22. CHAPTER XXII.
A CERTAIN degree of monotony prevails among all
the vicissitudes of life, and even the most exciting
events fail, after a time, to interest. A paucity of
incidents will not much sooner disgust us with the
pages of history, than the most abundant stores of
plots and battles, triumphs and defeats, if too liberally
dispensed;—for these are composed of the same elements,
and have, on the whole, the same wearisome
identity of character. For this reason, though the
many battles fought in the streets of Mexico, during
the seven days which intervened betwixt the second
coming and the second departure of Cortes, have something
in them both of interest and novelty, we have
not dared to recount them in full, nor, indeed, to mention
all of them; being satisfied to touch only such,
and, in truth, only such parts of such, as, in themselves,
have each some peculiar variety of characteristic.
We pass by, with a word, the increased
sufferings of the Christians,—their murmurs and lamentations,—their
despair and frenzy.
The day that followed after the fatal victory of the
pyramid, brought its battles like others. That day,
it became apparent that the last fibre which bound
hope to the palace wall, was about snapping—it was
known to all, that the Indian monarch was expiring.
The prediction of Botello had made all acquainted
with the day on which a retreat might be accomplished.
That day was drawing nigh; but the impatience
of the soldiers, and the anxiety of the officers
to prepare, or, at least, to reconnoitre, the path of
retreat, again drove them from their quarters. A
weak, but well chosen and trusty garrison was left
in charge of the palace; while Don Hernan, with all
the forces that could be spared of his reduced army,
sallied from the court-yard, and fought his way to
the dike of Iztapalapan.
In this exploit, new difficulties were to be overcome,
and new proofs were exhibited of the sagacity
and determination of the barbarians. Besides the obstacles
offered by the ditches, robbed of their bridges,
the Mexicans had heaped together across the streets,
the fragments of their demolished houses, thus forming
barriers, which were not passed without the
greatest labour and suffering. Nevertheless, the
Spaniards persevered, and not only gained the causeway,
but approached nigh to Iztapalapan, before a
Tlascalan messenger, creeping in disguise through
the crowds of enemies, recalled them to the palace,
which was furiously assailed, and in imminent danger
of being carried by storm.
It is not to be supposed, that this attempt on the
great dike, and the return, were effected without the
most bloody opposition. The lake suddenly swarmed
with canoes full of fighting men, and when Don Hernan
again turned his face towards Tenochtitlan, he
beheld the causeway covered with warriors, who,
besides disputing his passage with unappeasable rage,
broke, as well as they could, the bridges over the
sluices, seven in number, wherein were mingled the
floods of Chalco and Tezcuco. His valour, however,
or his good fortune, prevailed; and by night-fall he
reached the square of Axajacatl, and fell with renewed
fury upon the savages who still struggled with the
garrison. When he had carved his way through
them, and had directed the exertions of his united
forces against the besiegers, who still raved, like
wolves, around him, he gave some thought to those
companions, whose fate it had been, to lay their
bodies on the causeway, or to take their rest, with
such exequies as could be rendered in the lamentations
of men expecting each instant to share their
fate, under the salt bosom of Tezcuco.
It became known, that, among these unhappy victims,
was the knight of Calavar,—but how slain, or
where entombed, no one could relate. From the day
of the loss of his kinsman, he had been reckoned by
all, entirely insane. He held communion with none,
not even his attendants; but casting aside his abstraction,
and resuming his armour, he was present in
every conflict which ensued, fighting with an ardour,
fury, and recklessness, as astonishing as they were
maniacal. All that was remembered of his fate, this
day, was, that, when at the farthest part of the causeway
the trumpets were ordered to sound a retreat,
he was seen, without attendants, for they were wedged
fast in the melée, dashing onwards amid the dusky
crowds that came rushing upon the front from the
suburbs of Iztapalapan. Cortes had, himself, called
to the knight to return, and not doubting that he
would extricate himself without aid, had then given
all his attention to the Mexicans attacking on the
rear. This was known; it was known also that Don
Gabriel had not returned: beyond this, all was mystery
and gloom.
