A NIGHT OF FIGHTING, DESPAIR, AND DEATH
The dreadful news that the bridge could not be moved, and that with its
loss went their chief hope of escape, swept like wild fire from the
rear where Alvarado and his gallant band were charging and momentarily
holding in check the thronging masses of the enemy. Like a death-knell
it sounded through the long line, beset on both lines by a myriad of
assailants who seemed to rise from the very waters, to the distant
front where Sandoval and his cavaliers fought, as best they might, and
fretted at Margarino's delay. Everywhere the fatal message converted
the orderly ranks into a panic-stricken mob. All subordination was at
an end. Frenzied men flung away their weapons and sought only to save
themselves. The wounded were abandoned and trampled under foot. The
weak gave way before the strong.
In the very front, snugly nestled among the soft cushions of her
litter, and surrounded by her faithful body guard, Marina hardly
realized that anything more than a skirmish was taking place. Every
now and then she heard the ringing voice of sturdy Sandoval, and more
than once Huetzin parted the curtains to assure her that he was close
at hand. She liked to see him on horseback, this noble cavalier of her
own race, and, as she lay back in the litter, listening to the far-away
roar of grim Mesa's final volley, she saw a vision of a battle scene
in which her hero led a glorious charge of cavalry, and the gallant
horsemen were of her own people.
Suddenly she was startled by a swaying of her litter, as though by the
advanced swell of a mighty tide. There came cries of terror and dismay,
oaths, prayers, and a great surging to and fro. The panic-stricken
fugitives in the rear were pressing tumultuously forward, and her
Tlascalan body-guard were fighting savagely, against their own friends,
in a desperate effort to stem the swelling flood, and keep from being
swept off their narrow footing.
Already Sandoval and his cavaliers were dashing into the dark waters,
and struggling to clear a way, in which the infantry might follow,
through the close-packed canoes that blocked the passage.
Backward, step by step, were the Tlascalans pressed, until half of them
had been forced to take the fatal plunge, and the litter containing the
chiefest treasure of the Spanish army, hovered on the very brink of the
black chasm. At this juncture the curtains were torn aside, and the
terrified girl was lifted from her soft nest in a pair of strong arms.
In a moment she found herself on horseback, in front of a cavalier who
was saying, in reassuring tones: "Thou shalt yet be saved, dear one."
In the next, the steed, bearing this double burden, had taken the leap,
and all three were struggling in the cold waters.
Cocotin, though fleet of foot and brave of spirit, had not the body nor
strength of Motilla, and quickly gave signs of being overweighted. As
he realized this, Huetzin slipped from the saddle, pulled Marina back
into its safer seat and swam beside her. The dark waters about them
were filled with despairing men, fighting, struggling, and drowning
each other in their frenzied efforts to escape the fate of which all
seemed doomed. Among them dashed the Aztec canoes, their inmates
dealing savage blows to right and left, and only striving to save
lives that their gods might have the more victims. From one of these
canoes Cocotin was wounded in the head by the blow of a maquahuitl,
and unmanageable from pain, swerved toward the open lake. Huetzin let
go his hold of the saddle to spring to her head. At that moment his
feet were seized by some drowning wretch, and he was dragged beneath
the blood-stained waters. It was a full minute before he could release
himself from that death-clutch at the bottom of the lake. When with
bursting temples, he again breathed the blessed air, the same awful
struggle was going on about him, but Cocotin and her precious burden
had disappeared.
In the meantime the gaping chasm was rapidly filling with the bodies
of men and horses, guns and baggage wagons, ingots of gold that might
ransom a prince, bales of rich fabrics, weapons and equipments of every
description. It was a seething inferno from which frantic Aztec demons,
plying war club and javelin, were reaping a goodly harvest of captives.
The awful carnage that now raged along the length of the causeway, was
nowhere so great as at this point. Finally, the ghastly opening was
filled with the wreck of battle, until over the hideous bridge thus
formed those in the rear passed dry-shod to the opposite side.
All this while Cortes, who had discovered, a little to one side, a
passage that was fordable, was valiantly holding it with a handful of
cavaliers, while vainly urging the troops to gain safety by coming that
way. Through the storm-swept darkness, he could not be seen, nor could
his voice be heard above the wild uproar. At length, swept onward by
the human tide and forced to the opposite bank, he spurred forward to
the third and last opening. Here he found Sandoval and a few followers
engaged in another fierce conflict with the enemy, who had hurried a
strong force to this point in canoes. At this place the exultant Aztecs
hoped to complete the destruction of the shattered army, and but for
the matchless bravery of Cortes and his cavaliers they would have
succeeded.
Without a moment's hesitation the leader, close followed by Sandoval
and the others, plunged into the deadly waters, and, waging a
hand-to-hand conflict from canoe to canoe, finally forced the passage.
All the foot-soldiers, who were huddled like sheep on the brink of
this chasm, at which the dreadful scenes of the other seemed about to
be repeated, now cast themselves into the water. Many were drowned
by the weight of gold with which they had over-burdened themselves,
others grasped the manes or tails of swimming horses and so were helped
across. Still others, having cast away muskets, armor, gold, everything
that might embarrass their flight, gained the opposite side by their
own unaided efforts. When all who were within hearing had scrambled, in
one fashion or another, upon the causeway the precipitate flight was
continued, though a distant din of battle showed some survivors to be
still waging the conflict of despair.
Cortes and the shattered remnant of his army had hardly reached solid
earth, when a breathless runner overtook them, with the information
that what was left of the rear-guard had won its way to the farther
side of the last opening, where they were now battling against such
odds that, unless speedily relieved, not a man would be left. Sandoval,
utterly exhausted, had thrown himself on the ground beside his dripping
steed, as had many of the others. At this despairing cry for help the
sturdy young soldier again sprang into his saddle, exclaiming: "I,
for one, am ready!" "And I!" "And I!" shouted several more. With a
grateful nod, Cortes put spurs to his own horse and galloped back over
the fatal causeway followed by a dozen gallant gentlemen, who thus rode
into the jaws of death as cheerfully as though to a friendly trial of
arms.
For five hours had the battle raged, and in the gray light, now
breaking, some of the hideous details of the night's disaster were
made visible. As far as the eye could reach, the road of death swarmed
with the victorious enemy, while on either side the lake was black
with their canoes. The sight was fitted to appal even the stout hearts
of the Spanish cavaliers; but near at hand was that which appealed
to a feeling stronger than fear. On the opposite bank of the bloody
gulf, which was fast filling with the dead, golden-bearded Alvarado,
bare-headed, and bleeding from a dozen wounds, still fought with
superhuman strength, and so animated his scant handful of troops, that,
had they been fresh, instead of well-nigh fainting, their heroism must
have been crowned with victory.
With a cheering shout that inspired new hope in the sinking hearts of
Alvarado's men, the dozen cavaliers led by Cortes dashed once more into
the water, swam to the opposite side, and plunged into the thick of the
fray. For a moment the Aztecs fell back before their fierce onslaught,
like a receding wave of the sea. In the respite thus afforded all but
one of those who had fought with the "Tonatiah," cast themselves into
the water, from which most of them emerged on the other side in safety.
At that moment Alvarado's horse, the faithful steed that had borne him
so nobly amid a thousand dangers, fell, to rise no more, pinning her
master to the ground as she did so. A Tlascalan warrior, who was so
disfigured by wounds and covered with blood, that the Spanish cavalier
had not recognized him, though they had fought side by side for the
past hour, sprang to his relief. As he succeeded in disengaging the
entangled man, the rescuing party was driven back upon them, with
ranks sadly thinned, and unable longer to hold their own against the
onrushing foe.
"Mount with me!" shouted Sandoval to his unhorsed comrade, "Motilla can
bear us both!"
"I can care for myself! Take thou this youth, to whom I owe my life
many times," answered Alvarado. Thus saying, he seized a long Chinantla
pike, and planted one end in the wreck at the bottom of the canal.
Then, gathering his strength for a prodigious effort, he vaulted clear
across, and landed safely on the other side of the yawning chasm.
Victors and vanquished, Aztecs, Spaniards, and Tlascalans, stood for a
moment spell-bound at the sight of this marvellous feat.
Sandoval was among the first to recover from his amazement, and turning
to the youth whom Alvarado had recommended, he bade him mount behind
him. They two, on the gallant Motilla were the last to leave; but it
was not until the brave mare had borne them to the opposite side, and
the young warrior leaped to the ground, that Sandoval recognized him.
Then in joyful accents he cried out, "Praised be the blessed saints!
Don Juan, that thou hast escaped yon hell in safety, for truly I had
given thee up for dead."
"And I would that I were," answered the young Toltec, bitterly, "since
I have lost that which, of all life, I held most dear. But I sought
death in vain. It could come to all others, but not to me."
"What mean you?" cried Sandoval, bewildered by this strange speech.
"I mean that Marina lies somewhere in yon lake, and if I knew where, my
body should lie beside hers."
Thus ended the dreadful night, called for all time the _Noche Triste_,
or night of sadness.