THE DESPERATE BATTLE OF OTAMPAN
In the retreat from the temple that had proved such a veritable
haven to the shattered army of the invaders, Marina was borne in her
own litter. Another was provided for her mother, but, never having
been accustomed to such a luxury, she preferred to walk beside the
conveyance of her newly recovered daughter. Guided by Huetzin, with
a small body of Tlascalans who formed the vanguard, the little army
made a great circuit among the rugged hills bounding the western and
northern side of the Mexican Valley. Their progress was slow and
painful, and they were at all times subjected to irritating attacks
from the clouds of Aztecs who hovered about their line of march. These,
constantly recruited from the surrounding country, assaulted them with
sudden flights of darts and arrows, or by rolling great stones down
among them.
At night they usually sought shelter in some hamlet, from which the
inhabitants invariably carried away all provisions on their approach.
Thus the Spaniards were soon brought to the point of starvation. For
seven wretched days they had little to eat but wild cherries, the
occasional unplucked ears of maize which they were so fortunate as
to find, and the few rabbits and birds brought down by the darts of
Huetzin and his Tlascalans. Many of the soldiers fell by the wayside
from sheer exhaustion, while others, who had brought their treasure of
gold through the perils of the _noche triste_ and thus far in safety,
now flung it away, as too great a burden to be longer borne. Always the
enemy hovered in small parties on their flanks, or followed closely in
the rear, eager to pounce upon stragglers in search of food, or those
who had fallen from exhaustion.
In all this weary march, Cortes was the life of his fainting troops.
With sturdy Sandoval at his side, he was ever at the point of greatest
danger, driving back those adversaries who ventured within reach,
helping the stragglers, cheering the wounded, sharing every hardship,
refusing the few scant mouthfuls of rabbit-meat reserved for his table
and distributing them among the sick or most feeble of his men. In one
skirmish he was struck in the head by a splinter of rock and severely
injured; but he made light of the wound, caused it to be bound up, and
continued as before.
At the end of seven days the army was still less than thirty miles from
Tenochtitlan, though owing to their circuitous march they had traversed
thrice that distance. From an absolute necessity for rest, the last
two nights were spent in the same camp. During the intervening day,
while the greater part of the army lay sleeping about its camp-fires,
the indefatigable Huetzin led a strong party of his Tlascalans on an
extended scout.
Next to the undaunted leader himself, the young Toltec was the
encouraging spirit of this weary retreat. Since Marina's return to him,
life had assumed its brightest aspect, and not all the sufferings of
the march could depress him. He animated his own warriors by telling
them that now was the time to show the white soldiers, by their patient
endurance and cheerful bravery, of what stuff Tlascalan mountaineers
were made. In obedience to this suggestion his followers marched, day
after day, with elastic steps and proud bearing, scouted to right and
left, scattered hovering bands of the enemy with brisk charges, and in
fact saved their white allies from despair and destruction. At night,
whether there was food to be eaten or not, the Tlascalan camp-fires
were centres of merry groups, whose songs and laughter exercised a
cheering influence upon the whole army.
For the white men Huetzin painted glowing pictures of the welcome they
would receive in the "land of bread" (Tlascala), of the feasting that
should be theirs, and of the rest and safety to be found behind its
impregnable mountain walls. It is certain that these pictures lost none
of their attractiveness through the interpretation of Marina. Like him
whose words she translated, she was light-hearted and joyous in spite
of all hardships. And why should she not be? Was not the whole army
devoted to her? Had she not a loving mother, like other girls? Was not
her father a Tlascalan warrior, and captain of a hundred men (for so
Huetzin had made him)? Above all, though her hero spoke not of love,
could she not read his heart through his eyes? What more of happiness
could a maiden of Anahuac ask?
On the day of the army's resting Huetzin extended his scout as far as
the pyramids of Teotihuacan, two colossal monuments erected by his
long-ago Toltec ancestors. They were dedicated to the sun and moon,
and were surrounded by a vast number of burial mounds, in which were
laid to rest the most famous men of his race. These were symmetrically
ranged beside avenues, all of which led to the pyramids, and the plain
in which they stood was known to that day as "Micoatl," or Way of the
Dead.
From the summit of the taller of the pyramids, on which in former ages
stood a gigantic image of the sun, bearing a breast-plate of burnished
gold that reflected the earliest beams of the great luminary, Huetzin
caught a glad sight of the blue Tlascalan hills rising on the farther
side of the plain. They promised shelter and plenty; but, between him
and them, he saw something else that filled him with dismay.
At several different points of the wide-spread landscape, he could
distinguish moving bodies of white-armored Aztec troops, all
converging toward a common centre. After an hour of watching, he
located this as being the village of Otampan, situated in the wide
plain that must be crossed before the retreating army could reach the
Tlascalan frontier. Here doubtless was the place selected by Cuitlahua
for their destruction. With this melancholy news, and with but a scanty
supply of provisions, Huetzin led his scouting party back to camp.
That night was one of deepest gloom and despondency. Even the Tlascalan
warriors no longer maintained their show of cheerfulness. Many times
during its hours of darkness mysterious voices came to them from the
surrounding hill-tops, crying:
"Hasten on, ye enemies of the gods! You will soon find yourselves where
you can no longer escape their awful vengeance!"
In the morning there was naught to do but move on. Save in Tlascala
alone, there was no place in which they might hope for safety. As the
feeble army gained the crest of the intervening sierra, and gazed past
the Toltec pyramids into the vale of Otampan, they were greeted by
such a sight as assured them that their last hour had indeed come. As
far as the eye could reach, the plain was so covered with the white of
cotton-mailed warriors, that it was like a vast field of snow. By order
of Montezuma's successor the full war strength of the Aztec nation was
there assembled for the final overthrow of the invaders. From the
mighty host came a volume of sound like the murmur of a wind-swept sea,
while the morning sunlight was reflected from acres of shining bucklers
and a forest of tossing spears.
Even the stout heart of the Conqueror failed him in the presence of
this multitude of enemies. Noting this, sturdy Sandoval said: "We can
die but once, and 'twill be much pleasanter for us, though not so
amusing for them, if we die as soldiers rather than as sacrifices.
Besides, it is not wholly certain that our time for dying has yet come.
We have fought against odds before."
"Never such odds as these," replied the Commander. At the same time,
the cool bravery of his young captain gave him new heart; and, as
he formed his little army in order of battle, he strengthened the
determination to fight as became brave men that he read in their faces,
with stout words.
The women, the sick, and wounded were left behind in charge of the
old Tlascalan and a half-dozen of warriors, instructed, in case of
disaster, to kill them all rather than allow them to fall into priestly
hands. From each of the grim warriors, Huetzin personally exacted the
promise that these instructions should be implicitly obeyed. Thus, when
he bade Marina a lingering farewell, it was with the hope of a speedy
reunion, either on the field of an earthly victory or in the blissful
realms of the sun.
So the scanty force of Spaniards and their Tlascalan allies, having
neither artillery nor muskets, and supported by but a score of cavalry,
of which half was posted on either flank, descended steadily to the
plain to meet the on-rushing hosts of their enemies.
The air was rent with the fierce war-cries of the exultant Aztecs,
and darkened by the tempest of missiles that they let fly the moment
they came within range. The Spanish infantry received the shock on
their levelled pikes, against which the human wave dashed itself as
fruitlessly as those of the sea against some rocky pinnacle rising
from a waste of waters. With lowered lances the cavalry charged in
turn, opening broad lanes through the thick-set ranks. Into these
sprang Huetzin's trained warriors, following close on the heels of
the horsemen, and widening the lanes on either side, with javelin and
maquahuitl. So stoutly did these and their white allies ply their
deadly weapons, that the foremost ranks of the Aztecs, broken and
dismayed, attempted to fly. The attempt was a vain one, for they
were instantly overwhelmed by the crowding myriads behind them, who,
sweeping forward with the irresistible power of uncounted numbers,
completely surrounded the Christian army, making it the vortex of a
seething maëlstrom of fiercely struggling humanity.
Bravely did the cavaliers fight that day, charging in parties of four
or six, deep into the Indian ranks. Sandoval seemed to be on all sides
at once, fighting with the practised skill and deadly fury of a young
war-god; while mail-fronted Motilla, screaming with the rage of battle,
crashed through the Aztec files like a thunderbolt.
Deeper and deeper did the Christian force work its way into this
interminable host, ever meeting with fresh battalions and ever growing
weaker from losses. Hundreds of the Tlascalans and scores of the
Spaniards had fallen. All were wounded, including the gallant leader,
who had received another cut on the head. The noon-day sun beat
pitilessly and with a fierce fervor on the steel-capped soldiers. Dying
of heat, thirst, and wounds, panting, praying, and cursing, their blows
falling slower and more feebly with each moment. What hope was there
for them but that death would put an end to their sufferings as quickly
as might be? Like a horrid vision, the faces of fresh foes ever danced
before them. A score would fall, and a score of others, so similar that
they appeared the same, were instantly in their places.
"Holy Mother!" cried Sandoval, reining in Motilla beside the steed of
Cortes, "is there no end to these infidels? I have killed until I can
kill no more, and their legions are as at the beginning! Methinks,
General, the end of all things has come for us. Our brave troops can
hold out no longer. They have fought as never mortals fought before;
but now they are giving way on all sides. Does it please you that we
make one more charge and die as becomes Christian soldiers, with our
lances in our hands?"