HOW THE TLASCALANS FOUGHT
Besides the mystery of the sign, which was at that time supposed to
be used only by those of the Christian faith, Sandoval found himself
taking a deep interest in his unconscious prisoner for other reasons.
To begin with, he had saved the life of the unknown youth, which would
be sufficient to arouse a feeling of interest in the breast of any one
who had done a similar deed. With the young cavalier this feeling was
intensified by the fact that, while he had taken so many lives that he
had come to regard the killing of an Indian much as he would that of a
wild beast, this was his first attempt at rescuing one from death.
Then, too, being plain of feature himself, he had an appreciation of
comeliness in others, and never had he seen a more perfect specimen of
youthful manhood than that which lay motionless, but faintly breathing,
on a straw pallet, in the Tlascalan temple, to which he had brought
him. The olive-tinted features, but little darker than his own, were as
delicate as those of a maiden, but clearly cut and noble; the forehead
was broad, the mouth and chin bore the imprint of a firm will, and the
face formed a perfect oval. The youth was taller and of more slender
build than Sandoval, but his well-rounded limbs were of a symmetry only
to be gained by an athletic training and constant exercise. Although he
was thus an embodiment of manly beauty, this fact aroused no envy in
the breast of honest Sandoval, but only increased the interest that he
felt in his captive.
In addition to all this, the youth had worn the green girdle of a
king's courier, and in his wallet was found a pictorial despatch,
evidently relating to the recent battles between Spaniards and
Tlascalans that could only have been intended for Montezuma himself.
This was even now in the hands of the White Conqueror, who with the
aid of Indian interpreters was endeavoring to decipher it. And yet the
youth did not have the appearance of a king's courier, who, as every
one knew, were as well cared for as any of his servants. He was clad in
a single garment of coarse nequen, soiled and ragged. His whole body
was bruised, and his bare feet were cut and swollen. Besides, what
could an undisguised Aztec courier be doing in Tlascala? Neither was it
certain that he was an Aztec. Several of the Tlascalan prisoners, who
were brought in to pronounce upon his nationality started at sight of
him, and exhibited symptoms of deep distress. In explanation of this
they would only say that he bore a striking resemblance to the son of
one of their greatest warriors who, with his family, had been taken
prisoner, and doubtless sacrificed to the Aztec gods, nearly a year
before.
The trooper who had wounded him was found, and said that, as he was
riding close behind the general, this youth had suddenly appeared
and rushed at Cortes, apparently with evil intent, whereupon he--the
trooper--had promptly cut him down and left him for dead. "And why
not?" growled the trooper, who was disgusted at so much fuss over what
he considered so paltry an object. "What matters the life of one, or
even a thousand, of these idolaters?"
"It matters this," thundered Sandoval, angered by the man's insolent
bearing, "that our mission to these Tlascalans is one of peace, and
not of war, and that one of them alive is worth more than the whole
nation dead. Besides, with the sign of the holy cross has this one, at
least, proved himself no idolater, but as good a Christian as thyself.
So then, sirrah! be more careful of thy blows in the future, lest they
strike the steel of a Christian sword instead of the unprotected head
of a weaponless youth."
While Huetzin's identity and the mystery surrounding him were being
thus discussed, the gentle hands of Marina were tenderly bathing and
dressing his wound, which, upon inspection, did not prove so severe
as it had at first appeared. The blow had been a glancing one, rather
than a downright stroke, and the gash, though ugly to look at, was not
deep, nor did it penetrate the bone.
Marina's ministrations at length produced their desired effect, and
Huetzin, opening his eyes, gazed in a bewildered manner about him.
Finally his wandering gaze settled upon the fair face bending over
him. He smiled faintly, whispered the one word, "Tiata," and almost
immediately sank into the deep but healthful sleep of one who is
utterly weary.
For the next twenty hours he remained in a slumber so profound that not
even the tumult of a third great battle, fought within a short distance
of where he lay, served to arouse him. In this battle were engaged, on
the Tlascalan side, no less than fifty thousand warriors, selected from
their own armies, and from those of their fierce allies the Otomies.
The Spaniards were disheartened by the gaining of victories that only
seemed to endue their enemies with fresh determination to destroy them,
and to cause a succession of armies, each larger than its predecessor,
to be brought against them. In the present instance they had ample
cause to fear that they, the conquerors, were at last to become the
conquered; for never had they beheld such an array as witnessed their
defiant march down the hill of Zompach on that beautiful 5th day of
September.
There was the same bewildering gorgeousness of the brilliant feather
mantles, tossing plumes, and snow-white armor of the nobles and higher
classes, the vividly painted bodies of the common soldiers, the
flashing of itztli blades, and the waving banners that had greeted
their eyes on former occasions, only on an infinitely greater scale.
Six square miles of plain were covered by this New-World army, from
which arose a deafening clamor of barbaric music and shrill war-cries.
The weapons with which these hardy warriors were armed were slings,
bows and arrows, darts, maquahuitls or war-clubs bladed with itztli,
and javelins attached by long thongs to the wrists of those who bore
them, so that they might be drawn back and their deadly thrusts
repeated many times. They also bore shields, made of wood or leather,
or more often a light wicker frame covered thick with quilted cotton,
impenetrable to the darts and arrows of their own warfare, but offering
a sorry protection against the musket-balls, steel-headed cross-bolts,
Toledo blades, and lances of the foe whom they were now to encounter.
High above all the glittering array gleamed, in the bright sunlight, a
great golden eagle with outspread wings, the standard of the Tlascalan
republic.
Had there been any chance of honorably avoiding a battle with this
overwhelming force the little band of Spaniards would gladly have
availed themselves of it; but there was not. They could but fight or
die; and with a courage born of despair they awaited the attack. On
their side they had discipline, long experience in civilized warfare,
armor, and weapons of steel, artillery, muskets, and horses, in all of
which their opponents were lacking.
As the opposing forces neared each other the Tlascalans filled the air
with such a hurtling tempest of missiles that the sun was momentarily
darkened as by a passing cloud. In return the Christians delivered, at
close range, a musketry and cross-bow fire, so deadly in its effects
that the front ranks of the Indians were mowed down like grass before
a scythe. For a moment the Tlascalans stood as though paralyzed. Then,
goaded to desperation by their losses, and uttering blood-curdling
cries, they leaped forward and rushed upon the Spaniards with the
impetuosity of some mighty ocean billow whose fury none may withstand.
For a few seconds the iron front of the white conquerors remained
unbroken, and their compact ranks held together, though they were
forced backward for more than a hundred yards. Then came a break in the
front rank. An iron-clad soldier was felled to the ground, and ere the
breach could be closed it was filled with maddened Indians. Instantly
the close order of the Spaniards gave way, and every man found himself
engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with more assailants than he
could count. Gasping, blinded, and overpowered, the white men fought
doggedly, but without hope.
Suddenly, above the din of shrieks, oaths, and clashing weapons there
rose a wild scream, and Motilla, goaded into fury by her wounds,
reared high in the air and leaped over the heads of the combatants
crowding about her. With the ferocity of a wounded tiger she plunged
into the thickest of the dense Tlascalan ranks, tearing at her
tormentors with her teeth, and dealing death-blows on every side with
her iron-shod hoofs. Above her the keen blade of sturdy Sandoval
gleamed like a flame, darting to right and left, and shearing through
armor, flesh, and bone, wherever it touched. The white charger of
Cortes had echoed Motilla's scream, and was quickly battling at her
side with a fury equal to her own. Nor was sorrel Bradamante, bearing
her master, the golden-bearded Alvarado, far behind. Thus, fighting
like demons rather than mortals, these six--three horses and three
men--beat back the mighty Tlascalan wave until those behind them could
reform and charge in turn.
All this while the artillery was thundering on the Tlascalan flanks,
and creating a fearful havoc with its far-reaching missiles. Again and
again did the warriors of the mountain republic charge, but never with
such success as at first. Finally a quarrel among their leaders caused
half their army to be withdrawn from the field, and, after four hours
of desperate, incessant fighting, Xicoten ordered a retreat, and again
left the white conquerors masters of the bloody field.
Nearly fifty of these had been slain, while most of the surviving men
and all of the horses were wounded. Thus, as Sandoval grimly remarked
on his return to camp, one more such victory would seal the fate of the
Christians and consign their hearts to heathen altars.