CHAPTER XVI.
The Moorish king had descried the
Spanish forces at a distance, although a
slight fog prevented his seeing them distinctly,
and ascertaining their numbers.
His old father-in-law, Ali Atar, was by
his side, who, being a veteran marauder,
was well acquainted with all the standards
and armorial bearings of the frontiers.
When the king beheld the ancient and
long disused banner of Cabra emerging
from the mist, he turned to Ali Atar, and
demanded whose ensign it was. The
old borderer was for once at a loss; for
the banner had not been displayed in
battle in his time.
"Sire," replied he after a pause, "I
have been considering that standard, but
do not know it. It appears to be a dog,
which is a device borne by the towns of
Baeza and Ubeda. If it be so, all Andalusia
is in movement against you; for
it is not probable, that any single commander
or community would venture to
attack you. I would advise you therefore
to retire."
The Count of Cabra, in winding down
the hill towards the Moors, found himself
on a much lower station than the
enemy: he therefore ordered, in all haste,
that his standard should be taken back,
so as to gain the vantage ground. The
Moors, mistaking this for a retreat,
rushed impetuously towards the Christians.
The latter, having gained the
height proposed, charged down upon
them at the same moment, with the battle-cry
of "Santiago!" and, dealing the
first blows, laid many of the Moorish
cavaliers in the dust.
The Moors, thus checked in their tumultuous
assault, were thrown into confusion,
and began to give way; the
Christians following hard upon them.
Boabdil el Chico endeavoured to rally
them. "Hold! hold! for shame!" cried
he: "let us not fly, at least until we know
our enemy!" The Moorish chivalry
were stung by this reproof, and turned
to make front, with the valour of men
who feel that they are fighting under
their monarch's eye.
At this moment, Lorenzo de Pores,
alcayde of Luque, arrived with fifty
horse and one hundred foot, sounding an
Italian trumpet from among a copse of
oak trees, which concealed his force.
The quick ear of old Ali Atar caught the
note. "That is an Italian trumpet,"
said he to the king: "the whole world
seems in arms against your majesty!"
The trumpet of Lorenzo de Pores was
answered by that of the Count de Cabra
in another direction, and it seemed to the
Moors as if they were between two armies.
Don Lorenzo, sallying from among the
oaks, now charged upon the enemy.
The latter did not wait to ascertain the
force of this new foe. The confusion,
the variety of alarms, the attacks from
opposite quarters, the obscurity of the
fog, all conspired to deceive them as to
the number of their adversaries. Broken
and dismayed, they retreated fighting;
and nothing but the presence and
remonstrances of the king prevented
their retreat from becoming a headlong
flight.
This skirmishing retreat lasted for
about three leagues. Many were the
acts of individual prowess between Christian
and Moorish knights; and the way
was strewed by the flower of the king's
guards, and of his royal household. At
length they came to the rivulet of Mingonzalez,
the verdant banks of which
were covered with willows and tamarisks.
It was swollen by recent rain, and was
now a deep and turbid torrent.
Here the king made a courageous
stand, with a small body of cavalry,
while his baggage crossed the stream.
None but the choicest and most loyal of
his guards stood by their monarch in this
hour of extremity. The foot-soldiers
took to flight the moment they passed
the ford; many of the horsemen, partaking
of the general panic, gave reins
to their steeds, and scoured for the
frontier. The little host of devoted cavaliers
now serried their forces in front of
their monarch, to protect his retreat.
They fought hand to hand with the
Christian warriors; disdaining to yield,
or to ask for quarter. The ground was
covered with the dead and dying. The
king, having retreated along the river
banks, and gained some distance from
the scene of combat, looked back, and
saw the loyal band at length give way.
They crossed the ford, followed pell-mell
by the enemy, and several of them were
struck down into the stream.
The king now dismounted from his
white charger, whose colour and rich
caparison made him too conspicuous, and
endeavoured to conceal himself among
the thickets which fringed the river. A
soldier of Lucena, named Martin Hurtado,
discovered him and attacked him
with a pike. The king defended himself
with cimeter and target, until another
soldier assailed him, and he saw a third
approaching. Perceiving that further
resistance would be vain, he drew back,
and called upon them to desist, offering
them a noble ransom. One of the soldiers
rushed forward to seize him; but
the king struck him to the earth with a
blow of his cimeter.
Don Diego Fernandez de Cordova
coming up at this moment, the men said
to him, "Señor, here is a Moor that we
have taken, who seems to be a man of
rank, and offers a large ransom."
"Slaves!" exclaimed King Boabdil,
"you have not taken me. I surrender
to this cavalier."
Don Diego received him with knightly
courtesy. He perceived him to be a
person of high rank; but the king concealed
his quality, and gave himself out
as the son of Aben Aleyzer, a nobleman
of the royal household.[31]
Don Diego
gave him in charge of five soldiers, to
conduct him to the castle of Lucena;
then putting spurs to his horse, he hastened
to rejoin the Count de Cabra, who
was in hot pursuit of the enemy. He
overtook him at a stream called Riancal,
and they continued to press on the skirts
of the flying army during the remainder
of the day. The pursuit was almost as
hazardous as the battle; for had the
enemy at any time recovered from their
panic, they might, by a sudden reaction,
have overwhelmed the small force of
their pursuers. To guard against this
peril, the wary count kept his battalion
always in close order, and had a body
of a hundred chosen lances in the advance.
The Moors kept up a Parthian
retreat. Several times they turned to
make battle; but seeing this solid body
of steeled warriors pressing upon them,
they again took to flight.
The main retreat of the army was
along the valley watered by the Xenil,
and opening through the mountains of
Algaringo to the city of Loxa. The
alarm-fires of the preceding night had
roused the country. Every man snatched
sword and buckler from the wall; and
the towns and villages poured forth their
warriors to harass the retreating foe.
Ali Atar kept the main force of the army
together, and turned fiercely from time
to time upon his pursuers. He was like
a wolf hunted through a country he had
often made desolate by his maraudings.
The alarm of this invasion had reached
the city of Antequera, where were several
of the cavaliers who had escaped from
the carnage in the mountains of Malaga.
Their proud minds were festering with
their late disgrace, and their only prayer
was for vengeance on the infidels. No
sooner did they hear of the Moors being
over the border, than they were armed
and mounted for action. Don Alonzo
de Aguilar led them forth: a small body
of but forty horsemen, but all cavaliers
of prowess, and thirsting for revenge.
They came upon the foe on the banks
of the Xenil, where it winds through the
valleys of Cordova. The river, swelled
by the late rains, was deep and turbulent,
and only fordable at certain places. The
main body of the army was gathered
in confusion on the banks, endeavouring
to ford the stream, protected by the cavalry
of Ali Atar.
No sooner did the little band of Alonzo
de Aguilar come in sight of the Moors,
than fury flashed from their eyes. "Remember
the mountains of Malaga!" they
cried to each other as they rushed to
combat. Their charge was desperate,
but was gallantly resisted. A scrambling
and bloody fight ensued, hand to hand,
and sword to sword, sometimes on land,
sometimes in the water; many were
lanced on the banks; others, throwing
themselves into the river, sunk with the
weight of their armour, and were
drowned. Some, grappling together,
fell from their horses, but continued their
struggle in the waves, and helm and turban
rolled together down the stream.
The Moors were by far the superior in
number, and among them were many
warriors of rank; but they were disheartened
by defeat, while the Christians were
excited even to desperation.
Ali Atar alone preserved all his fire
and energy amid his reverses. He had
been enraged at the defeat of the army,
the loss of the king, and the ignominious
flight he had been obliged to make,
through a country which so often had
been the scene of his exploits; but to be
thus impeded in his flight, and harassed
and insulted by a mere handful of warriors,
roused the violent passions of the
old Moor to perfect frenzy.
He had marked Don Alonso de Aguilar
dealing his blows, says Agapida, with
the pious vehemence of a righteous
knight, who knows that in every wound
inflicted upon the infidels, he is doing
God service. Ali Atar spurred his steed
along the bank of the river, to come upon
Don Alonso by surprise. The back of
that warrior was towards him; and collecting
all his force, the Moor hurled his
lance, to transfix him on the spot. The
lance was not thrown with the usual accuracy
of Ali Atar. It tore away a part
of the cuirass of Don Alonso, but failed
to inflict a wound. The Moor rushed
upon Don Alonso with his cimeter; but
the latter was on the alert, and parried
his blow. They fought desperately upon
the borders of the river, alternately pressing
each other into the stream, and
fighting their way again up the bank.
Ali Atar was repeatedly wounded; and
Don Alonso, having pity on his age,
would have spared his life. He called
upon him to surrender. "Never," cried
Ali Atar, "to a Christian dog." The
words were scarce out of his mouth,
when the sword of Don Alonso clove his
turbaned head, and sank deep into the
brain. He fell dead without a groan:
his body rolled into the Xenil; nor was
it ever found and recognised.[32]
Thus fell
Ali Atar, who had long been the terror
of Andalusia. As he had hated and
warred upon the Christians all his life,
so he died in the very act of bitter hostility.
The fall of Ali Atar put an end to the
transient stand of the cavalry. Horse
and foot mingled together in the desperate
struggle across the Xenil, and
many were trampled down, and perished
beneath the waves. Don Alonso and his
band continued to harass them, until they
crossed the frontier; and every blow
struck home to the Moors seemed to
lighten the load of humiliation and sorrow,
which had weighed heavy on their
hearts.
In this disastrous rout, the Moors lost
upwards of five thousand killed and made
prisoners, many of whom were of the
most noble lineages of Granada. Numbers
fled to rocks and mountains, where
they were subsequently taken. This
battle was called by some the battle of
Lucena; by others, the battle of the
Moorish king, because of the capture of
Boabdil. Twenty-two banners fell into
the hands of the Christians, and were
carried to Vaena, and hung up in the
church, where, says an historian of after
times, they remain to this day. Once a
year, on the day of St. George, they are
borne about in procession by the inhabitants,
who at the same time give thanks
to God, for this signal victory granted to
their forefathers.
Great was the triumph of the Count
de Cabra, when, on returning from the
pursuit of the enemy, he found that the
Moorish king had fallen into his hands.
When the unfortunate Boabdil was
brought before him, however, and he
beheld him a dejected captive, whom,
but shortly before, he had seen in royal
splendour, surrounded by his army, the
generous heart of the count was touched
by sympathy. He said every thing that
became a courteous and Christian knight,
to comfort him; observing, that the same
mutability of things which had suddenly
destroyed his recent prosperity, might
cause his present misfortunes as rapidly
to pass away; since, in this world,
nothing is stable, and even sorrow has
its allotted term.
Thus consoling him by gentle and
soothing words, and observing towards
him the honour and reverence that his
dignity and his misfortunes inspired, he
conducted him a prisoner to his strong
castle of Vaena.
