University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

The situation of the Spaniards, at that moment,
though sufficiently frightful to every one, was yet
known, in all its horrors, only to the leaders of the
van. As hope is ever independent of judgment, ever
unreasonable and unreflective, the absence of the
bridge, at the first sluice, was not enough to persuade
the fugitives, that the passage of the second might
be equally interrupted. But, at the moment when
the signal-fire was kindled on the temple, Sandoval
had already reached this ditch, and perceived that
its bridge was also demolished, and, as it seemed,
very recently too; for there yet remained a huge
timber lying across the chasm,—left, as he feared,
rather as some decoy and trap, than, as was more
probable, deserted suddenly by workmen, scared
from their labours by the approach of the Spaniards.

The three ditches divided the dike into four portions,
of as many furlongs in extent. On the second
of these portions was concentrated the whole retreating
army, its front resting upon a sluice of great
depth, passable by footmen, (for the great beam was
soon discovered to be sound,) but not by the horse
and artillery, without the portable bridge, which yet
rested over the first breach. This second obstacle
being overcome, it was apparent, that a third would
still remain to be surmounted; and the passage of
both was to be effected in the presence, and in the
midst, of a great enemy.

As we have said, the beacon-light, shooting up from
the pyramid, and continuing to burn with intensity,
brought light, where all, before, was darkness; and
revealed such innumerable fleets of canoes, hovering
on both flanks, as the novice had not seen, even on
that day when he first trode upon a dike of Mexico.
But the spirit that then slumbered, was now awake;
and as the rowers responded, with their wild cries,

to the roar of the sacred trumpet, they struck the
water furiously with their paddles, until the whole
lake seemed to boil up with a spray of fire; and thus
they rushed madly against the causeway.

The novice cast his eye upon the general. The
ruddy glare of the beacon could not change the
deadly pallor that covered his cheeks; but, nevertheless,
with this ghastly countenance turned to the foe,
he cried out, cheerily, or, at least, firmly, to those
immediately in advance,—

“Who ho, cannoniers! your quoins and handspikes!
your horns and matches! and show me your throats
to the lake-rats!” Then, raising his voice to its
trumpet-tones, he continued, as if giving counsel and
command to all: “Be bold and fearless, and strike
for the honour of God, brave Christians! Soho! De
Leon, valiant brother! and thou, Alvarado, matchless
cavalier! raise me the bridge, and be quick; for
here we need it.”

The voices of other officers were heard, faintly
mingled with the din, but not long; every moment
the shouts of the Mexicans, continued without intermission,
became louder, and their canoes were plunging
nearer to the causeway.

A pang rent the bosom of Don Amador:

“I must get me to my companions,” he cried, to Jacinto,
“and what can I do for thee this night, young
page that I love?”

“I will follow thee,” said the page, tremulously;
“I will die with my lord.”

“Would that I had thee but upon the back of
Fogoso! for methinks that even De Morla should not
strike more truly for Minnapotzin than would I, this
night, for thee.”

“Where goest thou, De Leste?” cried Cortes, as
the novice pushed by. “Pause—thou art best among
the cannoniers.”

A dreadful yell, at that moment, drowned the general's
voice: but one still more dreadful was heard,
when, as the pagans drew breath to repeat the cry,

the Christians in front heard the rear-guard exclaiming,
with loud and bitter shrieks, “The bridge!—the
bridge!—it is fast and immoveable!”—The weight
of the horses and artillery had sunk it deep into the
chasm, and no human strength could stir it from its
foundation.

These words and sights were all the occurrences
of a moment. There was neither time for observation
nor lamentation. The infidels on the water
rushed to the attack with the same fury which had
so often driven them upon the spears of the garrison;
and, not less by their cries than their apparent numbers,
it was made obvious that the whole strength of
the great city was gathered together for this undertaking;
for those who had caught a little of their
language, could distinguish the different quarters of
the island encouraging each other with cries of “Ho,
Tlatelolco! shall Majotla strike first at the foe?—Alzacualco!
on; for Tecpan is swift and mirthful.—On,
ho! for Mexitli is speaking; on, for our gods are on
the temple, and they hunger for the Teuctli!” The
line of the army was full half a mile in length; but,
as far as it stretched, and further than the eye could
penetrate beyond either extremity, a triple row of
canoes, on each side of the causeway, was seen
closing upon it with the speed and fury of breakers,
dashing against a stranded ship.

“Now, cannoniers!” cried Don Hernan, elevating
his voice above the tumult, when the rushing masses
were within but a few paces of the causey; “now to
your linstocks, and touch in the name of God!”

The damp gunpowder sparkled and hissed on the
vents, but did not fail the Christians in their need.
The roar of the volley was like the peal of an earthquake;
and, right and left, as eighteen horizontal
columns of fire darted from the engines, the lake
boiled up with a new fury, fragments of canoes and
the bodies of men were seen flung up into the air,
and yells of agony which chilled the blood, bore
witness to the dreadfulness of the slaughter.

“Quick, and again!” cried Don Hernan, eagerly.
“Shoot fast, and shoot well; and know that I will
shortly be back with ye.—Ho, Sandoval! why dost
thou loiter? plunge into the ditch, and swim. Rest
where thou art, De Leste; for thou art too weak for
battle. Give thine aid to the cannoniers.”

The confused and huddled Tlascalans, who formed
the rear of Sandoval's party, shouted at the cry of
the Teuctli, and made way for him. A cavalier,
bearing a burthen in his arms, spurred after, with a
mad impetuosity, which rendered him regardless of
the many naked wretches he trampled to the earth:
it was De Morla. The example thus set by the apparent
flight of the two hidalgos, was followed by
others; and the allies were broken by the hoofs of
Christians, while still enduring the arrows, that came
like a driving rain from the lake.

Meanwhile, it was evident, though the cannon,
recharged and shot off again with extraordinary
quickness, served to keep the part of the causeway
where they stood free from assailants, that they had
effected a landing, perhaps, both in front and rear,—
certainly on the latter,—where they were already
engaged, hand to hand, with the Spaniards. The
thunder of the explosions did not conceal from the
novice the shrieks of his countrymen. His blood
boiled with fury:

“Come with me, Jacinto,” he cried. “We will
reach Fogoso; and then I can do my duty to my
friends, and smite these accursed murderers, without
deserting thee.”

He dragged the trembling page after him; he
darted among the cannoniers, and passed the artillery.
He reached the Tlascalans, who followed the
van,—but havoc was already among their ranks. As
he gained them, he perceived the shelving sides of the
causeway lined with canoes, from which were springing
up, like locusts, a cloud of Mexicans, brandishing
their glassy maces, and rushing with the yells of
wolves upon their ancient foes. Barbarians were

mingled with barbarians in one hideous mass of
slaughter, impassable and impenetrable.

His heart sunk within him. “I have prejudiced
thy life, as well as my own, this night,” he said.
“Would that I had never left the back of Fogoso!”

Before he had yet time to resolve whether to return
to the cannoniers, or to make one more effort to
pierce the bloody mass, he was descried by the crew
of a piragua, which, that moment, was urged upon
the dike with such violence, that it was split in twain
by the shock. The eager warriors rushed up the
ascent with a shriek of exultation, and brandished
their spears. The neophyte retreated; but neither
the rapidity of his steps, nor the keenness of his
blows, would, perhaps, have availed against their
numbers, enfeebled as he was, and trammelled by the
grasp of the affrighted Jacinto, had not a party of
Spanish footmen, flying from the rear, come that moment
to his aid. These, though they forced the barbarians
to give way, were, in their turn, driven back
upon the cannon; and Don Amador was fain to follow
them.

The audacity of the foe seemed still to increase
rather than diminish; and, twice or thrice, efforts
were made by certain valiant madmen among them,
to spring to land immediately in the mouths of the
cannon. These were instantly speared by the many
desperate Spaniards, who, flying from their posts in
the rear, which were now known to be in extremity,
took refuge among the artillery, as the only place of
safety, and there fought with better resolution.

In the meanwhile, the efforts of the enemy still remaining
unabated, the prisoners and many of the
rear-guard pressing wildly forward, and Don Hernan
and most of the officers having fled to the front, from
which they had not returned, the gunners were themselves
seized with a panic; and, without regarding
the death on which they were thus rushing, began to
leave their pieces, and fly. The representations of
Don Amador served to arrest some of them, and

other soldiers taking their places at the guns, they
yielded passively to his instructions; and he found
himself, at once, in the post of a commander.

The many bitter reflections that harrowed his own
bosom, he spoke not, and sharply he reprimanded
others, who were yielding to despair. Whatever
might be the difficulty of advancing, he felt that such
a measure was become indispensable, as promising
the only hope of salvation: for every instant the
clamours increased on the rear, as if, there, the barbarians
had attacked in the greatest numbers, and
were approaching nearer to the cannon, flushed with
slaughter and victory. He instructed the gunners in
what manner they should rush forwards with their
charged pieces, pointed obliquely, so as to sweep the
sides of the dike, shoot them off, when arrested by
too determined a front of resistance, and, loading
quickly, take advantage of the confusion following
each discharge, so as to gain as much ground as possible,
while still manfully fighting. He hoped, thus,
besides succouring the Tlascalans in front, and giving
room for the rear-guard to follow, to reach the
second ditch, where, as he had heard, the beam still
gave passage to the footmen, but where his most
sanguine wishes could point him out no other hope
than to stand by the cannon till relieved, or abandon
them and fly, as, it seemed to him, all had done, who
had already crossed the breach.

He animated the gunners with his voice, and with
his actions; and so great was the effect of the discharges
on the Indians landing, that the artillerymen
were able to rush forwards perhaps a score yards,
after each volley; thus convincing all of the wisdom
of the measure, and the probability of escape.

Two circumstances, however, greatly diminished
the exultation, which the cavalier would have otherwise
felt at the success of his stratagem. Though
the Tlascalans in front ever responded to the shouts
of his gunners, and though each discharge seemed to
bring him nearer to them, yet ever, when a volley

was preceded by the loud “Viva!” meant to encourage
the allies, the answer seemed to come from the
same distance, and the mass of feathered warriors,
lit up by the discharge, disclosed the bodies of none
but frowning Mexicans. The other circumstance
was still more appalling; the space behind, left vacant
by his advance, was occupied no longer by foot
or horse, by treasure-bearer or prisoner, by Spanish
musketeer or Tlascalan spearman. A few dusky
groups could be seen running to and fro, behind; but
yet they seemed rather to rush backwards than to
follow after.

“God save the rear-guard!” he muttered, “for it
is surely surrounded.—On, brave cannoniers! Cortes
shall not be ignorant of your deeds this night, and
Don Carlos, the emperor, shall know of your fame.”

The shout, with which the cannoniers again poured
forth the deadly volley, was repeated with victorious
energy, when the Mexicans, scattered by the discharge,
or leaping to avoid it, into the water, parted
away from before them; and they found themselves,
suddenly, upon the brink of the second ditch. The
great beam lay in its place; but the dark water in
the chasm was filled and agitated by the bodies of
men, wounded and suffocating. The white tunic of
the Mexican was confounded with the plume of a
Christian cavalier; the red arm of an infidel,—Tlascalan
or foeman,—shook by the side of a Castilian
spear; the white visages of dead men rolled on the
necks of drowning horses; bales of rich cotton stuffs,
—lances dancing up and down like the leaded bulrushes
of children,—armour of escaupil,—garments, and
bodies of dying and dead,—were floating together in
such horrible confusion, that the water seemed to heave
and bubble as with a living corruption.

The sight of the ditch and the beam clear of enemies,
fired the cannoniers with new hopes; and in
the frenzy of their joy, they would instantly have
dropped their fuses and handspikes, and taken to
flight, had it not been that Don Amador flung himself

upon the beam, and striking the first man dead, commanded
them still to stand to their pieces.

“Base caitiffs are ye all,” he cried, “who, thus
having the victory, and the lives of half the army, in
your hands, should so desert your posts, in the midst
of triumph! Wheel round half your pieces, and sweep
the causey sides behind;—for I hear the coming of
friends. Would ye give up your pieces to infidels?
They are your safety!”

The reproof of the cavalier, the sight of their dead
comrade, and the sword which had punished him,
still commanding the narrow pathway, the voices of
Christians behind, but, more than all, the manifest
truth of the declaration, that their safety depended
on their remaining by the artillery, turned the gunners,
at once, from their purpose; and their resolution
received a new confirmation, when a Christian
voice was heard shouting in the front, as if of some
cavalier, heading a band of returning friends, and,
when, the next moment, a Spanish soldier was seen
to run towards them, leap on the beam, and then
spring from it to the causeway.

“Santiago, and shoot on!” cried the overjoyed
gunners; “for Cortes is coming!”

“What, ho, knave Lazaro!” cried the novice, as
the blaze of the discharge showed him in the new
comer, the countenance of his henchman. “Where
goest thou? Wherefore hast thou left the horses?
And where is Don Hernan?”

“Master! dear master, is it thou?” cried Lazaro,
with such a shout of joy as drowned even the yells
of death about him. “Quick, for the love of God!
over the beam, with all these varlets,—for life! for
life! for Don Hernan is fled, and all the cavaliers!”

“Peace, thou villain!—Heed not this trembling
fool,” exclaimed Amador, quickly. “You hear!—
the last ditch is bridged and free, and ye can, at any
moment, reach the firm land, as the cavaliers have
done.—Give me another volley or two, for God, for
the honour of Spain, and for your friends, who are

fast approaching. We will march together with the
whole rear, to ensure safety. Quick!—See ye not
how yonder fiends are rushing into your muzzles?
Viva! A bold shot for St. James, and our people!”

The cavalier turned to Lazaro: he was bleeding,
and he cast a look of despair on his master.

“Why art thou idle? thou wert bred to the linstock,
sirrah. Show thyself a Christian man and true.—
Hark! hearest thou not? 'T is the shout of De Leon!
Bravely, bold hearts! the rear-guard is nigh.—Hah!
halon, halon! Don Pedro!”

'T is the voice of the secretary!” cried Lazaro;
“and God help me, but he cries for succour!”

“Ho, señor! señor Don Amador! for the love of
Christ!”—the wild shout of Fabueno, for the neophyte
could no longer doubt it was he, was suddenly
interrupted: the shrill shriek of a woman succeeded;
and, then, every thing was lost in a hurricane of yells,
so intermingled that no one could say whether they
came from Christians or pagans.

“Stay—drop thy match,—hold me this boy, as
thou holdest thy life, and suffer none to pass the
beam—”

“For the sake of the cross thou adorest, the maiden
thou lovest!” cried the terrified boy, clinging to the
cavalier, leave me not, oh leave me not, in this horror,
to die alone! The Mexicans will kill me, for I
have now no gown of a priestess to protect me—”

Notwithstanding the boiling excitement of the novice,
these last words filled his brain with strange
thoughts, but still so confused that they were more
like the momentary phantasms of delirium, than the
proper suggestions of reason. But whatever they
were, they were instantly driven out of his mind, by
another cry from Fabueno, seemingly hard by, but
so feeble and wailing, that a less acute ear might
have supposed it came from a considerable distance.

He shook the boy off, flung him into the arms of
Lazaro, crying, “Answer his safety with thy life!—

with thy life!” and immediately darted through the
cannoniers, and retraced his steps on the causeway.

By this time, the fire on the pyramid had attained
its greatest brilliancy, and the wind having died entirely
away, it projected its lofty spire to heaven, and
burned with a tranquillity which seemed to leave it
motionless; while its reflection on that part of the
lake which shared not in the agitations of conflict,
produced a spectacle of peace in singular contrast
with the horrible scene of carnage, that moment represented
on the causeway. The light it shed, though
it made objects visible even as far as the second
ditch, did not illuminate the furthest part of the dike;
and there, whatever deed of death might be presented,
was hidden from the eyes of all but the actors themselves.

Raising his voice aloud, and running towards the
nearest group, Don Amador sought out the secretary. But this group, before he had yet reached it, started
away, and fled, with loud cries, towards the city, or
to where the tumult was greatest; and he knew by
their shouts of `Tlatelolco! ho, Tlatelolco!' that they
were Mexicans. On the spot they had thus deserted,
the novice stumbled over the body of a man, his throat
cut from ear to ear, his cotton armour torn to pieces;
and from the shreds, as the carcass rolled under his
foot, there fell out, rattling and jingling on the stones,
divers vessels of gold and jewels, such as had been
grasped in the treasury.

Without pausing to survey this victim of covetousness,
the cavalier ran on; and, hearing many Christian
voices, ringing now with curses, now with prayers,
and now with shouts of triumph, he called out
at the top of his voice,—

“On, brothers! on to the artillery! advance!—
Strike well, and forward!—Ho, Lorenzo! comrade!
where art thou? and why answerest thou not?”

A gurgling sound, as of one suffocating in the
flood, drew his eye to the lake almost under his feet.
The water rippled, as if lately disturbed by the falling

of some heavy body; and just where the circling
waves washed sluggishly up the shelving dike, there
lay a white mass like a human figure, the head and
shoulders buried in the tide. The wash of the ripple
stirred the garments, and, in part, the corse, so that
it still seemed to be living; but when the novice had
caught it up, he beheld the visage of a very youthful
girl, her forehead cloven by a sword of obsidian, and
the broken weapon wedged fast in the brain. At the
same instant, the water parted hard by, and there
rose up a dark object, that seemed the back of a
horse, across which lay the body of a man in bright
armour, the legs upwards, but the head and breast
ingulfed. For an instant, this dreary sight was presented;
but, slowly, the steed, whose nostrils were
still under water, as if held down by the grasp of the
dead rider, rolled over on his side, and the body,
slipping off the other way, sunk headlong and silently
into the flood, followed presently by the horse; and
the next moment the waters were at rest.

“God rest thee, Lorenzo!” cried the novice, laying
down the corse of Eugracia. “Thy life and thy
hopes, thy ambition and thy love, are ended together
—but now can I not lament thee!”

He started up, as the causeway suddenly shook
with the tramp of hoofs, and a cavalier, without
spear or helm, dashed madly by. Almost at the moment
of passing, whether it was that the strength of
the fugitive had suddenly given out, or whether, as
seemed more probable, a flight of arrows had been
sent in pursuit, and struck both horse and rider, the
steed made a fierce bound into the air; and then pursued
his course, masterless.

“Follow onwards, ye men of the rear!” cried the
novice, struck with a sudden horror; for now he
became conscious that the artillery had been, for
several moments, silent; and when he looked after
the flying steed, though he could not, at that distance,
perceive any thing, he could hear fierce voices
mingling together in strife; and presently the riderless

horse, as if driven back by a wall of foes, returned,
passing him again with the speed of the wind.

The limbs of the cavalier were nerved with the
strength of fury; for he thought he heard the screams
of Jacinto, ascending with the harsher cries of the
gunners; and scarcely did that frightened charger
fly more swiftly from the battle, than he himself now
back to it.

“Thy duty, knave Lazaro!” he cried. “The boy!
—save the boy!”

“Don Amador! oh Amador! Don Amador!” came
to his ears, in a voice that rent his heart.

“I come! I come!” shouted the cavalier, redoubling
his exertions, but not his speed, for that was at
the highest.

“Oh heaven, Amador! Amador!—”

In his distraction, the neophyte confounded two
voices into one; and while he replied to one, his
thoughts flew to another.

“I come! Answer me—where art thou? I am
here:—where art thou!”

As he uttered these words, he sprang through the
artillery, which was without servers,—among bodies
which were lifeless,—and stood alone,—for there
was no living creature there but himself,—on the
borders of the sluice, the beam over which was
broken off in the middle, and the further portion,
only, left standing in its place.

He cast his amazed and affrighted eye from the
water, heaving as before with the struggles of dying
men, to the corpse on whose bosom he was standing.—In
the grinning countenance, covered with
blood, and horribly mutilated by a blow which had
pierced through the mouth, jaws, and throat, to the
severed spine, he beheld the features of Lazaro, fixed
in death; and looked wildly at his side, to discover
the body of the page. No corse of Jacinto was
there; but, on the ground, where he had stood, on
the spot where he had charged him to stand, the novice
perceived a jewel, catching a ray from the distant

fire, glittering red, as with blood, and held by
a golden chain to which it was attached, in the
death-grasp of the henchman. He snatched it from
the earth and from the hand of the dead, and looking
on it with a stare of horror, beheld the holy and never
to be forgotten cross of rubies.

With that sight, the scales fell from his eyes, and
a million of wild thoughts beset his brain. The magical
knowledge of the page, coupled with his childish
and effeminate youth,—his garments, so fitted to
disguise,—his scrupulous modesty,—his tears, his terrors,
his affection, and his power over the mind of
the cavalier,—the garb of the priestess, so lately acknowledged,—the
vision in the house of the Wali,
Abdalla,—the cross of jewels, doubtless snatched
from the neck of Jacinto, when barbarians were
tearing him from the faithful Lazaro,—all these
came to the brain of the cavalier with the blaze and
the shock of a cannon, suddenly discharged at his
ears. He looked again to the corses about him—
they were those of the gunners; to the ditch—it
writhed no more; and then, uttering the name of
Leila, he sunk, in a stupor, to the earth.