50. CHAPTER L.
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 corselets 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 armor of the
luxurious nobles. The fire at first had been attributed
to treachery, but on investigation it 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 melody,
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, when they beheld the christian army
advancing towards their 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 valor—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 the 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 valor 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, watched with trembling heart
the fate of this eventful day.
There 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,
with an agony of grief and valor, by the Moors;
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 ardor 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 cross-bows and arquebusses.
The Moors, scattered in various actions, were severely
pressed. Boabdil, at the head of the cavaliers
of his guard, displayed the utmost valor, mingling in
the fight in various parts of the field, and endeavoring
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 threw the reins on the necks of their fleet
steeds, and took refuge by dint of hoof within the
walls of the city.[1]
Muza endeavored 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 numbers, and many of the
survivors were crippled and enfeebled by their
wounds. Slowly and reluctantly Muza 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 or her slaughtered children.
Such was the last sally made by the Moors, in defence
of their favorite 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—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 inspirited
by victories. Wherever they could plant foot
to fight, or find wall or cliff from whence to lanch 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.[2]
