VICTORY SNATCHED FROM DEFEAT
Before answering Sandoval, the White Conqueror, like a stag at bay who
tosses his mighty head aloft in search of an opening through which he
may escape ere gathering himself for the death-struggle, raised high
in his stirrups and surveyed the field. In all directions, as far as
he could see, tossed the plumes and waved the banners of the Aztec
host. The battle raging at his side disturbed but a portion of it. His
own men were falling fast. The exhaustion of their recent hardships,
combined with the present heat and four hours of incessant fighting,
was doing more to deplete their numbers than even Aztec weapons. He
had no reserves to call up, no guns to fall back upon. Of the hundred
trusty knights on whom he could have depended a week since, four score
had left him on that most sorrowful of _noches triste_. Never again
would they answer the call of the trumpets, nor charge with levelled
lances and cheery shouts. "If they cannot rejoin us, we can at least
join them!"
With this last sigh of a breaking heart, the leader was sinking back
into his saddle, when his eye was caught by a more dazzling object,
a richer gleam than any seen elsewhere in all that bedizened host. It
was the sunlight reflected from the gold and silver armor, the gorgeous
feather mantle, and the glittering escort of a Cacique, borne in a
golden-plated litter. He was the Aztec general, the commander of all
these myriads of warriors. Without his guiding orders the mighty army
would be as helpless as a ship bereft of its rudder. With the gleam of
his armor a ray of hope flashed into the breast of the Christian leader.
"Yes, gentlemen," he answered, dropping into his saddle and gripping
his ponderous battle-ax with a fiercer clutch. "It pleases me to make
one more charge. One more! Sandoval, Alvavado, Olid, Avila, cavaliers
all! One more for victory or death! Forward! and may Christ and St.
James go with us!"
Thus crying, the White Conqueror gave spurs to his steed, and, with
whirling battle-ax clearing all obstacles from his pathway, he again
plunged into the dense ranks of the Aztec host. At his side rode
Sandoval and one other; behind them came three more. Six against ten
thousand! But so terrible was the thrust of their lances, the swing of
their axes, and the whistling sweep of their good swords, so frightful
the screaming and tearing and crushing of their mail-clad chargers,
that while its impetus lasted the death-dealing progress of this little
group could no more be checked than that of a bomb-shell just started
on its shrieking flight. The thick-set Aztec ranks reeled before them,
and crowded to either side to give them passage. The earth behind them
was cumbered with dead and dying. Their audacity paralyzed resistance,
and their mission was accomplished ere its purport was suspected.
Straight as an arrow to a mark, rode Cortes to the spot where the proud
Aztec leader lay indolently back in his cushioned litter. He was too
certain of the fortunes of that battle to take much further interest in
it. Already he was planning his triumphal entry into Tenochtitlan, and
hoping that Malinche might be taken alive to grace it. All at once his
pleasing reflections were interrupted by some unusual commotion near at
hand.
As he raised himself to learn its cause, shrill screams of terror
greeted him, and he saw what appeared to his startled vision a mighty
war engine, fire-breathing, steel-armored, and death dealing, rushing
toward him. In an instant more it was upon him. There came a crashing
blow, a death shriek, and the Aztec leader would dream no more of
triumphant entries into Tenochtitlan. Scattered like chaff were his
body-guard of gay young nobles; and as they fled, terror-stricken, they
spread on all sides the dread news that the chief had fallen.
Who, now, will give commands? No one. Who would obey them if given?
None. Consternation seizes upon the mighty host. A wave of panic
sweeps over it. No longer will it fight. To fly is its only thought.
The strong trample whom they may; the front ranks flee in terror
from those behind, fancying them the enemy. They fling away weapons,
banners, everything. They fill the air with their cries of terror. Over
all ring out the exultant shouts of Christians and Tlascalans, their
hopeless death-struggle changed in a moment to an amazing, unheard-of
victory. Forgotten are thirst, wounds, and exhaustion, as they pursue
their flying enemies, and drink draughts, long and deep, of vengeance
to compensate for _la noche triste_.
Thus was fought and won the desperate battle of Otampan, one of
the most notable of all the world's battles, when the disparity of
the engaged forces and the results of its issue are considered. So
thoroughly panic-stricken were the defeated Aztecs, that one Spaniard
or Tlascalan could put a hundred of them to headlong flight. Their
losses were terrible, though they would have been much greater, but
that the victors were too exhausted to push the pursuit. As they
returned from it, they gathered up the rich spoils of weapons, armor,
gold, jewels, and blazoned banners scattered over the field.
Among the first to weary of slaughter was the young Tlascalan chief.
When there was no longer a show of resistance, he turned his steps
toward the place in which the helpless ones of the army had been left.
For long hours had they noted the varying fortunes of the battle,
with straining eyes and sick hearts. From their distance they could
not distinguish its details. Many times they so completely lost sight
of their friends in the white-armored sea surrounding them, that they
gave up all for lost, and expected the grim Tlascalan guard to execute
its dread instructions. As time passed, and no enemy appeared to molest
them, they gained new courage, and, hoping against hope, watched
eagerly for further indications.
When the amazing rout of the mighty host began, they could not credit
their senses, nor were they convinced that a glorious victory had been
won by their friends, until Huetzin, blood-stained and dishevelled, but
radiant with triumph, appeared among them with the marvellous tidings.
As he told the wonderful story, the men, wild with excitement, crowded
about him craving every word of detail. The women, with over-strained
feelings finding relief in joyful tears, caressed him, and bathed his
wounds, and questioned one another with their eyes, as to how they
could have doubted that this their hero would be victorious.
After a while he conducted them to the appointed rendezvous, a
fortified but desolate temple on the outskirts of Otampan. Here the
army of the white conquerors, now indeed worthy the name, were to
pass the night of their victory, a night of as profound gratitude and
heartfelt joy, as that other had been of defeat, humiliation, and
heart-breaking sorrows.
On the following day they passed the rude fortifications marking a
boundary of Tlascala, the brave mountain republic, to which, next to
their own indomitable courage and incredible powers of endurance, the
Christians owed everything, including their lives. Here at a little
frontier town they rested, doubtful of the reception to be accorded
them by those who had suffered such losses in their behalf; while
Huetzin, attended by a small body of his own warriors, hastened to
the capital. In this city of his birth the young warrior received the
welcome reserved for victors, and amid joyous acclamations from the
populace, made his way to where the venerable councillors of the nation
awaited him. The disaster in Tenochtitlan, the _noche triste_, and the
retreat, were all forgotten for the time being, and only the glorious
victory of Otampan was remembered. The aged chieftain of Titcala fell
on the young man's neck, with grateful tears in his sightless eyes, and
blessed him. All voices sounded his praises, and proclaimed unwavering
allegiance to the Christians. Only one was silent, and it was that of
the envious Xicoten.
The next day, again clad as became his rank, Huetzin returned to the
anxious army accompanied by the noble chieftain of his house, and many
of the most prominent citizens of Tlascala. These bore messages and
tokens of a generous welcome to Cortes, and offers of the hospitality
of their city, to him and his followers, for as long as they would
accept of it.
With a glad gratitude was this offer accepted, and in the hospitable
city the weary army rested until its wounds were healed and its
strength restored. In the palace of Titcala, Cortes himself, succumbing
to his hurts and the mental strain that had been upon him for so long,
lay many days in the weakness and delirium of a fever. As soon as the
active brain began again to work, and while he still lay helpless as
an infant on his bed of convalescence, the undaunted soldier planned
for the future. Never for a moment had he relinquished his purpose to
conquer Tenochtitlan, and supplant its hideous religion with that of
the Cross.
With his first strength he undertook a brilliant campaign against a
number of Aztec cities, situated within striking distance of Tlascala,
whose inhabitants had cut off and sacrificed to their gods small
parties of Spaniards. At the end of four months he had reconquered the
whole of the vast Puebla table-land, had received reinforcements of
men, horses, guns, and ammunition, and was again ready to march back
over the frowning western Cordilleras, which he had already traversed
four times, under extraordinary circumstances.