MARINA IS LOST AND SAVED
As the darkness of the _noche triste_ was dispelled by the rising sun,
Cortes led the broken remnant of his army away from the fatal dike
on which all had so nearly laid down their lives. The first march of
the long anticipated retreat was an accomplished fact; but at what a
fearful cost! Not a gun remained to the Spaniards, not a musket. Their
banners and trumpets had disappeared. Of one hundred horses but a score
were left, and all of these were wounded. There were no ammunition
wagons, there was no baggage-train. Most of the treasure had been
lost. Some of the soldiers had indeed clung to their gold, even while
throwing away the muskets on which they relied to defend it; but, a few
days later, even this, for which they had been willing to sacrifice
all, became an intolerable burden, that was in turn flung aside.
All the prisoners had been slain in the _mêlée_ by their own friends,
and of the fate of the wounded no one dared to speak. Of the retreating
Spaniards nearly one-half had been slain or captured on that two miles
of causeway, while of the faithful Tlascalans over two thousand were
missing. About the same time forty-five Spaniards, who had been sent
by Cortes two months before to visit some distant mines, were captured
and sacrificed by the Aztecs, at Zaltepec, while on their way back to
Tenochtitlan, in total ignorance of the existing state of affairs.
Thus there were Christian victims for the altars of every Aztec city,
while native nobles were armed with Spanish weapons, and wore odd
pieces of Spanish armor. It was owing to the rich spoil abandoned by
the well-nigh helpless survivors, that they owed their present safety.
Had the Aztecs followed them as vigorously as they had attacked them
on the causeway, not a soul could have escaped. But the victors were
too busily engaged in gathering up such treasures as had never before
fallen into Indian hands, in securing their prisoners, in making
preparations for festivals of rejoicing, in cleansing their city and
burying their dead, to concern themselves about the forlorn remnant
of those who had been termed the "White Conquerors," but who would
now quickly perish in the mountains, or be destroyed by the first of
Cuitlahua's armies with which they should come into collision.
So the Spaniards, weak, weary, and wounded, disheartened, water-soaked,
and ragged, defenceless save for their swords, a score of lances, and
as many disabled cross-bows, were allowed to straggle unmolested
through the deserted streets of Tlacopan, and make their way into
the open country beyond. Here they were halted by their leader, who
endeavored to reform the shattered battalions, and bring some sort of
order out of their confusion.
Near by rose the hill of Montezuma, crowned by an extensive temple
that offered a tempting place of shelter. But, as they could see, it
was already occupied by a force of the enemy, and at that moment the
dispirited Spaniards had no mind for further fighting. The cavaliers
indeed were ready, but they were so few! and their poor horses were
completely used up. In this emergency, Huetzin, seizing a javelin from
one of his Tlascalans, sprang up the ascent. His mountain warriors
followed so promptly that, as he gained the outer wall of the temple,
they were also swarming over it, in face of the shower of darts and
arrows let fly by the garrison. Then the defenders, amazed at so
fierce an attack from those whom they had deemed incapable of further
fighting, took to flight, and the place of refuge was secured.
In the temple were found a certain amount of provisions, and an ample
supply of fuel, from which the new occupants built great fires to dry
their clothing and warm their chilled bodies. Wounds were dressed as
best they might be, a hearty meal was eaten, and then the weary troops
sought to forget their sorrows in sleep. Not all slept, however.
Sentries guarded the outer walls, and several small groups, gathered
near the fires, conversed in low tones. In one of these the leader,
planning for the future even in this his darkest hour of defeat, talked
earnestly with Martin Lopez, his master ship-builder. Not far away
Sandoval and Huetzin, drawn to a closer brotherhood by the similarity
of their sorrows, talked of Marina, and the sturdy cavalier strove to
comfort his stricken comrade with the tenderness that had come recently
to him through his own irreparable loss.
Although no word of love had passed between Huetzin and Marina, each
had known the heart of the other ever since those days of illness
and nursing on the hill of Zampach. Many a time since would Huetzin
have declared his passion for the Indian girl, but for a vow, that no
word of love should pass his lips so long as an Aztec god reigned in
Tenochtitlan. To their overthrow was his life devoted, and with the
constancy of a crusading knight he had remained true to his pledge.
When the image of the Aztec war-god was hurled from its pedestal, he
had hoped that the period of his vow was nearly at an end; but with the
ordering of a retreat from the city, he knew that it was indefinitely
extended. Even when he held Marina in his arms as, on Cocotin's back,
they plunged together into the lake, he had spoken no word of love,
though indeed his tones had interpreted his feelings beyond a doubt of
misunderstanding. Now that the life of his life was forever lost to
him, he had no reason for concealment, and to his friend he laid open
his heart.
Sadly enough, the litter in which Marina had been borne, and in which
she had seemed in so great danger that Huetzin had snatched her from
it, had been brought through in safety by its stout Tlascalan bearers,
and now stood drying near the very fire beside which Huetzin and
Sandoval sat. Until its emptiness was disclosed, the army had not
known of Marina's disappearance; but the moment it was announced all
other losses were lessened in comparison with this one, so generally
was the Indian girl beloved. Even the leader, in planning his future
operations, wondered if they could succeed without the almost
indispensable aid of his brave girl interpreter.
To turn from this scene of a defeated Spanish army mourning its losses
and sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in an Aztec temple, to the hut of
a slave of Iztapalapan, is to make an abrupt transition. Still it is a
necessary one, if the threads of our story are to be connected. Ever
after it was learned that an alliance had been entered into between the
mountain republic and the white conquerors, the lot of those Tlascalan
slaves held by the Aztecs was of unusual hardship. They were everywhere
regarded with suspicion and treated with cruelty. Even such faithful
servants of their master as the aged couple who had dealt so kindly by
Huetzin did not escape the harsh treatment accorded to their race.
Double tasks were imposed, and not even their age, nor efforts to
accomplish all that was required of them, saved them from the biting
lash of the driver. They often dreamed, and even spoke in whispers, of
escape. But how might it be accomplished? Whither should they fly? Not
until long after the arrival of the Spaniards in Tenochtitlan did these
questions find even the shadow of an answer.
In that country, and in those days, news, other than that borne by
king's couriers, travelled slowly, and rare indeed were the items that
reached the ears of slaves. So, although the aged Tlascalans knew
something of the coming of the strange white beings, it was long before
they heard that they were accompanied by a friendly Tlascalan army. It
was longer still ere they learned that the leader of this army was none
other than that son of Tlahuicol, who had been their guest in the time
of his greatest danger.
With this bewildering news to consider, the aged couple glanced at each
other meaningly, as they sat at night through a long silence, on the
opposite sides of a tiny blaze, in their rude fireplace. Finally the
old man said:
"If we could only get to him!" and the wife answered:
"He would be to us as an own son, for so he said."
Several nights later the old man asked, "When shall we make the
attempt?" and the old woman answered, "Whenever thou art ready to lead,
I am ready to follow."
"To be captured means a certain death!"
"But a free death is better than a living slavery."
"Thou art true and brave as always. On the first night of storm-clouded
blackness will we set forth."
"On the first night of storm-clouded blackness," repeated the old
woman, slowly, as though committing the words to memory.
Thus it happened that the very night selected by the Spaniards for
their escape from Tenochtitlan was also the one chosen by the aged
Tlascalan couple for their flight from slavery. After dark, and moving
with the utmost caution, the old man secured the canoe in which they
had been wont, though not for many months, to carry flowers to the
city, and brought it to the beach near their hut. To it he conveyed
their few poor treasures, some bits of rude pottery fashioned by
himself, a bundle of gay feathers, a battered javelin such as he had
used when a young man and a Tlascalan warrior, and the blanket woven
of rabbit's fur, on which the old woman had spent the scant leisure
of years. Then they set forth, guided by the faint altar fires of the
distant city. They knew not how nor where they should find him whom
they sought, but they had a simple faith that, once near him, they
would be safe.
A long time they labored at the paddles, until at length they neared
the city. Suddenly a startling clamor arose from it. There were shouts
as of a mighty host, the discordant notes of priest-blown shells, and,
above all, the dread booming of the great serpent drum. They rested on
their paddles and listened in frightened bewilderment. Now red beacon
flames blazed from every temple, and by this light they perceived a
myriad of canoes sweeping past them, all hurrying toward the causeway
of Tlacopan. To lessen the chances of being run down, the old man
headed his canoe in the same direction, and drifted with the others.
Then came the sound of fighting, the terrifying roar of guns, the
clashing of weapons, and the screams of those who fell; but, above all,
they heard a sound that recalled their own youth and their own country,
the shrill war-cry of the Tlascalans.
"Let us approach closer," urged the brave old wife. "Some of our own
may be in the fight, and so sorely pressed that even our feeble aid may
prove of value."
So they approached as close as they dared, to where the uproar was
loudest. As they lingered, terrified but held by an awful fascination,
there came a voice, seemingly that of a girl, to their ears.
[Illustration: MARINA IS SAVED BY THE TLASCALA SLAVES.]
"Save me, Huetzin! Save me, son of Tlahuicol!" it cried, shrilly. Then,
in softer tones, "Steady, Cocotin! Dear Cocotin! Good Cocotin! If thou
wouldst but turn thy poor bleeding head the other way! Oh! Holy
Mother of the Christians! She is sinking! She is dying, and I am lost!"
Then a dark form struggled out of the blackness beside them; both the
old man and the old woman reached out toward it; and in another minute
Marina lay, hysterically sobbing, in the bottom of the canoe.