives and
children, their old men and their maidens,
of all that was helpless and all that was
dear to them; for all Granada crowded
on tower and battlement, watching with
trembling heart the fate of this eventful
day.
It was not so much one battle as a
variety of battles. Every garden and
orchard became a scene of deadly contest;
every inch of ground was disputed
by the Moors with an agony of grief and
valour. Every inch of ground that the
Christians advanced, they valiantly maintained;
but never did they advance with
severer fighting, or greater loss of blood.
The cavalry of Muza was in every
part of the field. Wherever it came, it
gave fresh ardour to the fight. The
Moorish soldier, fainting with heat, fatigue,
and wounds, was roused to new
life at the approach of Muza; and even
he, who lay gasping in the agonies of
death, turned his face towards him, and
faintly uttered cheers and blessings as
he passed.
The Christians had by this time gained
possession of various towers near the
city, from whence they had been annoyed
by crosshows and arquebuses.
The Moors, scattered in various actions,
were severely pressed. Boabdil, at the
head of the cavaliers of his guard, displayed
the utmost valour; mingling in
the fight, in various parts of the field,
and endeavouring to inspirit the foot-soldiers
to the combat. But the Moorish
infantry was never to be depended upon.
In the heat of the action a panic seized
upon them. They fled; leaving their
sovereign exposed, with his handful of
cavaliers, to an overwhelming force.
Boabdil was on the point of falling into
the hands of the Christians; when, wheeling
round, with his followers, they all
threw the reins on the necks of their
fleet steeds, and took refuge, by dint of
hoof, within the walls of the city.[123]
Muza endeavoured to retrieve the fortune
of the field. He threw himself
before the retreating infantry; calling
upon them to turn, and fight for their
homes, their families, for every thing
that was sacred and dear to them. It
was all in vain. They were totally
broken and dismayed, and fled tumultuously
for the gates. Muza would fain
have kept the field with his cavalry; but
this devoted band, having stood the brunt
of war throughout this desperate campaign,
was fearfully reduced in number,
and many of the survivors were crippled
and enfeebled by their wounds. Slowly
and reluctantly he retreated to the city,
his bosom swelling with indignation and
despair. When he entered the gates, he
ordered them to be closed, and secured
with bolts and bars; for he refused to
place any further confidence in the archers
and arquebusiers, who were stationed to
defend them; and he vowed never more
to sally forth with foot-soldiers to the
field.
In the mean time, the artillery thundered
from the walls, and checked all
further advances of the Christians. King
Ferdinand, therefore, called off his troops,
and returned in triumph to the ruins of
his camp; leaving the beautiful city of
Granada, wrapped in the smoke of her
fields and gardens, and surrounded by
the bodies of her slaughtered children.
Such was the last sally made by the
Moors in defence of their favourite city.
The French ambassador, who witnessed
it, was filled with wonder at the prowess,
the dexterity, and daring, of the Moslems.
In truth, this whole war was an instance,
memorable in history, of the most persevering
resolution. For nearly ten years
had the war endured, exhibiting an almost
uninterrupted series of disasters to
the Moorish arms. Their towns had
been taken one after another, and their
brethren slain, or led into captivity. Yet
they disputed every city, and town, and
fortress, and castle; nay, every rock
itself, as if they had been inspired by
victories. Wherever they could plant
foot to fight, or find wall or cliff from
whence to launch an arrow, they disputed
their beloved country; and now,
when their capital was cut off from all
relief, and had a whole nation thundering
at its gates, they still maintained defence,
as if they hoped some miracle to interpose
in their behalf. "Their obstinate
resistance," says an ancient chronicler,
"shows the grief with which the Moors
yielded up the vega, which was to them
a paradise and heaven. Exerting all the
strength of their arms, they embraced, as
it were, that most beloved soil, from
which neither wounds, nor defeats, nor
death itself, could part them. They stood
firm, battling for it with the united force
of love and grief; never drawing back
the foot while they had hands to fight,
or fortune to befriend them."[124]
