EXPEDITION OF MULEY ABUL HASSAN AGAINST THE FORTRESS OF ZAHARA.
In the year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and eighty-one, and
but a night or two after the festival of the most blessed Nativity, the
inhabitants of Zahara were sunk in profound sleep the very sentinel had
deserted his post, and sought shelter from a tempest which had raged for
three nights in succession, for it appeared but little probable that an
enemy would be abroad during such an uproar of the elements. But evil
spirits work best during a storm. In the midst of the night an uproar
rose within the walls of Zahara more awful than the raging of the
storm. A fearful alarm-cry, “The Moor! the Moor!” resounded through the
streets, mingled with the clash of arms, the shriek of anguish, and the
shout of victory. Muley Abul Hassan, at the head of a powerful force,
had hurried from Granada, and passed unobserved through the mountains in
the obscurity of the tempest. While the storm pelted the sentinel from
his post and bowled round tower and battlement, the Moors had planted
their scaling-ladders and mounted securely into both town and castle.
The garrison was unsuspicious of danger until battle and massacre burst
forth within its very walls. It seemed to the affrighted inhabitants
as if the fiends of the air had come upon the wings of the wind and
possessed themselves of tower and turret. The war-cry resounded on every
side, shout answering shout, above, below, on the battlements of the
castle, in the streets of the town; the foe was in all parts, wrapped
in obscurity, but acting in concert by the aid of preconcerted signals.
Starting from sleep, the soldiers were intercepted and cut down as they
rushed from their quarters, or if they escaped they knew not where
to assemble or where to strike. Wherever lights appeared the flashing
scimetar was at its deadly work, and all who attempted resistance fell
beneath its edge.
In a little while the struggle was at an end. Those who were not slain
took refuge in the secret places of their houses or gave themselves
up as captives. The clash of arms ceased, and the storm continued its
howling, mingled with the occasional shout of the Moorish soldiery
roaming in search of plunder. While the inhabitants were trembling for
their fate, a trumpet resounded through the streets summoning them all
to assemble, unarmed, in the public square. Here they were surrounded by
soldiery and strictly guarded until daybreak. When the day dawned it was
piteous to behold this once-prosperous community, who had laid down to
rest in peaceful security, now crowded together without distinction of
age or rank or sex, and almost without raiment, during the severity of
a wintry storm. The fierce Muley Abul Hassan turned a deaf ear to
all their prayers and remonstrances, and ordered them to be conducted
captives to Granada. Leaving a strong garrison in both town and castle,
with orders to put them in a complete state of defence, he returned,
flushed with victory, to his capital, entering it at the head of his
troops, laden with spoil and bearing in triumph the banners and pennons
taken at Zahara.
While preparations were making for jousts and other festivities in honor
of this victory over the Christians, the captives of Zahara arrived--a
wretched train of men, women, and children, worn out with fatigue and
haggard with despair, and driven like cattle into the city gates by a
detachment of Moorish soldiery.
Deep was the grief and indignation of the people of Granada at this
cruel scene. Old men, who had experienced the calamities of warfare,
anticipated coming troubles. Mothers clasped their infants to their
breasts as they beheld the hapless females of Zahara with their children
expiring in their arms. On every side the accents of pity for the
sufferers were mingled with execrations of the barbarity of the king.
The preparations for festivity were neglected, and the viands which were
to have feasted the conquerors were distributed among the captives.
The nobles and alfaquis, however, repaired to the Alhambra to
congratulate the king; for, whatever storms may rage in the lower
regions of society, rarely do any clouds but clouds of incense rise to
the awful eminence of the throne. In this instance, however, a voice
rose from the midst of the obsequious crowd, and burst like thunder
upon the ears of Abul Hassan. “Woe! woe! woe! to Granada!” exclaimed the
voice; “its hour of desolation approaches. The ruins of Zahara will
fall upon our heads; my spirit tells me that the end of our empire is
at hand.” All shrank back aghast, and left the denouncer of woe standing
alone in the centre of the hall. He was an ancient and hoary man in the
rude attire of a dervise. Age had withered his form without quenching
the fire of his spirit, which glared in baleful lustre from his eyes.
He was (say the Arabian historians) one of those holy men termed santons
who pass their lives in hermitages in fasting, meditation, and prayer
until they attain to the purity of saints and the foresight of prophets.
“He was,” says the indignant Fray Antonio Agapida, “a son of Belial,
one of those fanatic infidels possessed by the devil who are sometimes
permitted to predict the truth to their followers, but with the proviso
that their predictions shall be of no avail.”
The voice of the santon resounded through the lofty hall of the
Alhambra, and struck silence and awe into the crowd of courtly
sycophants. Muley Abul Hassan alone was unmoved: he eyed the hoary
anchorite with scorn as he stood dauntless before him, and treated his
predictions as the ravings of a maniac. The santon rushed from the royal
presence, and, descending into the city, hurried through its streets and
squares with frantic gesticulations. His voice was heard in every
part in awful denunciation: “The peace is broken! exterminating war is
commenced. Woe! woe! woe to Granada! its fall is at hand! desolation
will dwell in its palaces; its strong men will fall beneath the sword,
its children and maidens be led into captivity. Zahara is but a type of
Granada!”
Terror seized upon the populace, for they considered these ravings as
the inspirations of prophecy. Some hid themselves in their dwellings as
in a time of general mourning, while some gathered together in knots in
the streets and squares, alarming each other with dismal forebodings and
cursing the rashness and cruelty of the king.
The Moorish monarch heeded not their murmurs. Knowing that his exploit
must draw upon him the vengeance of the Christians, he now threw off
all reserve, and made attempts to surprise Castellan and Elvira, though
without success. He sent alfaquis also to the Barbary powers, informing
them that the sword was drawn, and inviting the African princes to aid
him with men and supplies in maintaining the kingdom of Granada and the
religion of Mahomet against the violence of unbelievers.
While discontent exhaled itself in murmurs among the common people,
however, it fomented in dangerous conspiracies among the nobles, and
Muley Abul Hassan was startled by information of a design to depose
him and place his son Boabdil upon the throne. His first measure was to
confine the prince and his mother in the Tower of Comares; then, calling
to mind the prediction of the astrologers, that the youth would one day
sit on the throne of Granada, he impiously set the stars at defiance.
“The sword of the executioner,” said he, “shall prove the fallacy of
those lying horoscopes, and shall silence the ambition of Boabdil.”
The sultana Ayxa, apprised of the imminent danger of her son, concerted
a plan for his escape. At the dead of the night she gained access to
his prison, and, tying together the shawls and scarfs of herself and her
female attendants, lowered him down from a balcony of the Alhambra to
the steep rocky hillside which sweeps down to the Darro. Here some of
her devoted adherents were waiting to receive him, who, mounting him
on a swift horse, spirited him away to the city of Guadix, in the
Alpuxarras.