University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
How the Royal Army appeared before the city of Loxa,
and how it was received; and of the doughty achievements
of the English Earl.

The advance of the christian army upon Loxa,
threw the wavering Boabdil el Chico into one of his
usual dilemmas; and he was greatly perplexed between
his oath of allegiance to the Spanish sovereigns,
and his sense of duty to his subjects. His
doubts were determined by the sight of the enemy
glittering upon the height of Albohacen, and by the
clamors of the people to be led forth to battle. “Allah!”
exclaimed he, “thou knowest my heart: thou
knowest I have been true in my faith to this christian
monarch. I have offered to hold Loxa as his
vassal, but he has preferred to approach it as an enemy—on
his head be the infraction of our treaty!”

Boabdil was not wanting in courage; he only
needed decision. When he had once made up his
mind, he acted vigorously; the misfortune was, he
either did not make it up at all, or he made it up too
late. He who decides tardily generally acts rashly,
endeavoring to make up by hurry of action for slowness
of deliberation. Boabdil hastily buckled on his
armor, and sallied forth, surrounded by his guards,
and at the head of five hundred horse and four thousand
foot, the flower of his army. Some he detached

to skirmish with the christians who were scattered
and perplexed in the valley, and to prevent their
concentrating their forces; while, with his main
body, he pressed forward to drive the enemy from
the height of Albohacen, before they had time to collect
there in any number, or to fortify themselves in
that important position.

The worthy count de Cabra was yet entangled
with his cavalry among the water-courses of the
valley, when he heard the war-cries of the Moors,
and saw their army rushing over the bridge. He
recognised Boabdil himself, by his splendid armor,
the magnificent caparison of his steed, and the brilliant
guard which surrounded him. The royal host
swept on toward the height of Albohacen: an intervening
hill hid it from his sight; but loud shouts and
cries, the din of drums and trumpets, and the reports
of arquebusses, gave note that the battle had begun.

Here was a royal prize in the field, and the count
de Cabra unable to get into the action! The good
cavalier was in an agony of impatience; every attempt
to force his way across the valley, only plunged
him into new difficulties. At length, after many eager
but ineffectual efforts, he was obliged to order his
troops to dismount, and slowly and carefully to lead
their horses back, along slippery paths, and amid
plashes of mire and water, where often there was
scarce a foothold. The good count groaned in spirit,
and sweat with mere impatience as he went, fearing
the battle might be fought, and the prize won or lost,
before he could reach the field. Having at length

toilfully unravelled the mazes of the valley, and arrived
at firmer ground, he ordered his troops to
mount, and led them full gallop to the height. Part
of the good count's wishes were satisfied, but the
dearest were disappointed: he came in season to
partake of the very hottest of the fight, but the royal
prize was no longer in the field.

Boabdil had led on his men with impetuous valor,
or rather with hurried rashness. Heedlessly exposing
himself in the front of the battle, he received two
wounds in the very first encounter. His guards rallied
round him, defended him with matchless valor,
and bore him, bleeding, out of the action. The count
de Cabra arrived just in time to see the loyal squadron
crossing the bridge, and slowly conveying their disabled
monarch towards the gate of the city.

The departure of Boabdil made no difference in
the fury of the battle. A Moorish warrior, dark and
terrible in aspect, mounted on a black charger and
followed by a band of savage Gomeres, rushed forward
to take the lead. It was Hamet el Zegri, the
fierce alcayde of Ronda, with the remnant of his
once redoubtable garrison. Animated by his example,
the Moors renewed their assaults upon the
height. It was bravely defended, on one side by the
marques of Cadiz, on another by Don Alonzo de
Aguilar; and as fast as the Moors ascended, they
were driven back and dashed down the declivities.
The count de Ureña took his stand upon the fatal
spot where his brother had fallen; his followers entered
with zeal into the feelings of their commander,

and heaps of the enemy sunk beneath their weapons
—sacrifices to the manes of the lamented Master of
Calatrava.

The battle continued with incredible obstinacy.
The Moors knew the importance of the height to the
safety of the city; the cavaliers felt their honors
staked to maintain it. Fresh supplies of troops were
poured out of the city; some battled on the height,
while some attacked the christians who were still in
the valley and among the orchards and gardens, to
prevent their uniting their forces. The troops in the
valley were gradually driven back, and the whole
host of the Moors swept around the height of Albohacen.
The situation of the marques de Cadiz and
his companions was perilous in the extreme: they
were a mere handful; and, while they were fighting
hand to hand with the Moors who assailed the
height, they were galled from a distance by the
cross-bows and arquebusses of a host that augmented
each moment in number. At this critical juncture,
king Ferdinand emerged from the mountains with
the main body of the army, and advanced to an eminence
commanding a full view of the field of action.
By his side was the noble English cavalier, the earl
of Rivers. This was the first time he had witnessed
a scene of Moorish warfare. He looked with eager
interest at the chance medley fight before him, where
there was the wild career of cavalry, the irregular
and tumultuous rush of infantry, and where christian
helm and Moorish turban were intermingled in deadly
struggle. The high blood of the English knight

mounted at the sight, and his soul was stirred within
him, by the confused war-cries, the clangor of drums
and trumpets, and the reports of arquebusses, that
came echoing up the mountains. Seeing that the
king was sending a reinforcement to the field, he entreated
permission to mingle in the affray, and fight
according to the fashion of his country. His request
being granted, he alighted from his steed: he was
merely armed en blanco, that is to say, with morion,
back-piece, and breast-plate; his sword was girded
by his side, and in his hand he wielded a powerful
battle-axe. He was followed by a body of his yeomen,
armed in like manner, and by a band of archers
with bows made of the tough English yew-tree. The
earl turned to his troops, and addressed them briefly
and bluntly, according to the manner of his country.
“Remember, my merry men all,” said he, “the eyes
of strangers are upon you; you are in a foreign land,
fighting for the glory of God, and the honor of merry
old England!” A loud shout was the reply. The
earl waved his battle-axe over his head: “St. George
for England!” cried he; and to the inspiring sound
of this old English war-cry, he and his followers
rushed down to the battle with manly and courageous
hearts.[1] They soon made their way into the
midst of the enemy; but when engaged in the hottest
of the fight, they made no shouts or outcries. They
pressed steadily forward, dealing their blows to right
and left, hewing down the Moors, and cutting their
way, with their battle-axes, like woodmen in a forest;
while the archers, pressing into the opening they
made, plied their bows vigorously, and spread death
on every side.

When the Castilian mountaineers beheld the valor
of the English yeomanry, they would not be outdone
in hardihood. They could not vie with them in
weight or bulk, but for vigor and activity they were
surpassed by none. They kept pace with them,
therefore, with equal heart and rival prowess, and
gave a brave support to the stout Englishmen.

The Moors were confounded by the fury of these
assaults, and disheartened by the loss of Hamet el
Zegri, who was carried wounded from the field.
They gradually fell back upon the bridge; the christians
followed up their advantage, and drove them
over it tumultuously. The Moors retreated into the
suburb; and lord Rivers and his troops entered with
them pell-mell, fighting in the streets and in the
houses. King Ferdinand came up to the scene of
action with his royal guard, and the infidels were
driven within the city walls. Thus were the suburbs
gained by the hardihood of the English lord, without
such an event having been premeditated.[2]

The earl of Rivers, notwithstanding he had received
a wound, still urged forward in the attack.
He penetrated almost to the city gate, in defiance of
a shower of missiles that slew many of his followers.
A stone, hurled from the battlements, checked his

impetuous career: it struck him in the face, dashed
out two of his front teeth, and laid him senseless on
the earth. He was removed to a short distance by
his men; but, recovering his senses, refused to permit
himself to be taken from the suburb.

When the contest was over, the streets presented
a piteous spectacle—so many of their inhabitants
had died in the defence of their thresholds, or been
slaughtered without resistance. Among the victims
was a poor weaver, who had been at work in his
dwelling at this turbulent moment. His wife urged
him to fly into the city. “Why should I fly?” said
the Moor—“to be reserved for hunger and slavery?
I tell you, wife, I will await the foe here; for better
is it to die quickly by the steel, than to perish piece-meal
in chains and dungeons.” He said no more,
but resumed his occupation of weaving; and in the
indiscriminate fury of the assault, was slaughtered at
his loom.[3]

The christians remained masters of the field, and
proceeded to pitch three encampments for the prosecution
of the siege. The king, with the great body
of the army, took a position on the side of the city
next to Granada: the marques of Cadiz and his
brave companions once more pitched their tents
upon the height of Sancto Albohacen: but the English
earl planted his standard sturdily within the
suburb he had taken.